New York — Sept. 5. 48

Dear Madam — Being engaged in making a collection of autographs of the most distinguished American authors I am, of course, anxious to procure your own, and if you would so far honor me as to reply, however briefly, to this note, I would take it as a very especial favor.

Res^y,  
Yr. Mo. Ob. S^t.

EDWARD S. T. GREY(9)

Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman

And now, in the most simple words at my command, let me paint to you the impression made upon me by your personal presence. — As you entered the room, pale, timid, hesitating, and evidently oppressed at heart; as your eyes rested appealingly, for one brief moment, upon mine, I felt, for the first time in my life, and tremblingly acknowledged, the existence of spiritual influences altogether out of the reach of the reason. I saw that you were Helen — my Helen — the Helen of a thousand dreams — she whose visionary lips had so often lingered upon my own in the divine trance of passion — she whom the great Giver of all Good had prëordained to be mine — mine only — if not now, alas! then at least hereafter and forever, in the Heavens. — You spoke falteringly and seemed scarcely conscious of what you said. I heard no words — only the soft voice, more familiar to me than my own, and more melodious than the songs of the angels. Your hand rested within mine, and my whole soul shook with a tremulous ecstasy. And then but for very shame — but for the fear of grieving or [page 576:] oppressing you — I would have fallen at your feet in as pure — in as real a worship as was ever offered to Idol or to God. And when, afterwards, on those two successive evenings of all-Heavenly delight, you passed to and fro about the room — now sitting by my side, now far away, now standing with your hand resting on the back of my chair, while the preternatural thrill of your touch vibrated even through the senseless wood into my heart — while you moved thus restlessly about the room — as if a deep Sorrow or a more profound Joy haunted your bosom — my brain reeled beneath the intoxicating spell of your presence, and it was with no merely human senses that I either saw or heard you. It was my soul only that distinguished you there. I grew faint with the luxury of your voice and blind with the voluptuous lustre of your eyes.(10)

How selfish — How despicably selfish seems now all — all that I have written. Have I not, indeed, been demanding at your hands love which might endanger your life?(12) ... But oh, darling! if I seem selfish, yet believe that I truly, truly love you, and that it is the most spiritual of love that I speak, even if I speak it from the depths of the most passionate of hearts. Think — oh, think for me, Helen, and for yourself! Is there no hope? — is there none? May not this terrible [disease?](13) be conquered? Frequently it has [page 577:] been overcome. And more frequently are we deceived in respect to its actual existence. Long-continued nervous disorder — especially when exasperated by ether or [word cut out] — will give rise to all the symptoms of heart — [sic] — di[sease an(14)]d so deceive the most skillful physicians — as even in [my o(15)]wn case they were deceived. But admit that this fearful evil has indeed assailed you. Do you not all the more really need the devotionate care which only one who loves you as I do, could or would bestow? On my bosom could I not still the throbbings of your own? Do not mistake me, Helen! Look, with your searching — your seraphic eyes, into the soul of my soul, and see if you can discover there one taint of an ignoble nature! At your feet — if you so willed it — I would cast from me, forever, all merely human desire, and clothe myself in the glory of a pure, calm, and unexacting affection. I would comfort you — soothe you — tranquillize you. My love — my faith — should instil into your bosom a praeternatural calm. You would rest from care — from all worldly agitation. You would get better, and finally well. And if not, Helen, — if not — if you died — then at least would I clasp your dear hand in death, and willingly — oh, joyfully — joyfully — joyfully — go down with you into the night of the Grave.

Write soon — soon — oh, soon! — But not much. Do not weary or agitate yourself for my sake. Say to me those coveted words which would turn earth into Heaven. If Hope is forbidden, I will not murmur if you comfort me with Love. — The papers of which you [speak(16)] I will procure and forward immediately. They will cost me nothing, dear Helen, an[d](17) I therefore re-enclose you what you so thoughtfully s[ent(18)]. Think that, in doing so, my lips are pressed ferv[ently(19)] and lingeringly upon your own. And now, in closing this long, long letter, let me speak last of that which lies nearest my heart — of that precious gift which I would not exchange for the surest hope of Paradise. It seems to me too sacred that I should even whisper to you, the dear giver, what it [page 578:] is. My soul, this night, shall come to you in dreams and speak to you those fervid thanks which my pen is all powerless to utter.

Edgar.

P. S. Tuesday Morning — I beg you to believe, dear Helen, that I replied to your letter immediately upon its receipt; but a most unusual storm, up to this moment, precludes all access to the City.(20)

I swear to you that my soul is incapable of dishonor — that, with the exception of occasional follies and excesses which I bitterly lament, but to which I have been driven by intolerable sorrow, and which are hourly committed by others without attracting any notice whatever — I can call to mind no act of my life which would bring a blush to my cheek — or to yours. If I have erred at all, in this regard, it has been on the side of what the world would call a Quixotic sense of the honorable — of the chivalrous. The indulgence of this sense has been the true voluptuousness of my life. It was for this species of luxury that, in early youth, I deliberately threw away from me a large fortune, rather than endure a trivial wrong. It was for this, at a later period, I did violence to my own heart, and married, for another's happiness, where I knew that no possibility of my own existed.(21)

Dearest Helen — I have no engagements, but am very ill — so much so that I must go home, if possible — but if you say “stay,” I will try & do so. If you cannot see me — write me one word to say that you do love me and that, under all circumstances, you will be mine. Remember that these coveted words you have never yet spoken — and, nevertheless, I have not reproached you. It was not in my power to be here on Saturday as I proposed, or I would undoubtedly have kept my promise. If you can see me, even for a few moments do so — but if not write — or send some message which will comfort me.(25)

Friday the 24th

In a little more than a fortnight, dearest Helen, I shall, once again, clasp you to my heart: — until then I forbear to agitate you by speaking of my wishes — of my hopes, and especially of my fears. You say that all depends on my own firmness. If this be so, all is safe — for the terrible agony which I have so lately endured — an agony known only to my God and to myself — seems to have passed my soul through fire and purified it from all that is weak. Henceforward I am strong: — this those who love me shall see — as well as those who have so relentlessly endeavored to ruin me. It needed only some such trials as I have just undergone, to make me what I was born to be, by making me conscious of my own strength. — But all does not depend, dear Helen, upon my firmness — all depends upon the sincerity of your love.

You allude to your having been “tortured by reports which have all since been explained to your entire satisfaction.” On this point my mind is fully made up. I will rest neither by night nor by day until I bring those who have slandered me into the light of day — until I expose them, and their motives, to the public eye. I have the means and I will ruthlessly employ them. On one point let [page 581:] me caution you, dear Helen. No sooner will Mrs. E.[llet] hear of my proposals to yourself, than she will set in operation every conceivable chicanery to frustrate me; — and, if you are not prepared for her arts, she will infallibly succeed — for her whole study, throughout life, has been the gratification of her malignity by such means as any other human being would die rather than adopt. You will be sure to receive anonymous letters so skillfully contrived as to deceive the most sagacious. You will be called on, possibly, by persons whom you never heard of, but whom she has instigated to call & villify me — without even their being aware of the influence she has exercised. I do not know any one with a more acute intellect about such matters than Mrs. Osgood — yet even she was for a long time completely blinded by the arts of this fiend & simply because her generous heart could not conceive how any woman could stoop to machinations at which the most degraded of the fiends would shudder.(29)

Whereas a Marriage is intended between the above named Sarah H. Whitman and the Subscriber Edgar A. Poe, I hereby approve of and assent to the transfer of the property in the manner proposed in the papers of which the preceding are Copies.

Providence, December 22, 1848

In presence of
William J. Pabodie

EDGAR A. POE.(31)

My own dearest Helen — Your letters — to my mother & myself — have just been received, & I hasten to reply, in season for this afternoons mail. I cannot be in Providence until Wednesday [Dec. 20] morning; and, as I must try and get some sleep after I arrive, it is more than probable that I shall not see you until about 2 P. M. Keep up heart — for all will go well. My mother sends her dearest love and says she will return good for evil and treat you much better than your mother has treated me. Remember me to Mr. P. & believe me

Ever your own

EDGAR.(32)

Our engagement was from the first a conditional one. My mother was inflexibly opposed to our union, and being in a pecuniary point of view entirely dependent upon her, I could not, if I would, have acted without her concurrence. Many painful scenes occurred during his several visits to Providence in consequence of this opposition. The story of the “Police” is without a shadow of foundation. Neither did Mr. Poe, after obtaining my mother's reluctant consent to our immediate marriage, commit any of those excesses which have been charged to him. This consent was not obtained until the evening of Dec. 22. On the 23 of December Mr. Poe wrote a note to the Rev. Dr. Crocker requesting him to publish our intention of marriage on the ensuing Sunday [Dec. 24] — he also wrote a letter to Mrs. Clemm informing her that we should be married on Monday and should arrive at Fordham on Tuesday in the second train of cars. We rode out together in the morning & passed the greater part of the day in making preparations for my sudden change of abode. In the afternoon, while we were together at one of the circulating libraries of the city, a communication was handed me cautioning me against this imprudent marriage & informing me of many things in Mr. Poe's recent career with which I was previously unacquainted. I was at the same time informed that he had already violated the solemn promises that he had made to me & to my friends on the preceding evening. I knew that, even had I been disposed to overlook these things myself, they must within a few hours come to the knowledge of my friends & would lead to a recurrence of the scenes to which I had been already subjected, and I felt utterly helpless of being able to exercise any permanent influence over his life. On our return home I announced to him what I had heard &, in his presence, countermanded the order, which he had previously given, for the delivery of the note he had addressed to Dr. Crocker. He earnestly endeavoured to persuade me that I had been misinformed, especially in relation to his having that very morning called for wine at the bar of the hotel where he boarded. The effect of this infringement of his promise was in no degree perceptible, but the authority on which I had received this & other statements concerning him, was not to be questioned. I listened to his explanations & his remonstrances without one word of reproach and with that marble stillness of despair so mercifully accorded to us when the heart has been wrought to its highest capacity of suffering. Nor was I, at that bitter moment, unsolaced by a sense of relief at being freed from the intolerable burden of responsibility which he had sought to impose upon me, by persuading me that his fate, for good or evil, [page 585:] depended upon me. I had now learned that my influence was unavailing. My mother on being informed of what had transpired had a brief interview with Mr. Poe which resulted in his determination to return immediately to New York. In her presence & in that of his friend, Mr. Pabodie, I bade him farewell, with feelings of profound commiseration for his fate — of intense sorrow thus to part from one whose sweet & gracious nature had endeared him to me beyond expression, and whose rare & peculiar intellect had given a new charm to my life. While he was endeavouring to win from me an assurance that our parting should not be a final one, my mother saved me from a response by insisting upon the immediate termination of the interview. Mr. Poe then started up and left the house with an expression of bitter resentment at what he termed, the “intolerable insults” of my family. I never saw him more — (35)

Will Dr. Crocker have the kindness to publish the banns of matrimony between Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman and myself, on Sunday and on Monday. When we have decided on the day of the marriage we will inform you, and will thank you to perform the ceremony.

Resp^y Yr. Ob. S^t

EDGAR A. POE.(36)

He [Poe] was still urgently anxious that the marriage should take place before he left the City. That very morning, he wrote a note to Dr. Crocker, requesting him to publish the intended marriage, at the earliest opportunity, and intrusted this note to me, with the request that I should deliver it in person. The note is still in my possession. I delayed complying with his request, in the hope that the union might yet be prevented. Many of Mrs. W's friends deprecated this hasty and imprudent marriage; and it was their urgent solicitations, and certain representations, which were that afternoon made by them to Mrs. W. and her family, [page 586:] that led to the postponement of the marriage, and eventually to a dissolution of the engagement. In the evening of that day Mr. Poe left for New York. These are the facts, which I am ready to make oath to, if necessary. You will perceive, therefore, that I did not write inadvisedly, in the statements published in the Tribune.(37)

“I have ‘in my mind's eye,’ ” she remarks, “a figure somewhat below medium height, perhaps, but so perfectly proportioned, and crowned with such a noble head, so regally carried, that, to my girlish apprehension, he gave the impression of commanding stature. Those clear sad eyes seemed to look from an eminence, rather than from the ordinary level of humanity, while his conversational tone was so low and deep, that one could easily fancy it borne to the ear from some distant height. I saw him first in Lowell, and there heard him give a Lecture on Poetry, illustrated by readings and recitations. His manner of rendering some of the selections constituted my only remembrance of the evening: it fascinated me, although he gave no attempt at dramatic effect. Everything was rendered with pure intonation and perfect enunciation, marked attention being paid to the rhythm: he almost sang the more musical versifications.

.....   .....  . . [page 589:]

“My memory photographs him again,” the lady continues, “sitting before an open wood fire, in the early autumn evening, gazing intently into the glowing coal, holding the hand of a dear friend — ‘Annie’ — while for a long time no one spoke, and the only sound was the ticking of the tall old clock in the corner of the room. (I wish I could tell you what he was thinking about during that rapt silence!)”(43)

Ah, Annie Annie! my Annie! What cruel thoughts about your Eddy, must have been torturing your heart during the last terrible fortnight, in which you have heard nothing from me — not even one little word to say that I still lived & loved you. But [page 590:] Annie, I know that you felt too deeply the nature of my love for you, to doubt that, even for one moment, & this thought has comforted me in my bitter sorrow — I could bear that you should imagine every other evil except that one — that my soul had been untrue to yours. Why am I not with you now darling that I might sit by your side, press your dear hand in mine, & look deep down into the clear Heaven of your eyes — so that the words which I now can only write, might sink into your heart, and make you comprehend what it is that I would say — And yet Annie, all that I wish to say — all that my soul pines to express at this instant, is included in the one word, love — To be with you now — so that I might whisper in your ear the divine emotions which agitate me — I would willingly — oh joyfully abandon this world with all my hopes of another: — but you believe this Annie — you do believe it, & will always believe it — So long as I think that you know I love you, as no man ever loved woman — so long as I think you comprehend in some measure, the fervor with which I adore you, so long, no worldly trouble can ever render me absolutely wretched. But oh, my darling, my Annie, my own sweet sister Annie, my pure beautiful angel — wife of my soul — to be mine hereafter & forever in the Heavens, how shall I explain to you the bitter, bitter anguish which has tortured me since I left you? You saw, you felt the agony of grief with which I bade you farewell — you remember my expressions of gloom — of a dreadful horrible foreboding of Ill — Indeed — indeed it seemed to me that death approached me even then, & that I was involved in the shadow which went before him — As I clasped you to my heart, I said to myself — “it is for the last time, until we meet in Heaven” — I remember nothing distinctly, from that moment until I found myself in Providence. I went to bed & wept through a long, long, hideous night of despair — When the day broke, I arose & endeavored to quiet my mind by a rapid walk in the cold, keen air — but all would not do — the demon tormented me still. Finally I procured two ounces of laud[a]num & without returning, to my Hotel, took the cars back to Boston. When I arrived, I wrote you a letter, in which I opened my whole heart to you — to you — my Annie, whom I so madly, so distractedly love — I told you how my struggles were more than I could bear — how my soul revolted from saying the words which were to be said — and that not even for your dear sake, could I bring myself to say them. I then reminded you of that holy promise, which was the last I exacted [page 591:] from you in parting — the promise that, under all circumstances, you would come to me on my bed of death — I implored you to come then — mentioning the place where I should be found in Boston. Having written this letter, I swallowed about half the laud[a]num, & hurried to the Post-office — intending not to take the rest until I saw you — for, I did not doubt for one moment, that my own Annie would keep her sacred promise. But I had not calculated on the strength of the laudanum, for, before I reached the Post office my reason was entirely gone, & the letter was never put in. Let me pass over, my darling sister, the awful horrors which succeeded. A friend was at hand, who aided & (if it can be called easing) eased me, but it is only within the last three days, that I have been able to remember what occurred in that dreary interval. It appears that, after the laudanum was rejected from the stomach, I became calm, & to a casual observer, sane — so that I was suffered to go back to Providence — Here I saw her, & spoke, for your sake, the words which you urged me to speak — Ah Annie Annie! my Annie! — is your heart so strong? — is there no hope? — is there none? — I feel that I must die if I persist, & yet, how can I now retract with honor? — Ah beloved, think — think for me & for yourself — do I not love you Annie? do you not love me? Is not this all? Beyond this blissful thought, what other consideration can there be in this dreary world! It is not much that I ask, sweet sister Annie — my mother & myself would take a small cottage at Westford — oh so small — so very humble — I should be far away from the tumult of the world — from the ambition which I loathe — I would labor day & night, and with industry, I could accomplish so much — Annie! it would be a Paradise beyond my wildest hopes — I could see some of your beloved family every day, & you, often — oh very often — I would hear from you continually — regularly & our dear mother would be with us & love us both — ah darling — do not these pictures touch your inmost heart? Think — oh think for me — before the words — the vows are spoken, which put yet another terrible bar, between us — before the time goes by, beyond which there must be no thinking — I call upon you in the name of God — in the name of the holy love I bear you, to be sincere with me — Can you, my Annie, bear to think I am another's? It would give me supreme — infinite bliss to hear you say that you could not bear it — I am at home now with my dear muddie who is endeavoring to comfort me — but the sole words which soothe me, are those in which she speaks of “my Annie” — She tells me that she [page 592:] has written you, begging you to come on to Fordham — Ah beloved Annie, IS IT NOT POSSIBLE? I am so ill — so terribly, hopelessly ILL in body and mind, that I feel I CANNOT live, unless I can feel your sweet, gentle, loving hand pressed upon my forehead — Oh my pure, virtuous, generous, beautiful, beautiful sister Annie! — is it not POSSIBLE for you to come — if only for one little week? — until I subdue this fearful agitation, which if continued, will either destroy my life or, drive me hopelessly mad — Farewell — here & hereafter —

forever your own

EDDY —

I deeply regret that Mr. R. should think ill of me. If you can, disabuse him — and at all times act for me as you think best. I put my honor, as I would my life and soul, implicitly in your hands; but I would rather not confide my purposes, in that one regard, to any one but your dear sister.

I enclose you a letter for Mrs. Whitman. Read it — show it only to those in whom you have faith, and then seal it with wax and mail it from Boston. ... When her answer comes I will send it to you: that will convince you of the truth. If she refuse to answer I will write to Mr. Crocker. By the by, if you know his exact name and address send it to me. ... But as long as you and yours love me, what need I care for this cruel, unjust, calculating world? . ... In all my present anxieties and embarrassments, I still feel in my inmost soul a divine joy — a happiness inexpressible — that nothing seems to disturb. ...

I hope Mr. C. is well. Remember me to him, and ask him if he has seen my “Rationale of Verse,” in the last October and November numbers of the Southern Literary Messenger. ... I am so busy, now, and feel so full of energy. Engagements to write are pouring in upon me every day. I had two proposals within the last week from Boston. I sent yesterday an article to the Am. Review, about “Critics and Criticism.” Not long ago I sent one to the Metropolitan called “Landor's Cottage:” it has something about “Annie” in it, and will appear, I suppose, in the March number. To the S. L. Messenger I have sent fifty pages of “Marginalia,” five pages to appear each month of the current year. I have also made permanent engagements with every magazine in America (except Peterson's National) including a Cincinnati magazine, called The Gentlemen's. So you see that I have only to keep up my spirits to get out of all my pecuniary troubles. The [page 594:] least price I get is $5 per “Graham page,” and I can easily average 1½ per day — that is $7 ½. As soon as “returns” come in I shall be out of difficulty.

But of one thing rest assured, “Annie” — from this day forth I shun the pestilential society of literary women. They are a heartless, unnatural, venomous, dishonorable set, with no guiding principle but inordinate self-esteem. Mrs. Osgood is the only exception I know. ... Kiss little Caddy for me, and remember me to Mr. R. and to all.(48)

“Landor's Cottage” came back to him, however, and the article on “Critics and Criticism” was not published until after his death. But Poe was working hard and steadily and his mind was clearing. A letter dated vaguely “Thursday — 8th” but evidently written in February, again proves how Poe was recovering his energies, and what rates he secured for his work:

[I have been so busy, dear “Annie,” even since I returned from Providence — six weeks ago. I have not suffered a day to pass without writing from a page to three pages. Yesterday, I wrote five, and the day before a poem considerably longer than the “Raven.” I call it “The Bells.”] How I wish my Annie could see it! Her opinion is so dear to me on such topics. On all it is everything to me — but on poetry in especial. And Sarah, too. — I told her, when we were at Westford, that I hardly ever knew any one with a keener discrimination in regard to what is really poetical. The 5 prose pages I finished yesterday are called — what do you think? — I am sure you will never guess — Hop-Frog! Only think of your Eddy writing a story with such a name as “Hop-Frog”! You would never guess the subject (which is a terrible one) from the title, I am sure. It will be published in a weekly paper, of Boston, called “The Flag of Our Union” — not a very respectable journal, perhaps, in a literary point of view, but one that pays as high prices as most of the Magazines. The proprietor wrote to me, offering about 5$ a “Graham page” and as I was anxious to get out of my pecuniary difficulties, I accepted the offer. He gives $5 for a Sonnet, also. Mrs. Osgood, Park Benjamin, & Mrs. Sigourney are engaged. I think “The Bells” will appear in the “Am. Review.” — I have got no answer yet from Mrs. W. who, I understand, has left Providence (for the first time in her life) and gone [page 595:] to New Bedford. My opinion is, that her mother (who is an old devil) has intercepted the [letter and will never give it to her].

Dear Muddy says she w[ill write a long letter in a day] or two & tell you how good I am. She is in high spirits at my prospects and at our hopes of soon seeing Annie. We have told our landlord that we will not take the house next year. Do not let Mr. R., however, make any arrangements for us in Lowell, or Westford — for, being poor, we are so much the slaves of circumstances. At all events, we will both come & see you & spend a week with you in the early spring or before — but we will let you know some time before we come. Muddy sends her dearest-dearest love to you & Sarah & to all. And now good bye, my dear, darling, beautiful Annie.

YOUR OWN EDDY.(49)

Fordham, Feb. 19, Sunday.(58)

Dear, dearest Annie, My sweet Friend and Sister — I fear that in this letter, which I write with a heavy heart, you will find much to disappoint and grieve you — for I must abandon my proposed visit to Lowell, and God only knows when I shall see you, and clasp you by the hand. I have come to this determination to-day, after looking over some of your letters to me and my mother, written since I left you. You have not said it to me, but I have been enabled to glean from what you have said, that Mr. Richmond has permitted himself (perhaps without knowing it) to be influenced against me by the malignant misrepresentations of Mr. and Mrs Locke. Now, I frankly own to you, dear “Annie,” that I am proud, although I have never shown myself proud to you or yours, and never will. You know that I quarrelled with the Lockes solely on your account and Mr. R.'s. It was obviously my interest to keep in with them, and, moreover, they had rendered me some services which entitled them to my gratitude up to the time when I discovered they had been blazoning their favors to the world. Gratitude, then, as well as interest, would have led me not to offend them; and the insults offered to me individually by Mrs. Locke were not sufficient to make me break with them. It was only when I heard them declare that thru’ their patronage alone you were admitted into society, that your husband was every thing despicable — that it would ruin my mother even to enter your doors, it was only when such insults were offered to you, whom I so sincerely and most purely loved, and to Mr. Richmond, whom I had every reason to like and respect, that I arose and left their house and incurred the unrelenting vengeance of that worst of all fiends, “a woman scorned.” Now feeling all this, I cannot help thinking it unkind in Mr. Richmond, when I am absent and unable [page 598:] to defend myself, that he will persist in listening to what these people say to my discredit. I cannot help thinking it, moreover, the most unaccountable instance of weakness — of obtuseness — that ever I knew a man to be guilty of: women are more easily misled in such matters. In the name of God, what else had I to anticipate in return for the offence which I offered Mrs. Locke's insane vanity and self-esteem, than that she would spend the rest of her days in ransacking the world for scandal against me (and the falser the better for her purpose), and in fabricating accusations where she could not find them ready made? I certainly anticipated no other line of conduct on her part; but, on the other hand, I certainly did not anticipate that any man in his senses would ever listen to accusations from so suspicious a source. That any man could be really influenced by them surpasses my belief and the fact is “Annie,” to come at once to the point, I cannot and do not believe it — The obvious prejudices of Mr. R. — cannot be on this ground. I much fear that he has mistaken the nature — the purity of that affection which I feel for you and have not scrupled to avow, an affection which first entered my heart, I believe, through a natural revulsion of feeling at discovering you, you the subject of the debased Mrs. L's vile calumnies, to be not only purer than Mrs. L. but finer and nobler, at all points, than any woman I have ever known or could have imagined to exist upon the earth. God knows dear, dear Annie with what horror I would have shrunk from insulting a nature so divine as yours, with any impure or earthly tone. But since it is clear that Mr. R. cannot enter into my feelings on this topic & that he even suspects what is not, it only remains for me beloved Annie to consult your happiness which under all circumstances will be and must be mine. Not only must I not visit you at Lowell, but I must discontinue my letters and you yours. I cannot and will not have it on my conscience, that I have interfered with the domestic happiness of the only being in the whole world, whom I have loved at the same time with truth and with purity — I do not merely love you, “Annie” — I admire and respect you even more — and Heaven knows there is no particle of selfishness in my devotion — I ask nothing for myself, but your own happiness — with a charitable interpretation of those calumnies which — for your sake, I am now enduring from this vile woman — and which, for your dear, dear sake, I would most willingly endure if multiplied a hundredfold. The [page 599:] calumnies, indeed, “Annie,” do not materially wound me, except in depriving me of your society — for of your affection and respect I feel that they never can. As for any injury the falsehoods of these people can do me, make your mind easy about that. It is true that “Hell has no fury like a woman scorned,” but I have encountered such vengeance before, on far higher grounds — that is to say, for a far less holy purpose, than I feel the defence of your good name to be. I scorned Mrs. Ellet, simply because she revolted me, and to this day she has never ceased her anonymous persecutions. But in what have they resulted? She has not deprived me of one friend who ever knew me and once trusted me — nor has she lowered me one inch in the public opinion. When she ventured too far, I sued her at once (through her miserable tools), and recovered exemplary damages — as I will unquestionably do, forthwith, in the case of Mr. Locke, if ever he shall muster courage to utter a single actionable word. It is true I shrink with a nameless horror from connecting my name in the public prints, with such unmentionable nobodies and blackguards as Locke and his lady — but they may provoke me a little too far — You will now have seen, dear Annie, how and why it is that my Mother and myself cannot visit you as we proposed. In the first place my presence might injure you in your husband's opinion — & in the second I could not feel at ease in his house, so long as he permits himself to be prejudiced against me, or so long as he associates with such persons as the Lockes. It had been my design to ask you and Mr. R — (or, perhaps, your parents) to board my Mother while I was absent at the South, and I intended to start after remaining with you a week, but my whole plans are now disarranged — I have taken the cottage at Fordham for another year — Time, dear, dear Annie, will show all things. Be of good heart, I shall never cease to think of you — and bear in mind the two solemn promises I have made you. The one I am now religiously keeping, and the other (so help me Heaven!) shall sooner or later be kept. — Always your dear friend and brother,

EDGAR.(59)

In justice to my dear husband, I feel in duty bound to tell you, that he never suspected Mr. Poe of anything dishonorable, though the Locke's did their best to poison him in every way & make him believe their atrocious falsehoods — on receipt of this letter, be wrote them (the Lockes) denouncing them in the strongest terms, & the acquaintance ended there & then. He also requested me to urge Mrs. Clemm & Mr. Poe to come on & said she was welcome to stay as long as she wished. If I ever see you I shall have many many things to tell you and to explain.

Yours always

A.L.R.

Fordham, February 14, 1849

My dear Friend Thomas, — Your letter, dated November 27, has reached me at a little village of the Empire State, after having taken, at its leisure, a very considerable tour among the Post Offices — occasioned, I presume, by your indorsement “to forward” wherever I might be — and the fact is, where I might not have been, for the last three months, is the legitimate question. At all events, now that I have your well-known MS. before me, it is most cordially welcome. Indeed, it seems an age since I heard from you, and a decade of ages since I shook you by the hand — although I hear of you now and then. Right glad am I to find you once more in a true position — in the field of Letters. Depend upon it, after all, Thomas, Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man. For my own part, there is no seducing me from the path. I shall be a littérateur at least all my life; nor would I abandon the hopes which still lead me on for all the gold in California. Talking of gold, and of the temptations at present held out to “poor-devil authors,” did it ever strike you that all which is really valuable to a man of letters — to a poet in especial — is absolutely unpurchasable? Love, fame, the dominion of intellect, the consciousness of power, the thrilling sense of beauty, the free air of Heaven, exercise of body & mind, with the physical and moral health which result — these and such as these are really all that a poet cares for: then answer me this — why should he go to California? Like Brutus, “I pause for a reply” — which like F. W. Thomas, I take it for granted you have no intention of giving me. I have [page 602:] read the Prospectus of the “Chronicle,” and like it much, especially the part where you talk about letting go the finger of that conceited booby, the East, which is by no means the East out of which came the wise men mentioned in Scripture. I wish you would come down on the Frogpondians. They are getting worse and worse, and pretend not to be aware that there are any literary people out of Boston. The worst and most disgusting part of the matter is that the Bostonians are really, as a race, far inferior in point of anything beyond mere talent to any other set upon the continent of North America. They are decidedly the most servile imitators of the English it is possible to conceive. I always get into a passion when I think about [it]. It would be the easiest thing in the world to use them up en masse. One really well-written satire would accomplish the business: but it must not be such a dish of skimmed-milk-and-water as Lowell's. I suppose you have seen that affair — the “Fable for Critics,” I mean. Miss Fuller, that detestable old maid, told him once that he was “so wretched a poet as to be disgusting even to his best friends.” This set him off at a tangent and he has never been quite right since — so he took to writing satire against mankind in general, with Margaret Fuller and her protégé, Cornelius Matthews [sic] in particular. It is miserably weak upon the whole, but has one or two good but by no means original things, — oh, there is “nothing new under the sun,” and Solomon is right — for once. I sent a review of the “Fable” to the “S. L. Messenger,” a day or two ago, and I only hope Thompson will print it. Lowell is a ranting abolitionist, and deserves a good using up. It is a pity that he is a poet. I have not seen your paper yet, and hope you will mail me one — regularly if you can spare it. I will send you something whenever I get a chance. With your coeditor, Mr. — I am not acquainted personally, but he is well known to me by reputation. Eames, I think, was talking to me about him in Washington once, and spoke very highly of him in many respects, so upon the whole you are in luck. The rock on which most new enterprises in the paper way split is namby-pambyism. It never did do & never will. No yea-nay journal ever succeeded. But I know there is little danger of your making the “Chronicle” a yea-nay one. I have been quite out of the literary world for the last three years, and have said little or nothing, but, like the owl, I have “taken it out in thinking.” By and by I mean to come out of the bush, and then I have some old scores to settle. I fancy I see some of my friends already [page 603:] stepping up to the Captain's office. The fact is, Thomas, living buried in the country makes a man savage — wolfish. I am just in the humor for a fight. You will be pleased to hear that I am in better health than I ever knew myself to be — full of energy, and bent upon success. You shall hear of me again shortly — and it is not improbable that I may soon pay you a visit in Louisville. If I can do anything for you in New York, let me know. Mrs. Clemm sends her best respects, and begs to be remembered to your mother's family if they are with you. You would oblige me very especially if you could squeeze in what follows, editorially.(61) The lady [Mrs. Lewis] spoken of is a most particular friend of mine, and deserves all I have said of her. I will reciprocate the favor I ask, whenever you say the word, and show me how. Address me at N. York City as usual, and if you insert the following, please cut it out and enclose it in your letter.

Truly your friend,

EDGAR A. POE.(62)

Annie, — you will see by this note that I am nearly, if not quite, well — so be no longer uneasy on my account. I was not so ill as my mother supposed, and she is so anxious about me that she [page 604:] takes alarm often without cause. It is not so much ill that I have been as depressed in spirits — I cannot express to you how terribly I have been suffering from gloom. I begin to have a secret terror lest I may never behold you again — Abandon all hope of seeing me soon. You know how cheerfully I wrote to you not long ago — about my prospects — hopes — how I anticipated being soon out of difficulty. Well! all seems to be frustrated — at least for the present. As usual, misfortunes never come single, and I have met one disappointment after another. The Columbian Magazine, 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 $10 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 good 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 mere 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” ... What do you think? I have received a letter from Mrs. L[ocke], and such a letter! She says she is about to publish a detailed account of all that occurred between us, under guise of romance, with fictitious names, &c., — that she will make me appear noble, generous, &c. &c. — nothing bad — that she will “do justice to my motives,” &c. &c. She writes to know if “I have any suggestions to make.” If I do not answer it in a fortnight, the book will go to press as it is — and, more than all this — she is coming on immediately to see me at Fordham. I have not replied — shall I? and what? The “friend” who sent the lines to the “H. J.” was the friend who loves you best — was myself. The Flag so misprinted them that I was resolved to have a true copy. The Flag has two of my articles yet — “A Sonnet to my Mother,” and “Landor's Cottage.” ... I have written a ballad called “Annabel Lee,” which I [page 605:] will send you soon. Why do you not send the tale of which you spoke?”(63)

An immortal instinct, deep within the spirit of man, is thus, plainly, a sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments, a duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, and sentiments, which greet him in common with all mankind — he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us — but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle, by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time, to attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements, perhaps, appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry — or when by Music, the most entrancing of the Poetic moods — we find ourselves melted into tears — we weep then — not as the Abbate Gravina supposes — through excess of pleasure, but through a certain, petulant, impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and for ever, those divine and rapturous joys, of which through the poem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.

We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the [page 609:] 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 low shrubberies — in the waving of the grain-fields — in the slanting of tall, Eastern trees — in the blue distance of 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 songs 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 — 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, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman — in the grace of her step — in the lustre 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.

Can it be true, Louise, that you have the idea fixed in your mind to desert your unhappy and unfortunate friend and patient? You did not say so, I know, but for months I have known you were deserting me, not willingly, but none the less surely — my destiny —

& I have had premonitions of this for months. I repeat, my good spirit, my loyal heart! must this follow as a sequel to all the benefits [page 610:] and blessings you have so generously bestowed? Are you to vanish like all I love, or desire, from my darkened and “lost Soul”? — I have read over your letter again and again, and cannot make it possible with any degree of certainty, that you wrote it in your right mind. (I know you did not without tears of anguish and regret.) Is it possible your influence is lost to me? Such tender and true natures are ever loyal until death; but you are not dead, you are full of life and beauty! Louise, you came in with the parson in your floating white robe — “Good morning, Edgar.” There was a touch of conventional coldness in your hurried manner, and your attitude as you opened the kitchen-door to find Muddie, is my last remembrance of you. There was love, hope, and sorrow in your smile, instead of love, hope, & courage, as ever before. O Louise, how many sorrows are before you! Your ingenuous and sympathetic nature will be constantly wounded in contact with the hollow, heartless world; and for me, alas! unless some true and tender, and pure womanly love saves me, I shall hardly last a year longer alive! A few short months will tell how far my strength — (physical and moral) will carry me in life here. How can I believe in Providence when you look coldly upon me? Was it not you who renewed my hopes and faith in God? — and in humanity? Louise, I heard your voice as you passed out of my sight — leaving me with the parson, “the man of God, the servant of the Most High.” He stood smiling and bowing at the mad man, Poe. But that I had invited him to my house, I would have rushed out into God's light and freedom! But I still listened to your voice. I heard you say with a sob, “Dear Muddie.” I heard you greet my Catarina, but it was only as a memory ... nothing escaped my ear, and I was convinced it was not your generous self that was repeating words so foreign to your nature — to your tender heart! I heard you sob out your sense of duty to my mother, and I heard her reply “Yes, Loui ... yes!” It was the mother of Alma, that child with the Madonna eyes. She is good and pure and passably loving but she is of her father's type. She has not your nature. Why sacrifice your angelic prerogative for a commonplace nature? Why turn your soul from its true work for the desolate, to the thankless and miserly world? Why I was not a priest is a mystery, for I feel I am now a prophet and I did then, and towered in mind and body over my invited guest in spite of the duties of hospitality and regard for your feelings, Louise, when he said grace and you said a low “Amen.” I felt my heart [page 611:] stop, and I was sure I was then to die before your eyes. Louise, it is well — it is fortunate — you looked up with a tear in your dear eyes, and raised the window, and talked of the guava you had brought for my sore throat. Your instincts are better than a strong man's reason for me — I trust they may be for yourself. Louise, I feel I shall not prevail — a shadow has already fallen upon your soul, and is reflected in your eyes. It is too late — you are floating away with the cruel tide. I am a coward to write this to you, but it is not a common trial — it is a fearful one to me. Such rare souls as yours so beautify this earth! so relieve it of all that is repulsive and sordid, so brighten its toils and cares, it is hard to lose sight of them even for a short time. Again I say I am a coward to wound your loyal unselfish and womanly heart but you must know and be assured of my regret and my sorrow if aught I have ever written has hurt you. My heart never wronged you. I place you in my esteem — in all solemnity — beside the friend of my boyhood — the mother of my schoolfellow, of whom I told you, and as I have repeated in the poem, “The Beloved Physician,” as the truest, tenderest of this world's most womanly souls, and an angel to my forlorn and darkened nature. I will not say “lost soul” again, for your sake. I will try to overcome my grief for the sake of your unselfish care of me in the past, and in life or death, I am ever yours gratefully and devotedly,

EDGAR A. POE.(67)

June 1849

New York, June 28-49

Dear Griswold, — Since I have more critically examined your “Female Poets” it occurs to me that you have not quite done justice to our common friend, Mrs. Lewis; and if you could oblige me so far as to substitute, for your no doubt hurried notice, a somewhat longer one prepared by myself (subject, of course, to your emendations) I would reciprocate the favor when, where, and as you please. If you could agree to this, give me a hint to that effect, and the MS. is ready. I will leave it sealed with Mrs. L. who is unaware of my design — for I would rather she should consider herself as indebted to you for the favor, at all points. By calling on Mrs. L., and asking for a package to your address, you can at any moment get it. I would not, of course, put you to any expense in this matter: — all cost shall be promptly defrayed.

Truly yours,

EDGAR A. POE.(70)

Fordham, — June 16.

You asked me to write before I started for Richmond, and I was to have started last Monday (the 11th) — so, perhaps, you thought me gone, and without having written to say “good-bye” — but indeed, Annie, I could not have done so. The truth is, I have been on the point of starting every day since I wrote — and so put off writing until the last moment — but I have been disappointed — and can no longer refrain from sending you, at least, a few lines to let you see why I have been so long silent. When I can go now is uncertain — but, perhaps, I may be off to-morrow, or next day: — all depends upon circumstances beyond my control. Most probably, I will not go until I hear from Thompson (of the S. L. Messenger), to whom I wrote five days ago — telling him to forward the letter from Oquawka, instead of retaining it until he sees me. The reason of the return of my draft on Graham's Magazine (which put me to such annoyance and mortification while I was with you) was, that the articles I sent (by mail) did not come to hand. No insult (as I had half anticipated) was meant — and I am sincerely glad of this; for I did not wish to give up writing for Graham's Magazine just yet — I enclose the publisher's reply to my letter enquiry. The Postmaster here is investigating the matter, and, in all probability, the article will be found, and the draft paid by the time you get this. So all this will be right. ...

You see I enclose you quite a budget of papers: the letter of Mrs. L[ocke] to Muddy — Mrs. L[ocke's] long MS. poem — the verses by the “Lynn Bard,” which you said you wished to see, and also some lines to me (or rather about me), by Mrs. Osgood, in which she imagines me writing to her. I send, too, another notice of “Eureka,” from Greeley's Tribune. The letter of Mrs. L — you can retain if you wish it.

Have you seen the “Moral for Authors,” a new satire by J. E. [page 614:] Tuel? — who, in the name of Heaven, is J. E. Tuel? The book is miserably stupid. He has a long parody of the “Raven” — in fact, nearly the whole thing seems to be aimed at me. If you have not seen it and wish to see it, I will send it. ... No news of Mrs. L[ocke] yet. If she comes here I shall refuse to see her. Remember me to your parents, Mr. R[ichmond], &c. — And now Heaven for ever bless you —

EDDIE.

I enclose, also, an autograph of the Mr. Willis you are so much in love with. Tell Bardwell I will send him what I promised very soon. ... My mother sends you her dearest — most devoted love.(72)