Text: Eugene L. Didier, “Recent Biographies of Edgar A. Poe,” The Poe Cult and Other Poe Papers (1909), pp. 150-174

[page 150:]

When Dr. Johnson heard that Boswell intended to write his life, he is reported to have said that he would prevent so great a calamity by taking the life of his presumptive biographer. In this matter, as, indeed, in many others, Johnson was wrong. Those profound philosophical works, by which he hoped to be long remembered, are not now read by one in ten thousand, but Boswell's biography will keep alive an interest in Johnson to the most distant posterity. Had Edgar A. Poe known how Griswold would write his life, he might more justly have entertained the murderous feeling attributed to Dr. Johnson. Yet Griswold's memoir of Poe has been an advantage to the poet. Had he written a truthful and satisfactory biography, it would have been accepted as such by the world, and perhaps long since have been consigned to the neglected shelves of public and private libraries; [page 151:] but the manifest injustice of Griswold's sketch induced the friends and admirers of Poe to examine his biographer's damaging statements, to sweep away the falsehood from his disgraceful stories, and to give to the world all the strange and remarkable incidents which made the life of the author of “The Raven” more romantic than fiction.

Carlyle says that “a well-written life is almost as rare as a well-spent one.” Eight lives of Poe have been published. That so many biographies should be written of one author is a very noticeable circumstance. Byron, who occupied the attention of the world more than any other modern writer, had only three or four biographies written of him; Dickens, the most popular author of the last century, has had only two or three; Bulwer has had none; Bryant, one; Irving, two; Halleck, one; Moore, one, and Thackeray, if we except one or two imperfect sketches and the execrable stuff published by Anthony Trollope, has had none.

We propose in this article to examine two recent lives of Poe. Mr. Gill's book was written with a twofold object — the deification of Poe and the damnation of Griswold. It is hard to say which feeling predominates. For [page 152:] our own part, we do not believe that Poe was so good as Gill represents him or that Griswold was so bad. Mr. Gill claims that his is the most complete life of Poe that has been published. He begins his life by a sketch of Poe's imaginary Italian ancestry, which the late Sarah Helen Whitman invented, and first published in her “Poe and his Critics.” In a letter written to me by Mrs. Whitman the year before her death, she says: “For all I said on the subject I alone am responsible. A distant relative of mine, a descendant, like myself, of Nicholas Le Poér, had long ministered to my genealogical proclivities by stories which, from my childhood, had vaguely haunted and charmed my imagination. When I discovered certain facts in Poe's history, of which he had previously made little account, he seemed greatly impressed by my theory of our relationship. Of course, I endowed him with my traditionary heirlooms. An aptitude for genealogical researches is my specialty, and it would require but a few slender links to connect your Franco-Italian name with that Didier King of Lombardy, who surrendered his Iron crown to Charlemagne and gave him his daughter in marriage.”

So much for Poe's “long descent.” But he could well afford to be the first of his name; he [page 153:] did not require ancestors, coats of arms, or coronets. We seek not for ancestors, immediate or remote, of Shakespeare, Dante, or Virgil; they have crowned their names with a lustre which kings cannot bestow.

Mr. Gill is guilty of some mistakes which should be corrected. Edgar Poe's father was not the fourth, but the eldest son of his parents. It was not after the breach between Poe and Mr. Allan that the latter married his second wife: it was before; the marriage was the cause of the quarrel. Poe did not utter on his deathbed the nonsense about “the Elysian bowers of the undiscovered spirit world” — Judge Neilson Poe, his nearest living relative, who was present at the death of his cousin, says: “He was taken in a dying condition to the University Hospital, where he remained insensible to the last.”

We regret that we cannot truthfully praise Mr. Gill's literary style. In mentioning the simple fact that Poe printed “The Raven” anonymously, he thus expresses himself: “When in his silent vigils, enthralled by the imaginative ecstasy which often possessed and overpowered him, he conceived and wrought out this marvelous inspiration, what wonder is it that his delicate sensibility should prompt him to conceal from the rude gaze of his material [page 154:] audience the secret springs of his inner consciousness, by printing his chef-d’œuvre over an assumed name, and hedging its origin about with the impenetrable veil of fiction?” In an elaborate analysis of the same poem, Mr. Gill indulges in the following language: “Postulating the opinion which we venture to advance here upon the result of a process of psychological introversion, which conclusion is confirmed by several of Poe's most intimate acquaintances now living, strengthened by a chain of conclusive circumstantial evidence, we have arrived at a theory of the origin of the poem that has received the approval of, etc.” Here is a still higher flight: “That some of the most exquisite imaginative fabrics ever constructed have been wrought from the suggestions afforded by some especial experience, or by a chance incident of circumstance, there are many familiar examples to demonstrate.” When stripped of its covering of verbiage, this means simply that authors frequently write from their own experience — a truism which will scarcely be denied.

Mr. Gill's grammar is not always as Cæsar's wife was required to be, above suspicion. In fact, he sometimes lapses into such mistakes as these: “Some of his best prose tales were done at this time, when the yoke of privation [page 155:] sat but lightly upon his shoulders.” In speaking of Poe's reading of “The Raven,” he says, “He was too good an elocutionist to fail to adequately voice his conceptions.” Again: “By matter-of-fact minds, incapable of sensing delicate distinctions, poets, from Shakespeare down, have been, and will continue to be, adjudged guilty of arrant plagiarism.” It is a pity that Mr. Gill does not know the “delicate distinction” between a verb and a noun.

We mark these errors in no unkind spirit, but we think it is the critic's duty to discover and expose faults more than to praise beauties. We thank Mr. Gill for giving us the severe criticism which Poe wrote upon Griswold's “Poets and Poetry of America.” This was the secret cause of Griswold's enmity. He nursed his anger for ten years, and, when Poe was helpless in his grave, vilified the character of the deceased under the guise of friendship Poe certainly handled Griswold's book without gloves. He called it “miserable” and its authory “a toady;” he declared that “reasoning and thinking were entirely out of Griswold's sphere,” etc. With prophetic ken, Poe declared at the close of the article that Griswold would be “forgotten, save only by those whom he had injured and insulted; he will sink into oblivion, without leaving a landmark [page 156:] to tell that he once existed; or, if he is spoken of hereafter, he will be quoted as the unfaithful servant who abused his trust.”

Entertaining as Poe's criticisms always are, still we think that an original genius, capable of producing so remarkable a poem as “The Raven,” is better employed in affording subjects for criticism than in acting as a critic himself. Dunces have to be scourged, the literary temple has to be swept clean; but such work belongs not to a poet of exquisite genius. We do not cut blocks with a razor; we should not put Pegasus under the saddle. Goldsmith was a fine critic, yet who reads his criticisms now? But his “Traveller,” his “Deserted Village,” his “Vicar of Wakefield,” are immortal. Tennyson might have written admirable criticism of poetry, but the world would not have taken it in fair exchange for “In Memoriam,” “The Princess,” and “The Idyls of the King.” Wordsworth calls criticism an “inglorious employment,” and adds: “If the time consumed in writing critiques on the works of others were given to original composition, it would be much better employed.” We take the liberty of differing from this opinion, thinking on the contrary, that criticism is a most important department of letters, and of infinite value to literature. Goethe was a [page 157:] critic, Sainte-Beuve was a critic, Macaulay was a critic, Matthew Arnold is a critic. Surely their “employment” was not “inglorious.” But we do think that a writer of Poe's peculiar gifts should have been much better employed in original composition than in writing criticisms, however brilliant. The following passage will show how Poe's ability in this department was appreciated in his lifetime by one of the most fastidious of American scholars — Horace Binney Wallace:

“As an analytical critic, Poe possessed abilities quite unrivalled in this country, and perhaps on the other side of the water. We have scarcely ever taken up one of his more critical papers on some author or work worthy of his strength, without a sense of surprise at the novel and profound views from which his inquiries began, nor followed their development without the closest interest, nor laid the essay down without admiration and respect for the masculine and acute understanding with which we had coped during the perusal.”

While according such high praise to Poe's critical abilities, Mr. Wallace adds that, “in the case of inventive genius so brilliant and vigorous as shown in his poems, we feel that criticism, even of the highest kind, is an employment below the true measure of its dignity, [page 158:] and, we may say, its duty; for to be a tender of a light in another man's tomb is not fit occupation for one whose ray may abide against all the fears of night and storm and time. Poe possessed unusual powers of close logical reasoning; he was gifted with a miraculous power t)f sarcasm, and to him the torva voluptas of literary controversy possessed a fatal fascination.”

