As soon as supper was over he brought out one of the familiar narrow rolls of manuscript and smilingly drew it out for them to see its length—­giving Virginia one end to hold while he held the other.

She read aloud, in pondering tone, the two words that appeared at the top:  “The Raven.”—­

Then, as she let go the end she held, the manuscript coiled up as if it had been a spring, and the poet rolled it closely in his hands and with his eyes upon the fire, began, not to read, but slowly to recite.  His voice filled the room with deep, sonorous melody, saving which there was no sound.

When the last words,

“And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,

    Shall be lifted—­nevermore!”

had been said, there was a moment of tense silence.  Then Virginia cast herself into his arms in a passion of tears.

“Oh, Eddie,” she sobbed, “it is beautiful—­beautiful!  But so sad!  I feel as I were the ‘lost Lenore’ and you the poor lover; but when I leave you you must not break your heart like that.  You and Muddie will have each other and soon you will come after me and we will all be happy together again—­in Heaven!”

No word passed the lips of the mother.  Her silvered head was bowed in grief and prayer.  She too saw in “Lenore” her darling child, and she felt in anticipation the loneliness and sorrow of her own heart.  She spoke no word, but from her saintly eyes two large bright tears rolled down her patient cheeks upon the folded hands in her lap.

And thus “The Raven” was heard for the first time.

Soon afterward it was recited again.  Edgar Poe carried it himself to Mr. Graham and offered it for the magazine.  Mr. Graham promised to examine it and give him an answer next day.  That night he read it over several times, but for the life of him he could not make up his mind about it.  Its weirdness, its music, its despair, affected him greatly.  But Mr. Graham was a business man and he doubted whether, from a business point of view, the poem was of value.  Would people like it?  Would it take?  He would consult Griswold about it—­Griswold was a man of safe judgment regarding such matters.

Dr. Griswold was indeed, a man of literary judgment and of taste.  The beauty of the poem startled him.  It would bring to the genius of Edgar Poe (he said to himself)—­the poetic genius—­acknowledgment such as it had never had before.  It was too good a poem to be published.  He had bided his time and the hour of his revenge was come.  He would have given his right hand to have been able to publish such a poem over his own signature—­but the world must not know that Poe could write such an one!

The candid eyes of Mr. Graham as he awaited his opinion were upon his face.  His own eyes wore their most furtive look—­cast down and sidelong.  His tone was depressed and full of pity as he said,

“Poor Poe!  It is too bad that when he must be in need he cannot, or does not, write something saleable.  Of course you could not set such stuff as this before the readers of Graham’s!”