Text: Anonymous, “Ingram's Life of Edgar Allan Poe,” New York Herald (New York, NY), whole no. 16,135, October 25, 1880, p. 8, cols. 1-3

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“Edgar Allan Poe, His Life, Letters and Opinions,” by John H. Ingram, in two volumes. London: John Hogg. 1880, is the title of a work before us. The life of Edgar Allan Poe resembles the traditionary life of the English author of the last century more than that of any American man of letters. He was always unfortunate and always poor. He had great chances which slipped sway from him, great talents, which he misused, and he was consequently unhappy. His prime defect seems to have been a want of moral sense; he possessed passion, but was without heart, and his intellect was never checked by conscience. He is only to be understood as an exceptionable being, for, judged by the standards which we apply to lesser and greater men, his character is inexplicable, his genius sinister and his life a warning to his fellows. Such is the impression we have always derived from his works, and it has not been shaken by the memoir of Mr. Ingram. He has a theory that Poe was a much maligned man, and if to omit all that militates against that theory is to prove it he has proved it, but not otherwise. When he cannot ignores all that does not tell to Poe's advantage; what he cannot ignore he glosses over with unmeaning phrases. He is to be congratulated upon his industry, for he has collected a great many particulars in regard to the life of Poe, and he is also to be congratulated upon showing better taste than characterized his former writings on this vexed question, for he no longer charges those who differ from him with being actuated by the basest motives. He still overrates the importance of Poe and overrates his own importance in rehabilitating his memory, which is darker than he would have us believe, though not so dark as appears in the pages of Griswold. Of the ancestry of Poe before the middle of the last century, when his paternal grandfather emigrated to America we know nothing positively. One of his biographers traced his descent from an old Norman family named Le Poer, which was conspicuous in Ireland in the reign of Henry II. but the family in this country are content to be the descendants of Poe's great grandfather, John Poe, who was a North of Ireland man. Little is known of Poe's mother, and to that little Mr. Ingram has added nothing. Her maiden name was Elizabeth Arnold, and her father may have been, as Mr. Ingram states, an Englishman of very good family, though in impoverished circumstances, who sought refuge in the United States, where be endeavored to support himself by literature. She may also have been born at sea, but his supposition that her mother died there at or directly after her birth is erroneous, for we hear of her at a much later period when she was an actress at the Boston Theatre. We first hear of her daughter Elizabeth in the summer of 1797 at the old John Street Theatre in New York, where she was cast for the part of Maria in “The Spoiled Child.” Nine summers afterward she trod the New York boards again, this time at the new Vauxhall Garden, in the part of Priscilla Tomboy. She was now Mrs. Poe. Mr. Poe being a young gentleman of Baltimore, who had become enamored of her and had married her in defiance of the wishes of his parents. Two or three months later the Poes were announced to appear at the Boston Theatre (where Mrs. Poe's mother, Mrs. Arnold, had formerly played), and in due time they appeared as Henry and Miss Blandford in Morton's comedy of “Speed the Plough.” Mr. Poe was described as having a full, manly voice, of considerable extent, with a clear and distinct utterance, and Mrs. Poe was favorably spoken of. Both were thought to be vain of their personal appearance. They were back again at the Boston Theatre in the winter and spring of 1809, and Mrs. Poe had apparently risen in her profession, for she now played such parts as Juliet and Ophelia. It was while they were playing this engagement that their second child, Edgar, was born — Mr. Ingram thinks on the 19th of January, 1809, others on the 19th of February. During Poe's lifetime, and for several years after his death, he was believed to have been born in 1811, and at Baltimore, but the researches of his biographer have settled the fact that he was born in Boston, and was consequently not the Southerner that he claimed to be. There is an interregnum in the history of the Poes until the autumn of 1811, or rather in the history of Mrs. Poe, for Mr. Poe has somehow disappeared from the scene. Mr. Ingram thinks that he died early in that year at Richmond, of consumption, but contemporary accounts state that he had abandoned his wife before that time — at any rate before the birth of her third child, a daughter, named Rosalie — and that she was in great distress. She was assisted by the ladies of Richmond, where she died on the 8th of December, 1811, leaving three children to the care of strangers — William Henry, her eldest born, who was between four aud five; Edgar, who was less than two, and Rosalie, who was a babe in arms.

