Whatever judgments the various critics may give of Poe and his writings, they must all agree that he is original. He is a clever writer in a limited field. His writings have a glow and burnish that have their origin in his fondness for sensations, color, and vividness of details. He loves mystery and terror,—not the fancies and fears of a child, but overwrought nerves. His material is unreal, and remote from ordinary life. His characters are abnormal, and the world they live in is exceptional. He is inventive, original in arranging his material, and shallow but keen in his thinking. He believed that art and life have little in common, and in his writings seemed to be unmoved by friendship, loyalty, patriotism, courage, self-sacrifice or any of the great positive attributes of life that make living worth while. His writings lack the human touch, tenderness, and the buoyancy of sympathy. He is an artist who does his work with a clear-cut, hard finish. His choice of words, vivid pictures, and clearly evolved plots make his writings excellent studies for any one who wishes to develop literary appreciation and to learn to write. GENERAL REFERENCES _Studies and Appreciations_, L.E. Gates. _American Prose Masters_, William Crary Brownwell. _The Short Story in English_, Henry Seidel Canby. _Edgar Poe_, R.H. Button. _Inquiries and Opinions_, Brander Matthews. "Life of Edgar Allan Poe," _Nation_, 89: 100-110. "Weird Genius," _Cosmopolitan_, 46:243-252. COLLATERAL READINGS _Ligeia_, Edgar Allan Poe. _The Cask of Amontillado_, Edgar Allan Poe. _The Assignation_, Edgar Allan Poe. _Ms. Pound in Bottle_, Edgar Allan Poe. _The Black Cat_, Edgar Allan Poe. _Berenice_, Edgar Allan Poe. _The Tell-Tale Heart_, Edgar Allan Poe. _The White Old Maid_, Nathaniel Hawthorne. _Moonlight_ ("Odd Number"), Guy de Maupassant. _A Journey_, Edith Wharton. _The Brushwood Boy_, Rudyard Kipling. _At the Pit's Mouth_, Rudyard Kipling. THE GOLD-BUG[1] _By Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)_ What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad! He hath been bitten by the Tarantula. —_All in the Wrong_.[2] Many years ago I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot[3] family, and had once been wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan's Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.