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Mary Newton Stanard - The Dreamer

M >> Mary Newton Stanard >> The Dreamer




To be intimate with The Dreamer meant to adore the little wife with the
face of a Luca della Robbia chorister and the voice which should have
belonged to one--with the merry, irresistible ways of a perfectly happy
child,--and to revere the mother.

The cottage was also found to be large enough (as the fame of its master
grew) to be the destination of letters from the literary stars of the
day. Longfellow and Lowell and Washington Irving, on this side of the
water, and Dickens, in England, were among Edgar Poe's numerous
correspondents while a dweller in the rose-embowered cottage in Spring
Garden.

In addition to the stories, poems, essays and critiques which the
indefatigable Dreamer was putting out, he found time to publish a
collection of his "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque," in book form.
He was also (unfortunately for him) induced to prepare a work on
sea-shells for the use of schools--"The Conchologist's First Book," it
was called. This was unmistakably a mere "pot-boiler" and confessedly a
compilation, but it set the little authors whose namby-pamby works the
self-appointed Defender of the Purity of Style in American Letters had
consigned to an early grave, like a nest of hornets buzzing about his
ears.

"Plagarism!" was the burden of their hum.

Even while the discordant chorus was being chanted, however, his
wonderfully original tales continued to make their appearance at
intervals--chiefly in _The Gentleman's Magazine_, whose editor, at
"Billy" Burton's invitation, he had become.

* * * * *

In the midst of all this activity one of his old and most cherished
dreams took more definite shape than ever before--the dream of becoming
himself the founder of a magazine in which he could write as his genius
and his fancy should dictate without having to be constantly making
compromises with editors and proprietors--a periodical which would
fulfil his ideal of magazine literature, which he predicted would be the
leading literature of the future. With his prophetic eye he foresaw the
high pressure under which the American of coming years would live, and
he never lost an opportunity to express the opinion that the reader of
the future would give preference to the essay, or story, or poem which
could be read at a sitting--which would waste no time in preamble or
conclusion, but in which every word would be chosen by the literary
artist with the nicety with which the painter selects the exact tint he
needs, and in which every word would tell. And such works he conceived
it would be especially the province of the magazine to present.

He went so far as to prepare a prospectus and advertise for subscribers
to _The Penn Monthly_, as he proposed naming this child of his hopes,
and his proposition to enter the field of magazine publishing not only
as an editor, but as a proprietor, bade fair to be the rock upon which
he and his friend "Billy" Burton would split. They came to an
understanding finally, however, for when Mr. Burton, a little later,
decided to abandon _The Gentleman's Magazine_ and devote himself
exclusively to the theatre, he said to Mr. George R. Graham, the owner
of _The Gasket_, to whom he sold out,

"By the way, Graham, there's one thing I want to ask, and that is that
you will take care of my young editor."

Edgar Poe was at the moment lost in the happy dream of his own _Penn
Monthly_ which he conceived would not only take care of him and his
family, but would give his genius free rein. He was resolved to put the
best of himself into it, and the best of outside contributions he could
succeed in procuring. Its criticisms should be "sternly just, guided
only by the purest rules of Art, analyzing and urging these rules as it
applied them; holding itself aloof from all personal bias, acknowledging
no fear save that of outraging the right." It would "endeavor to
support the general interests of the republic of letters--regarding the
world at large as the true audience of the author," he determined, and
he declared in his prospectus.

Dear to his heart as was this dream of dreams of his intellectual life,
he was soon to realize that its fulfilment was not to be. At least--not
yet, for he comforted his own heart and Virginia's and "Muddie's" with
the assurance that it was but a case of hope deferred again.

As he was bracing himself for this fresh disappointment, Mr. Graham, the
purchaser of _The Gentlemen's Magazine_ which he proposed to combine
with _The Casket_ in the creation of _Graham's Magazine_, sat in his
office with a paper before him which the initiated would have at once
recognized as an Edgar Poe manuscript. It was a long, narrow strip,
formed by pasting pages together endwise, and had been submitted in a
tight roll which Mr. Graham unrolled as he read. The title at the top of
the strip, in The Dreamer's neat, legible handwriting was, "The Man of
the Crowd."

