Nearly all that he wrote in the last two or
      three years—including much of his best poetry—was in some sense
      biographical; in draperies of his imagination, those who had
      taken the trouble to trace his steps, could perceive, but
      slightly concealed, the figure of himself.”

      Apropos of the disparaging portion of the above well-written
      sketch, let us truthfully say:

      Some four or five years since, when editing a daily paper in this
      city, Mr. Poe was employed by us, for several months, as critic
      and sub-editor. This was our first personal acquaintance with
      him. He resided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles
      out of town, but was at his desk in the office, from nine in the
      morning till the evening paper went to press. With the highest
      admiration for his genius, and a willingness to let it atone for
      more than ordinary irregularity, we were led by common report to
      expect a very capricious attention to his duties, and
      occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time went on,
      however, and he was invariably punctual and industrious. With his
      pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a reminder of what
      genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not to treat him
      always with deferential courtesy, and, to our occasional request
      that he would not probe too deep in a criticism, or that he would
      erase a passage colored too highly with his resentments against
      society and mankind, he readily and courteously assented—far more
      yielding than most men, we thought, on points so excusably
      sensitive. With a prospect of taking the lead in another
      periodical, he, at last, voluntarily gave up his employment with
      us, and, through all this considerable period, we had seen but
      one presentment of the man—a quiet, patient, industrious, and
      most gentlemanly person, commanding the utmost respect and good
      feeling by his unvarying deportment and ability. Residing as he did in the country, we never met Mr. Poe in hours
      of leisure; but he frequently called on us afterward at our place
      of business, and we met him often in the street—invariably the
      same sad mannered, winning and refined gentleman, such as we had
      always known him. It was by rumor only, up to the day of his
      death, that we knew of any other development of manner or
      character. We heard, from one who knew him well (what should be
      stated in all mention of his lamentable irregularities), that,
      with a single glass of wine, his whole nature was reversed, the
      demon became uppermost, and, though none of the usual signs of
      intoxication were visible, his will was palpably insane. Possessing his reasoning faculties in excited activity, at such
      times, and seeking his acquaintances with his wonted look and
      memory, he easily seemed personating only another phase of his
      natural character, and was accused, accordingly, of insulting
      arrogance and bad-heartedness. In this reversed character, we
      repeat, it was never our chance to see him. We know it from
      hearsay, and we mention it in connection with this sad infirmity
      of physical constitution; which puts it upon very nearly the
      ground of a temporary and almost irresponsible insanity. The arrogance, vanity, and depravity of heart, of which Mr. Poe
      was generally accused, seem to us referable altogether to this
      reversed phase of his character. Under that degree of
      intoxication which only acted upon him by demonizing his sense of
      truth and right, he doubtless said and did much that was wholly
      irreconcilable with his better nature; but, when himself, and as
      we knew him only, his modesty and unaffected humility, as to his
      own deservings, were a constant charm to his character. His
      letters, of which the constant application for autographs has
      taken from us, we are sorry to confess, the greater portion,
      exhibited this quality very strongly. In one of the carelessly
      written notes of which we chance still to retain possession, for
      instance, he speaks of “The Raven”—that extraordinary poem which
      electrified the world of imaginative readers, and has become the
      type of a school of poetry of its own—and, in evident earnest,
      attributes its success to the few words of commendation with
      which we had prefaced it in this paper. It will throw light on
      his sane character to give a literal copy of the note:

“FORDHAM, _April_ 20, 1849

      “MY DEAR WILLIS—The poem which I inclose, and which I am so vain
      as to hope you will like, in some respects, has been just
      published in a paper for which sheer necessity compels me to
      write, now and then. It pays well as times go-but unquestionably
      it ought to pay ten prices; for whatever I send it I feel I am
      consigning to the tomb of the Capulets. The verses accompanying
      this, may I beg you to take out of the tomb, and bring them to
      light in the ‘Home Journal?’ If you can oblige me so far as to
      copy them, I do not think it will be necessary to say ‘From the
      ——,’ that would be too bad; and, perhaps, ‘From a late —— paper,’
      would do. “I have not forgotten how a ‘good word in season’ from you made
      ‘The Raven,’ and made ‘Ulalume’ (which by-the-way, people have
      done me the honor of attributing to you), therefore, I _would_
      ask you (if I dared) to say something of these lines if they
      please you. “Truly yours ever,
“EDGAR A. POE.”

      In double proof of his earnest disposition to do the best for
      himself, and of the trustful and grateful nature which has been
      denied him, we give another of the only three of his notes which
      we chance to retain:

“FORDHAM, _January_ 22, 1848. “MY DEAR MR. WILLIS—I am about to make an effort at
      re-establishing myself in the literary world, and _feel_ that I
      may depend upon your aid. “My general aim is to start a Magazine, to be called ‘The
      Stylus,’ but it would be useless to me, even when established, if
      not entirely out of the control of a publisher. I mean,
      therefore, to get up a journal which shall be _my own_ at all
      points. With this end in view, I must get a list of at least five
      hundred subscribers to begin with; nearly two hundred I have
      already. I propose, however, to go South and West, among my
      personal and literary friends—old college and West Point
      acquaintances—and see what I can do. In order to get the means of
      taking the first step, I propose to lecture at the Society
      Library, on Thursday, the 3d of February, and, that there may be
      no cause of _squabbling_, my subject shall _not be literary_ at
      all.