he first Constitutional Convention of California
declared against slavery. More than $40,000,000 worth of gold was produced
in the new State, and the first gold dollars were coined.

[Sidenote: Death of Poe]

[Sidenote: Posthumous poems]

[Sidenote: "The Conqueror Worm"]

The death of Edgar Allan Poe, the American poet, was as tragic as his life
had been. After the death of his wife, Poe had engaged himself to marry a
wealthy lady in Richmond, and the wedding day was fixed. On his way to New
York to settle up affairs in anticipation of his marriage, Poe fell in with
some of his companions in dissipation at Baltimore. He became drunk,
wandered through the streets, and was finally taken to a hospital in an
unconscious condition. Later he became delirious and finally expired,
saying: "Lord, help my poor soul!" After Poe's death the simplest and
sweetest of his ballads, "Annabel Lee," and the wonderful poem of "The
Bells," were published. His former friend and editor, Griswold, published a
scathing denunciation of the dead man in the New York "Tribune." Poe's fame
as a master of the weird and fanciful in literature was already established
wherever his thrilling tales and superb poem "The Raven" had penetrated. He
was one of the few poets of America at that period who had succeeded in
achieving an international reputation. The best of his poems were rendered
in choice French by Baudelaire, while his short stories were translated
into almost all European languages. As his biographer, Woodberry, has said:
"On the roll of American literature Poe's name is inscribed with the few
foremost, and in the world at large his genius is established as valid
among all men. Much as he derived nurture from other sources, he was the
son of Coleridge by the weird touch in his imagination, by the principles
of his analytic criticism, and the speculative bent of his mind." Most
characteristic of Poe's genius perhaps are these lines from his famous
poem "The Conqueror Worm":

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

* * * * *

That motley drama--oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever return