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 to have been realized, if all we hear is true, in

the character of the extraordinary man whose name we have written

above. Our own impression of the nature of Edgar A. Poe, differs

in some important degree, however, from that which has been

generally conveyed in the notices of his death. Let us, before

telling what we personally know of him, copy a 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. The poet was known, personally or by reputation, in all

this country; he had readers 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 be suggested principally by the

consideration that in him literary art has lost one of its most

brilliant but erratic stars.

“His conversation was at times almost supramortal in its

eloquence. His voice was modulated with astonishing skill, and

his large and variably expressive eyes looked repose or shot

fiery tumult into theirs who listened, while his own face glowed,

or was changeless in pallor, as his imagination quickened his

blood or drew it back frozen to his heart. His imagery was from

the worlds which no mortals can see but with the vision of

genius. Suddenly starting from a proposition, exactly and sharply

defined, in terms of utmost simplicity and clearness, he rejected

the forms of customary logic, and by a crystalline process of

accretion, built up his ocular demonstrations in forms of

gloomiest and ghastliest grandeur, or in those of the most airy

and delicious beauty, so minutely and distinctly, yet so rapidly,

that the attention which was yielded to him was chained till it

stood among his wonderful creations, till he himself dissolved

the spell, and brought his hearers back to common and base

existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of the ignoblest

passion.

“He was at all times a dreamer dwelling in ideal realms in heaven

or hell peopled with the creatures and the accidents of his

brain. He walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips

moving in indistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate

prayer (never for himself, 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 with a face

shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest storms, and all

night, with drenched garments and arms beating the winds and

rains, would speak as if the spirits that at such times only

could be evoked by him from the Aidenn, close by whose portals

his disturbed soul sought to forget the ills to which his

constitution subjected him—close by the Aidenn where were those

he loved—the Aidenn which he might never see, but in fitful

glimpses, as its gates opened to receive the less fiery and more

happy natures whose destiny to sin did not involve the doom of

death.

“He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his will

and engrossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of some

controlling sorrow. The remarkable poem of ‘The Raven’ was

probably much more nearly than has been supposed, even by those

who were very intimate with him, a reflection 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 his immortal being, in which the individual survives

the person. While we read the pages of the ‘Fall of the House of

Usher,’ or of ‘Mesmeric Revelations,’ we see in the solemn and

stately gloom which invests one, and in the subtle metaphysical

analysis of both, indications of the idiosyncrasies of what was

most remarkable and peculiar in the author’s intellectual nature.

But we see here only the better phases of his nature, only the

symbols of his juster action, for his harsh experience had

deprived him of all faith in man or woman. He had made up his

mind upon the numberless complexities of the social world, and

the whole system with him was an imposture. This conviction gave

a direction to his shrewd and naturally unamiable character.

Still, though he regarded society as composed altogether of

villains, the sharpness of his intellect was not of that kind

which enabled him to cope with villany, while it continually

caused him by overshots to fail of the success of honesty. He was

in many respects like Francis Vivian in Bulwer’s novel of ‘The

Caxtons.’ Passion, in him, comprehended many of the worst

emotions which militate against human happiness. You could not

contradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speak

of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing

natural advantages of this poor boy—his beauty, his readiness,

the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fiery

atmosphere—had raised his constitutional self-confidence into an

arrogance that turned his very claims to admiration into

prejudices against him. Irascible, envious—bad enough, but not

the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with

a cold, repellant cynicism, his passions vented themselves in

sneers. There seemed to him no moral susceptibility; and, what

was more remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the

true point of honor. He had, to a morbid excess, that, desire to

rise which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the

esteem or the love of his species; only the hard wish to

succeed—not shine, not serve—succeed, that he might have the

right to despise a world which galled his self-conceit.

“We have suggested the influence of his aims and vicissitudes

upon his literature. It was more conspicuous in his later than in

his earlier writings. Nearly all that he wrote in the last two or

three years—including much of his best poetry—was in some sense

biographical; in draperies of his imagination, those who had

taken the trouble to trace his steps, could perceive, but

slightly concealed, the figure of himself.”

