Chapter X (3)

But it may be said, my dear Willis, that Mr. Poe himself deputed him to set as his literary executor, and that he must have felt some confidence in his ability at least—if not in his integrity—to perform the functions imposed with discretion and honor. I do not purpose, now, to enter into any examination of the appointment of Mr. Griswold—nor of the wisdom of his appointment to the solemn trust of handing the fair fame of the deceased unimpaired to that posterity to which the dying poet bequeathed his legacy—but simply to question its faithful performance. Among the true friends of Poe in this city—and he had some such here—there are those I am sure that he did not class among _villains_; nor do _they_ feel easy when they see their old friend dressed out, in his grave, in the habiliments of a scoundrel. There is something to them in this mode of procedure on the part of the literary Executor, that does not chime in with their notions of “the true point of honor.” It looks so much like a breach of trust, that, to their plain understandings, it is a proceeding that may very fairly be questioned. They may, perhaps, being plain business men, be somewhat unschooled in legacies, and obligations of this sort, but it shocks all their notions of fair dealing. They had been led to suppose, that thus to fritter away an estate was, to say the least of it, not of that high kind of integrity which courts of justice alone recognize in a settlement in ordinary affairs. As heirs, in part, to the inheritance left by their lost friend, they find the fairest part of the domain ravaged, and the strong castle battered down; and do not think because the hedges have been a little trimmed up, and the gateway set in fashion, that the property has been improved—on the contrary, they think the estate is ruined. They had all of them looked upon our departed friend as singularly indifferent to wealth for its own sake, but as very positive in his opinions that the scale of social merit was not of the highest—that MIND, somehow, was apt to be left out of the estimate altogether—and, partaking somewhat of his free way of thinking, his friends are startled to find they have entertained very unamiable convictions. As to his “quick choler” when he was contradicted, it depended a good deal upon the party denying, as well as upon the subject discussed. He was quick, it is true, to perceive mere quacks in literature, and somewhat apt to be hasty when pestered with them; but upon most other questions his natural amiability was not easily disturbed. Upon a subject that he understood thoroughly, he felt some right to be positive, if not arrogant, when addressing pretenders. His “astonishing natural advantages” had been very assiduously cultivated—his “daring spirit” was the anointed of genius—his self confidence the proud conviction of both—and it was with something of a lofty scorn that he _attacked_, as well as repelled, a crammed scholar of the hour, who attempted to palm upon him his ill-digested learning. Literature with him was religion; and he, its high-priest, with a whip of scorpions scourged the money-changers from the temple. In all else he had the docility and kind-heartedness of a child. No man was more quickly touched by a kindness—none more prompt to atone for an injury. For three or four years I knew him intimately, and for eighteen months saw him almost daily; much of the time writing or conversing at the same desk; knowing all his hopes, his fears, and little annoyances of life, as well as his high-hearted struggle with adverse fate—yet he was always the same polished gentleman—the quiet, unobtrusive, thoughtful scholar—the devoted husband—frugal in his personal expenses—punctual and unwearied in his industry—_and the soul of honor_, in all his transactions. This, of course, was in his better days, and by them _we_ judge the man. But even after his habits had changed, there was no literary man to whom I would more readily advance money for labor to be done. He kept his accounts, small as they were, with the accuracy of a banker. I append an account sent to me in his own hand, long after he had left Philadelphia, and after all knowledge of the transactions it recited had escaped my memory. I had returned him the story of “The Gold Bug,” at his own request, as he found that he could dispose of it very advantageously elsewhere.

“We were square when I sold you the
‘Versification’ article; for which you
gave me first 25, and afterward 7—in
all $32 00
Then you bought ‘The Gold Bug’ for 52 00
———
I got both these back, so that I owed $84 00
You lent Mrs. Clemm 12 50
———
Making in all $96 50

The review of ‘Flaccus’ was 3¾ pp,
which, at $4, is 15 00
Lowell’s poem is 10 00
The review of Channing, 4 pp. is 16, of
which I got 6, leaving 10 00
The review of Halleck, 4 pp. is 16, of
which I got 10, leaving 6 00
The review of Reynolds, 2 pp. 8 00
The review of Longfellow, 5 pp. is 20,
of which I got 10, leaving 10 00
———
So that I have paid in all 59 00
———
Which leaves still due by me $37 50 ”

This I find was his uniform habit with others, as well as myself—carefully recalling to mind his indebtedness, with the fresh article sent. And this is the man who had “no moral susceptibility,” and little or nothing of the “true point of honor.” It may be a very plain, business view of the question, but it strikes his friends that it may pass as something, as times go.

I shall never forget how solicitous of the happiness of his wife and mother-in-law he was, whilst one of the editors of Graham’s Magazine—his whole efforts seemed to be to procure the comfort and welfare of his home. Except for their happiness—and the natural ambition of having a magazine of his own—I never heard him deplore the want of wealth. The truth is, he cared little for money, and knew less of its value, for he seemed to have no personal expenses. What he received from me in regular monthly instalments, went directly into the hands of his mother-in-law for family comforts—and _twice_ only, I remember his purchasing some rather expensive luxuries for his house, and then he was nervous to the degree of misery until he had, by extra articles, covered what he considered an imprudent indebtedness. His love for his wife was a sort of rapturous worship of the spirit of beauty which he felt was fading before his eyes. 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 in that loved face, haunts me yet as the memory of a sad strain. It was this hourly _anticipation_ of her loss, that made him a sad and thoughtful man, and lent a mournful melody to his undying song.

It is true that later in life Poe had much of those morbid feelings which a life of poverty and disappointment is so apt to engender in the heart of man—the sense of having been ill-used, misunderstood, and put aside by men of far less ability, and of none, which preys upon the heart and clouds the brain of many a child of song: A consciousness of the inequalities of life, and of the abundant power of mere wealth allied even to vulgarity, to over-ride all distinctions, and to thrust itself bedaubed with dirt and glittering with tinsel, into the high places of society, and the chief seats of the synagogue; whilst he, a worshiper of the beautiful and true, who listened to the voices of angels, and held delighted companionship with them as the cold throng swept disdainfully by him, was often in danger of being thrust out, houseless, homeless, beggared upon the world, with all his fine feelings strung to a tension of agony when he thought of his beautiful and delicate wife dying hourly before his eyes. What wonder, that he then poured out the vials of a long-treasured bitterness upon the injustice and hollowness of all society around him.

The very natural question—“Why did he not work and thrive?” is easily answered. It will not be _asked_ by the many who know the precarious tenure by which literary men hold a mere living in this country. The avenues through which they can profitably reach the country are few, and crowded with aspirants for bread as well as fame. The unfortunate tendency to cheapen every literary work to the lowest point of beggarly flimsiness in price and profit, prevents even the well-disposed from extending any thing like an adequate support to even a part of the great throng which genius, talent, education, and even misfortune, force into the struggle. The character of Poe’s mind was of such an order, as not to be very widely in demand. The class of educated mind which he could readily and profitably address, was small—the channels through which he could do so at all, were few—and publishers all, or nearly all, contented with such pens as were already engaged, hesitated to incur the expense of his to an extent which would sufficiently remunerate him; hence, when he was fairly at sea, connected permanently with no publication, he suffered all the horrors of prospective destitution, with scarcely the ability of providing for immediate necessities; and at such moments, alas! the tempter often came, and, as you have truly said, “_one glass_” of wine, made him a madman. Let the moralist who stands upon tufted carpet, and surveys his smoking board, the fruits of his individual toil or mercantile adventure, pause before he lets the anathema, trembling upon his lips, fall upon a man like Poe! who, wandering from publisher to publisher, with his fine, print-like manuscript, scrupulously clean and neatly rolled, finds no market for his brain—with despair at heart, misery ahead for himself and his loved ones, and gaunt famine dogging at his heels, thus sinks by the wayside, before the demon that watches his steps and whispers, OBLIVION. Of all the miseries which God, or his own vices inflict upon man, none are so terrible as that of having the strong and willing arm struck down to a child-like inefficiency, while the Heart and Will, have the purpose and force of a giant’s out-doing. We must remember, too, that the very organization of such a mind as that of Poe—the very tension and tone of his exquisitely strung nerves—the passionate yearnings of his soul for the beautiful and true, utterly unfitted him for the rude jostlings and fierce competitorship of trade. The only drafts of his that could be honored, were those upon his brain. The unpeopled air—the caverns of ocean—the decay and mystery that hang around old castles—the thunder of wind through the forest aisles—the spirits that rode the blast, by all but him unseen—and the deep metaphysical creations which floated through the chambers of his soul, were his only wealth, the High Change where only his signature was valid for rubies.

Could he have stepped down and chronicled small beer, made himself the shifting toady of the hour, and with bow and cringe, hung upon the steps of greatness, sounding the glory of third-rate ability with a penny trumpet, he would have been feted alive, and, _perhaps_, been praised when dead. But no! his views of the duties of the critic were stern, and he felt that in praising an unworthy writer, he committed dishonor. His pen was regulated by the highest sense of DUTY. By a keen analysis he separated and studied each piece which the skillful mechanist had put together. No part, however insignificant or apparently unimportant, escaped the rigid and patient scrutiny of his sagacious mind. The unfitted joint proved the bungler—the slightest blemish, was a palpable fraud. He was the scrutinising lapidary, who detected and exposed the most minute flaw in diamonds. The gem of first water shone the brighter, for the truthful setting of his calm praise. He had the finest touch of soul for beauty—a delicate and hearty appreciation of worth. If his praise appeared tardy, it was of priceless value when given. It was true as well as sincere. It was the stroke of honor, that at once knighted the receiver. It was in the world of MIND that he was king; and with a fierce audacity he felt and proclaimed himself autocrat. As critic he was Despotic, Supreme. He waved his sceptre, and countless heads fell from proud shoulders. With a world arrayed in hostile argument, he combated each step. The shrieks of the slaughtered were incense to unseen spirits, who to his eye nodded approval, and danced for joy. The accused were tried by the most subtle of laws—their works passed through the alembic of a most powerful and penetrating intellect; to them the decrees of an unseen court—and friend or foe, saint or sinner, were pardoned with grave rebuke, or gibbeted without mercy. Yet no man with more readiness would soften a harsh expression at the request of a friend, or if he himself felt that he had infused too great a degree of bitterness into his article, none would more readily soften it down, after it was in type—though still maintaining the justness of his critical views. I do not believe that he wrote to give pain; but in combating what he conceived to be error, he used the strongest word that presented itself, even in conversation. He labored, not so much to reform, as to _exterminate_ error, and thought the shortest process was to pull it up by the roots.

He was a worshiper of INTELLECT—longing to grasp the power of mind that moves the stars—to bathe his soul in the dreams of seraphs. He was himself all ethereal, of a fine essence, that moved in an atmosphere of spirits—of spiritual beauty overflowing and radiant—twin brother with the angels, feeling their flashing wings upon his heart, and almost clasping them in his embrace. Of them, and as an expectant archangel of that high order of intellect, stepping out of himself, as it were, and interpreting the time, he reveled in delicious luxury in a world beyond, with an audacity which we fear in madmen, but in genius worship as the inspiration of heaven.

But my object in throwing together a few thoughts upon the character of Edgar Allan Poe, was not to attempt as elaborate criticism, but to say what might palliate grave faults that have been attributed to him, and to meet by facts, unjust accusation—in a word, to give a mere outline of the man as he lived before me. I think I am warranted in saying to Mr. Griswold, that he must review his decision. It will not stand the calm scrutiny of his own judgment, or of time, while it must be regarded by all the friends of Mr. Poe as an ill-judged and misplaced calumny upon that gifted Son of Genius.

Yours truly,
GEO. R. GRAHAM.

To N. P. WILLIS, Esq.
_Philadelphia, Feb. 2, 1850._

P. S. I should fail in my whole duty to the memory of Edgar Allan Poe, if I did not mention that his works have been issued by Mr. Redfield, for the benefit of Mrs. Maria Clemm, the mother-in-law of the deceased, whose comfort in her coming days is in a great degree dependent upon an extensive sale of the work. The readers of Graham, who have been so often delighted by his pen, will, I am sure, eagerly embrace this opportunity to preserve his complete collected writings; and it will afford me pleasure to be the medium of the transmission of their subscriptions to the publisher.

G. R. G.

-----

[2] _The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe: With Notices of His life and Genius, by N. P. Willis, J. R. Lowell, and R. W. Griswold. In Two Volumes. New York: J. S. Redfield, Clinton Hall._

* * * * *

LE FOLLET

PARIS Boulevart S^{t}. Martin 61 _Chapeaux de M^{me}._ Baudry, _r. Richelieu, 87—Robes et pardessus de_ Camille. _Fleurs de_ Chagot ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81_ Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

THOU ART LOVELIER.

WRITTEN BY

RICHARD HOWITT.

MUSIC BY

MARIA B. HAWES.

Thou art lovelier than the coming
Of the fairest flow’rs of spring,
When the wild bee wanders humming,
Like a blessed fairy thing.
Thou art lovelier than the breaking
Of the Orient crimson’d morn,
When the gentlest winds are shaking
The

dew-drops from the thorn
Thou art lovelier than the coming
Of the fairest flower of spring,
When the wild bee wanders humming,
Like a blessed fairy thing.

SECOND VERSE.

I have seen the wild flow’rs springing
In field, in wood, in glen,
Where a thousand birds are singing,
And my thoughts were of thee then;
For there’s nothing gladsome round me,
Nothing beautiful to see,
Since thy beauty’s spell hath bound me,
But is eloquent of thee.
Thou art lovelier than the coming
Of the fairest flow’rs of spring,
When the wild bee wanders humming
Like a blessed fairy thing.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious type-setting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.

page 171, Or Cythereas breath; ==> Or Cytherea’s breath; page 171, pearled Acturi of the ==> pearled Arcturi of the page 172, the same harrassed air ==> the same harassed air page 180, pointless harrangues “nay, ==> pointless harangues “nay, page 181, for her to pursuade ==> for her to persuade page 188, “I will commisserate the ==> “I will commiserate the page 192, offend, he plead his early ==> offend, he pleaded his early page 208, PORTRAIT OF GENERAL GREENE. ==> caption was missing in available scans so caption used is based on entry in the index for the volume. page 208, LIFE OF GENERAL NATHANIEL GREENE ==> correct spelling is ‘Nathanael’, but the ‘Nathaniel’ spelling throughout the article has been left as printed.

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 3, March 1850]