It was here that, late one evening, Mr. R. H. Stoddard, whose sarcastic pen is so well known, called on Poe instead of at his office, to inquire the fate of a certain "Ode" which he had sent to theBroadway Journalfor publication. Necessarily he was received in the front room, which was Virginia's. The following is his account of the visit:
"Poe received me with the courtesy habitual with him when he was himself, and gave me to understand that myOdewould be published in the next number of his paper.... What did he look like?... He was dressed in black from head to foot, except, of course, that his linen was spotlessly white.... The most noticeable things about him were his high forehead, dark hair and sharp, black eye. His cousin-wife, always an invalid, was lying on a bed between himself and me. She never stirred, but her mother came out of the back parlor and was introduced to me by her courtly nephew."
Stoddard is here mistaken in his descriptionof Poe's eyes. They were neither sharp nor black, but large, soft, dreamy eyes, of a fine steel-gray, clear as crystal, and with a jet-black pupil, which would in certain lights expand until the eyes appeared to be all black. Stoddard continues:
"I saw Poe once again, and for the last time. It was a rainy afternoon, such as we have in our November, and he was standing under an awning waiting for the shower to pass over. My conviction was that I ought to offer him my umbrella and go home with him, but I left him standing there, and there I see him still, and shall always, poor and penniless, but proud, reliant, dominant. May the gods forgive me! I never can forgive myself."
In April, five months after this time, Poe's old habits unfortunately returned upon him. Mr. Lowell one day, in passing through New York, called to see him, when Mrs. Clemm excused his "strange actions" by frankly stating that "Edgar was not himself that day." She afterward made the same statement to Mr. Briggs, whose assistant editor Poe was, and who writes, June, 1845, to Lowell: "I believe he had not drank anything for more than eighteen months until the last three months, and concludes that he would have to dispense withhis services. The matter was settled, however, by Poe's proposing to buy theBroadway Journal, hoping to make of it in a measure what he had desired for theStylus. The prospect seemed to promise fair enough for its success, and Mr. Greeley and Mr. Griswold each generously contributed a sum of fifty dollars; but the plan finally failed for want of sufficient funds, George Poe, to whom Edgar applied, remembering his former unpaid loan, making no response to his appeal. This was another great disappointment to Poe, just as on former occasions his hopes seemed on the point of realization. Thus, in whatsoever direction he turned, grim poverty faced and frowned him down. Surely, it was enough to discourage him; and yet to the end of his life he eagerly followed this illusive hope.
Mrs. Clemm, too, who had in this time been trying to support the family by keeping a boarding-house, also met with her disappointments. For some reason her boarders never remained long with her, and the family, who had removed to obscure lodgings on Amity street, now found themselves in one of their frequent seasons of poverty and distress.
It was a fortunate day when Mrs. Clemm, hunting about the suburbs of the great city for a cheap place of abode, discovered the little cottage at Fordham, a country railroad station some miles from New York.
It was but an humble place at best, an old cottage of four rooms, in ill-repair; but the rent was low, the situation—on the summit of a rocky knoll—pleasant, affording fine views of the Harlem river; and there was pure air, plenty of outdoor space, and that famous cherry tree, now, in the month of May, in full and fragrant bloom. A few repairs were made, and Mrs. Clemm's vigorous hands, with the assistance of soap and water and whitewash, soon transformed the neglected abode into a miracle of neatness and order. Checked matting hid the worn parlor floor, and the cheap furniture which they had brought with them looked better here than ever it haddone in the cramped and stuffy rooms of the city. Outside a neglected rose-bush was trained against the wall, supplying Virginia with roses in its season. Her room was above the parlor, at the head of a narrow staircase; a low-ceiled apartment, with sloping walls and small, square windows; and it was here at a desk or table near his wife's sick bed that most of Poe's writing was now done.
In the preceding winter Virginia's health had apparently greatly improved, and her illness was not of so serious a nature as to confine her entirely to the house or to interfere with the social or literary engagements of her husband, who was, as poet, lecturer, editor and critic, at the zenith of his fame. In this time he had attended thesoireesof Miss Lynch and others of the literary class, once or twice accompanied by his wife. At these he made the acquaintance of Mrs. Hewitt, Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes Smith and Mrs. E. F. Ellet, with others of the "starry sisterhood of poetesses," as they were called by some poetaster of the day, with each of whom he in succession formed one of the sentimental platonic friendships to which he was given. All these, however, were destined to yield to the superior attractions of a sister poetess, Mrs.Frances Sergeant Osgood, wife of the artist of that name.
Mrs. Osgood, at this time about thirty-years of age, is described by R. H. Stoddard as "A paragon—not only loved by men, but liked by women as well." Attractive in person, bright, witty and sweet-natured, she won even the splenatic Thomas Dunn English and the stoical Greeley, whose approval of her was as frankly expressed as was his denunciation of the "ugliness, self-conceit and disagreeableness" of her friend, the transcendentalist, Margaret Fuller.
Poe, who had written a very flattering notice of Mrs. Osgood's poems—in return for which she addressed him some lines in the character ofIsraefel—obtained an introduction and visited her frequently. Also, at his request, she called upon his wife, and friendly relations were soon established between them. To her, after Poe's death, we are indebted for a characteristic picture of the poet and his wife in their home in Amity street; and which, though almost too well known for repetition, I will here give as a specimen of his home life:
"It was in his own simple yet poetical home that the character of Edgar Poe appeared tome in its most beautiful light. Playful, affectionate, witty, alternately docile and wayward as a petted child, for his young, gentle and idolized wife and for all who came, he had, even in the midst of the most harassing literary duties, a kind word, a pleasant smile, a graceful and courteous attention. At his desk, beneath the romantic picture of his loved and lost Lenore'6patient, assiduous, uncomplaining, tracing in an exquisitely clear chirography and with almost superhuman swiftness the lightning thoughts, the rare and radiant fancies as they flowed through his wonderful brain. For hours I have listened entranced to his strains of almost celestial eloquence.
"I recollect one morning toward the close of his residence in this city, when he seemed unusually gay and light-hearted, Virginia, his sweet wife, had written me a pressing invitation to come to them, and I, who never could resist her affectionate summons, and who enjoyed his society far more in his own home than elsewhere, hastened to Amity street. I found him just completing his series of papers called "The Literati of New York." 'Now,' said he, displaying in laughing triumph several little rolls of narrow paper (he always wrote thus for the press), 'I am going to show you by the difference of length in these the different degrees of estimation in which I hold all you literary people. In each of these one of you is rolled up and fully discussed. Come, Virginia, and help me.' And one by one they unfolded them. At last they came to one which seemed interminable. Virginia laughingly ran to one corner of the room with one end and her husband went to the opposite with the other. 'And whose linked sweetness long drawn out is that?' said I. 'Hear her,' he cried; 'just as if her little vain heart didn't tell her it's herself.'"
From this account—the exaggerated phrases of which will be noted—it would appear that a great degree of intimacy existed between Poe and his fair visitor, when he could in his own home—the two tiny rooms in Amity street—write "hour after hour" undisturbed by her presence. Virginia was delighted with her new friend, but Mrs. Clemm, noting these frequent and lengthy visits, regarded her with a suspicious eye. Too well she knew of the platonic friendships of her Eddie; but there appeared something in this affair beyond what was usual, and, in fact,gossip had already begun to link together their names. Mrs. Osgood herself seems to have relied upon Mrs. Poe's frequent invitations and fondness for her society as a shield against meddlesome tongues, but in vain—for not only were the jealous and vigilant eyes of Poe's mother-in-law bent upon her, but those of the "starry sisterhood" as well. There was a flutter and a chatter in the literary dovecote, and at length one of the starry ones—Mrs. Ellet—concluded it to be her bounden duty to inquire into the matter. Calling at Fordham one day, in Poe's absence, she and Mrs. Clemm, who had probably never before met, engaged in a confidential discussion, in the course of which the irate mother-in-law showed the visitor a letter from Mrs. Osgood to Poe (one wonders how she got possession of that letter), the contents of which were so opposed to all the latter's ideas of propriety that it was clear that something would have to be done. Eventually two of the starry ones—of whom one was Margaret Fuller—waited upon Mrs. Osgood, whom they advised to commission them to demand of Poe the return of her letters, which, strangely enough, she did, though probably only as a conciliatory measure. Poe, in his exasperation at this unwarrantable intermeddling, remarked significantly that "Mrs. Ellet had better come and look after her own letters;" upon which she sent to demand them. But he meantime had cut her acquaintance by leaving them at her own door without either written word or message; very much, we may imagine, as Dean Swift strode into Vanessa's presence and threw at her feet her letter to Stella.
This was either in May or early June, shortly after their removal to Fordham. Poe had no idea of allowing this episode to interfere with his visits to Mrs. Osgood, and the gossip continued, until, to avoid further annoyance, she left New York and went to Albany on a visit to her brother-in-law, Dr. Harrington.
On the 12th of June we find Poe writing an affectionate note to his wife, explaining why he stays away from her that night, and concluding with:
"Sleep well, and God grant you a peaceful summer with your devoted
"Edgar."
