bmitted;
but noticing that it was in the same handwriting as the stories, they
thought it best to give the prize to another. When they made their
report they greatly complimented the stories Poe had sent in, and said
they should be published in a volume.

We have said that one of the judges, Mr. Kennedy, became Poe's friend.
To show how very poor Poe was, I copy this passage from Mr. Kennedy's
diary: "It was many years ago that I found Poe in Baltimore in a
state of starvation. I gave him clothing, free access to my table, and
the use of a horse for exercise whenever he chose; in fact, I brought
him up from the very verge of despair."

Here, too, is an extract from a letter from Poe to Mr. Kennedy:

"Your invitation to dinner has wounded me to the quick. I cannot come
for reasons of the most humiliating nature--my personal appearance.
You may imagine my mortification in making this disclosure to you, but
it is necessary."

Mr. Kennedy did all that a friend could do for the future poet and
story-writer. Says Poe: "He has been at all times a true friend to
me--he was the first true friend I ever had--I am indebted to him for
_life itself_."

Poe now contributed regularly to the _Saturday Visiter,_ its young
editor, Lambert A. Wilmer, becoming his friend and constant companion.
It is said that at this time he dressed very neatly, though
inexpensively, "wore Byron collars and a black stock, and looked the
poet all over."

CHAPTER VII

POE'S EARLY POETRY

We have seen how persistently Poe clung to his poetry. Three times he
published the little volume of his verses, revising, enlarging, and
strengthening. In those days there was no market for poetic writing,
and as Poe wrote in a strange, weird style, it is not remarkable that
no one took any notice of the contents of his little volumes. It was
his own opinion, however, that these early poems contained more real
poetic imagination than his later successes, and it is perhaps as well
that we should begin our study of Poe with some of the first fruits of
his genius.

First let us read that most pathetic of autobiographical poems,
"Alone." With strange sincerity and directness the poet tells us how
his spirit grew and learned the burden of its melancholy, yet
scintillating song:

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were,--I have not seen
As others saw,--I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have