In December, 1811, a well-known actress of the time died in Richmond,
leaving destitute three little children, the eldest but four years of
age. This mother, who was Elizabeth (Arnold) Poe, daughter of an
English actress, had suffered from ill health for several years and
had long found the struggle for existence difficult. Her husband,
David Poe, probably died before her; he was a son of General David
Poe, a Revolutionary veteran of Baltimore, and had left his home and
law books for the stage several years before his marriage. The second
of the three children, born January 19, 1809, in Boston, where his
parents happened to be playing at the time, was Edgar Poe, the future
poet and story-writer. The little Edgar was adopted by the wife of
Mr. John Allan, a well-to-do Scotch merchant of the city, who later
became wealthy, and the boy was thereafter known as Edgar Allan
Poe. He was a beautiful and precocious child, who at six years of age
could read, draw, dance, and declaim the best poetry with fine effect
and appreciation; report says, also, that he had been taught to stand
on a chair and pledge Mr. Allan's guests in a glass of wine with
"roguish grace."
In 1815 Mr. Allan went to England, where he remained five years. Edgar
was placed in an old English school in the suburbs of London, among
historic, literary, and antiquarian associations, and possibly was
taken to the Continent by his foster parents at vacation seasons. The
English residence and the sea voyages left deep impressions on the
boy's sensitive nature. Returning to Richmond, he was prepared in good
schools for the University of Virginia, which he entered at the age of
seventeen, pursuing studies in ancient and modern languages and
literatures. During this youthful period he was already developing a
striking and peculiar personality. He was brilliant, if not
industrious, as a student, leaving the University with highest honors
in Latin and French; he was quick and nervous in his movements and
greatly excelled in athletics, especially in swimming; in character,
he was reserved, solitary, sensitive, and given to lonely reverie.
Some of his aristocratic playmates remembered to his discredit that he
was the child of strolling players, and their attitude helped to add a
strain of defiance to an already intensely proud nature. Though kindly
treated by his foster parents, this strange boy longed for an
understanding sympathy that was not his. Once he thought he had found
it in Mrs. Jane Stannard, mother of a schoolmate; but the new friend
soon died, and for months the grief-stricken boy, it is said, haunted
the lonely grave at night and brooded over his loss and the mystery of
death--a not very wholesome experience for a lonely and melancholy lad
of fifteen years.
At the University he drank wine, though not intemperately, and played
cards a great deal, the end of the term finding him with gambling
debts of twenty-five hundred dollars. These habits were common at the
time, and Edgar did not incur any censure from the faculty; but
Mr. Allan declined to honor the gambling debt, removed Edgar, and
placed him in his own counting room. Such a life was too dull for the
high-spirited, poetic youth, and he promptly left his home.
Going to Boston, he published a thin volume of boyish verse,
"Tamerlane, and Other Poems," but realizing nothing financially,[1] he
enlisted in the United States Army as Edgar A. Perry. After two years
of faithful and efficient service, he procured through Mr. Allan (who
was temporarily reconciled to him) an appointment to the West Point
Military Academy, entering in July, 1830. In the meantime, he had
published in Baltimore a second small volume of poems. Fellow-students
have described him as having a "worn, weary, discontented look";
usually kindly and courteous, but shy, reserved, and exceedingly
sensitive; an extraordinary reader, but noted for carping criticism.
Although a good student, he seemed galled beyond endurance by the
monotonous routine of military duties, which he deliberately neglected
and thus procured his dismissal from the Academy. He left, alone and
penniless, in March, 1831.
[Footnote 1: In November, 1900, a single copy of this little volume
sold in New York for $2550.]
Going to New York, Poe brought out another little volume of poems
showing great improvement; then he went to Baltimore, and after a
precarious struggle of a year or two, turned to prose, and, while in
great poverty, won a prize of one hundred dollars from the Baltimore
_Saturday Visitor_ for his story, "The Manuscript Found in a
Bottle." Through John P. Kennedy[1], one of the judges whose
friendship the poverty-stricken author gained, he procured a good deal
of hack work, and finally an editorial position on the _Southern
Literary Messenger_, of Richmond. The salary was fair, and better
was in sight; yet Poe was melancholy, dissatisfied, and miserable. He
wrote a pitiable letter to Mr. Kennedy, asking to be convinced "that
it is at all necessary to live."
[Footnote 1: A well-known Marylander, author of "Horse-Shoe Robinson,"
"Swallow Barn," "Rob of the Bowl," and other popular novels of the
day, and later Secretary of the Navy.]
For several years he had been making his home with an aunt, Mrs.
