Text: Eugene Lemoine Didier, “Poe's Female Friends,” The Chautauquan (Meadville, PA), Vol. XV, no. 6, September 1892, pp. 723-729

[page 723:]

Edgar Poe's life was not all dark and desolate. It was his singular good fortune, from his birth to his death, to win and hold the love and friendship of many sweet and sympathetic women. Carlyle says the “story of genius has its bright sides as well as dark.” The bright side of Poe's life was, as Washington Irving expresses it, when it “was gladdened by blessed womankind.” The poet possessed many of those personal qualities and intellectual gifts which interest and fascinate the gentle sex: he was handsome, polished, and richly imaginative, and a perfect master of all the graceful refinements of language. Perhaps there never lived, a poet so truly appreciative of the loveliness of woman as Edgar Poe. He was a worshiper of beauty, [column 2:] believing, with a recent poet, that of all beauty a beautiful woman is the supremest. His was the delicate, ethereal, poetical sentiment of the Greek worship of an ideal beauty, so exquisitely personified by Nausicaa in the Odyssey.

Poe's female friends, with one or two exceptions, were women who were able to sympathize with his lofty intellectual ambition, able to “point to higher worlds,” although, perhaps, not capable of “leading the way” for him to follow. Proud, solitary, and ambitious, he found a never-failing congeniality and sympathy in the society of bright and lovely women, some of whom almost realized the creations of his wonderful imagination: Ligeia, Morella, Lenore.

Mrs. Allan, who adopted Edgar Poe when he was left a homeless orphan, was his first female [page 724:] friend when the little fellow was left an orphan by the almost simultaneous death of his father and mother. The gifted and beautiful boy soon won his way to the heart of the kind Mrs. Allan, and Mr. Allan was proud of the precocious wit and talents of little Edgar. He was made a sort of show-child, and was frequently called upon to recite poetry for the amusement of visitors. Poe said of himself, in after years: ‘’My voice was a household law, and, at an age when few children have abandoned their leading strings, I was left to the guidance of my own will, and became in all but name the master of my own actions.” Mr. Allan petted and spoiled his adopted son, but he never really loved him. One who knew Poe during his childish days, says Mrs. Allan was devoted to him and he to her. She always stood between him and her cold, stern husband. She died as the young poet reached his manhood, at the very time when a mother's tender and unselfish love was most needed. Upon the eve of a second marriage, Mr. Allan turned his adopted son adrift, without a penny, although he had taught him to expect a princely inheritance.

Another early friend of Poe was Mrs. Helen Stannard, the mother of one of his school friends. One day he accompanied his young companion to his home, The story goes that the mother of his friend entered the room and, taking his hand, spoke some kind and gracious words of welcome, which so affected the sensitive orphan boy as to kindle within him, as he himself said, ‘’ the one idolatrous, purely ideal love of his tempest-tossed youth.” He was fourteen at the time that Mrs. Stan- nard spoke the sweet and gentle words which made the world seem less hopelessly dark and desolate. This lady became the confidante of his youthful sorrows, and, when he was unhappy at home, he went to her for sympathy, for consolation, and for advice. Unfortunately, she died within a year after he first knew her, and it is related that night after night he visited her grave, oppressed by the thought that she was lying there all alone. It was during those lonesome mus- ings that he became fascinated by the un- fathomable mysteries of the other world, which impressed his whole life and much of his life work. To his mind and heart, the dead, although unseen, were ever present, seeing, knowing, hearing him. Those mid- night churchyard vigils, with their unforgotten [column 2:] memories, furnish a key to some of the strange, mysterious circumstances of his extraordinary life. In those silent, solitary communions with the beloved dead, questions arose in the sombre chambers of his imagination which were long afterward remembered in the musical cadences of his stately verse.

The pervading and enforcing spirit of some of his most wonderful productions, prose and verse, is the “awful mystery of death.” Those familiar with his writings will recall the sad, beautiful story of “Ligeia,” which displays more than any of his remarkable tales, “an imagination, royally dowered and descended.” So, also, in “Morella,” the characters are profoundly interested in the same mystic investigation of life and death, of love that outlives death, of death that cannot quench love. The sombre mystery of the grave inspired the exquisite poem, “The Sleeper,” which tells in words of mournful music of a beautiful woman, coffined in her deep and lasting sleep. More sombre still is the “Conqueror Worm,” which is a wild, despairing wail over the hopelessness of receiving tidings of the dead. In the lyric, “For Annie,” the treatment, though the subject is still of the dead, is free from that dark despair which broods over most of his wonderful verse. But, of all the poetry inspired by his grateful memory of Mrs. Stannard, the best, the most beautiful, the most eloquent is “Lenore,” commencing,

Another poem addressed to this lady has a still more classic grace. I refer to the “Lines to Helen,” commencing,

This dainty poem was written before Poe had reached his fifteenth year. James Russell Lowell says these lines have a grace and symmetry of outline such as few poets ever attain, and they are valuable as displaying “what can only be expressed by a contradictory phrase, innate experience.”

