Text: N. P. Willis, “Pen and I — At Idlewild ,” Home Journal (New York, NY), February 4, 1865, p. 2, cols. 1-2

PEN AND I — AT IDLEWILD.

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* * “In the middle ages lived some similar characters, of which Hegel, in his History of Philosophy, furnishes very interesting characteristics — men who felt the terrible dualism of their nature too strongly to effect its reconciliation. A wild, restless life, exhausting sensual pleasure, overwhelming individuality, and a prominent adaptation for mathematics and abstruse sciences were the chief characteristics of these men. In the History of Necromancy we meet still more numerous instances of such unfortunates. But of all, of whom we have any report, no one touches us so deeply, so painfully, as the American poet, who, in “The Raven,” erected an immortal monument to himself and his despair.

“He must have been a very handsome man, attractive and captivating in his whole appearance, well built, of middle-stature, agile and muscular, with nobly-shaped head, well covered with black curly hair; dark and piercing eyes; fine shaped mouth and nose; and with a forehead, which would have been beautiful but for its excessive prominence. This forehead expresses his whole character, overwhelming analytic reasoning powers. The opposition between life and speculations has been decided too much in favor or the latter. You have here an understanding, which aspires to penetrate everything, to absorb feeling altogether, and make itself life. The tree of knowledge has been tasted, and is now called upon to produce out of itself the fruit of the tree of life. Is it astonishing, that a cold, dead phantom-life is the result? Is it astonishing, that the suppressed animal life strives to emancipate itself from the slavery of the understanding, and to overcome its enemy by the aid of sensuality and intoxication?

“Poe's personal appearance produced an impression never to be forgotten. Quiet and subdued — whenever he had not tasted wine — there was an inexpressible charm in the tones of his voice and the fire of his eyes. His beautiful voice he understood to modulate with exquisite art, and his eyes, accompanied with great expression the fervent poetry of his language. “The eloquence of his conversation was at times, as of another world. His similes he took from the regions, which only the eyes of genius sees.” “I shall never,” says Mrs. Francis Sargent Osgood, “forget our first meeting. His proud, fine head erect, his dark eyes glancing with the electric fire of earnest feeling and deep thought, and with a peculiar and inimitable mixture of tenderness and self-reliance in his expression, he greeted me calmly, earnestly, almost coldly; and yet with such marked earnestness, that I could not help feeling impressed by it. From that moment until his death, we were friends.” This calm, composed demeanor, so utterly opposed to his restless, volcanic character, mirrored itself even in Poe's dress, which was ever scrupulously neat, in the furniture of his house, and in all his actions. N. P. Willis knew him always only as “the same melancholy, quiet, and unassuming gentleman.” Dr. Griswold, whom POE, before his death, had appointed his literary executor, draws a very ugly picture of Poe. But then the whole biography is written in a spirit of hatred Before dwelling more at length upon this history, we will once more liste to Mrs. OSGOOD’S description of our poet; at the same time expressing our deepest regret, that we are not yet in possession of a better biography of this remarkable man, and especially, that his letters have never been published, of which Mrs. OSGOOD remarks, that they exhibit his genius far better than all his poetical and prose works.

“ ‘I have never,’ says Mrs. Osgood, found him otherwise than mild, generous, and carefully refined in his behavior. For a sensitive and tenderly educated woman there lay a peculiar and irresistable charm in the chivalrous and almost tender reverence, with which he met all women, without exception, [column 2: who won his esteem. I have been told that when cares and pecuniary difficulties had driven him to the use of stimulating liquors — of which a less tender organization than his might have partaken without harm — he was in the habit of speaking disrespectfully of the ladies of his acquaintance. It is difficulty for me to believe this; to me he never, during the years of our acquaintance, in which he often came to me for advice and kindness in his many cares and sorrows spoke disrespectfully of women, with one exception, and then it was to defend me.” “It was in his own simply, yet beautiful home, where the character of Edgar Poe appeared to me in its most beautiful light. Amiable, witty, and alternately compliant of self-willed, like a spoiled child, he had for his young, sweet and adoring wife, as well as for all who visited him, a loving smile and polite, tender attention, even in the midst of his most exhausting literary labors.”

