Was Poe Worthless?

from The Ladies' Repository, July, 1859,

According to an anonymous writer for The Ladies' Repository, Poe was a worthless man whose writings reflect the unfortunate disturbances found in his twisted mind. Or something like that.

Edgar Allan Poe was incontestably one of the most worthless persons of whom we have any record in the world of letters. Many authors have been as idle; many as improvident; some as drunken and dissipated; and a few, perhaps, as treacherous and ungrateful; but he seems to have succeeded in attracting and combining, in his own person, all the floating vices which genius had hitherto shown itself capable of grasping in its widest and most eccentric orbit. Yet his chances of success at the outset of life were great and manifold. Nature was bountiful to him; bestowing upon him a pleasing person and excellent talents. Fortune favored him; education and society expanded and polished his intellect, and improved his manner into an insinuating and almost irresistible address. Upon these foundations he took his stand; he became early very popular among his associates, and might have erected a laudable reputation, had he possessed ordinary prudence. But he defied his good genius. There was a perpetual strife between him and virtue, in which virtue was never triumphant. His moral stamen was weak, and demanded resolute treatment; but instead of seeking a bracing and healthy atmosphere, he preferred the impurer airs, and gave way readily to those low and vulgar appetites, which infallibly relax and press down the victim to the lowest state of social abasement.

The usual prizes of life--reputation, competency, friendship, love--presented themselves in turn; but they were all in turn neglected or forfeited--repeatedly, in fact, abandoned under the detestable passion for drink. He outraged his benefactor, he deceived his friends, he sacrificed his love, he became a beggar, a vagabond, the slanderer of a woman, the delirious drunken pauper of a common hospital--hated by some, despised by others, and avoided by all respectable men.

Edgar Allan Poe, we are told, was the son of an American father and an English mother. On the death of his respectable parents, which event occurred when he was about six years of age, he was thrown penniless upon the world. Providence decreed that he should be adopted by a rich and benevolent merchant, Mr. John Allan. This gentleman took him to England; placed him at a school there for four or five years, and, on his return to the United States, entered him at the University of Charlottesville. Here the youth broke loose from the trammels of authority, and distinguished himself not only by his talents, but by the wildest excesses. It is argued, in his excuse, that the manners of the University at this time were extremely dissolute. Poe, however, young as he was, exceeded all his fellows. Not only, it is said, was he "the wildest and most reckless student of his class," but he mastered the most difficult problems with ease, and kept "all the while in the first rank for scholarship." He would, in fact, have "graduated in the highest honors, had not his gambling, intemperance, and other vices induced his expulsion from the University." Thus early did the demon disclose itself which was to have such an overwhelming influence on his future life.

His allowance of money at Charlottesville had been liberal; yet he quitted that place very much in debt, and when Mr. Allan refused to pay some of his losses at gaming, he wrote him an abusive letter and left his house.

For about a year he seems to have wandered through Europe; but at the end of that time he contrives to reach St. Petersburg, where the American minister--Mr. Middleton--is summoned one day to save him from the penalties of a drunken debauch. Through this gentleman's kindness Poe is enabled to return to America. Mr. Allan--although he is now not so cordial as formerly--declares himself still willing to serve the culprit, and, at his request, exerts his interest and obtains a scholarship in the military academy. Here Poe works assiduously for some months, but his habits of dissipation are renewed, and in "ten months from his matriculation he is cashiered."

Upon this second expulsion he goes once more to the house of Mr. Allan, at Richmond, who is even then disposed to treat him as a son, but Poe, by some very offensive act, forces his old patron to close his doors against him.

Our future author now endeavors to earn his bread by printing a volume of poems, and by contributing to the journals. The result is a failure, and his next step is to enlist as a private soldier, and then--to desert. His friends surmise that he probably did not like the "monotony of a soldier's life." It does not appear that he encountered the punishment which he deserved for his breach of military discipline; but that he had to fare hardly is clearly the case. For he subsequently contests for, and--almost as a matter of course--obtains a certain prize offered by the proprietor of "The Baltimore Saturday Visitor;" and upon the occasion comes forward in a state of the most squalid poverty. His destitute condition, indeed, operates so effectually on some compassionate people, especially on a Mr. Kennedy, that he is sent to a clothing store, and afterward to a bath, in order to enable him to recover, outwardly at least the appearance of a gentleman.

By the help of his new friends he obtains the editorship of a "Richmond Magazine," but after a short time is found "in a condition of brutish drunkenness," which "results in his dismissal." His employer at this period was a Mr. White, a gentleman evidently kind and long-enduring, but who at the same time speaks very plainly to "Edgar," consenting to take him back as an assistant, only on condition that he will "promise to separate from the bottle." This promise is of course speedily made, and as speedily broken.