Thus some of the most remarkable of Poe's poems were inspired by her of whom he wrote, a year or two before his death: “As the friend of my boyhood, the truest, tenderest of this world's most womanly souls, and an angel to my forlorn and darkened nature.” [page 725:]

In 1836 Poe married his fair young cousin, Virginia Clemm. All who knew Virginia Poe speak of her matchless beauty and loveliness. Captain Mayne Reid, who frequently visited the family when they were residing in one of the suburbs of Philadelphia, described their home as small but beautified by flowers, enlivened by the singing of birds, and illumined by the presence of the poet's young wife, who was “angelically beautiful in person, and not less beautiful in spirit. No one who remembers the dark-eyed daughter of the South, her face so exquisitely lovely, her gentle, graceful demeanor, no one who has spent an hour in her society, but will endorse what I have said of this lady, who was the most delicate realization of the poet's ideal. But, the bloom upon her cheek was too pure, too bright, for earth. It was consumption's color — that sadly beautiful light beckons to an early grave.”

The tender grace of the love of Edgar and Virginia Poe inspired his exquisite ballad, “Annabel Lee,” of which she was the heroine. Nothing could be more beautiful and suggestive than these lines:

Edgar Poe was a very domestic man, and found his best and truest happiness in the society of his wife and mother, who loved him devotedly and never lost confidence in him. He was seldom away from home for an hour, unless his darling Virginia or Mrs. Clemm was with him, except when engaged in his literary pursuits. “The three lived one for the other,” said Mrs. Clemm. Poe's devotion to his delicate wife was one of the most beautiful traits in his character, and her death at the early age of twenty-five was the greatest grief of his life. It was in memory [column 2:] of her that he wrote his weird requiem of “Ulalume,” a poem that has pleased and puzzled alike the most thoughtful and imaginative minds.

The unceasing love and devotion of Mrs. Clemm to Edgar Poe — a devotion that outlived the life of the poet's wife, a love that only ended with Mrs. Clemm's death — was the natural result of his love and devotion to her daughter. To Mrs. Clemm he addressed a sonnet showing his appreciation of her great kindness and unfailing patience and sweetness of disposition. The last lines are particularly beautiful:

Soon after the publication of “The Raven” Poe met a lady who was destined to exercise a good and powerful influence over his life. This lady was Mrs. Sargent Osgood, one of the most gifted and impassioned poets of the decade of American literature between 1840 and 1850. She has furnished a very interesting account of her first meeting with Poe:

“My first meeting with the poet was at the Astor House. A few days previous Mr. Willis handed me, at the table d’hote, that strange and thrilling poem, ‘The Raven,’ saying that the author wanted my opinion of it. Its effect upon me was so singular, so like that of ‘weird, unearthly music,’ that it -was with a feeling almost of dread that I heard that he desired an introduction. Yet I could not refuse without seeming ungrateful, because I had just heard of his enthusiastic and partial eulogy of my writings, in his lecture on American Literature. I shall never forget the morning when I was [page 726:] summoned to the drawing room to receive him. With his proud and beautiful head erect, his dark eyes flashing with the electric light of feeling and thought, a peculiar and indescribable blending of hauteur and sweetness in his expression and manner, he greeted me calmly, gravely, almost coldly — yet with so marked an earnestness that I could not help feeling deeply impressed by it. From that moment until his death we were friends.”

In another communication Mrs. Osgood speaks of her “affectionate interest” in the poet, adding:

“I think no one knew him, no one has known him personally — certainly no woman — without feeling the same interest. I can sincerely say that I have never seen him otherwise than gentle, generous, well-bred, and fastidiously refined. To a sensitive and delicately nurtured woman, there was a peculiar and irresistible charm in the chivalry, grace, and almost [column 2:] reverence with which he approached all women who won his respect. It was this which first won and always retained my regard for him.”

Mrs. Osgood furnishes a charming glimpse of the poet in his own home, sitting beneath the romantic picture of his lost Lenore, spending hour after hour in literary composition, tracing in the most exquisite hand ever written by poet the rare and radiant fancies as they flashed through his wonderful brain. She describes a visit at his house toward the close of his residence in New York, when he seemed unusually gay and light-hearted. Mrs. Osgood's narrative runs as follows:

“Virginia, his sweet wife, had written me a pressing invitation to come to them — and I who never could resist her affectionate summons, and who enjoyed his society far more in his own house than elsewhere, hastened to Amity Street. I found him just completing his series of papers entitled ‘The Literati of New York.’ ‘See,’ said he, displaying in laughing triumph several little rolls of narrow paper, ‘I am going to show you, by the difference in length of these, the different degrees of estimation in which I hold all you literary people. In each of these, one of you is rolled up and fully discussed. Come, Virginia, help me!’ And one by one they unfolded them. At last they came to one that seemed interminable. Virginia, laughing, ran to the side of the room with one end, and her husband to the opposite with the other. ‘And whose linked sweetness long drawn out is this?’ said I. ‘Hear her!’ he cried, ‘just as if her vain little heart didn’t tell her it's herself.’”

Mrs. Osgood's friendship for the poet lasted until his death, and she survived him only seven months. In the last [page 727:] edition of her poems is one inspired by her friendship for Poe. I quote the last verse:

Mrs. Osgood was worthy of Poe's enthusiastic admiration: her mind and heart, her face and figure, were alike exquisite. She was of medium height, slender, dainty, and graceful; her eyes were large, luminous, and full of expression; her complexion was pale, and offered a striking contrast to her dark hair; her features were refined and her whole appearance possessed a rare, delicate beauty, which was both interesting and charming. No person can look upon the face of this lady, a face glowing with enthusiasm and a dreamy, tropical sunshine, and wonder that a man of Poe's deep and earnest feeling, a man of his passionate appreciation of beauty and genius, should have been so prodigal and eloquent in his praise of her person and poetry.

Soon after Poe moved to Fordham, in the summer of 1846, he became acquainted with Mary Louise Shew. The poet's wife was dying of consumption, and the anxiety caused by her sickness prevented him from engaging in any literary work; thus his only source of income was cut off. The situation of the little household grew worse and worse every day, and absolute starvation threatened them. At this critical moment Mrs. Shew's kind offices were enlisted in their behalf; she raised money, bought comforts for the dying wife, and became the ministering angel of the family.

After the death of Mrs. Poe, Mrs. Shew continued her gentle charity to the stricken members of the Fordham cottage. It was chiefly through her exertions that a purse of [column 2:] one hundred dollars was raised at the Union Club of New York. Among the contributors was Gen. Winfield Scott, who said, “truehearted Americans should take care of their poets as well as of their soldiers.”

Mrs. Estelle Anna Lewis, who is known in the literary world as “Stella,” was another kind friend who assisted Poe at this time of his greatest need. This lady — author of the imaginative poem, “Records of the Heart,” and other poetical works, including “The Child of the Sea,” which Poe mentioned as “strikingly original” and “warmly imaginative” — was one of the last and truest friends the poet ever had. He himself said that he had for her the “affection of a brother.” Mrs. Lewis wrote:

“I saw much of Mr. Poe during the last year of his life. He was one of the most sensitive and refined gentleman I ever met. My girlish poem, “The Forsaken,” made us acquainted. He had seen it floating the rounds of the press, and wrote to tell me how much he liked it — ‘It is inexpressibly beautiful,’ he said, ‘and I should very much like to know the young author.’” [page 728:]

The day before Poe left New York for Richmond (June 30, 1849), he and Mrs. Clemm dined with Mr. and Mrs. Lewis and stayed at their house all night. The latter, in giving an account of this last visit, said:

“Mr. Poe seemed very sad and retired early. On leaving the next day, he took my hand in his, and said, ‘Dear Stella, my much beloved friend, I have a presentiment that I shall never see you again. If I never return, write my life. You can and will do me justice.’”

Mrs. Lewis promised, and they parted to meet no more in this life.

The name of Sarah Helen Whitman will be forever associated with the name of Edgar A. Poe, as that of the woman he most passionately loved during life, and who most jealously guarded and defended his memory when he was dead. Their names will be linked together like the name of Surrey and the Fair Geraldine, Byron and Mary Chaworth, [column 2:] Burns and Highland Mary. It is well known that after the death of his child-wife, Virginia Clemm, Poe, seeking “surcease of sorrow for his lost Lenore,” become engaged to Mrs. Whitman. Of this short-lived engagement it has been said: “It opened a prospect of happiness — even for him, the desolate and despairing. Like the gleam of the light that cheered Sinbad in the Cave of Death and restored him to life, did this engagement hold out a saving hope to the soul of the unhappy master of ‘The Raven,’ and promise to restore him once again to love.”

But it was not to be: the engagement, for some mysterious reason that has never been clearly explained, was broken off. That Poe was blameless in the matter is proved by Mrs. Whitman's affection for his memory and defense of his character. Scarcely was the dead poet in his long-neglected grave, when slander and obloquy were heaped upon his memory. [page 729:] Mrs. Whitman was one of the first to come to the defense, and, as has been beautifully said, “she walked backward, and threw over his memory the shining mantle of her love.” She appeared as his champion when- ever he was attacked, whether it was by some penny-a-liner seeking to puff himself into brief notice by abusing Poe, or some silly woman trying to skip into fame on Poe's name.

The story of the love of Edgar A. Poe and Sarah Helen Whitman is one of the most interesting romances in the annals of American literature. The poet first saw Mrs. Whitman in 1845. He went to Providence to deliver a lecture, and, returning to his hotel toward midnight, chanced to see her walking in a moon-lit garden ; she was clad all in white. The hour, the scene, the white figure, made an immediate and indelible impression upon the poet's heart. He was not introduced to her until 1848, when he was thirty-nine, and she was forty-five.

Poe was a man of distinguished appearance. To extraordinary personal advantages were added conversational powers unequaled for eloquence, manners refined and pleasing, and a polished reserve which was fascinating to all cultivated women. Such was Poe when he first saw Mrs. Whitman.

Mrs. Whitman was the very type of woman to interest such a man as Poe. Dr. W. E. Anthony, of Providence, R. I., who knew her, has furnished me with a sketch of Mrs. Whitman. He says her nature was essentially feminine, having a great personal magnetism; her conversation was replete with wit, imagination and sentiment. She had a beautiful, intellectual face, a fine figure, and a brilliant complexion. She always wore one style of dress, winter and summer, year in and year out. It was strikingly original and set off her personal charms to the best advantage. A profusion of curls fell over her exquisitely shaped forehead, while over the back of her head was thrown a white veil, which fell to her shoulders. She received visitors in a room lighted by rose-colored lamps, and the room seemed a shrine and she a sibyl.

To win the hand of this woman seemed to Poe his last chance to re-establish his desolate home, and he pleaded with such passionate ardor, such burning eloquence, such irresistible love, that, in spite of the entreaties of her mother and the warnings of her friends, Mrs. Whitman engaged herself to him. Having won [column 2:] this advantage, he urged an immediate marriage. Again she yielded to his passionate pleading, and late in November he arrived in Providence full of anticipation of happiness. When he called upon Mrs. Whitman, that lady met him, and, as she herself relates:

“Gathering together some papers which he had intrusted to my keeping, I placed them in his hands without a word of explanation or reproach, and, utterly worn out and exhausted by the mental conflicts and anxieties of the last few days, I drenched my handkerchief with ether and threw myself on a sofa, hoping to lose myself in utter unconsciousness. Sinking upon his knees beside me, he entreated me to speak to him. I’ responded almost inaudibly, ‘What can I say?’ ‘Say that you love me, Helen.’ ‘I love you.’ These were the last words I ever spoke to him.”

Poe left the house without another word, and never saw Mrs. Whitman again. The breaking off of this famous engagement gave rise to all sorts of rumors, the most scandalous of which Rufus W. Griswold enlarged and embellished. Mrs. Whitman denied Griswold's story:

“No such scene as that described by Dr. Griswold ever transpired in my presence. No one, certainly no woman, who had the slightest acquaintance with Edgar Poe, could have credited the story for an instant. He was essentially and instinctively a gentleman, utterly incapable, even in moments of excitement and delirium, of such an outrage as Dr. Griswold has ascribed to him. . . . During one of his visits, in the autumn of 1848, I once saw him after one of those nights of wild excitement, before reason had fully recovered its throne. Yet even then, in those frenzied moments when the door of the mind's ‘Haunted Palace’ was left all unguarded, his words were the words of a princely intellect overwrought, and of a heart only too sensitive and too finely strung. I repeat that no one acquainted with Edgar Poe could have given Dr. Griswold's anecdote a moment's credence.”

Mrs. Whitman died on the 27th of June, 1878, in the seventy-sixth year of her age. She was a believer in spiritualism, and, at her funeral, instead of religious service, several of her friends pronounced eulogies. Over her casket was thrown a white drapery, in the folds of which were green ivy leaves. Her grave was lined with laurel and evergreens, and each friend dropped flowers; and thus in love and tender sympathy the last gentle service was rendered to the last of Poe's Female Friends.