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Mary Newton Stanard - The Dreamer

M >> Mary Newton Stanard >> The Dreamer




The simplest of white frocks became Virginia's innocence and beauty more
than costly bridal array and the nosegay of white violets above her
chaste bosom was her only ornament.

With this sweet pair came the happy mother and a little train of close
friends. It was late afternoon. The sunshine was mellow and the air was
filled with the delicious insense which in mid-May the majestic
paulonia tree drops from its purple bells and which is the very breath
of the warm-natured South.

No line of carriages stood at the door. No awning shut the picture they
made from admiring eyes, but happily the little party chatted together
as they strolled under over-arching greenery to the corner of Main and
Seventh Streets, where in the prim parlor of the Presbyterian minister,
the words were pronounced which told the world that Edgar Poe and
Virginia Clemm were one.

Upon the return of the party to Mrs. Yarrington's, a cake was cut, the
health and happiness of the bride and groom were drunk in wine of
"Muddie's" own make, and the modest festival was over.

* * * * *

How happy the young lovers and dreamers were in their home-making! Their
housekeeping and furnishings were the simplest, but love made everything
beautiful and sufficient. They had a garden in which they planted all
their favorite flowers and to which came the birds--the birds with whom
they had discovered a sudden kinship, for they too, were nesting--and
filled it with music. And they sang and chatted as happily as the birds
themselves as the pretty business progressed.

How delightful it was to receive their friends, together, in their own
home and at their own board--Eddie's old friends, especially. Rob
Stanard, now a prosperous lawyer, and Rob Sully whose reputation as an
artist was growing, were the first to call and present their compliments
to the bride and groom; and how cordial they were! How affectionate to
Eddie--how warm in their expressions of friendship for the girl-wife!

Virginia found it the greatest fun imaginable to go to market with
"Muddie," with a basket hanging from her pretty arm. The market men and
women began to daily watch for the sweet face and tripping step of the
exquisite child whom it seemed so comical to address as "_Mrs._ Poe,"
and who rewarded their open admiration with the loveliest smile, the
prettiest words of greeting and interest, the merriest rippling laugh
that rang through the market place and waked echoes in many a heart that
had believed itself a stranger to joy.

And the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass was reconstructed in even more
than its old beauty. The flowers of love and contentment and innocent
pleasure that besprinkled its green carpet had never been so many or so
gay, the dream-mountains that shut it in from the rest of the world were
as fair as sunset clouds, and the peace that flowed through it as a
river broke into singing as it flowed.

* * * * *

Meantime Edgar Poe worked--and worked--and worked.

Every number of the _Messenger_ contained page after page of the
brilliantly conceived and artistically worded product of his brain and
pen. His heart--his imagination satisfied and at rest in the love and
comradeship of a woman who fulfilled his ideal of beauty, of character,
and of charm, whose mind he himself had taught and trained to appreciate
and to love the things that meant most to him, whose sympathy responded
to his every mood, whose voice soothed his tired nerves with the music
that was one of the necessities of his temperament, a woman, withal, who
lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by him--his
harassing devils cast out by this true heartsease, Edgar Poe's industry
and his power of mental production were almost past belief.

As he worked a dream that had long been half-formed in his brain took
definite shape and became the moving influence of the intellectual side
of his life. His literary conscience had always been strict--even
exacting--with him, making him push the quest for the right word in
which to express his idea--just the right word, no other--to its
farthest limit. Urged by this conscience, he could rarely ever feel that
his work was finished, but kept revising, polishing and republishing it
in improved form, even after it had been once given to the world. He had
in his youth contemplated serving his country as a soldier. He now began
to dream of serving her as a captain of literature, as it were--as a
defender of purity of style; for this dream which became the most
serious purpose of his life was of raising the standard of American
letters to the ideal perfection after which he strove in his own
writings.

For his campaign a trusty weapon was at hand in the editorial department
of the _Southern Literary Messenger_, which he turned into a sword of
fearless, merciless criticism.

Literary criticism (so called) in America had been hitherto mere
puffery--puffery for the most part of weak, prolix, commonplace
scribblings of little would-be authors and poets. A reformation in
criticism, therefore, Edgar Poe conceived to be the only remedy for the
prevalent mediocrity in writing that was vitiating the taste of the day,
the only hope of placing American literature upon a footing of equality
with that of England--in a word, for bringing about anything approaching
the perfection of which he dreamed.

