antheist,' a 'polytheist,' a Pagan, or a God knows what
(and indeed I care very little so it be not a 'Student of Theology'),
I would have permitted their dishonesty to pass unnoticed, through pure
contempt of the boyishness--for the _turn-down-shirt-collar-ness_ of
their tone:--but, as it is, you will pardon me, Mr. Editor, that I have
been compelled to expose a 'critic' who courageously preserving his own
_anonymosity_, takes advantage of my absence from the city to
misrepresent, and thus vilify me, _by name_. EDGAR A. POE.

"Fordham, September 20, 1848."

From this time Poe did not write much; he had quarreled with the
conductors of the chief magazines for which he had previously written,
and they no longer sought his assistance. In a letter to a friend, he
laments the improbabilities of an income from literary labor, saying:

"I have represented ---- to you as merely an ambitious simpleton, anxious
to get into society with the reputation of conducting a magazine which
somebody behind the curtain always prevents him from quite damning with
his stupidity; he is a knave and a beast. I cannot write any more for the
Milliner's Book, where T----n prints his feeble and _very_ quietly made
Dilutions of other people's reviews; and you know that ---- can afford to
pay but little, though I am glad to do anything for a good fellow like
----. In this emergency I sell articles to the vulgar and trashy ----,
for $5 a piece. I inclose my last, cut out, lest you should see by my
sending the paper in what company I am forced to appear."

His name was now frequently associated with that of one of the most
brilliant women of New England, and it was publicly announced that they
were to be married. He had first seen her on his way from Boston, when he
visited that city to deliver a poem before the Lyceum there. Restless,
near the midnight, he wandered from, his hotel near where she lived,
until he saw her walking in a garden. He related the incident afterward
in one of his most exquisite poems, worthy of himself, of her, and of the
most exalted passion.

"I saw thee--once only--years ago;
I must not say _how_ many--but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken vail of light,
With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an