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the poor poet was married to his kinswoman, and, it must be confessed, in happier circumstance, a better helpmate could scarcely have been found for him, while the marriage had the further advantage of bringing him under the motherly care of his aunt, Mrs. Clemm. Until January 1837, Poe continued the direction of the Messenger, when he left it for the more lucrative employment of assisting Professors Anthon, Hawks, and Henry, in the management of the New York Quarterly Review, and, probably, to aid the first in his classical labors -a work for which his scholarly attainments rendered him invaluable.

From Richmond, Poe removed to New York, where he and his household resided in Carmine Street. During January and February of this year (1837) Poe contributed the first portions of "the Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym" to the Messenger, and, encouraged by the interest it excited, he determined to complete it. It was not published in book form, however, until July of the following year, and although it did not excite much attention in America, it was very successful in England.

The independence which Poe had hoped to earn by his pen was not obtainable in those days at New York, and having prospect of constant employment in Philadelphia, he removed to that city late in 1838, and entered into an arrangement to write for the Gentleman's Magazine, a publication of some years' standing. His talents soon produced the usual brilliant effects upon this publication, and in May 1839 he was appointed to the editoral management, "devoting to it," says Griswold, "for ten dollars a week, two hours every day, which left him abundant time for more important labors."

In the autumn of 1839, Poe made a collection of his best stories, and published them in two volumes as "Tales of the Arabesque and Grotesque."

Towards the close of 1840, Mr. George R. Graham, owner of The Casket, acquired possession of the Gentleman's Magazine, and merging the two publications into one, began the new series as Graham's Magazine. The new proprietor was only too willing to retain the services of the brilliant editor, and he found his reward in so doing.

In April, 1841, he published in Graham's Magazine the tale of "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," the first of a series illustrating another analytic phase of his many-sided mind. This story was the first to introduce his name to the French public, being translated, and published as an original story by Le Commerce, under the title of "L'Orang-Otang:" shortly afterwards it was translated again, and appeared in the pages of La Quotidienne, whereupon a cry of theft was raised, a Jawsuit instituted, and untimately the truth discov

ered, that Edgar Poe, an American, was the author. In 1842 appeared "The Descent into the Maelström," a tale that in many respects may be deemed one of his most marvelous and idiosyncratic.

It was during his brilliant editorship of Graham's Magazine that Poe discovered and first introduced to the American public the genius of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and it was whilst he held sway over it that she contributed to its pages many of her shorter poems; indeed, it was greatly due to Poe that her fame in America was coeval with, if it did not somewhat precede, that won by her in her native land. In May, 1841, he contributed to the Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post-a paper belonging to Mr. Graham, and for which Poe wrote that prospective notice of the newly-commenced story of "Barnaby Rudge," which drew from Dickens a letter of admiring acknowledgment. In this notice the poet with mathematical precision explained and foretold the exact plot of the as yet unwritten story.

In November, 1842, "The Mystery of Marie Roget" appeared, and about the same time Poe resigned his post of joint editor and reviewer of Graham's Magazine. It was shortly previous to this epoch in his life that he had the misfortune to make the acquaintance of Rufus Griswold, a man who, although several years Poe's junior in age, had, by many years' “knocking about the world,' gained an experience of its shifts and subterfuges that made him far more than a match for the unworldly nature of our poet. On seceding from Graham's, Poe seems to have endeavored to start a magazine of his own, to be entitled The Stylus, and Mr. Thomas C. Clarke, of Philadelphia, was to have been the publisher. The poet does not appear to have been enabled to obtain a sufficient number of subscribers to start the projected publication on a sound basis, and therefore the scheme fell through. In the spring of 1843 the one hundred dollar prize, offered by The Dollar Magazine, was obtained by Poe for his tale of "The Gold-Bug," a tale illustrative of and originating with his theory of ciphers. During this year Poe wrote for Lowell's Pioneer, and other publications. In 1844 he removed to New York, whither his daily increasing fame had already preceded him, and where he entered into a more congenial literary atmosphere than that in which he had recently resided.

Towards the autumn of the year Poe sought and found employment as sub-editor and critic on the Mirror, a daily paper belonging to N. P. Willis and General George Morris. Edgar Poe left the Mirror to take charge of the Broadway Journal, the sole management of which, however, did not

devolve upon him until July, whilst it was not until the following October that he became proprietor as well as editor of this publication.

It was in the summer of 1846 that the poet removed his dying wife to the quietude and repose of the cottage at Fordham, Winchester County, near New York. In January 1847 the poet's darling wife died, and on a desolate dreary day her remains were interred in a vault in the neighborhood, in accordance with the permission of its owner. The loss of his wife threw Poe into a melancholy stupor which lasted for several weeks; but nature reasserting her powers, he gradually resumed his wonted avocations. During the whole of the year the poet lived a quiet, secluded life with his mother-in-law, receiving occasional visits from his friends and admirers, musing over the memory of his lost Lenore, and thinking out the great and crowning work of his life-Eureka.

The winter of 1848-49, and the spring of the latter year, Poe passed at Fordham, and during this time he is alleged to have written a book entitled Phases of American Literature; Mr. M. A. Daly states that he saw the complete work, but the manuscript would seem to have disappeared. In the summer, Poe revisited Richmond, and spent between two and three months there, during which time he delivered two lectures, in the Exchange Concert-Room, on "The Poetic Principal."

On the 4th of October he left Richmond by train, with the intention, it is supposed, of going to Fordham to fetch Mrs. Clemm. Before his departure he complained to a friend of indisposition, of chilliness and exhaustion, but, notwithstanding, determined to undertake the journey. He left the train at Baltimore, and some hours later was discovered in the street insensible. How he had been taken ill no one really knows, and all the absurd reports circulated about his last moments were absolute inventions. He was dying when found, and, being unknown, was taken at once to the Hospital, where he died on Sunday the 7th of October, 1849, of inflammation of the brain, insensible, it is supposed, to the last. The following day he was buried in the burial ground of Westminister Church, close by the grave of his grandfather, General David Poe. G. R. G.

THE RAVEN.

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of for

gotten lore,

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Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping something louder

than before.

"Surely," said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore,

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;

'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door,

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I

said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore,

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "" Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour

Nothing farther then he muttered; not a feather then he fluttered,

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before,

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before,"

Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore,

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never-nevermore.'

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er

She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, it bird or devil!

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

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