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

recorded some pleasing reminiscences of their intercourse. “It was not until within two years of his death,” he remarks, “that I ever met Mr. Poe, but during that time” (the two years) “I saw him very often. When in Richmond he made the office of the Messenger a place of frequent resort. His conversation was always attractive, and at times very brilliant. Among modern author his favourite was Tennyson, and he delighted to recite from the ‘Princess’ the song, ‘Tears, idle tears’ — a fragment of which — “ ‘When unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square’ — he pronounced unsurpassed by any image expressed in writing.” From Richmond, Poe appears to have returned home to Fordham, and there to have laboured industriously for the magazines. He left home but rarely, and then only by special arrangement. A very characteristic letter to his constant friend, Mrs. Shew, is referable to this epoch; it reads thus: — “Sunday Night. “MY DEAR FRIEND LOUISE — Nothing for months has given me so much real pleasure as your note of last night. I have been engaged all day on some promised work, otherwise I should have replied immediately — as my heart inclined. I sincerely hope you may not drift out of my sight before I can thank you. How kind of you to let me do even this small service for you, in return for the great debt I owe you! Louise! — my brightest, most unselfish of all who ever loved me! . . . I shall have so much pleasure in thinking of you and yours in that music room and library. Louise — I give you great credit for taste in these things, and I know I can please you in the purchases. During my first call at your house after my Virginia’s death, I noticed with so much pleasure the large painting over the piano, which is a masterpiece, indeed; and I noticed the size of all your paintings — the scrolls instead of set figures of the drawing room carpet — the soft effect of the window shades — also the crimson and gold. . . . I was charmed to see the harp and piano uncovered. The pictures of Raphael and ‘The Cavalier’ I shall never forget — their softness and beauty! The guitar with the blue ribbon, music stand, and antique jars. I wondered that a little country maiden like you had developed so classic a taste and atmosphere. Please present my kind regards to your uncle, and say that I am at his service any — or every — day this week; and ask him, please, to specify time and place. — Yours sincerely, EDGAR A. POE.” In explanation of this communication, it should be stated that Mrs. Shew had requested the poet to assist her uncle in selecting furniture for a new house she had taken. “I gave him carte blanche,” she remarks, “to furnish the music-room and library as he pleased. I had hung the pictures myself, . . . placing over the piano a large painting by Albano. Mr. Poe admired it for hours, and never seemed tired of gazing upon it. . . . Mr. Poe was much pleased at my request, and my uncle said he had never seen him so cheerful and natural — ‘quite like other people.’ ” It was shortly after this, during the summer,* that Poe wrote the first rough draft of “The Bells,” and at Mrs. Shew’s residence. “One day he came in,” she records, and said, “I Marie Louise, I have to write a poem; I have no feeling, no sentiment, no inspiration.” His hostess persuaded him to have some tea. It was served in the conservatory, the windows of which were open, and admitted the sound of neighbouring church bells. Mrs. Shew said, playfully, “Here is paper;” but the poet, declining it, declared, “I so dislike the noise of bells to-night, I cannot write. I have no subject. — I am exhausted.” The lady then took up the pen, and, pretending to mimic his style, wrote, “The Bells, by E. A. Poe; “and then, in pure sportiveness, “The Bells, the little silver Bells,” Poe finishing off the stanza. She then suggested for the next verse, “The heavy iron Bells;” and this Poe also expanded into a stanza. He next copied out the complete poem, and beaded it, “By Mrs. M. L. Shew,” remarking that it was her poem; as she had suggested and composed so much of it.† Mrs. Shew continues, “My brother came in, and I sent him to Mrs.. Clemm to tell her that I her boy would stay in town, and was well.’ My brother took Mr. Poe to his own room, where he slept twelve hours, and could hardly recall the evening’s work. This showed his mind was injured,” comments the lady, “nearly gone out for want of food, and from disappointment. He had not been drinking, and had only been a few hours from home. Evidently his vitality was low, and he was nearly insane. While he slept we studied his pulse, and found the same symptoms which I had so often noticed before. I called in Dr. Francis* (the old man was odd, but very skilful), who was one of our neighbours. His words were, ‘He has heart disease, and will die early in life.’ We did not waken him, but let him sleep.” The day following, records Mrs. Shew, “After he had breakfasted, I went down town with him, and drove him home to Fordham in my carriage. He did not seem to realise that he had been ill, and wondered why ‘Madame Louise’ had been so good as to bring him home.” This incident not only depicts the almost boyish simplicity of the poet in many matters, but also shows to what a debilitated and critical state his health had now been reduced. His contempt for the ordinary conventionalities of life rendered it difficult, at times, for his friends to maintain their relations with him. Mrs. Shew long continued to befriend hire and his aunt, but, ultimately, his continually increasing eccentricities compelled her to define more closely the limits of their intercourse. Poe took umbrage at this, and in June of this year indited his last letter to her. With respect to some of the passages in this epistle Mrs. Shew makes these remarks: — “I believe I am the only correspondent of Mr. Poe to whom he called himself ‘a lost soul.’ He did not believe his soul was lost — it was only a sarcasm he liked to repeat to express his sufferings and despair. I never saw a quotation from ‘The Raven’ in any letter of his but this. . . . Mr. Poe’s cat always left her cushion to rub my hand, and I had always to speak to it before it would retire to its place of rest again. He called her ‘Catarina’ — she seemed possessed. I was nervous and almost afraid of his wonderful cat. Mr. Poe would get up in the night to let her in or out of the house or room, and it would not eat when he was away.” This appeal to his kind-hearted friend ran thus: — “Can it be true, Louise, that you have the idea fixed in your mind to desert your unhappy and unfortunate friend and patient? You did not say so, I know, but for months I have known you were deserting me, not willingly, but none the less surely — my destiny — ‘Disaster, following fast and following faster, till his song one burden bore — Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore — Of “Never — nevermore.’ ” So I have had premonitions of this for months. I repeat, my good spirit, my loyal heart! must this follow as a sequel to all the benefits and blessings you have so generously bestowed? Are you to vanish like all I love, or desire, from my darkened and ‘lost soul V I have read over your letter again and again, and cannot make it possible, with any degree of certainty, that you wrote it in your right mind. (I know you did not without tears of anguish and regret.) Is it possible your influence is lost to me I Such tender and true natures are ever loyal until death; but you are not dead, you are full of life and beauty! Louise, you came in . . . in your floating white robe — ‘Good morning, Edgar.’ There was a touch of conventional coldness in your hurried manner, and your attitude as you opened the kitchen-door to find Muddie,* is my last remembrance of you. There was love, hope, and sorrow in your smile, instead of love, hope, and courage, as ever before. O Louise, how many sorrows are before you! Your ingenuous and sympathetic nature will be constantly wounded in its contact with the. hollow, heartless world; and for me, alas! unless some true and tender, and pure womanly love saves me, I shall hardly last a year longer alive! A few short months will tell how far my strength (physical and moral) will carry me in life here. How can I believe in Providence when you look coldly upon me? Was it not you who renewed my hopes and faith in God! . . . and in humanity? Louise, I heard your voice as you passed out of my sight leaving me . . .; but I still listened to your voice. I heard you say with a sob, ‘Dear Muddie.’ I heard you greet my Catarina, but it was only as a memory . . . nothing escaped my ear, and I was convinced it was not your. generous self. . . repeating words so foreign to your nature — to your tender heart! I heard you sob out your sense of duty to my mother, and I heard her reply ‘Yes, Loui . . . yes.‘. . . why tuna your soul from its true work for the desolate to the thankless and miserly world I . . . I felt my heart stop, and I was sure I was then to die before your eyes. Louise, it is well — it is fortunate — you looked up with a tear in your dear eyes, and raised the window, and talked of the guava you had brought for my sore throat. Your instincts are better than a strong man’s reason for me — I trust they may be for yourself. Louise, I feel I shall not prevail — a shadow has already fallen upon your soul, and is reflected in your eyes. It is too late — you are floating away with the cruel tide . . . it is not a common trial — it is a fearful one to me. Such rare souls as yours so beautify this earth! so relieve it of all that is repulsive and sordid. So brighten its toils and cares, it is hard to lose sight of them even for a short time . . . but you must know and be assured of my regret and my sorrow if aught I have ever written has hurt you. My heart never wronged you. I place you in my esteem — in all solemnity — beside the friend of my boyhood — the mother of my schoolfellow, of whom I told you, and as I have repeated in the poem . . . as the truest, tenderest of this world’s most womanly souls, and an angel to my forlorn and darkened nature. I will not say ‘lost soul’ again, for your sake. I will try to overcome my grief for the sake of your unselfish care of me in the past, and in life or death, I am ever yours gratefully and devotedly, “EDGAR A. POE.” With this characteristic communication the poet’s correspondence with his disinterested and generous friend came to an end. They never met again. * Professor Charles Anthon, vide p. 140. — J. H. I. * Margaret Fuller, afterwards Countess D’Ossoli — J. H. I. * It did not though, vide p. 105, vol ii. — J. H. I. † Vide prospectus of the Stylus, p. 131, vol. ii. — J. H. I. * Of Laplace. — J. H. I. * It appears singular that Mr. Putnam did not know the poet at once, seeing that he had already, as representative of the firm of Wiley & Putnam, published two books by Poe. — J. H. I. † Putnam’s Magazine, second series, vol. iv. p. 471 * Not autumn, as has been incorrectly published. — J. H. I. † This manuscript is now in my possession. — J. H. I. * Vide Poe’s Works, vol. iv. pp. 419-421. Edinburgh, 1874-5. * Mrs. Clemm’s pet name at home. — J. H. I. John H. Ingram, “Chapter 19,” Edgar Allan Poe: Life, Letters, and Opinions (1880), pp. 160-186 CHAPTER XIX. HELEN WHITMAN. POE had not been back in Fordham long before he once more started off on a lecturing engagement, and this time to Lowell, Massachusetts, whence flattering propositions had reached him. Upon his arrival there he lectured upon “The Female Poets of America.” The subject was one which afforded him plenty of scope for awarding certain New England ladies their due meed of praise, and amongst those named he specially selected Mrs. Helen Whitman for “pre-eminence in refinement of art, enthusiasm, imagination, and genius, properly so-called.” Personally, Poe was unacquainted with this lady, but she