Text: William D. Gallagher, “Edgar A. Poe,” Daily True Democrat (Cleveland, OH), vol. III, no. 242, October 16, 1849, p. 3, cols. 1-2

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Edgar A. Poe

Is dead. He was born in Virginia in 1811, when quite young his parents died, and he was raised by JOHN ALLEN [[ALLAN]], a wealthy gentleman of Richmond.

In 1816, he accompanied Mr. and Mrs. ALLEN [[ALLAN]] to Great Britain — visited every portion of it, and spent four years at school near London.

He returned to America in 1822, and in 1825, went to Jefferson University [[University of Virginia]], in Charlottsville [[Charlottesville]], Virginia, where he lead a very dissolute life. He went home however with College honors, and a heavy debt. Mr. ALLEN [[ALLAN]] refused to pay his debts of honor, and in high dudgen, he quitted the country to join the Greeks then struggling for Liberty, but instead went to Russia, whence he returned in 1829. POE afterwards went to West Point, but soon left and determined to maintain himself by authorship. Of his literary labors, we have a good account from the pen of WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER, himself a Poet, and one of the Editors of the Cincinnati Gazette.

These words his own, — the beginning of “Lenore,” — sprang unbidden to our lips, three days ago, on reading the brief telegraph in report of poor Poe's death in Baltimore. — This event was one which might have happened any day, within the last half dozen years, without exciting surprise: it was one also, which could at no time, without causing deep regret; for with all his faults, as a man and a writer, Poe was one to note for his idiosyncrasy, respect for his independence, and almost love for his genius.

We remember very well Edgar A. Poe's first essays in Literature. They were made during the publication of The Yankee, by John Neal, in the shape poetical contributions to that paper. Neal spoke to the aspirant rather harshly, but evidently felt the presence of genius in his productions, which were generally, if our memory do not play us false, cast into the old barrel of things rejected, instead of being given to the printer. — These same effusions, the principle one of which was Al Aaraaf, Poe subsequently published in a small volume with others. They were probably all college productions, and although, looking at them now, they vindicate the correctness of Neal's judgement, they certainly evince peculiar aptness for composition in verse, and are brim-full promise. Poe's next essays that we recollect were in the form of a couple of prize pieces, a poem and a story, written for a premium offered by the publisher of a literary paper in Baltimore. They “took mightily” with the committee of award, and about as well with the public. Both succeeded in winning the prizes, against numerous competitors.

A few years after this, a series of criticisms, of American Poets, appeared in of the Southern Literary Messenger, then a new work and not of much repute, which attracted attention over the whole county, and gave an impulse to that periodical that it had not before received. These were ascertained be from the pen of Mr. Poe. It also transpired, that he was the principle editor of the Messenger. From this period he took his stand among American writers, and has since maintained it in an almost constantly ascending grade. He has edited several papers and magazines, lectured on literary and scientific subjects, published two or three volumes of tales, of singular wildnes [[wildness]] and power, and a volume of poems remarkable for the melody of their verse, peculiarities of their structure, and the strength of imagination they exhibit. The principle of these poems is “The Raven,” in naming which we name one of three productions that stand apart from all else in English Literature. The others are Hood's “Dream of Eugene Aram,” and Coleridge's “Ancient Mariner.” And altogether thus stand apart from all else, they by no means stand together. For they are not only unlike all else, but unlike each other.

Poe seems to us to have been one of those who never understand themselves — neither their capabilities, their actual wants, nor their duties to themselves and others. A friend, a husband, a traveller — a man always in need, suffering in spirit and afflicted in body — a scholar, a poet, a novelist — a creature “of imagination all compact,” and we might almost complete the quotation by saying, a lunatic and a lover — he had seen much, thought much, suffered much, and through hard experience had obtained all sorts of sense, but common sense, lacking which his life, that might have been made most honorable to himself and useful to his fellow men, the next thing to thrown away. Perverse in infancy, dissolut [[dissolute]] in youth, impulsive and uncontrollable in manhood, he passed from birth to death, like a star whose light struggles through cloud-racks from its uprising to its going down. Truly may the opening lines of his “Dreamland” be quoted of himself:

And quoting further from the same poem, it may be said of him that his chosen haunts were —

Or changing his “Raven” into an Angel of Mercy, come to warn and waken him from his sleep of Life, we may again quote —

The black darkness of his own life, which we would make no real effort to dispel. But instead of doing so,

And so his adjuration had no power.

Poor Poe! Too literally was this prophecy fulfilled! The next scene was in his troubled Life Drama, was one of sickness, want, starvation, and death — when his soul sank ever into the shadow and the shadow grew thicker above his soul. A few months more shadow grew by — a brief period of partial amelioration, but still of coldness and bitterness — and saw the last act has closed, in the blackest shadow of all, which lied upon his own grave.

Edgar A. Poe was a man of genius, beyond dispute, and had he understood himself, and done justice to his high endowments, and lived to the period of his fullest intellectual maturity, the culmination of his fame [column 2:] would have been a proud period in the literature of his country.

As it is, he has left many very striking prose productions, and several poems that will live as long as anything the American muse has yet produced.