A few days after this, toward the end of June, he was in Albany, making passionate love to Mrs. Osgood. In dismay she left that city and went to Boston, whither he followedher; and again to Lowell and Providence, giving rise to a widespread scandal, which caused the lady infinite trouble and distress. But Mrs. Osgood, brilliant, talented and virtuous, was also kind-hearted to a fault, and where her feelings and sympathies were appealed to, amiably weak. Instead of indignantly and determinately rejecting Poe's impassioned love-making, she says she pitied him, argued with him, appealed to his reason and better feelings, and, in special, reminded him of his sick wife, who lay dying at home and longing for his presence. Finally, she returned to Albany; and Poe, ill at a hotel, wrote urgently to Mrs. Clemm for money to pay his board bill and take him back to Fordham.
It was at this time, in the summer of 1845, that Poe's sister, Miss Rosalie Poe, went on a visit to her brother, whom she had not seen in ten years. On her return home, and for years thereafter, she was accustomed to speak of this visit; and it was a curious picture which she gave of the life of the poet and his family in the humble little cottage on Fordham Hill.
Poe was away when she arrived—presumably in his insane pursuit of Mrs. Osgood. Miss Poe told of "Aunt Clemm's" distress and anxiety on his account, and of how she "scraped together every penny" and borrowed money from herself to send to Edgar, who, she said, had been taken ill while on a business trip. There were no provisions in the house scarcely, and she herself, both then and at various other times, would purchase supplies from the market and grocers' wagonswhich passed; for there were no stores at the little country station of Fordham.
Miss Poe told of her brother's arrival at home, and of how she overheard Mrs. Clemm administering to him a severe "scolding." He was so ill that he had to be put to bed by Mrs. Clemm, who sat up with him all night while he "talked out of his head" and begged for morphine. After some days he was better, and walked about the house and sat under the pine trees crowning a rocky knoll within calling distance of the house—ever a constant and favorite retreat of his, affording fine views of the river and neighboring country.
One day, still weak and ill, he sat at his desk and looked over his papers. Mrs. Clemm then took his place, and wrote at his dictation. Aunt Clemm, said Rosalie, could exactly imitate Edgar's writing. On the following day she filled her satchel with some of these papers and went to the city, whence she returned late in the evening, quite after dark, with a hamper of provisions and medicines to Virginia's great delight, who had feared some mishap to her mother and cried accordingly. Miss Poe believed that this hamper was a present from some one, but Aunt Clemm was very reserved toward her in regard to heraffairs. She knew, she said, that Mrs. Clemm had never liked her, but Edgar and Virginia were kind.
From this time Poe wrote industriously, seldom going to town, but sending his mother-in-law instead. Several times Mrs. Clemm gave her niece some "copying" to do, but this was not to her a very gratifying task, and when, on her return home, she was asked what it was about, had not the least idea! She always insisted thatAnabel Leewas written at this time, as she repeatedly heard Edgar read it to Mrs. Clemm and also to himself, and recognized it when it was published two years afterward. A curious picture was that which she gave of the poet's reading his manuscript to his mother-in-law while the latter sat beside his desk inking the worn seams of his and her own garments; or of Poe, seated on a "settle" outside the kitchen door, also reading to her some of his "rare and radiant fancies," while she presided over the family laundry. He seems to have been constantly appealing to her sympathy with his writing, but never to Virginia.
According to Miss Poe, Mrs. Clemm was at this time dependent for her own earnings on her sewing and fancy knitting, with prettyknick-knacks, which she disposed of at a certain "notion store." Virginia, too, when well enough, liked this kind of work. They had few visitors, for Mrs. Clemm, too busy for gossip, made a point of discouraging calls from the neighbors, with the exception of two or three families of better class than most of those surrounding them. These latter were a half-rural people, keeping dairies and cultivating market gardens.
Miss Poe spoke of Virginia's cheerfulness. Nothing ever disturbed her. "She was always laughing." She liked to have children about her; and they came every day, bringing their dolls and playthings, with little offerings of fruit and flowers from their home gardens. She taught them to cut out and make their dolls' dresses, and would sometimes be very merry with them. She did not appear to suffer, said Miss Poe—did not lose flesh, and had always a hearty appetite, eating what the others ate, though very fond of nice things, especially candy. Her mother and Edgar petted her like a baby. "Aunt Clemm and Virginia," declared Miss Poe with conviction, "cared for nobody but themselves and Edgar." Virginia was at this time twenty-four years of age.
It was not to be wondered at that, as Miss Poe said, her brother, immediately after his return, remained at home, seldom going into town, but sending his mother to dispose of his manuscripts. It has been said that when he did make his appearance in the city and among his usual business haunts, he found himself everywhere coldly received, in consequence of the notorious episode with Mrs. Osgood, for whom it was known he had left his sick wife. His literary enemies, of whom he had made many by his keen criticisms, made the most of this charge against him, in addition to that of dissipated habits, to which he now gave himself up with a recklessness which he had never before shown.