Clemm, and her daughter, Virginia, a girl beautiful in character and
person, but penniless and probably already a victim of the consumption
that was eventually to cause her death. In 1836, when she was only
fourteen years old, Poe married his cousin, to whom he was
passionately attached. His devotion to her lasted through life, and
the tenderest affection existed between him and Mrs. Clemm, who was
all a mother could have been to him; so that the home life was always
beautiful in spirit, however poor in material comfort.
In January, 1837, his connection with the _Messenger_ was
severed, probably because of his occasional lapses from sobriety; but
his unfortunate temperament and his restless ambition were doubtless
factors. With some reputation as poet, story-writer, critic, and
editor, Poe removed to New York, and a year later to Philadelphia,
where he remained until 1844. Here he found miscellaneous literary,
editorial, and hack work, finally becoming editor of _Graham's
Magazine_, which prospered greatly under his management, increasing
its circulation from eight thousand to forty thousand within a
year. But Poe's restless spirit was dissatisfied. He was intensely
anxious to own a magazine for himself, and had already made several
unsuccessful efforts to obtain one,--efforts which were to be repeated
at intervals, and with as little success, until the day his death. He
vainly sought a government position, that a livelihood might be
assured while he carried out his literary plans. Finally he left
_Graham's_, doubtless because of personal peculiarities, since
his occasional inebriety did not interfere with his work; and there
followed a period of wretched poverty, broken once by the winning of a
prize of one hundred dollars for "The Gold Bug."
He continued to be known as a "reserved, isolated, dreamy man, of
high-strung nerves, proud spirit, and fantastic moods," with a
haunting sense of impending evil. His home was poor and simple, but
impressed every visitor by its neatness and quiet refinement;
Virginia, accomplished in music and languages, was as devoted to her
husband as he was to her. Both were fond of flowers and plants, and of
household pets. Mrs. Clemm gave herself completely to her "children"
and was the business manager of the family.
In the spring of 1844 Poe went with Virginia to New York, practically
penniless, and to Mrs. Clemm, who did not come at once, he wrote with
pathetic enthusiasm of the generous meals served at their boarding
house. He obtained a position on the _Evening Mirror_ at small
pay, but did his dull work faithfully and efficiently; later, he
became editor of the _Broadway Journal_, in which he printed
revisions of his best tales and poems. In 1845 appeared "The Raven,"
which created a profound sensation at home and abroad, and immediately
won, and has since retained, an immense popularity. He was at the
height of his fame, but poor, as always. In 1846 he published "The
Literati," critical comments on the writers of the day, in which the
literary small fry were mercilessly condemned and ridiculed. This
naturally made Poe a host of enemies. One of these, Thomas Dunn
English, published an abusive article attacking the author's
character, whereupon Poe sued him for libel and obtained two hundred
and twenty-five dollars damages.
The family now moved to a little three-room cottage at Fordham, a
quiet country place with flowers and trees and pleasant vistas; but
illness and poverty were soon there, too. In 1841 Virginia had burst
a blood vessel while singing, and her life was despaired of; this had
happened again and again, leaving her weaker each time. As the summer
and fall of this year wore away, she grew worse and needed the
tenderest care and attention. But winter drew on, and with it came
cold and hunger; the sick girl lay in an unheated room on a straw bed,
wrapped in her husband's coat, the husband and mother trying to chafe
a little warmth into her hands and feet. Some kind-hearted women
relieved the distress in a measure, but on January 30, 1847, Virginia
died. The effect on Poe was terrible. It is easy to see how a very
artist of death, who could study the dreadful stages of its slow
approach and seek to penetrate the mystery of its ultimate nature with
such intense interest and deep reflection as did Poe, must have
brooded and suffered during the years of his wife's illness. His own
health had long been poor; his brain was diseased and insanity seemed
imminent. After intense grief came a period of settled gloom and
haunting fear. The less than three years of life left for him was a
period of decline in every respect. But he remained in the little
cottage, finding some comfort in caring for his flowers and pets, and
taking long solitary rambles. During this time he thought out and
wrote "Eureka," a treatise on the structure, laws, and destiny of the
universe, which he desired to have regarded as a poem.
Poe had always felt a need for the companionship of sympathetic and
affectionate women, for whom he entertained a chivalric regard
amounting to reverence. After the shock of his wife's death had
somewhat worn away, he began to depend for sympathy upon various women
with whom he maintained romantic friendships. Judged by ordinary
standards, his conduct became at times little short of maudlin; his
correspondence showed a sort of gasping, frantic dependence upon the
sympathy and consolation of these women friends, and exhibited a
painful picture of a broken man. Mrs. Shew, one of the kind women who
had relieved the family at the time of Virginia's last illness,
strongly advised him to marry, and he did propose marriage to
Mrs. Sara Helen Whitman, a verse writer of some note in her day. After
a wild and exhausting wooing, begun in an extravagantly romantic
manner, the match was broken off through the influence of the lady's
friends. When it was all over Poe seemed very little disturbed. The
truth is, he was a wreck, and feeling utterly dependent, clutched
frantically at every hope of sympathy and consolation. His only real
love was for his dead wife, which he recorded shortly before his death
in the exquisite lyric, "Annabel Lee."
