But there were other visitors that winter, and less welcome ones.  Though the master of the cottage wrote and wrote, filling the New York and Philadelphia papers and magazines with a stream of translations, sketches, stories and critiques, for which he was sometimes paid and sometimes not, the aggregate sum he received was pitifully small and the Wolf scratched at the door and the gaunt features of Cold and Want became familiar to the dwellers in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass.

In desperation the driven poet turned this way and that in a wild effort to provide the necessities of life for himself and those who were dearer to him than self—­occasionally appearing upon the lecture platform, and finally attempting, but without success, to secure government office in Washington.

And oftener and oftener, and for longer each time the Shadow rested upon the cottage—­making the Valley dark and drear and dimming the colors of the grass and the flowers—­the dread shadow of the wing of the Angel of Death.

Even at such times The Dreamer made a manful struggle to coin his brains into gold—­to bring to the cottage the comforts, the conveniences, the delicacies that the precious invalid should have had.  An exceedingly appealing little invalid, she lay upon her bed in the upper chamber whose shelving ceiling almost touched her head; and sometimes “Muddie” and “Eddie” fanned her and sometimes they chafed her hands and her feet and placed her pet, “Catalina,” grown now to a large, comfortable cat, in her arms, that the warmth of the soft body and thick fur might comfort her shuddering frame.  And oftentimes as she lay there “Eddie” sat at a table nearby and wrote upon the long strips of paper which he rolled into the neat little rolls which he or “Muddie” took around to the editors.

And sometimes the editors were glad to have them, and to pay little checks for them, and sometimes not.

The truth was, that though the fame of Edgar Poe was well established, there was an undercurrent of opposition to him, that kept the price of his work down.  The little authors—­venomous with spite and jealousy—­the little authors, chief among whom was Rufus Griswold of the furtive eye and deprecating voice, were sending forth little whispers defaming his character, exaggerating his weakness and damning his work with faint praise, or emphatic abuse.

A day came when Edgar Poe realized that he must move on—­that the “City of Brotherly Love” had had enough of him—­that to remain must mean starvation.  What removal would mean he did not know.  That might mean starvation too, but, as least, he did not know it.

It was hard to leave the rose-embowered cottage.  It was April and about Spring Garden and the cottage the old old miracle of the renewal of life was begun.  The birds were nesting and the earliest flowers were in bloom.  It was bitter to leave it—­but, there was no money for the rent.  His fame had been greatest in New York, of late.  The New York papers had been the most hospitable to his work.  It was bitter to leave Spring Garden, but perhaps somewhere about New York they would find another rose-embowered cottage.  Virginia was unusually well for the present and the prospect of a change carried with it a possibility of prosperity.  Who could tell what good fortune they might fall upon in New York?