Poe afterward attempted to defend himself against this reproach and the whole scandal of this season by attributing its excesses to his grief and anxiety on account of his wife, whom, he says, he "loved as man never loved before," a phrase the extravagance of which betrays its insincerity. He describes how through the years of her illness he "loved her more and more dearly and clung to her with the most desperate pertinacity, until he became insane, with intervals of horrible sanity.... During these fits of absolute unconsciousness I drank." And thus he endeavors to explain away his pursuit of Mrs. Osgood!
It cannot but be noted that in all Poe's accounts of himself, and especially of his feelings, is a palpable affectation and exaggeration, with an extravagance of expression bordering on the tragic and melo-dramatic; a style which is exemplified in some of his writings, and may be equally imaginative in both cases.
Mrs. Osgood also, in her "Reminiscences," after Poe's death, sought to clear both him and herself from the scandal of that summer by writing of the affection and confidence existing between himself and his wife—"his idolized Virginia"—as she saw them in their home, and declares her belief that his wife was the only woman whom he had ever really loved. In this we do not feel disposed to question her sincerity. Touching the slander against herself, she wrote to a friend:
"You have proof in Mrs. Poe's letters to me and Poe's to Mrs. Ellet, either of which would fully establish my innocence.... Neither of them, as you know, were persons likely to take much trouble to prove a woman's innocence, and it was only because she felt that I had been cruelly wronged byher motherandMrs. Ellet that she impulsively rendered me this justice."
Of course, the letter of Mrs. Poe here referred to was written at the suggestion of her husband, but it is curious to observe how frankly andnaivelyMrs. Osgood—not now writing for the public—expresses her real opinion of Poe and his wife.
Mrs. Osgood goes on to say: "Oh, it is too cruel that I, the only one of all those women who didnotseek his acquaintance, should be sought out after his death as the only victim to suffer from the slanders of his mother."
From this it would appear thatafter Poe's deaththe old scandal was revived, and by Mrs. Clemm herself. About this time she was having frequent interviews with Dr. Griswold in regard to Poe's papers, which she had handed over to him for use in theMemoirsupon which he was engaged. Naturally, Mrs. Clemm, who seems never to have forgiven Mrs. Osgood for the troubles of that unfortunate first summer at Fordham, would express herself freely to Griswold, who was a warm friend and admirer of Mrs. Osgood. Was it on account of such utterances that Griswold wrote to Mrs. Whitman:
"Be very careful what you say to Mrs.Clemm. She is not your friend or anybody's friend, and has no element of goodness or kindness in her nature, but whose heart is full of wickedness and malice."
Mrs. Osgood was a lovely and estimable woman, and if she did allow her admiration of Poe and her warm-hearted sympathy with one of a kindred poetic nature to impulsively carry her beyond the bounds of a strictly platonic friendship, it was in all innocence on her part, and did not lose her the good opinion of those who knew her. The blame was all for Poe and the feeling against him intense.
Undoubtedly the impression which she made on Poe was something beyond what he ordinarily experienced toward women. In my own acquaintance with him he several times spoke of her, and always with a sort of grave and reverential tenderness—as one may speak of the dead, or as he might have spoken of the lost friend of his boyhood, Mrs. Stanard. Although, as Mrs. Osgood says, Poe and herself never met in the few remaining years of their lives, yet several of his poems, without any real attempt at disguise, express his remembrance of her. It was to her that the lines "To F——" were addressed, after their parting:
"Beloved, amid the earnest woesThat crowd around my earthly path—(Dear path, alas! where growsNot e'en one thornless rose)—My soul at last a solace hathIn dreams of thee—and therein knowsAn Eden of calm repose."And thus thy memory is to meLike some enchanted far-off isleIn some tumultuous sea;Some ocean throbbing far and freeWith storms—but where meanwhileSerenest skies continuallyJust o'er that one bright island smile."
"Beloved, amid the earnest woesThat crowd around my earthly path—(Dear path, alas! where growsNot e'en one thornless rose)—My soul at last a solace hathIn dreams of thee—and therein knowsAn Eden of calm repose."And thus thy memory is to meLike some enchanted far-off isleIn some tumultuous sea;Some ocean throbbing far and freeWith storms—but where meanwhileSerenest skies continuallyJust o'er that one bright island smile."
In "A Dream" he thus again alludes to her:
"That holy dream, that holy dream,When all the world was chiding,Hath cheered me like a lovely beamA lonely spirit guiding."What though that light through storm and nightStill trembles from afar?What could there be more purely brightThan truth's day-star?"
