and announced the author. My office, in those days, was in the building still occupied by the Mechanics' Bank, and I was seated at my desk on the Monday following the publication of the tale, when a gentleman entered and introduced himself as the writer, saying that he came to thank me as one of the committee, for the award in his favor. Of this interview, the only one I ever had with Mr. Poe, my recollection is very distinct indeed, and it requires but a small effort of imagination to place him before me now, as plainly almost as I see any one of my audience. He was, if anything, below the middle size, and yet could not be described as a small man. His figure was remarkably good, and he carried himself erect and well, as one who had been trained to it. He was dressed in black, and his frock coat was buttoned to the throat, when it met the black stock, then almost universally worn. Not a particle of white was visible; coat, hat, boots and gloves had very evidently seen their best days, but so far as mending and brushing could go, everything had been done, apparently, to make them presentable

On most men his clothes would have looked shabby and seedy, but there was something about this man that prevented one from criticising his garments, and the details I have mentioned were only recalled afterward. The impression made, however, was that the award in Mr. Poe's favor was not inopportune. Gentleman. was written all over him. His manner was easy and quiet, and although he came to return thanks for what he regarded as deserving them, there was nothing obsequious in what he said or did. His features I am unable to describe in detail. His forehead was high, and remarkable for the great development at the temple. This was the characteristic of his head which you noticed at once, and which I have never forgotten. The expression of his face was grave, almost sad, except when he was engaged in conversation, when it became animated and changeable. His voice, I remember, was very pleasing in its tone, and well modulated, almost metrical, and his words were well-chosen and unhesitating. Taking a seat, we conversed a while on ordinary topics, and he informed me that Mr. Kennedy, my colleague on the committee, on whom he had already called, had either given, or had promised to give him a letter to the Southern Literary Messenger, which he hoped would procure him employment. I asked whether he was then occupied with any literary labor. He replied that he was engaged in a "Voyage to the Moon," and at once went into a somewhat learned disquisition upon the laws of gravity, the height of the earth's atmosphere, and the capacities of balloons, warming in his speech as he proceeded. Presently, speaking in the first person, he began the voyage, after describing the preliminary arrangements, as you will find them set forth in one of his tales, called "The Adventure of one Hans Pfaal," and leaving the earth, and becoming more and more animated, he described his sensations as he ascended higher and higher, until, at last, he reached the point in space where the moon's attractions overcame that of the earth, where there was a sudden bouleversement of the car and a great confusion among its tenants. By this time the speaker had become so excited, spoke so rapidly, gesticulating much, that when the turn upside-down took place, and he clapped his hands and stamped with his foot by way of emphasis, I was carried along with him, and for aught to the contrary that I now remember, may have fancied myself the companion of his aerial journey. The climax of the tale was the reversal I have mentioned.

When he

had finished his description he apologised for his excitability, which he laughed at himself. The conversation then turned upon other subjects, and soon afterward he took his leave. I never saw him more. Dr. Griswold's statement, "that Mr. Kennedy accompanied him (Poe) to a clothing store, and purchased for him a respectable suit, with a change of linen, and sent him to a bath," is a sheer fabri

cation.

That I heard of him again and again, year after year, in common with all Englishspeaking people, more and more, it is unnecessary to say; heard of him in terms of praise sometimes, sometimes in terms of censure, as we all have done, until now that he has passed away, leaving his fame behind him, to last while our language lasts, I have grown to think of him only as the author who gave to the world "The Raven" and "The Bells," and many a gem beside of noble verse; who illustrated the power of the English tongue in prose composition not less logical than imaginative; and I forget the abuse, whether with or without foundation, that ignorance, prejudice or envy has heaped upon his memory. Unfortunate in the first biography following his death, where the author, with a temper difficult to understand, actually seemed to enjoy his depreciation of the poet's life, Edgar Allan Poe was seen by a malignant eye, and his story was told by an unkindly tongue, and the efforts

since made by friends to do him justice are slowly succeeding in demonstrating that there was in him an amount of good which in all fairness should be set off against that which we much regret while we attempt to palliate.

To Poe there may well be applied the verse of one of the most gifted of our poetesses, addressed to a great name in a very different sphere

"The moss upon thy memory: no!
Not while one note is rung

Of those divine, immortal lays
Milton and Shakspeare sung;;
And till the gloom of night enshrouds
The Anglo-Saxon tongue."

A LADY'S CRITIQUE ON "THE RING AND THE BOOK."

The "Ring", as I fancy, will best fit a man: I
Confess it to me, as a woman, uncanny.

'Tis a serpentine circle of murderous fact
Transmuted to gold by a great poet's act,

And stamped on the "Book"-[where, a marvel, it glistens]
Whose leaves' sibyl rustlings a world's strained ear listens.
But what right has Browning, howe'er great a poet,

To write such strange English that one can scarce know it
From Greek text or Sanskrit (to name nothing harder)?
It vexes one's soul and it dampens one's ardor,

And delays would-be subjects, who'd know him ere crowning,
Till the laurels they bring become brown, if not Browning.
['Tis a pun-I avow it. He puns, why not I?
Page 20, his pun, near the bottom descry.]

For the small as the great have existence and die-
Die sooner, it may be, to Fame; but what matter,

Save sparing men's tongues some more ignorant chatter?
So mock we the sour grapes of fame, we the small
Whose stature or courage attains not the wall
Where hang the rich clusters of purple, divine
With the kiss of the sun and the flush of their wine.
Now take a fair warning, ye fluttering things

Who sip furtive honey on wandering wings;
Avoid a flower guarded by thorns so tremendous,
Whose motto is, Nunquam impune tangendus.

As for me, I henceforward, when weary, refuse
To commune with a Sibyl instead of a Muse,
And awake from a slumber by nightmare oppressed,
With the "Ring" round each eye and the "Book"

on my chest.

LATIENNE.

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