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and most elaborate of all Poe's poems, is the only one that was never changed or altered by the author. Several editions were published during Poe's lifetime, but not a stanza, not a line, not a word was changed; as it was first printed in The American Review, so it has ever been printed. The author was satisfied with his work.

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The Raven" established Poe's fame as the most original poet of America, and placed him in the front rank of the poets of the world. The Edinburgh Review, in a very harsh article, says: "The Raven' has taken rank all over the world as the very first poem yet produced on the American Continent." This poem has been translated into most of the modern and several of the ancient languages. Stephane Mallarmé, who has quite recently translated and published a superbly illustrated edition of "The Raven" in Paris, sent Mrs. Whitman a copy of the volume, and a highly appreciative letter, from which I have been permitted to make the following extracts :

Whatever is done to honor the memory of a genius the most truly divine the world has seen, ought it not first to obtain your sanction? Such of Poe's works as our great Baudelaire has left untranslated, this is to say, the poems, and many of the critical fragments, I hope to make known to France, and my first attempt (The Raven ́) is intended to attract attention to a future work, now nearly completed. Fascinated with the works of Poe from my infancy, it is already a very long time

since your name became associated with his in my earliest and most intimate sympathies." In a letter addressed to one of his relations in Baltimore, a few months after the appearance of "The Raven," Edgar Poe alludes with just pride to the renown which his poetical reputation had conferred upon the family name. A writer in The Southern Literary Messenger declared, with equal truth and beauty, that on the dusky wings of "The Raven," Edgar A. Poe will sail securely over the gulf of oblivion to the eternal shore.

CHAPTER X.

1846-1847.

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POE'S BRILLIANT REPUTATION. HIS FRIENDS. HIS SWEET HOME LIFE. HE WRITES "THE LITERATI OF NEw York." -REMOVES TO FORDHAM.-DEATH OF HIS WIFE.

N the winter of 1845-6, the literary reputation of Edgar A. Poe had attained its greatest brilliancy. During that time, he resided at 85 Amity Street, New York. A cousin of the poet, who visited him that winter, has told me that Edgar, Virginia, and Mrs. Clemm formed the happiest little family he had ever seen. Edgar was sick at the time of this visit, and the visitor was invited to his chamber. The poet was reclining on a lounge, with Virginia and Mrs. Clemin in devoted attendance upon him. A small table by his side held a bouquet of sweet flowers, two or three books, and some delicacies. Mrs. Osgood, Miss Anna Lynch, and Mrs. Lewis called. Edgar Poe lying sick upon his lounge was the center of attraction. The conversation, in such company, naturally took a literary turn. The invalid poet

directed it, and all listened, enchanted by his low, musical voice, and the brilliant play of his imagination.

Poe's acquaintance with Mrs. Frances Sargent Osgood commenced soon after the publication of "The Raven." That accomplished woman, a few weeks before her early death, wrote an account of their first meeting and subsequent intimacy. She says: "My first meeting with the poet was at the Astor House. A few days previous, Mr. Willis had handed me, at the table d'hôte, that strange and thrilling poem, 'The Raven.' Its effect upon me was so singular, so like that of weird, unearthly music, that it was with a feeling almost of dread I heard he desired an introduction. I shall never forget the morning when I was summoned to the drawing-room, by Mr. Willis, to receive him. With his proud and beautiful head erect, his dark eyes flashing with the electric light of feeling and thought, a peculiar and inimitable blending of sweetness and hauteur in his expression and manner, he greeted me calmly, gravely, almost coldly, yet with so sweet an earnestness that I could not help being deeply impressed by it. From that moment until his death we were friends. Of the charming love and confidence that existed between his wife and himself I cannot speak too earnestly, too warmly. It was in his own simple yet poetical home that, to me, the character of Edgar Poe appeared in its most beautiful light. Playful, affectionate, witty; alternately docile and wayward as a petted child; for his

young, gentle, and idolized wife, and for all who came, he had, even in the midst of the most harassing literary duties, a kind word, a pleasant smile, a graceful and courteous attention. At his desk, beneath the romantic picture of his loved Lenore, he would sit, hour after hour, patient, assiduous, and uncomplaining, tracing in an exquisitely clear chirography, and with almost superhuman swiftness, the lightning thoughts, the 'rare and radiant' fancies, as they flashed through his wonderful and ever-wakeful brain. I recollect one morning, toward the close of his residence in New York, when he seemed unusually gay and light-hearted. Virginia, his sweet wife, had written me a pressing invitation to come to them; and I, who never could resist her affectionate summons, and who enjoyed his society far more in his own home than elsewhere, hastened to Amity Street. I found him just completing his series of papers entitled "The Literati of New York.' 'See,' said he, displaying in laughing triumph several little rolls of narrow paper (he always wrote thus for the press); I am going to show you, by the difference of length in these, the dif ferent degrees of estimation in which I hold all you literary people. In each of these one of you is rolled up and fully discussed. Come, Virginia, help me.' One by one they unfolded them. At last they came to one which seemed interminable. Virginia laughingly ran to one corner of the room with one end, and her husband to

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