Monday, December 31, 2012

A Poe New Year's Eve. Hear the Bloggers With the Bells!

No fireworks--this is a pretty low-budget blog--but we can still ring in the New Year at World of Poe.  I present Sergei Rachmaninov's choral symphony "The Bells":

A brief, but quite festive choral version:

And just for something completely different:  The same poem as interpreted by...Phil Ochs.  It works pretty darn well:

Bonus for you musicians:  Here's the sheet music for an early 20th-century version by Hugh S. Roberton.

See you all in 2013.  Unless, of course, the Mayans finally decide to kick it up a notch.

Monday, December 24, 2012

A Poe-Themed Christmas Tale. Bah, Gold-Bug.

A little holiday reading:  Here is George Ade's 1903 story “The Set of Poe."  I grant you, it's no “A Christmas Carol," but this short tale is a sweetly goofy salute to the subject of this blog: The dream of the protagonist’s life is to own a fine edition of the works of Poe. A noble goal, indeed.

And here’s hoping all of you have a holiday season with as happy an ending.

Waterby remarked to his wife: “I’m still tempted by that set of Poe. I saw it in the window today, marked down to fifteen dollars.”

"Yes?” said Mrs. Waterby, with a sudden gasp of emotion, it seemed to him.

"Yes--I believe I'll have to get it.”

"I wouldn't if I were you, Alfred." she said. "You have so many books now."

"I know I have, my dear, but I haven't any set of Poe; and that's what I’ve been wanting for a long time. This edition I was telling you about is beautifully gotten up."

"Oh, I wouldn't buy it, Alfred," she repeated, and there was a note of pleading earnestness in her voice. "It's so much money to spend for a few books."

"Well, I know, but--" and then he paused for the lack of words to express his mortified surprise.

Mr. Waterby had tried to be an indulgent husband. He took a selfish pleasure in giving, and found it more blessed than receiving. Every salary day he turned over to Mrs. Waterby a fixed sum for household expenses. He added to this an allowance for her spending money. He set aside a small amount for his personal expenses and deposited the remainder in the bank. He flattered himself that he approximated the model husband.

Mr. Waterby had no costly habits and no prevailing appetite for anything expensive. Like every other man, he had one or two hobbies, and one of his particular hobbies was Edgar Allan Poe. He believed that Poe, of all American writers, was the one unmistakable "genius." The word "genius" has been bandied around the country until it has come to be applied to a long-haired man out of work or a stout lady who writes poetry. In the case of Poe, Mr. Waterby maintained that "genius" meant one who was not governed by the common mental processes, but "who spoke from inspiration, his mind involuntarily taking superhuman flight into the realm of pure imagination"--or something of that sort. At any rate, Mr. Waterby liked Poe, and he wanted a set of Poe. He allowed himself not more than one luxury a year and he determined that this year the luxury should be a set of Poe.

Therefore, imagine the hurt to his feelings when his wife objected to his expending fifteen dollars for that which he coveted above anything else in the world.

As he went to work that day he reflected on Mrs. Waterby's conduct. Did she not have her allowance of spending money? Did he ever find fault with her extravagance? Was he an unreasonable husband in asking that he be allowed to spend this small sum for that which would give him many hours of pleasure and which would belong to Mrs. Waterby as much to him?

He told himself that many a husband would have bought the books without consulting his wife. But he (Waterby) had deferred to his wife in all matters touching family finances, and he said to himself, with a tincture of bitterness in his thoughts, that probably he had put himself into the attitude of a mere dependent.

For had she not forbidden him to buy a few books for himself? Well, no, she had not forbidden him, but it amounted to the same thing. She had declared that she was firmly opposed to the purchase of Poe. Mr. Waterby wondered if it were possible that he was just beginning to know his wife. Was she a selfish woman at heart? Was she complacent and good-natured only while she was having her own way? Wouldn't she prove to be an entirely different sort of woman if he should do as many husbands do—spend his income on clubs and cigars and private amusements; and give her the pickings of small change?

Nothing in Mr. Waterby's experience as a married man had so wrenched his sensibilities and disturbed his faith as Mrs. Waterby's objection to the purchase of a set of Poe. There was but one way to account for it. She wanted all the money for herself or else she wanted him to put it into the bank so that she could come into it after he--but this was too monstrous.

However, Mrs. Waterby's conduct helped to give strength to Mr. Waterby's meanest suspicions.  Two or three days after the first conversation she asked: "You didn't buy that set of Poe, did you Alfred?"

"No, I didn't buy it," he answered as coldly and with as much hauteur as possible

He hoped to hear her say: "Well, why don't you go and get it? I'm sure that you want it, and I’d like to see you buy something for yourself once in a while."

That would have shown the spirit of a loving and unselfish wife.

But she merely said: "That's right; don't buy it," and he was utterly unhappy, for he realized that he had married a woman who did not love him and who simply desired to use him as a pack horse for all household burdens.

As soon as Mr. Waterby had learned the horrible truth about his wife he began to recall little episodes dating back years, and now he pieced them together to convince himself that he was a deeply wronged person.

Small at the time and almost unnoticed, they were now accumulating to prove that Mrs. Waterby had no real anxiety for her husband's happiness. Also, Mr. Waterby began to observe her closely, and he believed that he found new evidences of her unworthiness. For one thing, while he was in gloom over his discovery and harassed by doubts of what the future might reveal to him, she was content and even-tempered.

The holiday season approached and Mr. Waterby had made a resolution. He decided that if she would not permit him to spend a little money on himself he would not buy the customary Christmas present for her.

"Selfishness is a game at which two can play," he said.

Furthermore, he determined that if she asked him for any extra money for Christmas he would say: "I'm sorry, my dear, but I can't spare any. I am so hard up that I can't even afford to buy a few books that I’ve been wanting a long time. Don't you remember that you told me that I couldn't afford to buy that set of Poe?"

Could anything be more biting as to sarcasm or more crushing as to logic?

He rehearsed this speech and had it all ready for her, as he pictured to himself her humiliation and surprise at discovering that he had some spirit after all and a considerable say-so whenever money was involved.

Unfortunately for his plan, she did not ask for any extra spending money and so he had to rely on the other mode of punishment. He would withhold the expected Christmas present. In order that she might fully understand his purpose, he would give presents to both of the children.

It was a harsh measure, he admitted, but perhaps it would teach her to have some consideration for the wishes of others.

It must be said that Mr. Waterby was not wholly proud of his revenge when he arose on Christmas morning. He felt that he had accomplished his purpose and he told himself that his motives had been good and pure, but still he was not satisfied with himself.

He went to the dining room and there on the table in front of his plate was a long paper box containing ten books each marked "Poe." It was the edition he had coveted.

"What's this?" he asked, winking slowly, for his mind could not grasp in one moment the fact of his awful shame.

"I should think you ought to know, Alfred," said Mrs. Waterby, flushed and giggling like a school girl.

"Oh, it was you—"

"My goodness, you’ve had me so frightened. That day when you spoke of buying them and I told you not to, I was just sure that you suspected something. I bought them a week before that."

"Yes--yes," said Mr. Waterby, feeling the salt water in his eyes. At that moment he had the soul of a wretch being whipped at the stake.

“I was determined not to ask you for any money to pay for your own presents," Mrs. Waterby continued. “Do you know I had to save for you and the children out of my regular allowance. Why, last week I nearly starved you and you never noticed it as I was afraid you would."

"No, I didn't notice it," said Mr. Waterby brokenly, for he was confused and giddy. This self-sacrificing angel--and he had bought no Christmas present for her! It was a fearful situation, and he lied his way out of it.

"How did you like your present?" he asked.

“Why, I haven't seen it yet," she responded, looking across at him in surprise.

“You haven't? I told them to send it up yesterday."

The children were shouting and laughing over their gifts in the next room and he felt it his duty to lie for their sake.

