a statement
which seems refuted by the testimony of so many who have written of
the "passionate idolatry" with which the poet regarded his wife. I
have heard the subject often and freely discussed by Poe's most
intimate friends, including his sisters, and upon this authority I
speak. Lovely in person, sweet and gentle in disposition, his young
wife deserved, doubtless, all the love that it was in his nature to
bestow. Of his unvarying filial affection for Mrs. Clemm, and of her
almost angelic devotion to himself and his interests, there can be no
question.

Once in discussing _The Raven_, Poe observed that he had never heard
it correctly delivered by even the best readers--that is, not as he
desired that it should be read. That evening, a number of visitors
being present, he was requested to recite the poem, and complied. His
impressive delivery held the company spell-bound, but in the midst of
it, I, happening to glance toward the open window above the level roof
of the greenhouse, beheld a group of sable faces the whites of whose
eyes shone in strong relief against the surrounding darkness. These
were a number of our family servants, who having heard much talk about
"Mr. Poe, the poet," and having but an imperfect idea of what a poet
was, had requested permission of my brother to witness the recital. As
the speaker became more impassioned and excited, more conspicuous grew
the circle of white eyes, until when at length he turned suddenly
toward the window, and, extending his arm, cried, with awful
vehemence, "Get thee back into the tempest, and the night's Plutonian
shore!" there was a sudden disappearance of the sable visages, a
scuttling of feet, and the gallery audience was gone. Ludicrous as was
the incident, the final touch was given when at that moment Miss Poe,
who was an extraordinary character in her way, sleepily entered the
room, and with a dull and drowsy deliberation seated herself on her
brother's knee. He had subsided from his excitement into a gloomy
despair, and now, fixing his eyes upon his sister, he concluded:

And the raven never flitting, still is sitting, _still_ is sitting,
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door;
And its eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming--

The effect was irresistible; and as the final "nevermore" was solemnly
uttered the half-suppressed titter of two very young persons in a
corner was responded to by a general laugh. Poe re