nine in the morning
Nearly all that he wrote in the last two or three years-including much of his best poetry-was in some sense biographical ; in draperies of his imagination , those who had taken the trouble to trace his steps , could perceive , but slightly concealed , the figure of himself . '' Apropos of the disparaging portion of the above well-written sketch , let us truthfully say : Some four or five years since , when editing a daily paper in this city , Mr. Poe was employed by us , for several months , as critic and sub-editor . This was our first personal acquaintance with him . He resided with his wife and mother at Fordham , a few miles out of town , but was at his desk in the office , from nine in the morning till the evening paper went to press . With the highest admiration for his genius , and a willingness to let it atone for more than ordinary irregularity , we were led by common report to expect a very capricious attention to his duties , and occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty . Time went on , however , and he was invariably punctual and industrious . With his pale , beautiful , and intellectual face , as a reminder of what genius was in him , it was impossible , of course , not to treat him always with deferential courtesy , and , to our occasional request that he would not probe too deep in a criticism , or that he would erase a passage colored too highly with his resentments against society and mankind , he readily and courteously assented-far more yielding than most men , we thought , on points so excusably sensitive .