Many were the friends who rose up to comfort the stricken mother and who hastened to bring rosemary to the poet’s grave.  But there was one whom he had believed to be his friend—­a big man whose big brain he had admired—­in whose furtive eye was an unholy glee, about whose thick lips played a smile which slightly revealed his fang-like teeth.  To him was entrusted the part of literary executor—­it had been The Dreamer’s own request.  In his power it would lie to give to the world his own account of this man who had said he was no poet and had distanced him in the race for a woman’s favor.

The day was at hand when Rufus Griswold would have his full revenge upon the fair fame of Edgar the Dreamer.

* * * * *

    “Out—­out are the lights—­out all! 
      And, over each quivering form,
    The curtain, a funeral pall,
      Comes down with the rush of a storm;
    And the angels, all pallid and wan,
      Uprising, unveiling, affirm
    That the play is the tragedy, ‘Man,’
      And its hero the Conqueror Worm.”

* * * * *

Transcriber’s note:  Minor typographical errors have been corrected.