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

his admirers! A slight glimmering of the gloomy glories he intended to portray is afforded by some passages in what he did complete. “Fancy,” says he,* “revelled in the wild and dreamy regions of the moon. Imagination, feeling herself for once unshackled, roamed at will among the ever-changing wonders of a shadowy and unstable land. Now there were hoary and time-honoured forests, and craggy precipices, and waterfalls tumbling with a loud noise into abysses without bottom. Then I came suddenly into still noonday solitudes where no wind of heaven ever intruded, and where vast meadows of poppies, and slender, lily-looking flowers, spread themselves out a weary distance, all silent and motionless for ever. Then again I journeyed far down, away into another country, where it was all one dim and vague lake, with a boundary line of clouds. And out of this melancholy water arose a forest of tall eastern trees like a wilderness of dreams. And I bore in mind that the shadows of the trees which fell upon the lake remained not on the surface where they fell — but sunk slowly and steadily down, and commingled with the waves, while from the trunks of the trees other shadows were continually coming out, and taking the place of their brothers thus entombed. ‘This then,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘is the very reason why the waters of this lake grow blacker with age, and more melancholy as the hours run on.’ But fancies such as these were not the sole possessors of my brain. Horrors of a nature most stern and most appalling would frequently obtrude themselves upon my mind, and shake the innermost depths of my soul with the bare supposition of their possibility. Yet I would not suffer my thoughts for any length of time to dwell upon these latter speculations.” After the publication of “Hans Pfaall,” Mr. White seems to have determined to obtain, if possible, the exclusive services of his talented contributor. Editor after editor had assisted in managing the Messenger for a few months, and had then relinquished the onerous but not very remunerative task: Messrs. Heath, Tucker, Sparhawk, and others had followed in rapid succession, until, in June, Mr. White, again editorless, bethought him of Poe, and in answer to his inquiries, received these words: — “You ask me if I would be willing to come on to Richmond if you should have occasion for my services during the coming winter. I reply that nothing would hive me greater pleasure. I have been desirous for some time past of paying a visit to Richmond, and would be glad of any reasonable excuse for so doing. Indeed, I am anxious to settle myself in that city, and if, by any chance, you hear of a situation likely to suit me, I would gladly accept it, were the salary even the merest trifle. I should, indeed, feel myself greatly indebted to you, if through your means I could accomplish this object. What you say in the conclusion of your letter, in relation to the supervision of proof-sheets, gives me reason to hope that possibly you might find something for me to do in your office. If so, I should be very glad — for at present only a very small portion of my time is employed.” Meanwhile, Mr. White having succeeded in obtaining the aid of another littérateur, who promised “to devote his exclusive attention” to the editorial work of the Messenger, — was in no hurry to complete an arrangement with Poe, who, however, contributed to the July number “The Visionary” — a tale afterwards retitled “The Assignation” — and these lines “To Mary: — “Mary, amid the cares — the woes Crowding around my earthly path, (Sad path, alas! where grows Not ev‘n one lonely rose), My soul at least a solace hath In dreams of thee, and therein knows An Eden of sweet repose. “And thus thy memory is to me Like some enchanted, far-off isle, In some tumultuous sea Some lake beset as lake can be With storms — but where, meanwhile, Serenest skies continually Just o’er that one bright island smile.” To the August Messenger Poe contributed the sarcastic sketch of “Bon-Bon,” and “The Coliseum: Prize Poem from the Baltimore Visiter” By this time the new editor, who had assisted at the gestation of two numbers of Mr. White’s magazine, followed the example of his numerous predecessors and retired, whereupon our poet was invited to Richmond to assist in the editorial duties, at a salary of five hundred and twenty dollars per annum. At the very moment when Poe received this offer, he was arranging with Mr. L. A. Wilmer for the publication, in co-operation with that gentleman, of a literary magazine or newspaper in Baltimore. Some correspondence had already passed between the two young literati, and Poe, says Mr. Wilmer, “proposed to join with me in the publication of a monthly magazine of a superior, intellectual character, and bad written a prospectus, which he transmitted to me for examination.” Mr. White’s proposition completely demolished the project, for, as both the promoters of it were devoid of pecuniary means, Poe immediately accepted the proffered post, and thus, as his intended partner remarks, “the grand intellectual illumination we had proposed to make in Baltimore was necessarily postponed.”