The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 1 Read online

  DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE

  By N. P. Willis

  THE ancient fable of two antagonistic spirits imprisoned in one body,equally powerful and having the complete mastery by turns-of one man,that is to say, inhabited by both a devil and an angel seems tohave been realized, if all we hear is true, in the character of theextraordinary man whose name we have written above. Our own impressionof the nature of Edgar A. Poe, differs in some important degree,however, from that which has been generally conveyed in the notices ofhis death. Let us, before telling what we personally know of him, copya graphic and highly finished portraiture, from the pen of Dr. Rufus W.Griswold, which appeared in a recent number of the “Tribune”:

  “Edgar Allen Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore on Sunday, October 7th.This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it. Thepoet was known, personally or by reputation, in all this country; he hadreaders in England and in several of the states of Continental Europe;but he had few or no friends; and the regrets for his death will besuggested principally by the consideration that in him literary art haslost one of its most brilliant but erratic stars.

  “His conversation was at times almost supramortal in its eloquence. Hisvoice was modulated with astonishing skill, and his large and variablyexpressive eyes looked repose or shot fiery tumult into theirs wholistened, while his own face glowed, or was changeless in pallor, as hisimagination quickened his blood or drew it back frozen to his heart. Hisimagery was from the worlds which no mortals can see but with the visionof genius. Suddenly starting from a proposition, exactly and sharplydefined, in terms of utmost simplicity and clearness, he rejected theforms of customary logic, and by a crystalline process of accretion,built up his ocular demonstrations in forms of gloomiest and ghastliestgrandeur, or in those of the most airy and delicious beauty, so minutelyand distinctly, yet so rapidly, that the attention which was yieldedto him was chained till it stood among his wonderful creations, till hehimself dissolved the spell, and brought his hearers back to commonand base existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of the ignoblestpassion.

  “He was at all times a dreamer dwelling in ideal realms, in heaven orhell, peopled with the creatures and the accidents of his brain. Hewalked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips moving inindistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate prayer (never forhimself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that he was already damned,but) for their happiness who at the moment were objects of his idolatry;or with his glances introverted to a heart gnawed with anguish, and witha face shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest storms, and allnight, with drenched garments and arms beating the winds and rains,would speak as if the spirits that at such times only could be evoked byhim from the Aidenn, close by whose portals his disturbed soul sought toforget the ills to which his constitution subjected him--close by theAidenn where were those he loved--the Aidenn which he might never see,but in fitful glimpses, as its gates opened to receive the less fieryand more happy natures whose destiny to sin did not involve the doom ofdeath.

  “He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his will andengrossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of some controllingsorrow. The remarkable poem of ‘The Raven’ was probably much more nearlythan has been supposed, even by those who were very intimate with him, areflection and an echo of his own history. _He_ was that bird’s

  “‘Unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of ‘Never-never more.’

  “Every genuine author in a greater or less degree leaves in his works,whatever their design, traces of his personal character: elements of hisimmortal being, in which the individual survives the person. While weread the pages of the ‘Fall of the House of Usher,’ or of ‘MesmericRevelations,’ we see in the solemn and stately gloom which invests one,and in the subtle metaphysical analysis of both, indications of theidiosyncrasies of what was most remarkable and peculiar in the author’sintellectual nature. But we see here only the better phases of hisnature, only the symbols of his juster action, for his harsh experiencehad deprived him of all faith in man or woman. He had made up his mindupon the numberless complexities of the social world, and the wholesystem with him was an imposture. This conviction gave a direction tohis shrewd and naturally unamiable character. Still, though he regardedsociety as composed altogether of villains, the sharpness of hisintellect was not of that kind which enabled him to cope with villany,while it continually caused him by overshots to fail of the success ofhonesty. He was in many respects like Francis Vivian in Bulwer’s novelof ‘The Caxtons.’ Passion, in him, comprehended--many of the worstemotions which militate against human happiness. You could notcontradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speak ofwealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing naturaladvantages of this poor boy--his beauty, his readiness, the daringspirit that breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere--had raised hisconstitutional self-confidence into an arrogance that turned hisvery claims to admiration into prejudices against him. Irascible,envious--bad enough, but not the worst, for these salient angles wereall varnished over with a cold, repellant cynicism, his passions ventedthemselves in sneers. There seemed to him no moral susceptibility; and,what was more remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of thetrue point of honor. He had, to a morbid excess, that, desire to risewhich is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the esteem or thelove of his species; only the hard wish to succeed-not shine, notserve--succeed, that he might have the right to despise a world whichgalled his self-conceit.

  “We have suggested the influence of his aims and vicissitudes upon hisliterature. It was more conspicuous in his later than in hisearlier writings. Nearly all that he wrote in the last two or threeyears-including much of his best poetry-was in some sense biographical;in draperies of his imagination, those who had taken the trouble totrace his steps, could perceive, but slightly concealed, the figure ofhimself.”

  Apropos of the disparaging portion of the above well-written sketch, letus truthfully say:

  Some four or five years since, when editing a daily paper in thiscity, Mr. Poe was employed by us, for several months, as critic andsub-editor. This was our first personal acquaintance with him. Heresided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles out of town,but was at his desk in the office, from nine in the morning till theevening paper went to press. With the highest admiration for his genius,and a willingness to let it atone for more than ordinary irregularity,we were led by common report to expect a very capricious attention tohis duties, and occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Timewent on, however, and he was invariably punctual and industrious. Withhis pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a reminder of what geniuswas in him, it was impossible, of course, not to treat him always withdeferential courtesy, and, to our occasional request that he would notprobe too deep in a criticism, or that he would erase a passage coloredtoo highly with his resentments against society and mankind, he readilyand courteously assented-far more yielding than most men, we thought,on points so excusably sensitive. With a prospect of taking the lead inanother periodical, he, at last, voluntarily gave up his employmentwith us, and, through all this considerable period, we had seen butone presentment of the man-a quiet, patient, industrious, and mostgentlemanly person, commanding the utmost respect and good feeling byhis unvarying deportment and ability.

  Residing as he did in the country, we never met Mr. Poe in hours ofleisure; but he frequently called on us afterward at our place ofbusiness, and we met him often in the street-invariably the same sadmannered, winning and refined gentleman, such as we had always knownhim. It was by rumor only, up to the day of his death, that we knew ofany other development of manner or character. We heard, from one whoknew him well (what should be stated in all mention of his lamentableirregularities), that, with a single glass of wine, his whole naturewas reversed, the demon became uppermost,
and, though none of theusual signs of intoxication were visible, his will was palpably insane.Possessing his reasoning faculties in excited activity, at such times,and seeking his acquaintances with his wonted look and memory, he easilyseemed personating only another phase of his natural character, and wasaccused, accordingly, of insulting arrogance and bad-heartedness. Inthis reversed character, we repeat, it was never our chance to see him.We know it from hearsay, and we mention it in connection with this sadinfirmity of physical constitution; which puts it upon very nearly theground of a temporary and almost irresponsible insanity.

  The arrogance, vanity, and depravity of heart, of which Mr. Poe wasgenerally accused, seem to us referable altogether to this reversedphase of his character. Under that degree of intoxication which onlyacted upon him by demonizing his sense of truth and right, he doubtlesssaid and did much that was wholly irreconcilable with his better nature;but, when himself, and as we knew him only, his modesty and unaffectedhumility, as to his own deservings, were a constant charm to hischaracter. His letters, of which the constant application for autographshas taken from us, we are sorry to confess, the greater portion,exhibited this quality very strongly. In one of the carelessly writtennotes of which we chance still to retain possession, for instance, hespeaks of “The Raven”--that extraordinary poem which electrified theworld of imaginative readers, and has become the type of a school ofpoetry of its own-and, in evident earnest, attributes its success tothe few words of commendation with which we had prefaced it in thispaper.--It will throw light on his sane character to give a literal copyof the note:

  “FORDHAM, April 20, 1849

  “My DEAR WILLIS--The poem which I inclose, and which I am so vain as tohope you will like, in some respects, has been just published in a paperfor which sheer necessity compels me to write, now and then. It payswell as times go-but unquestionably it ought to pay ten prices; forwhatever I send it I feel I am consigning to the tomb of the Capulets.The verses accompanying this, may I beg you to take out of the tomb, andbring them to light in the ‘Home journal?’ If you can oblige me so faras to copy them, I do not think it will be necessary to say ‘From the----, that would be too bad; and, perhaps, ‘From a late ---- paper,’would do.

  “I have not forgotten how a ‘good word in season’ from you made ‘TheRaven,’ and made ‘Ulalume’ (which by-the-way, people have done me thehonor of attributing to you), therefore, I would ask you (if I dared) tosay something of these lines if they please you.

  “Truly yours ever,

  “EDGAR A. POE.”

  In double proof of his earnest disposition to do the best for himself,and of the trustful and grateful nature which has been denied him, wegive another of the only three of his notes which we chance to retain:

  “FORDHAM, January 22, 1848.

  “My DEAR MR. WILLIS--I am about to make an effort at re-establishingmyself in the literary world, and _feel _that I may depend upon youraid.

