“Letter About Edgar Poe” — Democrat and Sentinel — reading text

* * Oh do not desert your poor friend in this bitter affliction. * * Ask Mr. —— to come, as I must see him to 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.” And now let me add, to so touching a picture, the Sonnet from this beautiful volume, addressed to his mother-in-law, which so embalms her for immortality in his genius: — “Because I feel, that, in the heaven above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of ‘Mother,’ Therefore by that dear name I long have called you — You who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you In setting my Virginia’s spirit free. My mother, my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that affinity by which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.” The reader of this sonnet, who has the volume in his hand, turns back to look musingly upon the features of the poet in whom resided such inspiration. But, though exceedingly well engraved, and valuable, for the recalling of his features to those who knew them with the angel shining through. The picture is from a daguerreotype; and taken, by the superficial sunshine, at a moment when the dark spirit contorted the lineaments. It gives no idea of the beauty of EDGAR POE. The exquisitely chiselled features, the habitual but intellectual melancholy, the clear palor of the complexion, and the calm eye, like the molten stillness of a slumbering volcano, composed a countenance of which this picture is but the skeleton. After reading “The Raven,” “Ulalume,” “Leonore” and “Annabel Lee,” the luxuriast in poetry will better conceive what his face might have been. It has been one of our privileges, my dear Morris — it is one of the usually unreckoned and outside privileges of our present day’s toilsome profession — to be thought guides and wardens to that “Fountain of Egeria” at which gifted hearts long to be unburthened. The young poet, the genius unappreciated, the crushed hope or ambition, over which the juggernaut of the world has driven its hard wheel — these and like sufferers are apt to come to us with their tears or their story. We stand at the public ear. We can reach the vague and undefined throne before which they desire to be heard. I have always esteemed it an interesting privilege, I say, to be thus able to read, clearly, truly and confidingly, the hearts of the less common of man. Weak-voiced for themselves, as the most gifted are often likeliest to be, it is a great happiness to know them first, and speak for them to the world — to urge their claims, and strengthen their confidence, and reverently to grade and establish their deservings. There is much to counterbalance it, it is true; for there are (oh how many!) mistaken and false claimants, for whom the kindness of truthful discouragement seems both cruel and certain to be misunderstood. But the happier side of it — the first recognizing, appreciating, and assuring to itself, modest and true genius — is, I have always thought, to “walk with angels.” With the monotony of assured and established intercourse; the dulness of similitude in men unmistakably classed, labelled and acknowledged; the hardness and shallowness of commonplace character and feeling; it is indeed, (the exceptional privilege I speak of) a relief — an inner knowledge of other and better minds and hearts, by which life, this our daily life, is apt to be stale and weary, is inexpressibly enriched! I have torn this leaf out of your experience and mine, my dear Morris — a little too autobiographically, perhaps you will say, considering that I was writing for two — but POE was one of our “boys.” We both loved him. He was re-baptized, and adopted, over our inkstand of appreciation and admiration. It is hard to hear his name sounded anew, even by such a trumpet of fame as this superb volume, without giving our accent to the echo. Closing somewhat in haste, I remain Yours as ever, N. P. W.