We are not able to ascertain the precise date at which he borrowed a poem from Professor Longfellow, imitated it, and afterward denounced the author as a plagiarist from himself the Simulator. The mimic poem is called "The Haunted House," and is one of Poe's best pieces of verse. The original is "The Beleaguered City," of Mr. Longfellow. There are, necessarily, statement and counterstatement in this case; but while we have the most entire reliance on Mr. Longfellow's word, we confess that we place none whatever on the assertion of Edgar Poe.

Poe's next appearance is as a writer in a magazine established by Mr. Burton, in Philadelphia. He remains with this gentleman till June, 1840, more than a year. This long lapse into sobriety is followed by the usual fit of intemperance. "On one occasion, returning after the regular day of publication, he [Mr. Burton] found the number unfinished, and Poe incapable of duty." Notwithstanding this, the wretched culprit is forgiven, and accepted again as a coadjutor in the magazine.

"In two or three months afterward Burton went out of town to fulfill a professional engagement, leaving material and directions for completing the next number of the magazine in four days. He was absent nearly a fortnight, and on his return he found that his printer in the meanwhile had not received a line of copy, but that Poe had prepared the prospectus of a new monthly, and obtained transcripts of his subscription and account books, to be used in a scheme for supplanting him!

From the house of Mr. Burton our author migrates to that of Mr. Graham, where he is installed as editor of "Graham's Magazine." He works there for a short time, and is again dismissed. He then tries to establish a journal of his own, called "The Stylus," but fails, and eventually, in 1844, removes to New York. Here he distinguishes himself by borrowing fifty dollars from a "celebrated literary lady." On failing to repay them on the day promised, and being asked for an acknowledgment of the debt, to be shown to the lady's husband, he at once denies all knowledge of the transaction, and threatens to exhibit, to the husband, a correspondence which, as he states, "would make the woman infamous, if she said any more on the subject." Such correspondence had never existed!

The few remaining incidents of his life afford little or no variety or relief from the foregoing history. They are all tinged by the same gloom. His wife, whom he had married when residing at Richmond, dies. During her last illness her mother is met going about from place to place, in the bitter weather, half-starved and thinly clad, with a poem or some other literary article, which she was striving to sell; or otherwise she was begging for him and his poor partner, both being in want of the commonest necessaries of life.

Nevertheless, even after this prostration, Poe seems to have arisen for a short period, and to have signalized himself by some more literary activity. He wrote an essay, entitled "Eureka," delivered lectures, and-his wife being then dead-engaged himself to marry "one of the most brilliant women of New England." This engagement, however, is one that he means to break. "Mark me," he says, "I shall not marry her." In furtherance of this gentlemanlike decision, he deliberately gets drunk, and on the evening before the appointed bridal is found "reeling through the streets, and in his drunkenness commits, at her house, such outrages as render it necessary to summon the police." He went from New York with a "determination thus to induce the ending of the engagement," and--succeeded.

His last journey is now to be taken. He travels as far as Baltimore, but never returns. He is seen a short time afterward in that city, in such a state as is induced by long-continued intoxication, and after "a night of insanity and exposure," he is carried to a hospital, and there on the evening of Sunday, the 7th day of October, 1849, he dies, at the age of thirty-eight years!

One of his biographers concludes with the words, "It is a melancholy history." We trust that it will prove a profitable one; for unless we are mistaken, it involves a moral that may be studied with advantage by future authors.

There can be no question that Edgar Poe possessed much subtilty of thought; an acute reasoning faculty; imagination of a gloomy character, and a remarkable power of analysis. This last quality, which from its frequent use almost verges upon disease, pervaded nearly all his stories, and is in effect his main characteristic. Other persons have drawn as unreservedly from the depths of horror. But few others, with the exception of Browne and Godwin, have devoted themselves to that curious persevering analysis of worldly mysteries by which Poe has earned so large a portion of his reputation. The impression made upon the mind of the reader by the apparently-wonderful solutions of the most difficult problems will not easily be forgotten. Yet, on examining the marvel more attentively, he will divest himself of a good deal of his admiration by reflecting--as Dr. Griswold justly observes--that the ingenuity is displayed "in unraveling a web which has been woven for the express purpose of unraveling." Every man, in fact, is able readily to explain the riddle which he himself has fabricated, however laborious the process of manufacturing it may have been.

How far the thrilling interest which Poe infused into his stories may be traced to the acute sensations which he himself endured in a state of excitement or despondency, we have no means of knowing. But we think that no writer would have resorted so incessantly to the violent measures and extreme distresses which constitute the subject of his narratives, in a good sound condition of health. His imagination appears to have been absolutely embarrassed by a profusion of visionary alarms and horrors. We rise up from his pages as from the spectacle of some frightful disaster-relieved because the worst is over, and happy that we are left at last to partake of less stirring pleasures, and to return to the calmer sensations of ordinary life.

