I have chosen a broad text: ‘The Universe.’

      “Having thus given you _the facts_ of the case, I leave all the
      rest to the suggestions of your own tact and generosity. Gratefully, _most gratefully,_

“Your friend always,
“EDGAR A. POE.”

      Brief and chance-taken as these letters are, we think they
      sufficiently prove the existence of the very qualities denied to
      Mr. Poe-humility, willingness to persevere, belief in another’s
      friendship, and capability of cordial and grateful friendship! Such he assuredly was when sane. Such only he has invariably
      seemed to us, in all we have happened personally to know of him,
      through a friendship of five or six years. And so much easier is
      it to believe what we have seen and known, than what we hear of
      only, that we remember him but with admiration and respect; these
      descriptions of him, when morally insane, seeming to us like
      portraits, painted in sickness, of a man we have only known in
      health. But there is another, more touching, and far more forcible
      evidence that there was _goodness_ in Edgar A. Poe. To reveal it
      we are obliged to venture upon the lifting of the veil which
      sacredly covers grief and refinement in poverty; but we think it
      may be excused, if so we can brighten the memory of the poet,
      even were there not a more needed and immediate service which it
      may render to the nearest link broken by his death. Our first knowledge of Mr. Poe’s removal to this city was by a
      call which we received from a lady who introduced herself to us
      as the mother of his wife. She was in search of employment for
      him, and she excused her errand by mentioning that he was ill,
      that her daughter was a confirmed invalid, and that their
      circumstances were such as compelled her taking it upon herself. The countenance of this lady, made beautiful and saintly with an
      evidently complete giving up of her life to privation and
      sorrowful tenderness, her gentle and mournful voice urging its
      plea, her long-forgotten but habitually and unconsciously refined
      manners, and her appealing and yet appreciative mention of the
      claims and abilities of her son, disclosed at once the presence
      of one of those angels upon earth that women in adversity can be. It was a hard fate that she was watching over. Mr. Poe wrote with
      fastidious difficulty, and in a style too much above the popular
      level to be well paid. He was always in pecuniary difficulty,
      and, with his sick wife, frequently in want of the merest
      necessaries of life. Winter after winter, for years, the most
      touching sight to us, in this whole city, has been that tireless
      minister to genius, thinly and insufficiently clad, going from
      office to office with a poem, or an article on some literary
      subject, to sell, sometimes simply pleading in a broken voice
      that he was ill, and begging for him, mentioning nothing but that
      “he was ill,” whatever might be the reason for his writing
      nothing, and never, amid all her tears and recitals of distress,
      suffering one syllable to escape her lips that could convey a
      doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessening of pride in his
      genius and good intentions. Her daughter died a year and a half
      since, but she did not desert him. She continued his ministering
      angel—living with him, caring for him, guarding him against
      exposure, and when he was carried away by temptation, amid grief
      and the loneliness of feelings unreplied to, and awoke from his
      self abandonment prostrated in destitution and suffering,
      _begging_ for him still. If woman’s devotion, born with a first
      love, and fed with human passion, hallow its object, as it is
      allowed to do, what does not a devotion like this—pure,
      disinterested and holy as the watch of an invisible spirit—say
      for him who inspired it? We have a letter before us, written by this lady, Mrs. Clemm, on
      the morning in which she heard of the death of this object of her
      untiring care. It is merely a request that we would call upon
      her, but we will copy a few of its words—sacred as its privacy
      is—to warrant the truth of the picture we have drawn above, and
      add force to the appeal we wish to make for her:

      “I have this morning heard of the death of my darling Eddie....
      Can you give me any circumstances or particulars?... Oh! do not
      desert your poor friend in his bitter affliction!... Ask Mr. ——
      to come, as I must deliver a message to him from my poor
      Eddie.... I need not ask you to notice his death and to speak
      well of him. I know you will. But say what an affectionate son he
      was to me, his poor desolate mother...”

      To hedge round a grave with respect, what choice is there,
      between the relinquished wealth and honors of the world, and the
      story of such a woman’s unrewarded devotion! Risking what we do,
      in delicacy, by making it public, we feel—other reasons
      aside—that it betters the world to make known that there are such
      ministrations to its erring and gifted. What we have said will
      speak to some hearts. There are those who will be glad to know
      how the lamp, whose light of poetry has beamed on their far-away
      recognition, was watched over with care and pain, that they may
      send to her, who is more darkened than they by its extinction,
      some token of their sympathy. She is destitute and alone. If any,
      far or near, will send to us what may aid and cheer her through
      the remainder of her life, we will joyfully place it in her
      hands. THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAAL (*1)


      By late accounts from Rotterdam, that city seems to be in a high
      state of philosophical excitement. Indeed, phenomena have there
      occurred of a nature so completely unexpected—so entirely
      novel—so utterly at variance with preconceived opinions—as to
      leave no doubt on my mind that long ere this all Europe is in an
      uproar, all physics in a ferment, all reason and astronomy
      together by the ears. It appears that on the—— day of—— (I am not positive about the
      date), a vast crowd of people, for purposes not specifically
      mentioned, were assembled in the great square of the Exchange in
      the well-conditioned city of Rotterdam. The day was
      warm—unusually so for the season—there was hardly a breath of air
      stirring; and the multitude were in no bad humor at being now and
      then besprinkled with friendly showers of momentary duration,
      that fell from large white masses of cloud which chequered in a
      fitful manner the blue vault of the firmament.