"Well, don't tell me what it is," interrupted Mrs. Waterby. "Wait until it comes."

"I'll go after it."

He did go after it, although he had to drag a jeweler away from his home on Christmas Day and have him open his great safe. The ring which he selected was beyond his means, it is true, but when a man has to buy back his self-respect the price is never too high.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Marginalia: Some Horrible, Terrible, No Good Very Bad Poe Anecdotes

…In other words, perfect Undine Blog Fodder!

These two shaggy dog stories appeared in the “Cosmopolitan Art Journal” for December 1858. They are as fictitious as they are silly, but I thought they deserved notice as examples of how, less than a decade after his death, Poe had already become a figure in pop culture. I doubt even the magazine’s editors expected their readers to believe these anecdotes, (although 20th century Poe researcher Thomas O. Mabbott would, characteristically, treat them with an unsettling seriousness.)  However, it is significant that the "Art Journal" assumed anything, no matter how trivial, about the man was “good copy."  It is also interesting to see how two of the main factors in the modern-day "Poe Legend"--poverty and scandals involving literary women--were already firmly established in the public mind:

“A friend told us, the other day, of one of Edgar A. Poe’s sarcasms, which is worth repeating. Poe had been told that certain ladies in the literary world had resolved to expose him, for some of his misdemeanors. He answered: ‘they are very good at exposures!’ Those who have frequented some literary soirees, will especially appreciate the significance of the sarcasm.”

“Poe once was dunned savagely for a grocer’s bill, long overdue. He immediately sat down, penned one of his most savage onslaughts upon one of ‘the literati,’ and upon the strength of it borrowed the amount needed to free him from the grocer. ‘There, sir!’ said he, ‘grow, sir, you grocer puppy, into a dog, sir, and may you then be dogged, sir, as you have dogged Poe, sir. Now, go sir, and be -------- to you.’ This, properly expressed, would look very like a Poe-stanza. It goes to show that some of his conceptions may have originated in moments of high-feeling, instead of having all been coolly ‘coined,’ with great labor, as he intimates they were.”

Another Poe fable, published in the "Hawaiian (Oahu) Star" on April 28, 1893, has a goofily surreal quality that rather appealed to me:

"During the brief period in which Edgar Allan Poe was engaged to be married he was discovered by her whom, despite his frailty, he held in such sacred tenderness, lying intoxicated in the street. Lest others should recognize him--so runs the story--she threw her hankerchief over his face.  Futile effort to hide one of that multitude of sins which Charity's cloak alone can cover!  When he was capable of realizing his situation he recognized the hankerchief and became a prey to that torture and despair during which he wrote:

'And my soul from out the shadow
That lies floating on the floor, shall be lifted

And, of course, there were those times when Poe's left hand didn't know what his right hand was doing. Or something. Behold an anecdote of his University of Virginia days, from the "Home Magazine" in 1909:
"Poe was very proud of his penmanship. One day, so the story goes, a friend entered the room to find Poe writing busily with both hands.

'What are you doing?' asked the friend.

'Writing with both hands," said Poe.

'Both hands!' exclaimed the friend. 'But how on earth can you make any progress in that way?'

'Easy enough. It is a theory of mine that it is a waste of time not to be able to use both hands at the same time. Both hands and brain can be trained, with care and attention, so that each hand may do its full share of work--each hand being employed on a separate task. It is not really an affair of the hands at all, in the last analysis, but an affair of the intellect. I am training my hands and brain now so that I can do twice as much work as the ordinary person in a given period of time. At the present moment I am writing a poem with my right hand; one that I confidently believe will startle the world. And with my left hand I am blocking out a wonderful story, a story which should capture thousands of readers.

'It will only be a short time before I will be able to take my examinations in this manner and dispose of two subjects simultaneously. It will save time and will give hands and brain their full duty.'"

Meanwhile, the "St. Johns (AZ) Herald" for December 1, 1921 presented their readers with a strangely disturbing bit of information:

Thursday, December 13, 2012

I Am Now Officially a Lovely Blogger. Stop Giggling.

As additional proof that it is indeed a strange ol’ world, Susan Ardelie of the terrific 18th-century-oriented blog Life Takes Lemons, has been kind enough to name me (yes, me!) as one of her choices for the Lovely Blog Award. (I told you. Stop giggling. And give those derisive snorts a rest, too.)

It seems the LBA is quite similar to the Very Inspiring Blogger honor, in that I must now:

1. Thank the person who gave you the honor. (Thank you, Susan! This nomination should make you a shoo-in for the Very Tolerant Blogger Award. If there is no such thing, I’m inventing one and giving it to you here and now.)

2. Add the “One Lovely Blog Award” image to your post. Here ya go:

3. Share seven things about you.

4. Pass the award on to seven nominees.

5. Include this set of rules.

6. Inform your nominees by posting a comment on their blogs.

The first two are a snap, but No. 3 begins to get a bit complicated. I don’t know if I can find seven things worth saying about myself. At least, until I’m sure the statute of limitations has run out. After much thought, a few prayers to St. Olga—a woman who sure knew how to get the job done—and a very dry martini, I managed to come up with the following slices of autobiography:

1. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.

2. I very nearly drowned in a lake when I was eight years old. The strange thing is, the result of this experience is that I now have absolutely no fear of the water. In fact, I’m never happier than when I’m around it. (I didn't give myself the screen name of a water spirit for nothing.) I remember very distinctly that after the initial panic, when I started to go under, a feeling of utter peace came over me, like going very gently to sleep. It was actually rather an unpleasant shock when I got fished out. It convinced me that while there are very many nasty ways to go, drowning is not among them.

3. In the words of a friend of mine, I am a “Cat Magnet.” I have owned cats since I was two years old (I have four at the moment,) and the peculiar thing about this is that, of all the many cats who have shared my life, I did not set out to acquire any of them. I never come to them—they come to me. My first cat was a gift from a neighbor. Since then, I've had strays who have literally shown up on my doorstep and refused to leave. Or there were neighbors who moved and couldn’t take their cat, so I felt I had to provide the poor dispossessed feline a home. Or an elderly friend of the family died and left no one else willing to take in his cat. The oddest thing is, this has only happened once with a dog—when I was a child, my then-stepfather gave me a puppy (only good thing the guy ever did in his life, BTW.) I love dogs (I’m no bigot!) and would love to have another someday, but for whatever reason, the gods just pointed to me and said, “You! Toxoplasmosis City!”

4. I dropped out of school when I was fourteen (this will come as no surprise to anyone who's noticed the quality of the grammar found on this blog.) I did later get an AA degree at Santa Monica College, I suppose just for appearance’s sake.

5. I’m a Sagittarius with Virgo rising, just like Jane Austen. And yes, I fully realize the resemblance ends right there.

6. I’m a non-smoking vegetarian who generally avoids processed foods and runs five miles every morning, rain or shine. I also can drink a battalion of Marines under the table and back again, which I suppose balances things out.

7. One of my relatives was a writer on “Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman.” This undoubtedly explains a lot.

Now for the most painful part: The nominations. Painful because I could easily give this award to dozens of terrific blogs who deserve it a heck of a lot more than my poor muddling self. However, I had to narrow it down somehow, so here they are, with my apologies to everyone I had to omit:

1. Pauline of Pirates and Privateers/HoodooQ: Visit these two blogs to get a great education on Naval history and, well, Hoodoo. Plus recipes!

2. Bourbon and Tea: Andrea Janes not only writes excellent ghost stories, she has a wonderfully eclectic blog covering everything from the supernatural to literature to, God bless her, beer.

