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Fancy a school boy seriously making the mistake of supplying words to give the reading: "Hear the iron wedding bells groaning out a tale of terror in the startled ear of noon-day!" or "Hear the brazen sleigh bells scream out a world of solemn thought-moaning and groaning!" or "Hear the tinkle of the silver tolling bells, jingling a world of merriment."

Now, an effort to analyze "Annabel Lee" after this fashion, will prove to the most skeptical that it is not mechanical. school child might supply a word in a line, as:

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seeing that the word must rime with "know." If, on the other hand, the word, at the end of the line, is not required for rime, and the child is not familiar with the poem, who could guess what the child would supply:

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What! Of course no child of average intelligence would say "boy"; but "girl," "cat," or what not, of one syllable, would satisfy the mind and the ear of the child.

"Now," suggests some honest objector, "let the pupil's common sense settle matters in 'Annabel Lee' just as has been done in "The Bells.'" All right-although "common. sense" is not one of the necessary qualities of pure poetry. Take these lines:

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Of course almost any intelligent child would say "angels, "seraphs," in the first line-"angels" more likely; but "demons" would be harder to supply. Some would say "devils,"

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some "dead folks,' some "cat fish," and if there were no ear for rhythm "sharks" and "whales" might be suggested. It is barely possible that some one might say "demon."

Now, let it be granted that no child would be so silly as to say:

"And neither the demons in heaven above,

Nor the angels down under the sea,"

it yet remains for a cold, symmetrical table, of six stanzas of "Annabel Lee," or any other poem, to be constructed (even Laureate Southey's "Cataract of Lodore" defies such analysis), proving it to be less spontaneous, less heart-made, or more mechanical, more head-made, than "The Bells."

After all, let it be remembered that "The Bells" is one of the finest imitative poems in the world; that, when properly read, it delights the ear; and that no fault, whatever, is meant to be found with it. It is, as Professor Harrison, editor of the "Virginia Edition" of Poe, says, a "melodious onomatopoem, the most perfect imitation in word, sound, and rhythm, in suggestion, in exquisite mimicry, of its theme ever written, not even excepting the marvelous 'Les Djinns' of Victor Hugo or the 'Lodore' of Southey."

THE PUMP ROOM

In the Pump-room, so admirably adapted for secret discourses and unlimited confidence.

NORTHANGER ABBEY.

OVER THEIR HICCUPS

(Horace profaned, see Odes ii, 6.)

Septimius (continuing, sentimentally maudlin).
Yes, there I'd live, and play the game,

And hunt the khangi-joker!

Horace (matter of fact).

Let's go to Newport, Sep., instead
And hunt a game of poker.

Ay, Newport's such a lovely spot;
'Twas Roger Williams found-d-d it,
High o'er the sea, the site a-bluff,

With stakes, since vanished, 'round it.

There let me rest and take mine ease,
But do a little dealing;

Yes, there I'd live, and play the game,
Let others do the squealing.

There tent the million-airish folk,
They've ne'er a modest shanty;
Their kids are sealskin jacketed,
They've dames, tandem and ante.

(Becoming sentimental.)

There would I pass. Calls Death my hand?

You call the undertaker.

Your's be the pot, but mine the grave,

That ultimate thirst-slaker.

Andante con moto.

TANGLES

Oh come and hold the skein,
My yarn is in a tangle,

'Twill stop my work again,

With knotted threads to wrangle:

Oh come and hold the skein.

What could I do but go,

And do her bidding duly?

For oh, I loved her so

And she loved me as truly:

What could I do but go?

That love was ours in June

Seemed then to make us gladder;

But old Time changed his tune,

And we grew wiser-sadder

That love was ours in June.

For partings intervened

And bore us far asunder;

Her love, I thought, was weaned:
Ah well, how could I wonder?
For partings intervened.

I fancied (sweetheart mine)

That only I would suffer;

Your way would smooth incline,

My path grow rough and rougher I fancied (sweetheart mine).

Piu animato.

Strangely mingling joy and dread

Seized me on our meeting;
Dost recall the tangled thread,

Was her cry of greeting,
Strangely mingling joy and dread.

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