rney to any 'distant Aidenn' to 'clasp' me."

"No, thank God!" he breathed, crushing her to him.

* * * * *

It was upon January 29, 1845, that "The Raven" appeared, with Willis's
introductory puff. In spite of Dr. Griswold and the staff of _Graham's
Magazine_, it created an instant furor. It was published and republished
upon both sides of the Atlantic. To quote a contemporary writer,
everybody was "raven-mad" about it, except a few "waspish foes" who
would do its author "more good than harm."

It brought to the two bright rooms up the two flights of stairs visitors
by the score, eager to congratulate the poet, to make the acquaintance
of his interesting wife and mother and to assure all three of their
welcome to homes approached by brown-stone steps.

And it brought letters by the score--some from the other side of the
Atlantic. Among these was one from Miss Elizabeth Barrett, soon to
become the wife of Mr. Robert Browning.

"Your 'Raven' has produced a sensation here in England," she wrote.
"Some of my friends are taken by the fear of it, and some by its music.
I hear of persons haunted by the 'Nevermore,' and one of my friends who
has the misfortune of possessing a bust of Pallas never can bear to look
at it in the twilight. Mr. Browning is much struck by the rhythm of the
poem.

"Then there is that tale of yours, 'The Case of M. Valdemar,' throwing
us all into a 'most admired disorder,' and dreadful doubts as to whether
'it can be true,' as children say of ghost stories. The certain thing in
the tale in question is the power of the writer and the faculty he has
of making horrible improbabilities seem near and familiar."

Of all the letters from far and near, this was the one that gave The
Dreamer most pleasure, and as for Virginia and the Mother, they read it
until they knew it by heart.

When, some months later, his new book, "The Raven and Other Poems," came
out, its dedication was, "To the noblest of her sex--Miss Elizabeth
Barrett, of England."

* * * * *

And there was joy in the two rooms up two flights of stairs where Edgar
Poe sat at his desk reeling off his narrow little strips of manuscript
by the yard. His work filled _The Broadway Journal_ and overflowed into
many other periodicals.

While he created stories and poems, he gave more attention than ever to
the duties of his cherished post as Defender of Purity of Style for
Americ