Text: Richard Beale Davis, “Poe's Personal Appearance,” Chivers' Life of Poe, 1952, pp. 53-65

[page 53:]

Poe's temperament was billious, nervous, sanguinious [sic] — but, upon first view, appeared to be billious, sanguinious, nervous. His forehead was broad — particularly in the region between the two lobes, of the organ of Ideality — high — and receeded [sic] gently, looking, from the peculiar conformation of his head, a good deal higher and broader than it really was. His hair was dark as a raven's wing. So was his beard — which he always kept shaved. His form was slender, and by no means prepossessing — and appeared to me, in walking, to lean a little forward with a kind of meditative or Grecian bend. In dress he was remarkably neat and tidy, and, had his means permitted, he, no doubt, would have prided himself in his neatness. This was the result rather of his proficiency in the true knowl-.edge of the Aesthetics of dress, than in any foppish admiration which he might have entertained for what may be called finery. When I first became acquainted with him, he used to carray [sic] a crooked-headed hickory walking-cane [page 54:] in his hand whenever we went out to walk. As he did not have this cane the very first time that we went out to-gather [sic] — but purchased it immediately afterwards — I presumed, at the time, that he had gotten it because I had one — as it was precisely like mine. This he flourished, as he walked, with considerable grace — particularly so when compared with a man who had never been in the habit of carrying a cane.

His neck was rather long and slender, and made him appear, when sitting, rather taller than he really was. He, also, appeared when sitting, to have a gentle and rather graceful taper of the bust and shoulders upward. This was very peculiar. His eyes were of a neutral violet tint, rather inclining to hazle, and shone not with a dazling or brilliant sparkle, but rather with a mildly subdued serenity of intellectual splendor — perhaps on account of the dark shadow cast upon them by the overhanging and very impressive cloud of his Moon-like brow — giving them the soft celestial glow of soul which characterized the loftiest enthusiasm.(70) Their lashes were long, dark and silken — hanging over them like willow(71) weeping by the moon — Lake — or, cumuli of Chaos over the God-suffused waters of the Eternal Wells. When the Heaven of his brow was free from clouds — which appeared always to be the case when his soul was not rocked either by the thoughts of his poverty, or the remembrance of the manifold inselts [sic] he had received from anonymous Correspondents, who pestered him from envy of his genius and his uncompromising hostility to the basest ignorance — the intellectual placidity of his mildly beaming eyes were beautiful. [page 55:]

His mouth was like Apollo's Bow unbent, and, in the natural curve, said sorrow, with immagination [sic], but, when wreathed into smiles by any cheering inflorescence of his soul — desclosing a set of ivory teeth as evenly set as the Opal walls of Eden — was absolutely captivating and beautiful. So remarkably pleasing was this transition from sadness to sunshiny gladness of hilarity, that I now seem to see him smiling before me — lighting up the dim vistas of my memory as the rain-fraught lightning does the darkness of a Summer-night. But there was this peculiarity about his smile, which I do not remember ever to have seen in any other person, namely, that it did not appear to be the result of gladness of heart altogether — nor gladness mixed with sorrow — but a pleasing satire — a smiling review of all that had just been before said by him — like the triumphant(72) world-renovating laughter of the weeping Heavens — ex-pressive of that beautiful Apollonian disdain which seemed to say, What you “see through a glass darkly,” I behold through the couched eyes of an illuminated Seer.” Not only did he look this, but he felt it — felt it with all his inmost soul. It was, in the truest acceptation of the term, a smile of Genius. Were I now called upon, from the bottom of my heart, to give a faithful exhibition of this man's real nature, I would say that(73) he was the Incarnation of the Greek Prometheus chained to the Mount Caucasus of demi-civilized Humanity, with the black Vulture of Envy,(74) feeding on his self-replenished heart, while upon his trembling lips,(75) [page 56:] sat enthroned the most eloquent persuasion alternating with the bitterest, triumphant and God-like Scorn. This is my candid opinion of the man — for there was not a single day in the year that he did not receive, through the Post anonymous letters from cowardly villians [sic] which so harrowed up his feelings that he, at lenght [sic], was driven to the firm belief that the whole world of Humanity was nothing less than the veritable Devil himself tormenting him here in earth(76) for nothing. Where is the(77) Literary man(78) who has not experienced the same thing?(79) To these things he made himself amenable by writing Criticisms with his own name attached to them — which any other man would have done. But he had not the fortitude to resist — to treat with utter contempt these cowardly attacks — but visited upon all men the iniquities only of a few. He was, no doubt, firmly convinced, in his own mind,(80) that the meanest thing under(81) Heaven is the scoundrel who will write, from the base and cowardly feeling of envy, to his superior, an anonymous and abusive letter. Hell is too good(82) for such a beast.