Apropos of the disparaging portion of the above well-written

sketch, let us truthfully say:

Some four or five years since, when editing a daily paper in this

city, Mr. Poe was employed by us, for several months, as critic

and sub-editor. This was our first personal acquaintance with

him. He resided 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 the evening 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 to his duties, and

occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time went on,

however, and he was invariably punctual and industrious. With his

pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a reminder of what

genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not to treat him

always with deferential courtesy, and, to our occasional request

that he would not probe too deep in a criticism, or that he would

erase a passage colored too highly with his resentments against

society and mankind, he readily and courteously assented—far more

yielding than most men, we thought, on points so excusably

sensitive. With a prospect of taking the lead in another

periodical, he, at last, voluntarily gave up his employment with

us, and, through all this considerable period, we had seen but

one presentment of the man—a quiet, patient, industrious, and

most gentlemanly person, commanding the utmost respect and good

feeling by his unvarying deportment and ability.

Residing as he did in the country, we never met Mr. Poe in hours

of leisure; but he frequently called on us afterward at our place

of business, and we met him often in the street—invariably the

same sad mannered, winning and refined gentleman, such as we had

always known him. It was by rumor only, up to the day of his

death, that we knew of any other development of manner or

character. We heard, from one who knew him well (what should be

stated in all mention of his lamentable irregularities), that,

with a single glass of wine, his whole nature was reversed, the

demon became uppermost, and, though none of the usual 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 easily seemed personating only another phase of his

natural character, and was accused, accordingly, of insulting

arrogance and bad-heartedness. In this 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 sad infirmity

of physical constitution; which puts it upon very nearly the

ground of a temporary and almost irresponsible insanity.

The arrogance, vanity, and depravity of heart, of which Mr. Poe

was generally accused, seem to us referable altogether to this

reversed phase of his character. Under that degree of

intoxication which only acted upon him by demonizing his sense of

truth and right, he doubtless said and did much that was wholly

irreconcilable with his better nature; but, when himself, and as

we knew him only, his modesty and unaffected humility, as to his

own deservings, were a constant charm to his character. His

letters, of which the constant application for autographs has

taken from us, we are sorry to confess, the greater portion,

exhibited this quality very strongly. In one of the carelessly

written notes of which we chance still to retain possession, for

instance, he speaks of “The Raven”—that extraordinary poem which

electrified the world of imaginative readers, and has become the

type of a school of poetry of its own—and, in evident earnest,

attributes its success to the few words of commendation with

which we had prefaced it in this paper. It will throw light on

his sane character to give a literal copy of the note:

“FORDHAM, _April_ 20, 1849

“MY DEAR WILLIS—The poem which I inclose, and which I am so vain

as to hope you will like, in some respects, has been just

published in a paper for which sheer necessity compels me to

write, now and then. It pays well as times go-but unquestionably

it ought to pay ten prices; for whatever 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, and bring them to

light in the ‘Home Journal?’ If you can oblige me so far as 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

‘The Raven,’ and made ‘Ulalume’ (which by-the-way, people have

done me the honor of attributing to you), therefore, I _would_

ask you (if I dared) to say 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, we give 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-establishing myself in the literary world, and _feel_ that I

may depend upon your aid.

“My general aim is to start a Magazine, to be called ‘The

Stylus,’ but it would be useless to me, even when established, if

not entirely out of the control of a publisher. I mean,

therefore, to get up a journal which shall be _my own_ at all

points. With this end in view, I must get a list of at least five

hundred subscribers to begin with; nearly two hundred I have

already. I propose, however, to go South and West, among my

personal and literary friends—old college and West Point

acquaintances—and see what I can do. In order to get the means of

taking 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 a broad text: ‘The Universe.’

“Having thus given you _the facts_ of the case, I leave all the

rest to the suggestions of your own tact and generosity.

