In the North as well as the South the name of Edgar Poe was now on many lips and serious attention began to be paid to the opinion of the Southern Literary Messenger.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Between his literary work, his home and his social life in Richmond, it would seem that every need of The Dreamer’s being was now satisfied and the days of his life were moving in perfect harmony.  But “the little rift within the lute” all too soon made its appearance.  It was caused by the alarm of Mr. White, the owner and founder of the Messenger.

“Little Tom White” was a most admirable man—­within his limitations.  If he was not especially interesting, his daughter Eliza of the violet eyes was, and he was reliable—­which was better.  He had a kind little heart and a clear little business head and his advice upon all matters (within his experience) was safe.  Though he saw from the handsome increase in the number of the Messenger’s subscribers that his young editor was a valuable aid, he did not realize how valuable.  Indeed, Edgar Poe and his style of writing were entirely outside of Mr. White’s experience.  They were so altogether unlike anything he had known before that in spite of the praise of the thousands of readers which they had brought to the magazine the dissatisfaction of the tens of little namby-pamby authors alarmed him.  Edgar Poe found him one morning in a state of positive trepidation.  He sat at his desk in the Messenger office with the morning’s mail—­an unusually large pile of it—­before him.  In it there were a number of new subscriptions, several letters from the little authors protesting against the manner in which their works were handled in the review columns of the magazine and one or two from well-known and highly respected country gentlemen expressing their disapproval of the strangeness in Edgar Poe’s tales and poems.

Mr. White appreciated the genius of his editor—­within his limitations—­but he was afraid of it and these letters made him more afraid of it.  He saw that he must speak to Edgar—­add his protest to the protests of the little authors and the country gentlemen and see if he could not persuade him to tone down the sharpness of his criticisms and the strangeness of his stories.

It was with a feeling of relief that he saw the trim, black-clad figure of the young editor and author at the door, for he would like to settle the business before him at once.  His manner was grave—­solemn—­as he approached the subject upon which his employe must be spoken to.

“Edgar,” he said, when good-mornings had been exchanged, “I want you to read these letters.  They are in the same line as some others we have been receiving lately—­but more so—­decidedly more so.”

“Ah?” said The Dreamer, as he seated himself at the desk and began to unfold and glance over the letters.

“Little Tom” watched his face with a feeling of wonder at the look of mixed scorn and amusement that appeared in the expressive eyes and mouth as he read.  Finally the anxious little man laid his hand upon the arm of his unruly assistant, with an air of kindly patronage.