The new kind of criticism to which he introduced his readers created a
sensation by reason of its very novelty. His brilliant, but withering
critiques were more eagerly looked for than the most thrilling of his
stories, and though the little, namby-pamby authors whom the gleaming
sword mowed down by tens were his and the _Messenger's_ enemies for
life, the interested readers that were gathered in by hundreds were loud
in their praise of the progressiveness of the magazine and the genius of
the man who was making it.

In the North as well as the South the name of Edgar Poe was now on many
lips and serious attention began to be paid to the opinion of the
_Southern Literary Messenger_.




CHAPTER XXIII.


Between his literary work, his home and his social life in Richmond, it
would seem that every need of The Dreamer's being was now satisfied and
the days of his life were moving in perfect harmony. But "the little
rift within the lute" all too soon made its appearance. It was caused by
the alarm of Mr. White, the owner and founder of the _Messenger_.

"Little Tom White" was a most admirable man--within his limitations. If
he was not especially interesting, his daughter Eliza of the violet eyes
was, and he was reliable--which was better. He had a kind little heart
and a clear little business head and his advice upon all matters (within
his experience) was safe. Though he saw from the handsome increase in
the number of the _Messenger's_ subscribers that his young editor was a
valuable aid, he did not realize how valuable. Indeed, Edgar Poe and his
style of writing were entirely outside of Mr. White's experience. They
were so altogether unlike anything he had known before that in spite of
the praise of the thousands of readers which they had brought to the
magazine the dissatisfaction of the tens of little namby-pamby authors
alarmed him. Edgar Poe found him one morning in a state of positive
trepidation. He sat at his desk in the _Messenger_ office with the
morning's mail--an unusually large pile of it--before him. In it there
were a number of new subscriptions, several letters from the little
authors protesting against the manner in which their works were handled
in the review columns of the magazine and one or two from well-known
and highly respected country gentlemen expressing their disapproval of
the _strangeness_ in Edgar Poe's tales and poems.

Mr. White appreciated the genius of his editor--within his
limitations--but he was afraid of it and these letters made him more
afraid of it. He saw that he must speak to Edgar--add his protest to the
protests of the little authors and the country gentlemen and see if he
could not persuade him to tone down the sharpness of his criticisms and
the strangeness of his stories.

It was with a feeling of relief that he saw the trim, black-clad figure
of the young editor and author at the door, for he would like to settle
the business before him at once. His manner was grave--solemn--as he
approached the subject upon which his employe must be spoken to.

"Edgar," he said, when good-mornings had been exchanged, "I want you to
read these letters. They are in the same line as some others we have
been receiving lately--but more so--decidedly more so."

"Ah?" said The Dreamer, as he seated himself at the desk and began to
unfold and glance over the letters.

"Little Tom" watched his face with a feeling of wonder at the look of
mixed scorn and amusement that appeared in the expressive eyes and mouth
as he read. Finally the anxious little man laid his hand upon the arm of
his unruly assistant, with an air of kindly patronage.

"You have talent, Edgar," he said, with a touch of condescension, "Good
talent--especially for criticism--and will some day make your mark in
that line if you will stick to it and let these weird stories alone. We
must have fewer of the stories in future and more critiques, but milder
ones. It is the critiques that the readers want; but in both stories and
critiques you must put a restraint on that pen of yours, Edgar. In the
stories less of the weird--the strange--in the critiques, less of the
satirical. Let moderation be your watchword, my boy. Cultivate
moderation in your writing, and with your endowment you will make a name
for yourself as well as the magazine."

Edgar Poe was all attention--respectful attention that was most
encouraging--while Mr. White was speaking, and when he had finished sat
with a contemplative look in his eyes, as if weighing the words he had
just heard. Presently he looked up and with the expression of face and
voice of one who in all seriousness seeks information, asked,

"Is moderation really the word you are after, Mr. White, or is it
mediocrity?"

