where to choose his place of rest.

Remembering the

affectionate interest which his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, had manifested toward him when he met her in 1829, Edgar went to Baltimore, and sought out this, his nearest relative. Mrs. Clemm was poor, but poor as she was, she gave her "Eddie" (as she always called him) a home— a home humble, indeed, in a worldly sense, but rich in love. Soon after his removal to Baltimore, in the early summer of 1831, Poe, not wishing to be dependent upon his aunt, sought diligently for some employment by which he could earn a living. Dr. N. C. Brooks (who was, in 1838-9, editor of the Baltimore Museum, a magazine in which appeared some of Poe's best tales) informed me that about this time (1831), Edgar Poe applied for a position in his school, then recently started at Reisterstown, in Baltimore County. Dr. Brooks regretted there was no vacancy, for he knew that Poe was an accomplished scholar.

In 1831-2, Mrs. Clemm lived on Cove (now Fremont) Street. An intimate friend of Poe's* has furnished an interesting description of his life and studies at this time; his dress, personal appearance, habits, conversation, are all minutely given. This gentleman was in the habit of seeing Poe daily, for weeks at a time. They took long and frequent walks together in the beautiful, undulating country

* L. A. Wilmer, author of "The Quacks of Helicon," etc.

around Baltimore. Their conversation was generally upon literary topics, and Poe expressed his opinion freely and forcibly upon all writers, from Shakespeare down to the last aspirant for poetical fame. He never could be made to bow to the world's opinion. The very fact that an author possessed the world's good opinion was sufficient for him to condemn that author. He knew that a few self-appointed critics formed what is called the world's opinion. He knew that these would-be critics praised Wordsworth and ridiculed Keats. Poe frankly confessed that he had "no faith in Wordsworth;" he spoke with "reverence of Coleridge's towering intellect and gigantic power; pronounced Byron's "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" a "failure;" called Dr. Johnson "scurrilous," and was one of the earliest admirers of Tennyson, at the time when the English reviewers were neglecting him and praising the Rev. George Croly.

At this time, Edgar Poe was slender, but graceful in person; his hands and feet were as beautiful as a woman's. His dress was faultlessly neat; fashionable, but not foppish. His disposition was affectionate, and he was tenderly devoted to his aunt and cousin. Virginia Clemm was now an exquisitely beautiful girl ten years old, the pupil, companion, and pet of her cousin Edgar. One day, Edgar, Virginia, and Mr. Wilmer were walking in the neighborhood of Baltimore, when they happened to approach a grave-yard, where a funeral was in progress.

Curiosity attracted them to the side of the grave, where they stood among those who had accompanied the body to the cemetery. Virginia's sensitive heart was so touched by the grief of the stricken mourners, that she mingled her tears with theirs. Her emotion communicated itself to Edgar, and if his cruel defamers had seen him, at that moment, weeping by a stranger's grave, they would not have said of him that "he had no touch of human feeling or of human pity," that "he had no heart," that "he loved no one but himself," etc.

Poe was at this period constantly occupied in literary work, either writing or studying. His favorite reading was metaphysics, travels, and poetry. Disraeli was his model as a novelist, Campbell his favorite poet, and Victor Cousin's "True, Beautiful, and Good," his favorite work on metaphysics.

So, as early as 1832, Edgar Poe, with that noble confidence which genius inspires, had adopted the literary profession. He was the right man in the wrong place. Baltimore, pre-eminently distinguished for the refined tastes and polished manners of its people, has never been a literary city. The names of the genial novelist, Kennedy, the exquisite lyrist, Pinkney, and the accomplished essayist, Calvert, filled the measure of Baltimore's literary fame, until the name of Poe crowned it with immortal glory.

During 1832-3, Poe was writing the "Tales of the

Folio Club," comprising "The Descent into the Maelstrom," "A Manuscript found in a Bottle," "Adventure of Hans Pfaall," "A Tale of the Ragged Mountain," "Berenice," and "Lionizing." These were written with the utmost care, pruned and re-pruned, polished and repolished, over and over again, until, when they left the author's hands, they were as perfect as the gems that come from the hands of a Roman lapidary. Difficult as had been the writing of these tales, more difficult would have been their publication, had not one of those opportunities occurred which seems to come to every person once in a lifetime.

In the summer of 1833, the Baltimore Saturday Visitor a weekly literary journal, which had been started in 1832, under the editorial charge of L. A. Wilmer-offered one hundred dollars for the best prose story, and fifty dollars for the best poem. Poe submitted his "Tales of the Folio Club," and his poem, "The Coliseum," in competition for the prizes. The committee appointed to award the prizes were the late Hon. John P. Kennedy (author of "Horse-shoe Robinson," etc.), and two other professional gentlemen (a doctor and a lawyer), who possessed only a local repute. The "Tales of the Folio Club" were so immeasurably superior to all the other stories submitted, that the hundred-dollar prize was unanimously given to Edgar A. Poe, and the "Manuscript found in a Bottle" was selected as the one to which the

premium should be awarded. The poem sent in by Poe has been admired by all readers as a magnificent tribute to the grandeur and glory of the Coliseum. It was as superior to the other "poems" as the "Manuscript found in a Bottle" was superior to the other stories; but, having awarded the hundred-dollar prize to Poe, it was deemed expedient to bestow the fifty-dollar prize upon one of the other competitors. So, having selected from the mass of rubbish a "poem" a shade better than the rest, which was written by an unknown local genius, the smaller prize was awarded to him.