They were adopted probably by those who had known their parents, Edgar being taken by Mr. John Allan, a Scotch merchant, residing in Richmond, who had no children, and after whom he was called Edgar Allan. We know little or nothing of the childhood of Poe. further than that he was taken to England by his benefactors in his seventh year, and placed in a school near London, where he remained for an indefinite period. Mr. Ingram thinks for five years, other biographers for two years; that on his return to America he was placed in an English and classical school in Richmond, where he remained until he was sixteen, and that he was sent to the University of Virginia just before or after his seventeenth birthday. If the child be, as Wordsworth believed, the father of the man, it is a pity that we know so little of this child during these ten years, when his temperament was determined and his character formed. It is agreed on all hands that he was a handsome boy and that he was spoiled by Mr. Allan, who was proud of his talents. He was considered a good scholar, and he had a knack of writing verse, of which Mr. Allan thought better than his neighbors, to whom he was in the habit of reading these. He was remembered by his schoolfellows for his cleverness, for his skill in athletic exercises and for a certain fierceness of disposition, which is thought to have resulted from his being looked down upon as the son of player parents. His college life, which lasted less than a year was neither better nor worse than that of other young men in the same college, for while he took no degree he managed to escape the censure of the faculty. He drank and gambled heavily — so heavily that he owed about two thousand dollars when he returned to Richmond, whither his bills for champagne followed him. We have to conjecture the reception which his imprudence brought upon him and the means by which he made his peace with Mr. Allan. That he was forgiven is apparent from the fact that he printed in the following year a small volume of verse in Boston, the expense of which must have been borne by Mr. Allan. Whether it was published or suppressed as Poe declared afterward, cannot be ascertained with certainty. It attracted no attention in either event, and it ought to have attracted none, for it was crude, as might have been expected from the age of the writer who claimed to have written it at the age of twelve, and, so far as it had any distinctive character, it reflected the morbidest parts of Byron.

We strike now the first of several lacunæ in the [column 2:] life of Poe, who somehow escaped the notice of his biographers until the publication of his next volume of verse in Baltimore in 1829. Mr. Ingram thinks that he may have visited Europe again during this period in order to assist the Greeks in their struggle against the Turks, but such is not the belief of the surviving members of the family, who are of the opinion that if any Poe made such a visit for such a purpose it was not Edgar but his brother William Henry. Poe did not contradict this story, which was current while he lived, but sanctioned it in a memoir of himself which was written by his friend Lowell about fifteen years later, and which he had the opportunity of correcting had he chosen to do so. It suited him to have it believed, however, as it did other myths in regard to his life, for he was as fond of mystification as Byron and as averse from plain dealing as Pope. He would have chuckled hugely over Mr. Ingram's credulous account of his illness in France during this supposititious visit, and of the novel he wrote while there which was accredited to Eugène Sue!

We have to conjecture, as before, the relations between Poe and Mr. Allan. That there had been no rapture between them, or that there was none new, is clear, we think, from the next episode in Poe's life — the publication of another volume of his poems in Baltimore at the expense of Mr. Allan. It was better than the little Boston volume, but he would nave been indeed a sagacious critic who could have detected a new poet in it. Poe had now reached the age when it was necessary that he should do something for himself. Mr. Allan had maintained him in luxury for eighteen years; had spoiled him while he was a child; had paid his gambling and other debts while he was at college, and had lavished his affection upon him. This could not go on forever, as it had hitherto, as a matter of course, without return and without gratitude, and the changes were that it would not go on much longer. For Mrs. Allan, who had always been Poe's friend, was dead, and Mr. Allan was likely to marry again, for he was under fifty. It was settled that the handsome and clever young man should have a profession, and the profession that he chose, or that was chosen for him, was that of arms; so interest was made for him, and he was sent to West Point. One would like to think that the importance of this step, which ought to have been the beginning of an honorable career, was duly considered by him, but there is no reason to think that such was the case. From the start he neglected his studies, was idle and insubordinate and was addicted to drinking — not champagne, as at college, but such brandy as could be smuggled in on the sly from Benny Havens’. The end might have been expected. He was court martialled, sentenced to be dismissed from the service of the United States, and the sentence was approved by the War Department. He was a disgraced man on his twenty-second birthday. How Mr. Allan bore his expulsion no one has told us, but he could not have borne it well. Poe does not appear to have returned to him at once — he had scarcely the hardihood for that — but to have gone to New York in order to see through the press a third collection of his muse. It was as wise a thing as he could have done, for it kept him from the sight of Mr. Allan, and it promised to put some money in his pocket, for it was largely subscribed for, at a good price, by his late cronies, the cadets of West Point, who admired the satirical verses which he had written upon their instructors. It was published in due time (1831) greatly to the disappointment of these young gentlemen, who looked in vain for the squibs which they had expected, and could make nothing out of its poetry, which was unintelligble [[unintelligible]] to them.

If Poe returned to Richmond after the publication of this volume it was to find a second wife in Mr. Allan's bouse, to which tradition says he was denied admittance. What became of him during the next two years has not been ascertained. He is said to have enlisted as a soldier, and to have deserted. He is said to have tried to maintain himself by writing for the newspapers. He is also said to have lived with and upon the relatives of his father in Baltimore; particularly with his father's sister, Mrs. Maria Clemm, who had a little daughter of nine or ten by whom he was much admired. But wherever he had been and whatever he had done during this period of submergence, he rose to the surface again in the autumn of 1833 in Baltimore, where a weekly paper had offered a prize of $100 for the best story and another prize of $50 for the best poem that should be forwarded to it. He competed for both — for the first with a volume of manuscript stories, which showed his industry as well as his talent, and for the second with an extract from a poetic drama which he had in hand. One of his stories took the first prize, but the second, which ought to have been given to his poem, was bestowed upon a minor scribbler of Baltimore. That Poe was in need of the money which he received on this occasion goes without saying, for the least exaggerated account of his condition makes him sadly out at elbows. His first patron, so to speak, was Mr. John P. Kennedy, who was one of the committee who had assigned the prize to him, and who kindly invited him to his house, supplying the deficiencies of his wardrobe that he might appear like a gentleman and placing a saddle horse at his disposition for exercise.

We have to conjecture where and how he lived now, for with the exception of the $100 which he received for his story in the Saturday Visitor [[Visiter]], he is not known to have earned anything by literature until May. 1835, when his story of “Berenice” was published in the Southern Literary Messenger. It was morbid and uncanny, but it attracted great attention, as did the stories by which it was followed, the success or which surpassed that of Hawthorne's “twice told tales.” or that of Willis’ tales, or indeed, any tales written in America until Bret Harte astonished his countrymen with his California idyls.

Whether these singular productions would make a sensation now may be doubted: that they did make an immense sensation forty-five years ago is certain. They could not have added much to the pecuniary resources of Poe, for literary work was ill paid then, but they enabled him to exist, and they laid the foundation of his reputation. Before many months he was invited to assist in editing the Messenger, and he went to Richmond for that purpose. He was an unwise proceeding on his part, though it may have been forced upon him by his necessities, and one cannot but regret that it occurred. It would have been unpleasant to any young man to have revisited his early home with such a past as his, and it must have been torture to him, for his story was well known to the citizens of Richmond, who had followed Mr. Allan to the grave not long before. He left a widow and three children who occupied the noble old house in which Poe's childhood bad passed joyously, and who inherited a large fortune which might have been his! Whether Poe went to Richmond alone, or with his little cousin as his wife, is a disputed point. One of his biographers tales distinctly that they were married in Baltimore, before his departure, in September, 1835, and Mr. Ingram states distinctly that they were married in May of the following year in Richmond. If the first statement is correct the poor child had just completed her thirteenth year, if the latter, she was considerably less than fourteen.

