and out--among the crowds of these streets where being a
stranger he felt himself peculiarly alone, Edgar the Dreamer walked many
days in his quest for work. Here, there and everywhere, his pale face
and solemn eyes with less and less of hope in them were seen. He had
been right in believing that his reputation was growing and had reached
New York--yet no one wanted his work. The supply of literature exceeded
the demand, he was told everywhere. It is true that he succeeded in
placing an occasional article, for which he would be paid the merest
pittance. Man should not expect to live by writing alone, he found to be
the general opinion--he should have a business or profession and do his
scribbling in the left-over hours.

Still, his appearance at the door of a newspaper, magazine or book
publisher's office, accompanied by the announcement of his name, brought
him respect and a polite hearing--if that could afford any satisfaction
to a man whose darling wife was growing wan from insufficient food.

One devoted friend he and his family made in Mr. Gowans, a Scotchman and
a book-collector of means and cultivation, whose fancy for them went so
far as to induce him to become a member of the unique little family in
the dingy wooden shanty which they had succeeded in renting for a song.
To this old gentleman, who had the reputation of being something of a
crank, The Dreamer's conversation and Virginia's beauty and exquisite
singing were never-failing wells of delight, while the generous sum that
he paid for the privilege of sharing their home was an equal benefit to
them and went a long way toward supplying the simple table. The little
checks which "little Tom" White sent for the monthly instalments of
"Arthur Gordon Pym," upon which his ex-editor industriously worked, were
also most welcome. But with all they could scrape together the income
was insufficient to keep three souls within three bodies, and three
bodies decently covered.

Before the year in New York was out the rainbow was pale in the sky--its
colors were faded and its end was invisible--obscured by lowering
clouds. At the moment when it seemed faintest it came out clear
again--this time setting toward Philadelphia, whose name the hope that
rarely left him for long at a time whispered in The Dreamer's ear.

Why not Philadelphia? Philadelphia--then the acknowledged seat of the
empire of Letters. Philadelphia--the city of Penn, the "City of
Brotherly Love." There