"That holy dream, that holy dream,When all the world was chiding,Hath cheered me like a lovely beamA lonely spirit guiding."What though that light through storm and nightStill trembles from afar?What could there be more purely brightThan truth's day-star?"
About the same time he wrote the lines, "To My Mother," the only one of his poems in which he alluded to his wife, concluding with the couplet:
"By that infinitude which made my wifeDearer unto my soul than its own life."
"By that infinitude which made my wifeDearer unto my soul than its own life."
It will be observed that the sentimental things, in both prose and verse, which Poe has written concerning his love for his wife—and they are but two or three at most—were written immediately after his affair with Mrs. Osgood and the universal charge against him that he had deserted a dying wife for her sake. It is impossible that at this remote period of time it could be understood how seriously—from all contemporaneous accounts—Poe's reputation was affected by this unfortunate episode; especially at the North, where it was best known.
When Miss Poe left Fordham, in July, she carried with her a letter from Mrs. Clemm to Mr. John Mackenzie, soliciting pecuniary aid for Edgar on plea of his wretched health. Mr. Mackenzie was at this time married and with a family of his own, but he never lost his interest in his old friend or ceased to assist him so far as was in his power.
During the winter and succeeding summer matters did not improve at the cottage. Poe, with health completely shattered and spirits horribly depressed, remained at home with his sick wife for the most part, only occasionally arousing himself to write. A lady, who was at this time a little girl and one of Virginia's visitors, afterward told a reporter of how she would sometimes see Mr. Poe writing at his table in the upstairs room, and how as each sheet was finished he would paste it on to the last one, until it was long enough to reach across the floor. Then she would venture to roll it up for him in a neat cylinder, taking care not to disturb him. Sometimes, when he was not employed, he would tell the children blood-curdling stories of ghouls and goblins, when his eyes would light up in a wonderful manner. "I lost my heart to those beautiful eyes," she said.
Mrs. Clemm continued to make the rounds of the editors' offices with these manuscripts, but met with little success. Poe's mind was not at its brightest. He was not in a writing mood; and, as has been since observed, he was reduced to the expedient of rewriting and altering certain smaller articles and offering them to the more obscure papers and journals. Mrs. Clemm, in the midst of her manifold duties, could do but little with her sewing in the way of support for the family. So her furniture went, piece by piece, the furniture which Miss Poe had so often described—the parlor box-lounge upon which she slept; the dining-table, which stood in the midst of the room, ready for the meal which was so seldom placed upon it; the large engraving above the mantelpiece, and the collection of sea-shells—all disappeared, until the once cosey little apartment presented a bare and poverty-stricken appearance. Mrs. Gove, one of the literary women of the day, described it as being furnished with only a checked matting, a small corner-stand, a hanging-shelf of books and four chairs.
Years afterward, when strangers would visit the cottage at Fordham, they would hear fromthe neighbors pathetic accounts of the family during this summer of 1846.
"We knew that they were poor," said one, "but they tried to keep it to themselves. Many a time I have wanted to send them things from my garden, but was afraid to do so."
One old dame said to a New York reporter: "I've known when they were out of provisions, for then Mrs. Clemm, who always seemed cheerful, would come out with a basket and a shining case-knife and go 'round digging greens (dandelions). Once I said to her, says I, 'Greens may be took too frequent.' 'Oh, no,' says she, smiling, 'they cool the blood, and Eddie likes them.'"
Thus poor Mrs. Clemm, with her assumed cheerfulness, would seek to produce the impression that their dinner of wild herbs was a matter of choice instead of necessity.
Another neighbor said to a visitor: "I never saw checked matting last as theirs did. There was nothing upstairs but an old cot in a little hall-room or closet, where Mrs. Clemm slept, and an old table and chair and bed in the next room, where Mr. Poe wrote. But you could eat your dinner off the two floors."
The testimony of still another was: "In thekitchen she had only a little stove, a pine table and a chair; but the floor was as white as the table, and the tins as bright as silver. I don't think that she had more than a dozen pieces of crockery, all on a little shelf in the kitchen. The only meat I've ever known them to have was a five-cent bone for soup or a few butcher's trimmings for a stew; but it seemed Mrs. Clemm could make a little of anything go twice as far as other people could."
In the early part of this summer Virginia's health appeared better than usual. A neighbor who lived nearest them said to a visitor to Poe's old home: "In fine weather that summer—the summer before she died—we could sometimes see her sitting at her front door, wrapped up, with her husband or mother beside her, Mr. Poe reading a paper and Mrs. Clemm knitting. Most times there would be one or two children along, and Mr. Poe would play ball with them while his wife laughingly looked on. She looked like a child herself, hardly taller than they were. Well—no; she wasn't exactly pretty. She lookedtoo spooky, with her white face and big, black eyes; but she was interesting looking, and we felt sorry for her—and for them all, for that matter. You could see they had known better days."
As the summer wore on, and the first autumn breezes shook the leaves from the cherry tree, a change came over Virginia. Mrs. Clemm wrote to Miss Poe that unless she could go to her relations at the South—a thing not to be thought of—she would not live through the winter. Eddie's health was completely broken, and unless she herself remained strong enough to take care of them both, all would have to go to the poor-house. These letters were generally indirect appeals for pecuniary aid. Through similar pathetic accounts given by Mrs. Clemm to editors to whom she offered manuscripts, the condition of the poet and his family became known and was commented upon by the public papers, to Poe's great indignation, who took occasion in an anonymous communication to deny its truth. But that it was no time for pride to stand in the way of dire necessity is evident from the account of Mrs. Gove on her first visit to the cottage late in that fall. One can hardly realize a condition of things such as she described—the bare and fireless room, the bed with its thin, white covering and the military cloak—a relic of the West Point days—spread over it, and the sick woman, "whose only means of warmth was as her husband held her hands and hermother her feet, while she herself hugged a large tortoise-shell cat to her bosom." And the thin, haggard man, suffering like his wife from cold and the lack of nourishing food, but who yet received his visitor with such courtly elegance of manner, was the author ofThe Raven, with which the world was even then being thrilled!
It was a blessed day for the distressed family that on which, about the last of October, Mrs. Shew came to the now bleak little cottage on the hill and, like a ministering angel, devoted herself to caring for and comforting them—not only as regarded their material wants but with kind and encouraging words as well. With a sufficient competence and the medical education given her by her father, she was enabled thus to devote herself to the service of those who could not afford the attendance of a regular physician.
Not only did she supply them with medicine, but with careful nursing and proper food prepared by her own hands in Mrs. Clemm's little kitchen. Mrs. Gove collected sixty dollars, with which their other wants were supplied; so that during the months of November and December the family were more comfortably situated than was usual with them. Butmeantime Virginia rapidly declined, until it became evident that her frail life was very near its close.
On the day before her death Poe, in mortal dread of that awfulshadowwhich had been so long in its approach and now stood upon their threshold, wrote urgently to Mrs. Shew to come and pass the night with them. "My poor Virginia still lives, though failing fast." She came, in time to take leave of the dying wife.
One of Poe's biographers7has stated that on the day previous to Mrs. Poe's death she requested Mrs. Shew to read two letters from the second Mrs. Allen exonerating Poe from having ever caused a difficulty in her house. To those who knew Mrs. Allan and had heard from herself and her family the frequent accounts of that occurrence—accounts never retracted by her to her dying day—this statement is not worth a moment's consideration. The only question is, Who wrote those letters, and how is it that they were never made public or again heard of? And who could have imposed upon the dying woman a task such as this, instead of themselves taking the responsibility?
From this incident, if the account be true, it would appear that Virginia was gentle, obedient and submissive to the last. On the day following—January 3, 1847—her innocent, childlike spirit passed away from earth.
She was in the twenty-sixth year of her age.
With the death of his wife a great horror and gloom fell upon Poe. The blow which he had for years dreaded had at length fallen. That which he had feared and loathed above all things—the monster, Death—had entered his home and made it desolate. As a poet, he could delight in writing about the death of the young and lovely, but from the dread reality he shrank with an almost superstitious horror and loathing. It was said, on Mrs. Clemm's authority, that he refused to look upon the face of his dead wife. He desired to have no remembrance of the features touched by the transforming fingers of death.
Mrs. Shew still kindly ministered to him, endeavoring also to arouse him from his gloom and encourage him to renewed effort. But it seemed at first useless. He had no hope or cheering beyond the grave, and it was at thistime that he might appropriately have written:
"A voice from out of the future cries'On! on!' but o'er the past—Dim gulf—my spirit hovering lies,Mute, motionless, aghast."
"A voice from out of the future cries'On! on!' but o'er the past—Dim gulf—my spirit hovering lies,Mute, motionless, aghast."
Mrs. Shew, a thoroughly practical woman of sound, good sense and judgment, and with so little of the æsthetic that she confessed to Poe that she had never read his poems, nevertheless took a friendly interest in him and felt for him in his loneliness. To afford him the benefit of a change, she took him as her patient to her own home and commissioned him to furnish her dining-room and library according to his own taste. She also encouraged him to write, placing pen and paper before him and bidding him to try; and in this way, it is claimed by one account, "The Bells" came to be written, or at least begun. Under the influence of cheerful society, comfort and good cheer, Poe's health and spirits improved, and on his return home he again commenced writing. Soon, however, a relapse occurred, and his kind friend and physician found it necessary to resume her visits to Fordham. Forall this Poe was grateful, but, unfortunately, he was more; and at length on a certain day he so far betrayed his feelings that Mrs. Shew then and there informed him that her visits to him must cease. On the day following she wrote a farewell letter, in which she gave him advice and directions in regard to his health, warning him of its precarious state, and of the necessity of his abandoning the habits which were making a wreck of him mentally and physically. She advised him as the only thing that could save him to marry some good woman possessed of sufficient means to support him in comfort, and who would love him well enough to spare him the necessity of mental overwork, for which he was not now fitted.
It may be here remarked that of all the women that we know of to whom Poe offered his platonic devotion, Mrs. Shew was the only one by whom it was promptly and decidedly rejected.
The beginning of this year was a dreary time at the cottage at Fordham. The resources of the family, which had been generously contributed to, mostly by strangers and anonymously, were now exhausted, and Poe, still ill and in wretched spirits, was not capable of the exertion necessary to replenish them. In the preceding summer he had by a severe criticism of Thomas Dunn English aroused the ire of that gentleman, who revenged himself in an article for which Poe brought a suit of libel, recovering damages to the amount of two hundred and fifty dollars—a welcome boon in a time of need. He remained at home, applying himself to his writing, and, mindful of Mrs. Shew's advice, abstained from stimulants and took regular exercise on the country roads about Fordham. His frequent companion in these walks was a priest of St. John's College, near Fordham,who, being an educated and intellectual man, must have proven a most congenial and welcome acquaintance. This priest, who seems to have known Poe well, declares that he "made a superhuman struggle against starvation," and speaks of him as a gentle and amiable man, easily influenced by a kind word or act.
Most of his time, said Mrs. Clemm, was passed out of doors. He did not like the loneliness of the house, and would not remain alone in the room in which Virginia had died. When he chose to write at night, as was sometimes the case, and was particularly absorbed in his subject, he would have his devoted mother-in-law sit beside him, "dozing in her chair" and at intervals supplying him with hot coffee, or Catalina, his wife's old pet, perched upon his knee or shoulder, cheering him with her gentle purring. Virginia's death seemed to have drawn these three more closely together. They could thenceforth often be seen walking up and down the garden-walk, Poe and his mother, arm-in-arm, or with their arms about each other's waists, and Catalina staidly keeping pace with them, rubbing and purring. Mrs. Clemm told Stoddard how, when Poe was about this time writing "Eureka," hewould walk at night up and down the veranda explaining his views and dragging her along with him, "until her teeth chattered and she was nearly frozen." It is to be feared that he was not always sufficiently considerate of his indulgent mother-in-law.
Poe soon experienced the benefits of his restful and temperate life. Health and spirits improved, and he began to take an interest in the everyday things about him. As spring advanced, he and Mrs. Clemm laid out some flower beds in the front garden and planted them with flowers and vines given by the neighbors, until when in May the cherry tree again blossomed the little abode assumed quite an attractive appearance. Upon an old "settle" left by a former tenant, and which Mrs. Clemm's skillful hands had mended and scrubbed and stained into respectability and placed beneath the cherry tree as a garden-seat, Poe might now often be seen reclining; gazing up into the branches, where birds and bees flitted in and out, or talking and whistling to his own pets, a parrot and bobolink, whose cages hung in the branches. A passer-by was impressed by the picture presented quite early one summer morning of the poet and his mother standing together on the green turf,smilingly looking up and talking to these pets. Here, on the convenientsettle, on returning from one of his long sunrise rambles, he would rest until summoned by his mother to his frugal breakfast.
I have at various times heard persons remark that in reading the life of a distinguished man they have desired to know some of the lesser details of his daily life—as, how did he dress? what did he eat? We have all been interested in learning that General Washington liked corn bread and fried bacon for breakfast; that Sir Walter Scott was fond of "oaten grills with milk," and that Wordsworth's favorite lunch was bread and raisins. As regards Poe, we must go back to his sister's account of what his morning meal consisted of while she was at Fordham—"a pretzel and two cups of strong coffee;" or, when there was no pretzel, the crusty part of a loaf with a bit of salt herring as a relish. Poe had the reputation of being a very moderate eater and of preferring simple viands, even at the luxurious tables of his friends. He was fond of fruit, and his sister said of buttermilk and curds, which they obtained from their rural neighbors. But we recall his enjoyment of the "elegant" teacakes at the Morrisons on Greenwich street and the fried eggs for breakfast.
