In and out—­in and out—­among the crowds of these streets where being a stranger he felt himself peculiarly alone, Edgar the Dreamer walked many days in his quest for work.  Here, there and everywhere, his pale face and solemn eyes with less and less of hope in them were seen.  He had been right in believing that his reputation was growing and had reached New York—­yet no one wanted his work.  The supply of literature exceeded the demand, he was told everywhere.  It is true that he succeeded in placing an occasional article, for which he would be paid the merest pittance.  Man should not expect to live by writing alone, he found to be the general opinion—­he should have a business or profession and do his scribbling in the left-over hours.

Still, his appearance at the door of a newspaper, magazine or book publisher’s office, accompanied by the announcement of his name, brought him respect and a polite hearing—­if that could afford any satisfaction to a man whose darling wife was growing wan from insufficient food.

One devoted friend he and his family made in Mr. Gowans, a Scotchman and a book-collector of means and cultivation, whose fancy for them went so far as to induce him to become a member of the unique little family in the dingy wooden shanty which they had succeeded in renting for a song.  To this old gentleman, who had the reputation of being something of a crank, The Dreamer’s conversation and Virginia’s beauty and exquisite singing were never-failing wells of delight, while the generous sum that he paid for the privilege of sharing their home was an equal benefit to them and went a long way toward supplying the simple table.  The little checks which “little Tom” White sent for the monthly instalments of “Arthur Gordon Pym,” upon which his ex-editor industriously worked, were also most welcome.  But with all they could scrape together the income was insufficient to keep three souls within three bodies, and three bodies decently covered.

Before the year in New York was out the rainbow was pale in the sky—­its colors were faded and its end was invisible—­obscured by lowering clouds.  At the moment when it seemed faintest it came out clear again—­this time setting toward Philadelphia, whose name the hope that rarely left him for long at a time whispered in The Dreamer’s ear.

Why not Philadelphia?  Philadelphia—­then the acknowledged seat of the empire of Letters.  Philadelphia—­the city of Penn, the “City of Brotherly Love.”  There was for one of The Dreamer’s superstitious turn of mind and his love of words and belief in their power, an attraction—­a significance in the very names.  He said them over and over again to himself—­rolled them on his tongue, fascinated with their sound and with their suggestiveness.

He bade Virginia and “Muddie” keep up brave hearts, for they would turn their backs upon this cold, inhospitable New York and set up their household gods in the “City of Brotherly Love.”  The city of Penn, he added, was the place for one of his calling—­laughing as he spoke, at the feeble pun—­but there was new hope and life in the laugh.  In Penn’s city, even if disappointments should come they would be able to bear them, for how should human beings suffer in the “City of Brotherly Love?”