3. Edward II: William Wallace was not the father of Edward III, damn it!

4. Embarrassing Treasures: A blog I only recently discovered that is a delightful Blast From the Past.

5. Mary Miley’s Roaring Twenties: Fun site to read about one of my favorite eras in American history.

6. Murder by Gaslight: Because who doesn’t love a bit of historical bloodshed?

7. Jeri Walker-Bickett’s What Do I Know: For being a darn good sport.

And we're done!  Undine over and out.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Poe and John Allan

The most crucial element of Poe’s life is the fact that at a very early age his life was placed in the hands of a double-barreled bastard. Even admitting that raising someone of Poe’s unusual and complex personality would be a challenge for many people, and that young Edgar possessed a singular knack for bringing out the worst in his guardian—it still remains that John Allan was a largely unsympathetic human being, and the most unfortunate choice imaginable for taking charge of Poe’s upbringing.

Allan was born on September 10, 1779 in Ayrshire, Scotland. Early in 1795 he emigrated to Richmond, Virginia to work for his uncle William Galt, who had established himself there as a prosperous merchant. The next year, Allan formed a mercantile firm with Charles Ellis. By 1803, he was successful enough to marry a beautiful young socialite, Frances Valentine. The couple remained childless. In 1811, Frances Allan was among the charitable Richmond matrons to take an interest in the ailing and indigent actress Eliza Poe, and after Mrs. Poe’s death in December, Mrs. Allan—who was said to have been taken by the unusual charm and precocity of the dying thespian’s middle child—persuaded her husband to give the nearly-three-year-old Edgar a home. Edgar’s elder brother William Henry was sent to live with his paternal grandparents in Baltimore, while baby Rosalie became the ward of another Richmond family, the Mackenzies.

Little Edgar received a decidedly mixed blessing in his foster-parents. By all accounts, Frances Allan and her new “son” genuinely loved each other, but the little we know of her gives the impression of a sickly, querulous, and rather shallow woman who was simply an inadequate substitute for the strong maternal figure the boy desperately needed. A letter John Allan wrote in 1816 referred to his wife “complaining as usual.” Four years later, Charles Ellis commented that Mrs. Allan had of late been unusually “even-tempered and accommodating,” and that if she could manage to maintain her attitude, “she would make the path through life much more even to herself.”

Although the Allans evidently maintained a surface harmony, their marriage obviously had its troubles. John Allan fathered at least three illegitimate children, and it is reasonable to guess he was guilty of other affairs that left no such obvious evidences. We do not know for certain that his wife believed him unfaithful, but it is a tenable theory, and such an awareness could alone account for her lack of “even-temper.” We know even less about Edgar’s attitude. It has been speculated that by the time he reached his teens, Poe became aware of his foster-father’s darker side, and this explained the remarkably hostile turn in their relations, but that belongs more to legend and assumptions than to established evidence. There is a particularly ugly Richmond rumor that when Poe was in college, he wrote Allan a bitter letter accusing him of having given Frances Allan a venereal disease which left her sterile. However, I find this story hard to believe. For one thing, Allan’s second wife had no fertility problems, and lived to a vigorous old age. For another, as troubled as the relations between ward and guardian later became, Poe's extant correspondence to Allan during that period show him still hoping for Allan's love, or at least respect. It is impossible to picture such a letter causing anything but an immediate and permanent estrangement. On the whole, I’m inclined to classify such lurid stories as among the many wild myths which cling to Poe like lint.

Although by all accounts Allan had been reluctant to give little Edgar a home, from what little we know of Poe’s childhood relationship with his “Pa,” it appears to have been stable, and even somewhat affectionate.  (It must be noted here that Susan Talley Weiss--allegedly quoting one of the Mackenzie sons--wrote that when Allan would become annoyed with the child, he would "threaten to turn him adrift, and that he never allowed him to lose sight of his dependence on his charity."  This dreadful story has some plausibility, considering Allan's later attitude, and has frequently been repeated as fact.  On the other hand, Weiss was, as I have often said, an unmitigated and utterly shameless liar, leaving me to assume--and, for Edgar's sake, earnestly hope--it was yet another product of her startlingly active and consistently diseased imagination.)

Allan was said to have shared his wife’s pride in their little foster-son—although one sometimes gets the impression they saw him as a pleasing household pet to show off before guests—and his surviving letters from Edgar’s childhood, while they do reveal a rather dispassionate attitude, still speak of his ward approvingly as a "fine Boy."  (One of the most touching bits of Poeana is a letter Allan wrote in 1815, soon after the family had arrived in England for what would prove to be a five-year sojourn. In the midst of a list of family news he was giving Charles Ellis, he mentioned that the six-year-old Edgar had asked him to pass on a message: “Pa say something for me, say I was not afraid coming across the Sea.”)

Sadly, Poe’s relations with Allan took a mysteriously nasty turn as the beguiling child became a troubled adolescent increasingly conscious of his outsider status in the Allan household. One of the earliest pieces of evidence for Allan’s increasing disgust with his ward comes from a bizarre letter he wrote to Edgar’s seventeen-year-old brother William Henry in 1824.

Allan expressed a creepily extravagant, fawning attitude towards Poe’s brother, expressing his “desire to Stand as I ought to do in your Estimation.” He compared “Henry,” “my Brave & excellent boy,” with the “miserable, sulky & ill-tempered” fifteen-year-old Edgar. “The boy possesses not a Spark of affection for us nor a particle of gratitude for all my care and kindness towards him.” (Considering the image of Allan himself that one gets from his own letter, this is not difficult to understand.) For good measure, Allan referred to Rosalie Poe as “half your Sister,” raising questions about her paternity that will probably never be answered.

The beginning of the end for Allan and Edgar came when the young man was sent to the University of Virginia in February 1826. For reasons which remain a complete mystery, Allan—who was, thanks to a legacy from his uncle, now a very wealthy man—sent Edgar to a highly expensive school with funds that were far short of what was needed for even basic living expenses. Poe—never known for his financial luck—desperately tried to make up the deficit by gambling. The almost-inevitable result was that, in addition to his school bills, he now was burdened with humiliating “debts of honor." Allan evidently refused to pay any of the money Poe owed. The older man’s solution to the problem was to simply force Edgar to withdraw from the university after only one semester—a break that Poe would forever resent.

After Poe returned to Richmond, tensions between the two increased until, like an active volcano finally finding release, they had what was probably their worst quarrel to date in March of 1827. Poe angrily fled the Allan home—essentially for good, as it would turn out—and, obviously still fuming, wrote his foster-father a letter the same day, announcing his determination “to find some place in this wide world, where I will be treated--not as you have treated me.” He went on to list reasons for his departure—reasons that were obviously a rehash of their earlier fight:

“Since I have been able to think on any subject, my thoughts have aspired, and they have been taught by you to aspire, to eminence in public life — this cannot be attained without a good Education, such a one I cannot obtain at a Primary school — A collegiate Education therefore was what I most ardently desired, and I had been led to expect that it would at some future time be granted — but in a moment of caprice — you have blasted my hope because forsooth I disagreed with you in an opinion, which opinion I was forced to express —

Again, I have heard you say (when you little thought I was listening and therefore must have said it in earnest) that you had no affection for me —

You have moreover ordered me to quit your house, and are continually upbraiding me with eating the bread of Idleness, when you yourself were the only person to remedy the evil by placing me to some business —

You take delight in exposing me before those whom you think likely to advance my interest in this world…”

Whatever Poe’s original plans may have been, by May he had enlisted in the Army. After Frances Allan—who had evidently stayed devoted to her foster son to the last—died in February 1829, Poe got a brief leave of absence and returned to Richmond, where he and Allan patched up a truce. The two agreed that Allan would help Poe obtain an appointment to West Point—an agreement Allan eventually fulfilled, but with remarkably bad grace. In his letter to Secretary of War John Eaton, Allan essentially washed his hands of the young man who still thought of him as “Pa,” writing that Poe “is no relation to me whatever; that I have many whom I have taken an active Interest to promote thiers [sp] with no other feeling than that; every Man is my care, if he be in distress.”

The uneasy peace between Poe and Allan was irrevocably shattered by the beginning of 1831. When Poe had sought his cadetship, he hired a “substitute,” a Sergeant Graves, to take his place in the Army. Although he evidently gave Graves his $75 fee, he owed the man other debts. When Graves wrote him on the subject, Poe sent an apologetic reply, attributing his financial confusion to the fact that “Mr. A is not very often sober.” Graves forwarded this unbelievably ill-judged letter to Allan himself, with predictable results. We do not know exactly what Allan wrote to Poe after hearing from Graves, but the general import can be gauged from the reply Poe wrote from the Military Academy on January 3. As it proved to essentially be the epitaph of their relationship, it deserves quoting in full:

I suppose (altho’ you desire no further communication with yourself on my part,) that your restriction does not extend to my answering your final letter.

Did I, when an infant, sollicit [sic] your charity and protection, or was it of your own free will, that you volunteered your services in my behalf? It is well known to respectable individuals in Baltimore, and elsewhere, that my Grandfather (my natural protector at the time you interposed) was wealthy, and that I was his favourite grand-child — But the promises of adoption, and liberal education which you held forth to him in a letter which is now in possession of my family, induced him to resign all care of me into your hands. Under such circumstances, can it be said that I have no right to expect any thing at your hands? You may probably urge that you have given me a liberal education. I will leave the decision of that question to those who know how far liberal educations can be obtained in 8 months at the University of Va. Here you will say that it was my own fault that I did not return — You would not let me return because bills were presented you for payment which I never wished nor desired you to pay. Had you let me return, my reformation had been sure — as my conduct the last 3 months gave every reason to believe — and you would never have heard more of my extravagances. But I am not about to proclaim myself guilty of all that has been alleged against me, and which I have hitherto endured, simply because I was too proud to reply. I will boldly say that it was wholly and entirely your own mistaken parsimony that caused all the difficulties in which I was involved while at Charlottsville [sic]. The expenses of the institution at the lowest estimate were $350 per annum. You sent me there with $110. Of this $50 were to be paid immediately for board — $60 for attendance upon 2 professors — and you even then did not miss the opportunity of abusing me because I did not attend 3. Then $15 more were to be paid for room-rent — remember that all this was to be paid in advance, with $110. — $12 more for a bed — and $12 more for room furniture. I had, of course, the mortification of running in debt for public property — against the known rules of the institution, and was immediately regarded in the light of a beggar. You will remember that in a week after my arrival, I wrote to you for some more money, and for books — You replied in terms of the utmost abuse — if I had been the vilest wretch on earth you could not have been more abusive than you were because I could not contrive to pay $150 with $110. I had enclosed to you in my letter (according to your express commands) an account of the expenses incurred amounting to $149 — the balance to be paid was $39 — You enclosed me $40, leaving me one dollar in pocket. In a short time afterwards I received a packet of books consisting of, Gil Blas, and the Cambridge Mathematics in 2 vols: books which I had no earthly use since I had no means of attending the mathematical lectures. But books must be had, If I intended to remain at the institution — and they were bought accordingly upon credit. In this manner debts were accumulated, and money borrowed of Jews in Charlottesville at extravagant interest — for I was obliged to hire a servant, to pay for wood, for washing, and a thousand other necessaries. It was then that I became dissolute, for how could it be otherwise? I could associate with no students, except those who were in a similar situation with myself — altho’ from different causes — They from drunkenness, and extravagance — I, because it was my crime to have no one on Earth who cared for me, or loved me. I call God to witness that I have never loved dissipation — Those who know me know that my pursuits and habits are very far from any thing of the kind. But I was drawn into it by my companions. Even their professions of friendship — hollow as they were — were a relief. Towards the close of the session you sent me $100 — but it was too late — to be of any service in extricating me from my difficulties — I kept it for some time — thinking that if I could obtain more I could yet retrieve my character — I applied to James Galt — but he, I believe, from the best of motives refused to lend me any — I then became desperate, and gambled — until I finally i[n]volved myself irretrievably. If I have been to blame in all this — place yourself in my situation, and tell me if you would not have been equally so. But these circumstances were all unknown to my friends when I returned home — They knew that I had been extravagant — but that was all — I had no hope of returning to Charlottesville, and I waited in vain in expectation that you would, at least, obtain me some employment. I saw no prospect of this — and I could endure it no longer. — Every day threatened with a warrant &c. I left home — and after nearly 2 years conduct with which no fault could be found — in the army, as a common soldier — I earned, myself, by the most humiliating privations — a Cadets’ warrant which you could have obtained at any time for asking. It was then that I thought I might venture to sollicit [sic] your assistance in giving me an outfit — I came home, you will remember, the night after the burial — If she had not have died while I was away there would have been nothing for me to regret — Your love I never valued — but she I believed loved me as her own child. You promised me to forgive all — but you soon forgot your promise. You sent me to W. Point like a beggar. The same difficulties are threatening me as before at Charlottesville — and I must resign.

As to your injunction not to trouble you with farther communication rest assured, Sir, that I will most religiously observe it. When I parted from you — at the steam-boat, I knew that I should nev[er] see you again.

As regards Sergt. Graves — I did write him that letter. As to the truth of its contents, I leave it to God, and your own conscience. — The time in which I wrote it was within a half hour after you had embittered every feeling of my heart against you by your abuse of my family, and myself, under your own roof — and at a time when you knew that my heart was almost breaking.

I have no more to say — except that my future life (which thank God will not endure long) must be passed in indigence and sickness. I have no energy left, nor health. If it was possible, to put up with the fatigues of this place, and the inconveniences which my absolute want of necessaries subject me to, and as I mentioned before it is my intention to resign. For this end it will be necessary that you (as my nominal guardian) enclose me your written permission. It will be useless to refuse me this last request — for I can leave the place without any permission — your refusal would only deprive me of the little pay which is now due as mileage.

From the time of writing this I shall neglect my studies and duties at the institution — if I do not receive your answer in 10 days — I will leave the point without — for otherwise I should subject myself to dismission.”

Allan does not appear to have directly answered this letter, merely endorsing it with the cold comment: “I do not think the Boy has one good quality. He may do or act as he pleases, tho’ I wd have saved him but on his own terms & conditions since I cannot believe a word he writes. His letter is the most barefaced one sided statement.” (It should be noted that many historians believe Poe was mostly stating the facts.)

Poe, of course, did leave West Point, and there’s no reason to think Allan felt the least concern about where he went or what he did. The attentions of Poe’s erstwhile “Pa” were occupied by Louisa Patterson, whom he married in October 1830. The couple soon had three sons, and this new family made Allan all the more determined to cut his only remaining tie with the old. Although there would be a sporadic correspondence between them over the next several years, Allan made it all too clear that he felt no further sense of responsibility for Poe.

Poe’s letters to Allan during these last years have not endeared him to his biographers. They are often an uncomfortable mixture of self-pity and bombast, where he alternately scorns Allan and grovels to him. This swing between anger and desperate need for love is very typical of the attitude many abused children feel for their adult tormentors--which suggests Poe's ostensibly contented childhood was far bleaker than we assume.

As exasperating as Poe can sound in these letters, it is also impossible not to feel for him when he wrote lines like: “I am sorry that it is so seldom that I hear from you or even of you — for all communication seems to be at an end; and when I think of the long twenty one years that I have called you father, and you have called me son, I could cry like a child to think that it should all end in this. ..I write merely because I am by myself and have been thinking over old times, and my only friends, until my heart is full — At such a time the conversation of new acquaintance is like ice, and I prefer writing to you altho’ I know that you care nothing about me, and perhaps will not even read my letter.”

Poe was probably not without some blame in their relationship, but whatever his errors may have been, it is chilling to see the ease and thoroughness with which Allan was able to sever all ties with an obviously suffering youth who had spent virtually all his life thinking of Allan as a father. Even at his worst, Poe still comes off as human. John Allan does not.

On March 27, 1834, Allan died of a lingering illness of unknown origin, utterly ignorant that he would only be remembered because of the cast-off ward he had despised. Charles Ellis’ son Thomas (citing Louisa Allan as his source) wrote in 1881 that shortly before Allan’s death, Poe had suddenly appeared at the Allan family home, demanding to see his former guardian. Thomas Ellis claimed Mrs. Allan tried to turn him away, but Poe desperately barged his way into Allan’s sickroom, only to have the ailing but still unforgiving man chase the unwelcome visitor out with his cane. The story cannot be confirmed, but it would be depressingly in character for both men to end their relationship with such a mixture of melodrama and farce.

As is well-known, Allan did not bother even mentioning Poe in his will, leaving the young poet nothing but largely painful memories he carried the rest of his life.  A biographical sketch of Poe from 1843, which he undoubtedly contributed information to, if he did not actually write it, is openly contemptuous of his guardian, stating that “Mr. Allan’s principal recommendation was his wealth…He treated his young protege with as much kindness as his gross nature admitted…” In an 1839 letter to his cousin George Washington Poe, Edgar was even blunter, stating that when Allan inherited his uncle’s fortune, it “nearly turned his brain, and, worse, confirmed him in habits of habitual drunkenness…[he] gave loose to all the baseness of his nature.” Sarah Helen Whitman gave a similar story. In 1874, she wrote John Ingram that Poe had described Allan as “a man of a gross & brutal temperament, though indulgent to him & at times profusely lavish in the matter of money—at others, penurious & parsimonious.” Annie Richmond informed Ingram that Mrs. Clemm “always spoke in the strongest terms of denunciation” of the Allans and their treatment of Poe, although she added her opinion--one startlingly hostile to both Poe and Mrs. Clemm--that she refused to believe the Allans could have been guilty of any injustice towards him. (As if she could know!)

Allan was undoubtedly the most influential person in Poe’s life, and unfortunately the influence was entirely negative. It goes without saying that if he had continued to treat Poe as his ward, or at least left him some amount of money, the poet’s life would have been radically different. Even more importantly, however, he obviously failed to ever give Poe the emotional grounding such a sensitive and acute boy required. It is small wonder that Poe was later to cling to his aunt Maria Clemm so desperately. With her combination of unconditional love and practical support, she was both the mother and father he never really had. One wonders what his life would have become if she had been the principal figure of his childhood, rather than the materially rich but spiritually deficient Allan.

[A footnote: In 1875 Marie Shew Houghton wrote Ingram that shortly before Virginia Poe’s death, Edgar’s wife had shown her a letter Louisa Allan had written shortly after John Allan’s death. In this letter, Mrs. Allan expressed her desire to see Poe to make amends for having been the sole cause of his estrangement from his guardian. According to Mrs. Houghton, Louisa Allan was jealous of Edgar for being a true blood relative to her husband. Supposedly, he had written a scornful reply, to which she answered pleadingly, “You were always a gentleman to me, always, until now—can you not forgive a fault so humbly acknowledged?”

This soap operatic anecdote has troubled Poe’s biographers ever since. Everyone who knew Louisa Allan stated that she went to her grave with an unremitting antipathy towards the very subject of Poe—a man she could only have personally known from that very brief and unpleasant occasion described by Thomas Ellis. It is virtually impossible that there were any sort of ties of kinship between Allan and Poe. There is no other first-hand account of anyone else even seeing these letters Mrs. Houghton described. Faced with a claim that directly contradicts all known history—not to mention simple common sense—they have shown a strange reluctance to simply classify Mrs. Houghton as a demonstrably deranged fantasist, and have instead retreated into confusion. Arthur Quinn even made efforts to suggest that the first Mrs. Allan had at some point written a conciliatory letter, even while he seemed to sense the feebleness of his own argument.

Even though the idea that one or other of the Mrs. Allans wrote some sort of pleading letters to Poe has become one of the many enshrined fables of his biography, it is long past time to throw the story into history’s garbage disposal where it belongs. The other gossip involving John Allan’s second marriage—that his estrangement from Poe occurred when his ward attempted to seduce the new Mrs. A—is, fortunately, too stupid for even his worst modern biographers to tolerate, but it still stands as a good example of the depths to which Poe Mythology can sink.]

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

An Edgar Allan Poe Thanksgiving. Oh! It Smells!

This account of Poe making a brief return from the afterlife in order to recite a heartfelt Ode to Turkey appeared in the “Grange (MN) Advance” for January 7, 1874. Needless to say, this is very probably the greatest piece of journalism ever.  It seemed only appropriate that I share it for this particular holiday so we can all give thanks for old newspapers and the editors who obviously really liked their adult beverages.  Happy Thanksgiving to one and all tomorrow.


[The other evening at a seance of spiritualists in Hastings, Minnesota, Edgar A. Poe, the great American poet, announced himself as present. Among other questions, he was asked which one of the good things of this life he missed most in his new abode. His answer, to the great surprise of his interviewers, was "a good, square meal." He added that he had not had too many of them while alive, but that since his transfer to the spirit-world his ethereal stomach had been perfectly disgusted with the light diet to which it was subjected and that while making a meal the other day of a gentle zephyr, flavored with the breath of roses, his imagination had longingly reverted to the last roast turkey he had enjoyed on earth, and that he had thereupon composed the following additional verse to his "Bells." He added, with suppressed raps and with long pauses between the words, that "there was nothing in the spirit world equal to roast turkey;" and in the silence which followed a peculiar sound was heard which the medium said was the smacking of Poe's ghostly lips over the recollections of "the royal bird." The verse is as follows, and we trust our readers will accept the moral of the poem, especially in this holiday season, which is, to take all the comforts out of this life they possibly can.]


Hear the glorious dinner bells,
Copper, silver, golden bells,
Sympathetic dinner bells;
What a world of satisfaction,
Their melody foretells.
And the turkey, smoking hot,
From the dark ambrosial pot,
Crammed with sweetness till it swells,
And it smells! oh! it smells,
As if an angel dwells
In the circumambient air;
And from irridescent wings,
O'er the loaded table flings,
Paradisial odors rare,
Filling, thrilling all the air.
While it smells! oh! it smells,
Smells, smells, smells,
Smells, smells, smells,
As if the saints forgiven,
Through the open gates of heaven,
Flung the beaming, gleaming,
Light of Eden rare;
Through the circumambient air,

[It may be objected that this verse is hardly equal to the rest of Poe's poetry, but allowances must be made for the light diet on which it was produced. EDITOR GRANGE ADVANCE.]

(Image via New York Public Library.)

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Poe and Jane Locke

Jane Ermina Locke and Edgar Allan Poe
"[M]y extremely delicate health...and all too sensitive heart, with an irrepressible--shall I call it Genius?--struggling for recognition, if nothing more..."
-Jane E. Locke, 1850
Of all the many miscreants who helped make Poe’s last few years so painful, arguably the strangest of the lot was an otherwise nondescript Massachusetts housewife and poet named Jane Ermina Locke, whose latent talent for mayhem burst into full flower when she met Poe.

Late in 1846 reports of Poe’s distressing poverty and illness were widely circulated in the newspapers. The list of his calamities only increased when these stories brought him to the attention of 41-year-old Mrs. Locke. She was inspired to publish a poem, “An Invocation for Suffering Genius,” (“Oh Charity, where hast thou fled with heavenly lustered wing/While on her low and sorrowing bed genius lies suffering?”) and in February 1847, several weeks after the death of Poe's wife Virginia, she sent him a warm expression of condolence. All of her attentions were likely inspired by the hope of utilizing him to further her own literary career, which, to her own great frustration, had failed to convince the world of her "Genius."