“His wife he seems indeed to have loved deeply, and this love was extended to his wife’s mother, and was intensely reciprocated by both. Without a murmur of complaint, nay, with joy and pride they bore the poverty in which he remained during his whole mature life. His mother-in[[-]]law was not even ashamed to beg for POE and his wife, when both were stricken down by sickness. He was always esteemed and valued by them. His beautiful poem “Annabel Lee” was written on the death of his beloved wife, and he also addressed some deeply-felt verses to her mother.

“There is no doubt, that wonderfully beautiful, though always melancholy beautiful, as some of his writings are, a portion of his life has also been. It is wrong to make him out a mere devil. And though he never was a cheerful man, never a genuine sone of the earth, though the shadow of the Raven never altogether disappeared from his brow, he seems to have been a real demon only after drinking. A single glass of wine was sufficient to put him in a state of frenzy. Then “he walked through the streets insane or melancholy, his lips moved by indistinct curses or his eyes turned upwards in passionate prayer (never for himself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that he was already damned,) but for the happiness of those whom he worshipped for the moment.” Or, “his glance sunk deep into the heart, torn by despair, and his face overshadowed by deep darkness, he would expose himself to the wildest storms, and all the night, his clothes dripping with the wet and his arms beating the air and the rain, would speak with the spirits, he could evoke only at such time from Aidenn.” * * * Then he became a true Satan. Then he found pleasure in the most disgusting and horrible. Then he hated and scorned all mankind. It is questionable whether he ever had moral feeling — conscience — for in spite of his boundless pride he had even no feeling of honor; but if he had, it certainly vanished in those gloomy, terrible hours.

“In 1837, he left Richmond for New-York, having shortly before married his young and lovely cousin, Virginia Clemm, on the strength of ten dollars a week. From New-York he went to Philadelphia, where he had a quarrel with the publisher of ‘Graham's Magazine,’ and soon returned to New-York. Here he now edited a paper with N. P. Willis. Mr. Willis was much taken by Poe's quiet, unassuming manner, and never left off cherishing his memory. In New-York, Poe wrote ‘The Raven,’ which made him at once the hero of the day. He was surrounded by admirers and the most elegant circles of the city were opened to him. His fine appearance and captivating conversation, entranced everybody. A splendid career seemed to await him. But his evil habits again returned. He embroiled himself in disputes with other literary men, and alienated his best friends by his drunkenness Money troubles were added, and when, in 1847, Poe's wife was thrown on the sick-bed, and he himself felt ill, public appeals had to be made in his behalf in the New-York papers. His wife died of her illness, and her death must have had a terrible effect on Poe. For one whole year he kept himself aloof from public life, and probably worked at that curious work, ‘Eureka,’ which, in 1848, he read before an assembly of the most refined and noted men of New-York, as ‘A Lecture on the Universe.’ He seems to have been completely carried away by this work. ‘A sublime enthusiasm took possession of him whenever the conversation turned upon the subject.’ In August, 1849, Poe left New York to return to Virginia. He settled down in Richmond, joined a temperance society, and seemed resolved to enter an altogether new life. He renewed his acquaintance with a lady friend of his youth, and was engaged to turn to a happy end. On the fourth, he left Richmond to settle some business affairs in New-York, and return for the wedding. Arrived at Baltimore, he was forced to stay awhile at the railroad station, to wait for the next train. Some ‘friends’ found him and invited him to drink. He forgot all his good resolutions, joined them, and was beastly drunk a few hours afterward. After a night of wild dissipation and exposure, he was brought to an hospital where he died on Sunday evening, October seventh, 1849, at the age of thirty-eight years.” * * * *