Text: Various, “Chapter 04,” The Book of the Poe Centenary (1909), pp. 15-33

IV

IN CABELL HALL — THE RAVENS

It was with great pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, that I accepted the invitation of the Raven Society to take part in its exercises tonight. To others, however, I shall leave it to pronounce encomiums on the genius of the man whose centennial we are here met to commemorate, and shall pass at once to the reading of his greatest poem.

I hold it to be a hopeless task to give an acceptable reading of a piece of literature which one does not understand, or in which one sees no more than lies on the printed page. And so I offer you, before I read the poem, my interpretation of “The Raven.” It may not be the correct one — I do not claim that — but it is the poem as I see and feel it.

Many theories have been advanced in at tempts to prove why Poe wrote “The Raven.” Most of us are familiar with the explanation which the author himself gives of its origin. He says that he sat down and composed it deliberately — as he might have played a game [page 17:] of chess — that it was a poem of the mind rather than of the heart; a statement which even his most ardent admirers can hardly credit, knowing, as they do, his dislike for poetry made by rule. Indeed, it has been stated that he afterward said that this explanation was but a hoax! To say that it is a mere jingle of rhymes is folly: no man ever wrote such a poem as this without meaning something. Published two years before the death of his wife, it could not, as some who are not careful as to dates have said, have been inspired by her loss.

I believe that he wrote the poem because he could not help writing it; and, that we might not read his heart's dearest secrets, he hides this cry of his soul in the wonderful diction, the haunting rhyme and rhythm, and the vague mystery of this remarkable composition. At the time it was written, Poe had travelled far on the downward road. The spirit of hopelessness had taken up its abode in his heart. All his nobler feelings, however, were not dead, and although he seemed to realize that this life held but little of good for him, there was still, deep in his heart, a hope of something better in the hereafter. [page 18:]

What is this “ancient, grim, and ghastly raven” but the spirit of evil which has entered the soul of this unhappy man — the spirit of Remorse, of Despair? It is never to leave him again — the bird itself tells him that this the hereafter — the is the case in reply to his statement, “On the morrow he will leave me.” Near the close of the poem he tries to drive it away, but the effort is a useless one, the last line tells us that.

And what is this “lost Lenore” but his own lost life? Never again on earth will he find it young and pure as once it was, but what of the hereafter — ay, hereafter? Summoning all his courage, he asks of this evil spirit the great question which every human being asks at some time in his life, “Is there, is there balm in Gilead?” Is there any hope in the hereafter? Driven almost to madness by the bitter negation, he asks a second question:

and when the same mocking “Nevermore” falls upon his ear, see how all his nobler feelings assert themselves, how strong his [page 19:] belief in God, in something better beyond this life, as he exclaims:

O mighty genius! O blasted life! O weary heart in darkness struggling! God show thee mercy in the day of thy judgment, and for thy faith grant thee “surcease of sorrow” in “that distant Aidenn” where, clasping again thy pure young life, thou shalt know the healing of that balm of Gilead, and where thy soul shall be forever lifted from the shadow of that “Nevermore.”

Little did I think that the visits I was paying to a beautiful, rosy cheeked, and golden haired girl of sixteen, who lived in my neighborhood some fifty years ago, would eventuate in my appearance here this evening, on the eve of the centenary of Edgar Allan Poe.

Professor Kent, who seems to absorb and appropriate information of all sorts, and to make use of it to suit himself, seems to have learned in some way, I know not how, that I had been personally acquainted with the poet. He probably communicated this information to the president of the Raven Society, and a few days ago, I received an invitation from that gentleman, backed by a very persuasive note from Dr. Kent himself, to be present on this [page 27:] occasion and to address you upon my reminiscence of Poe.

Now I had determined before the receipt of the invitation to be here if possible, not to take an active part in the celebration of his centenary, but only as a looker on, and to enjoy what should be said by those more competent than myself to do honor to the memory of that wonderful man.

Had the subject to be discussed been a medical one, I could not have excused myself for not complying with a request for an address; but to enter at so late a day upon a field so entirely new to myself required my sense of duty to my alma mater to be pricked to the very quick, that I might even attempt to say a few words here tonight as to the impressions made upon my youthful nature by the impressive countenance, the dignified yet cordial manner, the cadence of the voice, and the pressure of the hand of Edgar Allan Poe.

It was in September, 1849, that fortune threw me into his presence. The poet visited Norfolk, then a comparatively small city, to deliver his celebrated lecture on “The Poetic [page 28:] Principle;” and while there was the guest of Mrs. Susan Maxwell, whose daughter Helen, was the attractive nymph before referred to, whom I often found it convenient to visit and to engage with in the then popular game of checkers.

So here I met and was introduced to the distinguished visitor and had the privilege of listening to his interesting conversation and of hearing him recite some of his favorite poems, among them “The Raven,” “The Bells,” and “Annabel Lee.”

I was also present upon the occasion of Poe's lecture delivered at the Norfolk Academy, to a very fair and delighted audience, and was much impressed by the artistic rendering of his selections.

There was nothing that I observed in the poet's appearance that indicated excessive gloominess or sadness. There was an air of dignified repose, which lightened, when speaking to one, into a pleasing smile. But the expression changed quickly and varied with the theme that engaged him. I did not notice the least awkwardness in his demeanor.

I trust I have not thus far described an [page 29:] imaginary Poe, and that my recollection of him on that occasion is essentially correct.

I have since then met with but one person who reminded me, in person, manner and bearing, of Poe, and that was the late Dr. Marion Sims, whose face was somewhat broader, but who was as inventive in another field, and as distinguished in his chosen profession, as was Poe in the domain of literature.

In enumerating the studies of Poe, while a student in this University, stress has been laid upon his extraordinary proficiency in the languages; but I have suspected, from the readiness he evinced in the solution of the enigmas and curious problems submitted to him, that either he must have been almost as familiar with the calculus of probabilities as the great La Place himself, or that he was the most ingenious guesser the world has ever seen.

I shall not attempt to dwell upon the poet's genius, which has been analyzed and so justly praised here by Mr. Mabie on a former happy occasion, and which has been written of everywhere that his matchless creations have been read and felt; nor of his contemporaries of the nineteenth century, which were legion, in [page 30:] every branch of human thought, and of every degree of fame in science, in speculative thought, in art and literature.

Now, what must have been the energetic interaction of the cells of his amazing brain when engaged in the invention of his marvelous tales and his unique verses? Like a volcano in action, throwing out fire and smoke, light and darkness, the weird phenomenon at tended by the very quaking of the earth around; so that great brain, and body little more than frail, so buffeted by the rude fortune that seemed almost inseparable from his personality, his alter ego, must have quailed at times under the stress of his efforts.

It is confidently asserted that Poe never wrote a line while under the influence of alcoholic stimulants; on the contrary, when so influenced, he was sick almost unto death! No impurity stains his record.

Byron has written,

But Poe's love was distinctly feminine in [page 31:] nature, not to be thrown off as an outer garment. It was true.

I may be pardoned in taking a physician's view of his not infrequent mental states. In my humble opinion, Poe at such times was the victim of an abnormal psychology. There are conditions known as the psychoneuroses of exhaustion, during which there is a more or less complete paralysis of the will.

Attacks may ensue similar to, but not identical with, epileptic mania. We know that even hysteria is sometimes characterized by a dissociation of consciousness.

Prof. Janet has defined dipsomania as “in reality a crisis of depression in which the subject feels the need of being excited by means of a poison, the effect of which he knows only too well; by alcohol.”

But Poe was certainly no dipsomaniac. As a medical man, I have seen cases analogous to his, though none possessing even an approach to his scintillating intellect.

They were not drunkards, in the usual acceptance of the term. They, also, were the victims of psychoneuroses, morbid, irresistible impulsions. [page 32:]