CHAPTER XIV.
Although St.George dispensed his hospitality without form or pretence, never referring to his intended functions except in a casual way, the news of so unusual a dinner to so notorious a man as Edgar Allan Poe could not long be kept quiet.
While a few habitues occupying the arm-chairs on the sidewalk of the club were disappointed at not being invited,--although they knew that ten guests had always been St.George's limit,--others expressed their disapproval of the entire performance with more than a shrug of the shoulders.

Captain Warfleld was most outspoken.

"Temple," he said, "like his father, is a law unto himself, and always entertains the queerest kind of people; and if he wants to do honor to a man of that stamp, why that, of course, is his business, not mine." At which old Tom Purviance had blurted out--"And a shiftless vagabond too, Warfield, if what I hear is true.

Fine subject for St.George to waste his Madeira on!" Purviance had never read a dozen lines of anybody's poetry in his life, and looked upon all literary men as no better than play actors.
It was then that Richard Horn, his eyes flashing, had retorted: "If I did not know how kind-hearted you were, Purviance, and how thoughtless you can sometimes be in your criticisms, I might ask you to apologize to both Mr.Poe and myself.

Would it surprise you to know that there is no more truth in what you say than there is in the reports of that gentleman's habitual drunkenness?
It was but a year ago that I met him at his cousin's house and I shall never forget him.