Text: A. W. M., “Edgar Allan Poe,” Earlhamite: Devoted to the Interests of Earlham College (Richmond, IN), vol. III, no. 7, April 1876, pp. 137-140

[page 137, column 2, continued:]

TWENTY-S IX years ago, on a bleak autumn day all th a t was mortal of Edgar Allen [[Allan]] Poe was laid at rest in Westminster church-yard at Baltimore. A single carriage contained all the mourners, and no funeral train followed him to his grave. Few and short were th e prayers, th a t were offered. The wind [page 138:] howled a requium [[requiem]] over his grave, as the little band of mourners turned away and sought their homes. An unhappy man had laid aside his troubles, and stepped beyond into the unknown. The world looked upon the scene in silence, and regarded it as the fit end of a misguided and ill-spent life.

A few weeks since a vast concourse of people assembled at Baltimore to do reverence to the ashes of this same poet. A marble monument, dedicated to his memory, was unveiled to the multitude. This was an expression of admiration for the genius of a man whom the world, or at least a large portion of it, has learned to appreciate. How different all this from the sad picture presented to the world twenty six years ago!

But it is not with universal acclamation that the memory of the poet is hailed, even now. There are those who can never forgive his faults, even in view of the good he has done. There are those who will never cease to regard him as an evil doer, insincere in his life and in his works, and an enemy to all that is good. It would be strange indeed if the world should suddenly turn and cast the full treasure of tribute at the feet of one who, in his life-time, had more enemies than friends. But there are others who. looking beyond the dark veil that o’er shadows his life, can see in him the true poet, the master hand, the fit companion of the highest order of intellects. That his faults were many and grievous, some of them almost beyond endurance, no one can deny. But it is the duty of humanity to recognize talent and genius wherever found, and [column 2:] most especially if that talent or genius is being or has been employed in its behalf.

Edgar Allen [[Allan]] Poe. was a drunkard. The dark, damning fact stands recorded against him in letters that can never be effaced. The demon of intemperance pursued him almost from the cradle to the grave. With an organization naturally sensitive and delicate, a single glass of wine was sufficient to throw him into paroxysms of delirium. And yet, in Iris sober moments he was, as is often the case with such men, a kind man, and one who was capable of deep and lasting friendships. It was only when the angels of darkness possessed his soul, when every fiber of his body’ was strung to its utmost tension with the intoxicating bowl, that the demon appeared. To him it was given to tread a path dark and devious in its windings, yet for him it possessed a certain wild fascination. His life was a mystery — even to himself. Of late there has arisen much discussion concerning his career, and as yet we find but little new light thrown upon the subject.

A writer in a recent number of Scribner attempts to prove that Poe was not a drunkard — that he was the victim of cerebral epilepsy; or, in other words, that he was a mad man. According to this writer, his works are not the production of a sane mind, but the translation into intelligible language of the incoherent dreams and visions of a disordered brain. The silt writer seems to prove to his own satisfaction the truth of his proposition, yet he has certainly failed to render it plain to any one else. Even granting that Poe was subject to the terrible [page 139:] malady of madness, it was only at intervals during the latter portion of his life, and the madness was superinduced by drunkenness. But does poetry such as Poe was capable of producing, obey the behest of an insane m ind? Or, upon the hypothesis, that he was mad and his works the result of an insane mind, how are we to account for the beauty of expression, the tenderness of feeling, the perfection of poetic art, displayed in such poems as “The Raven” and “Annabel Lee”? Could he, by his wonderful analytical and synthetical powers, out of his own de ranged self-consciousness, with no object save “a wild fantastic word-music with which to lull the ear,” have evolved such thoughts as these poems contain? Perhaps we could imagine such stories as “The Black Cat,” or “Morella,” or “The Fall of the House of Usher,” as produced in tin s way, but poetry is a thing which dwells not in the halls of a disordered brain. The mission of poetry is to cultivate the higher sensibilities. It reaches forth its hands and grasps for conceptions that cannot be materialized.

Further, as regards the theory of poetry, and the mission of poetry, no man has yet proved him self a more conscientious writer than Poe. Not conscientious as judged by a moral standard, for his works are notably free from anything that indicates moral responsibility. But his standard was such that were we to carry out his ideas in regard to w hat constitutes true poet ry, our poetical shelves would be woe fully depopulated. Is the possession of such ideas as these an indication of madness?

It was a favorite theory with Poe [column 2:] that in poetry nothing should be stated

which does hot carry with it its own explanation. Nothing impossible, nor even highly im probable must be introduced, unless its im possibility or improbability be manifestly intended as such. Consistency was the great thing to be taken into consideration. It was this rigorous standard, together with his wonderfully developed analytical powers, that rendered him, perhaps, the keenest, though not the best, critic A m erica has yet produced. H e lived at a time when it was fashionable in the literary world for all critics to be at swords’ points, not only with the poor authors with whom they dealt, bu t also with one another. No pen was capable of deeper incisions than the masterly one of Poe, and we not unfrequently find him rending friend and foe, until we loose all patience. H is intense egotism, which cost him many friends, is manifest on every page of his critical works. He is constantly dragging in his own theories, and cares too little for the rules of courtesy established among literary men. Yet his judgments are of great value, and we must accord him an honorable place as a critic.

We have said th a t there is an entire absence of a trace of moral responsibility in his writings. Yet they are not of that character which tend to corrupt the morals. While they fascinate the mind and bewilder the senses with the terrible scenes they portray, they do not incite to evil deeds. They take you up the mountain, and lead you to look over the precipice, but they do not tempt you to hurl yourself from the heights.

Beauty was the God that Poe worshipped [page 140:] shipped. I t may have been a beauty tinctnred with sensuality, yet it was a beauty that was absolute in its perfection. H e recognized true beauty whenever he saw it, and no one could detect a counterfeit article quicker than he.

He was a strange man, in whatever light we view him. That he was a genius, no one denies. He belonged not to the ordinary ranks of humanity. He stands aside from the multitude of authors, absorbed in his own meditations, partaking but little in common with other men. His death was as tragic as his life. Many years ago, in a joyous mom ent, when life seemed full of promise, and the star of hope stood high above the mountains, he wrote:

Long afterward, when he had travel ed far down th e valley of gloom, when life had become a burden, and th e star of hope had descended forever, he wrote:

Ah! he wandered home a thousand times, bu t it was only to return to the valley again, and penetrate farther into the gloom. From the last journey he never returned. Wandering on, and on, and on, in the darkness, led by the demons that had ever attended his footsteps, he came to a door. He opened it, entered, and came not forth again.