But of the current literature of the day--Longfellow, Margaret Fuller, Hawthorne, and Emerson--no one appealed to him as did the man Poe.

He and St.George had passed many an hour discussing him.

Somehow the bond of sympathy between himself and the poet had become the stronger.

Both had wept bitter tears over the calamities that had followed an unrequited love.
It was during one of these talks--and the poet was often under discussion--that St.George had suddenly risen from his chair, lighted a candle, and had betaken himself to the basement--a place he seldom visited--from which he brought back a thin, crudely bound, and badly printed, dust-covered volume bearing the title "Tamerlane:--by a Bostonian." This, with a smile he handed to Harry.

Some friend had given him the little book when it was first published and he had forgotten it was in the house until he noted Harry's interest in the author.