While lamenting that Poe did not develop more fully his unrivalled gifts in original composition, we must remember that during all his later life he was a sufferer from res angusta domi, and whatever found the readiest market was what he was compelled to produce. He could not enjoy the luxury of devoting his genius to the composition of such poems as “The Raven,” which paid him ten dollars, when a criticism like that on “Flaccus,” which he could dash off currente calamo, paid him fifteen dollars.

Poetry occupied very little of Poe's intellectual life: it was for him but a “divine plaything,” as Heine said of himself. Poe's poems were attempts to represent in verse the beautiful and unearthly beings whom his soul worshipped. In speaking of Maurice de Guerin, Matthew Arnold's says: “To a nature like his, endowed with a passion for perfection, the [page 159:] necessity to produce constantly, to produce whether in the vein, to produce something good or bad or middling as it may happen, but at all events something, is the most intolerable of tortures.” It was his passion for perfection, his disdain for all imperfect poetical work, which made Poe so severe a critic.

Mr. Gill devotes the greater part of his appendix to an account of the proceedings attending the unveiling of the Poe Monument in Baltimore in November, 1875, We must condemn his bad taste in quoting from the contemporary account of the ceremonial such passages as these: “Mr. William F. Gill, who has done much by his written vindication of the poet's memory to remove false impressions, gave the finest rendition of “The Raven” to which we have ever listened. The large audience was spellbound by his perfect elocution, and his resemblance to the recognized ideals of Mr. Poe himself made the personation of his horror and despair almost painful.” We were present on this occasion, but we saw no person “spellbound.” We have seen every likeness of Poe extant, but we fail to discover any resemblance between the author of “The Raven” and Mr. Gill. Again he quotes: “After the monument was unveiled, ‘Annabel Lee’ was recited in the same masterly manner [page 160:] by Mr. Gill.” Further on he says: “Poe's famous poem, “The Raven,” was read by Mr. Gill, who was made the recipient of an ovation at its close at the hands of the audience.” Our presence at the time does not enable us clearly to understand what he means by “an ovation at the hands of the audience.”

The melancholy life and death of the unhappy master of “The Raven” seem to have thrown a spell over all his later biographers, especially those who did not know him in life. In their endeavor to present him to the world in the most favorable light, they have not been satisfied to represent him under the form of a cloud with a silver lining, but almost as a resplendent sun. If this be right, then the present writer is wrong. But Mr, Gill stands facile princeps in this particular. He set out with the fixed determination to whiten Poe and blacken Griswold. Like the famous knight of La Mancha, he attacked all obstructions which stood in the way, and the result has been that those who knew Poe will scarcely recognize him as painted by Mr. Gill. Still, with all its faults, the work is interesting; but it would have been much more valuable had the material it contains been placed in the hands of a skilled literary man.

We now turn to Mr. Ingram's biography. [page 161:] To him belongs the credit of having produced the most elaborate and complete Life of Poe which has yet been given to the world. He details the poet's history from his birth in Boston in 1809, to his death in Baltimore in 1849.

Mr. Ingram has been very industrious in collecting the material for his work. He has gathered all facts obtainable; but he has written his biography in a spirit of childish admiration of Poe, and determined hostility toward all other biographers of the poet. He seems to labor under the delusion that Americans neither appreciated the genius nor knew anything about the life of Poe until he kindly enlightened them. Carlyle says the fact that, a quarter of a century after his death, interest in Burns continued unabated proves that the poet was not a common man. Interest in Poe has not only not abated during the more than a quarter of a century which has elapsed since his death, but year after year it has continued to increase.

