Text: George E. Woodberry, “Poe in New York: Selections from the Correspondence of Edgar Allan Poe,” Century Magazine (New York, NY), vol. XXVI, no. 6, October 1894, pp. 854-866


[page 854:]




POE removed to New York from Philadelphia in the early spring of 1844. He had no regular employment until the fall, when he was taken on the staff of the “Evening Mirror,” edited by Willis. In February, 1845, Lowell's life of Poe was published in “Graham's,” and the same month saw the publication of “The Raven.” In March Poe became co-editor, with C. F. Briggs, of “The Broadway Journal”; in July he became sole editor, and in October proprietor, of this periodical, which expired in January, 1846. He never again held an editorial position, but strove to [column 2:] live by contributing to as many magazines and papers as would publish his writings. In June, 1846, he was attacked by Thomas Dunn English in the “Evening Mirror,” and brought a suit for libel, which he won in February, 1847. He was very poor during that winter, and aid for him was publicly solicited in the press. On January 30, 1847, his wife died. During his life in New York a prominent feature in his career was his friendship with several women, and after his wife's death these friendships took the form of proposals for marriage in two cases, those of Mrs. Whitman of Providence, and Mrs. Shelton of Richmond. These facts sufficiently explain the remaining correspondence in its general aspect. [page 855:]

The first letter of importance is an appeal for aid to his old correspondent, Dr. Charles Anthon of Columbia College.


June, 1844.

MY DEAR SIR: Many years have elapsed since my last communication with you, and perhaps you will be surprised at receiving a letter from me now — if not positively vexed at receiving one of so great a length and of such a character. But I trust to your goodness of heart for a patient hearing at the least.

You will have already seen that, as usual, I have a favor to solicit. You have, indeed, been to me in many respects a good genius and a friend, but the request I have to make now is one of vital interest to myself — so much so that upon your granting it, or refusing it, depends, I feel, much if not all of the prosperity, and even comfort, of my future life.

I cannot flatter myself that you have felt sufficient interest in me to have followed in any respect my literary career since the period at which you first did me the honor to address me a note while editor of the “Southern Messenger.” A few words of explanation on this point will therefore be necessary here.

As I am well aware that your course of reading lies entirely out of the track of our lighter literature, and as I take it for granted, there fore, that none of the papers in question have met your eye, I have thought it advisable to send you with this letter a single tale as a specimen. This will no doubt put you in mind of the trick of the Skolastikos — but I could not think of troubling you with more than one. I do not think it my best tale, but it is perhaps the best in its particular vein. Variety has been one of my chief aims.

In lieu of the rest, I venture to place in your hands the published opinions of many of my contemporaries [appended to Hirst's “Life of Poe”]. I will not deny that I have been careful to collect and preserve them. They include, as you will see, the warm commendations of a great number of very eminent men, and of these commendations I should be at a loss to understand why I have not a right to be proud.

Before quitting the “Messenger” I saw, or fancied I saw, through a long and dim vista, the brilliant field for ambition which a Magazine of bold and noble aims presented to him who should successfully establish it in America. I perceived that the country, from its very constitution, could not fail of affording in a few years a larger proportionate amount of readers than any upon the earth. I perceived that the whole energetic, busy spirit of the age tended wholly to Magazine literature — to the curt, the terse, the well-timed, and the readily diffused, in preference to the old forms of the verbose and ponderous and the in accessible. I knew from personal experience that lying perdu among the innumerable plantations in our vast Southern and Western countries were a host of well-educated men peculiarly de void of prejudice, who would gladly lend their influence to a really vigorous journal, provided [column 2:] the right means were taken of bringing it fairly within the very limited scope of their observation.

Now, I knew, it is true, that some scores of journals had failed (for, indeed, I looked upon the best success of the best of them as failure), but then I easily traced the causes of their failure in the impotency of their conductors, who made no scruple of basing their rules of action altogether upon what had been customarily done instead of what was now before them to do, in the greatly changed and constantly changing condition of things.

In short, I could see no real reason why a Magazine, if worthy the name, could not be made to circulate among 20,000 subscribers, embracing the best intellect and education of the land. This was a thought which stimulated my fancy and my ambition. The influence of such a journal would be vast indeed, and I dreamed of honestly employing that influence in the sacred cause of the beautiful, the just, and the true.

Even in a pecuniary view, the object was a magnificent one. The journal I proposed would be a large octavo of 128 pages, printed withhold type, single column, on the finest paper; and disdaining everything of what is termed “embellishment” with the exception of an occasional portrait of a literary man, or some well-engraved wood-design in obvious illustration of the text. Of such a journal I had cautiously estimated the expenses. Could I circulate 20,000 copies at $5, the cost would be about $30,000, estimating all contingencies at the highest rate. There would be a balance of $70,000 per annum.

But not to trust too implicitly to a priori reasonings, and at the same time to make myself thoroughly master of all details which might avail me concerning the mere business of publication, I entered a few steps into the field of experiment. I joined the “Messenger,” as you know, which was then in its second year with 700 subscribers, and the general outcry was that because a Magazine had never succeeded south of the Potomac, therefore a Magazine never could succeed. Yet, in spite of this, and in despite of the wretched taste of its proprietor, which hampered and con trolled me at all points, I increased the circulation in fifteen months to 5500 subscribers paying an annual profit of $10,000 when I left it. This number was never exceeded by the journal, which rapidly went down, and may now be said to be extinct. Of “Graham's Magazine” you have no doubt heard. It had been in existence under the name of the “Casket” for eight years when I became its editor, with a subscription list of about 5000. In about eighteen months afterward, its circulation amounted to no less than 50,000 — astonishing as this may appear. At this period I left it. It is now two years since, and the number of subscribers is now not more than 25,000 — but possibly very much less. In three years it will be extinct. The nature of this journal, however, was such that even its 50,000 subscribers could not make it very profitable to its proprietor. Its price was $3, but not only were its expenses immense, owing to the employment of absurd steel plates and other extravagances, which tell not at all, but recourse was had to innumerable agents, [page 857:] who received it at a discount of no less than fifty per cent., and whose frequent dishonesty occasioned enormous loss. But if 50,000 can be obtained for a $3 Magazine among a class of readers who really read little, why may not 50,000 be procured for a $5 journal among the true and permanent readers of the land?

