to you if through your means I could accomplish this object. What you say in the conclusion of your letter, in relation to the supervision of proof-sheets, gives me reason to hope that possibly you might find something for me to do in your office. If so, I should be very glad, for at present only a small portion of my time is employed." This was in the summer of 1835; in the autumn Poe removed to Richmond. He was not so delighted as he expected to be, why, we can readily imagine. He was among those who knew him and his history-in the city of his petted boyhood and wilful early manhood-the city of his hopes and his disgrace. Once he could hold up his head proudly there. Now if he did not hang his head it was only because his intellectual pride was indomitable. was disowned, poor, the miserable hack of a publisher. He was dissatisfied with his situation, but his good. friend, Mr. Kennedy, could not guess why. "I am sorry," he wrote, "to see you in such a plight as your letter shows you in. It is strange that just at this time, when everybody is praising you, and when for

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tune is beginning to smile upon your hitherto wretched circumstances, you should be invaded by these blue devils. It belongs, however, to your age and temper to be thus buffeted-but be assured it only wants a little resolution to master the adversary for ever. You will, doubtless, do well henceforth in literature, and add to your comforts as well as to your reputation, which it gives me great pleasure to assure you is everywhere rising in popular esteem." Mr. Kennedy wrote like the prosperous gentleman he was; he could not put himself in Poe's place. He had not led the life that Poe had, and he had not his temperament and his temptation.

Poe's editorial connection with the Messenger commenced with the second volume, which was started in December, 1835, with a flourish of trumpets about its contributors. "Among these we hope to be pardoned for singling out the name of Mr. Edgar A. Poe; not with design to make any invidious distinction, but because such mention of him finds numberless precedents in the journals on every side, which have sung

the praises of his uniquely original vein of imagination, and of humorous, delicate satire." The new editor remembered that he had an unfinished tragedy, and he printed three scenes of it; he remembered that a story of his had taken a prize, and he re-printed that. He remembered also, that he had published two little volumes of verse, and he soon gave a sample of the second, forgetting to mention that it had been published before. These volumes were very useful to him, when he was not in the mood for writing, and they never lost their usefulness while he was alive.

Poe was not a good editor. He lacked catholicity of taste, and sweetness of temper. He was dogmatic, insolent, impracticable, and always squabbling. He had the genius of the Celt for creating a row; a revolution was beyond his powers. He provoked literary quarrels—a feat that required no great talent in the then condition of American literature. His reviews were usually personal, and therefore worthless. had no settled standard of criticism, except that he was

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infallible, even when contradictory. All this might have been borne by his publisher, as it was by his readers, to whom it was novel; but unfortunately his publisher had an old-fashioned sense of right and wrong. He had another old-fashioned sense, the sense of sobriety, which Poe violated, and for which he was dismissed. He made promises, and his friends made overtures towards reconciliation which were kindly received. "My dear Edgar," his simpleminded publisher wrote, "I cannot address you in such language as this occasion and my feelings demand: I must be content to speak to you in my plain way. That you are sincere in all your promises I firmly believe. But when you once again tread these streets, I have my fears that your resolutions will fail, and that you will again drink till your senses are lost. If you rely on your strength you are gone. Unless you look to your Maker for help you will not be safe. How much I regretted parting from you is known to Him only and myself. I had become attached to you; I am still; and I would willingly say return, did not a

knowledge of your past life make me dread a speedy renewal of our separation. If you would make yourself contented with quarters in my house, or with any other private family, where liquor is not used, I should think there was some hope for you. But if you go to a tavern, or to any place where it is used at table, you are not safe. You have fine talents, Edgar, and you ought to have them respected as well as yourself. Learn to respect yourself, and you will soon find that you are respected. Separate yourself from the bottle, and from bottle companions, for ever." Poe promised to do this, and no doubt struggled to keep his word. But he failed, as did finally the patience of his publisher. They separated, and the readers of the Messenger were informed of the fact in January, 1837. "Mr. Poe's attention being called in another direction, he will decline, with the present number, the editorial duties of the Messenger. His critical notices for this month end with Professor Anthon's 'Cicero;' what follows is from another hand. With the best wishes to the magazine, and to its few foes as well as many