His arms and hands were slender, and tapered very gracefully and gently down to the ends of his fingers, which were very tender, gentlemanly, and lady-like. In fact, his hands were truly remarkable for their roseate softness and lily-like, feminine delicacy. You could have judged of his nobility by his hands.

His face was rather oval — tapering in the contour rather [page 57:] suddenly to the chin, which was very classical — and, especially when he smiled, really handsome. His countenance was tropical in its aspect — precisely the reverse of his heart, which, like the fountains of Solomon, had long been kept sealed up, as something sacred, from the vulgar gaze of the world — his face, whenever he wrote long at any one time, putting on a sickly, sallow, and rather pallid hue — but never to such an extent as [to] indicate indisposition. His digestion was always good — which is prim a facia [sic] evidence that he was never a great student.

His dress was always remarkably neat for one in his circumstances. But I do not believe that it would have done for him to have had money. He was ruined in his youth.° His College-life in Virginia was the cause of all his after-inebriation. That was the infernal whirlpool into which was driven the beautiful milk-white Ship of his soul,(83) never to be reclaimed. Is it not one of the most remarkable things in the world,(84) that any man of his abilities should have been so amenable to the dictations of others?

I was once going down Nassau street, in New York one day — the very first week too of our °acquaintance — when [who should ] (85) meet but Edgar A. Poe coming along the pavement, tottering from side to side, as drunk as an Indian, while at the corner of Ann(86) I saw a man(87) standing on the steps of either a °Whiskey-Shop, or a Restaurant, Spouting at the top of his voice in his praise — calling him the “Shakespeare of America.” As soon as he met me, he grasped me by the coat collar, exclaiming, “By G—d! here is my friend [page 58:] now! Where are you going?(88) Come, you must go home with me!”

After receiving this cordial salutation, I took him by the arm, and leading him along in the direction of home, which was then(89) at 195 East Broadway, I said,(90) “Why, Poe! What under Heaven, could have put you in this fix” “What fix?” ask [sic] he, very impatiently frowing [sic] one of his thunder-cloud frowns;(91) “Why, I should think you ought to know,” said I. “Did you not hear that impudent fellow spouting your name at the top of his voice — polluting it with his stinking breath — to that drunken, promiscuous crowd.” “To be sure I did,” answered he. “But what of that? He's nothing but a d—d fool! He knows nothing about what he is saying!”

By this time we had gotten opposite the °Trait House, where we met °Lewis Gaylord Clark, the Editor of the Knickerbocker Magazine. The moment Poe saw him — maddened by the remembrance of something that he had said in a recent Number of the Magazine touching one of his(92) own articles which had appeared in the Broadway Journal — he swore, while attempting to rush away from my hold, that he would(93) attack him. “No!” said I “Poe! you must not do(94) so while walking with me.” “I will, by G—d!” continued he, pulling me along. Clark was then talking with another man; but as soon as this man saw the determined attitude of Poe, he immediately left him and went on his way — when Poe approached him, giving him [page 59:] his hand. As Clark responded to Poe's offer of his hand,(95) he exclaimed, “Why, Poe! is this you?” “Yes, by G—d! this is Poe?” answered he;(96) Here is my friend Dr C— from the South. “What!” exclaimed Clark, giving me his hand — “Dr C., the author of so many beautiful Poems?” “Yes, by G—d” said Poe — ”Not only the author of some of the beautifullest Poems ever written any where, but my friend, too, by G—d!” I was very much pleased, said I, with °Willis Gaylord Clark's Poems. “Yes, he was a noble fellow,” said Clark, “and I am his twin-brother!” “Good Lord!” said I, internally — while Poe looked Good Lord all over — exclaiming in a rather belligerent tone, “What business had you to abuse me in the last Number of your Magazine?” “Why, by G—d! Poe!” exclaimed Clark, siding off towards the curbstone of the pavement — “how did I know the Article referred to, was yours? You had always attached your name to all your articles before, and how, in H—l, did I know it was yours?”

By this time Clark had completely bowed himself away from the middle of Nassau Street, on his way to his office.

Poe, then, turning suddenly round to me, and locking his arm in mine, and pulling me impetuously along, with him, in a self-consciousness of his triumph, exclaimed in an indignant chuckle — ”A d—d coward! by G—d!” and went on his way rejoicing.

“By Heavens!” said he, as we were going down Chatham Street, “I am now going to reveal to you the very secrets of my heart — (97) I am in the d—dst amour you ever knew a° fellow to be in in all your life; and I make no hesitation [page 60:] in telling you all about it — as though you were my own brother. But, by God! don’t say any thing(98) about it to my wife — for she is a noble creature, whom(99) I would not hurt(100) for all the world.” “Well, what is it, Poe?” ask I. “I am anxious to hear it. But, where is the lady with whom you are so in love?” “In Providence,” [sic] by G—d! I have just received a letter from her, in which she requests me to come on there this afternoon on the four o’clock Boat.” [sic] Her husband is a Painter — always from home — and a d—d fool at that!”

This was his last speech during that voyage — for before we had arrived at East Broadway, he was so far gone — staggering from side to side of the Pavement — that it was with the greatest of difficulty I could keep(101) him from falling prostrate in the Street. Just as we were going up the steps, his wife looked out of the window, and saw him — suddenly drew her head back went into her room and locked herself up. When I took him up stairs, Mrs Clemm, his mother-in-law, met him at the door,(102) exclaiming very tenderly, “Oh! Eddy! Eddy! Eddy come here, my dear boy! Let me put you to bed!” Taking off his coat, she helped him on the bed, and, after covering him softly with the counterpane, came to me, with tears in her eyes, saying, “Oh! Dr C! how I have prayed that my poor Eddy might not get in this way while you were on here! But I knew, when he went away from here this morning, that he would not return in his right senses! Oh! I do believe that the poor boy is deranged! His wife is now at the point of death with Bronchitis, and cannot bear to see him! Oh! my poor [page 61:] Virginia! She cannot live long! She is wasting away, day by day — for the Doctors can do her no good. But if they could, seeing this continually in poor Eddy, would kill her — for she doats upon him! Oh! She is devoted to him! She fairly adores him! But, would to God that she had died before she had ever seen him! My poor child! He has been here in bed for a whole week with nothing in the world the matter with him — only lying here pretending to be sick, in order to avoid delivering the Poem promised, before one of the °Literary Societies of the City: — now he is in this deranged state again. My poor child! what will become of her?”

The next day when I called to see him, he was not to be found. On the next, when I called, he was in bed pretending to be sick, but with nothing in the world the matter with him — his sole object for lying there being to avoid the delivering of the Poem which he had promised — for he was reading °Macauly's [sic] Miscellanies. I then(103) hired a carriage, and took him out to ride. As we were going along, looking him full in the face and laughing, I requested him to let me know what lady it was with whom he was so in love? When, walling up his eyes under the narrow brim of his hat, and looking as much abashed as any boy would on being teased about his sweetheart, denied, in the most peremptory manner, his ever having been involved in any love-scrape with any woman either in Providence or any other part of the world.

The next day, about half past three o’clock, as I was going up to see him again, I met him, Brest in his finest clothes, going down towards the °Broadway Journal Office. As soon as he saw me, he put his hand in his vest-pocket, and drawing out a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it [page 62:] to me. It was an advertisement which he said he was going to have published in the B. J., announcing to the Public that the partnership, formerly existing between him and °Mr Charles F. Briggs, was then dissolved. On asking my opinion about the insertion of it, I told him I would do no such thing. He followed my advice. He was then on his way to °Providence — had not a dollar in the world — borrowed ten from me — (104) requesting me at the same time not to let his wife or Mrs Clemm know anything(105) about his going — and left me. Some body, he said, had written to him to come on there, and he was obliged to go, but would return again(106) the next day. He came back the next day, as he had promised.

