Edgar Allan Poe: His Life, Letters, and Opinions — John H. Ingram, 1880, volume II — reading text

persons, to each of whom — when the hour for speaking had arrived — I could and would have applied for aid and with unbounded confidence, and with absolutely no sense of humiliation. “I do not think, my dear Willis, that there is any need of my saying more. I am getting better, and may add — if it be any comfort to my enemies — that I have little fear of getting worse. The truth is, I have a great deal to do; and I have made up my mind not to die till it is done. — Sincerely yours, “EDGAR A. POE. “December 30th, 1846.” Whilst the paragraph which invoked this protest from the proud, unfortunate, poet, was running the usual newspaper rounds during all those dreadful days whilst his wife’s life was ebbing so rapidly — Poe himself was ill, and utterly unable to write anything but the most urgent and imperative letters, such as the above. The few papers of his which were published during this sad interval, as, for instance, the “Marginalia,” had been completed and sold several months before publication to the respective magazines, as, indeed, appears to have been the fate pretty generally of all his later articles. The last of the “Literati” was issued in the October number of the Lady’s Book, and “The Cask of Amontillado,” a tale of deep-studied, implacable revenge, was the poet’s contribution for November to that magazine. It was Poe’s intention — an intention he never lived to carry out — to republish the critical sketches from the Lady’s Book, but greatly revised, in book form, as: — THE LITERATI: Some honest opinions about AUTORIAL MERITS AND DEMERITS, with OCCASIONAL WORDS OF PERSONALITY. Together with MARGINALIA, SUGGESTIONS, AND ESSAYS, by EDGAR A. POE. “If I have in any point receded from what is commonly received, it hath been for the purpose of proceeding melius and not in aliud.” — Lord Bacon. “Truth, peradventure, by force, may for a time be trodden down, but never, by any means, whatsoever, can it be trodden out.” — Lord Coke. In an extremely interesting letter which Poe wrote on the 15 th of December, to a rare and valued correspondent, he thus, amongst other matters, alludes to some of these literary projects: — “MY DEAR ——, — By way of beginning this letter, let me say a word or two of apology for not having sooner replied to your letters of June 9th and October 13th. For more than six months I have been ill-for the greater part of that time, dangerously so, and quite unable to write even an ordinary letter. My magazine papers appearing in this interval were all in the publisher’s hands before I was taken sick. Since getting better, I have been, as a matter of course, overwhelmed with the business accumulating during my illness. “It always gives me true pleasure to hear from you, and I wish you could spare time to write me more frequently. I am gratified by your good opinion of my writings, because what you say evinces the keenest discrimination. Ten times the praise you bestow on me would not please me half so much, were it not for the intermingled scraps of censure, or of objection, which show me that you well know what you are talking about. . . . “Let me now advert to the points of your two last letters: — “The criticism on Rogers is not mine — although, when it appeared, I observed a similarity to my ordinary manner. “The — notice of Lowell’s ‘Brittany’ is mine. You will see that it was merely a preparatory notice — I had designed repeating it in full, but something prevented me. “The criticism on Shelley is not mine; is the work of Parke Godwin. I never saw it. “The critic alluded to by Willis as connected with the Mirror, and as having found a parallel between Hood and Aldrich, is myself. See my reply to ‘Outis,’ in the early numbers of the Broadway Journal. “My reference to L. G. Clark, in spirit but not in letter, is what you suppose. He abused me in his criticism — but so feebly — with such a parade of intention and effort, but with so little effect or power, that I — forgave him: — that is to say, I had little difficulty in pardoning him. His strong point was that I ought to write well, because I had asserted that others wrote ill; and that I didn’t write well, because, although there had been a great deal of fuss made about me, I had written so little — only a small volume of a hundred pages. Why, he had written more himself! “You will see that I have discontinued the ‘Literati’ in Godey’s Mag.* I was forced to do so, because I found that people insisted on considering them elaborate criticisms, when I had no other design than critical gossip. The unexpected circulation of the series, also, suggested to me that I might make a hit and some profit, as well as proper fame, by extending the plan into that of a book on American Letters generally, and keeping the publication in my own hands. I am now at this — body and soul.† I intend to be thorough — as far as I can — to examine analytically, without reference to previous opinions by anybody — all the salient points of Literature in general — e.g., Poetry, The Drama, Criticism, Historical Writing, Versification, &c. &c. You may get an idea of the manner in which I propose to write the whole book, by reading the notice of Hawthorne which will appear in the January ‘Godey,’* as well as the article on ‘The Rationale of Verse,’ which will be out in the March or April No. of Colton’s American Magazine or Review.† “Do not trust, in making up your library, to the ‘opinions’ in the Godey series. I meant ‘honest’ — but my meaning is not so fully made out as I could wish. I thought too little of the series myself to guard sufficiently against haste, inaccuracy, or prejudice. The book will be true — according to the best of my abilities. “As regards Dana, it is more than possible that I may be doing him wrong. I have not read him since I was a boy, and must read him carefully again. The Frogpondians have badgered me so much that I fear I am apt to fall into prejudices about them. I have used some of their Pundits up, at all events, in ‘The Rationale of Verse.’ I will mail. you the number as soon as it appears — for I really wish you to tell me what you think of it. “As regards ‘The Stylus’ — that is the grand purpose of my life, from which I have never swerved for a moment. But I cannot afford to risk anything by precipitancy — and I can afford to wait — at least, until. I finish the book.‡ When that is out, I will start the Mag. — and then I will pay you a visit. . . . In the meantime, let me thank you heartily for your name as a subscriber. . . . Truly, your friend, “EDGAR A. POE.” The over sanguine ideas of the poet, as to the speedy publication of his accepted articles, were rarely realised when he had not the editorial charge of a magazine; and many of his troubles arose from having, often unavoidably, to rely upon such fragile expectations. All literary and pecuniary difficulties, however, were now, for the time, disregarded in the imminent nearness of his life’s crowning sorrow. The long-dreaded, oft-postponed, final parting with his weary heart’s treasure was nigh at hand. The sympathy of many, the more than sisterly affection of one, soothed and sustained Virginia’s last days, but her approaching dissolution could not be deferred by any amount of skill or tenderness. Mrs. Shew was the guardian angel who watched over the hapless household,. and the deep gratitude with which she inspired Poe, and his dear ones, may be gleaned best from this little note: — KINDEST — DEAREST FRIEND, — My poor Virginia still lives, although failing fast and now suffering much pain. May God grant her life until she sees you and thanks you once again! Her bosom is full to overflowing — like my own — with a boundless — inexpressible gratitude to you. Lest she may never see you more — she bids me say that she sends you her sweetest kiss of love and will die blessing you. But come — oh come to-morrow! Yes, I will be calm — everything you so nobly wish to see me. My mother sends you, also, her ‘warmest love and thanks.’ She begs me to ask you, if possible, to make arrangements at home so that you may stay with us tomorrow night. I enclose the order to the Postmaster. “Heaven bless you and farewell. “EDGAR A. POE. “FORDHAM, Jan. 29. 47.” The very day these lines were written Mrs. Shew called at the cottage, but soon afterwards left it, in order to see after certain comforts for the sick wife. When bidding Mrs. Shew good-bye, the invalid took from her pillow a portrait of her husband and presented it to her kind friend,* together with a little jewel-case that had belonged to the poet’s mother, and which he had preserved religiously through all his troubles. She also asked Mrs. Shew to read an old worn letter, and the fragment of another, from the second wife of Poe’s adoptive father, Mr. Allan, which she, Virginia, had carefully preserved, as the means of exonerating her husband from the responsibility of having caused dissension in his godfather’s home. Another day, and the poet was wifeless. . . . For the dear sake of her who was no more — for the sake of “the one he loved so dearly” the poor heartbroken man kept his promise, and bore up bravely until after his youthful bride had been borne to her sepulchre. The last days of the poet’s wife had been soothed by Mrs. Show, and the final care of the dead lady’s remains was undertaken by that same friend. “Mrs. Shew was so good to her,” said Mrs. Clemm. “She tended her while she lived, as if she had been her dear sister, and when she was dead she dressed her for the grave in beautiful linen. If it had not been for her, my darling Virginia would have been laid in her grave in cotton. I can never tell my gratitude that my darling was entombed in lovely linen.” “It seemed to soothe the mother’s sorrow in a wonderful way,” remarks Mrs. Gove-Nichols, “that her daughter had been buried in fine linen. How this delicate raiment could add so much to her happiness, I was not able to see, but so it was.” It is recorded that the day of the funeral was a desolate, dreary day — “the skies they were ashen and sober” — and the bereaved husband was forced to assume his old military cloak, which Mrs. Show had been at pains to hide out of sight, fearing the memories it must arouse, it having, erstwhile, and in the days of their greatest tribulation, served as a covering for Virginia’s bed. The deceased lady was entombed in the old family vault of the Valentines,* in the Reformed church at Fordham, by permission of the owner. Everyone who knew the poet’s wife describes her as charming in both manners and features. A portrait of her is in the possession of her half-sister, Mrs. Nelson Poe, and is said to be a good likeness. ‘ From it it is clear that she was very beautiful.”† After all was over, and the hapless poet left to face the world once more, exhausted nature gave way, and he fell ill again; in fact, for some days he sank into an apathetic stupor, unconscious of all around him. In faithful pursuance of her promise to his dying wife, Mrs. Shew still continued to befriend Poe. The following letter to her from Mrs. Clemm — who continued her watchful care of her unfortunate nephew — showed how much her aid was still depended upon: — “Friday Evening. “MY DEAR SWEET FRIEND, — I write to say that the medicines arrived the next train after you left today, and a kind friend brought them up to us that same hour. The cooling application was very grateful to my poor Eddie’s head, and the flowers were lovely — not ‘frozen,’ as you feared they would be. I very much fear this illness is to be a serious one. The fever came on at the same time today (as you said it would), and I am giving the sedative mixture. He did not rouse up to talk to Mr. C——, as he would naturally do to so kind a friend. . . . Eddie made me promise to write you a note about the wine (which I neglected to tell you about this morning). He desires me to return the last box of wine you sent my sweet