to deliberately throw away a large fortune rather
than submit to a trivial wrong."

CHAPTER X.

THE CLOSING OF THE GATE.

When Poe, after leaving Mr. Allan's door, crossed the lawn and passed
out of the gate, can any one realize how momentous was the instant of
time in which the gate closed after him, or what a woeful human tragedy
was in that instant inaugurated? The closing of the gate meant the
shutting out forever of his past life; the clang of the iron latch was
the knell of all that had been bright and pleasant and prosperous in
that life, now lost to him forever. There he stood, homeless, penniless,
friendless, utterly alone in the world, with a pathless future before
him, shadowy, dim, no hand to point him onward and no star to guiden.
From this moment commences the true history of Edgar A. Poe.

* * * * *

On leaving the Allan house, Poe went directly to the Mackenzies, the
only place to which he could turn, and spent several days with these
kind friends, discussing what would be best for him to do, now that he
had his own way to make in the world. They advised him to begin by
teaching, until he could see his way more clearly; but Richmond was at
present no place for him, and he decided to go to Baltimore, where his
relatives, knowing the city so well, might be able to assist him. The
Mackenzies gave him what money they could spare, and Miss Valentine, on
hearing where he was, sent more.

But in Baltimore Poe found himself coldly received by his relatives.
Since his miserable failure at West Point, when his prospects had seemed
so bright and all conspiring for his good, they had lost all faith in
him, and did not propose to trouble themselves on his account. On his
last visit, Neilson Poe, at whose house he was staying, had obtained for
him a place in an editor's office, which after a brief trial Poe threw
up. He now again applied for that place, but failed; as also in his
application for the position of assistant teacher in some academy. And
now commenced that wretched life of wandering, and penury, and,
according to Mr. Kennedy, of actual starvation, which is as sad as any
other such history in literature, with the exception of that of poor
Chatterton. His days were passed in roaming about the streets in search
of employment--anything by which he could obtain food and at night a
miserable place where to rest his weary limbs. He wrote a few stories
which he endeav