Text: Phosphorus, “Edgar Allan Poe,” Detroit Free Press (Detroit, Michigan), vol. 51, no. 35, November 1, 1885, p. 10, col. 1

Within the past two years some of our ripest scholars have ventured opinions on the life and writings of Edgar Allan Poe. They have told us of his genius, his brilliancy of intellect and his wonderful imaginative power. But with one solitary exception these honorable critics have given pages to his faults they gave words to his virtues. Premature his death certainly was, and unfortunate the cause that led to it; but when we consider that the stream of sadness that flowed through his earthly years seemed ever widening, ever acquiring more rapid motion, perhaps it was a relief to reach thus early the infinite ocean of death. We say that when troubles come man should stand the firmer, and we say the truth; but, oh theory! what a pigmy thou art in the iron grasp of the giant practice.

Edgar A. Poe was a mere infant when he lost not only the firm, controlling love of a father, but the tender, sympathetic love of a mother. The love of a mother! We know what that is, dear reader, and Poe knew it by intuition, if not by experience, as his grief at the death of his foster-mother, Mrs. Allan, amply testified.

The life of the poet with Mr. Allan at Baltimore benefited him, insomuch that he gained, through the liberality of that gentleman, an excellent education, and was of lasting injury, because that same liberality led him into extravagance. His school life presents a beautiful picture. Aspiring and ambitious, he often excelled his classmates, but through all so generous was his heart, so sensitive his nature, that he not only gained and rivalry, held the respect, but the affection of his fellow-students. A boy's life at school is the key to his after days. If he is honorable and up a firm foundation is laid for future integrity.

Poe's military career was of short duration, for not there did his field of labor lie. But his failure in making himself a soldier led him to his true work. The breech which it caused between himself and guardian brought him face to face with stern necessity, and thus aroused his latent literary ability. And now we come to the sweetest, saddest portion of the poet's life-the story of his love for his cousin and his marriage. Poe's struggles to make the life of his loved one happy were and heroic, and the short season of grand home happiness allotted to him, we are told, was beautifully serene and cheerful. Oh! that it could have lasted, for then the history of the life of Edgar A. Poe would not have been a tragedy.

But, alas! death's roses bloomed on the cheeks of the young wife. A luster not of this world brightened her eyes. The destroyer took away the guardian angel. Is it a wonder that his works are filled with melancholy and sadness? That they imagine and suggest horrible ideas and actions? Reader! they were written by a lonely, broken-hearted man.

Poe's writings were not numerous, but nearly all bear the insignia of sadness. Among his short sketches his “Gold Bug” has perhaps been most universally read. His “Ullalame [[Ulalume]]” is an exquisite poem. and I would advise all members of “The Household” to study it carefully and see what an index it is to the poet's mind.

Poor Poe! the sable plumaged raven was ever at his door. The merry chimes of his “Bells” could not frighten her away, and to the last she steadily kept time to their knell.