st. With others, however, it
was just the same; and another night of even greater wretchedness
followed.

Upon his third day in Boston (he felt that he had been there a year!)
he wandered aimlessly about, spirit broken, ambition gone. Finally, in
Washington Street, he discovered, upon a small door, a modest sign
bearing the legend:

"Calvin F.S. Thomas. Printer."

With freshly springing hope, he entered the little shop and was received
by a pale, soft-eyed, sunken-chested and somewhat threadbare youth of
about his own age, who in reply to his inquiry, announced himself as
"Mr. Thomas."

Between these two boys, as they stood looking frankly into each other's
eyes, that mysterious thing which we call sympathy, which like the wind
"bloweth where it listeth and no man knoweth whence it cometh or whither
it goeth," sprang instantly into being. The one found himself without
his usual diffidence declaring himself a poet in search of a publisher,
and the other was at once alert with interest.

Calvin Thomas had but just--timorously, for he was poor as well as
young--set up his little shop, hoping to build up a trade as a printer.
To be a publisher had not entered into his wildest imaginings--much less
a publisher for a poet! But he was, like his visitor, a dreamer, and
like him ambitious. Why should he not be a publisher as well as a
printer? The poet had not his manuscripts with him, but offered to
recite some extracts, which he did, with glowing voice and
gesture--explaining figures of speech and allusions as he went along.

Edgar Poe sat easily upon a high stool in the little shop. His dress was
handsome and, as always, exquisite in its neatness and taste. His whole
appearance and bearing were marked by an "air" which deeply impressed
the young printer who had promptly fallen under the spell of his
personal charm. He had laid his hat upon the desk, baring the glossy
brown ringlets that clustered about his large, pale brow. His clear-cut
features were mobile and eager; his dark grey eyes full of life. His
voice had a wonderful musical quality, becoming passionate when, as at
present, his feeling was deeply aroused.

His poetry, recited thus, gained much of distinction. Its crudities
would have been lost, to a great extent, even upon a critic. But Thomas
was no critic. He was simply a dreamy, half-educated youth with a mind
open to the beautiful and the romantic. The flights of the poet's fancy
did not seem to him obs