arrassed by the persistent attentions of a
moth or beetle, until a sympathetic old lady took a seat beside him and,
with wild wavings of a huge fan, kept the troublesome insect at a
distance. This mingling of the comic with the tragic element rather
spoiled the effect of the latter, and though Poe preserved his dignity,
he was perceptibly annoyed.

I never saw Mr. Poe in a large company, but was told that on such
occasions he invariably assumed his mask of cold and proud reserve, not
untouched by an expression of sadness, which was natural to his features
when in repose. It was then that he "looked every inch a poet." In
general companies he disliked any attempt to draw him out, never
expressing himself freely, and at times manifesting a shyness amounting
almost to an appearance of diffidence, which was very noticeable.

A marked peculiarity was that he never, while in Richmond, either in
society or elsewhere, made any advance to acquaintance, or sought an
introduction, even to a lady. Aware of the estimation in which his
character was held by some persons, he stood aloof, in proud
independence, though responding with ready courtesy to any advance from
others. Ladies who desired Mr. Poe's acquaintance would be compelled to
privately seek an introduction from some friend, since he himself never
requested it, and it was observed that he preferred the society of
mature women to that of the youthful belles, who were enthusiastic over
the author of _Lenore_ and _The Raven_.

Mr. Poe spent his mornings in town, but in the evenings would generally
drive out to Duncan Lodge with some of the Mackenzies. He liked the
half-country neighborhood, and would sometimes join us in our sunset
rambles in the romantic old Hermitage grounds. Those were pleasant
evenings at Duncan Lodge and Talavera, with no lack of company at either
place.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A MORNING WITH POE AND "THE RAVEN."

(A Leaf from a Journal.)

One pleasant though slightly drizzly morning in the latter part of
September I sat in our parlor at Talavera at a table on which were some
new magazines and a vase of tea roses freshly gathered. Opposite me sat
Mr. Poe. A basket of grapes--his favorite fruit--had been placed between
us; and as we leisurely partook of them we chatted lightly.

He inquired at length what method I pursued in my writing. The idea was
new to me, and on my replying that I wrote only on the impulse of a
newly conceived idea, he pro