The announcement at the very moment when the question was put, of a
visitor--a welcome one, for he brought a new subscription--precluded a
reply, and in the busy day that followed the broken thread of
conversation was never taken up again. But the unanswered question left
Mr. White with a confused sense which stayed with him during the whole
day and at intervals all through it he was asking himself what Edgar Poe
meant. Truly his talented employe was a puzzling fellow! Could it be
possible that the question asked with that serious face, that quiet
respectful air, was intended for a joke? That the impudent fellow could
have been quizzing him? No wonder his stories gave people
shivers--there was at times something about the fellow himself which was
positively uncanny!

That he and "little Tom" would always see opposite sides of the picture
became more and more apparent to The Dreamer as time went on and along
with this difficulty another and a more serious one arose.

Though the amount of work--of successful work, for it brought the
_Messenger_ a steadily increasing stream of new subscribers--which he
was now putting forth, should have surrounded the beloved wife and
mother with luxuries and placed him beyond the reach of financial
embarrassment, the returns he received from the entire fruitage of his
brilliant talent--his untiring pen--at this the prime-time of his
life--in the fullness of mental and physical vigour, was so small that
he was constantly harrassed by debt and frequently reduced to the
humiliating necessity of borrowing from his friends to make two ends
meet.

The plain truth was gradually borne in upon him--the prizes of fame and
wealth that for the sake of his sweet bride he coveted more earnestly
than ever before, were not to be found, by him, in Richmond, or as an
employe of Mr. White. But the hues of the bow of promise with which hope
spanned the sky of his inward vision were still bright, and he believed
that at its end the coveted prizes would surely still be found--provided
he did not lose heart and give up the quest. Indications of the growth
of his reputation at the North had been many. In the North the
facilities for publishing were so much more abundant than in the South.
The publishing houses and the periodicals of New York, of Boston, and of
Philadelphia would create a demand for literary work--and from these
large cities his message to the world would go out with greater
authority than from a small town like Richmond.

It was not until the year 1838 that he finally resolved to make the
break and sent in his resignation to the _Messenger_. In the three years
since his first appearance in its columns the number of names upon its
subscription list had increased from seven hundred to five thousand.

Though Edgar Poe's connection with the magazine as editor was at an end,
Mr. White took pains to announce that he was to continue to be a regular
contributor and the appearance of his serial story, "Arthur Gordon Pym,"
then running, was to be uninterrupted.

* * * * *

It was a far cry from the gardens and porches and open houses of
Richmond to the streets of New York--from the easy going country town
where society held but one circle, to a city, with its locked doors and
its wheels within wheels. Indeed, the single circle in Richmond, bound
together as it was by the elastic, but secure, tie of Virginia
cousinship and neighborliness then regarded as almost the same thing as
relationship, was practically one big family. Whoever was not your
cousin or your neighbor was the next best thing--either your neighbor's
cousin or your cousin's neighbor--so there you were.

Though Edgar and Virginia Poe and the Widow Clemm had no blood kin in
Richmond they were, during those two years' residence there, taken into
the very heart of this pleasant, kindly circle, and it was with keen
homesickness that they realized that "in a whole cityful friends they
had none."

But if this trio of dreamers felt strangely out of place in the streets
of New York, they looked more so. As they sauntered along, in their
leisurely southern fashion, their picturesque appearance arrested the
gaze of many a hurrying passer-by. In contrast to the up-to-date, alert,
keen-eyed crowd upon the busy streets, the air of distinction which
marked them everywhere was more pronounced than ever. They gave the
impression of a certain exquisite fineness of quality, combined with
quaintness, that one is sensible of in looking upon rare china.

In and out--in and out--among the crowds of these streets where being a
stranger he felt himself peculiarly alone, Edgar the Dreamer walked many
days in his quest for work. Here, there and everywhere, his pale face
and solemn eyes with less and less of hope in them were seen. He had
been right in believing that his reputation was growing and had reached
New York--yet no one wanted his work. The supply of literature exceeded
the demand, he was told everywhere. It is true that he succeeded in
placing an occasional article, for which he would be paid the merest
pittance. Man should not expect to live by writing alone, he found to be
the general opinion--he should have a business or profession and do his
scribbling in the left-over hours.