* Upon revisiting the abode of his earlier days, and in circumstances so altered from those of yore, the unfortunate poet was afflicted with a terrible melancholia — an affliction which frequently beset him on his journey through life, and which was, apparently, not merely the natural outcome of privation and grief, but also to some extent hereditary. Writing to his friend Kennedy to acquaint him with the fact of his appointment on the Messenger, he says: “RICHMOND, September 11, 1835. “DEAR SIR, — I received a letter from Dr. Miller, in which he tells me you are in town. I hasten, therefore, to write you, and express by letter what I have always found it impossible to express orally — my deep sense of gratitude for your frequent and ineffectual assistance and kindness. Through your influence Mr. White has been induced to employ me in assisting him with the editorial duties of his magazine at a salary of five hundred and twenty dollars per annum. The situation is agreeable to me for many reasons, but, alas! it appears to me that nothing can give me pleasure, or the slightest gratification Excuse me, my dear sir, if in this letter you find much incoherency. My feelings at this moment are pitiable, indeed. I am suffering under a depression of spirits such as I never felt before. I have struggled in vain against the influence of this melancholy; you will believe me when I say that I am still miserable in spite of the great improvement in my circumstances. I say you will believe me, and for this simple reason, that a man who is writing for effect does not write thus. My heart is open before you; if it be worth reading, read it. I am wretched, and know not why. Console me — for you can. But let it be quickly, or it will be too late. Write me immediately; convince me that it is worth one’s while — that it is at all necessary to live, and you will prove yourself indeed my friend. Persuade me to do what is right. I do mean this. I do not mean that you should consider what I now write you a jest. Oh, pity me! for I feel that my words are incoherent; but I will recover myself. You will not fail to see that I am suffering under a depression of spirits which will ruin me should it be long continued. Write me then and quickly; urge me to do what is right. Your words will have more weight with me than the words of others, for you were my friend when no one else was. Fail not, as you value your peace of mind hereafter. E. A. POE.” To this saddening wail of despair Kennedy responded: — “I am sorry to see you in such plight as your letter shows you in. It is strange that just at this time, when everybody is praising you, and when fortune is beginning to smile upon your hitherto wretched circumstances, you should be invaded by these blue devils. It belongs, however, to your age and temper to be thus buffeted — but be assured, it only wants a little resolution to master the adversary for ever. You will doubtless do well henceforth in literature, and add to your comforts, as well as to your reputation, which it gives me great pleasure to assure you is everywhere rising in popular esteem.” Notwithstanding his “blue devils,” as his friend phrased it, the new editor worked wonders with the Messenger. “His talents,” records Kennedy, “made that periodical quite brilliant while he was connected with it,” and indeed, within little more than a twelvemonth from Poe’s appointment in the following December, as sole editor, the circulation increased from seven hundred to nearly five thousand — an increase quite unparalleled at that time in the history of this class of magazines. The success was, of course, due to the originality and fascination of Poe’s stories, and the fearlessness of his trenchant critiques. The Messenger for September contained the “Loss of Breath,” and “King Pest,” two of Poe’s poorest stories: the latter is one of those quizzical hoaxes upon which he sometimes squandered his genius, and upon which his readers have frequently wasted their time in vain attempts to discover meanings not discoverable because not existent. The same number which completed the first volume also contained “Shadow,” one of its author’s phenomenal prose poems, and these “Lines written in an Album:” — “Eliza! let thy generous heart From its present pathway part not; Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways Thy unassuming beauty And truth — shall be a theme of praise For ever — and love a duty.” The “Eliza,” in whose album these lines were written, was the daughter of Mr. White; after her father’s death in 1842 she was an occasional and esteemed visitor at the house of the poet, spending many months with his wife and aunt at their Fordham home. In the December number of the Messenger, at Mr. White’s instance apparently, he commenced that system of literary scarification — that crucial dissection of bookmaking mediocrities — which, whilst it created throughout the length and breadth of the States terror of his powerful pen, at the same time raised up against him a host of implacable, although unknown, enemies, who henceforth never hesitated to accept and repeat any story, howsoever improbable, to his discredit. It would have been far better for his future welfare and fame if, instead of affording contemporary nonentities a chance of literary immortality by impaling them upon his pen’s sharp point, he had devoted the whole of his time to the production of his wonderful tales and still more wondrous poems. The second volume of the Messenger began in December, and, among other contributions by the new editor, contained a crushing critique on a work styled “Norman Leslie.” This was the first of those reviews already alluded to that did their author so much injury — personal and posthumous. In the initial number of 1836 appeared various critical articles, and the singular tale of metempsychosis, “Metzengerstein.” In the early version of this fiction the poet introduced some of those family reminiscences he was wont to intersect his writings with: after stating that the death of the hero’s father was quickly followed by that of his mother, he exclaims, with as much prophetic as retrospective truth, “How could she die? — and of consumption! But it is a path I have prayed to follow. I would wish all I love to perish of that gentle disease. How glorious! to depart in the heyday of the young blood — the heart all passion — the imagination all fire — amid the remembrances of happier days!” The next issue of the Messenger contained various critiques — including an eulogistic one of Bulwer — the story of the “Duke de l’Omelette,” and the first part of Poe’s papers on “Autography,” the second appearing in a subsequent number. The amusement, excitement,