There was nothing gruesome about Mr. Graham. His candid brow, his
kindling blue eye, his fresh-colored cheeks, the genial curve of his lip
and his strong but amiable chin, spoke of a sunshiny nature, with
neither taste nor turn for the weird. But, as he read, the strange
"conscience-story" moved him--held him in a grip of intense
interest--wove a spell around him. He was on the lookout for original
material--undoubtedly he had it in this manuscript. He recalled "Billy"
Burton's last words to him: "Take care of my young editor."

A smile lighted his pleasant face. He had his own mental
endowments--generous ones--and without the least conceit he knew it;
but he had no ambition to patronize genius.

"The writer of this story is quite able to take care of himself," he
informed his inner consciousness, "And if I can only form a connection
with him it will doubtless be a case of the young editor's taking care
of me."

Upon the next afternoon Mr. Graham set out on a pilgrimage to Spring
Garden. Though it was November the air was mild and the sunshine was
mellow. Was the sky always so blue in Spring Garden, he wondered? He
found the rose-embowered cottage without difficulty, for he had obtained
minute directions. The roses were all gone but the foliage was still
green and the little white-paled garden was bright with the sunset-hued
flowers of autumn. Flowers and cottage stood bathed in the light of the
golden afternoon--the picture of serenity. What marked this quaint,
small homestead?--set back from the quiet village street--tucked away
behind its garden-spot from the din of the world? What made it different
from others of its neighborhood and character? Was it just a notion of
his (Mr. Graham wondered) that made him feel that here was poetry pure
and simple?--_visible_ poetry?

With sensations of keen interest he lifted the knocker. Edgar Poe
himself opened the door and his captivating smile, cordial hand-clasp
and words of warm, as well as courtly, greeting raised the visitor
instantly from the ranks of the caller to the place of a friend. Mr.
Graham had met Edgar Poe before and had felt his charm, but he now told
himself that to know him one must see him under his own roof, and in the
character of host.

As the door was opened a flood of music floated out. A divinely sweet
mezzo-soprano voice was singing to the accompaniment of a harp. As the
master of the house flung wide the sitting-room door and announced the
visitor, the sounds ceased, but the musician sat with her hands resting
upon the gilded strings for a moment, her eyes turned in inquiry toward
the door, then rose and with the simplicity of a child came forward to
place her hand in that of Mr. Graham. Mother Clemm who sat near the
window with a piece of sewing in her lap also arose, and with gentle
dignity came forward to be introduced and to do her part in making the
guest welcome.

As he took the seat proffered him and entered upon the exchange of
commonplace phrases with which a visit of a comparative stranger is apt
to begin, Mr. Graham's blue eyes gathered in the details of the
reposeful picture of which he had become a part. The open fire, the
sunshine lying on the bare but spotless floor, the vases filled with
flowers, the few simple pieces of furniture so fitly disposed that they
produced a sense of unusual completeness and satisfaction--the row of
books, the harp, the cat dosing upon the hearth,--and finally, the
people. The master of the house--distinguished, handsome, dominant,
genial, his young wife, the embodiment of soft, poetic beauty, and the
mother with her saint-like face and gentle, composed manner--her
expressive hands busy with her needle work. Was it possible that such a
home--such a household--was always there, keeping the even tenor of its
way among the unpicturesque conventions of the modern world?

After the first formalities had been exchanged he had delicately
intimated that he had come on business, but he soon began to see that
whatever his business might be it was to be dispatched right there, in
the bosom of the family. This was irregular and unusual, yet, somehow,
it did not seem unnatural, and he found that the presence of the women
of the poet's household was not the least restraint upon the freedom of
their discussion.

After some words of commendation of the story, "The Man of the Crowd,"
which he accepted for the next number of his magazine, he came to the
real business of the afternoon.

"Mr. Poe," said he, "I believe you know that with the new year _The
Gentleman's Magazine_ and _The Casket_ will be combined to form
_Graham's Magazine_ which it is my intention to make the best monthly,
in contributed articles and editorial opinion, in this country. Mr. Poe
I want an editor capable of making it this. _I want you._ What do you
say to undertaking it?"

As he sat with his eyes fixed upon The Dreamer's eyes waiting for an
answer he could not see the quick clasping of the widow's hands the
uplifting of her expressive face which plainly said "Thank God," or the
sudden illumination in the soft eyes of Virginia. But the transformation
in the beautiful face of the man before him held him spell-bound. Edgar
Poe's great eyes were glowing with sudden pleasure the curves of his
mouth grew sweet, his whole countenance softened.