One of the most striking peculiarities of Mr Poe was, his perfect abandon — boyishness indifference — not only in regard to the opinions of others, but an uncompromising independence of spirit, which seemed to say that he was not only(107) obnoxious to the prejudices of every body, or possessed, which his own soul, such a self consciousness of his own merits as would insure their respect — Yet no man living loved the praises of others better than he did — for I remember that whenever I happened to communicate to him any thing touching his abilities as a writer, his bosom would heave like a troubled sea.

His voice was soft, mellow, melodious, and rather more flexible than powerful. It was as musical as Apollo's Lute, and as plaintive in its utterances of his Memnonian Mysteries, as the prismy-lipped Shell when murmurming of its never-tiring reminiscences of the ever-sounding Sea. [page 63:] When he read Poetry, his voice rolled over the rhythm of the verse like silver notes over golden sands — rather monotonously and flute-like — so that, it may be said here, that he rather cantilated than read. He made use of very little Art in his recitations — never uttering any declamatory tones, or using the lowest Theatrical emphasis, but the most modest, chaste and delicate delivery. From this it must be evident to every one that his Readings were not very effective; and such is the very fact. His reading of Lyrical Poetry was certainly very melodious and beautiful, but he lacked that well-attuned power of modulation in accent, emphasis and cadence, necessary to make either an Epic or Dramatic writing effective.

The periodical frowns which darkened this noble man's brow, told too eloquently how much he had suffered — as much perhaps, from his own lofty nature, which lifted him too far above the common sphere of practical and calculating Humanity, — as from any real in the minds of other men. His Heaven-aspiring soul, weary-laden with a heavy inspiration, set forever in his body looking like an Angel exiled from Heaven through his shadowy eyes. He was an enthusiast, in the loftiest sense of the term — forever pluming his Eagle wings for Angel-flights into the pure Empyrian of Poetry. His talk was not only truly Coleridgian — graphically melodious — his manner being amply Sydnean,(108) but transcendentally(109) eloquent — (110) much better than the very best of his prose writings — partaking, in a great measure, of the subtle and golden spirit of his unwritten Ideals.(111) Poising his soul, as an Angel's [page 64:] wings, into the sacred Adytum of all Beauty, his face would become suffused with the radiant flow of the inspiration which descended upon him, like light from Heaven, until all the world became to his hearer, as well as to himself, for the moment at least, the reality of the Ideal Elysium which his genius was then painting. But his eloquence was artistical rather than passionate. His soul was a living Vatican, wherin was stored away all the Greek cold, marble forms of Beauty which were the studied creations of his proficiency in the abstract potency of consummate Art, rather than the spontaneous offsprings of a heart inspired by the pure motive(112) of love. His home was a Dream Land, peopled with Ghosts, Ghouls, Vampyres, and the spirits of the unapproachable dead — (113) For whose eternal communion(114) he moaned with(115) an irrepressible groaning, as uncommon as the(116) night-long vigils of the Moon in Heaven. Nor did the traditional(117) darkness of the grave have any terrors(118) for him; but he seemed to see through the gloom afar off beyond the dark Valley of the Shadow of Death into the beautiful Goshen of God — with the couched eyes of an illuminated Seer.(119) What to other men appeared to be total darkness, was to him only twilight(120) [page 65:] glimmering of the tardy breaking of the glorious Morning(121) of the Everlasting Day. The truth is, he was tired of the world, and Hell itself would have been(122) a more peaceful place to him. He had long before ceased to believe in man, and woman, tortured as he was, by doubtful misgivings, had but few charms for him. He had sung his last song here on earth, and was now determined to break loose from the time and rush out of life into the only solace of his soul — the arms of. . . .(123)

Thus lived — thus died — thus passed away from the world the divine spirit of Edgar A. Poe.(124) But he who reaped only poverty,(125) here, now that he is gone to his reward in Heaven, shall reap a golden Harvest of ripe Praises not only from men in time, but from the Angels in Eternity.

We drink ambrosia out of the Cup of the Gods in contemplating the life of that man whose fame, commensurate with his greatness, shall grow on, widening with the Ages, like some great immortal Moon whose fulness shall never become fully full.

[[Footnotes]]

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 53:]

69 Original title: “Personal Appearance of Edgar A Poe.” Later, “of Edgar A. Poe” crossed-out and “Poe's” prefixed to “Personal Appearance.”

