e
year 1844--Mr. Nathaniel P. Willis who was then editor of _The Evening
Mirror_, and had been editor of _The Dollar Magazine_, when it awarded
the prize of a hundred dollars to "The Gold Bug," was seated at his desk
in the "Mirror" office, when in response to his "Come in," a stranger
appeared in his doorway--a woman--a lady in the best sense of a word
almost become obsolete. A _gentlewoman_ describes her best of all. She
was a gentlewoman, then, past middle age, yet beautiful with the high
type of beauty that only ripe years, beautifully lived, can bring--the
beauty that compensates for the fading of the rose on cheek and lip, the
dimming of the light in the eyes, for the frost on the brow--the beauty
of patience, of tenderness, of faith unquenchable by fire or flood of
adversity. A history was written on the face--a history in which there
was plainly much of tragedy. Yet not one bitter line was there.

It was a face, withal, which could only have belonged to a mother, and
might well have belonged to the mother, Niobe.

In figure she was tall and stately, with a gentle dignity. Her dress was
simple to plainness, and might have been called shabby had it been less
beautifully neat. It was of unrelieved black, and she wore a
conventional widow's bonnet, with floating white strings.

The reader needs no introduction to this stranger to Mr. Willis, who in
a gentle, well-bred voice, with a certain mournful cadence in it,
announced herself as "Mrs. Clemm--the mother-in-law of Mr. Poe."

No connection with a famous author was needed to inspire Mr. Willis with
respect for his visitor. She seemed to him to be an "angel upon earth,"
and it was with an air approaching reverence that he handed her to the
most comfortable chair the office afforded.

Her errand was quickly made known. Edgar Poe was ill and not able to
come out himself. His wife was an invalid, and so it devolved upon her
to seek employment for him. In spite of his fame, she said, and of his
industry, his manuscripts brought him so little money that he was in
need of the necessities of life. Regular work with a regular income,
however small, she felt to be his only hope of being able to rise above
want.

Mr. Willis was distressed and promptly offered all he could. It was not
much, but it was better than nothing--it was the place of assistant
editor of his paper.

For months following, the figure of Edgar Poe was a familiar one in the
office of the _Evening Mi