Text: Ellis Paxson Oberholtzer, “Poe's Days in the Quaker City,” Book News Monthly (Philadelphia, PA), vol. 25, no. 12, August 1907, pp. 798-801

[page 798, unnumbered:]

THERE is no tragedy in the annals of American literature quite so harrowing to the sympathies as that of Edgar Allan Poe. It is thought by many that his place as a great figure is not yet secure. Some there are to remember the lines in “The Fable for Critics:”

Some too are there to remember his moral failings, which were so maliciously exaggerated by Rufus W. Griswold. Some will insist upon judging him by much that he himself despised, compelled as he was to write from day to day to keep down the gaunt specter of starvation which for years threatened him, his beloved cousin-wife Virginia, and her mother Mrs. Clemm, who was so much to them both. This comes from the questionable [column 2:] policy of publishing “Complete Editions” of his writings, or indeed of any man's writings, and of making him answer to the latest generations for every scratch of his pen. But the time of doubt is passing, if it has not already passed, and the rare, new beauty, the high literary ideals, in a word, the fascinating art of Poe has put him permanently upon a proud pedestal.

Five or six of the happiest years of his fitful life were spent in Philadelphia, and he is gladly acclaimed as a figure in the city's notable literary history. Leaving “The Literary Messenger” he had gone to New York, but in a little while was drawn to Philadelphia, then the literary center of the Union. It boasted large publishing houses and book stores, and prosperous magazines and newspapers which were sold in all parts of the country. Mathew Carey's old publishing firm [page 799:] had already issued a volume of Poe's tales. Though they could find no one to buy them, and refused to repeat the adventure, he was not without hope that he might meet others who would be more appreciative of his work. Particularly did he desire to make the acquaintance of some one with money who would join him in starting a magazine. Indeed, he projected two or three periodicals, though they did not pass the stage of discussion, and it was his fate to live meagerly for his first two or three years in the city from editorial posts in connection with magazines owned by others, and then to depend upon the earnings of a literary free lance — a slim and precarious allowance for a writer of his standards at a day when the markets were wholly ruled by the silly lady books.

Poe came to Philadelphia to try his fortunes in 1838, and soon took a desk on a creditable magazine, “The Gentleman's,” lately established by William E. Burton, a well-known actor, favored with a general interest in letters and the arts. For some reason they disagreed; Burton sold his periodical to George R. Graham, a remarkable young publisher whose career was just about to unfold, and the result was a strong and wholesome merger of great advantage to American literature, “Graham's Magazine.” Poe entered Graham's employ [column 2:] and worked side by side with him, contributing “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” and much else calculated to establish the new publication's hold upon the American people. A dispute with Griswold or Charles J. Peterson brought this relationship to an end, and Poe was left at the mercy of his moods and the far from fair chances of a writer who knocked at the doors of editors with good literature. Yet thus did he live until the spring of 1844, when, with his wife wasting away; the trio removed to New York to suffer privations, disappointments and griefs still more deeply pathetic. Some, if they have never known it before, may be amazed to learn that Poe received only ten dollars a week for aiding Mr. Burton, and eight hundred a year when he passed to “Graham's.” After this engagement had ended he must subsist uncertainly upon small sums paid him by Mr. Graham, Mr. Godey, John Sartain — after “Sartain's Magazine” was founded — or some other periodical publisher. Graham paid fifty-two dollars for “The Gold Bug,” and surrendered it to Poe at his request for the competition for a hundred-dollar prize offered by “The Dollar Newspaper,” which it won. “The Bells,” expanded at the editor's request from some lines which were submitted to “Sartain's Magazine” after Poe's removal to New York, also yielded [page 800:] him but a few dollars. There was no sale for his books. This was the fate sixty years ago of the author of “The Raven,” “The Bells” and “Annabel Lee,” and some of the best short stories ever written in America — not approached in quality by any one indeed, barring Bret Harte and George W. Cable.

Philadelphia has few landmarks of Poe's interesting residence in the city. For a while he lived in a boarding-house in Arch Street; Mr. Sartain, in his Reminiscences, mentions calling upon him [column 2:] in Sixteenth Street near Locust. This too was likely a boarding-house. For a time at least the poet occupied a house in Coates Street, now Fairmount Avenue, near Twenty-fifth Street, at that day a lonely rural neighborhood, removing thence, it would seem, to a little “rose-covered” cottage, now thought to be the back buildings of 530 North Seventh Street — at the corner of Brandywine, just above Spring Garden Street. It was set in a garden against the gable of a four-story brick house, the home of a [page 801:] prosperous Quaker merchant. In summer, vines and flowers surrounded it; in winter the plants bloomed behind glass. There were pet birds, neat furnishings and a harp to which Virginia sang sweetly. Thither Mayne Reid went when he was in the city just before the Mexican War. Thither Graham drove his spanking team to take the invalid girl down some lane and through Fairmount Park. Little did the then rich publisher know that his turn would come, that for a score of years he would be as poor, as suffering and as friendless.

No picture of Poe in Philadelphia would be complete if we do not remember his poetic attachment for his girl-wife, and his love for high literary ideals, so faithfully evidenced in his own writing and in his criticism of the work [column 2:] of other men. “His love for his wife was a sort of rapturous worship of the spirit of beauty which he felt was fading before his eyes,” Mr. Graham wrote after the poet's death. “I have seen him hovering around her when she was ill, with all the fond fear and tender anxiety of a mother for her first-born, her slightest cough causing in him a shudder, a heart chill that was visible. I rode out one summer evening with them, and the remembrance of his watchful eyes eagerly bent upon the slightest change of hue ‘n that loved face haunts me yet as the memory of a sad strain.” Recollecting that when she was gone honest sorrow mingled with the poverty that hung about him like a thick cloud through which no sun shone, we can afford to forgive much in those last misspent days.