Poe's life in Richmond, with or without his cousin-wife and her mother, was unfortunate. He describes himself in his letters as wishing to be convinced that it is worth his while to live, and he is known to have forfeited the esteem of his employer by intemperance. There la not a word, not a hint of the last fact, however, in the memoirs of Mr. Ingram, who is singularly disingenuous when it suits his purpose to be so. In fact, he slurs over the whole Richmond episode in the life of Poe, and is silent concerning the literature with which it was more or less occupied. This consisted of stories, of the same general character as those which preceded them — of poems copied, with alterations, but without acknowledgment, from his New York and Baltimore volumes, and of criticisms upon the literature of the day. Whether these criticisms ware written at the suggestion of the proprietor of the Messenger, who was desirous of making a sensation by his periodical, or were volunteered by Poe in the belief that he was a critic, is not known. It was a belief which he always cherished, and in which he was encouraged by his readers; but it was not based, we think, on solid foundations, the mind lacked the breadth which the critical mind should possess, and it lacked scholarship and temper. His first object in criticism was to show his cleverness, his second was to demolish the author he was criticising. He [column 3:] seemed to delight in writing that which would give pain. It was a dangerous amusement and ho paid the penalty for it. His editorial connection with the Messenger commenced in December, 1836, and ended with the number for January, 1837. It appears to have ended abruptly, for a portion of the reviews in that number was written by another band; and it certainly was not foreseen, for he was writing a long serial story for it, the publication of which had been commenced.

The next we hear of Poe and his family — for his wife and her mother were now with him — they are in New York, where they remained until the summer of 1838. How they lived during this period has not been ascertained. It could not well have been by Poe's literary work, which consisted in the finishing of the serial story mentioned above and the writing of one paper for the New York Review. Mrs. Clemm seems to have opened a boarding house, which was not successful, and Poe probably engaged in hack work, which has not been recovered. They flitted next to Philadelphia, where they remained six years, and where Poe distinguished himself by his stories and his criticisms. He contributed to the American Museum, a magazine which had been started in Baltimore, and to the Gentleman's Magazine in Philadelphia, of which Burton, the comedian, was the proprietor, and whom be assisted for a time in editing it. He was also editor of Graham's Magazine, which was an outgrowth of the Gentleman's and the Casket. His connection with these periodicals and journals of less note added to his popularity and unpopularity. He began to accuse his contemporaries of plagiarizing from him, his first and second charges being against Longfellow, whose “Beleagured [[Beleaguered]] City” he declared to be stolen from his “Haunted Palace,” and whose “Midnight Mass for the Dying Year” from Tennyson's “Death of the Old Year,” and his third against Hawthorne, whose story of “Howe's Masquerade” was conveyed from his own story of “William Wilson.” In the meantime he was quietly copying his old stories and poems from the Magazine and from his early volumes, and was appropriating Dr. Thomas Brown's “Conchologist's Text Book.” Mr. Ingram tries hard to acquit him of this last larceny, but the proofs are too strong for him. He had trouble with Burton, who was averse from his savage criticisms, but it was made up between them. If he did not have trouble with the proprietor of Graham's Magazine he left him in a pet, though they remained on passable terms. Poorer than he should have been — for be lacked the art of commanding the market value of his productions — he was always In straits for money. He sought to obtain an appointment in Washington, even a five hundred dollar one, and, strange to say. thought his former connection with West Point might help him to obtain it. He would have gone to Washington himself, he wrote to one of his correspondents, but he had no money — ”not enough to take me there, saying nothing of getting back.”

The literary positions which Poe filled In Philadelphia and the popularity which they added to his name ought to have insured him a good living. That they did not can only be accounted for by his conduct, his temperament, or whatever it was that made his life one long series of errors and misfortunes. At the end of six years exhausted Philadelphia and flitted back to New York, where his chances of employment were better. They were not brilliant at first, for a sub-editor's place on an afternoon paper was the best that he could obtain, and it sufficed to keep the wolf from his door. It was not long before he made the great hit of his life in “The Raven,” which was published in the American Renew for February, 1845. Good fortune seemed for once to smile upon him, and to increase the interest which was everywhere manifested in his work there appeared In the same month a paper upon him In Graham's Magazine by the poet Lowell, whose name then had a greater critical weight than it has now. Poe's habit of mystification peeps out in this paper, which abounds with misinformation — as that he got into trouble when a young man in his endeavor to assist the Greeks in their struggle for freedom ; that he was dismissed from West Point at his own request on learning of the birth of a son to his adopted father; and the suppressed Boston edition of his verses ran through three editions in a short time. He was a lion at literary receptions, and was in demand with the editor of the Review, in which he reprinted two of his old poems aa new ones, so far as anything appeared to the contrary. He also became connected with a new weekly paper, the Broadway Journal, which died at the end of a year, and not at all too soon (or his reputation. It was of service to him in that it enabled him to keep his name before the public by reprinting his old poems aud stories and items of disservice to him in that it enabled him to slaughter authors whom he disliked. To say that it was a rowdy journal and that his work in it was blackguardly is to characterize both mildly. That he gave offence in it was of no consequence to him. Nothing, indeed, ever was of consequence to him provided it made him talked about; for, strange to say. his thirst for notoriety was as great as his thirst for fame. His next work, a series of papers in Godey's Lady's Book, on the literati of New York, was what might have been expected from his irascible temper and his unscrupulous pen.

Dark days soon same upon him and his family, for the life of his wife was nearing its end, and want was an inmate of his cottage. Attention was called to his misfortunes in the papers of the day, and money was raised for his immediate necessities. It is melancholy to think of him at this time, living on the charity of a world that he despised, with his wife dying before his eyes. She laid down the heavy burden of her life in her twenty-fifth year, and was buried in the cemetery at Fordham.

There is but little more to tell, and that little is mournful enough, consisting aa it does of periods of illness and idleness on the part of Poe and of charity on the part of his friend — charity that took the form of money and the higher form of kindly watchfulness and generous forgiveness, women pitied, one or two even loved him. Mr. Ingram prints a portion of his amatory correspondence, aud we are sorry for it, for it is dreary reading, as dreary as the correspondence of Burus with Clorinda, which recalls by its high flown raptures and its artificial passion. He was an sorry a lover as a husband, and the women who thought they loved him were well rid of him and his attentions.

His last journey was made to Richmond in the summer of 1849. It began with drunkenness in Philadelphia, where he remained several days in a state of delirium. It continued in drunkenness in Richmond, where he slept upon the sanded floor of a barroom, and it ended in death in Baltimore. This is the substance, briefly stated, of this last episode of his life. He died in a state of unconsciousness on the 9th of October, 1849, at the Washington University Hospital, and was buried in the Westminster churchyard, in the presence of a few relatives and friends. Such was Edgar Allan Poe.

Poe's place in American literature is a remarkable rather than an important one. There is no reason to think that he would have been other than he was under different circumstances, for his life and his works were alike consistent and alike uncommendable. His stories are unique, and it is to be hoped will long remain so, for they minister to no sense of enjoyment and are as horrible as nightmares. As Landor said of the works of one of his contemporaries, they are as strong as poison and as original as sin. His poetry is curious but deficient in what he always insisted was the soul of poetry — loveliness — which is conspicuous by its absence. He was skilful in the use of metrical tricks, which became so habitual with him that his later poems consisted of little besides these tricks, in which sense was lost in sound and sound lost in absurdity. His Annies and his Ulaliness ought to be banished to the nursery with other anserine melodies. His criticisms were clever but shallow. He could detect the parts of a work but could never comprehend it as a whole. He enunciated no new and no great principles of criticism, but judged everything from the standard of his own personality and his own capacity. His motto was nil admiri, and he lived down to it, for the success of others was gall and wormwood to him. He was a clever but not an eminent writer, who ranks among the Maginns, the Mangams, the Savages of literature, gifted but unfortunate men, whom we pity but cannot respect, and whose ill-starred lives are a melancholy moral to genius.