A correspondence was established between them, but as only three letters of his and one of hers survive, it is hard to gauge its exact nature. It is assumed that Poe saw this woman--of whom he knew nothing--as a potential second wife, but his extant letters are so stilted and artificial, it is hard to know for certain what he thought of her. There is no evidence of genuine warmth in his attitude, but he was always desperately receptive to sympathy wherever it could be found--sympathy he particularly needed after Virginia’s death--so it would not be unreasonable if in his loneliness he hoped that this stranger who was so open in her admiration for him might prove to be something more than a pen-pal.

For some months, however, the only tangible result of their epistolary acquaintance was another poem she addressed to Poe, “The True Poet,” which appeared in the June 1, 1848 “New York Morning Post.” She breathlessly described him as “the poet of her heart.”

There is some uncertainty about their first personal meeting. In the 1870s, both Sarah Helen Whitman and Annie Richmond told John H. Ingram that in the spring of 1848, Mrs. Locke visited Fordham in order to invite Poe to deliver a lecture at her residence of Lowell, Massachusetts. Presumably, he then learned that his admirer was not, as he may have imagined, well-to-do and unattached, but an impecunious, very married woman with numerous children. However, a contemporary--so presumably more reliable--letter written by Annie’s brother A.B. Heywood stated that when Poe came to Lowell in July, encountering the ineligible and undesirable Mrs. Locke for the first time was a disconcerting experience for the poet.

In any case, Poe’s Lowell lecture marked the beginning of the end of his nascent friendship with Mrs. Locke. While staying at her home, he met her friend and neighbor Mrs. Richmond, and, it was said, immediately transferred his affections to her. According to Sarah Helen Whitman, during this visit “the two ladies apparently vied with each other for Poe’s attention.” As a result, “A quarrel …had sprung up between the two ladies, and before he left, open hostility was declared.”

Jane Locke did not give Poe up without a fight. In her own inimitable fashion, she wooed him by sending a simply astonishing thirty-one stanza poem in his honor entitled “Ermina’s Tale.”  ("I felt as in the presence of a god!")
"Henceforth the raven's beak my heart shall bear,
And the strange flapping of its ebon wings
Fan my sad spirit to a deep despair,
Wild as the 'nevermore' it ceaseless sings."
The full text can be found here.  Lengthy as it is, it needs to be read in its whole to get the full flavor of “Ermina’s” singular personality.

Incidentally, I now know what killed Poe. It was the aftereffects of Mrs. Locke's poetry.

This effusion failing to win Poe’s heart, Mrs. Locke bewailed the end of love’s dream with the inevitable verses. “The Broken Charm” appeared in the “Boston Notion” in February 1849:
“Not that I thought to clasp thee as mine own. —
But I had robed thee with such holiness,
And round thy form a veil of glory thrown,
I can but weep before the false impress.”
After getting this off her chest, Mrs. Locke, like Mary Stuart after the murder of Rizzio, studied revenge. It was said she turned her efforts towards destroying both him and her “rival,” Mrs. Richmond. In the 1870s, Annie Richmond gave John Ingram a copy (the original is not extant) of a letter she claimed to have received from Poe early in 1849. In this letter, he railed against the “malignant misrepresentations” of Mrs. and Mr. Locke. According to this letter, Poe had quarreled with the Lockes over their insulting attitude towards the Richmonds. After this offense to their “insane vanity and self-esteem,” the Lockes retaliated by “ransacking the world for scandal” to use against him, with the result that Mr. Richmond (who is a curious cipher in this whole domestic melodrama) came to distrust Poe.

“Annie” informed Ingram that she showed this letter of Poe’s to her husband, who gallantly responded by sending the Lockes a letter “denouncing them in the strongest terms.

According to the copies of Poe’s letters provided by “Annie,” this distressingly childish squabble went on for some time. Whatever the exact truth of the details--“Annie” was not as reliable a source as we would wish--it is indisputable that Poe and Mrs. Locke became estranged, although her attitude towards him remained unhealthily fanatical.

The whole episode, unedifying as it was, did not lack comic relief. According to yet another of Mrs. Richmond’s copies of her correspondence, in the spring of 1849 Poe wrote with undisguised horror that Mrs. Locke informed him that she was writing a roman a clef about their relationship. According to this letter, her tell-all novel--which, if it was anything like her poetry, would have been one for the ages--was about to be published. This is the first and last we hear of the book, however, making it impossible to know if:

A: Mrs. Locke had truly written such a manuscript, only to have saner heads in the publishing world pull the plug on her project.
B: She was only using the threat of publication as a way of getting a hold over Poe.
C: Poe or Mrs. Richmond simply invented the story.

Sarah Helen Whitman also provided testimony that Mrs. Locke’s stalkerish ways had not abated. Although her own relationship with Poe was over by 1849, she later said that in the spring of that year, Mrs. Locke sent her many invitations to visit Lowell. As the woman was a complete stranger, she declined. However, “Ermina” was so persistent in her demands for a visit that she finally gave in. Mrs. Whitman later wrote that although she liked both the Lockes very much (a statement that speaks eloquently about her judgment,) she began to suspect that “Her object in seeking my acquaintance was unquestionably to prevent any renewal of my correspondence with Mr. Poe, by whom she concieved [sic] herself to have been deeply wronged.” In another letter, Mrs. Whitman expressed her belief that Mrs. Locke hoped to “pique the Raven” by exhibiting her as a houseguest, “or perhaps bring about a reconciliation with him through my means.” (How Mrs. Whitman--herself bitterly estranged from Poe--could possibly “bring about a reconciliation” is something only she and her ether bottle could answer.)

She went on to say that after this visit to Lowell, Mrs. Locke continued to bombard her with letters expressing her continuing obsession with Poe. Mrs. Whitman observed that her unwanted correspondent “was too much under the influence of wounded pride to exercise a calm judgment in the matter.” This was evidently Sarah Helen’s typically milquetoast way of saying, “crazy with a side of fries.”

Poe’s demise did nothing to end Mrs. Locke’s unfortunate fixation on him. Her first act, of course, was to publish a "Requiem to Edgar A. Poe." ("Strike the anthem, bards and brothers/Softly sweep your many lyres/Let the low and solemn requiem/Linger on their silver wires!")

According to Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Locke followed this public expression of affectionate mourning by writing her a letter “to say that [Poe] had spoken disrespectfully of me to his friends in Lowell. In reply I made no allusion whatever to the paragraph in question. In her next letter she repeated the assertion. I passed it in silence as before. She then came to Providence and passed a night with me. On her attempting to introduce the subject which she had so often touched upon in her letters I interrupted her by saying that I did not wish to listen to any charges against one whose memory was dear and sacred to me,--that if false they could not now be refuted,--if true, I could understand and forgive them. . . I fear from her own confessions, that she has sometimes used my name very unwarrantably to endorse her own opinions of Mr. Poe's character. In a letter to Mr. Willis, written about the time of Edgar's death, she ventured to do so--citing me as authority for some impressions which she entertained with regard to his moral character. I wrote Miss Lynch at the time, requesting her to set Mr. Willis right on the matter, but as some coolness then existed between Miss Lynch and myself I am ignorant whether the request was ever complied with." Such shenanigans did not escape Maria Clemm's attention. Poe's "Muddy" wrote Thomas Holley Chivers that she had not seen Mrs. Locke since "Eddie's" death: "She spoke unkindly of him since then and that is sufficient to make me hate her."

"Ermina," in between episodes of Griswoldian trashing of the late poet's memory, also spread the word that Poe had left a fond “deathbed message” to her--conveyed via Mrs. Whitman!--a self-serving fabrication that left Mrs. Clemm sputtering in fury at her presumption: “Mrs. L[ocke] would have been the last woman in the world he would have written to…She will have to be more cautious how she speaks of him or I will have to speak as she will not wish.”

In the doughty Mrs. Clemm, we may have finally found the person capable of getting Jane Ermina Starkweather Locke to just shut up. The turbulent Mrs. L. made a quiet retreat until her death in 1859.

