before them--the man of genius--the man whose name was known
the country through. That he was drunk was only part of the performance.
Booth had been drunk when he chased a super from the stage; Webster made
his best speeches when he was half-seas-over--was making them at that
very moment. It was so with many other men of genius the world over. If
they could hear one of Poe's poems--or, better still, one of his short
stories, like "The Black Cat" or the "Murders in the Rue Morgue"--it
would be like hearing Emerson read one of his Essays or Longfellow
recite his "Hyperion." This in itself would atone for everything.
Kennedy was right--it would be one of the rare treats of their lives.

Poe grasped the back of the chair reserved for him, stood swaying for an
instant, passed one hand nervously across his forehead, brushed back a
stray lock that had fallen over his eyebrow, loosened the top button
of his frock coat, revealing a fresh white scarf tied about his neck,
closed his eyes, and in a voice deep, sonorous, choked with tears one
moment, ringing clear the next--word by word--slowly--with infinite
tenderness and infinite dignity and with the solemnity of a condemned
man awaiting death--repeated the Lord's Prayer to the end.

Kennedy sat as if paralyzed. Richard Horn, who had lifted up his hands
in horror as the opening sentence reached his ears, lowered his head
upon his chest as he would in church. There was no blasphemy in this! It
was the wail of a lost soul pleading for mercy!

Harry, cowering in his chair, gazed at Poe in amazement. Then a throb of
such sympathy as he had never felt before shook him to his depths. Could
that transfigured man praying there, the undried tears still on his
lids, be the same who had entered on his uncle's arm but a few moments
before?

Poe lifted his head, opened his eyes, walked in a tired, hopeless way
toward the mantel and sank into an easy-chair. There he sat with bowed
head, his face in his hands.

One by one the men rose to their feet and, with a nod or silent pressure
of St. George's palm, moved toward the door. When they spoke to each
other it was in whispers: to Todd, who brought their hats and canes; to
Harry, whom, unconsciously, they substituted for host; shaking his hand,
muttering some word of sympathy for St. George. No--they would find
their way, better not disturb his uncle, etc. They would see him in
the morning, etc., and thus the group passed out in a body and