Text: Oscar Penn Fitzgerald, “The Night I Saw and Heard Edgar Allan Poe,” Fifty Years: Observations — Opinions — Experience, Nashville, TN: Publishing House of the M. E. Church, 1903, pp. 191-200

[page 191:]

THE sad face of Edgar Allan Poe would brighten for at least one brief moment could he see this Virginia edition of his works. I scarcely know what word to use in describing it. The poet himself might find a single descriptive unique enough to fit. But he is elsewhere and otherwise employed. So it is left to some of us living men who, though we may lack his genius, are not wholly lacking in a perception of beauty, to thank Professor James A. Harrison, the editor, together with the publishers, for these volumes — twenty-eight in number — in which are printed, in a form so nearly perfect, the works of a literary genius so weird and wonderful that he almost makes a class by himself.

The publication of this edition of Poe's works is one of the many signs of a revival of interest in him as a man and as a writer. It is not my purpose in this paper to review these volumes, though it would be a labor of love to one who has always felt the charm of Poe's genius, and had some slight [page 192:] knowledge of the man as he was in the last days of his life — a life that seemed all too brief when he died, leaving those who survived and came after him to guess and wonder what he might have done had he lived as long as some of his critics.

At the time of Poe's death it was an unsettled question as to what was his proper place in literature — a meteor sweeping across the heavens, or a fixed star that was to shine always in the literary firmament. This curiosity was the principal motive that prompted me to attend the lecture delivered by him in the city of Richmond just before his death. With this motive there were mingled a feeling of neighborliness and a sentiment of local patriotism. Poe was then a much-talked-of man. The critics were still trying to determine whether we had among us a brilliant literary genius or merely an oddity of some sort. But at any rate he had caught the ear of the reading public, and their curiosity was whetted to see and know more concerning him. The best people of Richmond were glad to learn that he had taken a pledge of total abstinence from alcoholic liquors and become a member of the order of Sons of Temperance, which was then making a great stir in all parts of our country. This organization was the advance [page 193:] guard of the temperance forces, fighting battles and winning victories whose effects are felt unto this day. It was given out that Mr. Poe had arranged to take a place on the editorial staff of the Richmond Examiner, a newspaper of growing notoriety and influence which was aspiring to a position of leadership among its contemporaries in the South. It was understood that he was to be its literary editor, with a carte blanche to speak his whole mind on all subjects, and with the expectation that he was to make a fresh start and do the best work of which he was capable. John M. Daniel was to continue as editor in chief, with special responsibility for its political attitude and utterances. This meant that the paper was to be ultra state's rights in its views, trenchant in its style, ready for a tilt with all timid and doubting patriots, and apt to apply a touch of caustic to any dunce or weakling who came before the reading public in such a way as to justify the belief that he was a fool. And how Daniel's satires did bum! The victims of his personal paragraphs were pilloried to be gazed at by their fellows with pity or contempt, as they might severally incline. Robert W. Hughes was to be a special contributor on economic questions. He had a passion for statistics, and made the impression [page 194:] upon the average reader that he understood the science of political economy, and was a true patriot — an impression that was somewhat modified in after days. Arthur E. Petticolas was to be the art editor. He was of a Virginia family that took to art as naturally as birds take to singing and flying. Painting and music were specialized by the Petticolases, male and female, and Arthur possessed both the enthusiasm and the culture that qualified him for his work as an art editor. Then there was Patrick Henry Aylette, who was to be a sort of special contributor, a free lance in the discussion of all questions in ethics or politics. He was a descendant and namesake of Patrick Henry, the inspired orator of our American Revolution. Aylette was a picturesque specimen of the Virginia lawyer-politician of that day. He was almost a physical giant, being nearly seven feet high. He overflowed with good fellowship, and had a vein of genuine humor running through all he spoke and wrote. This was a strong journalistic combination, and would have produced notable results had the scheme been consummated.

To give expression to their interest in him as a rising literary celebrity, to extend to him moral encouragement in the life of self-control to which [page 195:] he had pledged himself, and to furnish him practical help in the adjustment of his pecuniary affairs, Mr. Poe was invited to deliver a pay lecture on any subject he might be pleased to name. The assembly room of the old Exchange Hotel was chosen as the place; the price of tickets was fixed at five dollars each. About three hundred persons could be crowded into this auditorium; yet every seat was filled, and some of the ticket-holders had to be turned away. I was one of the audience, and was fortunate in getting a good seat where I could see and hear all that I came to see and hear. When Mr. Poe came upon the platform and stood before that crowded house and looked into those friendly faces, over his features came almost a smile as he bowed with quiet dignity and grace. Almost a smile — so I write the words — for, though I saw him frequently during the last months of his life, I never saw him laugh or even smile. His face was habitually the saddest I ever saw.

Having been duly introduced to his audience, he announced his subject, namely: “The Poetic Principle.” Readers who are familiar with Poe's works know what he said then and there; those who may wish to read its full text may find it in Volume XIV. of this Virginia edition of his works, last [page 196:] chapter. He stood before us a medium-sized man, elegantly dressed in black, with dark complexion, good features, shapely head, and great dark eyes that after having once seen you could never forget. As to elocution, there was not a trace of any such thing in his delivery. Not a gesture was made by him from first to last. His voice was without any conscious inflections in the usual sense of the word. Yet he held the undivided attention of his hearers as he stood there and read page after page — seeming somehow to evoke the very souls of the poets he quoted, now and then lifting those large, luminous eyes and flashing forth meanings newer and deeper into the rhythmical sentences as they flowed from his lips. Those eyes! they were eyes that held your gaze with a strange fascination, and seemed to see deeper and farther than those of other men. When he spoke contemptuously of “the thing called the North American Review,” the glint of them was as a lightning flash; when he spoke of Alfred Tennyson as “the noblest poet that ever lived,” their kindly expression seemed to diffuse a gentle glow over that listening assembly. It was a touch subtle but sure that brought out the special characteristics of the different poets of whom he gave his critical judgments and from [page 197:] whom he quoted at length — Bryant, Longfellow, Pinkney, Moore, Byron, Willis, Hood, Scott, Thomson, Tennyson, and the rest. In my own mind this lecture of Poe is associated with one that I heard from Ralph Waldo Emerson in San Francisco at a later day. Two tamer readers I never heard, judging by ordinary standards; yet estimated according to the pleasure received in the hearing of them, and the permanence of the impression made by them, they hold a place all their own among my delightful recollections of the men I have seen and heard. Whenever he made any allusion to the Supreme Being, Mr. Poe's manner was marked by every indication of profound reverence.

The thesis of the lecture, as given in Mr. Poe's own words, was as follows: “I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical description of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the intellect or with the conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever with duty or with truth.” The very heart's core of the lecture, as I remember it at this distance of time, is in the extract following. As I trace the words on the printed page that lies before me, it all comes back vividly — the magnetism of his presence, the subtle thrill that [page 198:] was in his voice, and the strange fascination that was in his eyes. Having conveyed to us his conception of the poetic principle — suggesting that, while this principle itself is strictly and simply the human aspiration for supernal beauty, and affirming that the manifestation of the principle is always found in an elevating excitement of the soul — that passion which is the intoxication of the heart — or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the reason — he said:

“We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what the true poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which induce in the poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the ambrosia which nourishes his soul, in the bright orbs that shine in heaven — in the volutes of the flower — in the clustering of the low shrubberies — in the waving of the grain-fields — in the slanting of the tall mountains — in the grouping of clouds — in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks — in the gleaming of silver rivers — in the repose of sequestered lakes — in the star-mirroring depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the song of birds — in the harp of Æolus — in the sighing of the night-wind — in the repining voice of the forest — in the surf that complains to the shore [page 199:] — in the fresh breath of the woods — in the scent of the violet — in the voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth — in the suggestive odor that comes to him at eventide from far-distant, undiscovered islands, over dim oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts — in all unworldly motives — in all holy impulses — in all chivalrous, generous, self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman — in the grace of her step — in the luster of her eye — in the melody of her voice — in her soft laughter — in her sigh — in the harmony of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments — in her burning enthusiasms — in her gentle charities — in her meek and devotional endurances — but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it — he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the altogether divine majesty of her love.”

A few days afterwards it was whispered from lip to lip in the streets of Richmond, “Poe is dead!” I have no heart for the recital of the details of the story of his death. The facts in brief, as they were understood at the time, were these: At a birthday party in the city of Baltimore he was tempted to break his pledge of total abstinence; he yielded and fell, and died in a hospital from the effects of over-indulgence. [page 200:] Here the curtain falls upon this pitiful, pitiful tragedy of the life and death of Edgar Allan Poe.

It would be idle to indulge in speculation as to what Poe might have achieved had he lived longer or differently. But one thing may be said here: The quality of the work he did during the period of his total abstinence, including this very lecture, proves that with him there was no necessary connection between alcoholic stimulation and literary inspiration.