The session at the University did not begin until the middle of
February, so love's young dream was not to be interrupted too soon.
Meantime, its sweetness was only enhanced by thought of the coming
separation. The affair had too, the interest of secrecy, for the
youthful lovers well knew the storm of opposition that would be raised,
in both their homes, if it should be discovered. This need of secrecy
made frequent meetings and exchange of vows impossible, but it gave to
such as occurred the flavor of stolen sweets and kept the young sinners
in a tantalized state which was excruciating and at the same time
delightful, and which still further fed the flames and convinced them of
the realness and intensity of their passion.
When they did meet, their awed, joyous confessions of mutual love
charmed the lonely, romantic boy by their very novelty. In them his
fairest dreams were fulfilled. How sweet it was in these rare, stolen
moments, to crush the pure young creature, who would be his own some
day, against his wildly beating heart--how passing sweet to hear against
his ear her whispered, hesitating vows of deep, everlasting love!
In his pretty new room overlooking the terraced garden of the stately
mansion which had become his home, Edgar Poe plunged headlong into
Byron, and in the mood thus induced, penned many a verse, no worse and
not much better than the rhymes of lovelorn youths the world over and
time out of mind, to be copied into Myra's album.
Between the love-making and preparation for college, time took wings. In
what seemed an incredibly short space summer and fall were gone,
Christmas, with its festivities, was over and the new year--the year
1826--had opened.
It was upon St. Valentine's Day that, with a feeling of solemnity worthy
of the act, the seventeen year old lover and student wrote the name
Edgar Allan Poe, and the date of his birth, upon the matriculation book
of the University of Virginia--open for its second session. Upon the day
before the beauty and the poetry--_the inspiration_--of the place had
burst upon him, and this first impression still held his soul in thrall.
Here, in this fair Virginia vale, ringed about with the heaven-kissing
hills of the Blue Ridge, the scholastic village conjured by Jefferson's
fertile imagination lay before him in the clear, winter sunshine. Its
lawns and its gardens were just now white with an unbroken blanket of
new-fallen snow; the young trees which had been planted in avenues along
the lawns, but which were as yet hardly more than shrubs, glittered with
icicles, and above them rose the classic columns of the colonnaded
dormitories and professors' houses; while at one end of the oblong
square the majestic dome and columns of the Rotunda stood out against
the sky. As the entranced Dreamer gazed and gazed, trying to imagine
what it must be like by moonlight--what it would be in spring--what (a
few years later, when the trees should have grown large enough to arch
the walks) in summer--he told himself that surely in this garden-spot of
the Old Dominion, bricks and mortar had sprung into immortal bloom, and
he found himself quoting a line of his own:
"The glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome."
Upon his earliest opportunity he sat down and wrote Myra a rhapsody upon
it all. Her presence, he felt, and he wrote her, was all needed to make
the place a paradise.
Under his name upon the matriculation book he had written, with
confidence:
"Schools of Ancient and Modern Languages." In the school of Ancient
Languages were taught (according to the announcement for the year)
"Hebrew, rhetoric, belles-lettres ancient history and geography;" in the
school of Modern Languages, "French, Spanish, Italian, German, and the
English language in its Anglo Saxon form; also modern history and modern
geography." A list, one would think, to daunt the courage of a seventeen
year old student and make him feel that he had the world on his
shoulders.
It was quite the contrary with The Dreamer. He felt instead that he had
suddenly developed wings. Learning came easy to him. He was already a
good French and Latin scholar, and the rest did not frighten him. Not
only was he not in the least burdened by thought of the work he was
cutting out for himself, but he was elated by a sense of freedom such as
he had never known before. Always before, both at home and at school, he
had been under surveillance. But now he was to be a partaker of the
benefits of Mr. Jefferson's theories of the treatment of students as men
and gentlemen--letting their conduct be a matter of _noblesse oblige_.
In the youth of seventeen this sudden withdrawal of oversight and
regulation produced an exhilaration that was indeed pleasurable. Among
the unfrequented hills known as the "Ragged Mountains," not far away,
was a wild and romantic region that invited him to fascinating
exploration--perhaps adventure. Instead of having to beg permission or
to steal off upon the solitary rambles which he loved, to this
enchanting country, he could, and did, go when he chose, openly, and
with no questions asked or rebukes given.
He held up his head with a new confidence at the thought, and took his
dreams of ambition and love, whenever he could allow himself time to do
so, to the enticing new region (as unlike anything around Richmond as if
it were in a different world) adjacent to which, for the time, his lot
lay.
He did not neglect his classes, however. They were regularly attended
and his standing was excellent; so the professors had no cause for
making inquiry into the pursuits of his private hours. The library,
too, in the beautiful Rotunda, was a new, if different, field for his
exploration and one that gave him great delight, for he found there many
volumes of quaint and curious lore whose acquaintance he had never
before made.
* * * * *
His imaginary wings were soon enough to be clipped--his exhilaration to
drop from him as suddenly as it had come.
_He did not hear from Myra!_
He watched eagerly for the mails, and as day after day passed without
bringing him a letter, deep dejection claimed him. Finally he wrote to
her again--and then again--and again--frantically appealing to her to
write to him and assure him of her constancy if she would save his life.
Still, no word from her.
The truth was that Myra, at home in Richmond, was awaiting each
mail-time as feverishly as he. The faint suggestion of rose her cheeks
usually wore, had entirely disappeared and deep circles caused by lack
of sleep and lost appetite made her light blue eyes appear more
prominent than ever before. The ethereal look that had been her chief
claim to beauty had become exaggerated into a ghastliness that was not
in the least bewitching. She, like Edgar, had pocketed her pride and
followed her first letter with others more and more expressive of her
tender maiden passion; but her father, who had begun to suspect an
affair between her and the players' son a short time before Edgar left
for the University, had kept diligent watch for the passage of letters,
and had successfully intercepted them.
And so the unhappy pair pined and sighed and gloomed, each reckoning the
other faithless and believing that life was forever robbed of joy.
Edgar Poe had never really loved the girl. He had merely loved the dream
to which her tender words and timid caresses gave an adorable reality;
but now in his disappointment at not hearing from her he felt that her
love and loyalty to him were the only things in the world worth having
and persuaded himself that without her there as no incentive to live or
to strive. His misery was increased by an over-whelming homesickness, to
escape from which, he wandered restlessly about, vainly seeking
excitement and forgetfulness.
In this mood, he eagerly accepted an invitation to spend the evening
from a class-mate whose room in "Rowdy Row" had a reputation for
conviviality. His own room, shared by a quiet and steady Richmond boy
with whom he had a slight acquaintance at home, was in one of the
cloister-like dormitories opening upon the main lawn.
While Edgar Poe had been a somewhat wayward and at times a disobedient
boy, at home, he had never been a _bad_ boy except when judged by John
Allan's standards, and had never been in the least wild. Wines were used
upon the table of his foster-father, as upon the tables of other
gentlemen whose homes he had visited, and he had always been permitted
to drink a small quantity at a time, at dinner, or to sip a little
mint-julep from the goblet passed around before breakfast and supposed
to be conducive to appetite and healthful digestion; but he had never
thought of exceeding this allowance. As to cards, he knew nothing of
them save as an innocent, social pastime in which he found pleasure, as
in all other games and sports--especially such as required exercise of
ingenuity or mental skill.
The evening in "Rowdy Row" was therefore a revelation, as well as a
diversion to him. As he approached the end of this arcaded row in which
his new friend's room was situated his interest received a spur from the
sounds of hilarity that greeted him, and his spirits began to rise. In a
few moments more he found himself in the midst of a group of exceedingly
jolly youths evidently prepared to make a night of it. Several of them
were gathered about a huge bowl in which they were mixing a variety of
punch which they called "peach-honey." Others were seated around a card
table while one of their number entertained the rest with what seemed to
be almost magical tricks. These Edgar joined. His interest was
immediately aroused and he fixed his eyes with intentness upon the
juggler. The tricks were new to him, but he soon amazed the crowd by
showing the solution of them all.
Finally, the punch was declared to be ready; other packs of cards were
produced and the real sport of the evening began. It was Edgar's first
experience in drinking with boys and his conscience, not yet hardened
to it, kept him in check without worrying him enough to destroy his
pleasure. Somewhat of his old exhilaration returned to him at the bare
thought, for he felt himself a man, following his own will and yet not
disobeying any direct command.
In spite of much urging, he only drank one glass of the peach-honey, but
thanks to a jovial ancestor of whom he had never heard, but of some of
whose sins (in accordance with the ancient law) he bore the marks in his
temperament, he was peculiarly susceptible to the influences of strong
drink, and as he drained the glass at a gulp, a new freedom seemed to
enter his soul. The dejection which had oppressed him dropped from him
instantly, and with his great eyes glowing like lamps with new zest in
life, he sat down at a card table to be initiated into the mysteries of
the fascinating game of _loo_, which had lately become the fashion, and
at the same time into his first experience in playing for money.
He had beginner's luck--held good hands and won straight through the
game. His success, with the effects of the punch, developed his wittiest
vein and Edgar Goodfellow assumed complete ascendancy.
His new acquaintances were charmed, and encouraged his mood by loud
applause and congratulated themselves upon having added to their number
such good company.
From that night Edgar Poe's new friends, who constituted what was known
as the "fast set" at the University, became his boon companions. It was
in the card-table, much more than the punch-bowl that the charm for him
lay, for the gambling fever had entered his blood with his first
winnings, but in the combination of the two he found, for the present, a
sure cure for his "blue devils."
Alas, Helen! Where was your sweet spirit that it did not hover, as
guardian angel, about the head of this wayward child of genius in his
hour of sore need, when temptations gathered thick around his pathway
and there was no one to steer him into safer waters; no one to restrain
his feet from their first blind steps toward that Disaster to which
ruinous companionship invited him, with syren voice?
True, his staid room-mate, Miles George, raised his voice in warning
against the dangerous intimacies he was forming but Miles' view seemed
extreme to him. Besides, he found at the University the same caste
feeling that had cut him off from familiar intercourse with the leaders
among his Richmond schoolmates. It was but natural, therefore, that he
should have turned gratefully, to the society where his welcome was
sure.
Finally words passed between him and Miles, ending in a formal meeting,
with seconds on both sides. Their only weapons were their fists, and
they shook hands afterward; but the idea of continuing to share the same
bed-room was out of the question. Of the vacant rooms to be had, Edgar
promptly decided upon Number 13, Rowdy Row, and the second step in a
wrong direction quickly followed the first.
He was hailed by the rest of the "Row" with delight, and he promptly
decided to return their many hospitalities in his new room, which he
proceeded to elaborately prepare for their reception.
The result was an early and noisy house-warming. The guests were filled
with admiration to find the walls of Number 13 decorated in honor of the
occasion with charcoal sketches representing scenes from Byron's works
done by the clever hand of the new occupant himself. They also found
Edgar Goodfellow in the character of host, presiding over his own
card-table and his own bowl--a generous one--of peach-honey, in the
highest feather and his most captivating mood.