Edgar Poe had no humor, properly so called. His laugh was feeble, or it was a laugh of ill temper, exhibiting little beyond the turbulence of his own mind. He was carping and sarcastic, and threw out occasionally a shower of sharp words upon the demerits of his contemporaries; but of that genial humor which shines through a character, fixes it in a class, and shows by what natural gradations it moves, and by what aspects and impulses it claims to resemble the large brotherhood of man, he possessed nothing. The ordinary incidents of life--the domestic affections, the passions, the intermixture of good and evil, of strength and weakness, in the great human family who pass by our doors every day, and who sit beside us, love us, serve us, maltreat us--as the varying mood prompts--were unknown to him, or disregarded. Yet these things constitute the staple--the best and most essential parts of the modern novel. They intrude themselves, in fact, into our acquaintance, so frequently, so intimately, that we can not ignore their existence. In the present case we are at a loss to understand how a person so acute as our author could have neglected to place upon record what must have so incessantly forced itself upon his observation; nay, what must have met and jostled him so frequently in his rough journey through life.

The poetical works of the author need not detain us long. With one remarkable exception, his verses do not differ materially from others of the same time. They are neither very good nor very bad. They do not exhibit much depth or graphic power, and but little tenderness--nor do they, in fact, possess any of those distinguishing qualities which lift a man up beyond his contemporaries. The blank verse is not good; but some of the smaller pieces have a smoothness and liquid flow that are pleasant enough. One short poem, said to have been written at the age of fourteen, and addressed "To Helen," is full of promise. Of all Mr. Poe's poems, however, "The Raven" is by far the first. It is, like the larger part of the author's writings, of a gloomy cast; but its merit is great, and it ranks in that rare and remarkable class of productions which suffice singly to make a reputation. Whether or not it was manufactured in the deliberate way stated by the writer in his article on "The Philosophy of Composition," we do not know; but the passage in which he dissects with anatomical precision what might otherwise pass for the offspring of impulse and of genius, is curiously characteristic of his analytical disposition. The poem itself, however, deserves to be remembered by all lovers of verse. Its popularity is universal....

We do not propose to enter into the accuracy of the numerous investigations which Mr. Poe appears to have instituted into the publications of his brother and sister authors. To say the truth, we do not estimate his powers as a critic very highly. His essays on Criticism were, we imagine, written on the spur of the moment, without much consideration. and were more than sufficiently imbued with those prejudices with which he was so apt, we are told, to view the works of contemporary writers. Some of his essays are very slight and brief; some flippant; some distinguishable for that remarkable power of analysis which he carried into all his productions. His views of "Barnaby Rudge," in the third volume of this collection, is an extraordinary instance of his subtile and discriminating research into the very elements of fiction. It is impossible to trace out with greater nicety the very germ of a plot, and the finest artifices of invention. But here the interest of Edgar Poe's criticisms stops: few of them enter into the question of the peculiar genius of the author reviewed, of the class to which he belongs, of the way in which education and events have molded him, of his habits of every-day life, or of those impulses or physical circumstances which have impelled his intellect to assume that particular shape in which it presents itself before the world.

Without entering into some such considerations, the critic can scarcely place his author fairly on his pedestal. We feel, even in the case of Mr. Poe, that it would have been most desirable if a fuller biography had accompanied his works. Honest and able, as far as it goes, and glancing upon the more prominent events of his life, it leaves us without information on many matters from which much might have been gathered to form an accurate judgment. Perhaps we are, after all, copying the deformities only of the man, at a time when we are anxious to submit all that was good as well as bad to the reader's judgment. The roughnesses that were so conspicuous on the surface of Poe's character would naturally attract the notice of his biographers in the first instance. But, underneath, was there nothing to tell of?--no cheeriness in the boy--no casual acts of kindness--no adhesion to old friendships--no sympathy with the poor or the unhappy, that might have been brought forward as indicative of his better nature? Even he himself has done nothing to help us. His sketches and stories are singularly deficient in all reference to his own private life. It is strange that a man who did and suffered so much should have left nothing for the historian's hand! The petty acts are indeed before us, but perhaps "the greatest is behind." For no man is thoroughly evil. There must be slumbering virtues--good intentions undeveloped--even good actions, claiming to have a place on the record. Generosity, sympathy, charity have often their abodes in lowly and unexpected places-in poor, thoughtless, humble bosoms--in the hearts of those who have deeply sinned.

The influence of his faults was limited, and the penalty--such as it was--he only had to bear. But the pleasure arising from his writings has been shared by many thousand people. In speaking of himself personally, we have felt bound to express our opinions without any subterfuge. But we are not insensible that, while he grasped and pressed hardly on some individuals with one hand, with the other he scattered his gifts in abundance on the public. These gifts are by no means of a common order, and on balancing the account of the author with posterity, he ought to have credit for their full value.

Fortunately for Edgar Poe, his personal history will be less read, and will be more short-lived than his fictions, which will probably pass into many hands, unaccompanied by the narrative of his personal character or exploits.