"This is very good of you, Mr. Graham," he said, his low, musical voice,
warm with feeling. "Your offer places me upon firm ground once more. To
be frank with you, the failure, through lack of capital, of my attempt
to establish a magazine of my own (since the severing of my connection
with Burton, which gave me my only regular income) has left me hanging
by the eyelids, as it were, and I have been wondering how long I could
hold on with only the small, irregular sums coming in from the sale of
my stories to depend upon. Your offer at this time means more to me than
I can express."

His girl-wife stole to his side and with pretty grace, unembarrassed by
the presence of Mr. Graham, leaned over his chair and pressed her lips
upon his brow.

"But you know, Buddie," she murmured in a voice that was like a dove's,
"I always told you something would come along!"

* * * * *

Darkness fell and lamps were lighted, and still Mr. Graham sat on and on
as though too fascinated by the charm of the little circle to move. To
his own surprise he found himself accepting the invitation to remain to
supper. The simple table was beautiful with the dainty touch of Mother
Clemm and Virginia, and the very frugality of the meal seemed a virtue.

After supper his host, not the least of whose accomplishments was the
rare one of reading aloud acceptably, was persuaded to read some of his
own poems--Mr. Graham asking for certain special pieces. Among these
were the lines "To Helen," which were recited with a fervor approaching
solemnity.

"Tell him about Helen, Eddie," murmured Virginia, who sat by his side.

"Yes, do tell me!" urged Mr. Graham, quickly. And with his eyes brooding
and dreamy, the poet went over, in touching and beautiful words, the
story of what he always felt and declared to be "the first pure passion
of his soul."

In the silence that followed he arose and took from the wall a small
picture--a pencil-sketch of a lovely head.

"This is a drawing of her made by myself," he said. "It was done from
memory, but is a good likeness. I needed no sitting to make her
likeness."

When he had shown Mr. Graham the picture, he hung it back in its place
and a gentle hush fell upon the little group. Speech seemed out of place
after the moving recital and the four sat gazing into the embers, each
sunk in his or her own dreams.

The poet was the first to speak.

"Some music Sissy," he said turning to Virginia. "I want Mr. Graham to
hear you."

She arose at once and seating herself at the harp, struck some soft,
bell-like chords while she waited for "Buddie" to decide what she should
sing.

"Let it be something sweet and low," he said, "and simple. Something of
Tom Moore's, for instance. You know my theory, anything but the simplest
music to be appreciated--to reach the soul--must be heard alone."

The harp accompaniment rippled forth, and in a moment more melted into
the rich, sweet passionate tones of her voice as she told in musical
numbers a heart-breaking story of love and parting.

Ballad after ballad followed while the little audience sat entranced.
Finally when the singer returned to her seat by the side of her husband,
the conversation turned upon music. Mr. Graham commented upon his host's
theory that all music but the simplest should, for its best effect, be
listened to in solitude.

"Yes," said The Dreamer, "It is (like the happiness felt in the
contemplation of natural scenery) much enhanced by seclusion. The man
who would behold aright the glory of God as expressed in dark valleys,
gray rocks, waters that silently smile and forests that sigh in uneasy
slumbers, and the proud, watchful mountains that look down upon all--the
man that would not only look upon these with his natural eye but feed
his soul upon them as a sacrament, must do so in solitude. And so too, I
hold, should one listen to the deep harmonies of music of the highest
class."

At length the hour came when Mr. Graham felt that he must tear himself
away--bring this strange visit to an end. Before going he felt moved by
an impulse to express something of the effect it had had upon him.

"Mr. Poe," he said, "I wish to thank you for one of the most delightful
evenings of my life and for having taken me into the heart of your home.
I can find no words in which to express my appreciation. Tonight, at
your fireside, it seems to me that I have had for the first time in my
life a clear understanding of the word happiness."

Edgar Poe smiled, dreamily.

"Why should we not be happy here?" he answered. "Concerning happiness,
my dear Mr. Graham, I have a little creed of my own. If I could only
persuade others to adopt it there would be more happy people--far more
contented ones--in the world."

"And the articles of your creed?" queried Mr. Graham.

"Are only four. First, free exercise in the open air, and plenty of it.
This brings health--which is a kind of happiness in itself--that
attainable by any other means is scarcely worth the name. Second, love
of woman. I need not tell you that my life fulfils that condition." (As
he spoke, his eyes, with an expression of ineffable tenderness, wandered
for a moment--and it seemed involuntarily--in the direction of his
wife). "The third condition is contempt for ambition. Would that I could
tell you that I have attained to that! When I do, there will be little
in this world to be desired by me. The fourth and last is an object of
unceasing pursuit. This is the most important of all, for I believe that
the extent of one's happiness is in proportion to the spirituality of
this object. In this I am especially fortunate, for no more elevating
pursuit exists, I think, than that of systematically endeavoring to
bring to its highest perfection the art of literature."

"I notice you do not mention money in your creed," remarked his guest.

"No, neither do I mention air. Both the one and the other are essential
to life, and to the keeping together of body and soul. It goes without
saying that the necessities of life are necessary to happiness. But
money--meaning wealth--while it makes indulgence in pleasures possible,
has nothing to do with happiness. Indeed the very pleasure it ensures
often obscure highest happiness--the happiness of exaltation of the
soul, of exercise of the intellect. What has money to do with happiness?
It is a happiness to wonder--it is a happiness to dream. Your over-fed,
jewel-decked, pleasure-drunk rich man or woman is too deeply embedded in
flesh and sense to do either. No"--he mused, his eyes on the glowing
coals in the grate, "No--I have no desire for wealth--for more than
enough money to keep my wife and mother comfortable. They, like myself,
have learned the lesson of being poor and happy. But I _must_ keep them
above want--I _will_ keep them above want!" As he repeated the words the
meditative mood dropped from him. He straightened himself in his chair
with sudden energy, his voice trembled and sunk almost to a whisper, in
place of the dreamy look his eyes flamed with passion.

"Mr. Graham," he exclaimed, "to see those you love better than your own
soul in want, and, in spite of working like mad, to be powerless to
raise them out of it, is hell!"

A second time the exquisite child-wife slipped quickly, noiselessly, to
his side and with the same easy grace leaned over and touched his brow
with her lips, but this time instead of moving away, remained hanging
over the back of his chair, her fair hand gently toying with the
ringlets on his brow. He was calm in an instant.

"I mean, of course, such a condition would be intolerable provided it
should ever exist," he added.

* * * * *

As the visitor stepped from the cottage door into the chill of the
bright November night, and made his way down the little path of
flagstones--irregularly shaped and clumsily laid down, so that mossy
turf which was still green, appeared between them--he felt that he was
stepping back into a flat, stale and unprofitable world from one of the
enchanted regions, "out of space, out of time," of Poe's own creation.

He had indeed, had a revelation of harmonious home-life such as he had
not guessed existed in a work-a-day world--of the music, the poetry of
living. He had had a glimpse into the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass.




CHAPTER XXV.


The next morning found Mr. Graham still under the spell of the evening
with the Poes. He caught himself impatiently watching the clock, for the
man under whose charm he had come was to call at a certain hour, to
confer with him in regard to the magazine. He could hear him coming
(stepping briskly and whistling a "Moore's Melody") before the rap upon
the door announced him. He came in with the bright, alert air of a man
ready for action for which he has appetite. His rarely heard laugh rang
out, fresh and spontaneous, several times during the interview. His
manners were at all times those of a prince, but Mr. Graham had never
seen him so genial, so gay. The mantle of dreamer and poet had suddenly
dropped from him, but the new mood had a charm all its own.

When business had been dispatched and they sat on to finish their
cigars, Mr. Graham reiterated his expressions of pleasure in his visit
of the evening before.

"You gave me food for thought, Mr. Poe," said he. "I've been pondering
on that creed of yours for finding and keeping the secret of true
happiness. It is about the most wholesome and sane doctrine I've met
with for some time. I've determined to adopt it, and to, at least
endeavor, to practice it."

His companion smiled.

"Good!" said he. "I only hope you'll have better success in living up to
it than I have."

Mr. Graham's eyebrows went up. "I thought that was just what you did,"
was his answer.

"So it is, at times; but when the blues or the imp of the perverse get
hold of me all my philosophy goes to the devil, and I realize what an
arch humbug I am."

"The imp of the perverse?" questioned Mr. Graham.

"That is my name for the principle that lies hidden in weak human
nature--the principle of antagonism to happiness, which, with unholy
impishness, tempts man to his own destruction. Don't you think it an apt
name?"

"I don't believe I follow you."

"Then let me explain. Did you never, when standing upon some high point,
become conscious of an influence irresistibly urging you to cast
yourself down? As you listened--fascinated and horrified--to the voice,
did you not feel an almost overwhelming curiosity to see what the
sensations accompanying such a fall would be--to know the extremest
terror of it? Your tempter was the _Imp of the Perverse_.

"Did you never feel a sense of glee to find that something you had said
or done had shocked someone whose good opinion you should have desired?
Did you never feel a desire to depart from a course you knew to be to
your interest and follow one that would bring certain harm--possible
disaster--upon you? Did you never feel like breaking loose from all the
restraints which you knew to be for your good--throwing off every
shackle of propriety, and right, and decency?--Mr. Graham, did you never
feel like throwing yourself to the devil for no reason at all other than
the desire to be perverse? Could any desire be more impish?--I will
illustrate by my own case, I am in one respect not like other men. An
exceptionally high-strung nervous temperament makes alcoholic
stimulants poison to me. It works like madness in my brain and in my
blood. The glass of wine that you can take with pleasure and perhaps
with benefit drives me wild--makes me commit all manner of reckless
deeds that in my sane moments fill me with sorrow!--and sometimes
produces physical illness followed by depression of spirits, horrible in
the extreme. More--an inherited desire for stimulation and the
exhilaration produced by wine, makes it well nigh impossible for me,
once I have yielded my will so far as to take the single glass, to
resist the second, which is more than apt to be followed by a third, and
so on. I am fully aware therefore, of the danger that lies for me in a
thing harmless to many men, and that my only safety and happiness and
the happiness of those far dearer to me than myself, lies in the
strictest, most rigid abstinence. Knowing all this, one would suppose
that I would fly from this temptation as it were the plague. I do
generally. At present, several years have passed since I yielded an
inch. But there have been times--and there may be times again--when the
Imp of the Perverse will command me to drink and, fully aware of the
risk, I _will_ drink, and will go down into hell for a longer or shorter
period afterward."

During this lecture upon one of his favorite hobbies, the low voice of
The Dreamer was vibrant with earnestness. He spoke out of bitter
experience and as he who bore the reputation of a reserved man, laid his
soul bare, his vivid eyes held the eyes of his companion by the very
intensity--the deep sincerity of their gaze.

Mr. Graham's last conversation with his new editor had dazed him; this
one dazed him still more. What manner of man was this? (he asked
himself) with whom he had formed a league? He could not say--beyond the
fact that he was undoubtedly original--and interesting. Admirable
qualities for an editor--both!

The readers of the new monthly thoroughly agreed with him. The history
of Edgar Poe's career as editor of _The Southern Literary Messenger_
promptly began to repeat itself with _Graham's Magazine_. The
announcement that he had been engaged as editor immediately drew the
attention of the reading world toward _Graham's_, and it soon became
apparent that in the new position he was going to out-do himself. The
rapidity with which his brilliant and caustic critiques and essays, and
weird stories, followed upon the heels of one another was enough to take
one's breath away. He alternately raised the hair of his readers with
master-pieces of unearthly imaginings and diverted them with playful
studies in autography and exhibitions of skill in reading secret
writing.

About the time of his beginning his duties at _Graham's_ he must needs
have had a visit from some fairy godmother, the touch of whose enchanted
wand left him with a new gift. This was a wonderfully developed power of
analysis which he found pleasure in exercising in every possible way. To
quote his own words, "As the strong man exults in his physical ability,
delighting in such exercises as bring his muscles into action, so
glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He
derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his
talent into play."

He tried the newly discovered talent upon everything. In his papers on
"Autography" he practised it in the reading of character from
hand-writing, and in his deciphering of secret writing he carried it so
far and awakened the interest and curiosity of the public to such extent
that it bade fair to be the ruin of him; for it seemed his
correspondents would have him drop literature and devote himself and the
columns of _Graham's Magazine_ for the rest of his life, to the solving
of these puzzles. Finally, having proved that it was impossible for any
of them to compose a cypher he could not read in less time than its
author had spent in inventing it, he took advantage of his only
safeguard, and positively declined to have anything more to do with
them.

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