t go the end she held, the manuscript coiled up as if it
had been a spring, and the poet rolled it closely in his hands and with
his eyes upon the fire, began, not to read, but slowly to recite. His
voice filled the room with deep, sonorous melody, saving which there
was no sound.

When the last words,

"And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted--nevermore!"

had been said, there was a moment of tense silence. Then Virginia cast
herself into his arms in a passion of tears.

"Oh, Eddie," she sobbed, "it is beautiful--beautiful! But so sad! I feel
as I were the 'lost Lenore' and you the poor lover; but when I leave you
you must not break your heart like that. You and Muddie will have each
other and soon you will come after me and we will all be happy together
again--in Heaven!"

No word passed the lips of the mother. Her silvered head was bowed in
grief and prayer. She too saw in "Lenore" her darling child, and she
felt in anticipation the loneliness and sorrow of her own heart. She
spoke no word, but from her saintly eyes two large bright tears rolled
down her patient cheeks upon the folded hands in her lap.

And thus "The Raven" was heard for the first time.

Soon afterward it was recited again. Edgar Poe carried it himself to Mr.
Graham and offered it for the magazine. Mr. Graham promised to examine
it and give him an answer next day. That night he read it over several
times, but for the life of him he could not make up his mind about it.
Its weirdness, its music, its despair, affected him greatly. But Mr.
Graham was a business man and he doubted whether, from a business point
of view, the poem was of value. Would people like it? Would it _take_?
He would consult Griswold about it--Griswold was a man of safe judgment
regarding such matters.

Dr. Griswold was indeed, a man of literary judgment and of taste. The
beauty of the poem startled him. It would bring to the genius of Edgar
Poe (he said to himself)--the poetic genius--acknowledgment such as it
had never had before. It was _too good_ a poem to be published. He had
bided his time and the hour of his revenge was come. He would have given
his right hand to have been able to publish such a poem over his own
signature--but the world must not know that Poe could write such an one!

The candid eyes of Mr. Graham as he awaited his opinion were upon his
face. His own eyes wore their most furtive look--cast down and si