Still, his appearance at the door of a newspaper, magazine or book
publisher's office, accompanied by the announcement of his name, brought
him respect and a polite hearing--if that could afford any satisfaction
to a man whose darling wife was growing wan from insufficient food.

One devoted friend he and his family made in Mr. Gowans, a Scotchman and
a book-collector of means and cultivation, whose fancy for them went so
far as to induce him to become a member of the unique little family in
the dingy wooden shanty which they had succeeded in renting for a song.
To this old gentleman, who had the reputation of being something of a
crank, The Dreamer's conversation and Virginia's beauty and exquisite
singing were never-failing wells of delight, while the generous sum that
he paid for the privilege of sharing their home was an equal benefit to
them and went a long way toward supplying the simple table. The little
checks which "little Tom" White sent for the monthly instalments of
"Arthur Gordon Pym," upon which his ex-editor industriously worked, were
also most welcome. But with all they could scrape together the income
was insufficient to keep three souls within three bodies, and three
bodies decently covered.

Before the year in New York was out the rainbow was pale in the sky--its
colors were faded and its end was invisible--obscured by lowering
clouds. At the moment when it seemed faintest it came out clear
again--this time setting toward Philadelphia, whose name the hope that
rarely left him for long at a time whispered in The Dreamer's ear.

Why not Philadelphia? Philadelphia--then the acknowledged seat of the
empire of Letters. Philadelphia--the city of Penn, the "City of
Brotherly Love." There was for one of The Dreamer's superstitious turn
of mind and his love of words and belief in their power, an
attraction--a significance in the very names. He said them over and over
again to himself--rolled them on his tongue, fascinated with their sound
and with their suggestiveness.

He bade Virginia and "Muddie" keep up brave hearts, for they would turn
their backs upon this cold, inhospitable New York and set up their
household gods in the "City of Brotherly Love." The city of Penn, he
added, was the place for one of his calling--laughing as he spoke, at
the feeble pun--but there was new hope and life in the laugh. In Penn's
city, even if disappointments should come they would be able to bear
them, for how should human beings suffer in the "City of Brotherly
Love?"




CHAPTER XXIV.


The year was waning--the year 1838--when Edgar Poe removed his family
from New York. About the hour of noon, upon a pleasant day of the spring
following, he might have been seen to turn from the paved streets of the
"City of Brotherly Love," and to enter, and walk briskly along, a grassy
thoroughfare of Spring Garden--a village-like suburb.

He was going home to Virginia and the Mother--to a new home in this
village which they had been first tempted to explore by its delightful
name and which they had found seeing was to love, for in its appearance
the name was justified. The quiet streets were lined with trees just
coming into leaf, in which birds were building, happy and unafraid, and
spring flowers were blooming in little plots before many of the
unpretentious homes.

The place also possessed a more practical attraction in the
reasonableness of its house-rents. Delightfully low was the price asked
for a small, Dutch-roofed cottage that was just to their minds. It was
small, yet quite large enough to hold the three and their modest
possessions, and about it hung a quaint charm that might have been
wanting in a more ambitious abode. Though in excellent preservation it
had a pleasantly time-worn air and there was moss, in velvety green
patches, on its sloping roof. It was set somewhat back from the street,
with a bit of garden spot in front of it, in whose rich soil violets and
single hyacinths--blue and white--were blooming, and its square porch
supported a climbing rose, heavy with buds, that only needed training
to make it a bower of beauty.

After having tried several more or less unsatisfactory homes during
their brief residence in Philadelphia, they felt that they had at last
found one that filled their requirements, and had promptly moved in.
There were no servants--maids would have been in the way they happily
told each other--but Virginia and her mother had positive genius for
neatness and order. At their touch things seemed to fly by magic into
the places where they would look best and at the same time be most
convenient, and it was astonishing how quickly the arrangement of their
small belongings converted the cottage into a home.

It was with light heart and step that the master of the house took his
way homeward to the mid-day meal. The periodicals of the "City of
Brotherly Love" were keeping him busy, and there was at that moment
money in his pocket--not much, but still it was money--that day received
for his latest story.

As he drew near a corner just around which his new roof-tree stood, he
stopped suddenly--in the attitude of one who listens. Peal after peal of
rippling laughter was filling the air with music. In his vivid eyes, as
he listened, shone the soft light of love and a smile of infinite
tenderness played about his lips. Well he knew from what lovely, girlish
throat came the merry sounds--sweet and clear as a chime of silver
bells. A quickened step brought him instantly in view of her and the
cause of her mirth.

She stood in the rose-hooded doorway leaning upon a broom. Her cheeks
were pink with the exertion she had been making and her sleeves were
rolled up, leaving her dimpled, white arms bare to the elbow. Her soft
eyes were radiant and she was laughing for sheer delight in the picture
the stately "Muddie" made white-washing the palings that enclosed the
wee garden-spot from the street. When she saw her husband at the gate
she dropped her broom and ran into his arms like a child.

"Oh, Buddie, Buddie," she cried, "are not our palings beautiful? Muddie
did them for a surprise for you!"

"Buddie" was enthusiastic in admiration of the white palings and praised
the gentle white-washer to the skies. Then the three happy workers went
inside to their simple repast, which the sauce of content turned into a
banquet.

The door had been left open to the sunshine and the result was an
unexpected guest--a handsome tortoise-shell kitten which strayed in to
ask a share of their meal. She paused, timidly, upon the threshold for a
moment, then fixing her amber eyes upon The Dreamer, made straight for
him and arching her back and waving her tail like a plume, in the air
she rubbed her glossy sides against his ankle in a manner that was truly
irresistible. All three gave her a warm welcome. Edgar regarded her
appearance as a good omen; Virginia was delighted to have a pet, and
"Catalina," as they named her, became from the moment a regular and
favorite member of the family.

* * * * *

The cottage contained but five rooms--three downstairs (including the
kitchen) and upstairs two, with low-pitched, shelving walls and narrow
little slits of windows on a level with the floor. But as has been said,
it was large enough--large enough to shelter love and happiness and
genius--large enough to hold the dream of the Valley of the Many-Colored
Grass, with its fair river and its enchanted trees and flowers, in which
the three dreamers lived apart and for each other only.

It was large enough for the freest expansion the world had yet seen of
the vivid-hued imagination of Edgar Poe.

Night and day his brain was busy--"fancy unto fancy linking"--and the
periodicals teemed with his work.

In _The American Museum_, of Baltimore appeared his fantastic
prose-poem, "Ligeia," with his theory of the power of the human will for
a text--his favorite of all of his "tales"--_his_ favorite, in the
weakness of whose own will lay the real tragedy of his life! In _The
Gift_, of Philadelphia, appeared, a little later the dramatic
"conscience-story," "William Wilson," with its clear-cut pictures of
school-life at old Stoke-Newington. _The Baltimore Book_ gave the
thrilling fable, "Silence," to the world. The weirdly beautiful "Haunted
Palace" and "The Fall of the House of Usher" followed in quick
succession--in _The American Museum_.

"The Fall of the House of Usher," brought The Dreamer a pat-on-the back
from "little Tom" White, who in writing of the tale in _The Southern
Literary Messenger_, informed the world: "We always predicted that Mr.
Poe would reach a high grade in American literature; only we wish Mr.
Poe would stick to the department of criticism; there he is an able
professor."

Wrote James Russell Lowell, of the same story,

"Had its author written nothing else it would have been enough
to stamp him as a man of genius."

The cottage in Spring Garden was large enough too, for the sweet uses
of hospitality. By the time the roses on the porch were open, friends
and admirers began to find their way to it, and all who came through the
white-washed gate and sat down in the green-hooded porch or passed
through it into the bright and tasteful rooms felt the poetic charm
which this son of genius and his exquisite bit of a wife and the stately
mother with the "Mater Dolorosa" expression, threw over their simple
surroundings.

Among those who found their way thither was "Billy" Burton, an
Englishman, and an actor, who though a graduate of Cambridge was "better
known as a commedian than as a literary man." He had written several
books, however, and was the publisher of _The Gentleman's Magazine_, of
Philadelphia. Here too, came intimately, Mr. Alexander, one of the
founders of _The Saturday Evening Post_, to which The Dreamer was a
frequent contributor, and Mr. Clarke, first editor of _The Post_ and
others of what Edgar Poe's friend, Wilmer, would have dubbed the "press
gang" of Philadelphia.

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