(Image via

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Halloween With Edgar

If there is a better way to observe Halloween than by listening to Bela Lugosi reading "The Tell-Tale Heart," it doesn't exist on this planet:

More Poe-themed entertainment for your tricked-and-treated soul:  The delightful nostalgia-themed blog Embarrassing Treasures compiled a list of radio adaptations of Poe's stories.  The links to the broadcasts can be found here and here.

As accompaniment, I can only add a few words of great wisdom--words that are too often ignored in our blood-and-gore drenched culture:

"But the truth is that, with a single exception, there is no one of these stories in which the scholar should recognise the distinctive features of that species of pseudo-horror which we are taught to call Germanic, for no better reason than that some of the secondary names of German literature have become identified with its folly. If in many of my productions terror has been the thesis, I maintain that terror is not of Germany, but of the soul,--that I have deduced this terror only from its legitimate sources, and urged it only to its legitimate results."
-From the preface to "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque," 1840

[Bonus video:  Thanks to Tim Smith of the "Baltimore Sun," I recently discovered this beautiful musical rendition of "Annabel Lee," sung by the late Welsh tenor Robert Tear, with AndrĂ© Previn on piano.  I knew I had to share it on the blog somehow, and it makes a suitably haunting song for this occasion. A good Samhain's Eve to one and all.]

Monday, October 22, 2012

The First Poe Monument Campaign

"Fate that once denied him,
And envy that once decried him,
And malice that belied him,
Now cenotaph his fame."
-Alfred Tennyson's Poe epitaph
Literary scholar Edward Pettit has for some years spearheaded a quixotic campaign to have Poe reburied in Philadelphia, as a tribute to what he sees as that city’s preeminent influence on Poe’s body of work. What is less well-known is that Pettit is merely following in the footsteps of a crusade that began only a few years after Poe’s death.

In July of 1856, the magazine “Cosmopolitan Art Journal” expressed disgust over the fact that the poet’s remains “rested in their burying-place, neglected by friends, and unmarked even by the plainest slab.” They suggested that Poe might be reburied in Philadelphia’s Laurel Hill Cemetery, where an appropriate monument could be raised in his honor. This is probably the earliest public call for such a statue.

In their March 1857 issue, they returned to the theme. In an editorial titled “Honor to Genius,” they lamented the “impropriety of such neglect of the man who had done so much for American Literature.” However, they were gratified to report that their earlier plea for Poe to get the posthumous respect he deserved was finding a warm response. Both the “New York Times” and Nathaniel P. Willis publicly endorsed the idea, calling for the formation of an association to attend to the matter.

Unfortunately, the remarkable personal enmity certain factions held towards Poe, even after he was no longer around to battle them, soon asserted itself. The “Art Journal” decried a recent article about Poe in the “North American Review” which “rejuvenated the grossest history of the man, and in a most cold, unfeeling manner, denied the propriety of any monument to his memory.” The “Art Journal” commented, “This expression is not strange, coming from a review for which Mr. Poe, when living, entertained a great contempt, which he betrayed upon many occasions.”

By way of contrast with this small-minded and uncharitable spirit, the “Art Journal” quoted a letter from a correspondent, which they described as representative of the many words of support their scheme had received. The unnamed letter-writer said, “Waving all opinion, and with a sense of gratitude, we would become an active worker in the matter, by soliciting subscriptions for a suitable monument to cover the mortal remains of the poet and critic, whose genius so richly endowed our Literature. Let no mockery of the cold, heartless pietest deter us from prosecuting this matter: what though we cannot worship him while living—shall we cover him with contumely when dead?”

The editorial closed with the “Art Journal” promising to “cheerfully enter” as agents in the matter, inviting the public to write to them with suggestions. “May the Grace which presides over the American Muse, bless the effort to fittingly mark the last resting-place of one of her noblest worshippers!”

Alas, the course of Poe, even more so than with True Love, never did run smooth. In June, the magazine wrote that although they had received “many communications” endorsing their idea, there was no consensus about how such an association would carry out the plan, or even who should be in charge of such a body. The “Art Journal” could merely suggest the names of General George P. Morris, Charles Scribner, and Louis A. Godey as suitable to take the matter in hand, with the hopes that these persons would respond in “a very hearty, generous way.”

The writer of this editorial was obviously well aware of the intensity of lingering prejudice against Poe. They claimed they did not intend to defend Poe against the recent “North American Review” article, (which an anonymous correspondent, who was probably James Wood Davidson, warned had had “considerable influence,”) or Rufus W. Griswold’s “heartless biography.” “We feel that the great American public looks upon these notices of the dead with aversion and disgust—that it recognizes the genius of Poe as transcendent, and will, therefore, willingly lend its material sympathy to any movement designed to perpetuate the memory of the man who has more real distinctiveness in our literature, than any other writer of his generation. There may be a propriety in dragging a man’s shortcomings before the public, when he is alive and able to defend himself: but to drag the dead from the grave, and assault the body as all of the man, is, to our mind, little else than literary cannibalism.”

The “Art Journal” quoted Dr. Joseph Snodgrass’ description of the sadly neglected condition of Poe’s current resting-place, which he considered discreditable to Baltimore in general and Poe’s relatives in particular. The magazine repeated their call for Poe to be removed to Laurel Hill, where he “may be permitted to sleep, honored and visited by those who would pay tribute to genius.”

After all this impassioned prose, the “Art Journal’s” campaign soon reached a sudden and rather depressing anticlimax. In their November 1857 issue, they carried a final notice briefly recapping their desire to give Poe honorable reburial in Philadelphia. They stated that the warm response to their call to action revealed “the great hold which the deceased poet and critic has upon American minds.”

Unfortunately, they were stopped in their tracks by the news that Poe’s family finally erected a stone over his grave, indicating that they wished their illustrious relative to stay put. “There is,” the “Art Journal” sighed, “therefore no propriety in further action, at present, and we may consider the question of the removal of the remains and the erection of a monument as withdrawn from the public,” although “we can but express regret” at how matters were taken out of the hands of Poe’s many admirers. They ended with the wistful reminder that if at any time in the future, it was decided to move Poe to Philadelphia after all, “we shall most cheerfully lend our sympathy and aid in the matter.”

Regretfully, the reports the “Art Journal” received about the belated attention given to Poe’s grave were premature. Stories about the disgracefully unkempt condition of his burial-place continued to circulate, until force of public opinion—not to mention an increasingly agitated Maria Clemm—finally spurred Neilson Poe to order a suitable headstone. However, this stone was allegedly destroyed by a runaway train, after which Cousin Neilson, who evidently felt he had already done more than his duty, washed his hands of the matter. In 1865, a Baltimore schoolteacher named Sara Sigourney Rice started a drive to give Poe’s grave proper reverence. Finally, a whole two decades after the initial monument campaign, a memorial was dedicated on November 17, 1875. It gives Poe the wrong birthday (January 20,) has no epitaph, and curious legends persist to this day that when they set out to rebury Poe under this stone, they accidentally exhumed the wrong body.

The long-gone "Cosmopolitan Art Journal" would not have been amused.

(Image of Laurel Hill Cemetery circa 1848 via Library of Congress.)

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Civilization Was Actually Kind of Nice, While It Lasted

Just spotted on Amazon:

If anyone needs me for anything, I'll just be off in this corner, drinking myself into unconsciousness.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Birth of a Meme

Over in Twitterville last night, Maria  kindly provided Rufus Griswold with a handy visual aid to assist him in his unceasing battles against the forces of darkness; i.e. that vast legion of morons who insist on calling our hero "Edgar Allen Poe":

The Reverend, who can be called many, many things, but not stupid, was then inspired to create this:

This was my contribution to the cause:

We also discovered this little gem made by some anonymous Allanist:

I may not have had much success so far in eliminating the many damaging myths being spread about Poe, but I can at least help make "Allan, not Allen" viral.  Create your own Poe meme!  Annoy your friends!  Puzzle your neighbors!  Inspire your nearest and dearest to call the police on you!