Holding steadily in view my ultimate purpose, — to found a Magazine of my own, or in which at least I might have a proprietary right, — it has been my constant endeavour in the mean time, not so much to establish a reputation great in itself as one of that particular character which should best further my special objects, and draw attention to my exertions as Editor of a Magazine. Thus I have written no books, and have been so far essentially a Magazinist [illegible] bearing, not only willingly but cheerfully, sad poverty and the thousand consequent contumelies and other ills which the condition of the mere Magazinist entails upon him in America, where, more than in any other region upon the face of the globe, to be poor is to be despised.

The one great difficulty resulting from this course is unless the journalist collects his various articles he is liable to be grossly misconceived and misjudged by men of whose good opinion he would be proud, but who see, perhaps, only a paper here and there, by accident — often only one of his mere extravaganzas, written to supply a particular demand. He loses, too, whatever merit may be his due on the score of versatility — a point which can only be estimated by collection of his various articles in volume form and all together. This is indeed a serious difficulty — to seek a remedy for which is my object in writing you this letter.

Setting aside, for the present, my criticisms, poems, and miscellanies (sufficiently numerous), my tales, a great number of which might be termed fantasy pieces, are in number sixty-six. They would make, perhaps, five of the ordinary novel-volumes. I have them prepared in every respect for the press; but, alas, I have no money, nor that influence which would enable me to get a publisher — although I seek no pecuniary remuneration. My sole immediate object is the furtherance of my ultimate one. I believe that if I could get my tales fairly before the public, and thus have an opportunity of eliciting foreign as well as native opinion respecting them, I should by their means be in a far more advantageous position than at present in regard to the establishment of a Magazine. In a word, I believe that the publication of the work would lead forthwith either directly through my own exertion, or indirectly with the aid of a publisher, to the establishment of the journal I hold in view.

It is very true that I have no claims upon your attention, not even that of personal acquaintance. But I have reached a crisis of my life in which I sadly stand in need of aid, and without being able to say why, — unless it is that I so earnestly desire your friendship, — I have always felt a half-hope that, if I appealed to you, you would prove my friend. I know that you have unbounded in fluence with the Harpers, and I know that if you would exert it in my behalf you could procure me the publication I desire. [column 2:]


NEW YORK, November 2, 1844.

DEAR SIR: I have called upon the Harpers, as you requested, and have cheerfully exerted with them what influence I possess, but without accomplishing anything of importance. They have complaints against you, grounded on certain movements of yours, when they acted as your publishers some years ago; and appear very little inclined at present to enter upon the matter which you have so much at heart. However, they have retained, for a second and more careful perusal, the letter which you sent to me, and have promised that, if they should see fit to come to terms with you, they will address a note to you forthwith. Of course, if you should not hear from them, their silence must be construed into a declining of your proposal. My own advice to you is to call in person at their store, and talk over the matter with them. I am very sure that such a step on your part will remove many of the difficulties which at present obstruct your way.

You do me injustice by supposing that I am a stranger to your productions. I subscribed to the “Messenger” solely because you were connected with it, and I have since that period read and, as a matter of course, admired very many of your other pieces. The Harpers also entertain, as I heard from their own lips, the highest opinion of your talents, but — I remain very sincerely, Your friend and well-wisher,


P. S. The MSS. which you were kind enough to send can be obtained by you at any time on calling at my residence. C. A.

The letters of Richard Hengist Horne, whose poem “Orion” had been enthusiastically noticed by Poe, are of interest in themselves, and also because they furnished the means of communication with Mrs. Browning, then Miss Barrett, to whom Poe dedicated his collected poems in 1845. The first was written when Poe had just come to New York, and concerns a tale, The Spectacles,” which Poe had sent Horne to have published in London. Horne's account of the matter is printed in the Poe Memorial” volume.

LONDON, April 16, 1844.

MY DEAR SIR: I have received your letter this morning, and shall feel now and at all times happy in forwarding your views here so far as I am able, in these matters of literary engagement. Just at this time, however, and probably for some months to come, I shall not be likely to have the power. If you have seen the New Spirit of the Age,” you will readily understand that a great many critics here and some authors are far from pleased with me. The attacks and jeers in magazines and newspapers (though several have treated me very fairly) are nearly all written by friends of the an gry parties or influenced by them. Perhaps I may say a word on this point in the Second Edition now preparing. I mention this to show you why [page 858:] I can do so little at present. I need not say to an American that when the storm has blown over, those trees that are not blown down nor injured look all the fresher among the wrecks. I dare say I shall be able to do what you wish before long. I should prefer to do this so that you are fairly remunerated; but if the parties are not in a “paying condition,” then I will put you in direct communication with them to arrange the matter yourself.

I could most probably obtain the insertion of the article you have sent in Jerrold's Illuminated Magazine.” Jerrold has always spoken and written very handsomely and eloquently about me, and there would be no difficulty. But — I fear this magazine is not doing at all well. I tell you this in confidence. They have a large but in adequate circulation. The remuneration would be scarcely worth having — ten guineas a sheet is poor pay for such a page! And now, perhaps, they do not even give that. I will see. My impression, however, is that for the reasons stated previously, I shall not at present able to assist you in the way I could best wish.

Your name is well known to me in the critical literature of America, although I have not seen any American magazine for some months. I have ordered the last two numbers of Graham's Magazine,” but have not received them from my booksellers. I am very grateful for the noble and generous terms in which you speak of my works.

I have written you a business-like, and not a very “spiritual,” letter, you will think. Still, as you are kind enough to give me credit for some things of the latter kind, it seemed best at this distance to reply to your wishes practically. I am, dear sir. Yours truly,



LONDON, April 27, 1844.

MY DEAR SIR: When I replied to your letter (which I did by the next post of the day on which I received it) I had not seen the number of “Graham's” for March, containing the review of “Orion.” Mr. C. Matthews, of New York, had been so good as to inform me there would be a review; and he, at the same time, mentioned that he had sent me a copy of the magazine in question. My friend Miss E. B. Barrett also sent me a note to the same effect. But owing, no doubt, to some forgetfulness on the part of the booksellers who were to forward it, the magazine never reached me, nor was it at Wiley and Putnam's when I called the other day. Your MS. of “The Spectacles” is safely lodged in my iron chest with my own MSS. till I find a favorable opportunity for its use.

I have carefully read and considered the re view of “Orion” in the magazine. It would be uncandid in me to appear to agree to all the objections; and, amidst such high praise, so independently and courageously awarded, it would be ungrateful in me to offer any self-justificatory remark on any such objections. I shall, there fore, only observe that there are some objections from which I can derive advantage in the way of [column 2:] revision — which is more than I can say of any of the critiques written on this side of the water. One passage, in particular, I will mention. It is that which occurs at p. 103. “Star-rays that first” — needlessly obscure, as you truly say. For, in fact, I did allude to Sleep, as the antecedent — and it should have been printed with a capital letter. What I meant by the passage, if rendered in prose, would be something like this:

“The God Sleep, lying in his cave by the old divine sea, feeleth the star-rays upon his eyelids at times; and then his sleep is not perfect, and he dreams, or for a brief interval awakes. Without which awaking he would never have known surprise, nor hope, nor useful action. Because (your poet herein bewitched by a theory he fancies original) we are never surprised at anything, however wonderful, in a dream; neither do we hope; nor do we perform any action with an idea of its being at all useful.” A pretty condition, you see, my imagination had got into while writing this passage. The explanation, if it does not make you angry, will, I think, greatly amuse you.

Are there any of my works which you do not possess, and would like to have? I shall be very happy to request your acceptance of any, if you will let me know how to send them. It strikes me (from some remarks of yours on versification and rhythm) that you do not know my introduction to “Chaucer Modernized.” Do you? Would any American bookseller like to reprint “Orion,” do you think? If so, I would willingly superintend the sheets, by a slight revision in some half dozen places, and would write a brief Introduction or Preface addressed to the American Public; and certainly I should at the same time be too happy to express my obligations to the boldness and handsomeness of American criticism. I am, dear sir. Your obliged,


P. S. In the remark I have made at the close of my letter, as to a reprint of “Orion” by an American bookseller, I forgot to say that I was not particular as to terms; and if they would give me nothing, I was still ready to give them the thing I proposed.


LONDON, May 17, 1845.

MY DEAR Sir: After so long a delay of my last letter to you, I am at all events glad to hear that it reached you — or rather that you, in diving among the shoals at the Post-Office, had contrived to fish it up. But matters do not seem to mend in this respect; for your present letter of the date of January 25, 1845, only reached my house at the latter end of April. In short, we might as well correspond from Calcutta, as far as time is concerned. However, I am glad that the letters reach their destination at all, and so that none are lost we must be patient.

I have only just returned from a nine months’ absence in Germany. I principally resided, during this time, in the Rhine Provinces. I take the earliest opportunity of thanking you for all attentions.

As I thought your letter to me contained more of the bright side of criticism than the “Broadway [page 859:] Journal, I sent it to my friend Miss Barrett. She returned it with a note — half of which I tear off, and send you (confidentially) that you may see in what a good and noble spirit she receives the critique — in which, as you say, the shadows do certainly predominate. Well, for my own part, I think a work should be judged of [by] its merits chiefly — since faults and imperfections are certain to be found in all works, but the highest merits only in a few. Therefore the highest merits seem to me to be naturally the first and main points to be considered. Miss Barrett has read the “Raven,” and says she thinks there is a fine lyrical melody in it. When I tell you that this lady “says” you will be so good as understand that I

mean ‘’writes” — for although I have corresponded with Miss Barrett these five or six years, I have never seen her to this day. Nor have I been nearer to doings o than talking with her father and sisters.

I am of the same opinion as Miss Barrett about the “Raven”; and it also seems to me that the poet intends to represent a very painful condition [of] mind, as of an imagination that was liable to topple over into some delirium, or an abyss of melancholy, from the continuity of one unvaried emotion.

Tennyson I have not seen nor heard from yet, since my return. It is curious that you should ask me for the opinions of the only two poets with whom I am especially intimate. Most of the others I am acquainted with, but am not upon such terms of intellectual sympathy and friend ship, as with Miss Barrett and Tennyson. But I do not at this moment know where Tennyson is.

You mention that an American publisher would probably like to reprint “Orion,” and I therefore send a copy for that purpose, or probability. I also send a copy in which I have written your name, together with a copy of “Gregory VII,” and two copies of “ Introductory Comments” (to the second edition of the “New Spirit of the Age”) of which I beg your acceptance. Of “Chaucer Modernized” I do not possess any other copy than the one in my own library, and I believe it is out of print; but if you would like to have a copy of Schlegel's lectures on “Dramatic Literature” (to which I wrote an introduction to the second edition), I shall be happy to forward you the volume, and any others of my own you would like to have — that is, if I have copies of them. “Cosmo de’ Medici,” for instance, I could send you. I have made no revision of “Orion” for the proposed new edition. The fact is, I have not time, and am hardly disposed to do much to it, after so many editions. I had rather write (almost) another long poem. I shall be happy to send you a short poem or two for your magazine, directly it is established, or for the first number, if there be time for you to let me know. I am, dear sir, Yours truly,



58 WIMPOLE ST., May 12, 1845.

You will certainly think me mad, dear Mr. [column 2:] Horne for treading upon my own heels (room for the [illegible], in another letter. But I am uncomfortable about my message to Mr. Poe, lest it should not be grateful enough in the sound of it. Will you tell him what is quite the truth, that in my own opinion he has dealt with me most generously, and that I thank him for his candour as for a part of his kindness. Will you tell him also that he has given my father pleasure, which is giving it to me more than twice. Also the review is very ably written — and the reviewer has so obviously and thoroughly read my poems, as to be a wonder among critics. Will you tell Mr. Poe this, or to this effect, dear Mr. Horne, all but part of the last sentence, which peradventure may be somewhat superfluous. I heard from dear Miss Mitford this morning, and she talks delightfully of taking lodgings in London soon; of coming not for a day only, nor for a week only [end of sheet].


5 WIMPOLE ST., April, 1846.

Dear Sir: Receiving a book from you seems to authorize or at least encourage me to try to express what I have felt long before — my sense of the high honor you have done me in [illegible] your country and of mine, of the dedication of your poems. It is too great a distinction, conferred by a hand of too liberal a generosity. I wish for my own sake I were worthy of it. But I may endeavour, by future work, to justify a little what I cannot deserve anywise, now. For it, mean while, I maybe grateful — because gratitude is the virtue of the humblest.

After which imperfect acknowledgment of my personal obligation may I thank you as another reader would thank you for this vivid writing, this power which is felt! Your “Raven” has produced a sensation, a “fit horror,” here in England. Some of my friends are taken by the fear of it and some by the music. I hear of persons haunted by the “Nevermore,” and one acquaintance of mine who has the misfortune^of possessing a “ bust of Pallas” never can bear to look at it in the twilight. I think you will like to be told that our great poet, Mr. Browning, the author of “Paracelsus,” and the “ Bells and Pomegranates,” was struck much by the rhythm of that poem.