  “My general aim is to start a Magazine, to be called ‘The Stylus,’ butit would be useless to me, even when established, if not entirely out ofthe control of a publisher. I mean, therefore, to get up a journal whichshall be _my own_ at all points. With this end in view, I must get alist of at least five hundred subscribers to begin with; nearly twohundred I have already. I propose, however, to go South and West,among my personal and literary friends--old college and West Pointacquaintances--and see what I can do. In order to get the means oftaking the first step, I propose to lecture at the Society Library,on Thursday, the 3d of February, and, that there may be no cause of_squabbling_, my subject shall _not be literary _at all. I have chosen abroad text: ‘The Universe.’

  “Having thus given you _the facts_ of the case, I leave all the restto the suggestions of your own tact and generosity. Gratefully, _mostgratefully,_

  _“Your friend always,_

  _“EDGAR A. POE._”

  Brief and chance-taken as these letters are, we think they sufficientlyprove the existence of the very qualities denied to Mr. Poe-humility,willingness to persevere, belief in another’s friendship, and capabilityof cordial and grateful friendship! Such he assuredly was when sane.Such only he has invariably seemed to us, in all we have happenedpersonally to know of him, through a friendship of five or six years.And so much easier is it to believe what we have seen and known, thanwhat we hear of only, that we remember him but with admiration andrespect; these descriptions of him, when morally insane, seeming tous like portraits, painted in sickness, of a man we have only known inhealth.

  But there is another, more touching, and far more forcible evidence thatthere was _goodness _in Edgar A. Poe. To reveal it we are obliged toventure upon the lifting of the veil which sacredly covers grief andrefinement in poverty; but we think it may be excused, if so we canbrighten the memory of the poet, even were there not a more needed andimmediate service which it may render to the nearest link broken by hisdeath.

  Our first knowledge of Mr. Poe’s removal to this city was by a callwhich we received from a lady who introduced herself to us as the motherof his wife. She was in search of employment for him, and she excusedher errand by mentioning that he was ill, that her daughter was aconfirmed invalid, and that their circumstances were such as compelledher taking it upon herself. The countenance of this lady, made beautifuland saintly with an evidently complete giving up of her life toprivation and sorrowful tenderness, her gentle and mournful voice urgingits plea, her long-forgotten but habitually and unconsciously refinedmanners, and her appealing and yet appreciative mention of the claimsand abilities of her son, disclosed at once the presence of one of thoseangels upon earth that women in adversity can be. It was a hard fatethat she was watching over. Mr. Poe wrote with fastidious difficulty,and in a style too much above the popular level to be well paid. He wasalways in pecuniary difficulty, and, with his sick wife, frequently inwant of the merest necessaries of life. Winter after winter, foryears, the most touching sight to us, in this whole city, has been thattireless minister to genius, thinly and insufficiently clad, going fromoffice to office with a poem, or an article on some literary subject, tosell, sometimes simply pleading in a broken voice that he was ill, andbegging for him, mentioning nothing but that “he was ill,” whatevermight be the reason for his writing nothing, and never, amid all hertears and recitals of distress, suffering one syllable to escape herlips that could convey a doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessening ofpride in his genius and good intentions. Her daughter died a year anda half since, but she did not desert him. She continued his ministeringangel--living with him, caring for him, guarding him against exposure,and when he was carried away by temptation, amid grief and theloneliness of feelings unreplied to, and awoke from his self abandonmentprostrated in destitution and suffering, _begging _for him still. Ifwoman’s devotion, born with a first love, and fed with human passion,hallow its object, as it is allowed to do, what does not a devotionlike this-pure, disinterested and holy as the watch of an invisiblespirit-say for him who inspired it?

  We have a letter before us, written by this lady, Mrs. Clemm, on themorning in which she heard of the death of this object of her untiringcare. It is merely a request that we would call upon her, but we willcopy a few of its words--sacred as its privacy is--to warrant the truthof the picture we have drawn above, and add force to the appeal we wishto make for her:

  “I have this morning heard of the death of my darling Eddie.... Can yougive me any circumstances or particulars?... Oh! do not desert yourpoor friend in his bitter affliction!... Ask Mr. ---- to come, as I mustdeliver a message to him from my poor Eddie.... I need not ask you tonotice his death and to speak well of him. I know you will. But say whatan affectionate son he was to me, his poor desolate mother...”

  To hedge round a grave with respect, what choice is there, between therelinquished wealth and honors of the world, and the story of such a
woman’s unrewarded devotion! Risking what we do, in delicacy, by makingit public, we feel--other reasons aside--that it betters the world tomake known that there are such ministrations to its erring and gifted.What we have said will speak to some hearts. There are those who willbe glad to know how the lamp, whose light of poetry has beamed on theirfar-away recognition, was watched over with care and pain, that theymay send to her, who is more darkened than they by its extinction, sometoken of their sympathy. She is destitute and alone. If any, far ornear, will send to us what may aid and cheer her through the remainderof her life, we will joyfully place it in her hands.