This blunt and ungracious assurance strained the bond between the adopted father and son; the promised letter of application to the Secretary of War, ruthlessly shattered it.  That his indulgencies during his year at the University of Virginia, so freely and earnestly repented, should have been exposed in the letter seemed to the boy unnecessary and cruel, but the man who had been fifteen years his father, the husband of her over whom the grave had but just closed and who had always loved him—­Edgar—­as an own and only son, had seen fit to add to the declaration,

“He left me in consequence of some gambling debts at the University,” a disclaimer of even a sentimental interest in him!

“Frankly, Sir,” the letter said, “I do declare that Edgar Poe is no relation to me whatever; that I have many in whom I have taken an active interest in order to promote theirs, with no other feeling than that every man is my care, if he be in distress.”

Edgar Poe duly presented the letter, but the bitterness which during his brief visit home had been put to sleep, raised its head and robbed him of all pleasure in his anticipated change and of much of the incentive to put forth his best effort in it.  He felt that the result of this ungracious letter must be to blot the new leaf which he had so ardently desired to turn with shadows of his past which no effort of his own could entirely obliterate.

For the soreness of finding himself disowned as Mr. Allan’s son—­this time publicly, in a manner—­he found somewhat of balm in the letter of cordial praise addressed to the Honorable Secretary of War in his behalf, by the father of his old friend, Jack Preston.  Mr. Preston described him as a young gentleman of genius who had already gained reputation for talents and attainments at the University of Virginia, and added,

“I would not write this recommendation if I did not believe he would remunerate the Government at some future day by his services and talents, for whatever may be done for him.”

Happily for the, at times, morbidly, sensitive youth, he had soon forgotten the sting caused by the letter in a return to the dreams which he regarded as not only the chief joy but the chief business of his life; for though he was preparing himself for the profession of a soldier, he had never for a moment, forsworn the Muse of Poetry.  For a whole year before being transferred to Fortress Monroe he had been stationed at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor.  There his wonderful dream-lady, “Ligeia,” had seemed especially near to him, and often, when the day’s work was done and he recognized her voice in the music of the waves or felt her kiss in the soft, southern air, blown across spicey islets, he would up and away with her across the world, on the moon’s silver track; or on nights when no moon came up out of the sea, would wander with her through the star-sown sky.