Then there is a tale of yours [“The Case of M. Valdemar”] which I do not find in this vol ume, but which is going the round of the news papers, about mesmerism, throwing us all into “ most admired disorder,” and dreadful doubts as to whether “ it can be true,” as the children say of ghost stories. The certain thing in the tale in question is the power of the writer, and the fac ulty he has of making horrible improbabilities seem near and familiar.

And now will you permit me, dear Mr. Poe, as one who though a stranger is grateful to you, and has the right of esteeming you though unseen by your eyes — will you permit me to remain very truly yours always,



SALEM, June 17, 1846.

MY DEAR SIR: I presume the publishers will have sent you a copy of Mosses from an Old Manse” — the latest (and probably the last) collection of my tales and sketches. I have read your occasional notices of my productions with great interest — not so much because your judgment was, upon the whole, favorable, as because it seemed to be given in earnest. I care for nothing but the truth; and shall always much more readily accept a harsh truth, in regard to my writings, than a sugared falsehood.

I confess, however, that I admire you rather as a writer of tales than as a critic upon them. I might often — and often do — dissent from your opinions in the latter capacity, but could never fail to recognize your force and originality in the former. Yours very truly,


At this time Poe was contributing his papers,

“The Literati,” to “Godey's Lady's Book,” and he sent to the editor his reply to Thomas Dunn English's attack, which had been drawn out by Poe's criticism on the latter in that magazine. Godey refused to print the reply in the “Lady's Book,” but published it in the Philadelphia “Times.” The following letter was partly printed by Griswold, but is here given entire.


NEW YORK, July 16, 1846.

MY DEAR SIR: I regret that you published my “Reply” in “The Times.” I should have found no difficulty in getting it printed here in a respectable paper and gratis. However, as I have the game in my own hands, I shall not stop to complain about trifles.

I am rather ashamed that, knowing me to be as poor as I am, you should have thought it advisable to make the demand on me of the $10. I confess that I thought better of you — but let it go — it is the way of the world.

The man or men who told you that there was anything wrong in the tone of my “Reply” were either my enemies, or your enemies, or asses. When you see them, tell them so from me. I have never written an article upon which I more confidently depend for literary reputation than that “Reply.” Its merit lay in precisely adapted to its purpose. In this city I have had upon it the favorable judgments of the best men. All the error about it was yours. You should have done as I requested — published it in the “Book.” It is of no use to conceive apian if you have to depend upon another for its execution.

Please distribute twenty or thirty copies of the ‘ ’ Reply” in Philadelphia, and send me the balance through Hamden.

What paper, or papers, have copied E.'s attack?

I have put this matter in the hands of a competent [column 2:] attorney, and you shall see the result. Your charge, $10, will of course be brought before the court as an item when I speak of damages.

In perfect good feeling. Yours truly,


It would be as well to address your letters to West Farms. Please put Miss Lynch” in the next number. I enclose the “Reveille” article. I presume that, ere this, you have seen the highly flattering notices of the “Picayune,” and the “Charleston Courier.”

The following, from W. G. Simms, the novelist, and P. P. Cooke, his old correspondent, illustrate again the appreciation of Poe by Southern writers of distinction.


NEW YORK, July 30, 1846.

DEAR SIR: I received your note a week ago, and proceeded at once to answer it, but being in daily expectation of a newspaper from the South, to which, in a letter, I had communicated a paragraph concerning the matter which you had suggested in a previous letter, I determined to wait until I could enclose it to you. It has been delayed somewhat longer than I had anticipated, and has in part caused my delay to answer you.

I now send it you, and trust that it will answer the desired purpose; though I must frankly say that I scarcely see the necessity of noticing the sort of scandal to which you refer. I note with regret the very desponding character of your last letter. I surely need not tell you how deeply and sincerely I deplore the misfortunes which attend you — the more so as I see no process for your relief and extrication, but such as must result from your own decision and resolve. No friend can well help you in the struggle which is before you. Money, no doubt, can be procured; but this is not altogether what you require. Sympathy may soothe the hurts of self-esteem, and make a man temporarily forgetful of his assailants; but in what degree will this avail, and for how long, in the protracted warfare of twenty or thirty years? You are still a very young man, and one too largely and too variously endowed not to entertain the conviction as your friends entertain it — of a long and manful struggle with, and a final victory over, fortune. But this warfare the world re quires you to carry on with your own unassisted powers. It is only in your manly resolution to use these powers after a legitimate fashion, that it will countenance your claims to its regards and sympathy; and I need n’t tell you how rigid and exacting it has ever been in the case of the poetical genius, or, indeed, the genius of any order. Suffer me to tell you frankly, taking the privileges of a true friend, that you are now perhaps in the most perilous period of your career — just in that position — just at that time of life — when a false step becomes a capital error — when a single leading mistake is fatal in its consequences. You are no longer a boy. ‘ ’ At thirty wise or never.” You [page 861:] must subdue your impulses; and in particular, let me exhort you to discard all associations with men, whatever their talents, whom you cannot es teem as men. Pardon me for presuming thus to counsel one whose great natural and acquired re sources should make him rather the teacher of others. But I obey a law of my own nature, and it is because of my sympathies that I speak. Do not suppose yourself abandoned by the worthy and honorable among your friends. They will be glad to give you welcome if you will suffer them. They will rejoice — I know their feelings and hear their language — to countenance your return to that community — that moral province in society — of which, let me say to you respectfully and regretfully, you have been, according to all reports, but too heedlessly, and perhaps too scornfully, indifferent. Remain in obscurity fora while. You have a young wife, — I am told a suffering and an interesting one, — let me entreat you to cherish her, and to cast away those pleasures which are not worthy of your mind, and to trample those temptations under foot which degrade your per son, and make it familiar to the mouth of vulgar jest. You may [do] all this by a little circumspection. It is still within your power. Your resources from literature are probably much greater than mine. I am sure they are quite as great. You can increase them so that they shall be ample for all your legitimate desires; but you must learn the worldling's lesson of prudence — a lesson, let me add, which the literary world has but too frequently and unwisely disparaged. It may seem to you very impertinent, — in most cases it is im pertinent — that he who gives nothing else should presume to give counsel. But one gives that which he can most spare, and you must not esteem me indifferent to a condition which I can in no other way assist. I have never been regardless of your genius, even when I knew nothing of your person. It is some years since I counseled Mr. Godey to obtain the contributions of your pen. He will tell you this. I hear that you reproach him. But how can you expect a Magazine proprietor to encourage contributions which embroil him with all his neighbors? These broils do you no good — vex your temper, destroy your peace of mind, and hurt your reputation. You have abundant re sources upon which to draw, even were there no Grub Street in Gotham. Change your tactics, and begin a new series of papers with your publisher. The printed matter which I send you might be quoted by Godey, and might be ascribed to me. But, surely, I need not say to you that, to a Southern man, the annoyance of being mixed up in a squabble with persons whom he does not know, and does not care to know, — and from whom no Alexandrine process of cutting loose would be permitted by Society, — would be an intolerable grievance. I submit to frequent injuries and misrepresentations, content — though annoyed by the [illegible] — that the viper should amuse him self upon the file, at the expense of his own teeth. As a man, as a writer, I shall always be solicitous of your reputation and success. You have but to resolve on taking and asserting your position, equally in the social and the literary world, and your way is clear, your path is easy, and you will [column 2:] find true friends enough to sympathize in your tri umphs. Very sincerely though sorrowfully, Your friend and ser’vt,


