be regarded n ill-judged gifted Son GRAHAM DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE. BY N. P. WILLIS. THE ancient fable of two antagonistic spirits imprisoned in one body equally powerful and having the complete mastery by turns-of one man that is to say, inhabited by both a devil and an angel-seems to have been realized, if all we hear is true, in the character of the extraordinary man whose name we have written above. Our own impression of the nature of Edgar A. Poe differs in some important degree, however, from that which has been generally conveyed in the notices of his death. Let us, before telling what we personally know of him, copy a graphic and highly finished portraiture, from the pen of Dr. Rufus W. Griswold, which appeared in a recent number of the Tribune: : "EDGAR ALLAN POE is dead. He died in Baltimore on Sunday, October 7th. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it. The poet was known, personally or by reputation, in all this country; he had readers in England, and in several of the 115 tes of Continental Europe; but he had few or no ends; and the regrets for his death will be suggested ncipally by the consideration that in him literary art s lost one of its most brilliant but erratic stars." *** 'His conversation was at times almost super-mortal its eloquence. His voice was modulated with astoning skill, and his large and variably expressive eyes ked repose or shot fiery tumult into theirs who lised, while his own face glowed, or was changeless in lor, as his imagination quickened his blood or drew back frozen to his heart. His imagery was from the rlds which no mortals can see but with the vision of ius.-Suddenly starting from a proposition, exactly d sharply defined, in terms of utmost simplicity and arness, he rejected the forms of customary logic, and a crystalline process of accretion, built up his ocular monstrations in forms of gloomiest and ghastliest ndeur, or in those of the most airy and delicious auty-so minutely and distinctly, yet so rapidly, that e attention which was yielded to him was chained till stood among his wonderful creations-till he himself solved the spell, and brought his hearers back to nmon and base existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibins of the ignoblest passion. "Every genuine auth leaves in his works, wha personal character; elen which the individual s read the pages of the F Mesmeric Revelations, gloom which invests one analysis of both, indica What was most remarkal intellectual nature. Bu phases of his nature, o action, for his harsh exp faith, in man or woman upon the numberless co and the whole system wi conviction gave a directi unamiable character. S as composed altogether intellect was not of that with villainy, while it c shots to fail of the succe respects like Francis Vi Caxtons. Passion in b Worst emotions which m He was at all times a dreamer-dwelling in ideal lms-in heaven or hell-peopled with the creatures d the accidents of his brain. He walked the streets, madness or melancholy, with lips moving in indisct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate prayer ever for himself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that was already damned, but) for their happiness who at e moment were objects of his idolatry;-or, with his nces introverted to a heart gnawed with anguish, and th a face shrouded in gloom, he would brave the ldest storms; and all night, with drenched garments d arms beating the winds and rains, would speak as to spirits that at such times only could be evoked by n from the Aidenn, close by whose portals his disbed soul sought to forget the ills to which his constiion subjected him-close by the Aidenn where were Ose he loved-the Aidenn which he might never see, d few or no h the vision of velling in ideal h the creatures ked the streets, moving in indis assionate prayer sed to feel, that appiness who at y-or, with his ith anguish, and would brave the enched garments would speak as ld be evoked by portals his dis which his constidenn where were might never see, but in fitful glimpses, as its gates opened to receive the less fiery and more happy natures whose destiny to sin did not involve the doom of death. "He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his will and engrossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of some controlling sorrow. The remarkable poem of The Raven was probably much more nearly than has been supposed, even by those who were very intimate with him, a reflection and an echo of his own history. He was that bird's 666 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 66 Of Never-never more."' "Every genuine author in a greater or less degree leaves in his works, whatever their design, traces of his personal character; elements of his immortal being, in which the individual survives the person. While we read the pages of the Fall of the House of Usher or of Mesmeric Revelations, we see in the solemn and stately gloom which invests one, and in the subtle metaphysical analysis of both, indications of the idiosyncrasies-of what was most remarkable and peculiar—in the author's intellectual nature. But we see here only the better phases of his nature, only the symbols of his juster action, for his harsh experience had deprived him of all faith, in man or woman. He had made up his mind upon the numberless complexities of the social world, and the whole system with him was an imposture. This conviction gave a direction to his shrewd and naturally unamiable character. Still, though he regarded society as composed altogether of villains, the sharpness of his intellect was not of that kind which enabled him to cope with villainy, while it continually caused him by overshots to fail of the success of honesty. He was in many respects like Francis Vivian in Bulwer's novel of 'The Caxtons.' Passion in him comprehended many of the worst emotions which militate against human happiness. u could not contradict him, but you raised quick oler; you could not speak of wealth, but his cheek ed with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural adntages of this poor boy-his beauty, his readiness, the ing spirit that breathed around him like a fiery at-sphere-had raised his constitutional self-confidence o an arrogance that turned his very claims to admiran into prejudices against him. Irascible, envious1 enough, but not the worst, for these salient angles re all varnished over with a cold, repellent cynicism, passions vented themselves in sneers. There seemed him no moral susceptibilty; and, what was more rerkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the true nt of honor. He had, to a morbid excess, that desire rise which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for esteem or the love of his species; only the hard wish succeed-not shine, not serve-succeed that he might ve the right to despise a world which galled his selfaceit. DEATH O went to press. Wi for his genius, and for more than ordi led by common rep cious attention to a scene of violence on, however, and h and industrious. W intellectual face, as was in him, it was i treat him always and, to our occasio not probe too deep would erase a passa his resentments ag he readily and cour yielding than most so excusably sensi taking the lead in a voluntarily gave up and, through all th had seen but one I quiet, patient, indi manly person, comm and good feeling by and ability. Residing as he di met Mr. Poe in ho quently called on us business, and we m invariably the sam and refined gentlem known him. It wa 'We have suggested the influence of his aims and issitudes upon his literature. It was more conspicus in his later than in his earlier writings. Nearly all at he wrote in the last two or three years-including ach of his best poetry-was in some sense biographi; in draperies of his imagination, those who had en the trouble to trace his steps, could perceive, but ghtly concealed, the figure of himself." Apropos of the disparaging portion of the ove well-written sketch, let us truthfully y: Some four or five years since, when editing daily paper in this city, Mr. Poe was emoyed by us, for several months, as critic and b-editor. This was our first personal acaintance with him. He resided with his fe and mother at Fordham, a few miles out town, but was at his desk in the office, from ne in the morning till the evening paper SO raised quick was more re ng of the true ss, that desire ut no wish for his aims and ›rtion of the is truthfully when editing 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 streetinvariably the same sad-mannered, winning, and refined gentleman, such as we had always known him. It was by rumor only, up to the |