common acceptation of
the term, but those were days when wine ran like water, and not to serve
it would seem niggardly. I remember that one day 'Muddie,' as Mr. Poe
called Mrs. Clemm, came to our house and asked us not to offer wine to
Edgar, as his head was weak, but that he did not like to refuse it."

As an illustration of the fascination which Poe possessed, even for
strangers, is the following letter from Mr. John DeGalliford, of
Chattanooga, Tenn., to this same New York correspondent:

"I am drawn to you by your defense of Edgar A. Poe. I love him, though I
met him but once. It was in September, 1845. I was sitting on a pile
watching our bark that was moored to the pile. A quiet, neatly-dressed
gentleman came up to me and asked me numberless questions in regard to
our seafaring life. He was so lovable in his conversation that I never
forgot him, and I prize the memory of those few hours of his sweet talk
with me and hold it sacred to his memory. He could not have been a
drinking man, for his looks did not show it. On my telling that I was a
runaway boy from Kentucky, he took some scraps of paper from his pocket
and took notes, saying that he could make a nice story of what I had
told him. I took him aboard the bark and showed him a pet monkey I had
brought from Natal. He ate a piece of biscuit and drank some cold
coffee, and said he would come again and see me and get acquainted with
my captain. This was years ago, and I am now an old man, seventy-three
years old, but I can remember, word for word, all that passed."

CHAPTER XXV.

WITH OLD FRIENDS.

It must be admitted that Poe, after his affair with Mrs. Osgood and the
severe illness which followed, was never again what he had been. With
health and spirits impaired, his intellect had in a great measure lost
its brilliant creative power--its inspirations, as we may call it--and
thenceforth his writings were no longer the spontaneous and
irrepressible impulse of genius, but the product of mental effort and
labor. In special had his poetic talent in a measure deserted him, as is
evident in his latest poems, with one or two exceptions. Recognizing
this condition--and with what a pang we may imagine--he recalled Mrs.
Shew's advice in regard to a second marriage, and, admitting its wisdom,
began to look about for a suitable matrimonial partner. Finally his
choice fell upon Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman, of Providence, Rhode Island,
one of the "poetesses" of th