In July, 1849, full of the darkest forebodings, and predicting that he
should never return, Poe went to Richmond. Here he spent a few quiet
months, part of the time fairly cheerful, but twice yielding to the
temptation to drink, and each time suffering, in consequence, a
dangerous illness. On September 30 he left Richmond for New York with
fifteen hundred dollars, the product of a recent lecture arranged by
kind Richmond friends. What happened during the next three days is an
impenetrable mystery, but on October 3 (Wednesday) he was found in an
election booth in Baltimore, desperately ill, his money and baggage
gone. The most probable story is that he had been drugged by political
workers, imprisoned in a "coop" with similar victims, and used as a
repeater [1], this procedure being a common one at the time. Whether
he was also intoxicated is a matter of doubt. There could be but one
effect on his delicate and already diseased brain. He was taken to a
hospital unconscious, lingered several days in the delirium of a
violent brain fever, and in the early dawn of Sunday, October 7,
breathed his last.
[Footnote 1: Repeater, a person who illegally votes more than once]
The dead author's character immediately became the subject of violent
controversy. His severe critical strictures had made him many enemies
among the minor writers of the day and their friends. One of the men
who had suffered from Poe's too caustic pen was Rufus W. Griswold, but
friendly relations had been nominally established and Poe had
authorized Griswold to edit his works. This Griswold did, including a
biography which Poe's friends declared a masterpiece of malicious
distortion and misrepresentation; it certainly was grossly unfair and
inaccurate. Poe's friends retorted, and a long war of words followed,
in which hatred or prejudice on the one side and wholesale,
undiscriminating laudation on the other, alike tended to obscure the
truth. It is now almost impossible to see the real Poe, just as he
appeared to an ordinary, unprejudiced observer of his own time. Only
by the most careful, thoughtful, and sympathetic study can we hope to
approximate such an acquaintance.
The fundamental fact about Poe is a very peculiar and unhappy
temperament, certain characteristic qualities of which began to
disclose themselves in early boyhood and, fostered by the vicissitudes
of his career, developed throughout his life.
In youth he was nervous, sensitive, morbid, proud, solitary, and
wayward; and as the years went by, bringing poverty, illness, and the
bitterness of failure, often through his own faults, the man became
irritable, impatient, often morose. He had always suffered from fits
of depression,--"blue devils," Mr. Kennedy called them,--and though
he was extravagantly sanguine at times, melancholy was his usual mood,
often manifesting itself in a haunting fear of evil to come. The
peculiar character of his wonderful imagination made actual life less
real to him than his own land of dreams: the "distant Aidenn," the
"dim lake of Auber," the "kingdom by the sea," seemed more genuine
than the landscapes of earth; the lurid "city in the sea" more
substantial than the streets he daily walked.
Because of this intensely subjective and self-absorbed character of
mind, he had no understanding of human nature, no insight into
character with its marvelous complexities and contradictions. With
these limitations Poe, as might be expected, had a very defective
sense of humor, lacked true sympathy, was tactless, possessed little
business ability, and was excessively annoyed by the dull routine and
rude frictions of ordinary life. He was always touched by kindness,
but was quick to resent an injury, and even as a boy could not endure
a jest at his expense. He had many warm and devoted friends whom he
loved in return, but the limitations of his own nature probably made a
really frank, unreserved friendship impossible; and when a break
occurred, he was apt to assume that his former friend was an utter
villain. These personal characteristics, in conjunction with a goading
ambition which took form in the idea of an independent journal of his
own in which he might find untrammeled expression, added uneasiness
and restlessness to a constantly discontented nature. To some extent,
at least, Poe realized the curse of such a temperament, but he strove
vainly against its impulses.
The one genuine human happiness of this sad life was found in a
singularly beautiful home atmosphere. Husband and wife were
passionately devoted to each other, and Mrs. Clemm was more than a
mother to both. She says of her son-in-law: "At home, he was simple
and affectionate as a child, and during all the years he lived with
me, I do not remember a single night that he failed to come and kiss
his 'mother,' as he called me, before going to bed." This faithful
woman remained devoted to him after Virginia's death, and to his
memory, when calumny assailed it, after his own.