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 54:]

70 The last three words are written over the following marked-out: “St. Cecelia when she drew the angels down to listen to the sweet strains of her voice.”

71 This word and the next three written over: “like moonlight over crystal streams”.

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 55:]

72 After this word is the marked-through: “soul-dawnings which illumine the countenances preparatory to the world-renovating laughter of the Gods — Being swerved by his thoughts from their natural, silent expression into the Appolonian curve, they were [indecipherable] upon, or rather crowned, with”.

73 Followed by the marked-through: “it is my firm conviction”.

74 Followed by the marked-through: “Ingratitude and Ignorance”.

75 Followed by the marked-through: “during his unutterable sufferings”

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 56:]

76 Written above the marked-through: “this great Republic of Hell”.

77 “the” written above “there,” and “a” inserted. Cf. Woodberry.

78 Followed by the marked-through: “in the world”.

79 Interrogation point inserted, the whole followed by the marked-through: “to a greater or lesser extent”.

80 Followed by the marked-through: “of the fact,”.

81 Followed by the marked-through: “the canopy of”.

82 Written over the marked-through: “to hold such a man.”

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 57:]

83 Followed by the marked-through: “and body both went down”.

84 Written above the marked-through: “whole hystory [sic] of creation”.

85 Material in brackets marked-through but necessary for sense.

86 Or “Aim” or “Arm”, as Chivers writes it.

87 Written above the marked-through: “a Blackguarg [sic]”.

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 58:]

88 Followed by marked-through: “down this way?”

89 Followed by marked-through: “at that time”.

90 Followed by marked-through: “to him”.

91 Followed by marked-through: “and such a one as I never beheld on any other man's countenance”.

92 Written above the marked-through: “Poe's”.

93 Written above the marked-through: “intended [to]”.

94 Followed by marked-through: “ny such thing”.

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 59:]

95 Followed by marked-through: “with his”.

96 Followed by marked-through: “This is Poe!” [sic] The previous “this is Poe” is an insertion.

97 Followed by marked-through: “as though you were my own brother.”

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 60:]

98 Written above marked-through: “one word of”. “about” also added.

99 Last two words written above marked-through: “soul, and”.

100 Followed by marked-through: “her feelings”.

101 Really “kept” written over and “could” inserted before.

102 Followed by the marked-through: “very tenderly, at the same time”.

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 62:]

103 Followed by the marked-through: [[“]]went out”.

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 62:]

104 Followed by the marked-through: “never paid me,”.

105 Followed by the marked-through “at all”.

106 Written above the marked-through: “be back” (that is, the 2 words are written above these two).

107 Written above the marked-through: “either”.

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 63:]

108 Followed by the marked-through: “in its perspicuity”.

109 Followed by the marked-through: “supernal in the”. In this version the later word “eloquent” was “eloquence”.

110 Followed by the marked-through: “of its [lens? ing”

111 Followed by the crossed-out: “of Poetry”.

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 64:]

112 Last five words written over the marked-through: “while under the inspiration

113 Written above the marked-through: “beautiful departed, who were once dear to him on earth.”

114 Followed by the marked-through: “with these beautiful spirits of the just made perfect”.

115 Followed by the marked-through: “its perrennial longing as unceasing”.

116 Followed by the marked-through: “eternal and”.

117 Followed by the marked-through: “terrors”.

118 Written over the marked-through: “darkness”.

119 Woodberry makes up, apparently, and inserts an entirely different clause after the “for him”: “for he longed to embrace Death with all the fervor of a faithful lover for his mistress”.

120 Preceding four words written over the marked-through “dawning advent”.

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 65:]

121 Written over the marked-through: “breaking”.

122 Followed by the marked-through: “to him”.

123 [indecipherable five words. Cf Woodberry, p. 444.] Woodberry gives 22 more lines to this passage, taken from a different fragment of manuscript. The manuscript pages that immediately follow (pp. 27b and 28a) repeat, with inconsequential variations, the material on 27a.

124 Followed by the marked-through: “one of the greatest, if not the very greatest Critic that ever was born. Methinks that I can now see him with my mind's eye standing on the luminous white heights of the Mountain of Song with the white snow of God's love falling in melodious silence around him, crowning his soul with the Eiderdown of peace.”

125 Followed by the marked-through: “while in this world.”