The plain truth was gradually borne in upon him—­the prizes of fame and wealth that for the sake of his sweet bride he coveted more earnestly than ever before, were not to be found, by him, in Richmond, or as an employe of Mr. White.  But the hues of the bow of promise with which hope spanned the sky of his inward vision were still bright, and he believed that at its end the coveted prizes would surely still be found—­provided he did not lose heart and give up the quest.  Indications of the growth of his reputation at the North had been many.  In the North the facilities for publishing were so much more abundant than in the South.  The publishing houses and the periodicals of New York, of Boston, and of Philadelphia would create a demand for literary work—­and from these large cities his message to the world would go out with greater authority than from a small town like Richmond.

It was not until the year 1838 that he finally resolved to make the break and sent in his resignation to the Messenger.  In the three years since his first appearance in its columns the number of names upon its subscription list had increased from seven hundred to five thousand.

Though Edgar Poe’s connection with the magazine as editor was at an end, Mr. White took pains to announce that he was to continue to be a regular contributor and the appearance of his serial story, “Arthur Gordon Pym,” then running, was to be uninterrupted.

* * * * *

It was a far cry from the gardens and porches and open houses of Richmond to the streets of New York—­from the easy going country town where society held but one circle, to a city, with its locked doors and its wheels within wheels.  Indeed, the single circle in Richmond, bound together as it was by the elastic, but secure, tie of Virginia cousinship and neighborliness then regarded as almost the same thing as relationship, was practically one big family.  Whoever was not your cousin or your neighbor was the next best thing—­either your neighbor’s cousin or your cousin’s neighbor—­so there you were.

Though Edgar and Virginia Poe and the Widow Clemm had no blood kin in Richmond they were, during those two years’ residence there, taken into the very heart of this pleasant, kindly circle, and it was with keen homesickness that they realized that “in a whole cityful friends they had none.”

But if this trio of dreamers felt strangely out of place in the streets of New York, they looked more so.  As they sauntered along, in their leisurely southern fashion, their picturesque appearance arrested the gaze of many a hurrying passer-by.  In contrast to the up-to-date, alert, keen-eyed crowd upon the busy streets, the air of distinction which marked them everywhere was more pronounced than ever.  They gave the impression of a certain exquisite fineness of quality, combined with quaintness, that one is sensible of in looking upon rare china.