When Alexander set out at the age of twenty to conquer the world, he depended upon his sword, with hope for inspiration. When Edgar A. Poe set out at the age of twenty to win fame and fortune, he depended upon his pen. It was a brave act in those days of our country's literary poverty. The time [page 162:] had passed when poets were the chosen companions of statesmen and princely merchants; the time had not arrived when literary men could live by their pens — yet Poe, with a knightly disdain of fear, rushed into the arena, choosing Sydney's brave motto, “Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.” Collecting his verses together, he published them under the name of “Tamerlane and Minor Poems,” having previously sent specimens to John Neal, who, fifty years ago, was a prominent journalist. He was at that time the editor of the “Yankee,” and replied to the aspiring young poet in the columns of his paper: “If E. A. P., of Baltimore, whose lines about heaven, which, although nonsense, are rather exquisite nonsense, would do himself justice, he might make a beautiful and, perhaps, a magnificent poem.” The lines referred to are in “Fairy-Land.” In response to this first recognition of his ability to do something, Poe wrote the following note:

“I am young, not yet twenty; am a poet, if deep worship of all beauty can make me one, and wish to be so in the common meaning of the word. I would give the world to embody one-half the ideas afloat in my imagination . . . I appeal to you as a man that loves the same beauty that I adore — the beauty of the natural blue sky and the sunshiny earth. [page 163:] There can be no tie more strong than that of brother for brother. It is not so much that they love one another as that they both love the same parent; their affections are always running in the same direction, the same channel, and cannot help mingling. I am, and have been from my childhood, an idler. It cannot, therefore, be said that —

for I have no father nor mother.”

It does not appear that Poe's first literary venture attracted any attention or had any sale; yet the little volume contains thoughts and suggestions superior in point of imagination to anything in Byron's early poems. Indeed, the delicate grace and musical rhythm of portions of “Tamerlane” give a promise of the metrical sweetness which distinguishes all Poe's poetry.

The young poet soon discovered that the way of literature was far from being a “Primrose path;” that it led through thorns and briers, with, but a few flowers to cheer the weary way. After ten years of literary struggle, we find him, in 1842, anxious to obtain a livelihood “independent of letters.” Poe had, by this time, made a national reputation by his writings. [page 164:] He had edited with distinguished success the “Southern Literary Messenger,” the “Gentleman's Magazine,” and “Graham's Magazine;” he had written “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “Ligeia,” “William Wilson,” the “Murders in the Rue Morgue,” and other tales of mystery and imagination; he had published his best critical essays, and some of his sweetest lyrics — yet he writes this almost despairing letter to a friend, asking his assistance in securing a small government clerkship in Washington:

“I wish to God I could visit Washington. But the old story, you know — I have no money, not even enough to take me there, saying nothing of getting back. It is a hard thing to be poor, but as I am kept so by an honest motive, I dare not complain. Your suggestion about Mr. Kennedy is well timed; and here, Thomas, you can do me a true service. Call upon Mr. Kennedy — you know him, I believe; if not introduce yourself; he is a perfect gentleman, and will give you a cordial welcome. Speak to him of my wishes, and urge him to see the Secretary of War in my behalf, or one of the other Secretaries, or President Tyler. I mention, in particular, the Secretary of War, because I have been at West Point, and this may stand me in some stead. I would be glad [page 165:] to get almost any appointment — even a $500 one — so that I may have something independent of letters for a subsistence. To coin one's brain into silver, at the nod of a master, is, to my thinking, the hardest task in the world. Mr. Kennedy has been at all times a true friend to me — he was the first true friend I ever had; I am indebted to him for life itself. He will be willing to help me I know, but needs urging, for he is always head and ears in business. Thomas, may I depend upon you?”

It is not known what steps were taken to advance Poe's interest in this matter, but we know that he failed to secure “even a five-hundred-dollar” clerkship. Had he obtained a government appointment, it is not very likely that he would have kept it. He would have found the dull routine of official life even a harder task than “coining one's brain into silver, at the nod of a master;” and the nervous restlessness which he said haunted him as a fiend, would have driven him back to literature as a relief.

In the Winter of 1845 the fame of Edgar A. Poe was established by the production of “The Raven.” The almost universal verdict of the world has placed this among the famous single poems, like the “Elegy in a Country Churchyard,” the “Deserted Village,” etc. “The [page 166:] Raven” fixes the attention by its sad and mysterious story, its rich but sombre coloring, and by the almost miraculous melody of its rhythm. It seems wild and meaningless upon the first perusal, but we turn to it again and again, and our interest grows by what it feeds upon. Mr. James E. Murdock, the elocutionist, prefaced his reading of the poem by saying he knew Poe well, and from his conversations with the poet he understood that Lenore was intended to represent his happy and innocent youth, and The Raven his dark and unhappy manhood. Be this as it may, the informing spirit of the poem is:

“The rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore.”

An ordinary versifier would have repeated this beautiful name continually. Poe was too consummate a literary artist for that: he produced a better effect by a “masterly frugality of repetition.” In the second and fifth verses, by its “quick and sudden duplication” he fixes Lenore in the mind of the reader, and continually suggests it in all the other verses, until the poem closes with the despairing wail —

It has been said, with equal truth and beauty, that on the dusky wings of the “Raven,” Edgar A. Poe will sail securely over the gulf of oblivion to the eternal shore.

The increased reputation which followed the publication of “The Raven” stimulated Poe's literary activity. But, with all his fame and work, he still felt it hard to keep the wolf from the door with no other weapon than his pen. A few weeks after “The Raven” had made Poe the lion of the season, we find him writing in the “Broadway Journal” an article entitled, “Some Secrets of the Magazine Prison House,” which “throws a lurid light upon the mysteries of the unfortunate poet's impecuniosity.” In this mournful paper occurs the following paragraph:

“The want of an international copyright law by rendering it nearly impossible to obtain anything from the booksellers in the way of remuneration for literary labor, has had the effect of forcing many of our best writers into service of the magazines and reviews, which, with a pertinacity, that does them credit, keep up in a certain or uncertain degree the good old saying that even in the thankless field of letters the laborer is worthy of his hire. How — by dint of what dogged instinct of the honest and proper — these journals have continued to [page 168:] persist in their paying practices is a point we have had much difficulty in settling to our satisfaction, and we have been forced to settle it at last upon no more reasonable ground than that of a still lingering esprit de patrie. That magazines can live and not only live but thrive, and not only thrive but afford to disburse money for original contributions, are facts which can only be solved, under the circumstances, by the really fanciful but still agreeable supposition that there is somewhere still existing an ember not altogether quenched among the fires of good feeling for letters and literary men that once animated the American bosom. These magazine editors and proprietors pay (that is the word); and with your true poor-devil author the smallest favors are sure to be thankfully received. No; the illiberality lies at the door of the demagogueridden public, who suffer their anointed delegates (or perhaps aroynted, which is it?) to insult the common sense of them (the public) by making orations in our national halls on the beauty and conveniency of robbing the literary Europe on the highway, and on the gross absurdity in especial of admitting so unprincipled a principle that a man has any right and title either to his own brains or the flimsy material that he chooses to spin out of them, like a confounded [page 169:] caterpillar as he is. If anything of this gossamer character stands in need of protection, why, we have our hands full at once with the silkworms and the morus multicaulis.”

Poe suffered as much as any author of his time from the want of an international copyright law between the United States and Great Britain. His tales were copied constantly into the English periodicals and translated into the French Journals, As to the effects of travel on literary wares, he says:

“It is astonishing to see how a magazine article, like a traveller, spruces up after crossing the sea. We ourselves have had the honor of being pirated without mercy; but as we found our articles improved by the process (at least in the opinion of our countrymen), we said nothing, as a matter of course. We have written paper after paper which attracted no attention at all until it appeared as original in Bentley's ‘Miscellany’ or the Paris ‘Charivari.’ The Boston ‘Notion’ (edited by Rufus W. Griswold) once abused us very lustily for having written ‘The House of Usher.’ Not long afterwards Bentley published it anonymously, as original with itself; whereupon ‘The Notion,’ having forgotten that we wrote it, not only lauded it ad nauseam, but copied it in toto.” [page 170:]

We regret that Mr. Ingram should have violated good taste and decorum by entering into the disgraceful squabbles which embittered the last years of Poe's life. It would have been better had they been allowed to remain buried in the long forgotten journals in which they were first published. Whether Mr. English was thrashed or Mr. Briggs had a bottle-nose are questions about which the present and future generations of readers will care very little. Whether one man was a “vagabond” and another the “autocrat of all the asses” is something in which we are very slightly interested; but in Poe himself, both as a man and a poet, the world has an ever increasing interest. We think, therefore, that it will be a pleasure to read what Prof. Valentine, of Richmond, says of his personal appearance:

“His brow was fine and expressive, his eyes dark and restless; in the mouth, firmness mingled with an element of scorn and discontent. His gait was firm and erect, but his manner nervous and emphatic. He was of fine address and cordial in his intercourse with his friends, but looked as though he rarely smiled from joy, to which he seemed to be a stranger; that might be partly attributed to the great struggle for self-control in which he seemed [page 171:] to be constantly engaged. There was little variation and much sadness in the intonation of his voice, yet this very sadness was so completely in harmony with his history as to excite on the part of this community a deep interest in him both as a lecturer and a reader.”

The Spring of 1849 found Poe still struggling to make a living by literary work. He had been ill, and upon becoming convalescent, had lapsed into a melancholy state of mind, to which he now became habitually subject. He believed himself destined to an early death, but his haughty soul “defied all portents of impending doom.” To an astonishing degree he retained his hope for the future even in the midst of his dreary present. Undaunted by the worst blows that “unmerciful disaster” inflicted upon him, he determined to struggle on and on, hoping against hope, or, if despairing, to follow the noble advice of Burke — “even in despair to work on.” This determination is forcibly expressed in a letter, which about this time he wrote to “Annie,” one of the most cherished friends of his lonesome later years:

“You know how cheerfully I wrote to you not long ago — about my prospects, hopes; how I anticipated soon being out of difficulty. Well ! all seems to be frustrated, at least for the present. As usual, misfortune never comes single, [page 172:] and I have met one disappointment after another. The ‘Columbian’ in the first place, failed; then ‘Post's Union’ (taking with it my principal dependence); then the ‘Whig Review’ was forced to stop paying for contributions; then the ‘Democratic/ then (on account of his oppression and insolence) I was obliged to quarrel finally with —— ; and then, to crown all, the ‘ —— ‘ (from which I anticipated so much, and with which I had made a regular engagement for ten dollars a week throughout the year) has written a circular to correspondents, pleading poverty, and declining to receive any more articles; more than this, the ‘S. L. Messenger,’ which owes me a great deal, cannot pay just yet; and, altogether, I am reduced to ‘Sartain’ and ‘Graham’ — both very precarious. No doubt, Annie, you attribute my ‘gloom’ to these events, but you would be wrong. It is not in the power of any merely worldly considerations, such as these, to depress me. . . . No; my sadness is unaccountable — and this makes me the more sad. I am full of dark forebodings. Nothing cheers or comforts me. My life seems wasted — the future looks a dreary blank; but I will struggle on, and ‘hope against hope.’”

In a few months the struggle ended, as we all know. [page 173:]

From a long and careful study of Poe's character, it does not appear that he was one of the most amiable of human beings; but at the same time it must in justice be admitted that he suffered more than the common lot from “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” From his second to his eighteenth year, he lived in affluence, and was taught to consider himself the sole heir to a splendid fortune, when suddenly, without warning, he was thrown upon the world friendless and alone. When Tom Jones was turned out ,of the house of his adopted father. Squire Allworthy, the Squire gave him sufficient money to enable him to earn an honest livelihood, saying, “As I have educated you like a child of my own, I will not turn you naked into the world.” Poe received no such treatment from his adopted father: he was dismissed penniless. The rest of his life was one continued struggle against poverty and want, at times without the simplest necessaries of life. Conscious of possessing rare intellectual gifts, he saw himself often neglected by the world and condemned by men infinitely his inferiors in all things except worldly knowledge. It cannot be said of Poe that, like a block of marble, he became more polished and statue-like by every stroke of misfortune. On the contrary, he became [page 174:] more defiant, desperate, reckless, but not more admirable. The companions of his boyhood and early youth unite in saying that he was a fine, generous and high-spirited nature, and attribute the change which took place in his character to the quarrel with Mr. Allan and its consequences. Some of his summer friends turned away from him, while others reproached him for ingratitude, not knowing the circumstances of the case. His proud and sensitive spirit keenly felt the sudden change from wealth to poverty, from social position to neglect; and then began that unequal battle with the world which ended in a charity hospital in Baltimore. Swift's epitaph should be Poe's; for does not he also sleep “ubi saeva indinatio cor ulterius lacerare nequit”?

FOOTNOTES

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 150:]

* International Review, January, 1881.