Gratefully, _most gratefully,_

“Your friend always,

“EDGAR A. POE.”

Brief and chance-taken as these letters are, we think they

sufficiently prove the existence of the very qualities denied to

Mr. Poe-humility, willingness to persevere, belief in another’s

friendship, and capability of cordial and grateful friendship!

Such he assuredly was when sane. Such only he has invariably

seemed to us, in all we have happened personally 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, than what we hear of

only, that we remember him but with admiration and respect; these

descriptions of him, when morally insane, seeming to us like

portraits, painted in sickness, of a man we have only known in

health.

But there is another, more touching, and far more forcible

evidence that there was _goodness_ in Edgar A. Poe. To reveal it

we are obliged to venture upon the lifting of the veil which

sacredly covers grief and refinement in poverty; but we think it

may be excused, if so we can brighten the memory of the poet,

even were there not a more needed and immediate service which it

may render to the nearest link broken by his death.

Our first knowledge of Mr. Poe’s removal to this city was by a

call which we received from a lady who introduced herself to us

as the mother of his wife. She was in search of employment for

him, and she excused her errand by mentioning that he was ill,

that her daughter was a confirmed invalid, and that their

circumstances were such as compelled her taking it upon herself.

The countenance of this lady, made beautiful and saintly with an

evidently complete giving up of her life to privation and

sorrowful tenderness, her gentle and mournful voice urging its

plea, her long-forgotten but habitually and unconsciously refined

manners, and her appealing and yet appreciative mention of the

claims and abilities of her son, disclosed at once the presence

of one of those angels upon earth that women in adversity can be.

It was a hard fate that 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 was always in pecuniary difficulty,

and, with his sick wife, frequently in want of the merest

necessaries of life. Winter after winter, for years, the most

touching sight to us, in this whole city, has been that tireless

minister to genius, thinly and insufficiently clad, going from

office to office with a poem, or an article on some literary

subject, to sell, sometimes simply pleading in a broken voice

that he was ill, and begging for him, mentioning nothing but that

“he was ill,” whatever might be the reason for his writing

nothing, and never, amid all her tears and recitals of distress,

suffering one syllable to escape her lips that could convey a

doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessening of pride in his

genius and good intentions. Her daughter died a year and a half

since, but she did not desert him. She continued his ministering

angel—living with him, caring for him, guarding him against

exposure, and when he was carried away by temptation, amid grief

and the loneliness of feelings unreplied to, and awoke from his

self abandonment prostrated in destitution and suffering,

_begging_ for him still. If woman’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 devotion like this—pure,

disinterested and holy as the watch of an invisible spirit—say

for him who inspired it?

We have a letter before us, written by this lady, Mrs. Clemm, on

the morning in which she heard of the death of this object of her

untiring care. It is merely a request that we would call upon

her, but we will copy a few of its words—sacred as its privacy

is—to warrant the truth of the picture we have drawn above, and

add force to the appeal we wish to make for her:

“I have this morning heard of the death of my darling Eddie....

Can you give me any circumstances or particulars?... Oh! do not

desert your poor friend in his bitter affliction!... Ask Mr. ——

to come, as I must deliver a message to him from my poor

Eddie.... I need not ask you to notice his death and to speak

well of him. I know you will. But say what an affectionate son he

was to me, his poor desolate mother...”

To hedge round a grave with respect, what choice is there,

between the relinquished wealth and honors of the world, and the

story of such a woman’s unrewarded devotion! Risking what we do,

in delicacy, by making it public, we feel—other reasons

aside—that it betters the world to make known that there are such

ministrations to its erring and gifted. What we have said will

speak to some hearts. There are those who will be glad to know

how the lamp, whose light of poetry has beamed on their far-away

recognition, was watched over with care and pain, that they may

send to her, who is more darkened than they by its extinction,

some token of their sympathy. She is destitute and alone. If any,

far or near, will send to us what may aid and cheer her through

the remainder of her life, we will joyfully place it in her

hands.