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

to the poet’s is, almost, necessary to a thorough comprehension of the passionate gratitude, burning affection, and intense sympathy which Poe felt — for the time at least — for those who “sorrowed for his fate,” and sought to aid him as he passed by on his life’s journey. During the latter years of his career he appeared utterly unable to exist apart from the sympathy and encouragement of some friend — some unselfish person to whom he could turn for advice — upon whom he might depend for consolation, and to whom he might unveil the darkest mysteries of his mind. After his wife’s death he appeared always seeking for such a friend; for Mrs. Clemm, whatever may have been her affection for her son-in-law, was utterly unsuited, both by age and intellect, to supply such a desideratum. Mrs. Osgood, Mrs. Spew, and Mrs. Whitman attempted, as has been seen, more or less to befriend the helpless poet, but, as they, one after the other, deemed it necessary to let him go his ways, he sank deeper and deeper into the “Slough of Despond.” At the time when his cravings fox sympathy were, doubtless, most urgent, he became acquainted with “Annie,” and to her and her family he clung for consolation and guidance more tenaciously than to any other of his many friends. Unfitted, at least in his “lonesome latter years,” to take an active part in the world’s work, he sought more naturally the society of refined women than that of his own sex, and, like nearly all men of a poetic temperament, being feminine (though not effeminate) in his tastes, therein found his firmest and most congenial friends. The fervour and passion of his impulsive nature may well be gleaned from these extracts of a characteristic letter, dated: — “FORDHAM, Nov. 16, 1848. “Ah, Annie, Annie! my Annie! what cruel thoughts . . . must have been torturing your heart during the last terrible fortnight in which you have heard nothing from me — not even one little word to sap that I still lived. . . . How shall I explain to you the bitter, bitter anguish which has tortured me since I left you! “You saw, you felt the agony of grief with which I bade you farewell — you remember my expression of gloom — of a dreadful horrible foreboding of Ill. Indeed — indeed it seemed to me that Death approached me even then and that I was involved in the shadow which went before him. . . . I said to myself, ‘It is for the last time, until we meet in Heaven.’ I remember nothing distinctly from that moment until I found myself in Providence, I went to bed and wept through a long, long, hideous night of Despair — When the day broke, I arose and endeavoured to quiet my mind by a rapid walk in cold, keen air — but all would not do — the Demon tormented me still. Finally, I procured two ounces of laudanum, and without returning to my hotel, took the. cars back to Boston. When I arrived I wrote you a letter, in which I opened my whole heart to you to you. . . . I told you how my struggles were more than I could bear. . . . .I then reminded you of that holy promise which was the last I exacted from you in parting — the promise that, under all circumstances, you would come to me on my bed of death. I implored you to come then, mentioning the place where I should be found in Boston. Having written this letter, I swallowed about half the laudanum, and hurried to the Post Office, intending not to take the rest until I saw you — for, I did not doubt for one moment, that Annie would keep her sacred promise. But I had not calculated on the strength of the laudanum, for, before I reached the Post Office my reason was entirely gone, and the letter was never put in. Let me pass over — my darling sister — the awful horrors which succeeded. A friend was at hand, who aided and (if it can be called saving) saved me, but it is only within the last three days that I have been able to remember what occurred in that dreary interval. It appears that, after the laudanum was rejected from the stomach, I became calm, and to a casual observer, sane — so that I was suffered to go back to Providence.* . . . It is not much that I ask, sweet sister Annie — my mother and myself would take a small cottage —— oh, so small — so very humble — I should be far away from the tumult of the world — from the ambition which I loathe — I would labor day and night, and with industry, I could accomplish so much. Annie! it would be a Paradise beyond my wildest hopes — I could see some of your beloved family every day, and you often. Do not these pictures touch your inmost heart? . . . I am at home now with my dear mother, who is endeavoring to comfort me — but the sole words which soothe me are those in which she speaks of ‘Annie’ — She tells me that she has written you, begging you to come on to Fordham. Ah, Annie, is it not possible? I am so ill — so terribly, hopelessly ill in body and mind, that I feel I cannot live. . . . Is it not possible for you to come — if only for one little week? Until I subdue this fearful agitation, which, if continued, will either destroy my life or drive me hopelessly mad. “Farewell — here and hereafter — for ever your own “EDDY.” With this heartrending epistle of the impulsive poet was sent the following note from Mrs. Clemm: — “MY DEAR ANNIE, — God has heard my prayers and once more returned my poor, darling Eddy to me. But how changed! I scarcely knew him. I was nearly distracted at not hearing from him. I knew something dreadful had occurred. And oh 1 how near I was losing him! But our good and gracious God saved him. The blood about my heart becomes cold when I think of it. I have read his letter to you, and have told him I think it very selfish, to wish you to come; for I know, my darling child, it would be inconvenient. . . . Eddy has told me of all your kindness to him. God bless you for it, my own darling. I beg you will write often. He raved all night about you, but is now more composed. I too am very sick, but will do all I can to cheer and comfort him, How much I felt for you, dearest, when I read the awful account of your poor cousin’s death. Have you heard anything of Mrs. L—— since her tragic performance? I never liked her, and said so from the first. Do tell me all about, her. — Good-bye, dearest, your own M. C. “Nov. 16, 1848.” A week later, and the poet is found sending this impassioned appeal to his dear friend’s sister: — “FORDHAM, NOV. 23, 1848 “If there is any pity in your heart, reply immediately to this, and let me know why it is I do not hear from Annie.’ . . . I fancy everything evil: sometimes I even think that I have offended her, and that she no longer cares for me. I wrote her a long letter eight days ago, enclosing one from my mother, who wrote again on the 19th. Not one word has reached us in reply. If I did not love your sister with the purest and most unexacting love, I would not dare confide in you — but you do know how truly — how purely I love her, and you will forgive me_ . . . You know also how impossible it is to see and not to love her . . . so good — so true — so noble — so pure — so virtuous. Her silence fills my whole soul with terror. Can she have received my letter I If she is angry with me, say to her, that on my knees, I beseech her to pardon me — tell her that whatever she bids me do, I will do — even if she says I must never see her again, or write to her. Let me but hear from her once more, and I can bear whatever happens. . . . You would pity me, if you knew the agony of my heart, as I write these words. Do not fail to answer me at once. God bless you, my sweet sister — “EDGAR.” The next letter would appear to have been written on December 28th, but it is not fully dated. It was accompanied by a letter from Mrs. Clemm, in which she remarked, “I feel so happy in all my troubles. Eddy is not going to marry Mrs. W. How much will I have to tell you. . . . All the papers say he is going to lead to the altar the talented, rich, and beautiful Mrs. W. . . . but I will tell you all in my next.” Poe’s note reads: — “Thursday Morning —— 28. “ANNIE, — My own dear Mother will explain to you how it is that I cannot write to you in full — but I must write only a few words to let you see that I am well, lest you suspect me to be ill. All is right! . . . I hope that I distinguished myself at the Lecture — I tried to do so, for your sake. There were 1800 people present, and such applause! I did so much better than I did at Lowell. If you had only been there. . . . Give my dearest love to all — EDDY.” Before continuing this correspondence with “Annie” into 1849, it will be as well to take a short glance at the literary work Poe had been performing during the last few months of the expiring year. To Graham’s Magazine, and the Southern Literary Messenger, he continued to contribute his suggestive “Marginalia,” and, besides revising and arranging his critical sketches for republication, laboured ceaselessly at his projected journal, the Stylus. As a specimen of the lengthy letters he wrote upon this subject, and of his tireless industry — when not disabled, mentally and physically, for work — may be cited the following epistle to the late Mr. Edward Valentine, a relative of his adoptive mother, the first Mrs. Allan: — “NEW YORK, Nov. 20th, 1848. “DEAR SIR, — After a long and bitter struggle with illness, poverty, and the thousand evils which attend them, I find myself at length in a position to establish myself permanently, and to triumph over all difficulties, if I could but obtain, from some friend, a very little pecuniary aid. In looking around me for such a friend, I can think of no one, with the exception of yourself, whom I see the least prospect of interesting in my behalf — and even as regards yourself, I confess that my hope is feeble. In fact I have been so long depressed that it will be a most difficult thing for me to rise — and rise I never can without such aid as I now entreat at your hands I call to mind, however, that, during my childhood, you were very kind to me, and, I believe, very fond of me. For this reason and because I really do not know where else to turn for the assistance I so much need at this moment, I venture to throw myself upon your generosity and ask you to lend me $200. With this sum I should be able to take the first steps in an enterprise where there can be no doubt of my success, and which, if successful, would, in one or two years, ensure me fortune and very great influence. I refer to the establishment of a Magazine for which I have already a good list of subscribers, and of which I send a Prospectus. If for the sake of ‘auld lang syne’ you will advance me the sum needed, there are no words which can express my gratitude. — Most sincerely yours, EDGAR A. POE. “EDWARD VALENTINE, Esq.” Mr. Valentine, whatever feelings of affection he may have still retained for his handsome little favourite of yore, is scarcely likely to have complied in toto with the poet’s appeal. Much as Poe was admired and beloved by those in immediate contact with him, by those to whom he was personally unknown, or not known through years of estrangement, his public reputation was not of the kind to cause a stranger — as Mr. Valentine now was — to open his purse-strings very wide. However, some help was, probably, rendered him in this case. To the September number of the Literary Messenger Poe contributed an enthusiastic critique on the writing of “Stella” (Mrs. Lewis), a lady from whom both he and his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, had received much kindness, as their many letters testify. In the two following numbers of the same magazine, appeared the long-promised “Rationale of Verse.” In this work, amongst much that was, in many ways, quite characteristic of its author, were not wanting signs of his intellectual decadence. Whilst his readers will, doubtless, conclude with him, that as yet, none of the grammars have written much, or anything, on the subject of verse worth reading, it is to be feared they will,