individuality; that prefixed to the volumes edited by Dr. Griswold suggests, at first view, something of the general contour of his face, but is utterly void of character and expression; it has no sub-surface. The original painting, now in possession of the New York Historical Society, has the same cold, automatic look that makes the engraving so valueless as a portrait to those who remember the unmatched glory of his face when roused from its habitually introverted and abstracted look by some favorite theme, or profound emotion. Perhaps, from its peculiarly changeful and translucent character, any adequate transmission of its variable and subtle moods was impossible. By writers personally unacquainted with Mr. Poe this engraving has often been favourably noticed. Mr. Hannay, in a Memoir prefixed to the first London edition of Poe's Poems, calls it an interesting and characteristic portrait, "a fine, thoughtful face with lineaments of delicacy, such as belong only to genius or high blood-the forehead grand and pale, the eye dark and gleaming

with sensibility and soul-a face to inspire men with

interest and curiosity."

There is a quiet drawing-room in

street,

New York a sort of fragrant and delicious "clovernook" in the heart of the noisy city-where hung, some three years ago, the original painting from which this engraving is a copy. Happening to meet there at the time a company of authors and poets, among whom were Mary Forest, Alice and Phoebe Cary, the Stoddards, T. B. Aldrich, and others, we heard one of the party say, in speaking of the portrait, that its aspect was that of a beautiful and desolate shrine from which the Genius had departed, and that it recalled certain lines to one of the antique marbles:

"Oh melancholy eyes!

Oh empty eyes, from which the soul has gone

To see the far-off countries! "

Near this luminous but impassive face, with its sad and soulless eyes, was a portrait of Poe's unrelenting

biographist. In a recess opposite hung a picture of

fervently admired, and for whose coveted praise and friendship both had been competitors. Looking at the beautiful portrait of this lady-the face so full of enthusiasm, and dreamy, tropical sunshine-remembering the eloquent words of her praise, as expressed in the prodigal and passionate exaggerations of her verse, one ceases to wonder at the rivalries and enmities enkindled within the hearts of those who admired her genius and her grace-rivalries and enmities which the itself could not cancel or appease. grave

Of the portrait prefixed to the illustrated poems, recently published by Redfield, Mr. Willis says, "The reader who has the volume in his hand turns back musingly to look upon the features of the poet, in whom resided such inspiration. But, though well engraved and useful as recalling his features to those who knew them, with the angel shining through, the picture is from a daguerreotype, and gives no idea of

the beauty of Edgar Poe. The exquisitely chiselled features, the habitual but intellectual melancholy, the clear pallor of the complexion, and the calm eye like the molten stillness of a slumbering volcano, composed a countenance of which this portrait is but the skeleton. After reading the Raven, Ulalume, Lenore, and Annabel Lee, the luxuriast in poetry will better conceive what his face might have been."

It was soon after his removal to New York that Mr. Poe became acquainted with the editors of the Mirror, and was employed by them as a writer for that Journal. Mr. Willis, in a recent notice of the illustrated poems, has paid an eloquent tribute to his memory, expressed in a spirit of rare kindliness and generosity.

From March 1845, to January 1846, he was associated with Mr. C. F. Briggs in editing the Broadway Journal. In the autumn of 1845 he was often seen at the brilliant literary circles in Waverley Place, where weekly reunions of noted artists and men of letters, at the house of an accomplished poetess, attracted some

of the best intellectual society of the city. At the request of his hostess, Mr. Poe one evening electrified the gay company, assembled there, by the recitation of the wierd poem to whose sad, strange burden so many hearts have since echoed. This was a few weeks previous to the publication of the Raven in the American Review. Mrs. Browning, in a private letter, written a few weeks after its publication in England, says, "This vivid writing-this power which is felt-has produced a sensation here in England. Some of my friends are taken by the fear of it, and some by the music. I hear of persons who are haunted by the 'Nevermore,' and an acquaintance of mine who has the misfortune of possessing a bust of Pallas, cannot bear to look at it in the twilight. Then there is a tale going the rounds of the newspapers, about mesmerism, which is throwing us all into 'most admired disorder'-dreadful doubts as to whether it can be true, as the children say of ghost stories. The certain thing about it is the power of the writer."