The capital charge against Poe's character has been intemperance, and
although the matter has been grossly exaggerated and misrepresented,
the charge is true. Except for short periods, he was never what is
known as dissipated, and he struggled desperately against his
weakness,--an unequal struggle, since the craving was inherited, and
fostered by environment, circumstances, and temperament. One of his
biographers tells of bread soaked in gin being fed to the little Poe
children by an old nurse during the illness of their mother; and there
is another story, already mentioned, of the little Edgar, in his
adoptive home, taught to pledge the guests as a social grace.
Drinking was common at the time, wine was offered in every home and at
every social function, and in the South, where Poe spent his youth and
early manhood, the spirit of hospitality and conviviality held out
constant temptation. To his delicate organization strong drink early
became a veritable poison, and indulgence that would have been a small
matter to another man was ruinous to him; indeed, a single glass of
wine drove him practically insane, and a debauch was sure to
follow. Indulgence was stimulated, also, by the nervous strain and
worry induced by uncertain livelihood and privation, the frequent fits
of depression, and by constant brooding. Sometimes he fought his
weakness successfully for several years, but always it conquered in
the end.
Moreover, he speaks of a very special cause in the latter part of his
life, which in fairness should be heard in his own written words to a
friend: "Six years ago a wife, whom I loved as no man ever loved
before, ruptured a blood vessel in singing. Her life was despaired
of. I took leave of her forever and underwent all the agonies of her
death. She recovered partially and I again hoped. At the end of a year
the vessel broke again. I went through precisely the same scene....
Then again--again--and even once again, at varying intervals. Each
time I felt all the agonies of her death--and at each accession of her
disorder I loved her more dearly and clung to her life with more
desperate pertinacity. But I am constitutionally sensitive--nervous in
a very unusual degree. I became insane, with long intervals of
horrible sanity. During these fits of absolute unconsciousness, I
drank--God only knows how often or how much. As a matter of course, my
enemies referred the insanity to the drink, rather than the drink to
the insanity.... It was the horrible never-ending oscillation between
hope and despair, which I could _not_ longer have endured without
total loss of reason. In the death of what was my life, then, I
received a new, but--O God!--how melancholy an existence!"
This statement, and the other facts mentioned, are not offered as
wholly excusing Poe. Doubtless a stronger man would have resisted,
doubtless a less self-absorbed man would have thought of his wife's
happiness as well as of his own relief from torture. Yet the
fair-minded person, familiar with Poe's unhappy life, and keeping in
mind the influences of heredity, temperament, and environment, will
hesitate to pronounce a severe judgment.
Poe was also accused of untruthfulness, and this accusation likewise
has a basis of fact. He repeatedly furnished or approved statements
regarding his life and work that were incorrect, he often made a
disingenuous show of pretended learning, and he sometimes misstated
facts to avoid wounding his own vanity. This ugly fault seems to have
resulted from a fondness for romantic posing, and is doubtless related
to the peculiar character of imagination already mentioned. Perhaps,
too, he inherited from his actor parents a love of applause, and if
so, the trait was certainly encouraged in early childhood. There is
no evidence that he was ever guilty of malicious or mercenary
falsehood.
Another of his bad habits was borrowing, but it must be remembered
that his life was one long struggle with grinding poverty, that he and
those dear to him sometimes suffered actual hunger and cold. Many who
knew him testified to his anxiety to pay all his debts, Mr. Graham
referring to him in this particular as "the soul of honor."
In a letter to Lowell, Poe has well described himself in a sentence:
"My life has been whim--impulse--passion--a longing for solitude--a
scorn of all things present in an earnest desire for the future."
Interpreted, this means that in a sense he never really reached
maturity, that he remained a slave to his impulses and emotions, that
he detested the ordinary business of life and could not adapt himself
to it, that his mind was full of dreams of ideal beauty and
perfection, that his whole soul yearned to attain the highest
pleasures of artistic creation. His was perpetually a deeply agitated
soul; as such, it was natural he should outwardly seem irritable,
impatient, restless, discontented, and solitary. It is impossible to
believe that there was any strain of real evil in Poe. A man who could
inspire such devotion as he had from such a woman as Mrs. Clemm, a man
who loved flowers and children and animal pets, who could be so
devoted a husband, who could so consecrate himself to art, was not a
bad man. Yet his acts were often, as we have seen, most
reprehensible. Frequently the subject of slander, he was not a victim
of conspiracy to defame. Although circumstances were many times
against him, he was his own worst enemy. He was cursed with a
temperament. His mind was analytical and imaginative, and gave no
thought to the ethical. He remained wayward as a child. The man, like
his art, was not immoral, but simply unmoral. Whatever his faults, he
suffered frightfully for them, and his fame suffered after him.