He came late, but he was a little more cordial in his expressions of pleasure in coming than any of those before him.  His bows to Virginia and Mrs. Clemm were more profound—­his estimation of Virginia’s beauty he made at once apparent in the intense, admiring gaze he bestowed upon her.  His words of congratulation and good will for his host were more extravagant than those of any of the others and were uttered in a voice as smooth—­as fluent—­as oil; while he rubbed his large, fleshy hands together in a manner betokening cordiality.  When his host spoke, he turned his ear toward him (though his eyes glanced aside and downward) with an air of marked attention, and agreed emphatically with his views or laughed uproariously at his pleasantries.

Yet at Rufus Griswold’s heart jealousy was gnawing.  Heaven had endowed him with mind to recognize genius, yet had denied him its possession.  He that would have worn the laurel himself, was born to be but the trumpeter of others’ victories.  He, like Edgar Poe, had an open eye and ear for beauty—­for harmony.  He could feel the divine fire of inspiration in the creations of master minds—­yet he could not himself create.  He was a brilliant critic, but (as has been said) his ambition was to be, like Poe, also a poet.  His quick intuition had divined the genius of Poe at their first meeting.  He knew in a flash, that the neat, slender, polished gentleman, with the cameo face, the large brow and the luminous eyes, and with the deep-toned, vibrant voice, was one of the few he had ever met of whom he could say with assurance, “There goes a genius—­” and of those few the topmost.  Poe’s writing, especially his poetry, enthralled him.  To have been able to come before the world as the author of such work he would have sold his soul.

And this man who had caught him in a net woven of mingled fascination, and envy, and hate, had, oh, bitter!—­while generously applauding him as a critic and reviewer—­as a compiler and preserver of other men’s work—­had added, “But—­but—­he is no poet.”

He had received the stab without an apparent flinch.  He had even laughed and declared that Mr. Poe was right.  That he himself knew he was no poet—­he did not aspire to be a real one, but only dropped into verse now and then by way of pastime.  The lie had slipped easily from his tongue, but his eyes drooped ever so little more than usual as it did so, their shifty gleam glanced ever so little more sidewise.

And though he came late to the birthday feast, his words of friendship were emphatic and the laugh that told of his pleasure in being there was loud and frequent.  And he smiled and rubbed his hands together—­and bided his time.

And Edgar Poe was pleased—­immensely pleased—­on his gala night, with the complimentary manner and the complimentary words of this welcome guest—­of this big, brainy man whose good opinion he so much desired.