A lady who as a little girl knew Poe and his mother at this time said to a correspondent of theNew York Commercial Advertiser: "We lived so near them that we saw them every day. They lived miserably, and in abject poverty. He was naturally improvident, and but for the neighbors they must have starved. My mother sent many a thing from her storeroom to their table. He was not a man who drank in the common acceptation of the term, but those were days when wine ran like water, and not to serve it would seem niggardly. I remember that one day 'Muddie,' as Mr. Poe called Mrs. Clemm, came to our house and asked us not to offer wine to Edgar, as his head was weak, but that he did not like to refuse it."
As an illustration of the fascination which Poe possessed, even for strangers, is the following letter from Mr. John DeGalliford, of Chattanooga, Tenn., to this same New York correspondent:
"I am drawn to you by your defense of Edgar A. Poe. I love him, though I met him but once. It was in September, 1845. I was sitting on a pile watching our bark that wasmoored to the pile. A quiet, neatly-dressed gentleman came up to me and asked me numberless questions in regard to our seafaring life. He was so lovable in his conversation that I never forgot him, and I prize the memory of those few hours of his sweet talk with me and hold it sacred to his memory. He could not have been a drinking man, for his looks did not show it. On my telling that I was a runaway boy from Kentucky, he took some scraps of paper from his pocket and took notes, saying that he could make a nice story of what I had told him. I took him aboard the bark and showed him a pet monkey I had brought from Natal. He ate a piece of biscuit and drank some cold coffee, and said he would come again and see me and get acquainted with my captain. This was years ago, and I am now an old man, seventy-three years old, but I can remember, word for word, all that passed."
It must be admitted that Poe, after his affair with Mrs. Osgood and the severe illness which followed, was never again what he had been. With health and spirits impaired, his intellect had in a great measure lost its brilliant creative power—its inspirations, as we may call it—and thenceforth his writings were no longer the spontaneous and irrepressible impulse of genius, but the product of mental effort and labor. In special had his poetic talent in a measure deserted him, as is evident in his latest poems, with one or two exceptions. Recognizing this condition—and with what a pang we may imagine—he recalled Mrs. Shew's advice in regard to a second marriage, and, admitting its wisdom, began to look about for a suitable matrimonial partner. Finally his choice fell upon Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman, of Providence, Rhode Island, one ofthe "poetesses" of the time, and the most brilliant of them all.
A consideration which doubtless chiefly influenced him in this choice was that Mrs. Whitman, being a lady of literary taste and independent means, would be likely to take an interest in theStylus, the hope of establishing which he had never abandoned, and would assist him in carrying out his plans in regard to it.
Of Mrs. Whitman, at this time about forty-five years of age, I have the following account from a lady—Mrs. F. H. Kellogg—whose mother was an intimate friend and near neighbor of hers in Providence:
"She was considered very eccentric—impulsive and regardless of conventionalities. She dressed always in white, and on the coldest winter evenings, with snow on the ground, would cross over to our house in thin slippers and with nothing on her head but a thin, gauzy, white scarf. She probably thought this æsthetic—and perhaps it was. There was one thing which I must not omit to mention, because it was a part of herself—ether. The scent accompanied her everywhere. It was said she could not write except under its influence, but of this I do not know."
As an illustration of her impulsive ways, Mrs. Kellogg says:
"I was one evening, when a little girl, sitting on the front steps when she and her sister, Miss Powers, crossed over to our house. They went into the parlor, and I heard Mrs. Whitman ask my sister to sing for herThe Mocking Bird. She appreciated my sister's beautiful singing, but on this occasion, while she was in the very midst of 'Listen to the Mocking Bird,' suddenly a cloud of white rushed past me like a tornado, and I heard Mrs. Whitman's voice exclaiming excitedly, 'I have it! I have it!' Of course, we were all astonished and could not understand it at all, until Miss Powers afterward explained it to us. It seems that the beautiful music and singing had excited in her some poetic thought or idea; and, regardless or forgetful of conventionalities, she had impulsively rushed home to put it in writing, or perhaps in poetry, before it should vanish away."
Miss Sarah Jacobs, one of Griswold's "Female Poets," and a friend of Mrs. Whitman, describes her as small and dark, with deep-set dreamy eyes "that looked above and beyondbut neveratyou;" quick, bird-like motions, and as being a believer in occult influences, as Poe himself professed to be. "For all the sweet, poetic fragrance of her nature, she took an interest in common things. She was wise, she was witty; and no one could be long in her presence without becoming aware of the sweet and generous sympathy of her nature."
Up to this time Poe and Mrs. Whitman had never met, though Mrs. Osgood says that the lady had written to him and sent him a valentine, of which he had taken no notice. This was against him in his present venture, but he was not discouraged. He set about his courtship in his usual manner, by addressing to Mrs. Whitman (June 10) some lines—"To Helen"—commencing: