Between his literary work, his home and his social life in Richmond, it
would seem that every need of The Dreamer's being was now satisfied and
the days of his life were moving in perfect harmony. But "the little
rift within the lute" all too soon made its appearance. It was caused by
the alarm of Mr. White, the owner and founder of the _Messenger_.
"Little Tom White" was a most admirable man--within his limitations. If
he was not especially interesting, his daughter Eliza of the violet eyes
was, and he was reliable--which was better. He had a kind little heart
and a clear little business head and his advice upon all matters (within
his experience) was safe. Though he saw from the handsome increase in
the number of the _Messenger's_ subscribers that his young editor was a
valuable aid, he did not realize how valuable. Indeed, Edgar Poe and his
style of writing were entirely outside of Mr. White's experience. They
were so altogether unlike anything he had known before that in spite of
the praise of the thousands of readers which they had brought to the
magazine the dissatisfaction of the tens of little namby-pamby authors
alarmed him. Edgar Poe found him one morning in a state of positive
trepidation. He sat at his desk in the _Messenger_ office with the
morning's mail--an unusually large pile of it--before him. In it there
were a number of new subscriptions, several letters from the little
authors protesting against the manner in which their works were handled
in the review columns of the magazine and one or two from well-known
and highly respected country gentlemen expressing their disapproval of
the _strangeness_ in Edgar Poe's tales and poems.
Mr. White appreciated the genius of his editor--within his
limitations--but he was afraid of it and these letters made him more
afraid of it. He saw that he must speak to Edgar--add his protest to the
protests of the little authors and the country gentlemen and see if he
could not persuade him to tone down the sharpness of his criticisms and
the strangeness of his stories.
It was with a feeling of relief that he saw the trim, black-clad figure
of the young editor and author at the door, for he would like to settle
the business before him at once. His manner was grave--solemn--as he
approached the subject upon which his employe must be spoken to.
"Edgar," he said, when good-mornings had been exchanged, "I want you to
read these letters. They are in the same line as some others we have
been receiving lately--but more so--decidedly more so."
"Ah?" said The Dreamer, as he seated himself at the desk and began to
unfold and glance over the letters.
"Little Tom" watched his face with a feeling of wonder at the look of
mixed scorn and amusement that appeared in the expressive eyes and mouth
as he read. Finally the anxious little man laid his hand upon the arm of
his unruly assistant, with an air of kindly patronage.
"You have talent, Edgar," he said, with a touch of condescension, "Good
talent--especially for criticism--and will some day make your mark in
that line if you will stick to it and let these weird stories alone. We
must have fewer of the stories in future and more critiques, but milder
ones. It is the critiques that the readers want; but in both stories and
critiques you must put a restraint on that pen of yours, Edgar. In the
stories less of the weird--the strange--in the critiques, less of the
satirical. Let moderation be your watchword, my boy. Cultivate
moderation in your writing, and with your endowment you will make a name
for yourself as well as the magazine."
Edgar Poe was all attention--respectful attention that was most
encouraging--while Mr. White was speaking, and when he had finished sat
with a contemplative look in his eyes, as if weighing the words he had
just heard. Presently he looked up and with the expression of face and
voice of one who in all seriousness seeks information, asked,
"Is moderation really the word you are after, Mr. White, or is it
mediocrity?"
The announcement at the very moment when the question was put, of a
visitor--a welcome one, for he brought a new subscription--precluded a
reply, and in the busy day that followed the broken thread of
conversation was never taken up again. But the unanswered question left
Mr. White with a confused sense which stayed with him during the whole
day and at intervals all through it he was asking himself what Edgar Poe
meant. Truly his talented employe was a puzzling fellow! Could it be
possible that the question asked with that serious face, that quiet
respectful air, was intended for a joke? That the impudent fellow could
have been quizzing him? No wonder his stories gave people
shivers--there was at times something about the fellow himself which was
positively uncanny!
That he and "little Tom" would always see opposite sides of the picture
became more and more apparent to The Dreamer as time went on and along
with this difficulty another and a more serious one arose.
Though the amount of work--of successful work, for it brought the
_Messenger_ a steadily increasing stream of new subscribers--which he
was now putting forth, should have surrounded the beloved wife and
mother with luxuries and placed him beyond the reach of financial
embarrassment, the returns he received from the entire fruitage of his
brilliant talent--his untiring pen--at this the prime-time of his
life--in the fullness of mental and physical vigour, was so small that
he was constantly harrassed by debt and frequently reduced to the
humiliating necessity of borrowing from his friends to make two ends
meet.
The plain truth was gradually borne in upon him--the prizes of fame and
wealth that for the sake of his sweet bride he coveted more earnestly
than ever before, were not to be found, by him, in Richmond, or as an
employe of Mr. White. But the hues of the bow of promise with which hope
spanned the sky of his inward vision were still bright, and he believed
that at its end the coveted prizes would surely still be found--provided
he did not lose heart and give up the quest. Indications of the growth
of his reputation at the North had been many. In the North the
facilities for publishing were so much more abundant than in the South.
The publishing houses and the periodicals of New York, of Boston, and of
Philadelphia would create a demand for literary work--and from these
large cities his message to the world would go out with greater
authority than from a small town like Richmond.
It was not until the year 1838 that he finally resolved to make the
break and sent in his resignation to the _Messenger_. In the three years
since his first appearance in its columns the number of names upon its
subscription list had increased from seven hundred to five thousand.
Though Edgar Poe's connection with the magazine as editor was at an end,
Mr. White took pains to announce that he was to continue to be a regular
contributor and the appearance of his serial story, "Arthur Gordon Pym,"
then running, was to be uninterrupted.
* * * * *
It was a far cry from the gardens and porches and open houses of
Richmond to the streets of New York--from the easy going country town
where society held but one circle, to a city, with its locked doors and
its wheels within wheels. Indeed, the single circle in Richmond, bound
together as it was by the elastic, but secure, tie of Virginia
cousinship and neighborliness then regarded as almost the same thing as
relationship, was practically one big family. Whoever was not your
cousin or your neighbor was the next best thing--either your neighbor's
cousin or your cousin's neighbor--so there you were.
Though Edgar and Virginia Poe and the Widow Clemm had no blood kin in
Richmond they were, during those two years' residence there, taken into
the very heart of this pleasant, kindly circle, and it was with keen
homesickness that they realized that "in a whole cityful friends they
had none."
But if this trio of dreamers felt strangely out of place in the streets
of New York, they looked more so. As they sauntered along, in their
leisurely southern fashion, their picturesque appearance arrested the
gaze of many a hurrying passer-by. In contrast to the up-to-date, alert,
keen-eyed crowd upon the busy streets, the air of distinction which
marked them everywhere was more pronounced than ever. They gave the
impression of a certain exquisite fineness of quality, combined with
quaintness, that one is sensible of in looking upon rare china.
In and out--in and out--among the crowds of these streets where being a
stranger he felt himself peculiarly alone, Edgar the Dreamer walked many
days in his quest for work. Here, there and everywhere, his pale face
and solemn eyes with less and less of hope in them were seen. He had
been right in believing that his reputation was growing and had reached
New York--yet no one wanted his work. The supply of literature exceeded
the demand, he was told everywhere. It is true that he succeeded in
placing an occasional article, for which he would be paid the merest
pittance. Man should not expect to live by writing alone, he found to be
the general opinion--he should have a business or profession and do his
scribbling in the left-over hours.
Still, his appearance at the door of a newspaper, magazine or book
publisher's office, accompanied by the announcement of his name, brought
him respect and a polite hearing--if that could afford any satisfaction
to a man whose darling wife was growing wan from insufficient food.
One devoted friend he and his family made in Mr. Gowans, a Scotchman and
a book-collector of means and cultivation, whose fancy for them went so
far as to induce him to become a member of the unique little family in
the dingy wooden shanty which they had succeeded in renting for a song.
To this old gentleman, who had the reputation of being something of a
crank, The Dreamer's conversation and Virginia's beauty and exquisite
singing were never-failing wells of delight, while the generous sum that
he paid for the privilege of sharing their home was an equal benefit to
them and went a long way toward supplying the simple table. The little
checks which "little Tom" White sent for the monthly instalments of
"Arthur Gordon Pym," upon which his ex-editor industriously worked, were
also most welcome. But with all they could scrape together the income
was insufficient to keep three souls within three bodies, and three
bodies decently covered.
Before the year in New York was out the rainbow was pale in the sky--its
colors were faded and its end was invisible--obscured by lowering
clouds. At the moment when it seemed faintest it came out clear
again--this time setting toward Philadelphia, whose name the hope that
rarely left him for long at a time whispered in The Dreamer's ear.
Why not Philadelphia? Philadelphia--then the acknowledged seat of the
empire of Letters. Philadelphia--the city of Penn, the "City of
Brotherly Love." There was for one of The Dreamer's superstitious turn
of mind and his love of words and belief in their power, an
attraction--a significance in the very names. He said them over and over
again to himself--rolled them on his tongue, fascinated with their sound
and with their suggestiveness.
He bade Virginia and "Muddie" keep up brave hearts, for they would turn
their backs upon this cold, inhospitable New York and set up their
household gods in the "City of Brotherly Love." The city of Penn, he
added, was the place for one of his calling--laughing as he spoke, at
the feeble pun--but there was new hope and life in the laugh. In Penn's
city, even if disappointments should come they would be able to bear
them, for how should human beings suffer in the "City of Brotherly
Love?"