P. S. If I could I should have been to see you. But I have been, and am still, drudging in the hands of the printers, kept busily employed night and day. Besides, my arrangements are to hurry back to the South where I have a sick family. A very few days will turn my feet in that direction.


August 4, 1846.

MY DEAR SIR: ... You propose that I shall take up your memoir where Lowell drops it, and carry it on to the present date of your publications. I will do so, if my long delay has not thrown the work into the hands of some other friend, with entire pleasure. I, however, have not “Graham's Magazine” for February, 1845, and if you still wish me to continue the memoir you must send that number to me. I some months ago procured your Tales and Poems, and have read them collectively with great pleasure. That is a wonderful poem ending —

Hell rising from a thousand thrones

Shall do it reverence.

“Lenore,” too, is a great poem. The closing stanza of “To One in Paradise” (I remember it as published in “The Visionary”) is the perfection of melody. “The Raven” is your best poem.

John Kennedy, talking with me about your stories, old and recent, said, “The man's imagination is as truth-like and minutely accurate as De Foe's —” and went on to talk of your “Descent into the Maelstrom,” “MS. Found in a Bottle,” “Gold Bug,” etc. .1 think this last the most ingenious thing I ever read. Those stories of criminal detection, “Murders of the Rue Morgue,” etc., a prosecuting attorney in the neighborhood here declares are miraculous. I think your French friend, for the most part, fine in his deductions from over-laid and unnoticed small facts, but sometimes too minute and hair-splitting. The stories are certainly as interesting as any ever written. The “Valdemar Case” I read in a number of your “Broadway Journal” last winter — ^as I lay in a turkey-blind, muffled to the eyes in overcoats, etc., and pronounce it without hesitation the most damnable, vraisemblable, horrible, hair-lifting, shocking, ingenious chapter of fiction that any brain ever conceived, or hand traced. That gelatinous, viscous sound of the man's voice! There never was such an idea before. That story scared me in broad day, armed with a double-barrel Tryon turkey-gun. What would it have done at midnight in some old ghostly country-house?

I have always found some one remarkable thing in your stories to haunt me long after reading them. The teeth in “Berenice”; the changing eyes of Morella; that red and glaring crack in the “House of Usher”; the pores of the deck in the “MS. Found in a Bottle”; the visible drops falling into the goblet in “Ligeia,” etc.. [page 862:] etc., — there is always something of this sort to stick by the mind — by mine at least.

My wife is about to enter the carriage, and as I wish to send this to the P. O. by her I must wind up rapidly. I am now after an interval of months again at work in the preparation of my poems for publication. I am dragging, but perhaps the mood will presently come. I bespeak a review of my Book at your hands when I get it out. I have not time now to copy “Rosalie Lee.” It is in Griswold's last edition. I am grateful to you for the literary prop you afford me; and trust to do something to justify your commendations. I talked recently with a little lady who had heard a lecture of yours in which you praised my poetry — in New York. She had taken up the notion that I was a great poetic roaring “Lion.”

Do with my MS. as you choose. What do you design as to the “Stylus”? Write to me with out delay, if you can rob yourself of so much time.

A paragraph of the following letter was partly printed by Griswold.


NEW YORK, August 9, 1846.

MY DEAR SIR: Never think of excusing your self (to me) for dilatoriness in answering letters —

I know too well the unconquerable procrastination which besets the poet. I will place it all to the accounts of the turkeys. Were I to be seized by a rambling fit, one of my passions (nothing less) for vagabondizing through the woods for a week or a month together, I would not — in fact I could not — be put out my mood, were it even to answer a letter from the Grand Mogul informing me that I had fallen heir to his possessions.

Thank you for the compliments. Were I in a serious humor just now, I would tell you frankly how your words of appreciation make my nerves thrill — not because you praise me (for others have praised me more lavishly) but because I feel that you comprehend and discriminate. You are right about the hair-splitting of my French friend — that is all done for effect. These tales of ratiocination owe most of their popularity to being something in a new key — I do not mean to say that they are not ingenious — but people think them more ingenious than they are — on account of their method, and air of method. In the “Murders in the Rue Morgue,” for instance, where is the ingenuity of unravelling a web which you yourself (the author) have woven for the express purpose of unravelling? The reader is made to confound the ingenuity of the supposititious Dupin with that of the writer of the story.

Not for the world would I have had any one else to continue Lowell's memoir until I had heard from you. I wish you to do it (if you will be so kind) and nobody else. By the time the book ap pears you will be famous (or all my prophecy goes for nothing), and I shall have the éclat of your name to aid my sales. But, seriously, I do not think that any one so well enters into the poetical portion of my mind as yourself — and I deduce this [column 2:] idea from my intense appreciation of those points of your own poetry which seem lost upon others.

Should you undertake the work for me, there is one topic — there is one particular in which I have had wrong done me, and it may not be in decorous in me to call your attention to it. The last selection of my Tales was made from about seventy, by Wiley and Putnam's reader, Duyckinck. He has what he thinks a taste for ratiocination, and has accordingly made up the book mostly of analytic stories. But this is not representing my mind in its various phases — it is not giving me fair play. In writing these Tales one by one, at long intervals, I have kept the book-unity always in mind — that is, each has been composed with reference to its effect as part of a whole. In this view, one of my chief aims has been the widest diversity of subject, thought, and especially tone and manner of handling. Were all my Tales now before me in a large volume, and as the composition of another, the merit which would principally arrest my attention would be the wide diversity and variety. You will be surprised to hear me say that (omitting one or two of my first efforts) I do not consider any one of my stories better than another. There is a vast variety of kinds, and, in degree of value, these kinds vary — but each tale is equally good of its kind. The loftiest kind is that of the highest imagination — and for this reason only “Ligeia” may be called my best tale. I have much improved this last since you saw it, and I mail you a copy, as well as a copy of my best specimen of analysis — “The Philosophy of Composition.”

Do you ever see the British papers? Martin F. Tupper, author of “Proverbial Philosophy,” has been paying me some high compliments — and indeed I have been treated more than well. There is one “British opinion,” however, which I value highly — Miss Barrett's. She says [the letter has been printed above] ... Would it be in bad taste to quote these words of Miss B. in your notice? Forgive these egotisms (which are rendered in some measure necessary by the topic), and believe me that I will let slip no opportunity of reciprocating your kindness.

Griswold's new edition I have not yet seen (is it out?), but I will manage to find “Rosalie Lee.” Do not forget to send me a few personal details of yourself — such as I give in “The New York Literati.” When your book appears I propose to review it fully in Colton's “American Review.” If you ever write to him, please suggest to him that I wish to do so. I hope to get your volume before mine goes to press — so that I may speak more fully.

I will forward the papers to which I refer in a day or two — not by to-day's mail.

Touching “The Stylus”: this is [the] one great purpose of my literary life. Undoubtedly (unless I die) I will accomplish it — but I can afford to lose nothing by precipitancy. I cannot yet say when or how I shall get to work — but when the time comes, I will write to you. I wish to establish a journal in which the men of genius may fight their battles upon some terms of equality with those dunces, the men of talent. But, apart from this, I have magnificent objects in [page 863:] view. May I but live to accomplish them! Most cordially your friend,


The correspondence with F. W. Thomas, which continued with some laxity on Poe's part, is self-explanatory:


NEW YORK, September 8, 1844.

MY DEAR THOMAS: I received yours with sin cere pleasure, and nearly as sincere surprise; for while you were wondering that I did not write to you, I was making up my mind that you had for gotten me altogether.

I have left Philadelphia, and am living, at pres ent, about five miles out of New York. For the last seven or eight months I have been playing hermit in earnest, nor have I seen a living soul out of my family — who are well and desire to be kindly remembered. When I say “well,” I only mean (as regards Virginia) as well as usual. Her health remains excessively precarious.

Touching the “Beechen Tree” [a poem by Thomas], I remember it well and pleasantly. I have not yet seen a published copy, but will get one forthwith and notice it as it deserves — and it deserves much of high praise — at the very first opportunity I get. At present I am so much out of the world that I may not be able to do any thing immediately.

Thank God! Richard (whom you know) is himself again. Tell Dow so: but he won’t believe it. I am working at a variety of things (all of which you shall behold in the end) — and with an ardor of which I did not believe myself capable.

You said to me hurriedly, when we last met on the wharf in Philadelphia, that you believed Robert Tyler really wished to give me the post in the Custom-House. This I also really think; and I am confirmed in the opinion that he could not, at all times, do as he wished in such matters, by seeing — — at the head of the “Aurora” — a bullet-headed and malicious villain who has brought more odium upon the Administration than any fellow (of equal littleness) in its ranks, and who has been more indefatigably busy in both open and secret vilification of Robert Tyler than any individual, little or big, in America.

Let me hear from you again very soon, my dear Thomas, and believe me ever

Your friend, POE.


May 4, 1845.

MY DEAR THOMAS: In the hope that you have not yet quite given me up as gone to Texas, or elsewhere, I sit down to write you a few words.

I have been intending to do the same thing ever since I received your letter before the last — but for my life and soul I could not find, or make, an opportunity. The fact is, that being seized of late with a fit of industry, I put so many irons in the fire all at once that I have been quite unable to get them out. For the last three or four months [column 2:] I have been working fourteen or fifteen hours a day, — hard at it all the time, — and so, whenever I took pen in hand to write, I found that I was neglecting something that would be attended to. I never knew what it was to be a slave before.

And yet, Thomas, I have made no money. I am as poor now as ever I was in my life — except in hope, which is by no means bankable. I have taken a third pecuniary interest in the “Broadway Journal,” and for everything I have written for it have been, of course, so much out of pocket. In the end, however, it will pay me well — at least the prospects are good. Say to Dow for me that there never has been a chance for my repaying him, without putting myself to greater inconvenience than he himself would have wished to subject me to, had he known the state of the case. Nor am I able to pay him now. The Devil him self was never so poor. Say to Dow, also, that I am sorry he has taken to dunning in his old age — it is a diabolical practice, altogether unworthy “a gentleman and a scholar” — to say nothing of the Editor of the “Madisonian.” I wonder how he would like me to write him a series of letters,- — say one a week, — giving him the literary gossip of New York, or something of more general character. I would furnish him such a series for whatever he could afford to give me. If he agrees to this arrangement, ask him to state the length and character of the letters — how often — and how much he can give me. Remember me kindly to him, and tell him I believe that dunning is his one sin — although at the same time, I do think it is the unpardonable sin against the Holy Ghost spoken of in the Scriptures. I am going to mail him the “Broadway Journal” regularly, and hope he will honor me with an exchange.

My dear Thomas, I hope you will never imagine, from any seeming neglect of mine, that I have forgotten our old friendship. There is no one in the world I would rather see at this moment than yourself; and many are the long talks we have about you and yours. Virginia and Mrs. Clemm beg to be remembered to you in the kindest terms. Do write me fully when you get this, and let me know particularly what you are about.

I send you an early number of the “B. Journal” containing my “Raven.” It was copied by Briggs, my associate, before I joined the paper. The “Raven” has had a great “run,” Thomas — but I wrote it for the express purpose of running — just as I did the “Gold Bug,” you know. The bird beat the bug, though, all hollow.

Do not forget to write immediately, and believe me. Most sincerely your friend,


The following is the last letter to F. W. Thomas.


FORDHAM, February 14, 1849.

MY DEAR FRIEND THOMAS: Your letter, dated November 27, has reached me at a little village of the Empire State, after having taken, at its leisure, a very considerable tour among the Post-Offices — [page 864:] occasioned, I presume, by your indorsement “to forward” wherever I might be — and the fact is, where I might not have been, for the last three months, is the legitimate question. At all events, now that I have your well-known MS. before me, it is most cordially welcome. Indeed, it seems an age since I heard from you, and a decade of ages since I shook you by the hand — although I hear of you now and then. Right glad am I to find you once more in a true position — in the field of Letters. Depend upon it, after all, Thomas, Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man. For my own part, there is no seducing me from the path. I shall be a Littérateur at least all my life; nor would I abandon the hopes which still lead me on for all the gold in California. Talking of gold, and of the temptations at present held out to “poor-devil authors,” did it ever strike you that all which is really valuable to a man of letters — to a poet in especial — is absolutely unpurchasable? Love, fame, the dominion of intellect, the consciousness of power, the thrilling sense of beauty, the free air of Heaven, exercise of body and mind, with the physical and moral health which result — these and such as these are really all that a poet cares for: then answer me this — why should he go to California? Like Brutus, “I pause for a reply” — which, like F. W. Thomas, I take it for granted you have no intention of giving me. I have read the Prospectus of the “Chronicle,” and like it much, especially the part where you talk about letting go the finger of that conceited booby, the East, which is by no means the East out of which came the wise men mentioned in Scripture. I wish you would come down on the Frogpondians. They are getting worse and worse, and pretend not to be aware that there are any literary people out of Boston. The worst and most disgusting part of the matter is that the Bostonians are really, as a race, far inferior in point of anything beyond mere talent to any other set upon the continent of North America. They are decidedly the most servile imitators of the English it is possible to conceive. I always get into a passion when I think about [it.] It would be the easiest thing in the world to use them up en masse. One really well-written satire would accomplish the business: but it must not be such a dish of skimmed-milk-and-water as Lowell's. I suppose you have seen that affair — the ‘’Fable for Critics,” I mean. Miss Fuller, that detestable old maid, told him once that he was “so wretched a poet as to be disgusting even to his best friends.” This set him off at a tangent and he has never been quite right since — so he took to writing satire against mankind in general, with Margaret Fuller and her protege, Cornelius Matthews, in particular. It is miserably weak upon the whole, but has one or two good but by no means original things, — oh, there is nothing new under the sun,” and Solomon is right — for once. I sent a review of the “Fable” to the “S. L. Messenger,” a day or two ago, and I only hope Thompson will print it. Lowell is a ranting abolitionist, and deserves a good using up. It is a pity that he is a poet. I have not seen your paper yet, and hope you will mail me one — regularly [column 2:] if you can spare it. I will send you some thing whenever I get a chance. With your coeditor, Mr. [name crossed out] I am not acquainted personally, but he is well known to me by reputation. Eames, I think, was talking to me about him in Washington once, and spoke very highly of him in many respects, so upon the whole you are in luck. The rock on which most new enterprises in the paper way split is namby-pambyism. It never did do and never will. No yea-nay journal ever succeeded. But I know there is little danger of your making the “Chronicle” a yea-nay one. I have been quite out of the literary world for the last three years, and have said little or nothing, but, like the owl, I have “taken it out in thinking.” By and by I mean to come out of the bush, and then I have some old scores to settle. I fancy I see some of my friends already stepping up to the Captain's office. The fact is, Thomas, living buried in the country makes a man savage — wolfish. I am Just in the humor for a fight. You will be pleased to hear that I am in better health than I ever knew myself to be — full of energy, and bent upon success. You shall hear of me again shortly — and it is not improbable that I may soon pay you a visit in Louisville. If I can do any thing for you in New York, let me know. Mrs. Clemm sends her best respects, and begs to be remembered to your mother's family if they are with you. You would oblige me very especially if you could squeeze in what follows, editorially. The lady [Mrs. Lewis] spoken of is a most particular friend of mine, and deserves all I have said of her. I will reciprocate the favor I ask, whenever you say the word, and show me how. Address me at New York City as usual, and if you insert the following, please cut it out and enclose it in your let ter. Truly your friend,


A notice of Mrs. Lewis, “Estelle,” is appended. Poe recurs to the same subject in the next.


NEW YORK, June 28, 1849.

DEAR GRISWOLD: Since I have more critically examined your “Female Poets,” it occurs to me that you have not quite done justice to our common friend, Mrs. Lewis; and if you could oblige me so far as to substitute, for your no doubt hurried notice, a somewhat longer one prepared by myself (subject, of course, to your emendations) I would reciprocate the favor when, where, and as you please. If you could agree to this, give me a hint to that effect, and the MS. is ready. I will leave it sealed with Mrs. Lewis, who is unaware of my design — for I would rather she should consider herself as indebted to you for the favor, at all points. By calling on Mrs. Lewis, and asking for a package to your address, you can at any moment get it. I would not, of course, put you to any expense in this matter. All cost shall be promptly defrayed.

Truly yours, EDGAR A. POE. [page 865:]


NEW YORK, September 4, 1849.

DEAR MR. GRISWOLD: I have tried so long to see you without success, that I have taken the liberty of addressing this note to you. I under stand from Mrs. Lewis you received the package Mr. Poe left at her house for you. I wish you to publish it exactly as he has written it. If you will do so I will promise you a favorable review of your books as they appear — you know the influence I have with Mr. Poe. Not that I think he will need any urging to advance your interest. I have just heard from him; he writes in fine spirits and says his prospects are excellent. Will you be so kind as to let me know if you receive this? Please direct to me at New York, care of E. A. Poe, Respectfully,


I will call on Saturday at ten o’clock at your room if you will please meet me there.

Mrs. Lewis's comment on this interest in her verse is contained in the following:


125 DEAN STREET, September 20, 1850.

DEAR DOCTOR: ... Nothing has ever given me so much insight into Mr. Poe's real character as his letters to you, which are published in this third volume [of Poe's collected works]. They will not fail to convince the public of the in justice of Graham's and Neal's articles. I was astonished at the part of P.'s Note, where he says — “But I have promised Mrs. Lewis this.” I will explain. Mrs. Clemm said to me on one of her visits: Dr. G. has been to Fordham — he came to see Eddie about you — something about the new edition of ‘The Female Poets.’ But you are not to know anything about it.” Mr. P. never mentioned the subject to me, or I to him. He only sent to me for my latest poems, saying that you were going to increase or re-write the sketch for a new Edition of “The Female Poets.”

I have ceased to correspond with Mrs. C[lemm] on account of her finding so much fault, and those articles of G's and N's. I cannot endure ingratitude. I have felt and do feel that you have performed a noble and disinterested part toward Mr. Poe in the editing of his works... .

Yours ever sincerely, ESTELLE.

A second letter from Mrs. Clemm to Griswold illustrates the relations of the family with him at the time he was designated by Poe as his literary executor. It should be said, too, that several of the letters published by Griswold, as from Poe to him, are among these papers, and a few other unimportant notes.

NEW YORK, August 27, 1849.

