ust be said, of clever artifice
as well, where artifice was necessary to the accomplishment of a
purpose. Her abode, though plainly and cheaply furnished, was a picture
of neatness and such comfort as she could afford to give it; but her
means were only what could be derived from dressmaking, taking a lodger
or two, and at times teaching a few small children.

This state of affairs dawned upon Poe as he slowly recovered from his
fever-dreams; and he again became aware of the strong necessity of
further exertion on his part. Mrs. Clemm would not allow him to go to a
hospital. Probably she feared to lose him. In some degree, isolated from
her other kindred, she had in her loneliness found a son, and the
pertinacity with which she thenceforth clung to him was something
remarkable.

Poe soon resumed his weary search for employment, but for some time
without success. In his hours of enforced idleness at home he found
employment in teaching his little cousin, Virginia, a pretty and
affectionate child of ten years, who, however, was fonder of a walk or a
romp with him than of her lessons. She was devoted to her handsome
cousin, and having hitherto lived with her mother and with few or no
playmates or companions, soon learned to depend upon him for all
pleasure or amusement. They called each other both then and ever after,
"Buddie" and "Sissy," while Mrs. Clemm was "Muddie" to both.

Of this period of Poe's life in Baltimore, Dr. Snodgrass, a literary
Bohemian of the time, has given us glimpses:

"In Baltimore, his chief resort was the Widow Meagher's place, an
inexpensive but respectable eating-house, with a bar attached and a room
where the customers could indulge in a smoke or a social game of cards.
This was frequented chiefly by printers and employees of shipping
offices. Poe was a great favorite with the Widow Meagher, a kindly old
Irish woman. On entering there you would generally find him seated
behind her oyster counter, at which she presided; himself as silent as
an oyster, grave and retiring. Knowing him to be a poet, she addressed
him always by the old Irish title of _Bard_, and by this name he was
here known. It was, "Bard, have a nip;" "Bard, take a hand." Whenever
anything particularly pleased the old woman's fancy, she would request
Poe to put it in "poethry," and I have seen many of these little pieces
which appeared to me more worthy of preservation than some included in
his published works.

It happened