Sunday, October 7, 2012

In Memoriam: A Little-Known Poe Obituary

"But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old-time entombed."
-"The Haunted Palace"

The following eulogy for Poe appeared in the "New Bedford (MA) Mercury" on October 20 and 26, 1849. It does not appear that the author, who was probably "Mercury" editor Benjamin Lindsey, knew Poe personally, but it is one of the most interesting contemporary obituaries of him I have seen. It is particularly notable that this author concentrates on Poe’s crucial and unique role in American literature, while bypassing (except for brief, and not unkindly, comments at the end) the usual tiresome frettings and moralizings about his private life.

This column has largely been overlooked by Poe scholars, (although Burton Pollin republished it in 1994,) so I include it here to commemorate this day. It can almost stand as the “authorized” obituary Griswold would have written if—well, if he had not been Griswold:

"The recent melancholy decease of Mr. Poe seems hardly to have drawn from the public press that hearty recognition of his abilities which they undoubtedly merit. Here and there a member of this conscientious body seizes the occasion to air his morality. This was to have been expected. People who had, Heaven knows, reason enough to remember him while living, will certainly take the opportunity of his death to chronicle his errors, and their own virtues. This too was to have been expected. Men and women, whose pretentions he laughed at, and whose principles of literary labor he despised; who having taken possession of the papers and magazines did not hear the salutary truth half often enough; who seized the mutual idea of the day for praise, as journeymen tailors do for pence, and paid each other monthly dividends with ludicrous punctuality; who maintained themselves precariously by writing verses, none of them better, and not many of them as good as those with which “Persons of Quality” graced the literature of the last century; men and women who, upon the largest and most liberal consideration, seem to the honest judgment wanting as much in sincerity and earnestness of purpose as literary ability—alas! These were the unworthy censors to whom Poe’s works and ways were submitted. Unworthy they certainly were, for he was solid while they were frivolous, earnest while they were sunk in lethargy; full of manliness and vigor which contrasted unfavorably with their monthly produce of poor verses and fashionable tales.

To another class Poe, during his fitful life, owed small thanks! These were the men who are consecrated to the service of respectability in letters and ex officio in dullness in every thing; men too harmless to find much fault with; whose quarterly oracles might indeed be missed by the wakeful. They are men who heartily admire every thing upon which time and reputation have set their seals, but who would have refused to talk with Savage, or visit the garret of Johnson. They are men who do not like to be startled out of their self-complacency; who read Addison or Junius for style, and absolutely could not, if they would, make American letters anything but a dead reproduction of the forms of standard authors. It has never occurred to these sapient philosophers that they are living in the nineteenth of the centuries; that a literature with a head and heart in it which shall remain as the exponent of our struggles, our hopes, or only our despair, which shall indicate to the future by its shortcomings its half-articulate utterance , its very want and weakness, that which spiritual darkness wrapped us as in a garment, and free action and manly thought were forgotten, there remained one or two in whose bosom smouldered the fires of an antique heroism—that such a literature, of necessity intemperate, fragmentary, and eccentric, will not come, heralded by the soft lullaby of the lute or the quiet ripple of Arcadian rivulets, these men have forgotten, if they ever knew. Poe, more than any literary man of his time and country, chafed in his fetters. He saw at a glance through what we call American literature, and as he was a man to say what he thought, he never was forgiven.

It was as a critic that Mr. Poe made himself especially obnoxious to these retail dealers in literary commodity, as to distinguish them from the wholesale importers, we may call them. The Duke of Nassau who purchases numerous jugs wherein to export to a thirsty world the veritable Selters, submits them all to a rigid and ultimate test. Being filled with water, if it shall be found upon subsequent inspection that any one has leaked, or appeared to leak the least in the world, the stern hammer of the potentate, in the hands of some qualified deputy, settles completely enough that jug’s prospects of foreign travel. It was in this summary manner that Mr. Poe was wont to complete the career of certain “broken cisterns.” They should not pass themselves upon a confiding world, as genuine Selters—the empty jugs. That this prompt and final adjudication of matters gave rise to much lamentation and many tears, is not to be denied. There was then and is now much talk of cruelty. But if a fly will try to convince the world that he is a beetle, or even if a respectable beetle claims to be called and known as a tortoise, what remedy is there but the entomological pin, were it only for the purpose of scientific demonstration and refutation of all that? That Mr. Poe did the state some service, and they did not know it, only proves how blind the state is to that lamentable waste of paper and ink of which our bards, callo[w] as well as callous, are guilty. His way of doing the work may seem questionable to the tender hearted, whose gentle constitution alike blinds them to the extent of the evil, and the immediate need of stringent remedies; we have no doubt that it was judicious, and considering the future, not untinctured by benevolence.

But personal as Mr. Poe sometimes was, we suspect he was irritated and dissatisfied rather with our whole system than with any individual examples. Few men knew better than he, few men had better opportunities of knowing, the falsity and emptiness of the hosts who covet the lofty honors of inspiration, or the impudent assumption of mere imitators, that they were singing the thoughts and achievements of the American age or the American people. He knew that America did not sing other music than the clang of the forge, or the ring of the emigrant’s axe. That his country, unquestionably great and genuine in much, should be forever exhibiting her weak side to the world, vexed him sometimes into virulence, for he himself never attained the pure height of a rational severity. With those who thus compromised her character Mr. Poe lived for the most part in a state of quarrel. It could hardly have been otherwise, for he was a practical man, who knew what he did well, and did what he did do well, and who was not above the examination of details. He was intended by Nature for the noblest warfare against error, but he submitted to champion Truth in meaner contests.

Of Mr. Poe’s works we do not intend to speak at length. They are the various productions of a literary man working for bread, in an age essentially un-literary. But in all he did, whatever may be its intrinsic value, there is a certain completeness or finish, which is remarkable when one considers his erratic courses. This is what we meant when we said that what he did do he did well. About this he seems to have been punctilious. He would have his metre right, if not his morals. His “Tales,” by which he is and probably will be, best known, amidst their wildness, and the luxuriance of their grotesque fancies, exhibit a rigidity of mathematical demonstration which (paradoxical as it may appear) we think is closely allied to the lofty spirituality of his poems. If we might institute a comparison—not in the best taste certainly, but merely for the purpose of a slight illustration—we should say that his mind was not unlike that of Coleridge, while his general handiness, practical skill, and versatility of pursuit, are fragmentary traces of Goethe’s well-disciplined and gigantic intellect.

And of whom are we thus speaking? Whose name is this we are thus joining with those of the illustrious departed? Alas! The name of one whose way of life was not wise; who struggled in vain against the world, the flesh, and the devil. He grappled with the sins and short-comings of his day and generation, and he fell. He sleeps soundly now that was so restless—the weary spirit is quiet at length. The man of many means which he could not use, of dauntless spirit which he could not bridle, who chafed and fretted in the harness of this clod-pated world until he cast it off forever, has departed; and while the censorious renew their shallow estimate of his works, his worth and his ways, we may sit down by his fresh grave and reverently remember that all things, whether of life or of death, are governed by Infinite Wisdom, while as year by year the world tramps forward to a better and brighter era, let us not complain that it treads into the dust so much of what to us is dear and beautiful."

Edgar Allan Poe died October 7 1849

(Header image via Wikipedia. Footer image via Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.)

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

In Which We Learn the Sad Truth of What Three Years of Poe Blogging Can Do to a Person

Yesterday, I came across a series of cat pictures paired with quotes from Pablo Neruda.  While examining that blog, I thought, "Can a similar Poe/feline tribute be far behind?"

I think you all know where this is heading.

Yes, this is how I spent my morning.  Because I love cats.  Because I love Poe.  Because I'm utterly bored with myself.  Because I'm desperate to find something to help me avoid having to force myself to try any productive work.  Because my mind has finally completely snapped.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present the Poe Cats: