Virginia Poe's Raven

Virginia Clemm Poe died on this day in 1847, at the age of twenty-four.  On February second, she was buried in the family vault of John Valentine, Poe's landlord, in the graveyard of the Old Dutch Reformed Church.  However, many years later, the cemetery was razed.  Poe biographer William F. Gill claimed that he "just happened" to be on the spot when Virginia's remains were about to be discarded.  He often boasted that he rescued what he could of Poe's wife (which, unfortunately, only amounted to a "few, thin, discolored bones") and for years kept them in his house as a distressingly Ed Gein-like souvenir and general conversation piece.  Finally, in 1885, the little that was left of poor Virginia was reburied with her mother and husband in Baltimore.

This article from the January 27, 1909 issue of the “New Ulm (MN) Review” gives Gill's own version of how his little adventure in body-snatching came to an end.  The headline is “The Raven Came Tapping.” A better title might be, “A Good Illustration of Why William Gill is Considered One of Poe’s More Chuckleheaded Biographers”:

At the Poe memorial meeting in Boston the other evening William Fearing Gill of Paris, the friendly biographer of the poetic genius Edgar Allan Poe, deeply interested his audience by relating a strange incident which he said had never been published or told and which he had determined to reserve for the centennial anniversary of the poet's birth.

"I was living in New York at the time, and in my room I had in a box the bones of Mrs. Edgar Allan Poe, which I had rescued when the graveyard in which she was interred was leveled. It was a bleak morning in December. I was awakened by a rap, rap, rap. I went to the door. No one was there. Again came the rap, rap, rap. I went to the window and opened it. All was darkness, but I could distinguish some sort of small animal on the sill. 'Come in,' I said, and in walked a raven.

"On my mantel I had an album of autograph letters of Poe, together with a poem called ‘The Demon of the Fire,' which doubtless inspired his 'Raven.' This bird went to the book, perched on top of it and, fastening his talons in it, turned and looked at me. I said, in the words of the poem, 'Tell me what thy lordly name is.' The raven flapped his wings and cried, 'Whoo-oo,' probably as near 'Nevermore' as Poe's raven ever got. The apparition of the raven I accepted as Hamlet accepted the apparition of the ghost—as a rebuke because I had delayed so long in interring the remains of Mrs. Poe. While the bird sat there I wrote to Nelson [sic] Poe asking him to take the bones. He did so, and we interred them in Baltimore."

A footnote: “The Demon of the Fire” (also known as “The Fire-Fiend”) was published in the “Southern Literary Messenger” in 1863, billed as an “unpublished MS.” of Poe’s. It was actually a hoax perpetrated by one Charles D. Gardette, who, when he republished the poem under his own name in 1866, stated unblushingly that he had been challenged to “produce a poem in the manner of ‘The Raven’ which should be accepted by the general critic as a genuine composition of Mr. Poe’s.”

It is depressing to record that Gardette succeeded, at least with certain critics. Not only Gill, but more reputable scholars, such as Edmund Clarence Stedman and James A. Harrison, showed a curious willingness to sacrifice their credibility by, even after Gardette’s confession, maintaining Poe’s authorship of lines such as:

“Speechless struck with stony silence, frozen to the floor I stood,
Till methought my brain was hissing with that hissing, bubbling blood;
Till I felt my life stream oozing, oozing from those lambent lips;
Till the demon seemed to name me — then a wondrous calm o‘ercame me,
And my brow grew cold and dewy, with at death damp stiff and gluey,
And I fell back on my pillow, in apparent soul eclipse.”

To be fair, those lines are a good description of how I feel after reading most of the Poe biographies.

Happy Anniversary to "The Raven"

As you may know, on this day in 1845, one of the most famous birds in literature made its debut in the "New   York Evening Mirror."  "The Raven" has probably made a larger impact on modern popular culture than that of any other poem ever written.  To celebrate this anniversary, I present a perfect example of the influence of that ungainly fowl, namely, the animated adaptation below.  "Margali's Midnight Matinee:  A Cartoon Travesty of 'The Raven'" was released in 1942:

Happy 204th, Edgar!

“Aye, aye, but my dear Mr. Phillegrim, this same Edgar A. Poe is--is--rather a bitter fellow, and has a way of his own of using up all humbugs. He carries a Tomahawk--does Poe. A very bad Tomahawk, a very nasty Tomahawk.”
--George Lippard, “The Spermaceti Papers,” “The Citizen Soldier,” July 26, 1843

Although it is now almost automatic to laud Poe as a critic, storyteller, poet, and philosopher, it is still largely overlooked that he was a pretty funny guy, as well, with a mordant wit and a gleeful genius for sarcasm. (I am also certain that most, if not all of his “serious” writings have a satirical or hoaxing element that he probably expected would go unnoticed by his audience.) If he came back to earth today, I don’t know if he’d be much richer—he just strikes me as one of those people who's fated to never accumulate money--but he would be right at home on the Internet. Greatest. Troll. Ever.

Poe's humor is usually difficult to isolate into quotation-length snippets--one usually has to read the entire piece of writing to get the full flavor of his gift for mockery.  (Which, it must be said, includes a good amount of self-mockery.)  Nevertheless, to celebrate his birthday, I have made the effort to present some of my favorite Poe quips, put-downs, and assorted snark. Take it away, Edgar:

As you may have guessed by the card, Catterina's throwing the party this year.

“Now my objection, in this case, is not to the larceny per se. I have always told Mr Hirst that, provided he stole my poetry in a reputable manner, he might steal just as much of it as he thought proper — and, so far, he has behaved very well, in largely availing himself of the privilege. But what I do object to, is the being robbed in bad grammar. It is not that Mr. Hirst did this thing — but that he has went and done did it.”
--“Marginalia” MS. circa March 1848

“He has much warmth of feeling, and is not a person to be disliked, although very apt to irritate and annoy.”
--“Charles F. Briggs,” “The Literati of New York City,” “Godey’s Lady’s Book,” May 1846

“[H]e was not, I say, laughed at so much for his excusable deficiencies in English grammar (although an editor should certainly be able to write his own name) as that, in the hope of disguising such deficiency, he was perpetually lamenting the ‘typographical blunders’ that ‘in the most unaccountable manner’ would creep into his work…I make these remarks in no spirit of unkindness. Mr. E. is yet young…and might…readily improve himself at points where he is most defective. No one of any generosity would think the worse of him for getting private instruction.”
--“Thomas Dunn English,” “The Literati of New York City,” “Godey’s Lady’s Book,” July 1846

“Mr. Clark once did me the honor to review my poems, and—I forgive him.”

"[Clark] is noticeable for nothing in the world except for the markedness by which he is noticeable for nothing."
--“Lewis Gaylord Clark,” “The Literati of New York City,” “Godey’s Lady’s Book,” September 1846

“The word ‘Personality,’ used in the heading of the series, has of course led astray the quartette of dunderheads [Charles Briggs, Hiram Fuller, Thomas Dunn English, and Lewis Gaylord Clark] who have talked and scribbled themselves into convulsions about this matter—but no one else, I presume, has distorted the legitimate meaning of my expression into that of private scandal or personal offense. In sketching individuals, every candid reader will admit that, while my general aim has been accuracy, I have yielded to delicacy even a little too much of verisimilitude. Indeed, on this score should I not have credit for running my pen through certain sentences referring, for example, to the brandy-nose of Mr. Briggs (since Mr. Briggs is only one third described when this nose is omitted) and to the family resemblance between the whole visage of Mr. English and that of the best-looking but most unprincipled of Mr. Barnum’s baboons?”
--Poe discussing “The Literati” in “Mr. Poe’s Reply to Mr. English and Others,” “Spirit of the Times,” July 10, 1846

“The most remarkable feature in this production is the bad paper on which it is printed, and the typographical ingenuity with which matter barely enough for one volume has been spread over the pages of two…The author avers upon his word of honor that in commencing the work he loads a pistol, and places it upon the table. He farther states that, upon coming to a conclusion, it is his intention to blow out what he supposes to be his brains. Now this is excellent. But, even with so rapid a writer as the poet must undoubtedly be there would be some little difficulty in completing the book under thirty days or thereabouts. The best of powder is apt to sustain injury by lying so long ‘in the load.’ We sincerely hope the gentleman took the precaution to examine his priming before attempting the rash act. A flash in the pan — and in such a case — were a thing to be lamented. Indeed there would be no answering for the consequences. We might even have a second series of the Confessions.”
--Review of Laughton Osborn’s “Confessions of a Poet,” “Southern Literary Messenger,” April 1835

“Again, it cannot be gainsaid that the greater number of those who hold high places in our poetical literature are absolute nincompoops.”
--Review of Lambert A. Wilmer’s “The Quacks of Helicon,” “Graham’s Magazine,” August 1841

“His book contains about sixty-three things, which he calls poems, and which he no doubt seriously supposes so to be. They are full of all kinds of mistakes, of which the most important is that of their having been printed at all.”
--Review of William Ellery Channing, “Graham’s Magazine,” August 1843

“We were saying—were we not?—that Mr. Headley is by no means to be sneered at as a quack. This might be justifiable, indeed, were he only a quack in a small way—a quack doing business by retail. But the wholesale dealer is entitled to respect. Besides, the Reverend author of ‘Napoleon and his Marshals’ was a quack to some purpose. He knows what he is about. We like perfection wherever we see it. We readily forgive a man for being a fool if he only be a perfect fool—and this is a particular in which we cannot put our hands upon our hearts and say that Mr. Headley is deficient. He acts upon the principle that if a thing is worth doing at all it is worth doing well:--and the thing that he ‘does’ especially well is the public.”
--Review of Joel T. Headley’s “The Sacred Mountains,” “Southern Literary Messenger,” October 1850

“Well! -- here we have it! This is the book -- the book par excellence -- the book bepuffed, beplastered, and be-Mirrored: the book 'attributed to' Mr. Blank, and 'said to be from the pen' of Mr. Asterisk: the book which has been 'about to appear' -- 'in press' -- 'in progress' -- 'in preparation' -- and 'forthcoming:' the book 'graphic' in anticipation -- 'talented' a priori -- and God knows what in prospectu…

...For a page or two we are entertained with a prospect of a conspiracy, and have great hopes that the principal characters in the plot will so far oblige us as to cut one another's throats…

...Thus ends the Tale of the Present Times, and thus ends the most inestimable piece of balderdash with which the common sense of the good people of America was ever so openly or so villainously insulted.”
--Review of Theodore S. Fay’s “Norman Leslie,” Southern Literary Messenger, December 1835

“The Swiss Heiress should be read by all who have nothing better to do.”

“Hereupon Mr. Theodore Montelieu calls Mr. Frederic Mortimer a liar, a big liar, or something to that effect, and challenges him to a fight, with a view of either blowing out his already small modicum of brains, or having the exceedingly few blown out, which he himself (Mr. Theodore Montelieu) possesses. Mr. Mortimer, however, being a hero declines fighting, and contents himself, for the present, with looking mysterious…everybody concerned in the business is not precisely what he is, and is precisely what he is not. After this horrible development, if we recollect, all the dramatis personae faint outright, one after the other.”
--Review of Susan Morgan’s “The Swiss Heiress,” Southern Literary Messenger, October 1836

“There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall mention only two more — the tone transcendental and the tone heterogeneous. In the former the merit consists in seeing into the nature of affairs a very great deal farther than anybody else. This second sight is very efficient when properly managed. A little reading of the ‘Dial’ will carry you a great way. Eschew, in this case, big words; get them as small as possible, and write them upside down. Look over Channing’s poems and quote what he says about a ‘fat little man with a delusive show of Can.’ Put in something about the Supernal Oneness. Don’t say a syllable about the Infernal Twoness. Above all, study innuendo. Hint every thing — assert nothing. If you feel inclined to say ‘bread and butter’ do not by any means say it outright. You may say anything and every thing approaching to ‘bread and butter.’ You may hint at buckwheat cake, or you may even go so far as to insinuate oat-meal porridge, but if bread and butter be your real meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any account to say ‘bread and butter!’ ”
--“How to Write a Blackwood Article”

[Note: In 1845, the Rev. Arthur Coxe’s “Saul: A Mystery” was published. As it failed to endear itself to the critics, an anonymous partisan sent the following to the “Hartford Columbian”:]

“An entertaining history,
Entitled ‘Saul, A Mystery,’
Has recently been published by the Reverend Arthur Coxe.
The poem is dramatic,
And the wit of it is attic,
And its teachings are emphatic of the doctrines orthodox.
But Mr. Poe, the poet,
Declares he cannot go it —
That the book is very stupid, or something of that sort:
And Green, of the Empori
Um, tells a kindred story,
And swears like any tory that it is’nt worth a groat.
But maugre all the croaking
Of the Raven and the joking
Of the verdant little fellow of the used to be review,
The People, in derision
Of their impudent decision,
Have declared, without division, that the Mystery will do.”

[Poe reprinted the rhyme, adding:]

“The truth, of course, rather injures an epigram than otherwise; and nobody will think the worse of the one above, when I say that, at the date of its first appearance, I had expressed no opinion whatever of the poem to which it refers. “Give a dog a bad name,” &c. Whenever a book is abused, people take it for granted that it is I who have been abusing it.

Latterly I have read ‘Saul,’ and agree with the epigrammatist, that it ‘will do’ — whoever attempts to wade through it. It will do, also, for trunk-paper. The author is right in calling it ‘A Mystery:’ — for a most unfathomable mystery it is. When I got to the end of it I found it more mysterious than ever — and it was really a mystery how I ever did get to the end — which I half fancied that somebody had cut off, in a fit of ill-will to the critics.”
--"Marginalia," "Southern Literary Messenger," May 1849

"'Not altogether a fool,' said G., 'but then he's a poet, which I take to be only one remove from a fool.'"
--“The Purloined Letter”

"’Enough,’ he said; ‘the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.’

‘True--true,’ I replied.”
--“The Cask of Amontillado”

“Of that species of composition which comes most appropriately under the head, Drivel, we should have no trouble in selecting as many specimens as our readers could desire.”
--Review of “Poems,” by William W. Lord, “Broadway Journal,” May 24, 1845

“This book is a public imposition.”
--Review of “Ups and Downs in the Life of a Distressed Gentleman,” by William Leete Stone, “Southern Literary Messenger,” June 1836

"We like Boston--and perhaps it is just as well not to mention that we are heartily ashamed of the fact."
--"Broadway Journal," November 1, 1845

"Insanity is a word that the Brook Farm Phalanx should never be brought to mention under any circumstances whatsoever."
--Responding to innuendos about his mental state, "Broadway Journal," December 13, 1845

"In fact, we fancy that we can trace the gradations of his wrath in the number and impressiveness of his underscoring. The SIRS!! for example, are exceedingly bitter, and in THE RAVEN, which has five black lines beneath it, each one blacker than the preceding, we can only consider ourselves as devoted to the Infernal Gods...

...We told him that we meant to do him justice--and we did it."
-Responding to a theater manager who was unwise enough to take issue with Poe's review of his play, "Broadway Journal," April 19, 1845

[Poe did not think much of the feminine fashion item known as bustles:]

“One of the evil genii who are perpetually upon the watch to inflict ill, has put it into the heads of these accomplished ladies that the thing which we describe as personal beauty, consists altogether in the protuberance of the region which lies not very far below the small of the back. Perfection of loveliness, they say, is in the direct ratio of the extent of this hump. Having been long possessed of this idea, and bolsters being cheap in that country, the days have long gone by since it was possible to distinguish a woman from a dromedary—“
--“The Thousand-and-Second Tale of Scheherazade”

“I thought upon other subjects than Death. I discarded my medical books. ‘Buchan’ I burned. I read no ‘Night Thoughts’--no fustian about church-yards--no bugaboo tales--such as this.”
--"The Premature Burial"

“Mr. P[oe] has been so often complimented for his powers of sarcasm that he thinks it incumbent upon him to keep up his reputation in that line by sneers upon all occasions and downright abuse.”
--Unfinished MS., “A Reviewer Reviewed,” circa 1849. As the old saying goes, read the whole thing. You'll never see anything else quite like it.

[A footnote:  A fine article on Poe's humor can be found here.]

Moonlighting

This is just to alert (warn?) all of you that I'm doing a guest post at ghost story writer/blogger Andrea Janes' Bourbon and Tea. I'm taking a look at one of the most poorly-documented periods of Poe's adult life--his brief, ill-fated residence in New York City from 1837-38.

Hope you find it of some interest.  Whatever you think of my post, while you're over there, do pick up a copy of her collection of stories, "Boroughs of the Dead."  It makes for wonderfully spooky reading.

A Parody of "Annabel Lee"

Subtitle:  "Yes, I Waste My Life and Probably Rot My Brain Hunting Down Stuff Like This."

"Deborah Lee," written by William H. Burleigh, first appeared in 1859, and for reasons I don't even pretend to know, became extremely popular in the magazines and newspapers of the day. As I have published several "Raven" parodies here over the years, I thought it only fair to give this equal time.  Have no fear, it is of the same wretched quality as all the other Poe parodies we have seen. Enjoy!

'Tis a dozen or so of years ago,
Somewhere in the West countree,
That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know,
By the name of Deborah Lee.
Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe,
But Deborah by me.

Now I was green and she was green
As a summer's squash might be,
And we loved as warmly as other folks,
I and my Deborah Lee;
With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdom
Coveted her and me.

But somehow it happened long ago,
In the agueish West countree,
That a chill March morning gave the shakes
To my beautiful Deborah Lee;
And the grim steam-doctor (hang him!) came
And bore her away from me;--
The doctor and death, old partners they,
In the agueish West countree.


The angels wanted her up in heaven,
But they never asked for me,
And that is the reason, I rather guess,
In the agueish West countree,
That the cold March wind and the doctor and death,
Took off my Deborah Lee
From the warm sunshine and the opening flowers,
And took her away from me.

Our love was as strong as a six-horse team,
Or the love of folks older than we,
And possibly wiser than we,
But death, with the aid of doctor and steam,
Was rather too many for me;
He closed the peepers, and silenced the breath
Of my sweetheart, Deborah Lee;
And her form lies cold in the deep, dark mold,
Silent and cold--ah me!

The foot of the hunter shall press the grave,
And the prairie's sweet wild flowers,
In their odorous beauty, around it wave
Through all the sunny hours;
And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass,
And the nectar laden bee,
With his dreamy hum, on his gauze wings pass--
She wakes no more to me,
Oh!  never more to me;
Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring,
She awakes no more to me.

Yet oft in the hush of the dim, still night,
A vision of beauty I see;
Gliding soft to my bedside,--a phantom of light,--
Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee,
My bride that was to be.
And I wake to mourn that the doctor and death,
And the cold March wind should stop the breath
Of my darling Deborah Lee,
Adorable Deborah Lee;
That angels should want her up in heaven
Before they wanted me.

There are those moments when I think we Edgar fans have a lot to answer for.

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.

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.

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
     Nevermore!'"

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: