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CORRESPONDENCE.
We find that our mention of the memory, and of the exemplary mother, of dear EDGAR POE, has quite opened the hearts of the poetical! The letters which we have received, on the subject, are curiously numerous — only being too curiously confidential to be given unreservedly to our readers. Many writers seem to make it but the “woof,” whereon to broider the history of their own poetic hearts; and, interesting as this might be to “the few,” it should be given, to the world at large, “with a reservation.” We reserve these, as we have reserved thousands of secrets, already — perhaps to be distilled from, hereafter, perhaps to be buried with us, in our approaching resting-place — but, in one that we have recently received, is embodied what may be called “a document.” We think we are authorized to publish it, with the letter which accompanied it:
Brooklyn, November, 1864.
DEAR MR. WILLIS, —
Below I send you a copy of a letter from Mr. NELSON [[NEILSON]] POE to Mr. GABRIEL HARRISON, of this city, concerning a subject which interests us all. It relates to the grave of EDGAR A. POE. It was in reply to a letter from Mr. HARRISON, recently manager of the Park Theatre, was acquainted with both EDGAR POE and Mrs. CLEMM. He wrote to Mr. NELSON [[NEILSON]] POE, at the request of Mrs. CLEMM, who was then adjourning in this city with Mr. S. D. LEWIS, a warm friend of the deceased bard. Mr. CLEMM often expressed a strong desire to have the remains removed from Baltimore; and, when she learned that Mr. HARRISON had purchased a lot in Greenwood Cemetery, and wished to remove them there, readily consented that they should be, requiring, however, the consent also of the city of Baltimore (the bard's native place,) or rather of his relative, Mr. NELSON [[NEILSON]] POE, of that city, who was addressed, as stated in the above, at his solicitation. Here is Mr. POE'S reply.
(COPY.)
Baltimore, August 21, 1855.
DEAR SIR. —
I have had the honor to receive your communication of the thirteenth instant, inquiring whether the city of Baltimore will have any objection to the removal of the remains of EDGAR A. POE, and in which of the coming three fall months the city authorities will allow it to be done.
EDGAR A. POE lies buried in the grave yard of the First Presbyterian Church, in the city of Baltimore, of which his paternal grandfather was one of the founders. He is surrounded by his ancestors and nearest of kin; and the place of his repose is peculiarly secure from intrusion and the danger of future disturbance. It is surrounded by a substantial stone wall within which is built a large and handsome CHURCH. It is quite certain that the place will be devoted, as long as the city of Baltimore remains, to the purposes of a burial place for the owners of the lots and their descendants.
I am about to place over his remains a slab, upon which, with the day of his birth and death, will be a suitable inscription, so that the admirers of his genius may, without difficulty and with absolute certainty, find the place of his repose.
It is my opinion that no place can be found more appropriate than that where he now
lies.
But, of course, I submit everything to the wishes of Mrs. CLEMM — she was his best friend whilst living, and is entitled to control everything that relates to him. If she desires it, I presume the city authorities will not refuse their assent to the removal.
Very respectfully, your obedient servant,
NELSON [[NEILSON]] POE.
The lot which Mr. HARRISON purchased, it may be well to state, is still at the disposal of those interested. It is located in “Pastoral Dell,” (one of the most secluded, romantic spots in the cemetery,) and reached “by a route obscure and lonely,” known as “Tulip Avenue.”
“Deep and still is the repose.”
It lies in a sort of alcove, in the side of an embankment or hill, thickly filled with shrubbery and flowers, and seems to have been scooped out by the hand of Nature itself. It is hedged around with wild flowers and tall grass. It is evidently a favorite spot with Nature, and she lavishes her charms upon it. “Pale Cynthia” never loses sight of it from the time she peeps up in the East till she disappears in the Western horizon.
“And when the cheerful sun goes down
His beams shall linger longest there.”
The winds seem to glide into it, or along it, as if it were their nesting place. It is, in a word, just such a spot as one would suppose a bard should select for his last resting place.
But a word or two more. I have penned you these lines — which should have been written sooner — in the hope that they may be of some use to you in awakening, in arousing the people of America, to a sense of their duty toward one of their greatest, and most original, though, perhaps, popularly speaking, least appreciated scholars. Remember, too, oh people of America, that noble woman Mrs. CLEMM, his guardian angel. What a mother. How nobly did she fulfil her relation to him! ‘Tis not yet too late to serve her; she is needy and helpless. Let it be the solace of her old age to know that her “Eddie” is appreciated.
“Eddie!” That was the self-chosen name by which she called him. Mrs. CLEMM and ‘Eddie” were staying with Mr. LEWIS, in Dean-street, in this city, at the time of his departure for Richmond, shortly before his death. As the door closed on his retreating form, she began to weep, exclaiming, ‘Eddie! Eddie!” Mr. LEWIS tried in vain to comfort her, but she refused all solace, averring that “she should never see Eddie alive again!” She never did. The telegraph, a few weeks afterward, brought her intelligence of his death.
But I fear I tire you; an humble but ardent lover of the memory of EDGAR A. POE, I cannot help becoming garrulous when speaking of my idol. W. A C. P.
We have another “document” — an exquisitely beautiful poem, which our readers may be glad to preserve in connection with the memory of our gifted bard. It is enclosed in a letter from Canton, Missouri — but we will give letter and poem together:
* * * I enclose you a poem on the death of EDGAR A. POE — a heart poem which you may deem appropriate to publish, now that the question of a monument to the neglected poet is before the public. The popular heart warms toward you for the noble part you are taking to honor the memory of one of the most gifted men that America has yet produced.
Mrs. Bolton has never collected and published her poems in book form, hence this poem may have faded from the public mind, and its publication now will be appropriate and interesting.
Very respectfully,
A. REESE.
ON THE DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE
THEY have laid thee down to slumber, where the sorrows that encumber,
Such a wild and wayward heart as thine can never reach thee more:
For the radiant light of gladness, never alternates with sadness,
Stinging gifted souls to madness on that bright and blessed shore;
Safely moored from sorrow’s tempest, on the “distant Aidenn” shore,
Rest thee, lost one, evermore.
Thou wert like a meteor glancing, through a starry sky entrancing, —
Thrilling, awing, wrapt beholders with the wondrous light it wore;
But the meteor has descended, and the “Nightly” shadows blended,
For the fever-dream is ended, and the fearful crisis o’er —
Yes, the wild unresting fever-dream of human life is o’er.
Thou art sleeping evermore.
Ocean, earth, and air could utter, words that made thy spirit flutter —
Words that stirred the hidden fountain welling in thy bosom’s core,
Stirred it till its wavelets sighing, wakened to a wild replying,
And in numbers never dying, sung the heart’s unwritten lore.
Sung, in wild bewitching numbers, the sad heart’s unwritten lore,
Now, unwritten, nevermore.
There was something sad and lonely, in thy mystic songs that only
Could have trembled from a spirit weary of the life it bore —
Something like the plaintive toning of a hidden streamlet moaning
In its prison darkness moaning for the light it knew before —
For the fragrance and the sunlight that had gladdened it before.
Singing, sighing evermore.
To my soul forever dreaming came a strange effulgence beaming,
Beaming, flashing from a region mortals never may explore;
Spirits led thee in thy trances through a realm of gloomy fancies,
Giving spectres to thy glances man had never seen before —
Wondrous spectres, such as human eye had never seen before,
Were around thee evermore.
Thou didst see the starlight quiver over many a fabled river —
Thou didst wander with the shadows of the mighty dead of yore —
And thy songs to us came ringing like the old unearthly singing,
Of the viewless spirits wringing o’er the “Nurht’a Plutonian shore,”
Of the weary spirits wandering by the gloomy Stygian shore
Singing dirges evermore.
Thou didst seem like one benighted, one whose hopes were crushed and blighted,
Moaning for the lost and lovely that the world could not restore —
But an endless rest is given to thy heart so wrecked and riven,
Thou hast met again In heaven with the “lost’‘ and loved “Lenore,”
With the “rare and radiant maiden whom the angels call Lenore,”
She will leave thee nevermore.
From the earth a star has faded, and the shrine of song has shaded,
And the muses veil their faces, weeping sorrowful and sore —
But the harp, all rent and broken, left us many a thrilling token;
We shall bear its numbers spoken, and repeated o’er and o’er,
Till our heart shall cease to tremble we shall hear them sounding o’er.
Sounding ever, evermore.
We shall hear them like a fountain, tinkling down a rugged mountain,
Like the walling of the tempest mingling with the ocean’s roar;
Like the winds of autumn sighing, when the summer flowers are dying;
Like a spirit voice replying, from a dim and distant shore;
Like a wild, mysterious echo, from a distant shadowy shore,
We shall hear them evermore.
Nevermore wilt thou undaunted, wander through the “palace haunted,”
Or the “cypress vales Titanic” which thy spirit did explore —
Never hear the “Ghoul” king dwelling in the ancient steeple telling,
With a slow and solemn kneeling, losses human hearts deplore —
Telling “in a sort of Runic rhyme,” the losses we deplore,
Toiling, toiling evermore.
If a “living human being,” ever had the gift of “seeing,”
The “grim and ghastly” countenance his evil genius wore —
It was thee, “unhappy master, whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till” thy “songs one burden bore —
Till the dirges of” thy “hopes one melancholy burden bore,
Of never — nevermore.”
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Notes:
Although this item is preserved in a clipping in the Ingram Collection, item 532, the clipping is only the main part of the article.
Mrs. Bolton's poem first apppeared in the Home Journal immediately following Poe's death.
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[S:0 - HJ, 1864] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - A Poe Bookshelf - Correspondence (N. P. Willis, 1864)