DEAR MR. GRISWOLD: I feel you will pardon the liberty I take in addressing you, but the extreme urgency of my situation compels me to do so. Mr. Poe has been absent from home for some [column 2:] weeks; he is now in Richmond and has been very ill, and unable to send me any money since he left, and is much distressed for fear of my suffering. Indeed I have suffered. I have been very sick, and entirely unable to make the least exertion. I have been without the necessaries of life for many days, and would not apply to any one, in hopes that I would soon receive some aid from my poor Eddy. He writes me that he is getting better, and hopes he will be soon able to attend to business. I confide in you, dear sir, and beg you to loan me a small sum until I can receive some from him. I have not the means to go to the city, but a note addressed to Mrs. Maria Clemm, care of E. A. Poe, New York, will reach me. A gentleman in the neighborhood asks every day for me at the post-office. You have no idea how distressing it is to my feelings to make this request, but I think you will feel for my situation. Respectfully, MARIA CLEMM.

Poe's relations with literary women are further illustrated, and some details are elucidated by letters belonging to his own correspondence, and by other letters that passed between these ladies or between them and Griswold. The subject, however, is an involved one, and would require, for proper understanding, a more de tailed explanation of minor incidents than is here possible. All the papers bearing upon this matter are therefore omitted.

The last letter we shall print is from Poe to Mrs. Clemm, written at Richmond, whither he had gone to lecture and to visit old friends, especially Mrs. Shelton, to whom he became en gaged. The “Annie” to whom he refers is the lady of Lowell whose friendship seems to have been uppermost in his mind during the later period of his much-tangled affections.


RICHMOND, September, 1849.

[First sheet missing.] ... possible. Everybody says that if I lecture again and put the tickets at fifty cents, I will clear $100. I never received with so much enthusiasm. The papers have done nothing but praise me before the lecture and since. I inclose one of the notices, the only one in which the slightest word of disparagement appears. It is written by Daniel, the man whom I challenged when I was here last year. I have been invited out a great deal, but could seldom go, on account of not having a dress-coat. To-night Rose [his sister] and I are to spend the evening at Elmira's [Mrs. Shelton]. Last night I was at Poitiaux's; the night before at Strobia's, where I saw my dear friend Eliza Lambert, Gen. Lambert's sister. She was ill in her bed-room, but insisted upon our coming up, and we stayed until nearly one o’clock. In a word, I have received nothing but kindness since I have been here, and could have been quite happy but for my dreadful anxiety about you. Since the report of my intended marriage the McKenzies have overwhelmed me with [page 866:] attentions. Their house is so crowded that they could not ask me to stay. And now, my own precious Muddy, the very moment I get a definite answer about everything I will write again and tell you what to do. Elmira talks about visiting Fordham, but I do not know whether that would do. I think, perhaps, it would be best for you to give up everything there and come on here in the Packet. Write immediately and give me your ad vice about it, for you know best. Could we be happier in Richmond or Lowell? for I suppose we could never be happy at Fordham, and. Muddy, I must be somewhere where I can see Annie. Did Mrs. L[ewis] get the “Western Quarterly Review”? Thompson is constantly urging me to write for the “Messenger,” but I am so anxious that I cannot. Mr. Loud, the husband of Mrs. St. Leon Loud, the poetess of Philadelphia, called on me the other day and offered me $100 to edit his wife's poems. Of course I accepted the offer. The whole labor will not occupy me three days. I am to have them ready by Christmas. I have seen Bernard often. Eliza is expected, but has not come. When I repeat my lecture here, I will then go to Petersburg and Norfolk. A Mr. Taverner lectured here on Shakespeare, a few nights after me, and had eight persons, including myself and the doorkeeper. I think upon the whole, dear Muddy, it will be better for you to say that I am ill or something of that kind, and break up at Fordham, so that you may come on here. Let me know immediately what you think best. You know we could easily pay off what we owe at Fordham, and the place is a beautiful one, but I want to live near Annie. And now, dear Muddy, there is one thing I wish you to pay particular attention to. I told Elmira when I first came here, that I had one of the pencil-sketches of her, that I took a long while ago in Richmond; and I told her that I would write to you about it. So when you write, just copy the following words in your letter:

“I have looked again for the pencil-sketch of Mrs. S. but cannot find it anywhere. I took down [column 2:] all the books and shook them one by one, and, unless Eliza White has it, I do not [know] what has become of it. She was looking at it the last time I saw it. The one you spoilt with Indian Ink ought to be somewhere about the house. I will do my best to find it.”

I got a sneaking letter to-day from ———. Do not tell me anything about Annie — I cannot bear to hear it now — unless you can tell me that Mr. —— [her husband] is dead. I have got the wedding ring, and shall have no difficulty, I think, in getting a dress-coat.


... [torn out] also the letter. Return the letter when you write.

The letters selected in these articles include the more important portion of the Poe papers in Griswold's hands. Whatever one may think of the temper or prudence of Griswold, they abundantly sustain the substance of his memoir. They are now furnished for publication by his son, in defense of that memoir, and the pres ent writer's responsibility is merely an editorial one. It is a gratification to find that American men of letters who were contemporary with Poe are so fully freed from the charge, brought against them by English admirers of the poet, of lack of aid and appreciation toward him. Few men have received such cordial encouragement, praise, and welcome, material and moral, as Poe received from nearly all who were brought into relations with him, and the number of these was many — Irving, Kennedy, Paulding, Hawthorne, Willis, Anthon, Lowell, Simms, and others less distinguished, but then of note. Yet Mr. Andrew Lang says that Poe was “a gentleman among canaille.”

G. E. Woodberry.



[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 854:]

1 This daguerreotype, made by Pratt of Richmond, was presented by Poe, a short time before his death, to Mrs. Sarah Elmira (Royster) Shelton, whom he had engaged to marry. It is believed to be his last portrait. The portrait of Poe in the September number, from the daguerreotype made by Chilton and owned by Mr. Thomas J. McKee, so closely resembles that printed [column 2:] with Hirst's Biography in the “Philadelphia Saturday Museum,” March 4, 1843, as to suggest that the latter, though very rude in execution, was copied from it, and to place its authenticity beyond doubt. Both portraits, as well as Mr. Sterner's picture on p. 856, will appear in the forthcoming complete edition of Poe to be published by Stone & Kimball.

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 859:]

1 Permission to use these letters has been granted by Mr. R. B. Browning. — Editor.










[S:0 - CM, August 1894] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - A Poe Bookshelf - Poe in the South (George E. Woodberry, 1894)