The dinner went off charmingly. In addition to several journalists, Mr.
Latrobe and Mr. Miller who, with Mr. Kennedy, had formed the committee
that awarded the prize to Edgar Poe, were there and the meeting between
the young guest of honor and his patrons engendered a spirit of
_bon-homie_ that was palpable to all. Under its spell The Dreamer's
spirits rose. Yet he was quiet, listening with deep attention to the
conversation of his elders, but having little to say, until the repast
was half over, when he responded to the evident desire of his host to
draw him out. The conversation had turned upon a favorite theme of
his--the power of words. He threw himself into it with zest, and with
brilliant play of expression animating his splendid eyes and pale
features, and the graceful, unrestrained gestures of one thoroughly at
ease and entirely unconscious of self, he held the table spell-bound
with a flow of sparkling talk in which his own exquisite choice of words
delighted his hearers no less than the originality and beauty of his
thought.
In the young editor of _The Saturday Visitor_ he promptly found a second
friend among men of letters. Mr. Wilmer, already prejudiced in his favor
by the success of the "MS. Found in a Bottle," and its cordial reception
by the public, and by Mr. Kennedy's warm words of recommendation,
yielded at once to the witchery of the poetic eyes, the courtly manners
and the charmed tongue, and not only befriended him by inviting and
accepting his writings for publication, but gave him, as time went on,
what proved to be a stimulant to good work as well as one of his
greatest pleasures--the intimate companionship of a man of congenial
tastes and near his own age.
* * * * *
The winter that followed was one of the happiest of The Dreamer's
life--a lull in a tempest, a dream of peace within a dream of storm and
stress.
He was soon able to return the twenty dollars to Mr. Kennedy. The
newspapers kept him busy and while the returns were--so far--small, he
was hopeful. He felt that he had made a beginning, and that the future
promised well. His work was praised and he became something of a
lion--the doors of many a proud Baltimore home opening graciously to his
touch.
He cared little for general society, however. His greatest pleasure he
found in his evenings with the Kennedys (for Mrs. Kennedy had taken him
in as promptly as her husband) or in a canter far into the country on
the saddle horse which Mr. Kennedy, noting his pallor and thinking that
out-door exercise would be of benefit to him, kindly placed at his
disposal, or in walks in the fields and lanes beyond the city with his
new chum Wilmer. Many a fine afternoon saw these two cronies, often
accompanied by the sprite, Virginia, with her airy movements and vivid
beauty, rambling in the suburbs, and beyond, with heads close in
intimate communion of thought and fancy.
What he enjoyed most of all was the time spent at his desk, in the
shelter of the new-found haven of rest, with the happy "Muddie" and
"Sissy" nearby.
This little family circle was unique. There was an unmistakably oak-like
element in the nature of the widow which was apparent to some degree
even in her outward appearance, in the stateliness and dignity of her
figure and carriage--an element of sturdiness and self-reliance which
made it her pleasure to be clung to, looked up to, leaned upon. The
character of her new-found son was, on the contrary, vine-like. He was
constantly reaching out tendrils of craving for love, for appreciation,
for understanding. More--for advice, for guidance. Such tendrils seeking
a foot-hold, make a strong appeal to every womanly woman. She sees in
them a call to her nobility of soul, to the mother that is a part of her
spiritual nature--a call that gives her pleasant good-angel sensations,
that soften her heart and flatter her self-esteem. To the Widow Clemm,
with her self-reliance and her highly developed maternal instinct, the
appeal was irresistible and between her and The Dreamer the ivy and oak
relation was promptly established, while in the little Virginia he found
a heartsease blossom to be loved and sheltered by both--the loveliest of
heartsease blossoms whose beauty, whose purity and innocence and the
stored sweets of whose nature were all for him.
The three lived, indeed, for each other only, in a dream-valley apart
from and invisible to, the rest of the world, for their dreams of which
it was constructed made it theirs and theirs alone. Their dreams piled
beautiful mountains around the valley through which peace flowed as a
gentle river, while love and contentment and innocent pleasures were as
flowers besprinkling the grass and speaking to their hearts of the love
and the glory of God, and the fancies with which they beguiled the time
were as tall, fantastic trees, moved by soft zephyrs. And because of the
bright flowers ever springing in the green turf that carpeted the
valley, they named it the _Valley of the Many-Colored Grass_. And to the
three the dream-valley, with its peace and its beauty and its sweet
seclusion, was the real world, while all the wilderness outside of it,
where other men dwelt was the unreal.
* * * * *
One happy effect of these peaceful days upon The Dreamer was that there
was in them no temptation to excess--no restless craving for excitement.
The Bohemian--the Edgar Goodfellow--side of him found, it is true, an
outlet, but a harmless one. He found it in the genial atmosphere of the
Widow Meagher's modest eating-house where he and his new crony, Wilmer,
passed many a jolly hour. The widow, an elderly, portly dame, with a
kind Irish heart and keen Irish wit, had the power of diffusing a
wonderful cheerfulness around her. Her shop was clean, if plain, her
oysters were savory, if cheap. Like all women, she petted Edgar Poe, and
hearing from Wilmer that he was a poet, she at once gave him the name by
which the West Point boys had called him, and to all of the frequenters
of her shop he was known as "the Bard."
Her shop had not only an oyster counter, but a bar and a room for cards
and smoking but these had little attraction for Poe at this period of
his career--much to the widow's dissatisfaction, for she wished "the
Bard" to be merry, and did not like to see him neglect what she honestly
and unblushingly believed to be the really good things of life. But
though to her pressing invitations, "Bard take a hand," "Bard take a
nip," he was generally deaf, he was more accomodating when, after
getting off an unusually clever bit of pleasantry (putting her
customers into an uproar of laughter) she would turn to him with, "Bard
put it in poethry." And put it "in poethry" he did--to the increased
hilarity of the crowd.
* * * * *
The month of February brought an interruption to the smooth and pleasant
course of The Dreamer's life. A long time had passed since he had heard
anything of his friends down in Virginia, and it was therefore with
quick interest that he broke the seal of a letter bearing the Richmond
post-mark and addressed to him in the unforgotten hand of his early
admirer, Rob Sully. Dear old Rob, the sight of the familiar hand-writing
alone warmed The Dreamer's heart and brought the soft, melting
expression to his eyes!
The object of the letter was to tell him that Mr. Allan was extremely
ill--dying, some thought, though the end might not be immediate. Rob was
taking it upon himself to write because he felt that Eddie ought to
know. Mr. Allan had lately been heard to speak kindly of Eddie, he had
been told, and it had occurred to him that Eddie might like to come on
and have a word of forgiveness from him before he died.
As "Eddie" read, the pleasure the first sight of the letter had given
him turned to sudden, sharp pain. Mr. Allan and--_death_! He had never
thought of associating the two. Under the influence of the shock his
heart became all tenderness and regret.
He hurriedly packed his carpet-bag, kissed Mrs. Clemm and Virginia
goodbye, and set out post-haste for Richmond and the homestead on Main
and Fifth Streets.
He did not stop to lift the brass knocker this time. The forlorn
details of his last visit, his lack of right to cross that threshold
uninvited--what mattered such considerations now? They were, indeed,
forgotten. Everything was forgotten--everything save that the man who
had stood in the position of father to him was dying--dying without a
word of pardon to him, the most wayward (he felt at that moment of
severe contrition)--_the most wayward_ of prodigal sons. Everything was
forgotten save that he was having a race with death--a race for a
father's blessing!
He flung wide the massive front door and hastened through the spacious
hall, up the stair and into the room where the ill man sat in an
arm-chair. On the threshold he paused for a moment. Mr. Allan saw and
recognized him, and at once the misunderstanding of the actions of his
adopted son for which he seemed to have a gift, asserted itself,
construing the visit as an unpardonable liberty. The only motive Mr.
Allan could imagine which could have prompted Edgar Poe to force
himself, as it seemed to him, into his presence at this time was a
mercenary one, and burning with indignation, his eyes gleaming with
something like their old fire, he half raised himself from the chair.
"How dare you?" he screamed in the grating tones of angry old age. Then,
grasping the cane at his side in trembling fingers and raising it with
threatening gesture, he ordered his visitor to leave the room at once.
Edgar Poe stood aghast for a moment, then fled down the stair and out of
the door and turning his back for the last time upon the house whose
young master he had been, with the word "Nevermore" ringing like a knell
in his ears, made his way again to the abode of love and peace in
Baltimore, which held his whole heart and which had become his home.
A few weeks later Mr. Allan died, leaving the whole of his fortune to
his second wife and her children.
* * * * *
It now became more important than ever for Edgar Poe to earn a living.
In spite of the fact that Mr. Allan was known to have lost all regard
for him, his friends had always believed that he would be remembered in
the will. They believed that John Allan's rigid, sometimes even
strained, idea of justice would cause him to provide for the boy for
whom he had voluntarily, albeit against his own judgment, made himself
responsible. The fact that the boy had turned out to be, in Mr. Allan's
opinion, "trifling," that he refused to engage in any "useful" work and
that at five and twenty years of age he had not established himself in
any "paying business" would, those who knew Mr. Allan best believed, be
with him but another reason for ensuring against want his first wife's
spoiled darling who was evidently incapable of taking care of himself
and therefore (so they believed he would argue) so much the more his
care.
Possibly The Dreamer may have taken this view himself. However that may
be, the opening of the will silenced all conjecture, and as has been
said, made the need of his making his work produce money more pressing
than ever. His friend Wilmer did his best for him--publishing his
stories in _The Saturday Visitor_ from time to time and paying him as
well as he was able. But Wilmer and his paper were poor themselves. _The
Visitor_ was only a small weekly, with a modest subscription list. It
had little to pay, however good the "copy" and that little and Mother
Clemm's earnings put together barely kept the wolf from the door.
When the frequent and welcome summons to the bountiful board of the
Kennedys came the young poet blushed for shame in the pleasure he could
not help feeling in anticipation of the chance to satisfy his chastened
appetite, and he often found himself fearing that the hunger with which
he ate the good things which these kind friends placed upon his plate
would betray the necessary frugality of the dear "Muddie's"
house-keeping, which was one of the sacred secrets of the sweet home.
Sometimes his pride would make him go so far as to decline delicious
morsels in the hope of correcting such an impression, if it should
exist.
He racked his brain to find a means of making his work bring him more
money. Upon Mr. Kennedy's advice, he sent his "Tales of the Folio Club"
to the Philadelphia publishing house of "Carey and Lea." After several
weeks of anxious waiting he received a letter accepting the collection
for publication but frankly admitting that his receiving any profit from
the sale of the book was an exceedingly doubtful matter. They suggested,
however, that they be permitted to sell some of the tales to publishers
of the then popular "annuals," reserving the right to reprint them in
the book. To this the author gladly consented and received with a joy
that was pathetic the sum of fifteen dollars from "The Souvenir," which
had purchased one of the tales at a dollar a printed page.
He and Wilmer put their heads together in dreams of literary work by
which a man could live. One of these dreams took form in the prospectus
of a purely literary journal of the highest class which was to be in
its criticisms and editorial opinions "fearless, independent and sternly
just."
But the scheme required capital and never got beyond the glowing
prospectus.
In spite of the small sums that came to him as veritable God-sends from
the sale of his stories and from odd jobs on the _Visitor_ and other
journals, Edgar Poe was poor--miserably poor. And just as he had begun
to flatter himself that he did not mind, that he would bear it with the
nonchalance of the true philosopher he believed he had become, it
assumed the shape of horror unspeakable to him. Not for himself, if
there were only himself to think of, he felt assured, he could laugh
poverty--want even--to scorn; but that his little Virginia should feel
the pinch was damnable!
Two years had made marked changes in Virginia. She was losing the
formless plumpness of childhood and growing rapidly into a slight and
graceful maiden--a "rare and radiant maiden," with the tender light of
womanhood beginning to dawn in her velvet eyes and to sweeten the curves
of her lips. A maiden lovelier by far than the child had been but with
the same divine purity and innocence that had always been hers--that
were his, for her beauty, her purity and innocence and the stored sweets
of her nature were still for him alone and for him alone too, was her
sweet companionship--her comradeship--of which he never wearied.
Under his guidance her mind had unfolded like a flower. She was
beginning to speak fluently in French and in Italian. How he loved the
musical southern accents on her tongue! And she was developing an
exquisite singing voice. Her voice was her crowning grace--her voice
was his delight of delights! As he gazed into the shadows that lay under
her long black lashes and listened to her voice, with its hint of hidden
springs of passion, his pulses stirred at the thought that this lovely
flower of dawning womanhood was his little Virginia, and his own heart
ached to think that any desire of hers should ever be denied.
In his desperation he thought of teaching and applied for a position in
a school, but without success.
But relief was at hand.
While the Dreamer and his friend the editor of _The Saturday Visitor_
had been building literary air-castles in Baltimore, a journal destined
to take something approaching such a stand as their ideal was actually
founded, in Richmond, under the title of _The Southern Literary
Messenger_. Its owner and publisher, Mr. Thomas W. White, was no
dreamer, but a practical printer and an enterprising man of business.
Early in this year--the year 1835--Mr. White wrote to Mr. Kennedy,
requesting a contribution from his pen for the new magazine, and, as was
to be expected, Mr. Kennedy, with his wonted thoughtfulness of his
literary protegé, wrote back commending to Mr. White's notice the work
of "a remarkable young man by the name of Edgar Poe."
At Mr. Kennedy's suggestion Edgar bundled off some of the "Tales of the
Folio Club" for Mr. White's inspection, with the result that in the
March number of the _Messenger_ the weird story "Berenice," appeared. It
and its author became at once the talk of the hour, and when the history
of "The Adventures of Hans Phaal" came out in the June number it found
the reading public ready and waiting to fall upon and devour it.
Other stories and articles followed in quick succession and the pungent
critiques and reviews of the new pen were looked for and read with as
great interest as the tales.
In a glow over the prosperity which the popularity of the new writer was
bringing his magazine, Mr. White wrote to him offering him the position
of assistant editor, with a salary of five hundred and twenty dollars a
year, to begin with. Of course the offer was to be accepted! The salary,
small as it was, seemed to The Dreamer in comparison to the diminutive
and irregular sums he had been accustomed to receive, almost like
wealth. But its acceptance would mean, for the present, anyhow,
separation--a break in the small home circle where had been, with all of
its deprivations, so much of joy--a dissolving of the magical Valley of
the Many-Colored Grass. Not for a moment, he vowed to Mother Clemm and
Virginia, was this separation to be looked upon as permanent. Just so
soon as he should be able to provide a home for them in Richmond he
would have them with him again, and there they would reconstruct their
dream-valley. But for the present--.
The present, in spite of the new prosperity, was unbearable!
In vain the Mother with the patience born of her superior years and
experience, assured them that time had wings, and that the days of
absence would be quickly past. To the youthful poet and the little maid
who lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by him a
month--a week--a day apart, seemed an eternity.
In the midst of their woe at the prospect a miracle happened--a miracle
and a discovery.
It fell upon a serene summer's afternoon when the two children--they
were both that at heart--wandered along a sweet, shady lane leading from
the outskirts of town into the country. It was to be their last walk
together for who knew, who could tell how long? The poet's great grey
eyes wore their deepest melancholy and the little maid's soft brown ones
too, were full of trouble, for had not their love turned to pain? They
spoke little, for the love and the pain were alike too deep for words,
but the heart of each was filled with broodings and musings upon the
love it bore the other and upon the agony of parting.
How could he leave her? the poet asked himself. His cherished comrade
whose beauty, whose purity and innocence, the stored sweets of whose
nature were for him alone? Into his life of loneliness, of lovelessness,
of despair--a life from which everyone who had really cared for him had
been snatched by untimely death and shut away from him forever in an
early grave--a life where there had been not only sorrow, but
bitterness--where there had been pain and want and homelessness and
desolate wanderings and longings for the unattainable--where there had
been misunderstanding and distrust and temptation and defeat--into such
a life this wee bit of maidenhood--this true heartsease--had crept and
blossomed, filling heart and life with beauty and hope and love--with
blessed healing.
How could he leave her? To others she seemed wrapped in timid reserve.
He only had the key to the fair realm of her unfolding mind. How could
he bear to leave her for even a little while? How barren his life would
be without her! How shorn of all beauty and grace!
And what would her life be without him, to whom had been offered up all
her beauty and the stored sweets of her nature? Who would guard her from
other eyes, that as her beauty and charm came to their full bloom might
look covetously upon her?
For the first time (and the bare suggestion seemed profanation) it
occured to him that a day might come when, as this slip of maidenhood
walked forth in her surpassing beauty and her precious innocence and
purity the eyes of a man might make note of her loveliness, her
altogether desirableness--might rest upon her with hopes of
possession--and he not there to kill him upon the spot. What if in his
absence another's hand should be stretched to pluck his heartsease
blossom--that left unguarded, unprotected by him, another should snatch
it, in its beauty, its purity and innocence, to his bosom?
The thought was hell!
Faint and trembling, he gazed down upon her as they strolled along,
compelling her soft eyes to meet his anguished ones. His face was white
and strained with his misery. She was pale and trembling, too, and there
was dew on the sweeping lashes, and as she lifted them and looked into
his face she trembled more. He looked upon her, tenderly marvelling to
see in her at once the loveliest of children and of women--a woman with
her first grief!
There was heart-break in his voice, for himself and for her, as he
murmured (brokenly) words of love and of comfort in her ear, and in her
voice as she, brokenly, answered him.
The sun was setting--a pageant in which they both were wont to take
exquisite delight--but they could not look at the glowing heavens for
the heaven of love and of beautiful sorrow that each found in the eyes
of the other.
Suddenly, they knew!
The knowledge burst upon them like an illumining flood. How or whence it
came they could not tell, nor did they question--but they knew that the
love they bore each other was no brother and sister love, but that what
time they had been calling each other "Buddie," and "Sissy," there had
been growing--growing in their hearts the red, red rose of romance--the
love betwixt man and maid of which poets tell--knew that in that sweet,
that sad, that wondrous eventide the rose had burst into glorious
flower.
They trembled in the presence of this sweetest miracle. The beauty and
solemnity of it well nigh deprived them of the power of speech. A divine
silence fell upon them and they slowly, softly took their way homeward
through the gathering dusk, hand in hand--but with few words--to tell
the Mother.
To the widow their disclosure came as a shock. At first she thought the
silly pair must be joking--then that they were mad. Finally she realized
their earnestness and their happiness and saw that the situation was
serious and must be dealt with with the utmost tact. Still, she could
hardly believe what she saw and heard. Was it possible that the demure
girl talking to her so seriously of love and marriage was her little
Virginia--her baby? And that these two should have thought of such a
thing! Cousins!--Brother and sister, almost!--And with such disparity in
ages--thirteen and six-and-twenty!
She had lived long enough, however, to know that love is governed by no
rules or regulations and besides, she had kept through all the changes
and chances of her checkered life, a belief in true love as fresh as a
girl's. This was too sacred a thing to be carelessly handled--only, it
was not what she would have chosen.... Yet--was it not?
A new thought came to her--a revelation--inspiration--what you will, and
sunk her in deep revery.
Why was this not what she would have chosen? Why not a union between her
children--her all? Her own days were fast running out. She could not
live and make a home for them always--then, what would become of them?
She would die happy, when her time came, if she could see them in their
own home, bound by the most sacred, the most indissoluble of ties--bound
together until death should part them!
She fell asleep with a heart full of thankfulness to God for his
mercies.
A quite different view of the matter was taken by other members of the
Poe connection in Baltimore--particularly the men, who positively
refused to regard the love affair as anything more than sentimental
nonsense--"moonshine"--they called it, which would be as fleeting as it
was foolish. Their cousin, Judge Neilson Poe, who had made a pet of
Virginia, was especially active in his opposition and brought every
argument he could think of to bear upon the young lovers and upon Mrs.
Clemm in his endeavor to induce them to break the engagement; but he
only succeeded in sending Virginia flying with frightened face to
"Buddie's" arms, vowing (as, much to Cousin Neilson's disgust, she hung
upon his neck) that she would never give him up, while "Buddie," holding
her close, assured her, in the story-book language that they both loved,
that "all the king's horses and all the king's men" would not be strong
enough to take her from him.