11249	----	FOUR FAMOUS AMERICAN WRITERS Washington Irving Edgar Allan Poe James Russell Lowell Bayard Taylor A Book For Young Americans By Sherwin Cody 1899 CONTENTS THE STORY OF WASHINGTON IRVING CHAPTER I. HIS CHILDHOOD II. IRVING'S FIRST VOYAGE UP THE HUDSON RIVER III. A TRIP TO MONTREAL IV. IRVING GOES TO EUROPE V. "SALMAGUNDI" VI. "DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER" VII. A COMIC HISTORY OF NEW YORK VIII. FIVE UNEVENTFUL YEARS IX. FRIENDSHIP WITH SIR WALTER SCOTT X. "RIP VAN WINKLE" XI. LITERARY SUCCESS IN ENGLAND XII. IRVING GOES TO SPAIN XIII. "THE ALHAMBRA" XIV. THE LAST YEARS OF IRVING'S LIFE THE STORY OF EDGAR ALLAN POE CHAPTER I. THE ARTIST IN WORDS II. POE'S FATHER AND MOTHER III. YOUNG EDGAR ALLAN IV. COLLEGE LIFE V. FORTUNE CHANGES VI. LIVING BY LITERATURE VII. POE'S EARLY POETRY VIII. POE'S CHILD WIFE IX. POE'S LITERARY HISTORY X. POE AS A STORY-WRITER XI. HOW "THE RAVEN" WAS WRITTEN XII. MUSIC AND POETRY XIII. POE'S LATER YEARS THE STORY OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL CHAPTER I. ELMWOOD II. AN IMPETUOUS YOUNG MAN III. COLLEGE AND THE MUSES IV. HOW LOWELL STUDIED LAW V. LOVE AND LETTERS VI. THE UNCERTAIN SEAS OF LITERATURE VII. HOSEA BIGLOW, YANKEE HUMORIST VIII. PARSON WILBUR IX. A FABLE FOR CRITICS X. THE TRUEST POETRY XI. PROFESSOR, EDITOR, AND DIPLOMAT THE STORY OF BAYARD TAYLOR CHAPTER I. HIS BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD II. SCHOOL LIFE III. HIS FIRST POEM IV. SELF-EDUCATION AND AMBITION V. A TRAVELER AT NINETEEN VI. TWO YEARS IN EUROPE FOR FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS VII. THE HARDSHIPS OF TRAMP TRAVEL VIII. HIS FIRST LOVE AND GREATEST SORROW IX. "THE GREAT AMERICAN TRAVELER" X. HIS POETRY XI. "POEMS OF THE ORIENT" XII. BAYARD TAYLOR'S FRIENDSHIPS XIII. LAST YEARS THE STORY OF WASHINGTON IRVING [Illustration: _WASHINGTON IRVING._] WASHINGTON IRVING CHAPTER I HIS CHILDHOOD The Revolutionary War was over. The British soldiers were preparing to embark on their ships and sail back over the ocean, and General Washington would soon enter New York city at the head of the American army. While all true patriots were rejoicing at this happy turn of affairs, a little boy was born who was destined to be the first great American author. William Irving, the father of this little boy, had been a merchant in New York city. He had been very prosperous until the war broke out. After the battle of Long Island, the British then occupying the city, he had taken his family to New Jersey. But later, although he was a loyal American, he went back to the city to attend to his business. There he helped the American cause by doing everything he could for the American prisoners whom the British held. His wife, especially, had a happy way of persuading Sir Henry Clinton, and when the British general saw her coming, he prepared himself to grant any request about the prisoners which she might make. Often she sent them food from her own table, and cared for them when they were sick. When their last son, the eleventh child, was born, on April 3, 1783, the parents showed their loyalty by naming him Washington, after the beloved Father of his Country. Six years after this, George Washington was elected president, and went to New York to live. The Scotch maid who took care of little Washington Irving made up her mind to introduce the boy to his great namesake. So one day she followed the general into a shop, and, pointing to the lad, said, "Please, your honor, here's a bairn was named after you." Washington turned around, smiled, and placing his hand on the boy's head, gave him his blessing. Little did General Washington suspect that in later years this boy, grown to manhood and become famous, would write his biography. In those days New York was only a small town at the south end of Manhattan Island. It extended barely as far north as the place where now stand the City Hall and the Postoffice. Broadway was then a country road. The Irvings lived at 131 William Street, afterward moving across to 128. This is now one of the oldest parts of New York. The streets in that section are narrow, and the buildings, though put up long after Irving's birth, seem very old. Here the little boy grew up with his brothers and sisters. At four he went to school. His first teacher was a lady; but he was soon transferred to a school kept by an old Revolutionary soldier who became so fond of the boy that he gave him the pet name of "General." This teacher liked him because, though often in mischief, he never tried to protect himself by telling a falsehood, but always confessed the truth. Washington was not very fond of study, but he was a great reader. At eleven his favorite stories were "Robinson Crusoe" and "Sindbad the Sailor." Besides these, he read many books of travel, and soon found himself wishing that he might go to sea. As he grew up he was able to gratify his taste for travel, and some of his finest books and stories relate to his experiences in foreign lands. In the introduction to the "Sketch Book" he says, "How wistfully would I wander about the pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships bound to distant climes--with what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the earth!" CHAPTER II IRVING'S FIRST VOYAGE UP THE HUDSON RIVER Irving's first literary composition seems to have been a play written when he was thirteen. It was performed at the house of a friend, in the presence of a famous actress of that day; but in after years Irving had forgotten even the title. His schooling was finished when he was sixteen. His elder brothers had attended college, and he never knew exactly why he did not. But he was not fond of hard study or hard work. He lived in a sort of dreamy leisure, which seemed particularly suited to his light, airy genius, so full of humor, sunshine, and loving-kindness. After leaving school, he began to study law in the office of a certain Henry Masterton. This was in the year 1800. He was admitted to the bar six years later; but he spent a great deal more of the intervening time in traveling and scribbling than in the study of law. His first published writing was a series of letters signed "Jonathan Oldstyle," printed in his brother's daily paper, "The Morning Chronicle," when the writer was nineteen years old. Irving's first journey was made the very year after he left school. It was a voyage in a sailing boat up the Hudson river to Albany; and a land journey from there to Johnstown, New York, to visit two married sisters. In the early days this was on the border of civilization, where the white traders went to buy furs from the Indians. Steamboats and railroads had not been invented, and a journey that can now be made in a few hours, then required several days. Years afterward, Irving described his first voyage up the Hudson. "My first voyage up the Hudson," said he, "was made in early boyhood, in the good old times before steamboats and railroads had annihilated time and space, and driven all poetry and romance out of travel.... We enjoyed the beauties of the river in those days.[+] [Footnote +: Irving was the first to describe the wonderful beauties of the Hudson river.] "I was to make the voyage under the protection of a relative of mature age--one experienced in the river. His first care was to look out for a favorite sloop and captain, in which there was great choice.... "A sloop was at length chosen; but she had yet to complete her freight and secure a sufficient number of passengers. Days were consumed in drumming up a cargo. This was a tormenting delay to me, who was about to make my first voyage, and who, boy-like, had packed my trunk on the first mention of the expedition. How often that trunk had to be unpacked and repacked before we sailed! "At length the sloop actually got under way. As she worked slowly out of the dock into the stream, there was a great exchange of last words between friends on board and friends on shore, and much waving of handkerchiefs when the sloop was out of hearing. "... What a time of intense delight was that first sail through the Highlands! I sat on the deck as we slowly tided along at the foot of those stern mountains, and gazed with wonder and admiration at cliffs impending far above me, crowned with forests, with eagles sailing and screaming around them; or listened to the unseen stream dashing down precipices; or beheld rock, and tree, and cloud, and sky reflected in the glassy stream of the river.... "But of all the scenery of the Hudson, the Kaatskill Mountains had the most witching effect on my boyish imagination. Never shall I forget the effect upon me of the first view of them predominating over a wide extent of country, part wild, woody, and rugged; part softened away into all the graces of cultivation. As we slowly floated along, I lay on the deck and watched them through a long summer's day, undergoing a thousand mutations under the magical effects of atmosphere; sometimes seeming to approach, at other times to recede; now almost melting into hazy distance, now burnished by the hazy sun, until, in the evening, they printed themselves against the glowing sky in the deep purple of an Italian landscape." CHAPTER III A TRIP TO MONTREAL Soon after returning from this trip, Irving became a clerk in the law office of a Mr. Hoffman. There was a warm friendship between him and Mr. Hoffman's family. Mrs. Hoffman was his lifelong friend and, as he afterwards said, like a sister to him; and he finally fell in love with Matilda, one of Mr. Hoffman's daughters, and was engaged to be married to her. Her sad death at the age of seventeen was perhaps the greatest unhappiness of his life. He never married, but held her memory sacred as long as he lived. In 1803 he was invited by Mr. Hoffman to go with him to Montreal and Quebec. Irving kept a journal during this expedition, and it shows what a rough time travelers had in those days. Part of the way they sailed in a scow on Black River. They were partially sheltered from the rain by sheets stretched over hoops. At night they went ashore and slept in a log cabin. One morning after a rainy night they awoke to find the sky clear and the sun shining brightly. Setting out again in their boat, they were soon surprised by meeting three canoes in pursuit of a deer. "The deer made for our shore," says Irving in his journal. "We pushed ashore immediately, and as it passed, Mr. Ogden fired and wounded it. It had been wounded before. I threw off my coat and prepared to swim after it. As it came near, a man rushed through the bushes, sprang into the water, and made a grasp at the animal. He missed his aim, and I jumped after, fell on his back, and sunk him under water. At the same time I caught the deer by one ear, and Mr. Ogden seized it by a leg. The submerged gentleman, who had risen above the water, got hold of another. We drew it ashore, when the man immediately dispatched it with a knife. We claimed a haunch for our share, permitting him to keep all the rest." Irving had one or two experiences with the Indians which were not altogether pleasant at the time, but which afterward appeared very amusing. On one occasion he went with another young man to a small island in a river, where he hoped to be able to hire a boat to take the party to a place some distance farther down the stream. They found there a wigwam in which were a number of Indians, both men and women; but the Indian they were looking for was away selling furs. He soon came in, with his squaw, who was rather a pretty woman. Both he and she had been drinking. While the other young man was trying to explain their business, the Indian woman sat down beside Irving, and in her half drunken way began to pay him great attention. The husband, a tall, strapping Hercules of an Indian, sat scowling at them with his blanket drawn up to his chin, and his face between his hands, while his elbows rested on his knees. But soon the Indian could no longer endure the flirtation his wife was carrying on with Irving. He rushed upon him, calling him a "cursed Yankee," and gave him a blow which stretched him on the floor. While Irving was picking himself up and getting out of the way, his friend went to the Indian and tried to quiet him. By this time the feelings of the drunken redman had quite changed. He fell on the young man's neck, exchanged names with him after the Indian fashion, and declared that they would be sworn friends and brothers as long as they lived. Irving hastened to get into his boat, and he and his companion made off as quickly as possible, having no wish for any further intercourse with drunken Indians. CHAPTER IV IRVING GOES TO EUROPE Irving's health was by no means good, and his friends were so alarmed that when he was twenty-one they planned a trip to Europe for him. As he stepped on board the boat that was to take him, the captain eyed him from head to foot and remarked to himself, "There's a chap who will go overboard before we get across." To the surprise of the captain and other passengers, however, he did not die, but got much better. He disembarked at Bordeaux, in France, and joining a merry company, traveled with them in a kind of stagecoach called a diligence. Among the company were a jolly little Pennsylvania doctor, and a French officer going home to see his mother. In one of the little French towns where they stopped they had an amusing experience, which Irving has described in his journal. "In one of our strolls in the town of Tonneins," says he, "we entered a house where a number of girls were quilting. They gave me a needle and set me to work. My bad French seemed to give them much amusement. They asked me several questions; as I could not understand them I made them any answer that came into my head, which caused a great deal of laughter amongst them. "At last the little doctor told them that I was an English prisoner, whom the young French officer (who was with us) had in custody. Their merriment immediately gave place to pity. "'Ah, the poor fellow!' said one to another, 'he is merry, however, in all his trouble,' "'And what will they do with him?' said a young woman to the traveler. "'Oh, nothing of consequence,' replied he; 'perhaps shoot him or cut off his head.' "The honest souls seemed quite distressed for me, and when I mentioned that I was thirsty, a bottle of wine was immediately placed before me, nor could I prevail on them to take a recompense. In short, I departed, loaded with their good wishes and benedictions, and I suppose I furnished a theme of conversation throughout the village." Years afterward, when Mr. Irving was minister to Spain, he went some miles out of his way to visit this town. Says he: "As my carriage rattled through the quiet streets of Tonneins, and the postilion smacked his whip with the French love of racket, I looked out for the house where, forty years before, I had seen the quilting party. I believe I recognized the house; and I saw two or three old women, who might once have formed part of the merry group of girls; but I doubt whether they recognized in the stout, elderly gentleman, who thus rattled in his carriage through their streets, the pale young English prisoner of forty years since." * * * * * In this manner he wandered about for nearly two years. He visited Genoa, the birthplace of Columbus, and climbed Mount Vesuvius. He dined with Madame de Stael, the famous author of "Corinne." At Rome he met Washington Allston, the great American painter, then a young man not much older than he. They became good friends, and Allston afterward illustrated some of Irving's works. Irving was tempted to remain in Rome and become a painter like Allston. But he finally decided that he did not have any special talent for art, and went home to finish his study of law. CHAPTER V "SALMAGUNDI" Washington Irving returned to New York, quite restored to health; and there he soon became a social hero. Trips to Europe were so uncommon in those days that to have made one was a distinction in itself. Besides, Irving was now a polished young gentleman, very fond of amusement; and having become a lawyer with little to do, he made up his mind to enjoy himself. He and his brother Peter, with a number of young men about the same age, called themselves "the nine worthies," or the "lads of Kilkenny," and many a gay time they had together,--rather too gay, some people thought. One of their favorite resorts was an old family mansion, which had descended from a deceased uncle to one of the nine lads. It was on the banks of the Passaic river, about a mile from Newark, New Jersey. It was full of antique furniture, and the walls were adorned with old family portraits. The place was in charge of an old man and his wife and a negro boy, who were the sole occupants, except when the nine would sally forth from New York and enliven its solitudes with their madcap pranks and orgies. "'Who would have thought," said Irving at the age of sixty-three to another of those nine lads, "that we should ever have lived to be two such respectable old gentlemen!" About this time Irving and a friend named James K. Paulding proposed to start a paper, to be called "Salmagundi." It was an imitation of Addison's _Spectator_, and consisted of light, humorous essays, most of them making fun of the fads and fancies of New York life in those days. The numbers were published from a week to a month apart, and were continued for about a year. The young men had no idea of making money by the venture, for they were then well-to-do; but to their surprise it proved a great success, and the publisher is said to have made ten or fifteen thousand dollars out of it. He afterwards paid the editors four hundred dollars each. Irving now visited Philadelphia, Boston, and other places. He thought of trying for a government office, and was tempted into politics. His description of his experience is amusing enough. "Before the third day was expired, I was as deep in mud and politics as ever a moderate gentleman would wish to be; and I drank beer with the multitude; and I talked handbill-fashion with the demagogues, and I shook hands with the mob--whom my heart abhorreth. 'Tis true, for the two first days I maintained my coolness and indifference.... But the third day--ah! then came the tug of war. My patriotism all at once blazed forth, and I determined to save my country! O, my friend, I have been in such holes and corners; such filthy nooks, sweep offices, and oyster cellars!" He closes by saying that this saving one's country is such a sickening business that he wants no more of it. CHAPTER VI "DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER" On October 26, 1809, there appeared in the _New York Evening Post_ the following paragraph: "DISTRESSING. "Left his lodgings, some time since, and has not since been heard of, a small elderly gentleman, dressed in an old black coat and cocked hat, by the name of Knickerbocker. As there are some reasons for believing he is not entirely in his right mind, and as great anxiety is entertained about him, any information concerning him left either at the Columbian Hotel, Mulberry street, or at the office of this paper, will be thankfully received. "P.S. Printers of newspapers will be aiding the cause of humanity in giving an insertion to the above." Two weeks later a letter was printed in the _Evening Post_, signed "A Traveler," saying that such a gentleman as the one described had been seen a little above King's Bridge, north of New York, "resting himself by the side of the road." Ten days after this the following letter was printed: "_To the Editor of the Evening Post_: "Sir,--You have been good enough to publish in your paper a paragraph about Mr. Diedrich Knickerbocker, who was missing so strangely some time since; but a very curious kind of a written book has been found in his room, in his own handwriting. Now I wish to notice[+] him, if he is still alive, that if he does not return and pay off his bill for boarding and lodging, I shall have to dispose of his book to satisfy me for the same. [Footnote +: Legal term, meaning "to give notice to."] "I am, sir, your obedient servant, "Seth Handaside, "Landlord of the Independent Columbian Hotel, Mulberry Street." On November 28th there appeared in the advertising columns the announcement of "A History of New York," in two volumes, price three dollars. The advertisement says, "This work was found in the chamber of Mr. Diedrich Knickerbocker, the old gentleman whose sudden and mysterious disappearance has been noticed. It is published in order to discharge certain debts he has left behind." When the book was published the people took it up, expecting to find a grave and learned history of New York. It was dedicated to the New York Historical Society, and began with an account of the supposed author, Mr. Diedrich Knickerbocker. "He was a small, brisk-looking old gentleman, dressed in a rusty black coat, a pair of olive velvet breeches, and a small cocked hat. He had a few gray hairs plaited and clubbed behind.... The only piece of finery which he bore about him was a bright pair of square silver shoe-buckles." The landlord of the inn, who writes this description, adds: "My wife at once set him down for some eminent country schoolmaster." Imagine for yourself the astonishment, and then the amusement--in some cases even the anger--of those who read, to find a most ludicrous description of the old Dutch settlers of New York, the ancestors of the most aristocratic families of the metropolis of America. The people that laughed got the best of it, however, and the book was considered one of the popular successes of the day. The real author of this book was, of course, Washington Irving. When forty years later the book was to be included in his collected works he wrote an "Apology," in which he says, "When I find, after a lapse of nearly forty years, this haphazard production of my youth still cherished among them (the New Yorkers); when I find its very name become a 'household word,' and used to give the home stamp to everything recommended for popular acceptance, such as Knickerbocker societies, Knickerbocker insurance companies, Knickerbocker steamboats, Knickerbocker omnibuses, Knickerbocker bread, and Knickerbocker ice,--and when I find New Yorkers of Dutch descent priding themselves upon being 'genuine Knickerbockers,' I please myself with the persuasion that I have struck the right chord." CHAPTER VII A COMIC HISTORY OF NEW YORK "Knickerbocker's History of New York" was undertaken by Irving and his brother Peter as a parody on a book that had lately appeared, entitled "A Picture of New York." The two young men, one of whom had already proved himself something of an author, were so full of humor and the spirit of mischief that they must amuse themselves and their friends, and they thought this a good way of doing it. There was to be an introduction giving the history of New York from the foundation of the world, and the main body of the book was to consist of "notices of the customs, manners, and institutions of the city; written in a serio-comic vein, and treating local errors, follies, and abuses with good-humored satire." The introduction was not more than fairly begun when Peter Irving started for Europe, leaving the completion of the work to the younger brother. Washington decided to change the plan, and merely give a humorous history of the Dutch settlement of New York. Let us take a peep into this amusing history. First, here is the portrait of "that worthy and irrecoverable discoverer (as he has justly been called), Master Henry Hudson," who "set sail from Holland in a stout vessel called the Half-Moon, being employed by the Dutch East India Company to seek a northwest passage to China." "Henry (or as the Dutch historians call him, Hendrick) Hudson was a seafaring man of renown, who had learned to smoke tobacco under Sir Walter Raleigh, and is said to have been the first to introduce it into Holland, which gained him much popularity in that country, and caused him to find great favor in the eyes of their High Mightinesses, the Lords States General, and also of the honorable East India Company. He was a short, square, brawny old gentleman, with a double chin, a mastiff mouth, and a broad copper nose, which was supposed in those days to have acquired its fiery hue from the constant neighborhood of his tobacco pipe. "He wore a commodore's cocked hat on one side of his head. He was remarkable for always jerking up his breeches when he gave out his orders, and his voice sounded not unlike the brattling of a tin trumpet--owing to the number of hard northwesters which he had swallowed in the course of his seafaring. "Such was Hendrick Hudson, of whom we have heard so much and know so little." You must read in the history itself the amusing account of Ten Breeches and Tough Breeches. One of the Dutch colonists bought of the Indians for sixty guelders as much land as could be covered by a man's breeches. When the time for measuring came Mr. Ten Breeches was produced, and peeling off one pair of breeches after another, soon produced enough material to surround the entire island of Manhattan, which was thus bought for sixty guelders, or Dutch dollars. In due time came the first Dutch governor, Wouter Van Twiller. Governor Van Twiller was five feet six inches in height, and six feet five inches in circumference, his figure "the very model of majesty and lordly grandeur." On the very morning after he had entered upon his office, he gave an example of his great legal knowledge and wise judgment. As the governor sat at breakfast an important old burgher came in to complain that Barent Bleecker refused to settle accounts, which was very annoying, as there was a heavy balance in the complainant's favor. "Governor Van Twiller, as I have already observed, was a man of few words; he was likewise a mortal enemy to multiplying writings--or being disturbed at his breakfast. Having listened attentively to the statement of Wandle Schoonhoven, giving an occasional grunt, as he shoveled a spoonful of Indian pudding into his mouth,--either as a sign that he relished the dish or comprehended the story,--he called unto him his constable, and pulling out of his breeches pocket a huge jack-knife, dispatched it after the defendant as a summons, accompanied by his tobacco-box as a warrant." When the account books were before him, "the sage Wouter took them one after the other, and having poised them in his hands, and attentively counted over the number of leaves, fell straightway into a great doubt, and smoked for half an hour without saying a word; at length, laying his finger beside his nose, and shutting his eyes for a moment, with the air of a man who had just caught a subtle idea by the tail, he slowly took his pipe from his mouth, puffed forth a column of tobacco smoke, and with marvelous gravity and solemnity pronounced, that, having carefully counted over the leaves and weighed the books, it was found that one was just as thick and heavy as the other; therefore, it was the final opinion of the court that the accounts were equally balanced; therefore, Wandle should give Barent a receipt, and Barent should give Wandle a receipt, and the constable should pay the costs." It is not wonderful that this was the first and last lawsuit during his administration, and that no one was found who cared to hold the office of constable. This is only one of scores of droll stories to be found in this most interesting "history." CHAPTER VIII FIVE UNEVENTFUL YEARS It seems strange that the success of the "History of New York" did not make Irving a professional man of letters at once. The profits on the first edition were three thousand dollars, and several other editions were to follow steadily. But though he wished to be a literary man, and now knew that he might make a fair living by his writings, there was still lacking the force to compel him to work. He had always lived in easy circumstances, doing as he liked, enjoying society, and amusing himself, and it was hard for him to devote his attention strictly to any set task. He applied for a clerkship at Albany, but failed to get it. Then his brothers, with whom he must have been a great favorite, as he was the youngest of the family, arranged a mercantile business in which he was to be a partner. Peter was to buy goods in England and ship them to New York, while Ebenezer was to sell them. Washington was to be a silent partner, and enjoy one fifth of the profits. At first he objected to taking no active part in the business; but his brothers persuaded him that this was his chance to become independent and have his entire time for literary work. But five years passed away and little was accomplished. This covered the period of the War of 1812. At first Irving was opposed to the war; but when he heard the news of the burning of Washington his patriotism blazed forth. "He was descending the Hudson in the steamboat when the tidings first reached him," says his nephew in the biography which he wrote. "It was night and the passengers had betaken themselves to their settees to rest, when a person came on board at Poughkeepsie with the news of the inglorious triumph, and proceeded in the darkness of the cabin to relate the particulars: the destruction of the president's house, the treasury, war, and navy offices, the capitol, the depository of the national library and the public records. There was a momentary pause after the speaker had ceased, when some paltry spirit lifted his head from his settee, and in a tone of complacent derision, 'wondered what _Jimmy_ Madison would say now.' 'Sir,' said Mr. Irving, glad of an escape to his swelling indignation, 'do you seize on such a disaster only for a sneer? Let me tell you, sir, it is not now a question about _Jimmy_ Madison or _Jimmy_ Armstrong.[+] The pride and honor of the nation are wounded; the country is insulted and disgraced by this barbarous success, and every loyal citizen should feel the ignominy and be earnest to avenge it.' 'I could not see the fellow,' said Mr. Irving when he related the anecdote, 'but I let fly at him in the dark.'" [Footnote +: The Secretary of War.] As soon as he reached New York, Irving went to the governor and offered his services. He was immediately appointed military secretary and aide with the rank of colonel. His duties were neither difficult nor dangerous, and he enjoyed his position; but he was glad when the war came to an end the following year. When the War of 1812 was over, his friend Commodore Decatur invited him to accompany him on an expedition to the Mediterranean, the United States having declared war against the pirates of Algiers. Irving's trunks were put on board the _Guerriere_, but as the expedition was delayed on account of the escape of Napoleon from Elba, he had them again brought ashore, and finally gave up his plan of going with Decatur. His mind was set on visiting Europe, however, and he immediately took passage for Liverpool in another vessel. Little did he think that he was not to return for seventeen years. One of Irving's married sisters was living in Birmingham, and his brother Peter was in Liverpool managing the business in which he was a partner. Soon after Washington's arrival, however, Peter fell ill, and the younger brother was obliged to take charge of affairs. He found a great many bills to pay, and very little money with which to pay them. He was now beginning to face some of the stern realities of life. He worked hard; but the black cloud of ruin came nearer and nearer. Other difficulties were added to those they already had to face, and finally, in 1818, the brothers were obliged to go into bankruptcy. It was now absolutely necessary that Irving should earn his living in some way. His brothers procured him an appointment at Washington; but to their astonishment he declined it and said he had made up his mind to live by his pen. He immediately went to London and set to work on the "Sketch Book," and during the next dozen years wrote the greater number of his more famous works. CHAPTER IX FRIENDSHIP WITH SIR WALTER SCOTT While he was worrying over the failure of his business, Irving was fortunate enough to make some distinguished literary friendships. He had already helped to introduce Thomas Campbell's works in the United States, and had written a biography of Campbell; one of the first things he did, therefore, after reaching Liverpool, was to go to see the English poet. It was not until a little later that he became acquainted with Sir Walter Scott, who was the literary giant of those times. In 1813 Henry Brevoort, one of Irving's most intimate boyhood friends, had presented to Scott a copy of the "History of New York," and Scott had written a letter of thanks in which he said, "I have been employed these few evenings in reading the annals of Diedrich Knickerbocker aloud to Mrs. S, and two ladies who are our guests, and our sides have been absolutely sore with laughing. I think, too, there are passages which indicate that the author possesses powers of a different kind." Irving, too, had been a great admirer of Scott's "Lady of the Lake." Campbell gave him a letter of introduction to the bard, and in a letter to his brother, Irving gives a delightful description of his visit to Abbotsford, Scott's home. "On Saturday morning early," says he, "I took a chaise for Melrose; and on the way stopped at the gate of Abbotsford, and sent in my letter of introduction, with a request to know whether it would be agreeable for Mr. Scott to receive a visit from me in the course of the day. The glorious old minstrel himself came limping to the gate, and took me by the hand in a way that made me feel as if we were old friends; in a moment I was seated at his hospitable board among his charming little family, and here I have been ever since.... I cannot tell you how truly I have enjoyed the hours I have passed here. They fly by too quickly, yet each is loaded with story, incident, or song; and when I consider the world of ideas, images, and impressions that have been crowded upon my mind since I have been here, it seems incredible that I should only have been two days at Abbotsford." And here is Scott's impression of Irving: "When you see Tom Campbell," he writes to a friend, "tell him, with my best love, that I have to thank him for making me known to Mr. Washington Irving, who is one of the best and pleasantest acquaintances I have made this many a day." When the "Sketch Book" was coming out in the United States, and Irving was thinking of publishing it in England, he received some advice and assistance from Scott; and finally Scott persuaded the great English publisher Murray to take it up, even after that publisher had once declined it. On this occasion Irving wrote to a friend as follows: "He (Scott) is a man that, if you knew, you would love; a right honest-hearted, generous-spirited being; without vanity, affectation, or assumption of any kind. He enters into every passing scene or passing pleasure with the interest and simple enjoyment of a child." CHAPTER X "RIP VAN WINKLE" Irving's most famous work is undoubtedly the "Sketch Book"; and of the thirty-two stories and essays in this volume, all Americans love best "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and "Rip Van Winkle." After the failure of his business, when Irving saw that he must write something at once to meet his ordinary living expenses, he went up to London and prepared several sketches, which he sent to his friend, Henry Brevoort, in New York. Among them was the story of Rip Van Winkle. This, with the other sketches, was printed in handsome form as the first number of a periodical, which was offered for sale at seventy-five cents. Though "The Sketch Book," as the periodical was called, professed to be edited by "Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.," every one knew that Washington Irving was the real author. In fact, the best story in the first number, "Rip Van Winkle," was represented to be a posthumous writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker, the author of the "History of New York." There are few Americans who do not know the story of "Rip Van Winkle" by heart; for those who have not read the story, have at least seen the play in which Joseph Jefferson, the great actor, has made himself so famous. Attached to the story is a note supposed to have been written by Diedrich Knickerbocker, which a careless reader might overlook, but which is an excellent introduction to the story. Says he: "The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this in the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when I last saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject, taken before a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt." Rip was truly an original character. He had a shrewish wife who was always scolding him; and he seems to have deserved all the cross things she said to him, for he had "an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor--in other words, he was as lazy a fellow as you could find in all the country side." Nevertheless, every one liked him, he was so good-natured. "He was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who took his part in all the family squabbles; and never failed whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood." You can't find much fault with a man who is so well liked that even the dogs will not bark at him. You are reminded of Irving himself, who for so many years was so idle; and yet who, out of his very idleness, produced such charming stories. "Rip Van Winkle," continues the narrative, "was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family." This description is as perfect and as delightful as any in the English language. Any one who cannot enjoy this has no perception of human nature, and no love of humor in his composition. In time Rip discovered that his only escape from his termagant wife was to take his gun, and stroll off into the woods with his dog. "Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow sufferer in persecution. 'Poor Wolf,' he would say, 'thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!' Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully into his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated with all his heart." Rip is just the sort of fellow to have some sort of adventure, and we are not at all astonished when we find him helping the dwarf carry his keg of liquor up the mountain. The description of "the odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins" whom he finds on entering the amphitheater, is a perfect picture in words; for the truly great writer is a painter of pictures quite as much as the great artist. "They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them.... What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder." But now comes a surprise. Rip indulges too freely in the contents of the keg and falls asleep. When he wakes he finds a rusty old gun beside him, and he whistles in vain for his dog. He goes back to the village; but every thing and everybody is strange and changed. Putting his hand to his chin he finds that his beard has grown a foot. He has been sleeping twenty years. But you must read the story for yourselves. It will bear reading many times, and each time you will find in it something to smile at and enjoy. CHAPTER XI LITERARY SUCCESS IN ENGLAND "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" also purports to be written by Diedrich Knickerbocker, and it is only less famous than "Rip Van Winkle." When he was a boy, Irving had gone hunting in Sleepy Hollow, which is not far from New York city; and in the latter part of his life he bought a low stone house there of Mr. Van Tassel and fitted it up for his bachelor home. "The outline of this story," says his nephew Pierre Irving, "had been sketched more than a year before[+] at Birmingham, after a conversation with his brother-in-law, Van Wart, who had been dwelling on some recollections of his early years at Tarrytown, and had touched upon a waggish fiction of one Brom Bones, a wild blade, who professed to fear nothing, and boasted of his having once met the devil on a return from a nocturnal frolic, and run a race with him for a bowl of milk punch. The imagination of the author suddenly kindled over the recital, and in a few hours he had scribbled off the framework of his renowned story, and was reading it to his sister and her husband. He then threw it by until he went up to London, where it was expanded into the present legend." [Footnote +: That is, before it was finally written and published.] No sooner had the first number of the "Sketch Book," as published in New York, come to England, than a periodical began reprinting it, and Irving heard that a publisher intended to bring it out in book form. That made him decide to publish it in England himself, and he did so at his own expense. The publisher soon failed, and by Scott's help, as already explained, Irving got his book into the hands of Murray. Murray finally gave him a thousand dollars for the copyright. But when it was published, it proved so very popular that Murray paid him five hundred more. From that time forward he received large sums for his writings, both in the United States and in England. The "Sketch Book" was followed by "Bracebridge Hall," consisting of stories and sketches of the same character; and later by the "Tales of a Traveller." In the "Tales of a Traveller" we are most interested in "Buckthorne and his Friends," a series of English stories, with descriptions of literary life in London. Most famous of all is the account of a publishers' dinner, with a description of the carving partner sitting gravely at one end, with never a smile on his face, while at the other end of the table sits the laughing partner; and the poor authors are arranged at the table and are treated by the partners according to the number of editions their books have sold. Irving's father was a Scotchman, and his mother was an Englishwoman; and one of his sisters and one of his brothers, as we have already learned, lived in England for many years. It is not strange, then, that England became to him a second home, and that many of his best stories and descriptions in the "Sketch Book," "Bracebridge Hall," and the "Tales of a Traveller" relate to English characters and scenes. CHAPTER XII IRVING GOES TO SPAIN When Irving went to Liverpool in 1815, it was his intention to travel on the continent of Europe. As we have seen, business reasons made that impossible. But after the publication and success of the "Sketch Book" he was free. He was now certain of an income, and his reputation was so great that he attracted notice wherever he went. In 1820, after having spent five years in England, he at last set out on his European journey. We cannot follow him in all his wanderings; but one country that he visited furnished him the materials for the most serious, and in one way the most important part of his literary work. This was Spain. Here he spent a great deal of time, returning again and again; and finally he was appointed United States minister to that country. He first went to Spain to collect materials for the "Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus." This was a much more serious work than anything he had before undertaken. It was, unlike the history of New York, a genuine investigation of facts derived from the musty old volumes of the libraries of Spanish monasteries and other ancient collections. It was a record of the life of the discoverer of America that was destined to remain the highest authority on that subject. Murray, the London publisher, paid him over fifteen thousand dollars for the English copyright alone. In his study among the ruins of Spain, Irving found many other things which greatly interested him--legends, and tales of the Moors who had once ruled there, and of the ruined beauties of the Moorish palace of the Alhambra. His imagination was set on fire, he was delighted with the images of by-gone days of glittering pageantry which his fancy called up. Before his history of Columbus was finished, he began the writing of a book so precisely to his taste that he could not restrain himself until it was finished. This was the "Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada"--a true history, but one which reads more like a romance of the Middle Ages than a simple record of facts. This was followed by four other books based on Spanish history and legend. It seemed as if Irving could never quite abandon this entrancing subject, for during the entire remainder of his life he went back to it constantly. When his great history of the life of Columbus was published and proved its merit, Irving was honored in a way he had little expected in his more idle days. The Royal Society of Literature bestowed upon him one of two fifty-guinea[+] gold medals awarded annually, and the University of Oxford conferred the degree of L.L.D. [Footnote +: Two hundred and fifty dollars.] The "Life of Columbus" was followed in 1831 by the "Voyages of the Companions of Columbus." In the following year Irving returned to the United States after an absence of seventeen years. He was no longer an idle young man unable to fix his mind on any serious work; he had become the most famous of American men of letters. When he reached New York his countrymen hastened to heap honors upon him, and almost overwhelmed him with public attentions. CHAPTER XIII "THE ALHAMBRA" Just before Irving's return to the United States in 1832, he prepared for publication some sketches which he had made three or four years before while living for a few months in the ruins of the Alhambra, the ancient palace of the Moorish kings when they ruled the kingdom of Granada. Next to the stories of "Rip Van Winkle" and the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow," nothing that Irving has written has proved more popular than this volume of "The Alhambra;" and it has made the ancient ruin a place of pilgrimage for tourists in Europe ever since. In this volume Irving not only describes in his own peculiarly charming manner his experiences in the halls of the Alhambra itself, but he gives many of the stories and legends of the place, most of which were told to him by Mateo Ximenes, a "son of the Alhambra," who acted as his guide. This is the way he came to secure Mateo's services: "At the gate were two or three ragged, super-annuated soldiers, dozing on a stone bench, the successors of the Zegris and the Abencerrages; while a tall, meagre valet, whose rusty-brown cloak was evidently intended to conceal the ragged state of his nether garments, was lounging in the sunshine and gossipping with the ancient sentinel on duty. He joined us as we entered the gate, and offered his services to show us the fortress. "I have a traveler's dislike to officious ciceroni, and did not altogether like the garb of the applicant. "'You are well acquainted with the place, I presume?' "'Nobody better; in fact, sir, I am a son of the Alhambra.' "'The common Spaniards have certainly a most poetical way of expressing themselves. 'A son of the Alhambra!' the appellation caught me at once; the very tattered garb of my new acquaintance assumed a dignity in my eyes. It was emblematic of the fortunes of the place, and befitted the progeny of a ruin." Accompanied by Mateo, the travelers pass on to "the great vestibule, or porch of the gate," which "is formed by an immense Arabian arch, of the horseshoe form, which springs to half the height of the tower. On the keystone of this arch, is engraven a gigantic hand. Within the vestibule, on the keystone of the portal, is sculptured, in like manner, a gigantic key," emblems, say the learned, of Moorish superstition and religious belief. "A different explanation of these emblems, however, was given by the legitimate son of Alhambra, and one more in unison with the notions of the common people, who attach something of mystery and magic to everything Moorish, and have all kinds of superstitions connected with this old Moslem fortress. According to Mateo, it was a tradition handed down from the oldest inhabitants, and which he had from his father and grandfather, that the hand and key were magical devices on which the fate of the Alhambra depended. The Moorish king who built it was a great magician, or, as some believed, had sold himself to the devil, and had laid the whole fortress under a magic spell. By this means it had remained standing for several years, in defiance of storms and earthquakes, while almost all other buildings of the Moors had fallen to ruin and disappeared. This spell, the tradition went on to say, would last until the hand on the outer arch should reach down and grasp the key, when the whole pile would tumble to pieces, and all the treasures buried beneath it by the Moors would be revealed." The travelers at once made application to the governor for permission to take up their residence in the palace of the Alhambra, and to their astonishment and delight he placed his own suite of apartments at their disposal, as he himself preferred to live in the city of Granada. Irving's companion soon left him, and he remained sole lord of the palace. For a time he occupied the governor's rooms, which were very scantily furnished; but one day he came upon an eerie suite of rooms which he liked better. They were the rooms that had been fitted up for the beautiful Elizabetta of Farnese, the second wife of Philip V. "The windows, dismantled and open to the wind and weather, looked into a charming little secluded garden, where an alabaster fountain sparkled among roses and myrtles, and was surrounded by orange and citron trees, some of which flung their branches into the chambers." This was the garden of Lindaraxa. "Four centuries had elapsed since the fair Lindaraxa passed away, yet how much of the fragile beauty of the scenes she inhabited remained! The garden still bloomed in which she delighted; the fountain still presented the crystal mirror in which her charms may once have been reflected; the alabaster, it is true, had lost its whiteness; the basin beneath, overrun with weeds, had become the lurking-place of the lizard, but there was something in the very decay that enhanced the interest of the scene, speaking as it did of the mutability, the irrevocable lot of man and all his works." In spite of warnings of the dangers of the place, Irving had his bed set up in the chamber beside this little garden. The first night was full of frightful terrors. The garden was dark and sinister. "There was a slight rustling noise overhead; a bat suddenly emerged from a broken panel of the ceiling, flitting about the room and athwart my solitary lamp; and as the fateful bird almost flouted my face with his noiseless wing, the grotesque faces carved in high relief in the cedar ceiling, whence he had emerged, seemed to mope and mow at me. "Rousing myself, and half smiling at this temporary weakness, I resolved to brave it out in the true spirit of the hero of the enchanted house," says the narrator. So taking his lamp in his hand he started out to make a midnight tour of the palace. "My own shadow, cast upon the wall, began to disturb me," he continues. "The echoes of my own footsteps along the corridors made me pause and look around. I was traversing scenes fraught with dismal recollections. One dark passage led down to the mosque where Yusef, the Moorish monarch, the finisher of the Alhambra, had been basely murdered. In another place I trod the gallery where another monarch had been struck down by the poniard of a relative whom he had thwarted in his love." In a few nights, however, all this was changed; for the moon, which had been invisible, began to "roll in full splendor above the towers, pouring a flood of tempered light into every court and hall." Says Irving, "I now felt the merit of the Arabic inscription on the walls--'How beauteous is this garden; where the flowers of the earth vie with the stars of heaven. What can compare with the vase of yon alabaster fountain filled with crystal water? Nothing but the moon in her fullness, shining in the midst of an unclouded sky!" "On such heavenly nights," he goes on, "I would sit for hours at my window inhaling the sweetness of the garden, and musing on the checkered fortunes of those whose history was dimly shadowed out in the elegant memorials around. Sometimes, when all was quiet, and the clock from the distant cathedral of Granada struck the midnight hour, I have sallied out on another tour and wandered over the whole building; but how different from my first tour! No longer dark and mysterious; no longer peopled with shadowy foes; no longer recalling scenes of violence and murder; all was open, spacious, beautiful; everything called up pleasing and romantic fancies; Lindaraxa once more walked in her garden; the gay chivalry of Moslem Granada once more glittered about the Court of Lions! "Who can do justice to a moonlight night in such a climate and in such a place? The temperature of a summer night in Andalusia is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted up into an ethereal atmosphere; we feel a serenity of soul, a buoyancy of spirits, an elasticity of frame, which render mere existence happiness. But when moonlight is added to all this, the effect is like enchantment. Under its plastic sway the Alhambra seems to regain its pristine glories. Every rent and chasm of time; every moldering tint and weather-stain is gone; the marble resumes its original whiteness; the long colonnades brighten in the moonbeams; the halls are illuminated with a softened radiance--we tread the enchanted palace of an Arabian tale!" When one may journey with such a companion, through a whole volume of enchantment and legend and moonlight, it is not strange that "The Alhambra" has been one of the most widely read books ever produced by an American writer. CHAPTER XIV THE LAST YEARS OF IRVING'S LIFE Some people have thought that Irving's long residence abroad indicated that he did not care so much as he should for his native land. But the truth is, the years after his return to the United States were among the happiest of his life; and more and more he felt that here was his home. In 1835 he purchased, as I have already said, a small piece of land on the Hudson, on which stood the Van Tassel house mentioned in the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow." It was an old Dutch cottage which had stood for so many years that it needed to be almost entirely rebuilt; and Irving spent a considerable sum of money to fit it up as his bachelor quarters. First he shared it with one of his bachelor brothers; but soon he invited his brother Ebenezer to come with his family of girls to occupy it with him. As the years went on, Irving took a delight in this cottage that can hardly be expressed. At first he called it "Wolfert's Roost"; afterward the name was changed to "Sunnyside," the name by which it is still known. Little by little he bought more land, he planted trees, and cultivated flowers and vegetables. At one time he boasts that he has become so proficient in gardening that he can raise his own fruits and vegetables at a cost to him of little more than twice the market price. During this period several books were published, among them a description of a tour on the prairies which he took soon after his return from abroad; a collection of "Legends of the Conquest of Spain" which had been lying in his trunk since his residence in the Alhambra seven or eight years before; and "Astoria," a book of Western life and adventure, describing John Jacob Astor's settlement on the Columbia river. It was his wish to write a history of the conquest of Mexico, for which he had collected materials in Spain; but hearing that Prescott, the well-known American historian, was at work on the same subject, he gave it up to him. The chief work of his later years was his "Life of George Washington." This was a great undertaking, of which he had often thought. He was actually at work on it for many years, and it was finally published only a short time before his death in 1859. Irving's friends in the United States had long wished to give him some honor or distinction. He had been offered several public offices, among them the secretaryship of the navy; but he had declined them all. But in 1842, when Daniel Webster was secretary of state, Irving was nominated minister to Spain. It was Webster's idea, and he took great delight in carrying out his plan. After the notification of his nomination had been sent to Irving, and Webster thought time enough had elapsed for him to receive it, he remarked to a friend: "Washington Irving is now the most astonished man in the city of New York." When Irving heard the news he seemed to think less of the distinction conferred upon him than of the unhappiness of being once more banished from his home. "It is hard--very hard," he murmured, half to himself; "yet," he added, whimsically enough (says his nephew), being struck with the seeming absurdity of such a view, "I must try to bear it. _God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb_." Later, however, Irving speaks of this as the "crowning honor of his life." He remained abroad four years, when he sent in his resignation, and hurried home to spend his last years at Sunnyside. His first thought was to build an addition to his cottage, in order to have room for all his nieces and nephews. His enjoyment in every detail of the work was almost that of a boy. Though now an old man, he seemed as sunny and as gay as ever. Every one who knew him loved him; and all the people who now read his books must have the same affectionate fondness for this most delightful of companions. In the United States he met both Dickens and Thackeray. His friendship with Dickens was begun by a letter which Irving wrote to the great novelist, enthusiastically praising his work. At once Dickens replied in a long letter, fairly bubbling over with delight and friendship. Here is a part of it: "There is no man in the world who could have given me the heartfelt pleasure you have. There is no living writer, and there are very few among the dead, whose approbation I should feel so proud to earn. And with everything you have written upon my shelves, and in my thoughts, and in my heart of hearts, I may honestly and truly say so. "I have been so accustomed to associate you with my pleasantest and happiest thoughts, and with my leisure hours, that I rush at once into full confidence with you, and fall, as it were, naturally, and by the very laws of gravity, into your open arms.... My dear Washington Irving, I cannot thank you enough for your cordial and generous praise, or tell you what deep and lasting gratification it has given me. I hope to have many letters from you, and to exchange a frequent correspondence. I send this to say so.... "Always your faithful friend, "CHARLES DICKENS." The warmth of feeling which Dickens displays on receiving his first letter from Irving, we must all feel when we have become as well acquainted with Irving's works as Dickens was. Washington Irving died on the 28th of November, 1859, at his dear Sunnyside, and now lies buried in a cemetery upon a hill near by, in a beautiful spot overlooking the Hudson river and Sleepy Hollow. * * * * * NOTE.--The thanks of the publishers are due to G. P. Putnam's Sons for kind permission to use extracts from the Works of Washington Irving. THE STORY OF EDGAR ALLAN POE [Illustration: _EDGAR ALLAN POE_.] EDGAR ALLAN POE CHAPTER I THE ARTIST IN WORDS Who has not felt the weird fascination of Poe's strangely beautiful poem "The Raven"? Perhaps on some stormy evening you have read it until the "silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain" has "thrilled you, filled you, with fantastic terrors never felt before." That poem is the almost perfect mirror of the life of the man who wrote it--the most brilliant poetic genius in the whole range of American literature, the most unfortunate and unhappy. Poe had a singular fate. When Longfellow and Bryant and Lowell and Holmes were winning their way to fame quietly and steadily, Poe was writing wonderful poems and wonderful stories, and more than that, he was inventing new principles and new artistic methods, on which other great writers in time to come should build their finest work; yet he barely escaped starvation, and the critics made it appear that, compared with such men as Longfellow and Bryant, he was more notorious than really great. Lowell in his "Fable for Critics" said: "There comes Poe,... three fifths of him genius, and two fifths sheer fudge." But now, fifty years after his death, we see how great a man Poe was. Poe invented the modern art of short story writing. His tales were translated into French by a famous writer named Charles Baudelaire. Other French writers saw how fine they were and modeled their work upon them. They learned the art of short story writing from Poe. Then these French stories were translated into English, and English and American writers have imitated them and adopted similar methods of writing. Conan Doyle's detective stories would probably never have been written had not Poe first composed "The Murders in the Rue Morgue"; and the stories of horror and fear so common to-day are possible because Poe wrote "William Wilson," "The Black Cat," and other stories of the same kind. Have you ever learned to scan poetry? If you have, you know that the rules which tell you that a foot is composed of one long syllable and one short one, two short syllables and one long one, or whatever else it may be, are frequently disregarded. You know, too, that some lines are cut off short at the end, and others are made a little too long. Why is this permitted? In his "Rationale of Verse," Poe explained all these things, and showed how the learned of past ages had made mistakes. In a subsequent chapter we shall see just what the relation between music and poetry is, and what Poe taught about the art of making poetry. For years people thought that Poe's "The Philosophy of Composition," in which he tells in what a cold-blooded way he wrote "The Raven," was a joke; but in later times we have learned to understand what he meant and to know that he was very sensible in his methods of working. When Poe was young he was not a very remarkable poet; but, as years went on and he learned more and more the art of writing, he rewrote and rewrote his verses until at last in conscious art he was almost, if not quite, the master poet of America. CHAPTER II POE'S FATHER AND MOTHER Edgar Allan Poe was descended on his father's side from a Revolutionary hero, General David Poe. The Poes were a good family of Baltimore, where many of them still live as prominent citizens. It is said that General Poe was descended from one of Cromwell's officers, who received grants of land in Ireland. One of the poet's ancestors, John Poe, emigrated from Ireland to Pennsylvania; and from there the Poes went to Maryland. General Poe was an ardent patriot both before and during the Revolution. General Poe's son David, the eldest, was not much like his father. In Baltimore he enjoyed himself with his friends and played at amateur theatricals with the Thespian Club. He was supposed to be studying law. For this purpose he went to live with an uncle in Augusta, Georgia; but his father soon heard that he had given up law to become an actor. General Poe was very angry and after that allowed the young man to shift for himself. Edgar Allan Poe's mother was an English actress, whose mother had also been an actress. She was born at sea, and as she went with her mother on her travels from town to town, naturally the daughter learned the mother's art as a means of self-support, and in time became very successful. At seventeen, her mother having married again, Elizabeth Arnold, for that was her name, was thrown upon her own resources. She joined a Philadelphia company, and remained with it for the next four years. In June, 1802, she acted in Baltimore, and perhaps it was there that David Poe, Jr., first saw her. She was pretty and gay, yet a good girl and a very fine actress. She soon married a young Mr. Hopkins, who had been playing with the company, and for the following two years the young couple lived in Virginia. It was then that David Poe, Jr., having left his uncle's home at Augusta and gone on the stage in Charleston, joined the same company. He was not a very good actor; and he never rose to a high place in his profession. In the following year Mr. Hopkins died, and a few months later young David Poe married Mrs. Hopkins, who had been Elizabeth Arnold. Mr. and Mrs. David Poe were now husband and wife, and very poor, as most actors are. Soon after their marriage they went to Boston, and remained for some years. There Edgar Poe, their second son, was born, January 19, 1809. While Edgar was still a little child his parents went to Richmond, Virginia, to fill an engagement in the theater there. Misfortune followed them. His father died in poverty, and his mother did not survive him long. Edgar and his brother and sister were thus left penniless orphans. But good friends took care of them. Edgar was adopted by a Mrs. Allan, the wife of a wealthy man in the city of Richmond. She was very fond of the bright little boy, and as long as she lived he had a good home. He was petted and spoiled; but those were almost the only years of his life when he had plenty of money. He was very fond of his adoptive mother, and held her memory dear to the day of his death. He was now known as Edgar Allan. CHAPTER III YOUNG EDGAR ALLAN Edgar was a beautiful child, with dark eyes, curly dark hair, and lively manners. At six he could read, draw, and dance. After dessert, sometimes they would put him up on the old-fashioned table, where he would make amusement for the company. He could speak pieces, too, and did it so well that people were astonished. He understood how to emphasize his words correctly. He had a pony and dogs, with which he ran about; and everywhere he was a great favorite. In June, 1815, when Edgar was about six years old, his adoptive father and mother, with an aunt, went to England to stay several years. Before starting, Mr. Allan bought a Murray's reader, two Murray's spelling books, and another book to keep the little fellow busy on the long sailing voyage across the Atlantic; for at that time a trip to England occupied several weeks instead of a few days as now. When the family reached London and were settled down, Edgar was sent to a famous English school. This school was at Stoke Newington, a quiet, old-fashioned country town, only a few miles out from London. Here was the house of Leicester, the favorite of Queen Elizabeth, whose story you may read in Scott's "Kenilworth"; and here too was the house of Anne Boleyn's ill-fated lover, Earl Percy. The Manor House School, as it was called, was in a quaint and very old building, with high walls about the grounds, and great spiked, iron-studded gates. Here the boys lived and studied, seldom returning home, and seldom going outside the grounds, except when they went with a teacher. In this strange school, Edgar Allan lived and studied for five years. The schoolroom was long, narrow, and low; it was ceiled with dark oak, and had Gothic windows. The desks were black and irregular, covered with the names and initials which the boys had cut with their jackknives. In the corners were what might be called boxes, where sat the masters--one of them Eugene Aram, the criminal made famous in one of Bulwer's romances. Back of the schoolroom, reached by winding, narrow passages, were the bedrooms, one of which Poe occupied. When the boys went out to walk they passed under the giant elms, amid which once lived Shakespeare's friend Essex, and they gazed up at the thick walls, deep windows, and doors massive with locks and bars, behind which the author of Robinson Crusoe wrote some of his famous works. Within the walls of this school a large number of boys had a little world all to themselves; they had their societies and their games and their tricks, along with hard work in Latin and French and mathematics; and though such work may seem monotonous and dreary, they managed to enjoy it. Poe has described his life here very carefully in his famous story of "William Wilson." "Oh, a fine time were those years of iron!" says he. The life produced a deep impression on his mind, and molded it for the strange, weird poetry and fiction which in later years he was to write. At last, in 1820, the Allans returned with Edgar to their home in Richmond, Virginia. The lad now added his own name to that of Edgar Allan, and became known as Edgar Allan Poe. He was at once sent to the English and Classical School of Joseph H. Clarke, where he prepared for college. He did not study very hard, but was bright and quick, and at one time stood at the head of his class with but one rival. He was a great athlete, too, being a good runner and jumper and boxer. He was a remarkable swimmer, and it is stated that he once swam six miles in the James River, against a strong tide in a hot sun, and then walked back without seeming in the least tired. He was slight in figure, but robust and tough, and was a very decided character among his classmates. He took part in the debating society, where he was prominent, and was known as a versifier of both love poems and satire. When Master Clarke retired, in 1823, Poe read an English ode addressed to the outgoing principal. One of his friends said of him at this time that he was "self-willed, capricious, inclined to be imperious, and though of generous impulses, not steadily kind, nor even amiable." Part of this temper on his part may have come from the fact that the aristocratic boys of the school hinted that his father and mother had not been of the best people. They knew, however, that Mr. Allan belonged to the best society; and it was chiefly Edgar's imperious manners that made some of them shun him. He had friends, however, and Mr. Allan gave him money liberally. It was at this time that he found and lost his first sympathetic friend. This was Mrs. Jane Stith Stanard, the mother of one of his younger schoolmates. When one day he went home with this friend, he met Mrs. Stanard, a lovely, gentle, and gracious woman, was thrilled by the tenderness of her tones and her sympathetic manner toward him, and immediately made her his boyhood friend and confidante. To his great grief, however, she died not very long afterward. When she was gone he visited her grave time after time, and in after years when he was unhappy he often thought and spoke of her. CHAPTER IV COLLEGE LIFE Poe left the English and Classical School in March, 1825, and spent the next few months in studying with a private tutor. On the 14th of February, 1826, he wrote his name and the place and date of his birth, in the matriculation book of the University of Virginia, the famous college founded by Jefferson and opened about a year before. Poe is described at this time as short, thickset, bowlegged, with the rapid and jerky gait of an English boy. His face, surrounded by dark curly hair, wore a grave, half-melancholy look; but it would light up expressively when he talked. He was a noted walker; and being the adopted child of a rich man, he dressed well and carried himself proudly. He studied Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, and Italian, and stood well in his classes. At the end of the year he went home with the highest honors in Latin and French. Before the term closed, however, Mr. Allan went up to investigate some stories of Poe's wildness that had reached him, and found that besides other debts, Poe owed two thousand dollars in "debts of honor"--that is, gambling debts. Mr. Allan paid all but the latter, and quietly determined that as soon as the term closed, Poe's college life should end. Poe was, however, a studious and well-behaved young man in the opinion of the professors, and he was never found guilty of any serious misconduct. He was fond of wandering over the Ragged Mountains, whither he went alone or with only a dog, and he delighted to fancy that he was the very first white person to penetrate some lonely glen or ravine. He was also something of an artist, and decorated his rooms with charcoal sketches. He and a classmate bought a volume of Byron with steel engravings in it. The next time his friend went to see Poe he found him copying one of these on the ceiling, and he continued this until he had covered the whole of the walls with figures that were said to be artistic and striking. CHAPTER V FORTUNE CHANGES At the age of eighteen there came a change in Poe's life. Until then he had been a petted child in a wealthy family. Mr. Allan did not have that affection for him which Mrs. Allan had. He did not understand the boy's peculiar and erratic nature, and was particularly displeased when he found that Edgar had run into debt at college. There was an angry scene between the two, and Edgar was told that he must leave the university and go into the counting-room. It appears that he made some attempt to tie himself down to figures and accounts and business routine; but as he had not been brought up to this kind of life, he soon tired of it, and decided to go into the world to seek his own fortune. He went to Boston, where he published a volume of poetry. In the preface to this volume, Poe says that the poems were written before he was fourteen. Though this may not be strictly true, there is little doubt that some of them were. While he was still at school he had collected enough of his poems to make a volume, and Mr. Allan had taken them up to the master of the English and Classical School to get his advice about publishing them. This gentleman advised against it on the ground that it would make Edgar conceited,--a fault from which he was already suffering. As soon as he was free to do as he pleased, therefore, it was natural that he should rewrite his poems and publish them. The volume was entitled "Tamerlane and Other Poems. By a Bostonian." It was published by a young printer named Calvin Thomas, and was a thin little book, not very attractive in appearance. Several of the pieces then published are now included in Poe's collected works, but they have been greatly changed. Naturally the poems of an obscure young man did not sell, and the volume was soon suppressed--Poe says "for private reasons." The "private reasons" were doubtless merely the fact that the book was a complete failure, and the young, proud poet was much ashamed that he could not sell even a dozen copies--possibly not even one. The little money Poe had was now spent, and he was obliged to do something to keep from starvation. The only chance he saw was to enlist in the army. He did so under the name of Edgar A. Perry, and the record of his service may be found in the War Department of our government at Washington. He was assigned to Battery H, First Artillery, and conducted himself so well that he was promoted from the ranks to be sergeant-major. From Boston the company was sent to Charleston, South Carolina, and a year later to Fortress Monroe, Virginia. From Fortress Monroe Poe wrote to Mr. Allan for the first time. He soon afterwards learned of the illness of Mrs. Allan, who died February 28, 1829. He got leave of absence to attend her funeral, and went to Richmond. Poe was such a bright young man that it seemed a pity for him to remain in the ranks, when he might become an officer; therefore it was suggested that he be sent to West Point. Mr. Allan agreed to help him; but it is said that, after the death of Mrs. Allan, he no longer entertained any affection for Edgar. In a letter to the Secretary of War, he said: "Frankly, sir, I do declare that he is no relation to me whatever; that I have many in whom I have taken an active interest to promote theirs; with no other feeling than that, every man is my care, if he be in distress. For myself I ask nothing, but I do request your kindness to aid this youth in the promotion of his future prospects." Poe did not like the life at West Point in the least, though he amused his mates by writing satirical verses about the professors. After a few months he asked to be discharged; but Mr. Allan would not consent. So Poe made up his mind that he would have himself expelled. He stayed away from parade, roll-call, and guard duty. As a court-martial was then in session, he was summoned before it. He denied the most flagrant charge against him; but this only made his case worse, and he was expelled from the academy. CHAPTER VI LIVING BY LITERATURE Once more the young poet found himself cast out on the world, without home or friends. He could hope for nothing more from Mr. Allan, after his disgrace at the military academy, and he had found out that army life was not so fine a refuge from starvation as he had thought it. He was a proud, melancholy young man, and in school and college had learned many bad habits. He had no trade nor practical knowledge of any kind of work, though he was quick and ingenious. He had studied the art of writing, and this alone offered him the means of earning a livelihood. How poor and precarious a chance it was, we shall see as we go on. While waiting for appointment to the Military Academy the preceding year, Poe had made acquaintance with his father's relatives in Baltimore. He formed some literary connections there, and had a volume of his poems published. It was entitled "Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems, by Edgar A. Poe." "Al Aaraaf" was a poem about a star that a great astronomer had seen blaze forth and then disappear. When he left West Point in April, 1831, nearly two years after the publication of his Baltimore volume, Poe was short of money; and to supply his needs his fellow-students subscribed for a new edition of his poems. For this, seventy-five cents was stopped out of the pay of each, and a publisher in New York agreed to issue the book in good style. The cadets thought his volume would contain the many funny squibs he had written on the professors; but they were disappointed. Poe next went to Baltimore. There he tried to get employment in vain. Friends helped him, but it was some time before he made his first literary success. It happened at last that a weekly paper called the _Saturday Visiter_ was started in Baltimore. To give the paper popularity, two prizes were offered, one of a hundred dollars for the best short story, and the other of fifty for the best poem. Poe tried for both. He had six short stories, which he copied in a neat little manuscript volume entitled "Tales of the Folio Club." The poem he sent was "The Coliseum." The judges were well-known gentlemen of the city of Baltimore, one of whom, John P. Kennedy, afterward became Poe's intimate friend. When they met they looked over several stories, which did not interest them very much. They then came to the "Tales of the Folio Club." One was read aloud, and the three gentlemen were so much interested that they kept on till they had read all, and at once decided to give the prize to one of these. They chose Poe's famous story "A MS. Found in a Bottle." Afterward they decided that his poem was the best submitted; but noticing that it was in the same handwriting as the stories, they thought it best to give the prize to another. When they made their report they greatly complimented the stories Poe had sent in, and said they should be published in a volume. We have said that one of the judges, Mr. Kennedy, became Poe's friend. To show how very poor Poe was, I copy this passage from Mr. Kennedy's diary: "It was many years ago that I found Poe in Baltimore in a state of starvation. I gave him clothing, free access to my table, and the use of a horse for exercise whenever he chose; in fact, I brought him up from the very verge of despair." Here, too, is an extract from a letter from Poe to Mr. Kennedy: "Your invitation to dinner has wounded me to the quick. I cannot come for reasons of the most humiliating nature--my personal appearance. You may imagine my mortification in making this disclosure to you, but it is necessary." Mr. Kennedy did all that a friend could do for the future poet and story-writer. Says Poe: "He has been at all times a true friend to me--he was the first true friend I ever had--I am indebted to him for _life itself_." Poe now contributed regularly to the _Saturday Visiter,_ its young editor, Lambert A. Wilmer, becoming his friend and constant companion. It is said that at this time he dressed very neatly, though inexpensively, "wore Byron collars and a black stock, and looked the poet all over." CHAPTER VII POE'S EARLY POETRY We have seen how persistently Poe clung to his poetry. Three times he published the little volume of his verses, revising, enlarging, and strengthening. In those days there was no market for poetic writing, and as Poe wrote in a strange, weird style, it is not remarkable that no one took any notice of the contents of his little volumes. It was his own opinion, however, that these early poems contained more real poetic imagination than his later successes, and it is perhaps as well that we should begin our study of Poe with some of the first fruits of his genius. First let us read that most pathetic of autobiographical poems, "Alone." With strange sincerity and directness the poet tells us how his spirit grew and learned the burden of its melancholy, yet scintillating song: From childhood's hour I have not been As others were,--I have not seen As others saw,--I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then--in my childhood--in the dawn Of a most stormy life was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold,-- From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by,-- From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. As a poem written in early youth we should not expect this to be as perfect as "The Raven," for instance. Let us see if we can find some of its faults, as well as some of its beauties: First, we notice that it ends rather abruptly, as if it were unfinished. In his essay on "The Poetic Principle" Poe pointed out that many a poem fails of its effect by being too short. It must not be so long that one is wearied out before it can be read through; at the same time it must be long enough to convey the whole of the idea. This poem of his own is an example of the fault he himself pointed out. It is too short to give us clear ideas of all he evidently had in his mind. We notice, also, that it is rhymed in couplets, that is, every two lines are rhymed together. Now the couplets in the last half of the poem seem to strike the ear with more satisfaction than those in the first part. For instance, we are pleased with the sound of these lines: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain. But in some of the lines the pauses of punctuation do not come at the right points to make smooth reading: From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, _I_ loved alone. The semicolon after "sorrow" should have come at the end of the line instead of in the middle. Poe had not yet learned the secret of the rhythmic flow which we find in such perfection in "The Bells," for instance. But in the last part of the poem we find a beauty of image and comparison that thrills us, and something of that strange, weird suggestiveness which was characteristic of all of Poe's poetry, the thing he has in common with no other poet. This weird suggestiveness is found in still greater vividness in another poem entitled "The Lake." In this, besides, we see how Poe had a sort of fascination for the horrible. Notice how he says: Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight. Here is the complete poem. The young student of poetry may study it for himself, and discover, if he can, its shortcomings, as we have pointed out the faults in the poem "Alone." In spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less,-- So lovely was the loveliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around. But when the night had thrown her pall Upon that spot as upon all, And the mystic wind went by Murmuring in melody,-- Then,--ah, then I would awake To the terror of the lone lake. Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight,-- A feeling not the jeweled mine Could teach or bribe me to define,-- Nor Love--although the Love were thine. Death was in that poisonous wave, And its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining,-- Whose solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake. These poems are chiefly interesting as they give us some idea of the nature of the young poet's mind. Poe had what may be called a scientific mind, infused through and through with poetry. At times he was exact, keen-minded, and patient as the scientist; then again he wandered away into mere fanciful suggestion of things that "never were on land or sea." His scientific turn we see in his detective stories; his poetic nature we see struggling against this intellectual exactness in the following sonnet: Science! True daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jeweled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree? CHAPTER VIII POE'S CHILD WIFE While Poe was in Baltimore, after he had begun to earn something by his pen, he went to live with his aunt, Mrs. Clemm. She was very poor, and whatever Poe earned went toward the support of the whole family, which included not only Poe and his aunt, but her young daughter Virginia, at this time only eleven years of age. Virginia was an exceedingly delicate and beautiful girl. She had dark hair and eyes, and a fine, transparent complexion. She was very modest and quiet; but she had a fine mind, and a very sweet and winning manner. She had also a poetic nature, and became an accomplished musician. Mrs. Clemm, on the other hand, was a large, coarsely formed woman, and it seemed impossible that she could be the mother of so delicate and graceful a girl. She was very faithful and hardworking, however, and sincerely devoted to Poe as well as to her daughter. She had the business ability to manage Poe's small income in the best way, and made for him a home that would have been extremely happy had it not been for poverty and other misfortunes. While Poe lived in Baltimore he would go out to walk nearly every day with the editor of the _Saturday Visiter_; but he sometimes walked alone or with Virginia. After a time the young poet and story-writer decided to go to Richmond, his early home. He had many friends there, who welcomed him back, and a good position was offered him. The _Southern Literary Messenger_ had been started by a Mr. White, and Poe was made assistant editor. He had become very much attached to Mrs. Clemm and Virginia while in Baltimore, and now wished to marry Virginia. She was but fourteen years of age,--indeed, not quite fourteen,--and Mrs. Clemm's friends thought the girl too young to marry. But Poe gained the mother's consent, and he and Virginia were united in May, 1836. Virginia was Poe's ideal of womanhood, and we find her figuring as the model for nearly all the heroines of his poems. In a letter after the death of both Virginia and her poet husband, Mrs. Clemm wrote, "She was an excellent linguist and a perfect musician, and she was very beautiful. How often has Eddie said, 'I see no one so beautiful as my sweet little wife.'" Poe undertook her education as soon as they were married, and was very proud of her brilliant accomplishments. As she was the source of his greatest happiness, her loss was the occasion of his greatest sorrow. A year after their marriage she burst a blood vessel while singing. The following extract from a letter of Poe's to a friend will explain how this misfortune affected him. "You say," he writes, "'Can you hint to me what was the terrible evil which caused the irregularities so profoundly lamented?' Yes, I can do more than hint. This 'evil' was the greatest which can befall a man. Six years ago, a wife, whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a blood vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I took leave of her forever, and underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered partially and I again hoped. At the end of a year the blood vessel broke again. I went through precisely the same scene.--Then again--again--and even once again, at varying intervals. Each time I felt all the agonies of her death--and at each accession of her disorder I loved her more dearly and clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity." Virginia gradually grew worse and finally died at their home at Fordham, near New York. After this sad event Poe wrote a poem which is a sort of requiem for her death. It was not published during his life, but after his death it appeared in the _New York Tribune_. Immediately it took rank as one of the three greatest poems Poe ever wrote. It is long enough to be complete, it has none of those metrical imperfections found in his earlier poems, and it possesses in a wonderful degree that haunting thrill so characteristic of all the best things Poe wrote. Moreover, it has a musical flow surpassing any other of Poe's poems except "The Bells," and in some respects it is even more pleasing to the ear when read aloud than is "The Bells." ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child, In this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love,-- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me,-- Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we,-- Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, In the sepulcher there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. CHAPTER IX POE'S LITERARY HISTORY As assistant editor of the _Southern Literary Messenger_, Poe achieved great literary success. In this paper he began those spirited criticisms of the writers of the day, which attracted attention everywhere. He also published numerous stories. Poetry was almost completely abandoned for prose. The circulation of the magazine increased by the thousands, and there could be no doubt that its success was due chiefly to Poe. At first his salary was ten dollars a week; later, it was raised to fifteen dollars, and was to have been raised to twenty, but Poe suddenly resigned his position. Precisely why he did this is not known. Experiences similar to that with the _Southern Literary Messenger_ were repeated many times afterward, during his literary career. Just as he was getting well settled at his work, he would have some difficulty with the proprietor, or commit some indiscretion, and then he must find some other place. In those days, when a great New York daily paper like Bryant's _Evening Post_ could be bought for from $5,000 to $10,000, there was not much money to be made in publishing or in literature. To make money, Poe should have been a business man, and he was not so in any sense. Many another literary man, even in our own times, has had similar misfortunes, even without those faults of character and that fatality for falling out with everything and everybody which distinguished Poe. From Richmond, Poe went with his family to New York, where Mrs. Clemm supported the household by keeping boarders. Poe himself spent the winter chiefly in writing "The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym," a tale of the sea, which was first published by Messrs. Harper and Brothers. From New York he went to Philadelphia, where he wrote various magazine articles and stories, and did part of the work of preparing a school textbook on "Conchology." He soon became associate editor of _The Gentleman's Magazine_ with its proprietor Burton. The following year, 1840, his first volume of stories was published, under the title, "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque." The volume was not a popular success. An edition of seven hundred and fifty copies was barely disposed of, and all that Poe received was twenty copies for distribution among his friends. His connection with Burton's magazine did not last above a year. Burton had been a comic actor, and offered prizes which Poe says he never intended to pay. Poe's remarks on this transaction caused the rupture. Poe had already been thinking about starting a periodical of his own, and now he sent out the prospectus of _The Penn Magazine_. To found a magazine which should be better and higher in literary art than any other in America was his lifelong ambition. He tried again and again to do this, first with _The Penn Magazine_, and later with a periodical to be called _The Stylus_. He never succeeded, however. George R. Graham, proprietor of the _Saturday Evening Post_, now bought _The Gentleman's Magazine_, united it with a periodical of his own called _The Casket_, and named the new venture _Graham's Magazine_. Of this Poe soon became the editor. After Poe's death, Mr. Graham published an article in which he said that, while he was in Philadelphia, Poe seemed to think only of the happiness and welfare of his family. There were but two things for which he cared to have money--to give them comforts and to start a magazine of his own. He never spent any money on himself. Everything was intrusted to Mrs. Clemm, who managed all his household affairs. 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," says Mr. Graham, "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 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 which made him a sad and thoughtful man, and lent a mournful melody to his undying song." At last he left Philadelphia and returned to New York, where he remained for the rest of his life. This is the childlike way he writes to his mother-in-law concerning the journey: "My Dear Muddy, "We have just this minute done breakfast, and I now sit down to write you about everything. * * * In the first place, we arrived safe at Walnut St. wharf. The driver wanted to make me pay a dollar, but I wouldn't. Then I had to pay a boy a levy to put the trunks in the baggage car. "In the meantime I took Sis [Virginia] in the Depot Hotel. * * * We went in the cars to Amboy, * * * and then took the steamboat the rest of the way. Sissy coughed none at all. I left her on board the boat. * * * Then I went up Greenwich St. and soon found a boarding house. * * * I made a bargain in a few minutes and then got a hack and went for Sis. * * * When we got to the house we had to wait about half an hour before the room was ready. The house is old and looks buggy, * * * the cheapest board I ever knew, taking into consideration the central situation and the _living_. I wish Kate [Catterina, the cat] could see it--she would faint." They had a little cottage at Fordham, in the country just out of New York. It was a very humble place, but the scenery about it was beautiful. Poe himself became ill, and his dear Virginia was dying of consumption. They were so poor that friends had to help them. One of these friends wrote: "There was no clothing on the bed, which was only straw, but a snow-white counterpane and sheets. The weather was cold and the sick lady had the dreadful chills that accompany the hectic fever of consumption. She lay on the bed wrapped in her husband's great-coat, with a large tortoise-shell cat in her bosom." On one Saturday in January, 1847, Virginia died. Her husband, wrapped in the military cloak that had once covered her, followed the body to the tomb in the family vault of the Valentines, relatives of the family. CHAPTER X POE AS A STORY-WRITER Next to "The Raven," Poe's most famous work is that fascinating story, "The Gold-Bug," perhaps the best detective story that was ever written, for it is based on logical principles which are instructive as well as interesting. Poe's powerful mind was always analyzing and inventing. It is these inventions and discoveries of his which make him famous. The story of the gold-bug is that of a man who finds a piece of parchment on which is a secret writing telling where Captain Kidd hid his treasure off the coast of South Carolina. The gold-beetle has nothing whatever to do with the real story, and is only introduced to mystify. It is one of the principles of all conjuring tricks to have something to divert the attention. Poe's detective story is a sort of conjuring trick, but it is all the more interesting because he fully explains it. Cryptographs are systems of secret writing. The letter _e_ is represented by some strange character, perhaps the figure 8. In "The Gold-Bug" _t_ is a semicolon and _h_ is 4, so that; 48 means _the_. Sometimes the letter _e_ is represented by several signs, any one of which the writer may use; and perhaps the word _the_, which occurs so often, is represented by a single character, like _x_. Often, too, the words are run together, so that at first sight you cannot tell where one word begins and another ends. Solving a cryptograph is like doing a mathematical problem, and Poe was very clever at it. He published a series of articles on "Cryptography" or systems of secret writing, in _Alexander's Weekly Messenger_, and challenged any reader to send in a cipher which he could not translate into ordinary language. Hundreds were sent to him, and he solved them all, though it took up a great deal of his time. In the same line with this was another feat of his. Dickens's story, "Barnaby Rudge," was coming out in parts from week to week, as a serial publication. From the first chapters Poe calculated what the outcome of the plot would be, and published it in the _Saturday Evening Post_. He guessed the story so accurately that Dickens was greatly surprised and asked him if he were the devil. Again at a later date Poe wrote a remarkable story, "The Mystery of Marie Roget." A young girl had been murdered in New York. The newspapers were full of accounts of the crime, but the police could get no clew to the murderers. In Poe's story he wrote out exactly what happened on the night of the murder, and explained the whole thing, as if he were an expert detective. Afterward, by the confessions of two of the participants, it was proved that his solution of the mystery was almost exactly the truth. "The Gold-Bug" was not published until sometime later, but it was as editor of _Graham's Magazine_ that Poe first became known as a writer of detective stories. One of the most famous is "The Murders of the Rue Morgue." It is an imaginary story, but none the less interesting. A murder was committed in Paris by an orang-outang, which had climbed in at a window and then closed the window behind it. The police could find no clew; but the hero of Poe's story follows the facts out by a number of clever observations of small facts. "The Gold-Bug" seems to have been written in 1842 for Poe's projected magazine, _The Stylus_. F.O.C. Darley, the well-known artist, was to draw pictures for it at seven dollars each. Poe himself took to him the manuscript of "The Gold-Bug" and that of "The Black Cat." As this magazine was never published, the story of "The Gold-Bug" was sent to Graham some time after Poe had left him; but he did not like it, and made some criticisms upon it. Poe got it back from Graham in order to submit it for a prize of $100 offered by _The Dollar Newspaper_. It won the prize, and became Poe's most popular story. * * * * * CHAPTER XI HOW "THE RAVEN" WAS WRITTEN "The Raven" was published in New York just two years before Mrs. Poe died; it instantly made its author famous, although it brought him little or no money. It is said that he was paid only ten dollars for the poem; but as soon as it appeared it was the talk of the nation,--being copied into almost every newspaper. Poe had written and published many other poems, but none of them had attracted much attention. We have spoken of Poe as a story-writer, and now in "The Raven" we see him a great poet. It is not unusual to think of poetry as the work of inspiration or genius; but how it is written, nobody knows. Poe maintained that literary art is something that can be studied and learned. To illustrate this he told how he wrote "The Raven." Some people considered this a sort of joke; but it was not. When Poe began to write, his work was not at all good; as years went on, he learned by patient practice to write well. It was more than anything else this long course of training that made him so great. The essay in which he tells how he wrote "The Raven," begins by saying that when he thought of writing it he decided that it must not be too long nor too short. It must be short enough so that one could read it through at a sitting; but also it must be long enough to express fully the idea which he had in mind. Then, it must be beautiful. All true poetry is about beauty. It doesn't teach anything useful, or analyze anything, but it simply makes the reader feel a certain effect. When you read "The Raven" you hardly know what the poet is saying; but you feel the ghostly scene, and it makes you shudder; and there is a strange fascination about it that makes you like it, even if it is horrible. He goes on to say that he decided to have a refrain at the end of each stanza, the single word "Nevermore." At first he thought he would have a parrot utter it; but a raven can talk as well as a parrot, and is more picturesque. The most striking subject he could think of was the death of a beautiful woman--this he felt to be so because of his own impressions concerning the approaching death of his sweet wife. Besides this, Poe said that poetry and music are much alike, and he tried to have his poem produce the effect of solemn music. All his best poetry is very much like music. With these materials at his command, he now turned his attention to the construction of the poem. He would ask questions, and the raven would always reply by croaking "Nevermore." As an answer to some questions, this would sound very terrible. Says he: "I first established in my mind the climax, or concluding query,--that query in reply to which the word 'nevermore' should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair. Here, then, the poem may be said to have its beginning--at the end, where all works of art should begin--for it was here, at this point of my preconsiderations, that I first put pen to paper in the composition of the stanza:-- "'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil! By the heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore!-- Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore,-- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'" This principle of beginning at the end or climax to write a poem or story was one so important that Poe insisted on it at great length. In the "Murders in the Rue Morgue" the author necessarily began at the end, imagined the solution of the mystery, and gradually worked back to the beginning, bringing in his detective after everything had been carefully constructed for him, though to the ordinary reader of the story it seems as if the detective came to a real mystery. It may be observed that all of Poe's stories and poems are built up about some principle of the mind. They illustrate how the mind works. After the principle is stated the illustration is given. Can anything be more important and interesting than to know how the mind thinks, how it is inspired with terror or love or a sense of beauty? If you know just how the mind of a man works in regard to these things, you can yourself create the conditions which will make others laugh or cry, be filled with horror, or overflow with a sense of divine holiness. Ordinary story-tellers and ordinary poets write poems or stories that are pretty and amusing; but it is only a master like Poe who writes to illustrate and explain some great principle. His stories teach us how we may go about producing similar effects in the affairs of life. We wish success in business, in society, in politics. To gain it we must make people think and feel as we think and feel. To do that we must understand the principles on which men's minds work, and no poet or writer analyzed and illustrated those principles so clearly as Poe. CHAPTER XII MUSIC AND POETRY Poe always maintained that music and poetry are very near of kin, and in nearly all his greatest poems he seems to write in such a way as to produce the impression of music. As you read his verses you seem to hear a musical accompaniment to the words, which runs through the very sounds of the words themselves. Poe explained that poetry and music are alike in that both obey absolute laws of time, and that the laws of time or rhythm in poetry are just as exact as the laws of time in music. He wrote an essay entitled "The Rationale of Verse," in which he demonstrated that all the rules for scanning poetry are defective. Every one knows that the ordinary rules for meter have numerous exceptions, but that if the rules were exact in the first place, there would be no exceptions. Perhaps you know something about musical notes. If so, a simple illustration will show you what "feet" in poetry are. You have perhaps been taught that a "foot" in verse is an accented syllable with one or more unaccented syllables, and you scan poetry by marking all the accented syllables. In Latin, poetry was scanned by marking long vowels and short. Let us scan the first two lines of "The Raven": "�nce up | ón a mídnight | dréary, || whíle I | póndered | wéak and | wéary, �ver | mány a | quáint and | cúrious | vólume | óf for | gótten | lóre." Observe that most of the feet have two syllables each, while two have three. But if you read the lines in a natural tone you will see that you give just as much time to one foot as to another, and where there are three syllables they are short and can be pronounced quickly. Some syllables take more time to pronounce than other syllables; and to accent a syllable simply means to give it more time in pronouncing. In music, time is accurately represented by notes, and a bar of music always contains exactly the same amount of time, no matter how it is divided by the notes; for if you wish, in place of a half note you can use two quarter notes, or in place of a quarter note you can use two eighth notes. Represented in music, our lines will be as follows: [Illustration: (music) Once up on a midnight dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary, O-ver man-y a quaint and cur-i--ous vol-ume of for- got-ten lore.] We see this still further illustrated in a poem of Tennyson's, where a foot consists of but one long syllable, thus: [Illustration: (music) Break, break, break, On thy cold grey stones, O sea!] One of Poe's greatest poems, "The Bells," was written for the express purpose of imitating music in verse. The story of how it was first written is as follows: Poe went one Sunday morning to call on a lady friend of his, Mrs. Shaw, who was something of a physician and had been very kind to his wife. It was a bright morning, and the church bells were ringing. For all that, Poe felt moody, and the church bells seemed to jangle. "I must write a poem," said he, "and I haven't an idea in my head. For some reason the bells seem frightfully out of tune this morning, and nearly drive me distracted." After he had been chatting with Mrs. Shaw for some time, he evidently felt in better mood, and the sound of the bells grew more musical; or perhaps their actual sound had stopped and his imagination suggested bells that were indeed musical. As he kept on complaining about his inability to write a poem, Mrs. Shaw placed pen and ink and paper before him, first writing at the top of a sheet the title, "The Bells, by E. A. Poe." Underneath she wrote, "The bells, the little silver bells." Poe caught the idea, and immediately wrote the first draft of the following stanza. According to his habit he rewrote this poem many, many times. The original stanza began with the words Mrs. Shaw had written. Here are the verses as they may now be read in Poe's works: Hear the sledges with the bells-- Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heaven, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells,-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Mrs. Shaw then wrote the words, "The heavy iron bells." Poe immediately completed the stanza which now reads: Hear the tolling of the bells,-- Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people--ah, the people-- They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone! They are neither man nor woman,-- They are neither brute nor human,-- They are Ghouls; And their king it is who tolls,-- And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls a paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells, Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells, Of the bells. The other stanzas were written afterward. There is music in these words; but do not think that the music is all. Underneath is the deep harmony of human suggestion, as in the lines, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone. Now let us see if we can represent by musical notes the meter in which this poem is written. We must remember that a punctuation mark at the end of a line often makes a complete pause, which is represented in music by a rest. In music a rest has the same effect in completing a bar as the corresponding note. Here are the first two lines: [Illustration: (music) Hear the sledg-es with the bells, Sil-ver bells!] In the two following lines the commas in the middle of the line stand for rests, like the punctuation at the end of the first line; or if we wish we can make the words "time, time, time," three longer notes. It all depends on how we pronounce them: [Illustration: (music) Keep--ing time, time, time, in a sort of Ru-nic rhyme.] CHAPTER XIII POE'S LATER YEARS Poe had the hardest time of his life when he was at New York, living in that little cottage at Fordham, where his poor wife died. He was always borrowing money, from sheer necessity, to keep himself and his wife from starvation. Once while in New York he was so hard pressed that Mrs. Clemm went out to see if she could not get work for him. She went to the office of Nathaniel P. Willis, who was the editor and proprietor of _The Mirror_. Willis was then starting _The Evening Mirror_, and said he would give Poe work. So the poet came; he had his little desk in the corner, and did his work meekly and regularly,--poor hack work for which he was paid very little. Later he had an interest in a paper called _The Broadway Journal_. When it was about to cease publication Poe bought it himself for fifty dollars, giving a note which Horace Greeley endorsed and finally paid. Once a young man wrote to Greeley, saying, "Doubtless among your papers you have many autographs of the poet, Edgar Allan Poe," and intimated that he should like to have one of them. Greeley wrote back that he had just one autograph of Poe among his papers; it was attached to a note for fifty dollars, and Greeley's own signature was across the back. The young man might have it for just half its face value. But after Poe bought _The Broadway Journal_ he had no money to carry it on, and its publication was soon suspended. He earned his livelihood mainly by writing stories or articles for various magazines and papers, which paid him from $5 to $50 each. It was a hand to mouth way of living, for he was often, often disappointed. In 1845, a volume entitled, "Tales. By Edgar A. Poe," was published by Wiley and Putnam, and in the same year "The Raven and Other Poems" appeared in book form from the same publishing house. Poe also delivered lectures, and by way of criticism carried on what was called the "Longfellow War." Though he considered Longfellow the greatest American poet, he accused him of plagiarism, or stealing some of his ideas, which was very unjust on the part of Poe. Hawthorne and Lowell he praised highly. After the death of his wife, Poe was very melancholy. He went to lecture, and to visit friends in Providence, Rhode Island, and in Lowell, Massachusetts, and afterward went south to Richmond, where he planned to raise enough money by lecturing to start _The Stylus_. He was hospitably entertained in Richmond, and became engaged to marry his boyhood's first love, Miss Royster, now the widow, Mrs. Shelton. Their marriage was to take place at once, and Poe started north to close up his business in New York and bring Mrs. Clemm south. In Baltimore it seems that he fell in with some politicians who were conducting an election. They took him about from one polling place to another to vote illegally; then some one drugged him, and left him on a bench near a saloon. Here he was found by a printer, who notified his friends, and they sent him to the hospital, where he died on the 7th of October, 1849. He was nearly forty-one years old. Poe had a great and wonderful mind. In the latter part of his life he gave much of his time to a book called "Eureka," which was intended to explain the meaning of the universe. Of course he was not a philosopher; but he wrote some things in that book which were destined afterward to be accepted by such great men as Darwin and Huxley and many others. His life was so full of work and poverty, so crossed and crossed again by unhappiness and hardship, that he never had time or strength of mind to think out anything as he would otherwise have done. All his work is fragmentary, broken bits on this subject or on that. He wrote very few poems, not many stories, and only a little serious criticism. But a Frenchman will tell you that Poe, among American poets and writers, is the greatest; his writings have been translated into nearly every European language. In England, too, he is spoken of as our one great poet and critic, our first great story-writer, the inventor of the artistic short story. Poor, unhappy Poe! After his death a monument was to have been erected over his grave; but by a strange fatality it was destroyed before it was finished. Twenty-five years later admiring friends placed over his remains the first monument to an American poet. No such memorial was needed, however, for American hearts will never cease to thrill at the weird, beautiful music of "Annabel Lee," "The Bells," and "The Raven." THE STORY OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL [Illustration: _JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL_.] JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL CHAPTER I ELMWOOD James Russell Lowell was born on the 22d of February, 1819, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Elmwood, the home of the Lowells, was to the west of the village of Cambridge, quite near Mount Auburn cemetery. When James Russell was a boy, Elmwood was practically in the country, and was surrounded on nearly all sides by woods, meadows, and pastures. The house stood on a triangular piece of land surrounded by a very high and thick hedge, made up of all sorts of trees and shrubs, such as pines, spruces, willows, and oaks, with smaller shrubs at the bottom so as to form a thick wall of green. In front of the house were some fine English elms, quite different from the American variety, and from these the house got its name. It was a large, square, old-fashioned wooden house, and though it had stood for over a hundred years, it remained during Lowell's life in perfect condition. The house was surrounded by a fine, well-kept lawn, and at the back were pasture, orchard, and garden, while half a mile away lay Fresh Pond, the haunt of herons and other shy birds and land creatures. From the upper windows one could look out on beautiful Mount Auburn cemetery, which was to the south, while to the east was a low hill called Symonds's Hill, beyond which could be seen a bright stretch of the Charles River. Elmwood faced on a lane, between two roads. In his essay in "Fireside Travels," entitled "Cambridge Thirty Years Ago," Lowell describes the scene towards the village as it was in his childhood. Approaching "from the west, by what was then called the New Road (it is called so no longer, for we change our names whenever we can, to the great detriment of all historical association), you would pause on the brow of Symonds's Hill to enjoy a view singularly soothing and placid. In front of you lay the town, tufted with elms, lindens, and horse-chestnuts.... Over it rose the noisy belfry of the college, the square brown tower of the church, and the slim yellow spire of the parish meeting-house, by no means ungraceful, and then an invariable characteristic of New England religious architecture. On your right the Charles slipped smoothly through green and purple salt meadows, darkened here and there with the blossoming black grass as with a stranded cloud-shadow. Over these marshes, level as water but without its glare, and with softer and more soothing gradations of perspective, the eye was carried to a horizon of softly rounded hills. To your left upon the Old Road you saw some half dozen dignified old houses of the colonial time, all comfortably fronting southward." One of these, the largest and most stately, was the Craigie House, famous as the headquarters of Washington in 1776, and afterwards as the home of Longfellow. And at the end of the New Road toward Cambridge was a row of six fine willows, which had remained from the stockade built in early days as a defense against the Indians. And here is Harvard Square, where stand the buildings of the famous college: "A few houses, chiefly old, stood around the bare Common, with ample elbow-room, and old women, capped and spectacled, still peered through the same windows from which they had watched Lord Percy's artillery rumble by to Lexington, or caught a glimpse of the handsome Virginia general who had come to wield our homespun Saxon chivalry. People still lived who regretted the unhappy separation from the mother island. . . The hooks were to be seen from which swung the hammocks of Burgoyne's captive redcoats. If memory does not deceive me, women still washed clothes in the town spring, clear as that of Bandusia. Commencement had not ceased to be the great holiday of the Puritan Commonwealth, and a fitting one it was--the festival of Santa Scholastica, whose triumphal path one may conceive strewn with leaves of spelling-books instead of bay." James was the youngest of four brothers and two sisters, a handsome boy, and his mother's darling. He always thought he inherited his love of nature and poetic aspirations from her, whose family was from the Orkneys--those islands at the extreme north of Scotland. His father was a strikingly handsome man, gracious and of rare personal qualities, and a faithful pastor over his flock. Often he took his youngest son on long drives with him, when he went to exchange pulpits with neighboring clergymen. Because of his wide family connection, and his father's position, James saw not a little of New England society as it was in those days, pure Yankee through and through. CHAPTER II AN IMPETUOUS YOUNG MAN Young James was sent first to a dame school, as a private school for very small children kept by a lady in her own house was called in those days. But when he was eight or nine he was sent to a boarding school near Elmwood--going, of course, only as a day scholar. This school was kept by an Englishman named Wells, who had belonged to a publishing firm in Boston which had failed. This teacher was very sharp and severe, but he made all his boys learn Latin, as you may see by reading the learned notes and introductions to the "Biglow Papers," supposed to have been written by "Parson Wilbur," but in reality by Lowell himself. We sometimes find it difficult to believe that a great man whom we admire was ever an ordinary human being, with faults and errors like our own. But when we do find natural, childish letters, or read anecdotes of youthful naughtiness, we immediately feel like shaking hands with the scapegrace, and a real liking for him begins. Lowell was so reserved in after life, and so very correct and elegant both in his writing and in his deportment, that when we come across two letters written at about nine years of age, badly punctuated and badly spelled, but displaying all the natural spirits of a boy, we begin at once to feel at home with him and to have a genuine affection for the man we had before only admired as a very great and learned author. Here are the two letters just as they were written. It will be a good exercise for you to rewrite them, correcting the spelling, punctuation, and other faults. Jan. 25, 1827. My dear brother The dog and the colt went down to-day with our boy for me and the colt went before and then the horse and slay and dog--I went to a party and I danced a great deal and was very happy--I read french stories--The colt plays very much--and follows the horse when it is out. Your affectionate brother, James R. Lowell. I forgot to tell you that sister mary has not given me any present but I have got three books Nov. 2, 1828. My Dear Brother,--I am now going to tell you melancholy news. I have got the ague together with a gumbile. I presume you know that September has got a lame leg, but he grows better every day and now is very well but limps a little. We have a new scholar from round hill, his name is Hooper and we expect another named Penn who I believe also comes from there. The boys are all very well except Nemaise, who has got another piece of glass in his leg and is waiting for the doctor to take it out, and Samuel Storrow is also sick. I am going to have a new suit of blue broadcloth clothes to wear every day and to play in. Mother tells me I may have any sort of buttons I choose. I have not done anything to the hut, but if you wish I will. I am now very happy; but I should be more so if you were there. I hope you will answer my letter if you do not I shall write you no more letters, when you write my letters you must direct them all to me and not write half to mother as generally do. Mother has given me the three volumes of tales of a grandfather farewell Yours truly James R. Lowell. You must excuse me for making so many mistakes. You must keep what I have told you about my new clothes a secret if you don't I shall not divulge any more secrets to you. I have got quite a library. The Master has not taken his rattan out since the vacation. Your little kitten is as well and as playful as ever and I hope you are to for I am sure I love you as well as ever. Why is grass like a mouse you cant guess that he he he ho ho ho ha ha ha hum hum hum. Young Lowell's life was so very quiet and uneventful that we have very little account of his boyhood and youth. We know, however, that he was fond of books and was rather lazy, and did pretty much as he pleased. A poem which in later years he dedicated to his friend Charles Eliot Norton gives a very good picture of the life at Elmwood: The wind is roistering out of doors, My windows shake and my chimney roars; My Elmwood chimneys seem crooning to me, As of old, in their moody, minor key, And out of the past the hoarse wind blows, As I sit in my arm-chair and toast my toes. "Ho! ho! nine-and-forty," they seem to sing, "We saw you a little toddling thing. We knew you child and youth and man, A wonderful fellow to dream and plan, With a great thing always to come,--who knows? Well, well! 'tis some comfort to toast one's toes. "How many times have you sat at gaze Till the mouldering fire forgot to blaze, Shaping among the whimsical coals Fancies and figures and shining goals! What matters the ashes that cover those? While hickory lasts you can toast your toes. "O dream-ship builder! where are they all, Your grand three-deckers, deep-chested and tall, That should crush the waves under canvas piles, And anchor at last by the Fortunate Isles? There's gray in your beard, the years turn foes, While you muse in your arm-chair and toast your toes." I sit and dream that I hear, as of yore, My Elmwood chimneys' deep-throated roar; If much be gone, there is much remains; By the embers of loss I count my gains, You and yours with the best, till the old hope glows In the fanciful flame as I toast my toes. Lowell entered Harvard College when he was but fifteen years old, very nearly the youngest man in his class. In those days the college was small, there were few teachers, and only about fifty students in a class. CHAPTER III COLLEGE AND THE MUSES Soon after he entered college, young Lowell made the acquaintance of a senior, W.H. Shackford, to whom many of his published letters of college life are addressed. Another intimate friend was George Bailey Loring, who afterward became distinguished in politics. To one or other of these men he was constantly writing of his literary ambitions, always uppermost in his mind. Josiah Quincy was president of Harvard when Lowell was there, and afterward Lowell wrote an essay on "A Great Public Character," which describes this distinguished president. In it he refers to college life in a way that shows he thoroughly enjoyed it. "Almost every one," he writes, "looks back regretfully to the days of some Consul Plancus. Never were eyes so bright, never had wine so much wit and good-fellowship in it, never were we ourselves so capable of the various great things we have never done.... This is especially true of college life, when we first assume the titles without the responsibilities of manhood, and the president of our year is apt to become our Plancus very early." In another of his essays he tells one of the standing college jokes, which is worth repeating. The students would go into one of the grocery stores of the town, whose proprietor was familiarly called "The Deacon." "Have you any sour apples, Deacon?" the first student to enter would ask. "Well, no, I haven't any just now that are exactly sour," he would answer; "but there's the bellflower apple, and folks that like a sour apple generally like that." Enter the second student. "Have you any sweet apples, Deacon?" "Well, no, I haven't any now that are exactly sweet; but there's the bellflower apple, and folks that like a sweet apple generally like that." "There is not even a tradition of any one's ever having turned the wary Deacon's flank," says Lowell, "and his Laodicean apples persisted to the end, neither one thing nor another." It did not take young Lowell long to find out that he had a weakness for poetry (as his seniors sometimes spoke of it). Writing to his friend Loring, probably at the beginning of the Christmas vacation, 1836, he says, "Here I am alone in Bob's room with a blazing fire, in an atmosphere of 'poesy' and soft coal smoke. Pope, Dante, a few of the older English poets, Byron, and last, not least, some of my own compositions, lie around me. Mark my modesty. I don't put myself in the same line with the rest, you see.... Been quite 'grouty' all the vacation, 'black as Erebus.' Discovered two points of very striking resemblance between myself and Lord Byron; and if you will put me in mind of it, I will propound next term, or in some other letter, 'Vanity, thy name is Lowell!'" And again, in a letter to his mother, he says, "I am engaged in several poetic effusions, one of which I dedicated to you, who have always been the patron and encourager of my youthful muse. If you wish to see me as much as I do you, I shall be satisfied." This is Mrs. Lowell's answer to the last wish. She and Dr. Lowell were then making a visit to Europe: "Babie Jamie: Your poetry was very pleasing to me, and I am glad to have a letter, but not to remind me of you, for you are seldom long out of my head.... Don't leave your whistling, which used to cheer me so much. I frequently listen to it here, though far from you." In later years Lowell would often tell how he used to whistle as he came near home from school, in order to let his mother know he was coming, and she seldom failed to be sitting at her window to welcome him. Early in 1837 Lowell was elected to the Hasty Pudding Club. "At the very first meeting I attended," he writes to his friend, Shackford, "I was chosen secretary, which is considered the most honorable office in the club, as the records are kept in _verse (mind,_ I do not say _poetry_). This first brought my rhyming powers into notice, and since that I have been chosen to deliver the next anniversary poem by a vote of twenty out of twenty-four." Not long afterward he writes to his friend Loring, "I have written about a hundred lines of my poem (?), and I suspect it is going to be pretty good. At least, some parts of it will take." And after a few lines he goes on, "I am as busy as a bee--almost. I study and read and write all the time." A little later he writes a letter to Loring in Scotch dialect verse. This was not the sort of work, however, that the college authorities expected of him. He was lazy and got behind his classes, so that near the end of his course he was rusticated, or suspended from college for some weeks. He had been chosen class poet, but on account of his suspension he could not read his poem, though it was printed. He was sent to Concord during this interval to carry on his studies under the minister of the town. Here he found it pretty dull, though Emerson and Thoreau were there. But he did not then care for either one of them. In one of his letters he said, "I feel like a fool. I must go down and see Emerson and if he doesn't make me feel more like one, it won't be for want of sympathy. He is a good-natured man in spite of his doctrines." Of Thoreau he said, "I met (him) last night, and it is exquisitely amusing to see how he imitates Emerson's tone and manner. With my eyes shut I shouldn't know them apart." In the autumn he came back to Cambridge and took his degree of Bachelor of Arts with his class. CHAPTER IV HOW LOWELL STUDIED LAW While at Concord, Lowell wrote to his friend Loring, as though explaining himself. "Everybody almost is calling me 'indolent.' 'Blind dependent on my own powers' and 'on fate.' Confound everybody! since everybody confounds me. Everybody seems to see but one side of my character, and that the worst. As for my dependence on my own powers, 'tis all fudge. As for fate, I believe that in every man's breast are the stars of his fortune, which, if he choose, he may rule as easily as does the child the mimic constellations in the orrery he plays with. I acknowledge, too, that I have been something of a dreamer, and have sacrificed, perchance, too assiduously on that altar to the 'unknown God,' which the Divinity has builded not with hands in the bosom of every decent man, sometimes blazing out clear with flame, like Abel's sacrifice, heaven-seeking; sometimes smothered with greenwood and earthward, like that of Cain. Lazy quota! I haven't dug, 'tis true, but I have done as well, and 'since my free soul was mistress of her choice, and could of books distinguish her election,' I have chosen what reading I pleased and what friends I pleased, sometimes scholars and sometimes not." Once out of college he had to take up some profession. Had poetry been a profession, he would have taken that; but such a choice at that time would have been considered sheer folly. He did not consider that he had any "call" to be a minister, still less a doctor. As there was nothing else left, he began the study of law. It is truly amusing to see how he manages to "wriggle along" until he takes his degree of LL.B. and is admitted to the bar. First, he announces that he is "reading Blackstone with as good a grace and as few wry faces as he may." Only a few days later he declares, "A very great change has come o'er the spirit of my dreams. I have renounced the law." He is going to be a business man, and sets about looking for a place, in a store. He is going to give up all thoughts of literary pursuits and devote himself to money-making. He also says, "I have been thinking seriously of the ministry, but then--I have also thought of medicine, but then--still worse!" A few days pass by. He goes into Boston and hears Webster speak in a case before the United States Court. "I had not been there an hour before I determined to continue in my profession and study as well as I could." Still, it was hard work to keep at his law studies. He is soon writing to his friend George Loring, "I sometimes think that I have it in me, and shall one day do somewhat; meantime I am schooling myself and shaping my theory of poesy." Six weeks later: "I have written a great deal of _pottery_ lately. I have quitted the law forever." Then he inquires if he can make any money by lecturing at Andover. He already has an engagement to lecture at Concord, where he has hopes to "astonish them a little." A fortnight later we find him in a "miserable state. The more I think of business the more really unhappy do I feel, and think more and more of studying law." What he really wants to do all the time is to write poetry. "I don't know how it is," he says, "but sometimes I actually _need_ to write somewhat in verse." Sunday is his work day in the "pottery business." As for the law, it is settled at last. He writes to his friend, "Rejoice with me, for to-morrow I shall be free. Without saying a word to any one, I shall quietly proceed to Dane Law College to recitation. Now shall I be happy again as far as that is concerned." A fortnight later he declares, "I begin to like the law, and therefore it is quite interesting. I am determined that I _will_ like it and therefore I _do_." In the summer of 1840 he completed his studies and was admitted to the bar. A little later he opened an office in Boston. Misfortune had overtaken his father, and his personal property had been nearly swept away. It was now necessary for the young man to earn his own living. His friends were therefore glad that he had his profession to depend on. CHAPTER V LOVE AND LETTERS Lowell always had a presentiment that he should never practice law. He was always dreaming of becoming independent in some other way. "Above all things," he declares, "should I love to sit down and do something literary for the rest of my natural life." He did not then think of marrying, and it does not require much to support a single man. Though he opened a law office in Boston, it does not appear that he did any business. He wrote a story entitled "My First Client," but one of his biographers unkindly suggests that this may have been purely imaginary. All through his letters we see his ambitious yearning. "George," says he in one place, "before I die your heart shall be gladdened by seeing your wayward, vain, and too often selfish friend do something that shall make his name honored. As Sheridan once said, 'It's _in_ me, and' (we'll skip the oath) 'it shall come _out_!'" His bachelor dreams were soon dissipated, however. He went to visit a friend of his, W.A. White, and there met the young man's sister Maria. He thought her a very pleasant and pleasing young lady, and he discovered that she knew a great deal of poetry. She could repeat more verse than any other one of his acquaintances, though he laments that she was more familiar with modern poets than with the "pure wellsprings of English poesy." The friendship grew apace. In the same fall that he began the pretended practice of law he became engaged to her, and she caused a fresh and voluminous outpouring of verse. His productions were printed in various periodicals, such as the _Knickerbocker Magazine_, to which Longfellow had contributed, and the _Southern Literary Messenger_, which Poe once edited. Miss White was a most charming and interesting young lady. She was herself a poet, and had a delicate intellectual sympathy that enabled her to enter into her lover's ambitions, and assist him even in the minutest details of his work. It is fair to suppose that Lowell's friends brought every possible pressure to bear upon him to make him give up poetry and _dig_ at the law. His father's financial losses had left him without an inherited income; he was engaged to a beautiful girl and anxious to be married; in some way he must earn his living, and if possible do more. Such was not the effect, however. He devoted himself to poetry with an almost feverish activity. He has made up his mind that he will do something great; for only so can he hope possibly to make literature a paying profession. It was Maria who inspired most of his verse at this time. One of his best poems even to this day was written directly for her. It is called "Irene'." It may be taken as the best possible description of his lady herself: Hers is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear; Calm beneath her earnest face it lies, Free without boldness, meek without a fear, Quicker to look than speak its sympathies; Far down into her large and patient eyes I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, I look into the fathomless blue skies. As the struggle between money and law on the one side and literature on the other still went on, he expressed his feelings on the subject to his friend Loring in the following stanza, which puts the whole argument into a nutshell: They tell me I must study law. They say that I have dreamed and dreamed too long, That I must rouse and seek for fame and gold; That I must scorn this idle gift of song, And mingle with the vain and proud and cold. Is, then, this petty strife The end and aim of life, All that is worth the living for below? _O God! then call me hence, for I would gladly go_! Thus he had finally come to the conclusion that he would rather die than give up literature. "Irené" won the good opinion of many. The young poet, though but twenty-one, felt that he was beginning to be a lion. His next definite step was to publish a volume of verses. Says he, "I shall print my volume. Maria wishes me to do it, and that is enough." So his first volume, "A Year's Life," was published, with the motto in German, "I have lived and loved." The young poet's friends were very much opposed to this publication, for the reason that a rising young lawyer is not helped on in his profession at all by being known as a poet. Who would employ a _poet_ to defend his business in a court room? No one! A hard-headed business man is wanted. Walter Scott was a lawyer of much such a temperament as Lowell's, and when he put forth a similar volume he suffered as it was certain that Lowell would suffer. But it is probable that Lowell was now fully determined to give up law altogether. "I know," he declares passionately, "that God has given me powers such as are not given to all, and I will not 'hide my talent in mean clay.' I do not care what others may think of me or of my book, because if I am worth anything I shall one day show it. I do not fear criticism as much as I love truth. Nay, I do not fear it at all. In short, I am happy. Maria fills my ideal and I satisfy her. And I mean to live as one beloved by such a woman should live. She is every way noble. People have called 'Irene' a beautiful piece of poetry. And so it is. It owes all its beauty to her." It is very plain that she was on the side of the poet, not of the worldly-minded persons who advocated the law, business, money-making. She did not dread the prospect of being a poor man's wife. To be the wife of a poet, a man of courage and ambition and nobleness of heart, was far more to her. The turning point in Lowell's life was past; and he had been led to that turning point by the little woman who was soon to become his wife. CHAPTER VI THE UNCERTAIN SEAS OF LITERATURE As far as is known, Lowell never earned a dollar by the law. He soon began to pick up a five or a ten dollar bill here and there by writing for current periodicals. His book brought him some reputation, but not much. A few hundred copies were sold, and most of the reviews and criticisms were favorable. He received a slating from the _Morning Post_ in Boston, however, just as an inkling of what a literary man might expect. Three years of hard literary work now followed. Lowell wrote assiduously and heroically, getting what happiness he could in the meantime out of his love. He was young and strong, and life was not a burden. He tells us of having spent an evening at the house of a friend "where Maria is making sunshine just now," and he declared that he had been exceedingly funny. He had in the course of the evening recited "near upon five hundred extempore macaronic verses; composed and executed an oratorio and opera" upon a piano without strings, namely the center-table; drawn "an entirely original view of Nantasket Beach"; made a temperance address; and given vent to "innumerable jests, jokes, puns, oddities, quiddities and nothings," interrupted by his own laughter and that of his hearers. Besides this, he had eaten "an indefinite number of raisins, chestnuts(!), etc., etc., etc., etc., etc." In 1842 Lowell and Cobert G. Carter, who was about the same sort of a business man as the poet himself, started a periodical which they called the _Pioneer_. They had no capital; but they did have literary connections, and they were able to get together for the three numbers they published a larger number of contributions from distinguished contributors than has often fallen to the lot of any American periodical. It is true that these men were not as famous in those days as they have since become; still, their names were known and their reputations were rapidly growing. The best known were Poe, Hawthorne, Longfellow, Whittier and Emerson; but there were not a few others whose names are well known to-day. The magazine had a high literary character, and was well worthy of the future greatness of the contributors. Unfortunately, it takes something more than literary excellence to make a successful magazine. Sometimes the literary quality is too high for the public to appreciate. This was true of the _Pioneer_. A magazine also requires a large capital and commercial ability in the business office. It is not at all strange that the venture did not succeed. It could not have done so. Three numbers only were issued, and those three left behind them a debt which the young publishers were unable to pay until some time after. At the same time that Lowell was having trouble with his magazine, he found his eyes becoming affected, and he was obliged to spend the greater part of the winter of 1842-43 in New York to undergo treatment. Here he made many new literary acquaintances, among others that of Charles F. Briggs, who started the _Broadway Journal_ with the assistance of Poe. In the meantime, he kept on writing poetry with more vigor than ever, and in 1843 published a second volume of verse, containing his best work since "A Year's Life" appeared. His contributions to the periodicals included much prose as well as poetry. Among other things, he wrote a series of "Conversations on some of the Old Poets," which was published in a volume the same year that the second book of poems came out. It consisted mainly of essays on Chaucer, Chapman, Ford, and the old dramatists. He never cared to reprint this first excursion into the realm of literary criticism; but it opened up a field which he was to work with distinction in after years. Lowell's prose is delicate, airy, and fanciful, but at the same time keenly critical and sharp in its thought. "Fireside Travels" and "From My Study Window" are books which are known all over the world and which are everywhere voted "delightful". CHAPTER VII HOSEA BIGLOW, YANKEE HUMORIST In December, 1844, Lowell felt that his income from his literary work, though very small and precarious, was sufficient to justify him in marrying, and accordingly he was united to Miss White. She was delicate in health, and after their marriage the couple went to Philadelphia, where they spent the winter in lodgings. Lowell became a regular contributor to the _Freeman_, an antislavery paper once edited by Whittier. From this he derived a very small but steady income; and the next year he was engaged to write every week for the _Anti-Slavery Standard_ on a yearly salary of five hundred dollars. This connection he maintained for the next four years. In June, 1846, the editor of the _Boston Courier_, a weekly paper well known in the "Hub" for its literary character even to this day, received a strange communication. It was a letter signed "Ezekiel Biglow," enclosing a poem written by his son Hosea. This is the way the letter began: Jaylem, June, 1846. Mister Eddyter:--Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater, the sarjunt he thout Hosea hedn't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo's though he 'd jest cum down, so he cal'lated to hook him in, but Hosy woodn't take none o his sarse for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on. The letter was rather a long one, and closed thus. Referring to the verses enclosed, the writer says:-- If you print em I wish you'd jest let folks know who hosy's father is, cos my ant Kesiah used to say it's nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he's a likely kind o lad. Ezekiel Biglow. The poem itself began with this stanza: Thrash away, you'll _hev_ to rattle On them kittle-drums o' yourn,-- 'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be,-- Guess you'll toot till you are yeller 'Fore you git ahold o' me! The letter and the poem were printed together in the _Courier_, and immediately were the talk of the town. You will remember that in 1846 the war with Mexico was just beginning, and many people were opposed to it as the work of "jingo" politicians, controlled in some degree by the slavery power. Southern slaveholders wished to increase the territory of the United States in such a way as to enlarge the territory where slavery would be lawful. The antislavery people of New England were violently opposed to the war, and this poem by the Yankee Hosea Biglow immediately became popular, because it put in a humorous, common-sense way what everybody else had been saying with deadly earnest. Charles Sumner saw the common sense of the poem, but didn't see the fun in the bad spelling. Said he, "This Yankee poet has the true spirit. He puts the case admirably. I wish, however, he could have used good English." Evidently Sumner did not suspect that so cultured and polished a poet as James Russell Lowell was the author of a stanza like this: 'Wut 's the use o' meetin'-goin' Every Sabbath, wet or dry, Ef it's right to go amowin' Feller-men like oats and rye? I dunno but wut it's pooty Trainin' round in bobtail coats.-- But it's curus Christian dooty, This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats. The fact is, however, Lowell had written all this, even the letter with bad spelling purporting to come from Ezekiel Biglow. He was deeply interested in the antislavery cause, in good politics and sound principles; yet he saw that it would be useless for him to get up and preach against what he did not like. There were plenty of other earnest, serious-minded men like Garrison and Whittier who were fighting against the evil in the straightforward, blunt way. Lowell was as interested as they in having the wrongs righted; but he was more cool-headed than the rest. He considered the matter. A joke, he said to himself, will carry the crowd ten times as quickly as a serious protest; and people will listen to one of their own number, a common, every-day, sensible fellow with a spark of wit in him, where they would go away bored by polished and cultured writing full of Latin quotations. This is how he came to begin the Biglow papers. Their instant success proved that he was quite right. Of course it was not long before shrewd people began to see that this fine humor, with its home-thrusts, was not in reality written by a country bumpkin. Through the rough dialect and homely way of stating the case, there shone the fine intellect of a cultivated and skillful writer. The _Post_ guessed that James Russell Lowell was the real author. This was regarded only as a rumor, however, and many people scouted the idea that a young poet, whose books sold only in small numbers and were known only to literary people, could have written anything as good as this. "I have heard it demonstrated in the pauses of a concert," wrote Lowell afterward, "that I was utterly incompetent to have written anything of the kind." It was early in this same summer of 1846 that Lowell made his contract to write regularly for the _Anti-Slavery Standard_; and he soon began sending the "Biglow" poems to that paper instead of to the _Courier_. The most popular of the whole series of poems by Hosea Biglow was the one on John P. Robinson. Robinson was a worthy gentleman who happened to come out publicly on the side of a political wire-puller. Immediately Hosea caught up his name and wrote a comic poem on voting for a bad candidate for office. Looked at in that light, the poem applies just as well to political candidates to-day as it did then. Here are a few stanzas of the poem. You will want to turn to "Lowell's Poetical Works" and read the whole piece. WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. Guvener B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; But John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? We can't never choose him o' course--thet's flat; Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that, Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan-- He's been true to _one_ party--an' thet is himself; So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; He don't vally principle more'n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. The side of our country must ollers be took, An' President Polk, you know, _he_ is our country. An' the angel that writes all our sins in a book Puts the _debit_ to him, an' to us the _per contry_; And John P. Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. There is a story that Mr. Robinson couldn't go anywhere after this poem was published without hearing some one humming or reciting, Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. School children shouted it everywhere, people on the street repeated it as they met, and the funny rhyme was heard even in polite drawing-rooms, amid roars of laughter. Mr. Robinson went abroad, but scarcely had he landed in Liverpool before he heard a child crooning over to himself, Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. In Genoa, Italy, it was a parody, telling what John P.--Robinson he--would do down in Judee. CHAPTER VIII PARSON WILBUR In the course of time the "Biglow Papers" were published in book form. Not only was Lowell's name not yet connected publicly with the Yankee humor, but the poems were provided with an elaborate introduction, notes and comments, by the learned pastor of the church at Jaalam, Homer Wilbur. His notes and introduction are filled with Latin quotations, and he appears as much a scholar as Hosea Biglow does a natural. He says he tried to teach Hosea better English, but decided to let him work out his own ideas in his own way. Still, he endorses Hosea's principles, and is in every way thoroughly his friend. This Parson Wilbur is almost as much of a character in the book as Hosea himself, and his prose, printed at the beginning and end of each poem in small type, is almost as clear and effective and interesting as Hosea's poems. We are always tempted to skip anything printed in small type, and placed in brackets; but in this case that would be a great mistake. Speaking of "What Mr. Robinson Thinks," Parson Wilbur says, "A bad principle is comparatively harmless while it continues to be an abstraction, nor can the general mind comprehend it fully till it is printed in that large type which all men can read at sight, namely the life and character, the sayings and doings, of particular persons.... "Meanwhile, let us not forget that the aim of the true satirist is not to be severe upon persons, but only upon falsehood, and as Truth and Falsehood start from the same point, and sometimes even go along together for a little way, his business is to follow the path of the latter after it diverges, and to show her floundering in the bog at the end of it. Truth is quite beyond the reach of satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her, that she can no more be made ridiculous than an oak or a pine. The danger of the satirist is, that continual use may deaden his sensibility to the force of language. He becomes more and more liable to strike harder than he knows or intends. He may put on his boxing gloves, and yet forget that the older they grow, the more plainly may the knuckles inside be felt. Moreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is insensibly drawn to the crown of victory, whose tawdry tinsel glitters through the dust of the ring which obscures Truth's wreath of simple leaves." There is another very interesting passage which is said to be an extract from one of the Parson's sermons, describing the modern newspaper. "Wonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly, is the newspaper. To me, for example, sitting on the critical front bench of the pit, in my study here in Jaalam, the advent of my weekly journal is as that of a strolling theater, or rather of a puppet-show, on whose stage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, comedy, and farce of life are played in little. Behold the huge earth sent to me hebdomidally in a brown paper wrapper." You see that what he says is very learned in its choice of words; but if you read it carefully you will find it interesting. But after all, Parson Wilbur is a humorous character, though he has his sense, too. At the end of his introduction are some fragmentary notes which are intended as a general satire on editors of books. He goes on at some length to say that he thought he ought to have his picture printed in the book which he professes to be editing. But he has only two likenesses, one a black profile, the other a painting in which he is made cross-eyed. He speaks of it as "strabismus," which sounds very learned of course, and he goes on to explain that in actual fact this is not a bad thing, for he can preach very directly at his congregation, and no one will think the preacher has him particularly in his eye. He also says Mrs. Wilbur objected to having a cross-eyed picture reproduced, and he is therefore driven to take the position of those great people who refuse to have their features copied at all. Then he puts in a lot of absurd genealogical notes. At the beginning of the book there are also a number of imaginary notices of "the independent press." Of course there are no such papers as those mentioned, and the praise and the blame are alike satirical. In the original volume of "Biglow Papers," part of a page at the end of these "Notices of the Press" remained unfilled, and the printer asked Lowell if he could not send in something to occupy that space. As poetry came easiest, Lowell wrote a number of stanzas about "Zekle's Courtin'." There were only six stanzas in the original edition. Lowell wrote more, but told the printer to break off when the page was filled. This the printer did, and the stanzas which were not put in type were lost, as Lowell had kept no copy. This piece became so popular that friends urged the poet to finish the story, and he wrote a few more stanzas. Then he wrote still others. In the course of time it developed into the long poem printed with the second series of "Biglow Papers," under the title of "The Courtin'." This is the way it runs in the first version; but you will want to read it also in its complete form: Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender. He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle, His heart kep' goin' pitypat, But hern went pity Zekle. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on tother, An' on which one he felt the wust He could n't ha' told ye, nuther. Sez he, "I'd better call agin;" Sez she, "Think likely, _Mister_;" The last word pricked him like a pin, An'--wal, he up and kist her. When in the course of the publication of the second series of "Biglow Papers," twenty years after the first, it was announced that Parson Wilbur was dead, people who had read the first series felt very much as though they had lost a personal friend. The public had learned to love the pedantic, vain old man as if he were a real human being. Lowell had created in him a great character of fiction, almost as if he were a novelist instead of a poet. CHAPTER IX A FABLE FOR CRITICS Lowell's next attempt in the satirical and humorous line was a long poem written somewhat after the style of the old Latin fable writers, and hence called "A Fable for Critics." It was written in double rhymes, for the most part, which are very hard to make, and not altogether easy to read; but they help the humorous impression. This poem was published anonymously, and in it the author hits off all the prominent authors of the day, speaking as the god Apollo. Of course he did not attach his name to it, and as it appeared anonymously he felt that he could say what he liked--in other words, tell the truth about his friends and acquaintances, or at least give his opinion of them. Incidentally, he pokes fun at the literary fads of the day. Among other things, to give the impression that he was not the author of the poem, he puts in a free criticism of himself: There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb With a whole bale of _isms_ tied together with rhyme. He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders. The top of the hill he will never come nigh reaching Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching; His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell, And rattle away till he's old as Mathusalem, At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem. Evidently he thought that he paid too much attention to politics, as in the "Biglow Papers," and to lecturing, and various side issues, when he ought to be cultivating pure poetry more assiduously; or rather, he would have liked to be a simple poet and do nothing else, not even earn a living. The way he characterizes in this poem the great writers whom we know is both amusing and interesting, and he generally tells the truth. For instance, he writes-- There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge. The best of his criticisms are not satirical, but true and appreciative. Thus, Hawthorne: There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and rare That you hardly at first see the strength that is there; A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet, So earnest, so graceful, so lithe, and so fleet, Is worth a descent from Olympus to meet. His reference to Whittier, too, is a noble tribute by one poet to another: There is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement heart Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart, And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect, Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect. Bryant was the oldest of the American poets, and the generation to which Lowell belonged had been taught to look up to him as the head of American poetical literature. Of course the younger poets felt that they ought to receive a share of the homage, and perhaps they were a little jealous of Bryant. There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as dignified, As a smooth, silent iceberg that never is ignified, Save when by reflection 't is kindled o' nights With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Lights. This is not at all complimentary, it would seem, but a little farther along Lowell makes up for it in part by saying-- But, my dear little bardlings, don't prick up your ears, Nor suppose I would rank you and Bryant as peers; If I call him an iceberg I don't mean to say, There is nothing in that which is grand in its way; He is almost the one of your poets that knows How much grace, strength, and dignity lie in Repose. You will remember that in one of his college letters, written while he was at Concord because rusticated, Lowell did not seem to care for Emerson. He afterward became his great admirer, and in this fable leads off with Emerson, saying: There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on, Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord knows, Is some of it pr--No, 'tis not even prose. Irving and Holmes are two more of his favorites. Of the first he says: What! Irving? Thrice welcome, warm heart and fine brain, You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair. Holmes he happily hits off thus: There's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit; A Leyden jar always full charged, from which flit The electrical tingles of hit after hit. His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satiric; In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes That are trodden upon are your own or your foe's. And he ends by saying: Nature fits all her children with something to do; He who would write and can't write, can surely review, Can set up a small booth as critic and sell us his Petty conceit and his pettier jealousies. Lowell was a good critic, and clearly saw the merit of the really great writers of his time. We have quoted his characterizations of those he admires. His keen thrusts at those who are not half as great as they would have us believe are both amusing and true, and no doubt made their victims smart sharply enough, for instance that-- One person whose portrait just gave the least hint Its original had a most horrible squint. CHAPTER X THE TRUEST POETRY While Lowell was becoming famous indirectly as the anonymous author of the "Biglow Papers" and "A Fable for Critics," he was writing and publishing over his own name sweet, simple lines that came straight from his heart and which will no doubt be remembered when the uncouth Yankee dialect of Hosea Biglow and the hard rhymes of the "Fable" are forgotten. The simpler a true poet is the more beautiful and really poetic he is likely to be. The simplest thing Lowell ever wrote was "The First Snow-Fall," composed in 1847 after the death of his little daughter Blanche, with the sorrow for whose loss was mingled the joy at the coming of another child. THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood. Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below. Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high. I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar that renewed our woe. And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!" Then with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow. Lowell's greatest poem, "The Vision of Sir Launfal," was written in the same simple, beautiful spirit of "The First Snow-Fall," and that is why we all like to read it over and over again. "Sir Launfal" was a favorite with Mrs. Lowell from the beginning. She probably knew better that it was a great poem than the poet himself did. The "Prelude" to the first part is beautiful because it contains so much that cannot but touch the heart of every one, however he may dislike poetry. A great poem like this cannot be read hastily, nor must we stop with reading it once. Great poetry must be read so many times that it is committed entirely to memory before we begin to reach the end of the beauties in it. Each time we reread we see new beauties, we feel new thrills. Over his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay; Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flashes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream. The first time you read this passage it may mean little to you; but as you read again and again you gradually picture in your mind a grand cathedral, just filling with people for the morning worship. The organist begins with a few light notes, fanciful, merely suggestive; then louder and louder swells the strain; the music begins to bring up before your mind pictures of waterfalls, cities, men and women with passionate hearts; at last, in the grand flood of the music, you forget yourself, the world around you, the church, the thronging congregation, everything. After this pretty and suggestive prelude, describing the musician, we read such passages as this, which suggest the theme as by a "faint auroral flash": And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays. A little farther along the music seems to broaden and deepen: Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it. You must read the rest of the poem for yourself, ever remembering that to read poetry so that you understand it and love it means that you yourself are a poet at heart; and if you come to love a great poem you may be proud of your achievement. CHAPTER XI PROFESSOR, EDITOR, AND DIPLOMAT There was a touching and very warm affection between Longfellow and Lowell. Mrs. Lowell says of it, "I have never seen such a beautiful friendship between men of such distinct personalities, though closely linked together by mutual tastes and affections. They criticise and praise each other's performances with frankness not to be surpassed, and seem to have attained that happy height of faith where no misunderstanding, no jealousy, no reserve exists." Often in his diary Longfellow speaks of "walking to see Lowell," who was either "musing before his fire in his study," or occupied in his "celestial study, with its pleasant prospect through the small square windows." Longfellow was some dozen years the elder; and when the time came that he wished to retire from the professorship of belles-lettres in Harvard College, he was very desirous that Lowell should take the place. There were others who wanted it; but it was arranged that Lowell should become Longfellow's successor. Lowell had never before been a professor and he did not particularly like the work. In 1867 he speaks of "beginning my annual dissatisfaction of lecturing next week." Still, he was popular with the students and highly successful because of his fine gift of literary criticism. Here, for instance, is his definition of poetry: "Poetry, as I understand it, is the recognition of something new and true in thought or feeling, the recollection of some profound experience, the conception of some heroic action, the creation of something beautiful and pathetic." In his diary Longfellow sometimes refers to Mrs. Lowell, "slender and pale as a lily"; and once when he and Charles Sumner had gone to see Lowell and found that he was not at home, Longfellow adds, "but we saw his gentle wife, who, I fear, is not long for this world." His words were prophetic. She gradually failed in strength. Of their four children, three died while mere babes. In 1853 Mrs. Lowell herself died. The appointment to Longfellow's professorship did not come until a little over a year after the death of Mrs. Lowell. During her life Mr. Lowell's income was very small and irregular, a few hundred dollars a year in payment of royalties on his books and for articles and poems contributed to various periodicals. With his appointment to the Harvard professorship he became financially independent for the first time. To prepare for it he went abroad, spending most of his time at Dresden. He returned sooner than he expected, and for a reason that very well illustrates his business habits. When he set out he had a limited amount of money. This he placed with London bankers, arranging to draw on them for such sums as he might need from time to time. He asked that when he had drawn down to a certain sum the bankers should notify him, and then he would immediately prepare to return home. He settled down, and thought that he was getting on moderately well and had a considerable sum still to draw. What was his surprise when he was notified by his bankers that he had drawn his account down to the amount he had mentioned! As there was nothing better for him to do, he packed his trunk and went home. Some years after that, he received a letter from these London bankers informing him that an error had been made in his account, and that a draft for a hundred pounds sterling (five hundred dollars) which had been drawn by some other person named Lowell had by mistake been charged to his account. This money, with compound interest, was now at his disposal. The bankers suggested, however, that if he was not in immediate need of the money, they would use it for an admirable investment they knew of which might considerably increase it within a year. At the end of a year he received a draft for seven hundred pounds. This he used to refurnish Elmwood. "Now, you, who are always preaching figures and Poor Richard, and business habits," said he, in telling the story to some friends, "what do you say to that? If I had kept an account and known how it stood, _I should have spent that money_ and you would not now be sitting in those easy chairs, or walking on Wilton carpet. No; hang accounts and figures!" In 1857 the _Atlantic Monthly_ was started, and Lowell was made editor, with a salary of three thousand dollars a year, of course in addition to his salary as a Harvard professor. Though he was the editor, he recognized that the success of the magazine would be made by Holmes. Said he, "You see, the doctor is like a bright mountain stream that has been dammed up among the hills and is waiting for an outlet into the Atlantic. You will find that he has a wonderful store of thought--serious, comic, pathetic, and poetic,--of comparisons, figures, and illustrations. I have seen nothing of his preparation, but I imagine he is ready. It will be something wholly new, and his reputation as a prose writer will date from this magazine." When you recollect the success of the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table" you cannot help remarking that Lowell was a veritable prophet. President Hayes, soon after his inauguration, offered Lowell an appointment as minister to Austria, but Lowell declined. When he was asked if he would accept an appointment as minister to Spain, he consented, and thither he went in the early part of President Hayes' administration. After a time he was transferred to London, where he became a striking diplomatic figure. He was one of the most popular and polished gentlemen ever sent as ambassador to a European nation, and as such his presence at the Court of Saint James was highly appreciated by the English people. When, in 1884, on the election of Cleveland to the presidency, he prepared to leave London, many glowing tributes were paid him by the English press, but none was more hearty than this, printed in _Punch_: Send you away? No, Lowell, no. That phrase, indeed, is scarce well chosen. We're glad, of course, to have you go More like a brother than a cousin; True, we must "speed the parting guest," If such a guest from us _must_ sever; But what we all should like the best Would be to keep you here forever. You've won our hearts; your words, your ways, Are what we like. Without desiring To sicken you with fulsome praise, We think you've seen no signs of tiring. Of graceful speech, of pleasant lore, How much to you the English mind owes! We're sad to think we'll see no more Of you--save through your Study Windows. Well, well, the best of friends must part; That's commonplace, like Gray, but true, sir. Commend us to the Yankee heart; If you can come again, why, _do_, sir. What Biglow calls our "English sarse," Is not _all_ tarts and bitters, is it? Farewell!--if from us you must pass, But try, _do_ try, another visit! After his return from England, Mr. Lowell did comparatively little literary work. Some years before this, he had married the lady who was educating his only daughter. He now spent the most of his time at Elmwood among his books and in the society of his friends. In 1888 a volume of his later poems appeared, bearing the title of "Heartsease and Rue." About the same time "Democracy," a collection of the addresses which he had delivered in England, was published. But neither of these volumes added materially to his fame. On the twelfth of August, 1891, the famous poet, essayist, and man of affairs died. He was nearly seventy-three years of age. * * * * * [NOTE.--The thanks of the publishers are due Messrs. Harper & Brothers for permission to use extracts from "Letters of James Russell Lowell, edited by Charles Eliot Norton," and to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. for permission to use extracts from the Poetical Works of Lowell.] THE STORY OF BAYARD TAYLOR [Illustration: BAYARD TAYLOR.] BAYARD TAYLOR CHAPTER I HIS BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD Bayard Taylor was born in the country village of Kennett Square, Chester County, Pennsylvania, Jan. 11, 1825, "the year when the first locomotive successfully performed its trial trip. I am, therefore," he says, "just as old as the railroad." He was descended from Robert Taylor, a rich Friend, or Quaker, who had come to Pennsylvania with William Penn in 1681, and settled near Brandywine Creek. Bayard's grandfather married a Lutheran of pure German blood, and on that account was expelled from the Society of Friends, which at that time had very strict rules regarding the marriage of its members. Although the family still used the peculiar speech of the Quakers, and clung to the Quaker principles of peace and order, none of them ever returned to the society. When Bayard was four years old, the family moved to a farm about a mile from the village. There they lived, until, years afterward, the successful traveler and poet bought an estate near by and built a magnificent house upon it, into which he received his father and mother and brothers and sisters, with that open-hearted generosity and hospitality which was so much a part of his nature. He was the fourth child of his parents; but the three older children had died in infancy, and he remained as the eldest of the family. Chester County, Pennsylvania, has always been a rich farming region, peopled by solid, well-to-do farmers, many of whom are Quakers. Here the northern elms toss their arms to the southern cypresses, as the poet has it; the two climates seem to meet and mingle, in a sort of calm, neutral zone, and the vegetation of the North is united with the vegetation of the South, to produce a peculiar richness and variety. In such surroundings the boy grew up, a farmer's lad, and learned that love of nature which was a part of his being till the day he died. "The child," says he, "that has tumbled into a newly plowed furrow never forgets the smell of the fresh earth.... Almost my first recollection is of a swamp, into which I went barelegged at morning, and out of which I came, when driven by hunger, with long stockings of black mud, and a mask of the same. If the child was missed from the house, the first thing that suggested itself was to climb upon a mound which overlooked the swamp. Somewhere among the tufts of rushes and the bladed leaves of the calamus, a little brown ball was sure to be seen moving, now dipping out of sight, now rising again, like a bit of drift on the rippling green. It was my head. The treasures I there collected were black terrapins with orange spots, baby frogs the size of a chestnut, thrush's eggs, and stems of purple phlox." He loved his home with a passionate intensity; but he also had yearnings for the unknown world beyond the horizon. "I remember," says he, "as distinctly as if it were yesterday the first time this passion was gratified. Looking out of the garret window, on a bright May morning, I discovered a row of slats which had been nailed over the shingles for the convenience of the carpenters in roofing the house, and had not been removed. Here was, at least, a chance to reach the comb of the steep roof, and take my first look abroad into the world! Not without some trepidation I ventured out, and was soon seated astride of the sharp ridge. Unknown forests, new fields and houses, appeared to my triumphant view. The prospect, though it did not extend more than four miles in any direction, was boundless. Away in the northwest, glimmering through the trees, was a white object, probably the front of a distant barn; but I shouted to the astonished servant girl, who had just discovered me from the garden below, 'I see the Falls of Niagara!'" He was a sensitive child and had a horror of dirty hands, "and," says he, "my first employments--picking stones and weeding corn--were rather a torture to this superfine taste." In his mother, however, he had a friend who understood and protected him. So his life on the farm was as happy as it well could be, in spite of its roughness. He himself has described it with a zest which no one else could lend it. "Almost every field had its walnut tree, melons were planted among the corn, and the meadow which lay between never exhausted its store of wonders. Besides, there were eggs to hide at Easter; cherries and strawberries in May; fruit all summer; fishing parties by torchlight; lobelia and sumac to be gathered, dried and sold for pocket money; and in the fall, chestnuts, persimmons, wild grapes, cider, and the grand butchering after frost came, so that all the pleasures I knew were incidental to a farmer's life. The books I read came from the village library, and the task of helping to 'fodder' on the dark winter evenings was lightened by the anticipation of sitting down to 'Gibbon's Rome' or 'Thaddeus of Warsaw' afterwards." He was fond of reading, and especially fond of poetry, and his wife in her biography says: "In the evening after he had gone to bed, his mother would hear him repeating poem after poem to his brother, who slept in the same room with him." CHAPTER II SCHOOL LIFE Bayard had the advantage of regular attendance at the country schools near his father's home, with two or three years at the local academy; but his father could not afford to send him to college. He enjoyed his school life, and in after years wrote to one of his early Quaker teachers thus: "I have never forgotten the days I spent in the little log schoolhouse and the chestnut grove behind it, and I have always thought that some of the poetry I then copied from thy manuscript books has kept an influence over all my life since. There was one verse in particular which has cheered and encouraged me a thousand times when prospects seemed rather gloomy. It ran thus: 'O, why should we seek to anticipate sorrow By throwing the flowers of the present away, And gathering the dark-rolling, cloudy to-morrow To darken the generous sun of to-day?' Thou seest I have good reason to remember those old times, and to be grateful to thee for encouraging instead of checking the first developments of my mind." You may easily guess from this letter that Bayard's school life was very sedate and Quakerish. Nearly all the people in Kennett Square were Quakers, and though Bayard's father and mother were not, they had all the Quaker habits. Among other things, he was taught the wickedness of all kinds of swearing. His mother "talked so earnestly on this point that his mind became full of it; his observation and imagination were centered upon oaths, until at last he was so fascinated that he became filled with an uncontrollable desire to swear. So he went out into a field, beyond hearing, and there delivered himself of all the oaths he had ever heard or could invent, and in as loud a voice as possible." After this he felt quite satisfied to swear no more. When Bayard was about twelve years old, his father was elected sheriff of the county and went to live at West Chester for three years. The young lad was sent to Bolmar's Academy at that place; and when the family went back to the farm he was sent to the academy at Unionville, three or four miles from his home. Here, at the age of sixteen, he finished his regular schooling. During the last two years he studied Latin and French, and during the last year Spanish. His Latin and French he continued by private study for three years longer. He now went back to work on the farm for a season, and, as he says, "first felt the delight and refreshment of labor in the open air. I was then able to take the plow handle, and I still remember the pride I felt when my furrows were pronounced even and well turned. Although it was already decided that I should not make farming the business of my life, I thrust into my plans a slender wedge of hope that I might one day own a bit of ground, for the luxury of having, if not the profit of cultivating, it. The aroma of the sweet soil had tinctured my blood; the black mud of the swamp still stuck to my feet." After a few weeks of farm life he was apprenticed to a printer in West Chester for a term of four years. CHAPTER III HIS FIRST POEM It is the will and the spirit that makes every life seem happy or the reverse. If Bayard Taylor had remained a farmer in Kennett Square all his life, he would not have looked back on his early experiences with so much pleasure as he did. Indeed, we may safely say that he would not have liked his life so well at the time had it not been for his buoyant and hopeful nature, which made him feel that he was destined for higher and better things, for a world beyond the horizon. Already he was a poet, with all a poet's aspirations and eagerness. A year before he left the academy his first printed poem appeared in the _Saturday Evening Post_ of Philadelphia. It is not wonderful as poetry. Yet we read it with interest, because it shows so plainly the earnest and ambitious, yet cheerful, nature of the boy. He did not merely sit and hope; he was determined to _win his way_. It is entitled, "Soliloquy of a Young Poet." A dream!--a fleeting dream! Childhood has passed, with all its joy and song, And my life's frail bark on youth's impetuous stream Is swiftly borne along. High hopes spring up within; Hopes of the future--thoughts of glory--fame, Which prompt my mind to toil, and bid me win That dream--a deathless name. * * * * * I know it all is vain, That earthly honors ever must decay, That all the laurels bought by toil and pain Must pass with earth away. But still my spirit high, Longing for fame won by the immortal mind-- On fancy's pinion fain would scale the sky, And leave dull earth behind. Yes, I would write my name With the star's burning ray on heaven's broad scroll, That I might still the restless thirst for fame Which fills my soul. Bayard Taylor was not a great genius, and he did not succeed in winning quite all of that high fame for which he struggled throughout his life. He never expected to have earth's blessings showered upon him without working for them; and the fact that he failed somewhat in his highest ambition--to be a far-famed poet--makes his life seem nearer to our own. We call him a great man because he did well what came to him to do, working hard all his life. In this we can all follow his example. CHAPTER IV SELF-EDUCATION AND AMBITION "The Village Record" (to the proprietor of which Bayard was apprenticed) was printed upon an old-fashioned hand press, and it was the business of the apprentices to set the type, help make up the paper, pull the forms, and send the weekly issues off to the subscribers. The mechanical work was soon learned, and the young apprentice found considerable time for reading. He now began that work of self-education which he carried on through his whole life. Already, before he left the academy, he had become acquainted with the works of Charles Dickens, and had secured the great man's autograph. "I went to the Academy," says he, "where I received a letter that had come on Saturday. It was from Hartford; I knew instantly it was from Dickens. It was double, and sealed neatly with a seal bearing the initials C.D. In the inside was a sheet of satin notepaper, on which was written, 'Faithfully yours, Charles Dickens, City Hotel, Hartford, Feb. 10, 1842'; and below, 'with the compliments of Mr. Dickens.' I can long recollect the thrill of pleasure I experienced on seeing the autograph of one whose writings I so ardently admired, and to whom, in spirit, I felt myself attached; and it was not without a feeling of ambition that I looked upon it that as he, a humble clerk, had risen to be the guest of a mighty nation, so I, a humble pedagogue [he was then pupil teacher at the Academy], might by unremitted and arduous intellectual and moral exertion become a light, a star, among the names of my country. May it be!" When he went to work at West Chester his reading was chiefly poetry and travel. The result of his "fireside travels" we shall soon see. The way in which he read poetry may be gathered from the following extract from a letter to one of his comrades: "By the way, what do you think of Bryant as a poet, and especially of 'Thanatopsis? For my part, my admiration knows no bounds. There is an all-pervading love of nature, a calm and quiet but still deep sense of everything beautiful. And then the high and lofty feeling which mingles with the whole! It seems to me when I read his poetry that our hearts are united, and that I can feel every throb of his answered back by mine. This is what makes a poet immortal. There are but few who make me feel so thrillingly their glowing thoughts as Bryant, Longfellow, Whittier, and Lowell (all Americans, you know), and these I _love_. It is strange, the sway a master mind has over those who have felt his power." Another poet of whom he was an enthusiastic admirer was Tennyson. He had read a criticism by Poe. "I still remember," he wrote afterward, "the eagerness with which as a boy of seventeen, after reading his paper, I sought for the volume; and I remember also the strange sense of mental dazzle and bewilderment I experienced on the first perusal of it. I can only compare it to the first sight of a sunlit landscape through a prism; every object has a rainbow outline. One is fascinated to look again and again, though the eyes ache." He contributed several poems to the _Saturday Evening Post_, and then wrote to Rufus W. Griswold, who, besides being connected with the _Post_, was the editor of _Graham's Magazine_, the leading literary periodical at that time. Those of us who know the life of Poe remember Griswold as the man who pretended to be his friend, but who after Poe's death wrote his life, filling it with all the scandalous falsehoods he could hear of or invent. To Bayard Taylor, however, he seems to have been a helpful friend. "I have met with strange things since I wrote last," writes Taylor to a school friend in March, 1843. "Last November I wrote to Mr. Griswold, sending a poem to be inserted in the _Post_. However, I said that it was my highest ambition to appear in _Grahams Magazine_. Some time ago I got an answer. He said he had read my lines 'To the Brandywine,' which appeared in the _Post_, with much pleasure, and would have put them in the magazine if he had seen them in time. He said the poem I sent him would appear in April in the magazine, and requested me to contribute often and to call on him when I came to town. I never was more surprised in my life." He went to Philadelphia the next autumn, and consulted Griswold regarding a poetic romance he had written--about a thousand lines in length--and Griswold advised him to publish it in a volume with other poems. He wrote to a friend to inquire how much the printing and binding would cost, and finding that the expense would not be very great, he concluded to ask his friends to subscribe for the volume. When he had received enough subscriptions to pay the cost of publication, he brought the volume out. It was entitled "Ximena; or, The Battle of the Sierra Morena, and Other Poems. By James Bayard Taylor." (The James was added by mistake by Griswold.) It was dedicated "To Rufus W. Griswold, as an expression of gratitude for the kind encouragement he has shown the author." The poems contained in this volume were never republished in after years. The book was fairly successful, and was distinctly a step upward; but it did not fill the young writer with undue conceit. In writing to a friend of his ambition at this time, he says: "It is useless to deny that I have cherished hopes of occupying at some future day a respectable station among our country's poets. I believe all poets are possessed in a greater or less degree of ambition; it is inseparable from the nature of poetry. And though I may be mistaken, I think this ambition is never given without a mind of sufficient power to sustain it, and to achieve its lofty object. Although I am desirous of the world's honors, yet with all the sincerity I possess I declare that my highest hope is to do good; to raise the hopes of the desponding; to soothe the sorrows of the afflicted. I believe that poetry owns as its true sphere the happiness of mankind." What could be nobler and more sensible than that! Even his earliest poetry has in it no false, slipshod sentiment. Its subject is nature and heroic incident, and is indeed a faithful attempt to carry out the aim so well stated above. Some have doubted whether Bayard Taylor really had the power which he says he thinks is given to all who have the ambition which he felt. But none can fail to admire the spirit in which he worked, and to feel satisfied with the results, whatever they may be. CHAPTER V A TRAVELER AT NINETEEN It was not as a poet, however, that Bayard Taylor was to win his first fame. At the age of nineteen, when he had but half completed his four years' term of apprenticeship, he made up his mind to go to Europe. He had no money; but that did not appear to him an insurmountable obstacle. He thought he could work his way by writing letters for the newspapers. So he went up to Philadelphia and visited all the editors. For three days he went about; but all in vain. The editors gave him little encouragement. He was on the point of going home, but with no thought of giving up his project. At last two different editors offered him each fifty dollars in advance for twelve letters, and the proprietor of _Graham's Magazine_ paid him forty dollars for some poems. So he went back to Kennett Square the jubilant possessor of a hundred and forty dollars. He succeeded in buying his release from the articles of apprenticeship, and immediately prepared to set out on foot for New York, where he and two others were to take ship for England. That was the beginning of a career of travel which lasted many years, and brought him both fame and money. In a delightful essay on "The First Journey I Ever Made," he says that while other great travelers have felt in childhood an inborn propensity to go out into the world to see the regions beyond, he had the intensest desire to climb upward--so that without shifting his horizon, he could yet extend it, and take in a far wider sweep of vision. "I envied every bird," he goes on, "that sat singing on the topmost bough of the great, century-old cherry tree; the weathercock on our barn seemed to me to whirl in a higher region of the air; and to rise from the earth in a balloon was a bliss which I would almost have given my life to enjoy." His desire to ascend soon took the practical form of wishing to climb a mountain. By great economy he saved up fifteen dollars, and with a companion who had twenty-seven dollars (enormous wealth!) he set out for a walking tour to the Catskills, with the hope of going even so far as the Connecticut valley. No doubt the feelings he experienced in setting out on that excursion, at the end of his first year as an apprentice, would apply equally well to the greater journey he was to attempt a year later. "The steamboat from Philadelphia deposited me at Bordentown, on the forenoon of a warm, clear day. I buckled on my knapsack, inquired the road to Amboy, and struck off, resolutely, with the feelings of an explorer on the threshold of great discoveries. The sun shone brightly, the woods were green, and the meadows were gay with phlox and buttercups. Walking was the natural impulse of the muscles; and the glorious visions which the next few days would unfold to me, drew me onward with a powerful fascination. Thus, mile after mile went by; and early in the afternoon I reached Hightstown, very hot and hungry, and a little footsore. Twenty-five cents only had been expended thus far--and was I now to dine for half a dollar? The thought was banished as rapidly as it came, and six cakes, of remarkable toughness and heaviness, put an effectual stop to any further promptings of appetite that day. "The miles now became longer, and the rosy color of my anticipations faded a little. The sandy level of the country fatigued my eyes; the only novel objects I had yet discovered were the sweep-poles of the wells....The hot afternoon was drawing to a close, and I was wearily looking out for Spotswood, when a little incident occurred, the memory of which has ever since been as refreshing to me as the act in itself was at the time. "I stopped to get a drink from a well in front of a neat little farmhouse. While I was awkwardly preparing to let down the bucket, a kind, sweet voice suddenly said: 'Let me do it for you.' I looked up, and saw before me a girl of sixteen, with blue eyes, wavy auburn hair, and slender form--not strikingly handsome, but with a shy, pretty face, which blushed the least bit in the world, as she met my gaze. "Without waiting for my answer, she seized the pole and soon drew up the dripping bucket, which she placed upon the curb. 'I will get you a glass,' she then said, and darted into the house--reappearing presently with a tumbler in one hand and a plate of crisp tea-cakes in the other. She stood beside me while I drank, and then extended the plate with a gesture more inviting than any words would have been. I had had enough of cake for one day; but I took one, nevertheless, and put a second in my pocket, at her kind persuasion. "This was the first of many kindnesses which I have experienced from strangers all over the wide world; and there are few, if any, which I shall remember longer. "At sunset I had walked about twenty-two miles, and had taken to the railroad track by way of change, when I came upon a freight train, which had stopped on account of some slight accident. "'Where are you going?' inquired the engineer. "'To Amboy.' "'Take you there for a quarter!' "It was too tempting; so I climbed upon the tender and rested my weary legs, while the pines and drifted sands flew by us an hour or more-- and I had crossed New Jersey!" This little description may be taken as a type of the way in which he traveled and the way in which he described his travels--a way that almost immediately made him famous, and caused the public to call for volume after volume from his pen. CHAPTER VI TWO YEARS IN EUROPE FOR FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS A journey to Europe was not the common thing in those days that it has since become, and no American had then thought of tramping over historic scenes with little or no money. So this journey, projected and carried out by Bayard Taylor, was really an original and daring undertaking. It was all the more remarkable from the fact that the people of the community where he had been born and brought up had scarcely ever gone farther from their homesteads than Philadelphia. In New York he visited all the editors with an introduction from Nathaniel P. Willis; but none of them gave him any encouragement, except Horace Greeley, the famous editor of the _Tribune_. Here is Bayard Taylor's own description of the interview: "When I first called upon this gentleman, whose friendship it is now my pride to claim, he addressed me with that honest bluntness which is habitual to him: 'I am sick of descriptive letters, and will have no more of them. But I should like some sketches of German life and society, after you have been there and know something about it. If the letters are good, you shall be paid for them, but don't write until you know something.' This I faithfully promised, and kept my promise so well that I am afraid the eighteen letters which I afterward sent from Germany, and which were published in the _Tribune_, were dull in proportion as they were wise." The journey was indeed to Taylor a serious thing. "It did not and does not seem like a pleasure excursion," he writes; "it is a duty, a necessity." On the 1st of July, 1844, Taylor and his two companions embarked on the ship "Oxford," bound for Liverpool. They had taken a second-cabin passage, the second cabin being a small place amidships, flanked with bales of cotton and fitted with temporary and rough planks. They paid ten dollars each for the passage, but were obliged to find their own bedding and provisions. These latter the ship's cook would prepare for them for a small compensation. All expenses included, they found they could reach Liverpool for twenty-four dollars apiece. At last they were actually afloat. "As the blue hills of Neversink faded away, and sank with the sun behind the ocean, and I felt the first swells of the Atlantic," he writes, "and the premonitions of seasickness, my heart failed me for the first and last time. The irrevocable step was taken; there was no possibility of retreat, and a vague sense of doubt and alarm possessed me. Had I known anything of the world, this feeling would have been more than momentary; but to my ignorance and enthusiasm all things seemed possible, and the thoughtless and happy confidence of youth soon returned." The experiences of the next two years he has also told briefly and tersely. "After landing in Liverpool," he says, "I spent three weeks in a walk through Scotland and the north of England, and then traveled through Belgium, and up the Rhine to Heidelberg, where I arrived in September, 1844. The winter of 1844-45 I spent in Frankfurt on the Main [in the family in which N.P. Willis's brother Richard was boarding], and by May I was so good a German that I was often not suspected of being a foreigner. I started off again on foot, a knapsack on my back, and visited the Brocken, Leipsic, Dresden, Prague, Vienna, Salzburg, and Munich, returning to Frankfurt in July. A further walk over the Alps and through Northern Italy took me to Florence, where I spent four months learning Italian. Thence I wandered, still on foot, to Rome and Civita Vecchia, where I bought a ticket as deck-passenger to Marseilles, and then tramped on to Paris through the cold winter rains. I arrived there in February, 1846, and returned to America after a stay of three months in Paris and London. I had been abroad two years, and had supported myself entirely during the whole time by my literary correspondence. The remuneration which I received was in all $500, and only by continual economy and occasional self-denial was I able to carry out my plan. I saw almost nothing of intelligent European society; my wanderings led me among the common people. But literature and art were nevertheless open to me, and a new day had dawned in my life." CHAPTER VII THE HARDSHIP OF TRAMP TRAVEL Making a journey without money, without knowing the language of the people, and without any experience in travel is not at all the sort of thing it seems to one who has not gone through its toils, but only sees the glow and glamour of success. We cannot pass on without giving some of the details of commonplace hardship which Bayard Taylor endured on this first European journey. Taylor knew a little book French, but neither he nor either of his companions could speak it or understand it when spoken, and they knew nothing at all of German. When they reached Frankfurt they tried to inquire the way to the house of the American consul. At first they were not at all able to make themselves understood; but finally they found a man who could speak a little French and who told them that the consul resided in "Bellevue" street. It was in reality "Shone Aussicht," which is the German for beautiful view, as Bellevue is the French. But the young travelers knew nothing of this. They went in search of "Bellevue" street, and though they wandered over the greater part of the town and suburbs, they did not find it. At last they decided to try all the streets which had a beautiful view, and in this way soon found the consul's house. Not only did they have very little money in any case, but they were frequently obliged to wait months for remittances. While in Italy, Taylor's funds ran so low, and he became so discouraged, that he gave up going to Greece, as he had at first planned. He was expecting a draft for a hundred dollars; but that would barely pay his debts. "My clothes," he writes to one of his companions, "are as bad as yours were when you got to Heidelberg, nearly dropping from me; and I cannot get them mended. What is worse, they must last till I get to Paris." Later he speaks of spending three dollars for a pair of trousers, as those he wore would not hold together any longer. In despair, he exclaims, "It is really a horrible condition. If there ever were any young men who made the tour of Europe under such difficulties and embarrassments as we, I should like to see them." But all this only urged him to greater efforts. "I tell you what, Frank," he writes almost in his next letter, "I am getting a real rage in me to carve out my own fortune, and not a poor one, either. Sometimes I almost desire that difficulties should be thrown in my way, for the sake of the additional strength gained in surmounting them." These words were written from Italy; but yet harder things were in store for him. "I reached London for the second time about the middle of March, 1846," he writes in his paper on "A Young Author's Life in London," "after a dismal walk through Normandy and a stormy passage across the Channel. I stood upon London Bridge, in the raw mist and the falling twilight, with a franc and a half in my pocket, and deliberated what I should do. Weak from sea-sickness, hungry, chilled, and without a single acquaintance in the great city, my situation was about as hopeless as it is possible to conceive. Successful authors in their libraries, sitting in cushioned chairs and dipping their pens into silver inkstands, may write about money with a beautiful scorn, and chant the praise of Poverty--the 'good goddess of Poverty,' as George Sand, making 50,000 francs a year, enthusiastically terms her;--but there is no condition in which the Real is so utterly at variance with the Ideal, as to be actually out of money, and hungry, with nothing to pawn and no friend to borrow from. Have you ever known it, my friend? If not, I could wish that you might have the experience for twenty-four hours, only once in your life." On this occasion Bayard Taylor went to a chop-house where he could get a wretched bed for a shilling. The next morning he took a sixpenny breakfast, and started out to look for work. By good fortune he met Putnam, the American publisher, who lent him a sovereign (five dollars) and gave him work that would enable him to earn his living until he could get money from America for his return passage. CHAPTER VIII HIS FIRST LOVE AND GREATEST SORROW At the very first school which Bayard Taylor attended there was a little Quaker girl who would whisper with a blush to her teacher, "May I sit beside Bayard?" Her name was Mary Agnew. As schoolmates and neighbors the two children grew up together; and in time Bayard began to confide to his diary his dream of happiness with her. Toward this object, all his thoughts and plans were gradually directed. Mary Agnew's father did not countenance this neighbor lover, however, and when Bayard set out for Europe he was not allowed to write to her. He sent messages through his mother, and occasionally heard from the young girl in the same way. On his return, however, he grew more bold, and soon became openly engaged to her. The romance is a sadly beautiful one; for this fair girl who was his inspiration during the years of his hardest struggles, finally fell into a decline and died just as he was beginning to earn the money that would have made them happy together. "I remember him," says a neighbor, speaking of the two at this time, "as a bright, blushing, diffident youth, just entering manhood; and with him I always associate that gentle and beautiful girl, with matchless eyes, who inspired many of his early lyrics, and whose death filled the nest of love with snow." Mary Agnew reminds us of Poe's beautiful Virginia Clemm, his "Annabel Lee." Grace Greenwood wrote of her as "a dark-eyed young girl with the rose yet unblighted on cheek and lip, with soft brown, wavy hair, which, when blown by the wind, looked like the hair oft given to angels by the old masters, producing a sort of halo-like effect about a lovely head." And Taylor at this time was evidently her match in looks as well as spirit. A German friend describes him thus: "He was a tall, slender, blooming young man, the very image of youthful beauty and purity. His intellectual head was surrounded by dark hair; the glance of his eyes was so modest, and yet so clear and lucid, that you seemed to look right into his heart." On his return from Europe, young Taylor found that his letters to the newspapers had attracted some attention, perhaps largely owing to the fact that one who was almost a boy had made the journey on foot, with little or no money. At the same time he had told his story in a simple, straightforward way, which proved him to be a good reporter. Friends advised him to gather the letters into a volume, which he did under the title, "Views Afoot; or Europe Seen with Knapsack and Staff." Within a year six editions were sold, and the sale continued large for a number of years. Yet this success, quick as it was, did not solve all his difficulties at once. He was anxious to earn a good living as soon as possible, that he might marry Mary Agnew. After looking the field over, he and a friend bought a weekly paper published in Phoenixville, a lively manufacturing town in the same county as his home. This, with the aid of his friend, he edited and managed for a year. He not only failed to make money, but accumulated debts which he was three years in paying off. At the same time he found that he could no longer endure a narrow country life. He tried to give his paper a literary tone; but the people did not want a literary paper. They cared more for local news and gossip, which he hated. The old ambition and aspiration to be and to do something really worth doing was still uppermost with him. In a letter to Mary Agnew he says: "Sometimes I feel as if there were a Providence watching over me, and as if an unseen and uncontrollable hand guided my actions. I have often dim, vague forebodings that an eventful destiny is in store for me; that I have vast duties yet to accomplish, and a wider sphere of action than that which I now occupy. These thoughts may be vain; they spring only from the ceaseless impulses of an upward-aspiring spirit; but if they _are_ real, and to be fulfilled, I shall the more need thy love and the gladness of thy dear presence." He wrote to his friends in New York about getting work there, but they did not encourage him much. Horace Greeley bluntly advised him to stay where he was. The editor of the _Literary World,_ however, offered him employment at five dollars a week. He thereupon sold out his interest in his country paper at a loss, and went to try his fortunes in New York. Before he had been there many weeks, Horace Greeley offered him a position on the _Tribune_ at twelve dollars a week. The connection thus begun lasted for the rest of his life. It was as the _Tribunes_ correspondent that he traveled all over the world. He was soon able to buy stock in the _Tribune_ company, and this was the foundation of his future fortune. He had many literary and other distinguished friends in New York. And during these first few years he worked very hard indeed, hoping soon to earn enough money to provide for Mary Agnew. In 1850, after three years in New York, he was able to set the date of their marriage. But it was postponed from time to time on account of her illness. At last he knew that she could never be well again; yet in any case he wished the marriage ceremony performed. They were accordingly married October 24, 1850; and two months later she was dead. CHAPTER IX "THE GREAT AMERICAN TRAVELER" It had been Bayard Taylor's boyhood ambition to become a great poet; but it seemed as if fate meant him for a great traveler. He was sorry that this was so: yet he was fond of travel, and never refused any opportunity to visit other lands. In 1849, when the California gold fever was at its height, he was sent by the _Tribune_ to the Pacific Coast. "I went," he says, "by way of the Isthmus of Panama--the route had just been opened--reached San Francisco in August, and spent five months in the midst of the rough, half-savage life of a new country. I lived almost entirely in the open air, sleeping on the ground with my saddle for a pillow, and sharing the hardships of the gold diggers, without taking part in their labors." On his return he gathered his letters into a volume entitled "Eldorado, or Adventures in the Path of Empire: comprising a voyage to California, via Panama; Life in San Francisco and Monterey; Pictures of the Gold Region, and Experiences of Mexican Travel." He now began to feel the strength and confidence of success; his brain was seething with new ideas, and he felt as if he could do that which would realize the destiny of which he had dreamed. But sorrow was already at his door. His hopes were for the time broken and thrown back by the death of Mary Agnew. In the summer of 1851 he found himself worn out and depressed. His health was shattered and his mind was overpowered. But a change and rest were at hand. The editors of the _Tribune_ suggested his going to Egypt and the Holy Land. In the autumn he set out, and spent the winter in ascending the Nile to Khartoum. He even went up the White Nile to the country of the Shillooks, a region then scarcely known to white men. Bayard Taylor fancied that he had two natures, one a southern nature and one a northern nature. Of course the northern nature was his regular and ordinary one. In one of his later journeys, when he had entered Spain from France and was sitting down to a breakfast of red mullet and oranges fresh from the trees, "straightway," he says, "I took off my northern nature as a garment, folded it and packed it neatly away in my knapsack, and took out in its stead the light, beribboned and bespangled southern nature, which I had not worn for eight or nine years." He donned this southern nature for the first time on his trip to California by way of Panama. Horace Greeley especially commended his letter from Panama. But it was during his journey in Egypt that he became most saturated with the south, and composed his "Poems of the Orient"--perhaps the best he ever wrote. He had not been in Alexandria a day and a half before he wrote to his mother that he had never known such a delicious climate. "The very air is a luxury to breathe," he said. "I am going to don the red cap and sash," he wrote from Cairo, "and sport a saber at my side. To-day I had my hair all cut within a quarter of an inch of the skin, and when I look in the glass I see a strange individual. Think of me as having no hair, a long beard, and a copper-colored face." So much like a native did he become that when he entered the bank in Constantinople for his letters and money, they addressed him in Turkish. He made the journey up the Nile on a boat with a wealthy German landowner, a Mr. Bufleb, who became to him like a brother, though he was nearly twice the age of Taylor. Some years later the young man married Mrs. Bufleb's niece. When he reached Constantinople he received a letter from the managers of the _Tribune_ suggesting that he go across Asia to Hong-Kong, China, and join the expedition of Commodore Perry to Japan. As the expedition would not reach Hong-Kong for some months, however, he had time to visit his German friend and go on to London. From London he returned through Spain and went by way of the Suez, Bombay, and Calcutta to China, stopping on the way to view the Himalayas. Commodore Perry made the young journalist "master's mate," and gave him a place on the flagship. This was necessary, because no one not a member of the navy was allowed to accompany the expedition. There is not space to detail the wonderful sights he saw or the interesting experiences he had. He reached New York, December 20, 1853, after an absence of more than two years, and found that in his absence he had become almost famous. His letters in the _Tribune_ had been read all over the country, and everybody wanted to know more of the "great American traveler." He at once prepared for the press three books. They were "A Journey to Central Africa; or, Life and Landscapes from Egypt to the Negro Kingdoms of the Nile "; "The Land of the Saracens; or, Pictures of Palestine, Asia Minor, Sicily, and Spain"; and "A Visit to India, China, and Japan in the Year 1853." He had hundreds of calls to lecture; and thereafter for several years he made lecturing his principal business. From his books and his lectures he received large sums of money, so that before he was thirty he had accumulated a modest fortune. In 1856 Bayard Taylor took his two sisters and his youngest brother to Europe. He left them in Germany, while he himself carried out a plan long in his mind, of visiting northern Sweden and Lapland in winter. The following summer he visited Norway, and later published the results of these journeys in "Northern Travel." While in Germany, after his trip to Sweden, he became engaged to Marie Hansen, daughter of Prof. Peter A. Hansen, the noted astronomer and founder of Erfurt Observatory. They were married in the following autumn, October 27, 1857. He now hurried home with his wife and prepared to build a house and lay out the country estate which he called Cedarcroft. The land had belonged to one of his ancestors, and he was very proud of his fine country house; but he found it a rather expensive enjoyment. CHAPTER X HIS POETRY We have seen how in youth Bayard Taylor conceived the ambition to be known as one of his country's great poets. He saw his books of travel sell by the hundred thousand; but while this brought him money and notoriety, he clung still to his poetry. He even felt annoyed when he heard himself spoken of as "the great American traveler" instead of the great American poet. The truth is, he had not been able to give to poetry the time or energy he could have wished; and he afterwards worked with desperate energy to recover those lost poetic opportunities. Yet in his busiest days he was always writing verses, which in the minds of excellent judges are the best he ever did. From time to time he published volumes of poetry, and with certain of his intimate friends he always maintained himself on the footing of a poet. We remember the publication of his first volume, entitled "Ximena," which he never cared to reprint in his collected works. During his first European trip he wrote a great deal. Some of his shorter poems he afterwards published under the title "Rhymes of Travel." The fate of a longer poem we must hear in his own words. "I had in my knapsack," he says, "a manuscript poem of some twelve hundred lines, called 'The Liberated Titan,'--the idea of which I fancied to be something entirely new in literature. Perhaps it was. I did not doubt for a moment that any London publisher would gladly accept it, and I imagined that its appearance would create not a little sensation. Mr. Murray gave the poem to his literary adviser, who kept it about a month, and then returned it with a polite message. I was advised to try Moxon; but, by this time, I had sobered down considerably, and did not wish to risk a second rejection. "I therefore solaced myself by reading the immortal poem at night, in my bare chamber, looking occasionally down into the graveyard, and thinking of mute, inglorious Miltons. "The curious reader may ask how I escaped the catastrophe of publishing the poem at last. That is a piece of good fortune for which I am indebted to the Rev. Dr. Bushnell, of Hartford. We were fellow-passengers on board the same ship to America, a few weeks later, and I had sufficient confidence in his taste to show him the poem. His verdict was charitable; but he asserted that no poem of that length should be given to the world before it had received the most thorough study and finish--and exacted from me a promise not to publish it within a year. At the end of that time I renewed the promise to myself for a thousand years." Of other poems written at that time he thought better. In the preface to his volume he says of them,--"They are faithful records of my feelings at the time, often noted down hastily by the wayside, and aspiring to no higher place than the memory of some pilgrim who may, under like circumstances, look upon the same scenes. An ivy leaf from a tower where a hero of old history may have dwelt, or the simplest weed growing over the dust that once held a great soul, is reverently kept for memories it inherited through the chance fortune of the wind-sown seed; and I would fain hope that these rhymes may bear with them a like simple claim to reception, from those who have given me their company through the story of my wanderings." Soon after he went to New York he began a series of Californian ballads, which were published anonymously in the _Literary World_, and attracted considerable attention. They appeared before he had made his trip to California; but while on that trip he wrote still others. At the same time he began several more ambitious poems, among them "Hylas," and just before he set out for Egypt he had another volume of poems ready for the press. It was entitled "A Book of Romances, Lyrics and Songs," and was published in Boston just after he set out on his Eastern journey. But while his volumes of travel sold edition after edition his volumes of verse scarcely paid expenses. The previous year, however,--1850,--he had had a bit of success which caused him no end of annoyance. Jenny Lind had been brought to America to sing, and her manager had offered a prize of $200 for the best song that might be written for her. "Bayard Taylor came to me one afternoon early in September," says Mr. R.H. Stoddard, "and confided to me the fact that he was to be declared the winner of this perilous prize, and that he foresaw a row. They will say it was given to me because Putnam, who is my publisher, is one of the committee, and because Ripley, who is my associate on the _Tribune_, is another.'" Mr. Stoddard kindly suggested to him that if he feared the results, he might substitute his (Stoddard's) name for the real one, and take the money while Stoddard got the abuse. He did not choose to do this, however, and the indignation of the seven or eight hundred disappointed contributors was unbounded. Taylor bore their abuse well enough, but he was heartily ashamed of the reputation which the poem brought him. CHAPTER XI "POEMS OF THE ORIENT" During the months he spent in Egypt, Syria, and Asia Minor, Bayard Taylor wrote his "Poems of the Orient," of which Mr. Stoddard says, "I thought, and I think so still when I read these spirited and picturesque poems, that Bayard Taylor had captured the poetic secret of the East as no English-writing poet but Byron had. He knew the East as no one can possibly know it from books." Certainly these poems of the East have a haunting ring that can never be forgotten. What more stirring than this Bedouin love song! From the desert I come to thee On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die, _Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold_! Or what more grand and affectionate than this from "Hassan to his Mare": Come, my beauty! come, my desert darling! On my shoulder lay thy glossy head! Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty, Here's the half of Hassan's scanty bread. Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty! And thou know'st my water-skin is free; Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, And my strength and safety lie in thee. Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses! Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye: Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle,-- Thou art proud he owns thee: so am I. Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses, Prancing with their diamond-studded reins; They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness When they course with thee the desert plains! Let the Sultan bring his famous horses, Let him bring his golden swords to me,-- Bring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem; He would offer them in vain for thee. We have seen Damascus, O my beauty! And the splendor of the Pashas there: What's their pomp and riches? Why, I would not Take them for a handful of thy hair! Another stirring poem of the East is "Tyre." The wild and windy morning is lit with lurid fire; The thundering surf of ocean beats on the rocks of Tyre,-- Beats on the fallen columns and round the headlands roars, And hurls its foamy volume along the hollow shores, And calls with hungry clamor, that speaks its long desire: "Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of Tyre?" In his "L'Envoi" at the end of these poems, Bayard Taylor gives us a hint of his meaning when he spoke of his "southern nature" as distinguished from his "northern nature." I found, among those Children of the Sun, The cipher of my nature,--the release Of baffled powers, which else had never won That free fulfillment, whose reward is peace. For not to any race or any clime Is the complete sphere of life revealed; He who would make his own that round sublime, Must pitch his tent on many a distant field. Upon his home a dawning lustre beams, But through the world he walks to open day, Gathering from every land the prismal gleams, Which, when united, form the perfect ray. CHAPTER XII BAYARD TAYLOR'S FRIENDSHIPS A biography of Bayard Taylor would not be complete without some account of his friendships. He was always on the best of terms with all living beings, and this subtle attraction of his nature was an important part of his greatness. In "Views Afoot" he tells of a charming little incident which is enough in itself to make us love the man. It occurred in Florence, Italy, where he was a stranger, a foreigner; and this makes the incident in itself seem the more wonderful. "I know of nothing," he writes, "that has given me a more sweet and tender delight than the greeting of a little child, who, leaving his noisy playmates, ran across the street to me, and taking my hand, which he could barely clasp in both his soft little ones, looked up in my face with an expression so winning and affectionate that I loved him at once." We recall the girl with the tea-cakes whom he met on his first journey while tramping across New Jersey. There was also something of human love and fellowship in his familiarity with wild animals in Egypt. In a free, joyous letter to his betrothed, Mary Agnew, he tells a curious incident of a similar kind, which occurred while he was editing the paper at Phoenixville. "On Sunday," says he, "I took [Schiller's] 'Don Carlos' with me in our boat, and rowed myself out of sight of the village into the solitude of the autumn woods. The sky was blue and bright as that of Eden, and the bright trees waved over me like gorgeous banners from the hilltops. I sat on a sunny slope and read for hours; it was a rare enjoyment! As I moved to rise I found a snake, which had crept up to me for warmth, and was coiled up quietly under my arm. I was somewhat startled, but the reptile slid noiselessly away, and I could not harm it." A pretty story is told of Taylor by one who called on him when he was on one of his lecture tours. He was a stranger in the house of strangers, and no doubt as much a stranger to the cat as to any of the people; but it did not take him long to slip into easy intercourse with men or animals. "I had listened for some time to his intelligent descriptions, enunciated with extreme modesty in the modulated tones of his pleasing voice, when Tom, a large Maltese cat, entered the room. At Mr. Taylor's invitation Tom approached him, and as he stroked the fur of the handsome cat, a sort of magnetism seemed to be imparted to the family pet, for he rolled over at the feet of his new-made friend, and seemed delighted with the beginning of the interview. In the most natural manner possible, Mr. Taylor slid off, as it were, from the sofa on which he had been sitting, and assumed the position of a Turk on the rug before the sofa, playing with delighted Tom in the most buoyant manner, still continuing his conversation, but changing the subject, for the nonce, to that of cats, and narrating many stories respecting the weird and wise conduct of these animals, which are at once loved and feared by the human race." He even felt a sort of personal tenderness for the old trees on his place at Kennett. He said that friends were telling him to cut this tree and cut that. To him this would have been almost a sacrilege. The trees seemed to depend on him for _protection_, and they should have it. Writing from this country home which he had built, he says, "The birds know me already, and I have learned to imitate the partridge and rain-dove, so that I can lure them to me." And Bayard Taylor was the accepted friend of nearly all the distinguished men of letters of his time. He knew Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, and Holmes in Boston, and even in his early years, when he first went to New York to work, he was able to pay them such flying visits as he describes in the following to Mary Agnew: "Reached Boston Sunday morning, galloped out to Cambridge, and spent the evening with Lowell; went on Monday to the pine woods of Abingdon to report Webster's speech, and dispatched it to the _Tribune_; got up early on Tuesday and galloped to Brookline to see Colonel Perkins; then off in the cars to Amesbury, and rambled over the Merrimac hills with Whittier; then Wednesday morning to Lynn, where I stopped a while at Helen Irving's; back in the afternoon to Cambridge, where I smoked a cigar with Lowell, and then stayed all night at Longfellow's." In New York his enjoyment of his friends, whom he met often and familiarly, was of the keenest. Says Mr. R. H. Stoddard, "I recall many nights which Bayard Taylor spent in our rooms.... Great was our merriment; for if we did not always sink the shop, we kept it solely for our own amusement. Fitz-James O'Brien was a frequent guest, and an eager partaker of our merriment, which sometimes resolved itself into the writing of burlesque poems. We sat around a table, and whenever the whim seized us, we each wrote down themes on little pieces of paper, and putting them into a hat or box we drew out one at random, and then scribbled away for dear life. We put no restriction upon ourselves: we could be grave or gay, or idiotic even; but we must be rapid, for half the fun was in noting who first sang out, 'Finished!'" The reader will remember Taylor's joy when a boy at receiving the autograph of Dickens. The time was coming when he should be on terms almost of intimacy with all the leading poets and writers of London. "I spent two days with Tennyson in June," he writes to a literary friend in 1857, "and you take my word for it, he is a noble fellow, every inch of him. He is as tall as I am, with a head which Read capitally calls that of a dilapidated Jove, long black hair, splendid dark eyes, and a full mustache and beard. The portraits don't look a bit like him; they are handsomer, perhaps, but haven't half the splendid character of his face. We smoked many a pipe together, and talked of poetry, religion, politics, and geology.... Our intercourse was most cordial and unrestrained, and he asked me, at parting, to be sure and visit him every time I came to England." A similar tale might be told of his relations with Thackeray and a score of others. But an account of his friendships would not be complete without a reference to Mr. Bufleb, whom he met on his journey up the Nile. Taylor writes to his mother from Nubia: "I want to speak of the friend from whom I have just parted, because I am very much moved by his kindness, and the knowledge may be grateful to you. His friendship for me is something wonderful, and it seems like a special Providence that in Egypt, where I anticipated the want of all near sympathy and kindness, I should find it in such abundant measure. He is a man of totally different experience from myself: accustomed all his life to wealth, to luxury, and to the exercise of authority. He was even prejudiced against America and the Americans, and he confessed to me that he was by nature stubborn and selfish. Yet few persons have ever placed such unbounded confidence in me, or treated me with such devotion and generosity.... For two days before our parting he could scarcely eat or sleep, and when the time drew near he was so pale and agitated that I almost feared to leave him. I have rarely been so moved as when I saw a strong, proud man exhibit such an attachment for me.... I told him all my history, and showed him the portrait I have with me [that of Mary Agnew]. He went out of the cabin after looking at it, and when he returned I saw that he had been weeping." Surely, there must have been something peculiarly noble and sweet in Bayard Taylor's nature to have drawn to him so powerfully a man of another nation and another race. The friendship was lasting, and Taylor spent many happy weeks at Mr. Bufleb's home in Gotha, Germany. The latter even bought a little house and garden adjoining his own estate, which was for the special use of his friend, and he closes the letter which describes it by saying: "You see how I have written to you, my dear Taylor. In spite of our long separation and remoteness from each other, your heart I know could never tell you of any change in my feelings and thoughts. On the contrary, this _rapport_ which we enjoy has for me a profound meaning; whilst you were dedicating your glorious work on Central Africa to me, I was setting in order for you the most cherished part of my possessions." CHAPTER XIII LAST YEARS With the building of Cedarcroft, and the publication of his "Poet's Journal," Bayard Taylor's fame and fortune reached their height. The Civil War was now on the point of breaking out. He entered into the Northern cause with ardor, and even sold a share of _Tribune_ stock to raise a thousand dollars with which to fit out his brother Frederick and provide arms for his neighbors to defend their homes. But the war put an end to his lectures, and cut off other sources of his income. In 1862 he was appointed secretary of legation at the court of St. Petersburg, and not long after was left there as _charge d'affaires_. The cause of the Union had received some heavy reverses, and France had invited England and Russia to join her in intervening between the combatants. But, perhaps owing to Bayard Taylor's diplomatic skill, Russia refused to take part in such an enterprise without the express desire of the United States. About this time, also, Taylor began to write a series of novels, in the hope of bettering his fortunes thereby. The books brought him some reputation, but to-day "Hannah Thurston" and "John Godfrey's Fortunes" are seldom read. A more important undertaking was his translation of "Faust," which was accepted abroad as a monument of his scholarship, and remains to-day one of the best translations into English of the great Goethe's most famous work. Other books of travel were written and published, and various fresh volumes of poems. During this period of his life he produced most of his longer descriptive and philosophic poems, such as "The Picture of St. John," "Lars," and "Prince Deukalion"; but his songs and ballads have proved more popular than these, though he threw into them all his energy and ambition. On July 4, 1876, he delivered his stately National Ode at the Philadelphia Centennial, and the same year he returned to his desk at the _Tribune_ office. But failing health compelled him to give up this drudgery, and in the following year he was nominated United States minister to Berlin. A grand banquet at which Bryant presided was given him in New York, on April 4, the eve of his departure; but before the year was finished he died in Berlin--December 19, 1878. 
33930	----	[Illustration: EDGAR ALLAN POE [REPRODUCED FROM A PHOTO GIVEN TO MRS. WEISS BY POE THREE DAYS BEFORE HE LEFT RICHMOND]] THE HOME LIFE OF POE BY SUSAN ARCHER WEISS BROADWAY PUBLISHING COMPANY NEW YORK 1907 _Title Page by Wm. Lincoln Hudson · Cover by Stephen G. Clow_ Copyright, 1907, BY SUSAN ARCHER WEISS. All rights reserved. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. PAGE. First Glimpse of Edgar Poe 1 CHAPTER II. Poe's First Home 9 CHAPTER III. The Allan Home 13 CHAPTER IV. Poe's Boyhood 20 CHAPTER V. Schoolboy Love Affairs 36 CHAPTER VI. Rosalie Poe 41 CHAPTER VII. The Unrest of Youth 44 CHAPTER VIII. In Barracks 52 CHAPTER IX. Poe and Mrs. Allan 57 CHAPTER X. The Closing of the Gate 61 CHAPTER XI. Mrs. Clemm 64 CHAPTER XII. A Pretty Girl with Auburn Hair Whom Poe Loved 70 CHAPTER XIII. Poe's Double Marriage 74 CHAPTER XIV. The Poes in Richmond 82 CHAPTER XV. In New York 88 CHAPTER XVI. The Real Virginia 90 CHAPTER XVII. Poe's Philadelphia Home 94 CHAPTER XVIII. Virginia's Illness 102 CHAPTER XIX. Back to New York 108 CHAPTER XX. Poe and Mrs. Osgood 119 CHAPTER XXI. At Fordham 127 CHAPTER XXII. The Shadow at the Door 137 CHAPTER XXIII. Mrs. Shew 145 CHAPTER XXIV. Quiet Life at Fordham 148 CHAPTER XXV. With Old Friends 154 CHAPTER XXVI. Mrs. Whitman 169 CHAPTER XXVII. Again in Richmond 179 CHAPTER XXVIII. A Morning with Poe--"The Raven" 184 CHAPTER XXIX. Mrs. Shelton 194 CHAPTER XXX. The Mystery of Fate 203 CHAPTER XXXI. After the War 212 CHAPTER XXXII. Poe's Character 219 Appendix 227 TO THE READER. In considering this book, will the reader especially note that it is not a "Life" or a "Biography" of Poe, of which too many already exist and to which nothing can be added after the exhaustive works of Woodbury and Prof. Harrison. I have not treated Poe in his character of poet or author, but confined myself to his private home-life, domestic and social, as I have heard it described by Poe's most intimate friends who knew him from infancy--some of them my own relatives--and from my own brief knowledge of him in the last three months of his life. The book may therefore be considered as a _supplement_ to the more complete "Lives and Biographies," showing Poe in a character as yet wholly unknown to the public, but which should be known in order to enable us to form a correct judgment of his character. I have corrected various misstatements of writers which, repeated by one from another, have come to be received as truth. I have made no attempt at producing an artistic work, but have treated the subject as it demands, in a plain and practical manner with regard to facts apart from idealism of any kind. THE AUTHOR. HOME LIFE OF POE. CHAPTER I. FIRST GLIMPSE OF EDGAR POE. It may be regarded as a somewhat curious coincidence that the first glimpse afforded us of Edgar Poe is on the authority of my own mother. This is the story, as she told it to me: "In the summer of 1811 there was a fine company of players in Norfolk, and we children were as a special treat taken to see them. I remember the names of Mr. Placide, Mr. Green, Mr. Young and Mr. Poe, with their wives. I can recall Mrs. Young as a large, fair woman with golden hair; but my most distinct recollection is of Mrs. Poe. She was rather small, with a round, rosy, laughing face, short dark curls and beautiful large blue eyes. Her manner was gay and saucy, and the audience was continually applauding her. She appeared to me a young girl, but was past thirty, and had been twice married. "At this time," continued my mother, "we were living on Main street, and my uncle, Dr. Robert Butt, of the House of Burgesses, lived close by, on Burmuda street. The large, bright garret-room of his house was used by our little cousins as a play-room, and was separated from that of the adjoining house by only a wooden partition. One day, when we were playing here, we heard voices on the other side of the partition, and, peeping through a small knothole, saw two pretty children, with whom we soon made acquaintance. Mr. and Mrs. Poe had taken lodgings in this garret with a little boy and girl and an old Welsh nurse. Sometimes this woman would say to us, 'Hush, hush, dumplings, don't make a noise,' and we knew that some one was sick in that room. Most of the time she had the children out of doors, and in the evenings we would play with them on the sidewalk. The boy was a merry, romping little fellow, but hard to manage. One day, when he would persist in playing in the middle of the street, a runaway horse came dashing around a corner, and I remember how the nurse rushed toward him, screaming: 'Ho! Hedgar! Hedgar!' snatching him away at the risk of her own life. "This nurse was a very nice old woman, plump, rosy and good-natured. She wore a huge white cap with flaring frills, and pronounced her words in a way that amused us. She was devoted to the children, who were spoiled and wilful. The little girl was running all about, and the boy appeared about three years old." Of this old lady it may be here said that she was really the mother of Mrs. Poe, whom she called "Betty." As an actress of the name of Arnold, she had played in various companies in both this country and Europe, taking parts in which comic songs were sung. Her pretty daughter, Elizabeth, she had brought up to her own profession, and had married her early to an actor named Hopkins, who died in October, 1805. Two months after his death his widow married David Poe, who was at that time a member of their company; and mean while her mother, Mrs. Arnold, had bestowed her own hand upon a musician of the romantic name of Tubbs, who soon left her a widow. Thenceforth she devoted herself to her daughter's family, remaining with the company and occasionally appearing in some unimportant part. When in the summer of that year of 1811 Mr. Placide's company left Norfolk to open a season in Richmond, Mr. David Poe was too ill with consumption to accompany them, and his family remained in Norfolk. He must undoubtedly have died there; for from that time in all the affairs of his family his name is not once mentioned, nor is the remotest allusion made to him. He was probably buried by the city in one of the obscure suburban cemeteries. By his death the widow was left penniless, and Mr. Placide, to whose company she still belonged, and who was anxious to have her services in his Richmond campaign, sent one of his employees to bring the family to Richmond at his own expense. A room and board had been engaged for them "at the house of a milliner named Fipps on Main street," in the low-lying district between Fifteenth and Seventeenth streets, still known as "_Bird-in-hand_." This room was not by any means the wretched apartment which it has been described by some of Poe's biographers. It was not a "cellar," not even a basement room, but one back of the shop, the family residing above, and must have been comfortably furnished, for this neighborhood was at this time the shopping district of the ladies of Richmond, and Mrs. Fipps was probably a fashionable shopkeeper. Damp Mrs. Poe's room must have been, since this locality was the lowest point in the city, where, when the river overflowed its banks, as was frequently the case, the water would rise to the back doors of the Main street buildings and at times flood the ground floors. In this room Mrs. Poe contracted the malarial fever then known as "ague-and-fever," which proved fatal to her. Owing to her illness Mrs. Poe, though her appearance was constantly advertised, did not appear on the stage more than a half dozen times, if as often. Mr. Placide wrote to her husband's relatives in Baltimore in behalf of herself and children, but received no satisfactory answer, and the company kindly gave her a benefit performance. Also, one of the Richmond papers, the "_Enquirer_," of November 25th, made an appeal "to the kind-hearted of the city" in behalf of the sick actress and her little children. This brought to their aid among others Mr. John Allan and his friend, Mr. Mackenzie. Both these gentlemen were engaged in the tobacco business, and being of Scotch nationality, the feeling of clanship led them to take a special interest in this family, whom they discovered to be of good Scotch stock. Everything possible was done for their comfort, and Mrs. Allan herself came to minister to the sick woman. On her first visit she found Mrs. Tubbs feeding the children with bread soaked in sweetened gin and water, which she called "gin-tea," and explained that it was her custom, in order to "make them strong and healthy." This was little Edgar's initiation into the habit which became the bane and ruin of his life. It soon became evident that Mrs. Poe was very near her end. Pneumonia set in; and on the 8th of December, 1811, she died. The question now was, what was to be done with the children? After a consultation among all parties, it was agreed that Mr. Mackenzie and Mr. Allan should take charge of them at their own homes until they should be claimed by their Baltimore relatives. It was a sad scene when the little ones were lifted up to look their last upon the face of their dead mother, and then to be separated forever from the grandmother who had so loved and cared for them. In parting she gave to each a memento of their mother; to the boy a small water-color portrait of the latter, inscribed, "For my dear little son, Edgar, from his mother," and to the girl a jewel case, the contents of which had long since been disposed of. It was all that she had had to leave them, and with this slender inheritance in their hands the little waifs were taken away to the homes of strangers. On the day following a small funeral procession wended its way up the steep ascent of Church Hill to the graveyard of St. John's church,[1] crowning its summit. At that day it was no easy matter to get one whose profession had been that of an actor buried in consecrated ground; yet Mr. Mackenzie succeeded in effecting this. The grave was in a then obscure part of the cemetery, "close against the eastern wall," and here, after the brief service, the mother of Edgar Poe was laid to rest. [1] In this historical church it was that Patrick Henry thrilled the hearts of his hearers with the memorable words, "Give me liberty or give me death!" and sent them forever "ringing down the grooves of time." Mrs. Tubbs remained with Mr. Placide's company, and doubtless returned with them to England and to her own family. Six weeks after the death of Mrs. Poe occurred that awful tragedy and holocaust of the burning of the Richmond theatre, which shrouded the whole country in gloom. On that night a large and fashionable audience attended the performance of "_The Bleeding Nun_," eighty of whom perished in the flames. Mrs. Allen had expressed a wish to attend, with her sister and little Edgar, but her husband objected and instead took them on a Christmas visit to the country; so they escaped the tragedy, as did also the members of Placide's company. CHAPTER II. POE'S FIRST HOME. Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, on taking charge of the Poe children, entered into a correspondence with their grandfather, Mr. David Poe, of Baltimore, in regard to them. He was by no means anxious to claim them. He represented that he and his wife were old and poor, and that already having the eldest child, William Henry, upon his hands, he could not afford to burden himself with the others. Finally he proposed that the children should be placed in an orphan asylum, where they would be properly cared for, on hearing of which Mrs. Mackenzie declared that she would never turn the baby, Rosalie, out of her home, but would bring her up with her own children; while Mrs. Allan, who was childless and had become much attached to Edgar, proposed to her husband to adopt him. Mr. Allan demurred. His chief objection was that the boy was the child of actors, and that to have him brought up as his son would not be advisable for him or creditable to themselves. It required some special pleading on the part of the lady, and she so far prevailed as that her husband consented to keep and care for the boy as for a son, but refused to be bound by any terms of legal responsibility as either guardian or adoptive parent, preferring to remain free to act in the future as he might think proper. Mr. Mackenzie pursued the same course with regard to Rosalie, though each bestowed on his protege his own family name in baptism. There has been much useless discussion among Poe's biographers in regard to the ages of the children at this time. Woodbury "_calculates_," according to certain data obtained from a Boston newspaper regarding the appearance of Mrs. Poe on the stage. "At this time," he says, speaking of her prolonged absence in 1807, "William Henry _may have_ been born;" and accordingly fixes Edgar's birth as having occurred two years later, in 1809. Wishing to satisfy myself on this point, I some time since decided to go to the fountain-head for information, and wrote to Mrs. Byrd, a daughter of Mrs. Mackenzie, who had been brought up with Rosalie Poe. Her answer I have carefully preserved and here give _verbatim_: "Dear S----.--You ask the ages of Rose and Edgar. He was born in 1808, Rose in 1810. A remark of his (in answer to an invitation to her wedding) was that if I had put off my marriage one week it would have been on his birthday. I was married on the 5th of October.... Their mother died on the 8th Dec., 1811; and on the 9th the children were taken to Mr. Allan's and our house.... Their mother was boarding at Mrs. Fipps', a milliner on Main street. She was Scotch and of good family; and my father and Mr. Allan had her put away decently at the old Church on the Hill.... Mr. Poe died first." This account of the children's ages is entitled to more weight than those of his biographers, based upon mere calculation and "_probabilities_." When the children were baptized as Edgar Allan and Rosalie Mackenzie, their ages were also recorded, though whether in church or family records is not known; and it is not likely that Mrs. Byrd, who was brought up with Rosalie Poe, could be mistaken on this point. Were Woodbury correct in assuming that William Henry, the eldest child, "_may have_ been born" in October, 1807, and Edgar, January 19, 1809, it would follow that the latter, when taken charge of by the Allans in December, 1811, was less than two years old; an impossibility, considering that his sister was then over one year old and running about playing with other children. As to Mr. Poe's claim to October 12 as his birthday, it is not likely that, howsoever often he may have given a false date to others, he would have ventured upon it to the daughter of Mrs. Mackenzie, the latter of whom would have detected the error. It must be accepted as a final conclusion that, as Mrs. Byrd states, Edgar was born in 1808 and Rosalie in 1810.[2] Her positive assertion is proof sufficient against all mere calculation and conjecture; and in this book I shall hold to these dates as authentic. [2] The official date of Rosalie Poe's death, on June 14, 1874, represents her as 64 years of age. This would make her a year and a half old when adopted by the Mackenzies, in December, 1811. CHAPTER III. THE ALLAN HOME. Mr. Allan was at this time thirty-one years of age--a plain, practical business man, or, as some one has described him, "an honest, hard-headed Scotchman, kindly, but stubborn and irascible." His wife, some years younger than himself, was a beautiful woman, warm-hearted, impulsive and fond of company and amusement. Both were charitable, and though not at this time in what is called "society," were in comfortable circumstances and fond of entertaining their friends. There was yet another member of the family, Miss Ann Valentine, an elder sister of Mrs. Allan; a lady of a lovely disposition and almost as fond of Edgar as was his so-called "mother." She was always his "Aunt Nancy." The Allans were at this time living in the business part of the town, occupying one of a row of dingy three-story brick houses still standing on Fourteenth street, between Main and Franklin. Mr. Allan had his store on the ground floor, the family apartments being above. This was at that time and until long afterward a usual mode of living with some of the down-town merchants; though a few had already built handsome residences on Shocko Hill. Little Edgar, bright, gay and beautiful, soon became the pet and pride of the household. Even Mr. Allan grew fond of him, and his wife delighted in taking him about and showing him off among her acquaintances. In his baggy little trousers of yellow Nankin or silk pongee, with his dark ringlets flowing over an immense "tucker," red silk stockings and peaked purple velvet cap, with its heavy gold tassel falling gracefully on one shoulder, he was the admiration of all beholders. His disposition was affectionate and his temper sweet, though having been hitherto allowed to have his own way, he was self-willed and sometimes difficult to manage. To correct his faults and as a counter balance to his wife's undue indulgence, Mr. Allan conscientiously set about training the boy according to his own ideas of what was best. When Edgar was "good" he was petted and indulged, but an act of disobedience or wrong-doing was punished, as some said, with undue severity. To shield him from this was the aim of the family, even of the servants; and the boy soon learned to resort to various little tricks and artifices on his own account. An amusing instance of this was told by Mrs. Allan herself. Edgar one day would persist in running out in the rain, when Mr. Allan peremptorily called him in, with the threat of a whipping. He presently entered and, meekly walking up to his guardian, looked him in the face with his large, solemn gray eyes and held out a bunch of switches. "What are these for?" inquired the latter. "To whip me with," answered the little diplomat; and Mr. Allan had to turn aside to hide a smile, for the "switches" had been selected with a purpose, being only the long, tough leaf-stems of the alanthus tree. Another anecdote I recall illustrative of the strict discipline to which Edgar was subject. My uncle, Mr. Edward Valentine, who was a cousin of Mrs. Allan, and often a visitor at her house, was very fond of Edgar; and liking fun almost as much as did the child, taught him many amusing little tricks. One of these was to snatch away a chair from some big boy about to seat himself; but Edgar, too young to discriminate, on one occasion made a portly and dignified old lady the subject of this performance. Mr. Allan, who in his anger was always impulsive, immediately led away the culprit, and his wife took the earliest opportunity of going to console her pet. As the child was little over three years old, it may be doubted whether the punishment administered was the wisest course, but it was Mr. Allan's way, who apparently believed in the moral suasion of the rod. Edgar had no dogs and no pony, and did not ride out with a groom to attend him, "like a little prince," as a biographer has represented. At this time the Allans' circumstances were not such as to admit of such luxuries. As to his appearance in this style at the famous White Sulphur Springs, that is equally mythical.[3] [3] Lest my mention of these little anecdotes and certain other matters should lead the reader to conclude that I am quoting from Gill, I would refer them to Appendix No. 1 of this volume. There was, however, at least one summer when Edgar was six years of age in which the Allans were at one of the lesser Virginia springs, and in returning paid a visit to Mr. Valentine's family, near Staunton. This gentleman often took Edgar out with him, either driving or seated behind him on horseback; and on receiving his paper from the country post-office would make the boy read the news to the mountain rustics, who regarded him as a prodigy of learning. Thus far he had been taught by an old Scotch dame who kept an "infant-school," and who then and for years afterward called him "her ain wee laddie," and to whom as long as she lived he was accustomed to carry offerings of choice smoking tobacco. He also learned from her to speak in the broad Scottish dialect, which greatly amused and pleased Mr. Allan. The boy was at even this age remarkably quick in learning anything. Mr. Valentine also delighted in getting up wrestling matches between Edgar and the little pickaninnies with whom he played, rewarding the victor with gifts of money. But there was one thing which no money or other reward could induce the boy to undertake, and this was to go near the country churchyard after sunset, even in company with these same little darkies. Once, in riding home late, Edgar being seated behind Mr. Valentine, they passed a deserted log-cabin, near which were several graves, when the boy's nervous terror became so great that he attempted to get in front of his companion, who took him on the saddle before him. "They would run after us and pull me off," he said, betraying at even this early age the weird imagination of his maturer years. This incident led to his being questioned, when it was discovered that he had been accustomed to go with his colored "mammy" to the servants' rooms in the evenings, and there listen to the horrible stories of ghosts and graveyard apparitions such as this ignorant and superstitious race delight in. It is not improbable that the gruesome sketch of the "_Tempest_" family, one of his earliest published, whose ghosts are represented as seated in coffins around a table in an undertaker's shop, and thence flying back to their near-by graves, was not inspired by some such story heard in Mr. Allan's kitchen. Undoubtedly, these ghostly narratives, heard at this early and impressionable age, served in part to produce those weird and ghoulish imaginings which characterize some of Poe's writings, and to create that tinge of superstition which was well known to his friends. He always avoided cemeteries, hated the sight of coffins and skeletons, and would never walk alone at night even on the street; believing that evil spirits haunted the darkness and walked beside the lonely wayfarer, watching to do him a mischief. Death he loathed and feared, and a corpse he would not look upon. And yet, as bound by a weird fascination, he wrote continually of death. Edgar Poe, like every other Southern child, had his negro "mammy" to attend to him until he went to England, to whom and the other servants he was as much attached as they to him. Indeed, a marked trait of his character was his liking for negroes, the effect of early association, and to the end of his life he delighted in talking with them and in their quaint and kindly humor and odd modes of thought and expression. Edgar had been about three years with the Allans when he was again deprived of a home and sent among strangers. Mr. Allan went on a business trip to England and Scotland, accompanied by his wife, Miss Valentine and Edgar; the latter of whom was put to school in London, where he must have felt his loneliness and isolation. Still, he came to the Allans in holiday times, and was with them in Scotland for some months previous to their return to Virginia. Little is known of them during this absence of five years. CHAPTER IV. POE'S BOYHOOD. The Allans returned to Richmond in June, 1820, Edgar being then twelve years old. Having no house ready for their reception they were invited by Mr. Ellis, Mr. Allan's business partner, to his home on Franklin, then as now the fashionable street of the city. Mr. Allan at once put Edgar to Professor Clarke's classical school, where he was in intimate association with boys of the best city families. At the end of this year the Allans removed to a plain cottage-like dwelling at the corner of Clay and Fifth streets, in a quiet and out-of-the-way neighborhood. It consisted of but five rooms on the ground floor and a half story above; and here for some years they resided. Of Poe as a schoolboy various accounts have been given by former schoolmates, with most of whom he was very popular, while others represent him as reserved and not generally liked. All, however, agree that he was a remarkably bright pupil, with, in the higher classes, but one rival, and that he was high-spirited and the leader in all sorts of fun and frolic. Mrs. Mackenzie's eldest son, John, or "Jack," two years older than Edgar, though not mentioned by any of Poe's biographers, was the most intimate and trusted of all his lifelong friends. The two were playmates in childhood, and schoolmates and companions up to the time of Poe's departure for the University. Poe always called Mrs. Mackenzie "Ma," and was almost as much at home in her house as was his sister. I remember Mr. John Mackenzie as a portly, jolly, middle-aged gentleman with a florid face and a hearty laugh. This is what he said of Poe after the latter's death: "I never saw in him as boy or man a sign of morbidness or melancholy; unless," he added, "it was when Mrs. Stanard died, when he appeared for some time grieving and depressed. At all other times he was bright and full of fun and high spirits. He delighted in playing practical jokes, masquerading, and making raids on orchards and turnip-patches. Oh, yes; every schoolboy liked a sweet, tender, juicy turnip; and many a time after the apple crop had been gathered in, we might have been seen, a half dozen of us, seated on a rail-fence like so many crows, munching turnips. We didn't object to a raw sweet potato at times--anything that had the relish of being stolen. On Saturdays we had fish-fries by the river, or tramped into the woods for wild grapes and chinquepins. It was not always that Mr. Allan would allow Edgar to go on these excursions, and more than once he would steal off and join us, though knowing that he would be punished for it." "Mr. Allan was a good man in his way," added Mr. Mackenzie, "but Edgar was not fond of him. He was sharp and exacting, and with his long, hooked nose and small keen eyes looking from under his shaggy eyebrows, always reminded me of a hawk. I know that often, when angry with Edgar, he would threaten to turn him adrift, and that he never allowed him to lose sight of his dependence on his charity." Edgar, he said, was allowed a liberal weekly supply of pocket money, but being of a generous disposition and giving treats of taffy and hot gingerbread to his schoolmates at recess, besides being generally extravagant, this supply was always exhausted before the week was out, when he would borrow, and so be kept constantly in debt. He was, however, very prompt in paying off his debts. Mr. Robert Sully, nephew of the distinguished artist, Thomas Sully, and himself an artist, was through life one of Poe's firmest friends. A boy of delicate physique and a disposition so sensitive and irritable that few could keep on good terms with him, he was always in difficulties. "I was a dull boy at school," he said to me; "and Edgar, when he knew that I had an unusually hard lesson, would help me out with it. He would never allow the big boys to teaze me, and was kind to me in every way. I used to admire and in a way envy him, he was so bright, clever and handsome. "He lived not far from me, just around the corner; and one Saturday he came running up to our house, calling out, "Come along, Rob! We are going to the Hermitage woods for chinquepins, and you must come too. Uncle Billy is going for a load of pine-needles, and we can ride in his wagon." Now, that showed his consideration; he knowing that I could not walk the long distances that most boys could, and therefore seldom went on one of their excursions." In one of Poe's biographies is an absurd story to the effect that Mr. Clarke, his first teacher, once on detecting him robbing a neighbor's turnip-patch, tied one of the vegetables about his neck as a token of disgrace, which the boy purposely wore home, when Mr. Allan, in a fury at this insult to his adopted son, called on the teacher and threatened him with personal chastisement. It is scarcely necessary at this day to deny the truth of that story; but the following is what Mr. Clarke himself says about it in an interview with a reporter in Baltimore some years after Poe's death, he being at that time nearly eighty years old.[4] [4] This account, clipped from a Baltimore paper, was given by Professor Clarke's son to a Richmond reporter in 1894. "Edgar had a very sweet disposition. He was always cheerful, brimful of mirth and a very great favorite with his schoolmates. I never had occasion to speak a harsh word to him, much less to make him do penance. He had a great ambition to excel." He spoke with pride of Edgar as a student, especially in the classics. He and Nat Howard on one vacation each wrote him a complimentary letter in Latin, both equally excellent in point of scholarship; but Edgar's was in verse, which Nat could not write. "Whenever Poe came to Baltimore he would not forget to come and see me, and I would offer him wine. It was the custom, you know. When he became editor of Graham's Magazine and could afford it, he sent wine to me, gratis.... I think that as boy and man Edgar loved me dearly. I am sure I loved him.... Yes; he was a dear, open-hearted, cheerful and good boy; and as a man he was a loving and affectionate friend to me. I went to his funeral." The old Professor said that Poe's sister, Rosalie, he had seen when her brother was a pupil of his. "She was at that time about ten years old, was pretty and a very sweet child." Poe, after leaving Professor Clarke's, entered Dr. Burke's classical school in 1832, where he remained until he went to the University. Here one of his classmates was Dr. Creed Thomas, a noted Richmond physician, who died so late as in 1890. In his reminiscences of Poe, published in a Richmond paper not long before his own death, he says: "Poe was one of our brightest pupils. He read and scanned the Latin poets with ease when scarcely thirteen years of age. He was an apt student and always recited well, with a great ambition to excel in everything. "Despite his retiring disposition he was never lacking in courage. There was not a pluckier boy in school. He never provoked a quarrel, but would always stand up for his rights.... It was a noticeable fact that he never asked any of his schoolmates to go home with him after school. The boys would frequently on Fridays take dinner or spend the night with each other at their homes, but Poe was never known to enter in this social intercourse. After he left the school ground we saw no more of him until next day." Dr. Thomas spoke of Poe's fondness for the stage. He and several other of the brightest boys held amateur theatricals in an old building rented for the purpose. Poe was one of the best actors; but Mr. Allan, upon learning of it, forbade his having anything to do with these theatricals, a great grievance to the boy. "A singular fact," proceeds Dr. Thomas, "is that Poe never got a whipping while at Burke's. I remember that the boys used to come in for a flogging quite frequently--I got my share. Poe was quiet and dignified during school hours, attending strictly to his studies; and we all used to wonder at his escaping the rod so successfully." He adds that Poe was not popular with most of his schoolmates; that his manners were retiring and distant. Doubtless there were boys with whom he did not care to associate, feeling the lack of a congeniality between himself and them. Then there were the prim and priggish class who looked with virtuous disapproval on the robber of apple orchards and turnip-patches, and who in after years never had a good word to say of Poe, whether as boy or man. It will be observed from Dr. Davis' account that the "quiet and dignified" manner which distinguished Poe in manhood was natural to him even as a boy. As regards his never inviting his schoolmates to accompany him home to dinner or to spend the night, this would not have been agreeable to Edgar, who would have preferred having his time to himself for reading or writing his verses, a volume of which he now began to make up. But he was by no means deprived of company at home. The Allans, as has been said, were fond of entertaining their friends, and at their "sociables" and "tea parties" Edgar was generally required to be present, with one or two young friends to keep him company, and often he was treated to a "party" of his own--boys and girls--where a rigid etiquette was required, though dancing and charades were indulged in. This was Mrs. Allan's idea of affording him enjoyment and cultivating in him elegant and graceful manners; but to him it was most distasteful. Throughout his life he detested social companies. Mrs. Mackenzie, in speaking of the social restraint under which the Allans at this time sought to keep Edgar, said that it was very distasteful to the boy, who liked to choose his companions, and who now, at the age of fifteen, began to be dissatisfied and to think that he was subject to undue restraint at home. She often heard him express the wish that he had been adopted by Mr. Mackenzie instead of by Mr. Allan; and she would talk to him in her motherly way, endeavoring to impress him with a sense of what he owed to the latter. His disposition, she said, was very sweet and affectionate, and he was grateful for any kindness, and always happy to be at her house as much as he was allowed to be from home. Her son John could never be persuaded to visit Edgar at his home, so strict was the etiquette observed at table and in general behavior. She believed that Mr. Allan, in taking charge of Edgar, had been influenced more by a desire to please his wife than any real interest in the child, though he had conscientiously endeavored to do his duty by him. She had once heard him say that Edgar did not know the meaning of the word _gratitude_; to which she replied that it could not be expected of children, who were not able to understand their obligations; and that she did not at present look for gratitude from Rose, but for affection and obedience. Mrs. Allan was devoted to Edgar and he was very fond of her. It was she, Mrs. Mackenzie thought, rather than her husband, who so extravagantly supplied him with money, seeming to take a pride in his having more than his schoolmates. She was a good and amiable woman, fond of pleasure generally, and less domestic in her tastes than either her husband or sister. Mr. John Mackenzie, in speaking of Edgar, bore witness to his high spirit and pluckiness in occasional schoolboy encounters, and also to his timidity in regard to being alone at night and his belief in and fear of the supernatural. He had heard Poe say, when grown, that the most horrible thing he could imagine as a boy was to feel an ice-cold hand laid upon his face in a pitch-dark room when alone at night; or to awaken in semi-darkness and see an evil face gazing close into his own; and that these fancies had so haunted him that he would often keep his head under the bed-covering until nearly suffocated. The restrictions sought to be placed upon Poe's associations and amusements served only to render him more democratic. He, with two or three of his young friends of congenial tastes, were fond of stealing off for a bath in the river near _Rocketts_ or below _the Falls_, in company with the hardy, adventurous boys of those localities, who were known as "river rats." It was from them that he learned to swim, to row and, when the river was low, to wade across its rocky bed to the willowy islands and set fish-traps. When in Richmond in after years, he told how he had met with some of these former companions, and how much he had enjoyed talking with them about "old times" on the river. As regards religious influences and teachings in the Allan home, it does not appear that Edgar was especially subject to these. Mr. and Mrs. Allan were members of St. John's Episcopal church and punctilious in all church observances, and they required of Edgar a strict attendance at Sunday school and his presence in the family pew during divine service. But in those days it was not thought necessary for professed Christians to deny themselves social pleasures. On Sundays luxurious dinners were provided, to which friends were invited from church, and rides and drives were indulged in. Edgar was sent to dancing school, and Mrs. Allan had her dancing entertainments and her husband his card parties, which were attended by some of the most prominent professional men of the city; amusements which, as is well known, exposed Episcopalians to the charge of worldliness by other denominations. At all these entertainments wine flowed freely. I have an impression, too vague to be asserted as fact, that Edgar Poe was confirmed at the same time with his sister and Mary Mackenzie, at St. John's church, and by the clergyman who had baptized them. To any inquiry as to his religious denomination, he always answered, "I am an Episcopalian." But it was often remarked upon by their friends in Richmond that neither he nor Rosalie had ever been known to manifest a sign of religious feeling or of interest in religious things. It was noticeable in both that, phrenologically considered, the organ of _veneration_ was so undeveloped as to give a depressed or flat appearance to the top of the head when seen in profile. And it was known to Poe's intimate friends that, while he believed in a Supreme Power, he had no faith in the doctrine of the Divinity of Christ. Hence he was as a bark at sea with a guiding star in view but no rudder to direct its course. His eager seeking for truth was ever but a groping in darkness, with now and then a faint, far-away ray of the light of Truth flashing upon his sight--as we see in _Eureka_. Yet Poe was careful to offer no disrespect to religion, and he was a frequent attendant at church and a great lover of church music. Great injustice has been done the Allans by Poe's biographers in representing them as responsible for his early dissipation. By all the story has been repeated of how the child of three or four years was accustomed to be given a glass of wine at dinner parties and required to drink the health of the company. It was no unusual thing for little children to be taught this trick for the amusement of company, as from my own recollections I can myself aver. But the liquor given them was simply a little sweetened wine and water. As Edgar grew older he was, like other boys in his position--as the Mackenzies--allowed his glass of wine at table; but no word was ever heard of his being fond of wine until his return from the University. I have heard a Richmond gentleman who was Poe's chum at the University speak of the latter's peculiar manner of drinking. He was no _connoisseur_, they said, in either wine or other liquors, and seemed to care little for their mere taste or flavor. "You never saw him critically discussing his wine or smacking his lips over its excellence; but he would generally swallow his glass at a draught, as though it had been water--especially when he was in any way worried." In this way he would soon become intoxicated, while his companions remained sober. "He had the weakest head of any one that I ever knew," said this gentleman, who attributed his dissipation while at the University, not to a natural inclination, but to a weakness of will which allowed himself to be easily influenced by his companions. Hitherto we have seen in Poe, the schoolboy, only what was amiable and lovable; but now, in his sixteenth year, he began to show that beneath this were springs of bitterness which, when disturbed, could arouse him to a passion and a power hitherto unsuspected. I never heard of but one authentic instance of his being subject to slight or "snubbing" while a boy on account of his parentage or his dependent position in Mr. Allan's family, although several writers have taken it for granted that such was the case. What effect such treatment would have had upon him is evinced in the instance in question, in which a young man, a sprig of an aristocratic family, chose to object to association with the son of actors, and not only made a point of ignoring him on all occasions, but made offensive allusions to him as a "charity boy." This last being reported to Edgar, aroused in him a resentment which found expression in a rhyming lampoon upon "_Don Pompiosa_," so brimfull of wit, sarcasm and keenest ridicule that it was circulated throughout the city for some time, though none knew who was the author. The young man in question could not make his appearance upon the street without being pointed out and laughed at, with audible allusions to "_Don Pompiosa_," and was, it was said, at length actually driven from the town, leaving Poe triumphant. This was the forerunner of those keen literary onslaughts which in after years made Poe as a critic the terror of his enemies. CHAPTER V. SCHOOLBOY LOVE AFFAIRS. That Poe was, both as boy and man, unusually susceptible to the influence of feminine charms has been the testimony of all who best knew him. "I never knew the time," said Mr. Mackenzie, "that Edgar was not in love with some one." Nor was it unusual for me, when a girl, to meet with some comely matron who would laughingly admit that she had been "one of Edgar Poe's sweethearts." Neither did he confine his boyish gallantries to girls of his own age, but admired grown-up belles and young married ladies as well; though this was probably in a great measure owing to the playful petting with which they treated the handsome and chivalrous boy-lover. But this was a trait which did not meet with the approval of Miss Jane Mackenzie, sister of the gentleman who adopted Rosalie Poe. This lady, noted for her elegant manners and accomplishments, kept a fashionable "Young Ladies' Boarding-School," patronized by the best families of the State; and many a brilliant belle and admired Virginia matron boasted of having received her education at "Miss Jane's." As I remember her, she was tall and stately, prim and precise, and was attired generally in black silk and elaborate cap and frizette, a very _Lady-Prioress_ sort of a person. She had the reputation of being exceedingly "strict" in regard to the manners and conduct of her pupils, and was a contrast to the rest of her family, all of whom were remarkably genial. When Edgar was about fifteen or sixteen he began to make trouble for Miss Jane. Repeatedly she would detect him in secret correspondence with some one of her fair pupils, supplemented on his part by offerings of candy and "original poetry," his sister Rosalie being the medium of communication. The verses were sometimes compared by the fair recipients and found to be alike, with the exception of slight changes appropriate to each; a practice which he kept up in after years. He possessed some skill in drawing, and it was his habit to make pencil-sketches of his girl friends, with locks of their hair attached to the cards. Poe himself has told of his boyish devotion to Mrs. Stanard, which made so deep an impression upon the mind and heart of the embryo poet. The story is well known of how he once accompanied little Robert Stanard home from school (to see his pet pigeons and rabbits), and how his heart was won by the gentle and gracious reception given him by the boy's lovely mother, and the tenderness of tone and manner with which she talked to him; she knowing his pathetic history. In his heart a chord of feeling was stirred which had never before been touched; and thenceforth he regarded her with a passionate and reverential devotion such as we may imagine the religious devotee to feel for the Madonna. He calls this "the first pure and ideal love of his soul," and possibly it may in time have been increased by the knowledge of the doom which hung above and overtook her at the last--the partial shrouding of the bright intellect, the effect of a hereditary taint. Indeed, it is probable that on this account Poe saw very little if anything of Mrs. Stanard in the two succeeding years, in which time she led a secluded life with her family, dying in April, 1824, at the age of thirty-one. But the impression had been made, and remained with him during his lifetime, forming the one solitary _Ideal_ which pervaded nearly all his poems--the death of the young, lovely and beloved. This experience was probably the beginning of those occasional dreamy and melancholy moods about this time noticed by some of his companions. The living friend of his boyhood's dream became the "lost Lenore" of his maturer years. But though Poe deeply felt the loss of this beloved friend, the story is not to be accepted that he was accustomed to go at night to the cemetery where she was buried "and there, prostrate on her grave, weep away the long hours of cold and darkness." No one who knew Poe in his boyhood, with his horror of cemeteries, of darkness, and of being alone at night, would believe this story, first told by Poe himself to Mrs. Whitman, and by her poetic fancy further embellished. Besides this is the practical refutation afforded by the high brick wall and locked gates of the cemetery, with the strict discipline of the Allan home, which would have made such midnight excursions impossible. Another account connected with Mrs. Stanard, and repeated by Poe's biographers until it has become an article of faith with the public, is that the exquisite lines "To Helen" were inspired by and addressed to that lady. If written at ten years of age, as Poe asserts, it will be remembered that he was at this time at school in London, and it was not until two years after his return, and when he was thirteen years of age, that he ever saw Mrs. Stanard. He might have altered the lines to suit her--his "Psyche," with the pale and "classic face"--and I recall that the "folded scroll" of the first version was afterward changed to "the agate lamp within thy hand," as more appropriate to Psyche. Poe never made an alteration in his poems that was not an improvement. Those who knew Mrs. Stanard describe her as slender and graceful, with regular delicate features, a complexion of marble pallor and dark, pensive eyes. A portrait of her which was in possession of her son, Judge Robert Stanard, represented her as a young girl wearing--perhaps in respect to her Scottish descent--a _snood_ in her dark, curling hair. CHAPTER VI. ROSALIE POE. Of Edgar Poe's sister, Rosalie, it may be said that all accounts represent her as having been, up to the age of ten years, a pretty child, with blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and of a sweet disposition. Though evincing nothing of Edgar's talent and quickness at learning, she was yet a rather better pupil than the average; and it had been Miss Mackenzie's intention to give her every advantage of education afforded by her own school, so as to fit her for becoming a teacher. But when Rosalie Poe was in her eleventh or twelfth year, a strange change came over her, for which her friends could never account. Without having ever been ill, a sudden blight seemed to fall upon her, as frost upon a flower, and she drooped, as it were, mentally and physically. She lost all energy and ambition, and thenceforth made little or no progress in her studies, growing up into a languid and uninteresting girlhood. Still, she was amiable, generous and devoted to her friends, who were generally chosen for their personal beauty, and for this reason my sister was a great favorite with her. To Mrs. Mackenzie she was always dutiful and affectionate, but her great pride and affection centered in her brother. She felt painfully, and would often allude to, the difference between them. Once she said to me, "Of course, I can't expect Edgar to love me as I do him, he is so far above me." A peculiarity of Miss Poe is worth mentioning, because it is one shared by her brother, and must have been hereditary. She could not taste wine without its having an immediate effect upon her. She would, after venturing to take a glass of wine at dinner, sleep for hours, and awaken either with a headache or in an irritable and despondent mood. As is well known, the same effect was produced upon Edgar by a moderate indulgence in drink, such as would not affect another man; and this hereditary weakness should go far in accounting for and excusing those excesses of which all the world is unfortunately aware. Of the elder brother of Edgar, William Henry, I have heard scarcely any mention until after Poe's death, and few seemed to know that there was such a person. It seems, however, that in the summer, when Edgar was preparing for the University, this brother came to Richmond on a visit to himself and Rose. Edgar took him around to introduce to his young lady acquaintances, by one of whom he has been described as handsome, gentlemanly and agreeable. He died a year or two afterward, leaving some poems which show him to have been possessed of unusual poetic talent. Had he lived, he might have rivaled his brother as a poet. CHAPTER VII. THE UNREST OF YOUTH. In the summer of 1825, Mr. Allan, having come into possession of a large fortune left him by an uncle, purchased and removed to the handsome brick residence at the corner of Main and Fifth streets, built by Mr. Gallego, a wealthy Spanish gentleman, and which became known as the Allan House. To own such a residence had long been the desire of Mrs. Allan, and upon taking possession of the house she furnished it handsomely and commenced entertaining in a style which rendered them conspicuous in Richmond society. It was even said that they lived extravagantly; and Edgar, with abundance of pocket-money, became the envy of his companions. But he was not happy. The impatience of restraint of which the Mackenzies spoke, and the dissatisfaction of which was to him, despite its luxuries, an uncongenial home, rendered him discontented. The heart of the boy of fifteen began to pulse with the restlessness of the bird when it feels the first nervous twitchings of its wings, and his great desire now was to get away from home and enjoy greater freedom. He would often, when particularly dissatisfied, speak to the Mackenzies of going to sea or enlisting in the army. At present, however, he contented himself with requesting Mr. Allan to send him to the University. Mr. Allan did not see the use of a higher education for one whom he destined for a commercial business, but finally yielded; and Edgar left Mr. Burke's school and, under a private tutorage, commenced fitting himself for the University. This period, from June to February 14, 1825, was the only time, with the exception of two brief intervals, that he resided in the Allan House. On another point, however, he did not so easily have his way. He was very anxious that his youthful poems should be published in book form, and importuned Mr. Allan to that effect, but this was a thing with which the latter had no sympathy. He did consent to go with the boy to hear what Mr. Clarke's judgment of the verses would be; but finally concluded that Edgar was too young to publish a book; and so the latter's eager and ambitious hopes were for the time frustrated. Still, this must have been a pleasant summer for him, in the enjoyment of his new home, with its fine lawn and garden, in place of the cramped cottage on Clay street, and especially in the knowledge that he was breaking away from his schoolboy days and assuming something of the independence of youth. It was at this time that he made the famous swim of seven miles on James river, from Warwick Park to Richmond, which has been so much commented upon--showing with what fine athletic powers he was gifted. It was on the 14th of February, 1825, that Poe entered the University; inscribing on the matriculation book the date of his birth as January 19, 1809, making him sixteen years of age, when he was really seventeen (born in 1808). This date, it will be observed, agrees with no other that he has given. Of his course at the University his biographers have informed us, on the authority of professors and students, some of whom credit him with almost every vice of dissipation, while others defend him from such imputation. But when he returned home, at the end of the first year, with a brilliant scholastic record, it became known that Mr. Allan had been called upon to pay his gambling and other debts, amounting on the whole to over two thousand dollars. Mr. Allan went on to Charlottesville to investigate the matter, and scrupulously paid all that he considered honest debts, refusing to notice the gambling debts. Poe, having paid little attention to his personal affairs, was almost as much surprised as was Mr. Allan at the amount of his indebtedness. He appeared truly penitent, and frankly so expressed himself to Mr. Allan, offering to repay the latter by his services in his counting-house. It was agreed that after the Christmas holidays he should take his place in the office as clerk. This was the beginning of the declension of Poe's social and personal reputation. By his elders he was severely condemned, while the good little boys who had formerly looked doubtfully upon the robber of orchards and turnip-patches now passed him by with sidelong glances and pursed-up lips. And yet, good cause though Mr. Allan had to be angry--as he was--we have the following account of Edgar's reception at home when he returned from the University for the Christmas holidays, a reception for which he was doubtless indebted to his devoted foster-mother: A former schoolmate of his, Charles Bolling, writes to the editor of a Richmond paper that Mr. Allan, when on a visit to the country, having given him a cordial invitation to call on him when in Richmond, he, one evening, near Christmas, went to his house, where he was kindly received. After sitting awhile, he perceived certain signs as of preparation for the entertainment of company, and at once rose to leave, but his host insisted upon his remaining, saying that Edgar had just come home from the University, and some of his young friends had been invited to meet him. Bolling replied that he was not in a suitable dress for company, when Mr. Allan said: "Go up to Edgar's room. He will supply you with one of his own suits." He found Edgar lying on a lounge reading, who welcomed him cordially, and, throwing open his wardrobe doors, placed the contents at his disposal. This was a room which, on their removal to their new home, Mrs. Allan had chosen for Edgar's occupation, furnishing it handsomely, with his books and pictures arranged in bookcases and on the wall. He took great pleasure in this apartment, and had always passed much of his time there. When the two youths had attired themselves to their satisfaction, they repaired to the drawing-room, where Poe did his duty in welcoming his guests. But after awhile he took Bolling aside and proposed that they should go down the street and have a spree of their own. To this the latter very properly objected, saying: "Oh, no; that would never do." But being urged, finally consented; and they stole away from the company together. This was an assertion of independence which one year previous he would not have ventured upon. But he was now no longer a schoolboy, but a University student and, as he claimed, nearly eighteen years of age. This past year had wrought a great change in him; and he was already in his heart prepared to break away from the restraint and authority which he had found so irksome and assert his independence. In due time Poe was installed in Mr. Allan's counting-house as clerk, but had occupied that position but a short time when it became intolerable to him. He begged Mr. Allan to give him some other employment, saying that he would rather earn his living in any other way. Mr. Allan, still angry about the University debts, told him that he was his own master, and could choose what employment he pleased, but that henceforth he was not to look to him for assistance. After an angry scene between the two, Poe packed his traveling bag and, leaving the Allan house, did not return to it for the space of two years. It will be observed that this was no runaway act on Poe's part, as asserted by biographers. He took an affectionate leave of Mrs. Allan and Miss Valentine--who supplied him with money--and neither of whom believed but that he would be back in a few weeks. He went to take leave of the Mackenzies, who, all but his friend "Jack," advised him to return and submit himself to Mr. Allan; but this he would not, could not, do. He claimed that Mr. Allan had spoken insultingly to him, and declared that he would no longer be dependent on him. And so he went forth, as he said, to seek his fortune. He made his way to Boston, where the first use to which he put his money was in publishing a cheap edition of his poems. They were not of a kind to attract attention, and he never realized a dollar from them. Ambitious to have them known, he sent a number to his friends in Richmond and other places South, and the rest turned over to his publisher, an obscure young man of the name of Thomas, in part payment of the expense of publishing. Then followed a season of wandering in search of employment until, his money all gone, he had no resource but to enlist in the army, which he did on May 2, 1827, being then, as he claimed, eighteen (really nineteen) years of age, but representing himself as twenty-two. CHAPTER VIII. IN BARRACKS. In the year 1829, my uncle, Dr. Archer, then Post Surgeon at Fortress Monroe, was one day called to the hospital to attend a private soldier known as Edgar A. Perry. Finding him a young man of superior manners and education, his interest was aroused, and his patient, won by his sympathy, finally confessed that his real name was Edgar A. Poe, and that he was the adopted son of Mr. John Allan, of Richmond; and also expressed an earnest desire to leave the army, in which he had now been for two years, the term of enlistment being five years. Dr. Archer informed the commanding officer of these revelations, and as Perry, _alias_ Poe, had proven himself in all respects a model soldier, interest in his case was at once aroused. It was suggested that, with his education and the social position which he had enjoyed, a cadetship at West Point would be more suited to him than the place of a private at Fortress Monroe. Poe, in his anxiety to be rid of the army, was willing enough to accept this proposal, and by the advice of his new friends wrote to Mr. Allan, informing him of his wishes and asking his assistance. For some time he received no answer; but at length there came a letter which must have caused his heart a pang of real sorrow. It was from Mr. Allan, informing him of the death of his wife, and directing him to apply for a furlough and come on at once to Richmond, where he arrived two days after her burial. Woodbury is mistaken in saying that in all this time Mr. Allan had not known of Edgar's whereabouts. According to Miss Valentine, Poe never at any time ceased entirely to correspond with Mrs. Allan, who never, to her dying day, lost her interest in the boy whom she had loved as a son, and neither ceased her endeavors to reconcile himself and her husband, urging Edgar to return and Mr. Allan to receive him. In anticipation of such result, she kept his room as he had left it, ready for his occupation at any time that it might suit his wayward fancy to return. Mr. Allan talked to Poe seriously, and, finding that his great desire was to get a discharge from the army, promised to assist him; but only upon condition of his entering West Point, by which there would be secured to him an honorable and independent position for life, and Allan himself be relieved from all responsibility concerning him. But that he had not entirely forgiven Edgar was evident from a letter to the latter's commanding officer, wherein he exposes, unnecessarily, perhaps, the youth's gambling habits at the University, declaring that "he is no relation of mine whatever, and no more to me than many others who, being in need, I have regarded as being my care." Poe must have felt this latter as a humiliation; and it was certainly not calculated to increase his regard for the writer. Poe's career at West Point is well known. At first all went well. One of his Virginia comrades, Col. Allan Magruder, describes him as of a simple and kindly nature, but, by reason of his distance and reserve, not popular with the cadets, and that he at length confined his association exclusively to Virginians. But the old discontent and impatience of restraint returned upon him, and after some months he wrote to Mr. Allan that he wished to leave West Point--a step to which the latter positively refused his assistance. Finding nobody inclined to help him, he resolved to force his discharge. He purposely neglected his studies and military duties, deliberately violated the rules, engaged--it was said by some--in all sorts of disgraceful pranks; and finally was tried by court-martial and, on March 7, 1831, dismissed from the institute. It has been naturally inferred that Poe's object in this voluntary self-sacrifice was simply to free himself from the irksomeness of military duties which, on trial, he found so opposed to his taste and inclination. But perhaps the real motive was one which has never yet been suspected. Some time after Poe's death I was informed by a lady that, being in company where the conversation turned upon the poet and his writings, one who did not admire the latter remarked that Edgar Poe could have been of more use to both himself and others by remaining at West Point and adopting the army as a profession. To this an old army officer, Capt. Patrick Galt, replied that he had been informed by one who had been a classmate of Poe that the latter had been driven away from West Point by the slights and snubs of the cadets on account of his parentage and his bringing up as an object of charity. West Point, this officer declared, had in Poe's time been a very hotbed of aristocratic prejudice and pretension, and, Poe's history being known, these young aristocrats held themselves aloof, while the more snobbish among them, probably by reason of his reserve and acknowledged superiority in some respects, did not hesitate to attempt to humiliate him on occasion. Poe, he said, probably knew that this odium would in a measure attach to him throughout his whole military career, and he acted wisely in declining to expose himself to it. Hence the shyness and reserve of which some of his fellow-cadets speak, and his exclusive association with Virginians, who generally stand by each other. CHAPTER IX. POE AND MRS. ALLAN. In the meantime Mr. Allan had contracted a second marriage, the lady being a Miss Louisa Patterson, of New Jersey. She was thirty years of age; not handsome, but of dignified and courteous manners, with large, strongly-marked features, indicative of decision of character and, as was said, of a will of her own. Nevertheless, she was amiably inclined, and as a society leader very tactful and diplomatic. One marked characteristic of hers was that she never forgave the least slight or disrespect to herself, though the offender were but a child; and of this I remember some curious instances in my own acquaintance with her, many years after the time of which I speak. It does not appear how Poe received the news of this marriage; but one thing seems certain--that, strangely enough, the idea never occurred to him that it in any way affected his own position in Mr. Allan's house. He had never received from the latter any word to that effect; Miss Valentine (his "Aunt Nancy"), with the old servants, who had known, and served, and loved him from his babyhood, were still there, and doubtless his room was still being kept, as ever before, ready for his occupation. It was therefore with perfect confidence that, upon being dismissed from West Point, he proceeded to Richmond, having barely enough money to pay his way, and, sounding the brazen knocker of Mr. Allan's door, greeted the old servant pleasantly, handing him his traveling bag to be carried to his room, at the same time asking for Miss Valentine. The answer of the servant astonished him. His old room had been taken by Mrs. Allan as a guest-chamber and his personal effects removed to "the end-room." This was the last of several small apartments opening upon a narrow corridor extending on one side of the house above the kitchen and the servants' apartments. It had at one time been occupied by Mrs. Allan's maid. On receiving this information, Poe was extremely indignant, and, refusing to have his carpet-bag carried to that room, requested to see Mrs. Allan. The lady came down to the parlor in all her dignity, and answered to his inquiry that she had arranged her house to suit herself; that she had not been informed that Mr. Poe had any present claim to that room or that he was expected again to occupy it. Warm words ensued, and she reminded him that he was a pensioner on her husband's charity, which provoked him to more than hint that she had married Mr. Allan from mercenary motives. This was enough for the lady. She sent for her husband, who was at his place of business, and who, upon hearing her account of the interview, coupled with the assertion that "Edgar Poe and herself could not remain a day under the same roof," without seeing Poe, sent to him an imperative order to leave the house at once, which he immediately did. It was told by himself that as he crossed the hall Mr. Allan hastily entered it from a side-door and called harshly to him, at the same time drawing out his purse, but that he, without pause or notice, continued on his way. This account of the rupture between Poe and the Allans I heard from the Mackenzies and Mrs. Julia Mayo Cabell, wife of Poe's schoolboy friend, Dr. Robert G. Cabell, to whom Poe himself related it. The friends of the Allens gave a much more sensational account of the affair, which was much discussed, and went the rounds of the city, with such additions and exaggerations as gossip could invent, until it culminated at length in the dark picture with which Griswold horrified the world. It was to this incident that Poe alluded when he told Mrs. Whitman that "his pride had led him to deliberately throw away a large fortune rather than submit to a trivial wrong." CHAPTER X. THE CLOSING OF THE GATE. When Poe, after leaving Mr. Allan's door, crossed the lawn and passed out of the gate, can any one realize how momentous was the instant of time in which the gate closed after him, or what a woeful human tragedy was in that instant inaugurated? The closing of the gate meant the shutting out forever of his past life; the clang of the iron latch was the knell of all that had been bright and pleasant and prosperous in that life, now lost to him forever. There he stood, homeless, penniless, friendless, utterly alone in the world, with a pathless future before him, shadowy, dim, no hand to point him onward and no star to guiden. From this moment commences the true history of Edgar A. Poe. * * * * * On leaving the Allan house, Poe went directly to the Mackenzies, the only place to which he could turn, and spent several days with these kind friends, discussing what would be best for him to do, now that he had his own way to make in the world. They advised him to begin by teaching, until he could see his way more clearly; but Richmond was at present no place for him, and he decided to go to Baltimore, where his relatives, knowing the city so well, might be able to assist him. The Mackenzies gave him what money they could spare, and Miss Valentine, on hearing where he was, sent more. But in Baltimore Poe found himself coldly received by his relatives. Since his miserable failure at West Point, when his prospects had seemed so bright and all conspiring for his good, they had lost all faith in him, and did not propose to trouble themselves on his account. On his last visit, Neilson Poe, at whose house he was staying, had obtained for him a place in an editor's office, which after a brief trial Poe threw up. He now again applied for that place, but failed; as also in his application for the position of assistant teacher in some academy. And now commenced that wretched life of wandering, and penury, and, according to Mr. Kennedy, of actual starvation, which is as sad as any other such history in literature, with the exception of that of poor Chatterton. His days were passed in roaming about the streets in search of employment--anything by which he could obtain food and at night a miserable place where to rest his weary limbs. He wrote a few stories which he endeavored to dispose of to editors, but met with no success. Many stories have been told in regard to this unhappy period of Poe's life. One, related by a Richmond man, stated that, being in Baltimore about the time in question, he one day had occasion to visit a brick-yard, when there passed him by a line of men bearing the freshly moulded bricks to the kiln. Glancing at them casually, he was amazed to recognize among them Edgar Poe. He could not be mistaken, having been for years familiar with his appearance. Whether Poe recognized him, he could not say; but when he returned next day he was not there, nor did any one know of the name of Poe among the laborers. It was the opinion of this man that he had merely picked up a day's job for a day's need. He was said to have been recognized in other equally uncongenial occupations, but relief was at hand in the time of his sorest need. CHAPTER XI. MRS. CLEMM. His father's sister, Mrs. Maria Clemm, who had for some years been living in a New York country town, supporting herself and little daughter by dressmaking, about this time returned to Baltimore, and hearing from the Poes of the presence of her brother's son in the city, commenced a search for him. She found him, at length, ill--really ill; and at once took him to her own humble home, installing him in a room which had been furnished for a lodger, and from that hour attended and cared for him with a true motherly devotion. Those who believe in the spirit of the old adage, "Blood is thicker than water," may imagine what a blessed relief this was to the weary and almost despairing wanderer. Here he had what he needed almost as much as he did food--rest; rest for the weak and exhausted body and for the anxious mind as well. Here, in the quiet little room, he could lie and dream, in the blissful consciousness that near him were the watchful eyes and careful hands of his own father's sister, ready to attend to his slightest want. And from the day on which he first entered her humble abode Poe was never more to be a homeless wanderer. To him it proved ever a safe little harbor, a sure haven of refuge and repose in all storms and troubles that assailed, even to his life's end. Mrs. Clemm was at this time a strong, vigorous woman, somewhat past middle age, and of large frame and masculine features. Her manner was dignified and well-bred, and she was possessed of abundant self-reliance, ready resource, and, as must be said, of clever artifice as well, where artifice was necessary to the accomplishment of a purpose. Her abode, though plainly and cheaply furnished, was a picture of neatness and such comfort as she could afford to give it; but her means were only what could be derived from dressmaking, taking a lodger or two, and at times teaching a few small children. This state of affairs dawned upon Poe as he slowly recovered from his fever-dreams; and he again became aware of the strong necessity of further exertion on his part. Mrs. Clemm would not allow him to go to a hospital. Probably she feared to lose him. In some degree, isolated from her other kindred, she had in her loneliness found a son, and the pertinacity with which she thenceforth clung to him was something remarkable. Poe soon resumed his weary search for employment, but for some time without success. In his hours of enforced idleness at home he found employment in teaching his little cousin, Virginia, a pretty and affectionate child of ten years, who, however, was fonder of a walk or a romp with him than of her lessons. She was devoted to her handsome cousin, and having hitherto lived with her mother and with few or no playmates or companions, soon learned to depend upon him for all pleasure or amusement. They called each other both then and ever after, "Buddie" and "Sissy," while Mrs. Clemm was "Muddie" to both. Of this period of Poe's life in Baltimore, Dr. Snodgrass, a literary Bohemian of the time, has given us glimpses: "In Baltimore, his chief resort was the Widow Meagher's place, an inexpensive but respectable eating-house, with a bar attached and a room where the customers could indulge in a smoke or a social game of cards. This was frequented chiefly by printers and employees of shipping offices. Poe was a great favorite with the Widow Meagher, a kindly old Irish woman. On entering there you would generally find him seated behind her oyster counter, at which she presided; himself as silent as an oyster, grave and retiring. Knowing him to be a poet, she addressed him always by the old Irish title of _Bard_, and by this name he was here known. It was, "Bard, have a nip;" "Bard, take a hand." Whenever anything particularly pleased the old woman's fancy, she would request Poe to put it in "poethry," and I have seen many of these little pieces which appeared to me more worthy of preservation than some included in his published works. It happened that Poe one evening, in his wanderings about the streets, stopped to read a copy of _The Evening Visitor_ exposed for sale, and had his attention attracted by the offer of a purse of one hundred dollars for the best original story to be submitted to that journal anonymously. Remembering his rejected manuscripts, he at once hastened home and, making them into a neat parcel, dispatched them to the office of the _Visitor_, though with little or no hope of their meeting with acceptance. His feelings may therefore be imagined when he shortly received a letter informing him that the prize of one hundred dollars had been awarded to his story of "The Gold Bug," and desiring him to come to the office of the _Visitor_ and receive the money. It was on this occasion that Poe made the acquaintance of Mr. J. P. Kennedy, author of "_Swallow Barn_," who proved such a true friend to him in time of need. Mr. Kennedy says he recognized in the thin, pale, shabbily dressed but neatly groomed young man a gentleman, and also that he was starving. He invited him frequently to his table, presented him with a suit of clothes and, seeing how feeble he was, gave him the use of a horse for the exercise which he so much needed. He also obtained for him some employment in the office of the _Evening Visitor_, whose editor, Mr. Wilmer, accepted several stories from his pen; and it was now, evidently, that Poe decided upon literature as a profession. Under these favoring conditions Poe rapidly recovered his health and spirits. Mr. Wilmer, who saw a good deal of him at this time, says that when their office work was done they would often walk out together into the suburbs, generally accompanied by Virginia, who would never be left behind. At the office he was punctual, industrious and his work satisfactory. In all his association with him he never saw him under the influence of intoxicants or knew him to drink except once, moderately, when he opened a bottle of wine for a visitor. I once clipped from a Baltimore paper the following article by a reporter to whom the story was related by "a lively and comely old lady," herself its heroine. I give it as an illustration of the easy confidence with which Poe, even in his youth, sought the acquaintance of women who attracted his attention: CHAPTER XII. "A PRETTY GIRL WITH AUBURN HAIR WHOM POE LOVED." "The old lady commenced by saying that she had known Poe quite intimately when she and her mother were residents of Baltimore, about 1832. She was then seventeen years of age and attending a finishing school in that city. She confided to me, laughingly, that she was considered a very pretty girl, with dark eyes and curling auburn hair. "The first time she noticed Poe, she said, was once when she was studying her lesson at the window of her room, which was in the rear of the house. Looking up, she saw a very handsome young man standing at an opposite back window on the next street looking directly at her. She pretended to take no notice, but on the following evening the same thing occurred. He appeared to be writing at his window, and each time that he laid aside a sheet he would look over at her, and at length bowed. This time a school friend was with her, who, in a spirit of fun, returned the bow. That evening, as the two were seated on the veranda together, this young man sauntered past and, deliberately ascending the steps of the adjoining house, spoke to them, addressing them by name. He sat for some time on the dividing rail of the two verandas, making himself very agreeable, and the acquaintance thus commenced in a mere spirit of school-girl fun, was kept up for several weeks, some story being invented to satisfy the mother. "'Of course, it was all wrong,' said the old lady, 'but it was fun, nevertheless; and we girls could see no harm in it. But one evening, when Mr. Poe and myself had been strolling up and down in the moonlight until quite late, my mother desired him not to come again, as I was only a school girl and the neighbors would talk. So our acquaintance ended abruptly.' She added that, although they never again met, she always felt the deepest interest in hearing of him, and had never forgotten her fascinating boy-lover. "Asked if she had ever seen Virginia, she replied: 'Yes, several times, when she was with her cousin;' that 'she was a pretty child, but her chalky-white complexion spoiled her.'" Mr. Allan died in March, 1834, leaving three fine little boys to inherit his fortune. Some time before his death an absurd story was circulated, which we find related in the Richmond _Standard_, of April, 1881, thirty-one years after Poe's death, on the authority of Mr. T. H. Ellis, of Richmond. It appears that a friend of Poe wrote to the latter that Mr. Allan had spoken kindly of him, seeming to regret his harshness, and advising him to come on to Richmond and call on him in his illness. Acting upon this advice, he, one evening in February, presented himself at Mr. Allan's door. The rest, as told by Ellis, is as follows: "He was met at the door by Mrs. Allan, who, not recognizing him, said that her husband had been forbidden by his physician to see visitors. Thrusting her rudely aside, he rapidly made his way upstairs and into the chamber where Mr. Allan sat in an arm-chair, who, on seeing him, raised his cane, threatening to strike him if he approached nearer, and ordered him to leave the house, which he did." Woodbury asserts the truth of this story, because, as he says, "Mr. Ellis had the very best means of knowing the truth." But Ellis was at this time only a youth of 18 or 20, and had no more opportunity of knowing the truth than the numerous acquaintances of the Allans' to whom they related their version of the incident, with never a mention of the cane. Poe, they said, accused the servant of having delivered his message to Mrs. Allan and, creating some disturbance, the latter called to the servant to "drive that drunken man away." Mr. Ellis should have remembered that Mrs. Allan, to the day of her death, asserted that she had never but once seen Poe; consequently, this story of the second meeting between them and of Poe's "rudely thrusting her aside," and being threatened with the cane, is simply a specimen of the gossip which was continually being circulated concerning Poe by his enemies. CHAPTER XIII. POE'S DOUBLE MARRIAGE. How it was that Poe, when a mature man of twenty-seven, came to marry his little cousin of twelve or thirteen has ever appeared something of a mystery. As understood by his Richmond friends, it appeared that when, in July of 1835, he left Baltimore to assume the duties of assistant editor to Mr. White of the _Southern Literary Messenger_, Virginia, deprived of her constant companion, so missed him and grieved over his absence that her mother became alarmed for her health, and wrote to Poe concerning it; and that in May of the following year the two came to Richmond, where Poe and Virginia were married, she being at that time not fourteen years of age. For this marriage Mrs. Clemm was severely criticised, the universal belief being that she had "made the match." Of any other marriage than this these friends never heard; since it was only from a letter found among Poe's papers after his death, and the reluctant admission of Mrs. Clemm, that it became known that a previous marriage had taken place. The marriage records of Baltimore show that on September 22, 1835, Edgar A. Poe took out a license to marry Virginia E. Clemm. Mrs. Clemm, when interviewed by one of Poe's biographers, admitted that there had been such a marriage, and stated that the ceremony had been performed by Bishop John Johns in Old Christ Church; though of this there is no mention in the church records. Immediately after the ceremony, she said, Poe returned to Richmond and to his editorial duties on the _Messenger_. She vouchsafed no explanation, except that the two were engaged previous to Poe's departure for Richmond. A possible explanation of the mystery may be that Mrs. Clemm, having set her heart upon keeping her nephew in the family, could think of no surer means than that of a match between himself and her daughter. When he left Baltimore for Richmond, in July, she doubtless had her fears; and then came reports of his notorious love affairs, one of which came near ending in an elopement and marriage. It was probably then that she wrote to him about Virginia's grieving for him; following up this letter with another saying that Neilson Poe had offered to take Virginia into his family and care for her until she should be eighteen years of age. This brought a prompt reply from Poe, begging that she would not consent to this plan and take "Sissy" away from him. This last letter is dated August 29. What other correspondence followed we do not know; but two weeks later, on September 11, 1835, we find Poe writing to his friend, Mr. Kennedy, the following extraordinary letter, in which he clearly hints at suicide: "I am wretched. I know not why. Console me--for you can. But let it be quickly, or it will be too late. Convince me that it is worth one's while to live.... Oh, pity me, for I feel that my words are incoherent.... Urge me to do what is right. Fail not, as you value your peace of mind hereafter. "EDGAR A. POE." This production, which, in whatever light it is viewed, cannot but be regarded as an evidence of pitiable weakness. Some writer has chosen to attribute Poe's anguish to the prospect of losing Virginia. But it does not at all appear that such is the case; for, even if Neilson Poe did make such an offer, Poe knew well enough that neither Mrs. Clemm nor her daughter would ever consent to accept it. The whole thing appears to have been simply a plan of Mrs. Clemm to bring matters to the satisfactory conclusion which she desired. She possessed over her nephew then and always the influence and authority of a strong and determined will over a very weak one; and we here see that in less than two months after Poe's leaving her house she had carried her point and married him to her daughter. Having thus secured him, she was content to wait a more propitious time for making the marriage public. There is yet a little episode which may have influenced this affair and may serve further to explain it. When Poe first went to Richmond, Mr. White, as a safeguard from the temptation to evil habits, received him as an inmate of his own home, where he immediately fell in love with the editor's youngest daughter, "little Eliza," a lovely girl of eighteen. It was said that the father, who idolized his daughter, and was also very fond of Poe, did not forbid the match, but made his consent conditional upon the young man's remaining perfectly sober for a certain length of time. All was going well, and the couple were looked upon as engaged, when Mrs. Clemm, who kept a watchful eye upon her nephew, may have received information of the affair, and we have seen the result. Does this throw any light upon Poe's pitiful appeal, "Urge me to do what is right"? Was this why the marriage was kept secret--to give time for a proper breaking off of the match with Elizabeth White? And it is certain, from all accounts, that Poe now, at once, plunged into the dissipation which was, according to general report, the occasion of Mr. White's prohibition of his attentions to his daughter. It was she to whom the lines, "_To Eliza_," now included in Poe's poems, were addressed. When I was a girl I more than once heard of Eliza White and her love affair with Edgar Poe. "She was the sweetest girl that I ever knew," said a lady who had been her schoolmate; "a slender, graceful blonde, with deep blue eyes, who reminded you of the Watteau Shepherdesses upon fans. She was a great student, and very bright and intelligent. She was said to be engaged to Poe, but they never appeared anywhere together. It was soon broken off on account of his dissipation. I don't think she ever got over it. She had many admirers, but is still unmarried." Recently I read an article written by Mrs. Holmes Cumming, of Louisville, Kentucky, in which she spoke of persons and places that she had seen in Richmond associated with Poe. Among others, she met with a niece of Eliza White, who, when a child, had often seen Poe at the latter's home. She remembered having at a party seen him dancing with Eliza, and how every one remarked what a handsome couple they were. She had never seen any one enjoy dancing more than Poe did; not but that he was very dignified, but you could see in his whole manner and expression how he enjoyed it." Perhaps it was because he had "little Eliza" for a partner. Previous to Poe's first marriage, he had boarded with a Mrs. Poore on Bank street, facing the Capitol square, and with whose son-in-law, Mr. Thomas W. Cleland, he held friendly relations. A few weeks after his first marriage (which was still kept secret) he removed to the establishment of a Mrs. Yarrington, in the same neighborhood, where, being joined by Mrs. Clemm and Virginia, they lived together as formerly, he--as he informed Mr. George Poe--paying out of his slender salary nine dollars a week for their joint board. This continued until May of the next year, when the public marriage of Poe and Virginia took place. On this occasion Mr. Thomas Cleland was obliging enough to consent to act as Poe's surety, and he also secured the services of his own pastor, the Rev. Amasa Converse, a noted Presbyterian minister. Late on the evening of May 16, Mr. Cleland, with Mrs. Clemm, Poe and Virginia, left Mrs. Yarrington's and, walking quietly up Main street to the corner of Seventh, were married in Mr. Converse's own parlor and in the presence of his family, Mrs. Clemm giving her full and free consent. The clergyman remarked afterward that Mrs. Clemm struck him as being "polished, dignified, and agreeable in her bearing," while the bride "looked very young." The party then returned to their boarding-house, where Mrs. Clemm invited the lady boarders to her room to partake of wine and cake, when it was discovered that it was a wedding celebration.[5] [5] A letter to Mrs. Holmes Cumming, from a son of the Rev. Amasa Converse, 1905. It will be observed that, according to the marriage bond, Virginia was married under her maiden name of Clemm, thus ignoring the former ceremony; and that Poe subscribed to the oath of Thomas Cleland that she was "of the full age of twenty-one years," when in reality she was but thirteen, having been born August 16, 1822. Thus is shown how pliable was Poe in the hands of his mother-in-law; and as regards Mr. Cleland, who was a very pious Presbyterian, it can only be hoped that he never discovered in what manner he had been imposed upon. CHAPTER XIV. THE POES IN RICHMOND. When Poe went to Richmond as assistant editor to Mr. White, it had been with the expectation of resuming his old place among his former friends and associates--a prospect which, as he himself stated in a letter to that gentleman, had afforded him very great pleasure. He had no idea of the altered estimate in which he was held by some of these, and of the general prejudice existing against him in consequence of the exaggerated reports concerning his rupture with the Allans and the later story of his attempt to force himself into Mr. Allan's presence. It is true that the Mackenzies, the Sullys, Dr. Robert G. Cabell and his wife, with some others of the best people, remained his firm friends; but he found himself without social standing and with but few associates among his former acquaintances. It was even said that when a leading society lady, enjoying a literary reputation--the mother of Mrs. Julia Mayo Cabell and Mrs. General Winfield Scott--gave an entertainment to which she invited the talented young editor of the _Messenger_, two of the most priggish of these gentlemen declined to attend rather than meet their former schoolmate, Edgar Poe. This state of things must undoubtedly have served to irritate and embitter one of Poe's proud and sensitive nature, and may have partly led to the dissipated habits in which he now for the first time began to indulge--besides, in some measure, influencing the extreme bitterness and severity, or, as it has been called, _venom_ of the criticism for which the _Messenger_ began to be noted. Never before had he been accused of unamiability of disposition, but his temper seems suddenly to have changed, and he was called "haughty, overbearing and quarrelsome." A great and, it is to be feared, irreparable obloquy has attached to Poe's name through the utterance of a single individual--a Mr. Ferguson, who was employed as a printer's assistant in the office of the _Messenger_ at the time of Poe's editorship of that magazine. Not many years ago, Mr. Ferguson, who is still living, said, in answer to some inquiry concerning the poet: "There never was a more perfect gentleman than Mr. Poe when he was sober," but that at other times "he would just as soon lie down in the gutter as anywhere else." And this assertion has been taken up by one and another writer until it appears now to be received as a fixed fact. I have often heard this statement indignantly denied by persons who knew Poe at this time. Howsoever much under the influence of drink he might be, he was, they say, never at any time or by any person seen staggering through the streets or lying in a gutter. On the contrary, he was extremely sensitive about being seen by his friends, and especially ladies, under the influence of drink. Poe himself, long after this time, while denying the charge of general dissipation, confessed that while in Richmond he at long intervals yielded to temptation, and after each excess was invariably for some days confined to his bed. And now, in addition to other charges against him, was that of neglecting his wife and being frequently seen in attendance on other women; a point on which his motherly friend, Mrs. Mackenzie, more than once felt herself called upon to remonstrate with him. He would be, for a week at a time, away from his home, putting up at various hotels and boarding-houses, and spending his money freely, instead of, as formerly, committing it to the keeping of his mother-in-law. Mrs. Clemm, descending from the dignity of a boarder, tried to open a boarding-house of her own, but failed; and she now rented a cheap tenement on Seventh street and went back to her dressmaking, letting out rooms, and probably taking one or two boarders. But it was seldom that her son-in-law was to be found here; though always, after one of his excesses, he would seek its seclusion until fit to again appear in public. Mr. Hewitt, who was about this time in Richmond, says that he heard a great deal of gossip about Poe's love affairs; and describes him as, at this time, of remarkable personal beauty--"graceful, and with dark, curling hair and magnificent eyes, wearing a Byron collar and looking every inch a poet." An old gentleman, a distinguished lawyer, once undertook his defence, saying: "Poe is one of the kind whom men envy and calumniate and women adore. How many could resist the temptation?" The Mackenzies spoke of Virginia at this time--now fourteen years of age--as being small for her age, but very _plump_; pretty, but not especially so, with sweet and gentle manners and the simplicity of a child. Rose Poe, now twenty-six years of age, would sometimes take her young sister-in-law to spend an afternoon at the Mackenzies, where she appeared as much of a child as any of the pupils, joining in their sports of swinging and skipping rope. On one occasion her husband--"Buddy"--came unexpectedly to bring her home, when she scandalized Miss Jane Mackenzie by rushing into the street and greeting him with the _abandon_ of a child. Nearly twenty years after this time there were persons living on Main street who remembered having almost daily seen about the Old Market, in business hours, a tall, dignified looking woman, with a market basket on one arm, while on the other hung a little girl with a round, ever-smiling face, who was addressed as "Mrs. Poe"! She, too, carried a basket. Whatsoever was the cause of Poe's discontent, he never appeared happy or satisfied while in Richmond. His dissipated habits grew upon him, with a consequent neglect of editorial duties, which sorely tried the patience of his good and kind friend, Mr. White, to whom, it must be admitted, Poe never appeared sufficiently grateful. Whether Mr. White was compelled at length to reluctantly discharge him, or whether, as Mr. Kennedy says, Poe himself gave up his place as editor of the _Messenger_, thinking that with his now established literary reputation he could do better in the North, is not clear; but in the summer of 1838 he left Richmond and, with his family, removed to New York. Mrs. Clemm, at least, could not have been averse to the move; for it seems certain that there was a general prejudice against her on account of her having made or consented to the match between her little daughter and a man of Poe's age and dissipated habits. CHAPTER XV. IN NEW YORK. Of Poe's business and literary affairs in New York, and subsequently in Philadelphia, his biographers have fully informed us, but with little or no mention of his home life or his family. All that we can gather concerning the latter is that never at any time were their circumstances such as would enable them to dispense with the utmost economy of living, and that, as regarded the practical everyday business affairs of life, Poe was almost as helpless and dependent upon his mother-in-law as was his child-wife. But for this devoted mother, what could they have done?--those two, whom she rightly called her "children." Poe was sadly disappointed in his hopes of obtaining literary employment in New York, and but for Mrs. Clemm's opening a boarding-house on Carmine street, an obscure locality, the family might have starved. Here, however, he seems to have turned over a new leaf, for one of the boarders, a Mr. Gowans, a book-seller on the next street, declares that in the eight months of his residence at Mrs. Clemm's, and a daily intercourse with Poe, he never saw him otherwise than "sober, courteous, and a perfect gentleman." Being a stranger in New York, he was removed from the temptations which had assailed him in Richmond, and this fact should be noted as a proof that, when left to himself, he showed no inclination to indulge in dissipation. Of Virginia, Poe's wife, then fifteen years of age, this gallant old bachelor says, in the exaggerated style of flattery common in those days: "Her eyes outshone those of any houri, and her features would defy the genius of a Canova to imitate. Poe delighted in her round, childlike face and plump little figure." CHAPTER XVI. THE REAL VIRGINIA. As regards the nature of Poe's affection for his wife, I have often recalled an expression of Mr. John Mackenzie when, after the poet's death, a group of his friends were familiarly discussing his character. One doubted whether Poe had ever really loved his wife; to which Mr. Mackenzie replied: "I believe that Edgar loved his wife, but not that he was ever in love with her--which accounts for his constancy." I have heard other men say that it was impossible that Poe, at the age of twenty-seven, could have felt for the child of twelve, with whom he had played and romped in the familiar association of home life and the free intercourse of brother and sister, aught of the absorbing and idealizing passion of love. At most, said they, there could have been but the tender and protective affection of an elder brother or cousin; which, as Mr. Mackenzie remarked, was in one of Poe's temperament the best guarantee for its continuance. Apart from the disparity of age, there was no congeniality of mind or character to draw these two into sympathy. Virginia was not mentally gifted, and Poe once, after her death, remarked to Mrs. Mackenzie that she had never read half of his poems. When writing, he would go to Mrs. Clemm to explain his ideas or to ask her opinion, but never to Virginia. She was his pet, his plaything, his little "Sissy," whose sunny temper and affectionate disposition brightened and cheered his home. "She was always a child," said a lady who knew her well. "Even in person smaller and younger looking than her real age, she retained to the last the shy sweetness and simplicity of childhood." It would certainly appear that Poe's child-wife never attained to the full completeness of the nature and affections of a mature woman. She was never known to manifest jealousy of the women whom he so notoriously admired; neither did scandals disturb nor his neglect estrange her. Mrs. Clemm would sometimes, as in duty bound, take him to task for his irregularities, but no word of reproach ever escaped Virginia. She regarded him with the most implicit and childlike trust; and certainly it seems that Poe, of all men, knew how, by endearing epithets and eloquent protestations, to win a woman's confidence--as will presently appear. But, naturally, this was not the kind of affection to satisfy one of Poe's impassioned and poetic nature. He craved a woman's love, and the sympathetic appreciation of talented women, in whose companionship, as Mrs. Whitman assures us, he delighted. What he did not find in Virginia he sought elsewhere. In special he missed in her that understanding and appreciation of his genius which he found in some other women. She loved and admired her handsome and fascinating husband, but never appeared to take pride in his genius or his fame as a poet. The accounts of Virginia's beauty, say those who knew her personally, have been greatly exaggerated by Poe's biographers, who, taking their impressions from the description of Mr. Gowans already mentioned, have painted the poet's child-wife in the most glowing colors. The general idea of her is like that which Mr. Woodbury expresses: "A sylph-like creature, of such delicate and ethereal beauty that we almost expect to see it vanish away, like one of Poe's own creations." But the real Virginia was neither delicate nor ethereal. She is described by those who knew her at the age of twenty-two as looking more like a girl of fifteen than a woman grown, with, notwithstanding her frail health, a round, full face and figure, full, pouting lips, a forehead too high and broad for beauty, and bright black eyes and raven-black hair, contrasting almost startlingly with a white and colorless complexion. Her manner and expression were soft and shy, with something childlike and appealing. "She was liked by every one," says Mr. Graham. A decided _lisp_ added to her child-likeness. CHAPTER XVII. POE'S PHILADELPHIA HOME. Poe, disappointed in his hopes of success in New York, left that city and, in the summer of 1839, removed to Philadelphia, then the literary center of the United States. Of his business experiences while here--his successes and disappointments--his quarrels with certain editors and literary men and his friendly relations with others, his biographers have informed us. But it is in his home and private life that we are interested. Their financial circumstances at this time must have been deplorable, for they had to borrow money to enable them to remove to Philadelphia. Under the circumstances, to take board was impracticable; and it appears from the reminiscences of certain neighbors, that they for some time occupied very poor lodgings in an obscure street in the vicinity of a market. But Poe was much more successful here than in New York, and we find them in the following spring established in a home of their own in a locality known as _Spring Garden_, a quiet suburb far from the dust and noise of the city. Some one has recently taken pains to hunt out with infinite patience and perseverance this house, which the Poes occupied for nearly five years. It was an ordinary framed Dutch-roofed building, with but three rooms on the ground floor, and under the eaves little horizontal strips of windows on a level with the floor, which could scarcely have admitted light and air. But there was, when they took possession, a bit of grassy side yard which had once been part of a garden, and a porch over which grew a straggling rose-bush. This latter Mrs. Clemm's skillful hands carefully pruned and trained, thus winning for the humble abode the title still applied to it of "The poet's rose-embowered cottage," to which some enthusiast has added, "Where Poe and his idolized Virginia dreamed their divine dream of love." To a lady who was at this time a resident of Spring Garden we are indebted for a glimpse of the Poes in this their quiet and half-rural abode. "Twice a day, on my way to and from school," she said, "I had to pass their house, and in summer time often saw them. In the mornings Mrs. Clemm and her daughter would be generally watering the flowers, which they had in a bed under the windows. They seemed always cheerful and happy, and I could hear Mrs. Poe's laugh before I turned the corner. Mrs. Clemm was always busy. I have seen her of mornings clearing the front yard, washing the windows and the stoop, and even white-washing the palings. You would notice how clean and orderly everything looked. She rented out her front room to lodgers, and used the middle room, next to the kitchen, for their own living room or parlor. They must have slept under the roof. We never heard that they were poor, and they kept pretty much to themselves in the two years we lived near them. I don't think that in that time I saw Mr. Poe half a dozen times. We heard he was dissipated, but he always appeared like a gentleman, though thin and sickly looking. His wife was the picture of health. It was after we moved away that she became an invalid." Mrs. Clemm, she added, was a dress and cloak maker; and she thinks that Mrs. Poe assisted her, as she would sometimes see the latter seated on the stoop engaged in sewing. "She was pretty, but not noticeably so. She was too fleshy." This account refers to a time when Poe was assistant editor of _The Gentleman's Magazine_, and the family were enjoying a degree of peace and prosperity such as they never subsequently knew. Poe lost this position, according to Mr. Burton, the editor-in-chief, by indulgence in dissipated habits. In replying to this charge, he wrote to a friend, Mr. Snodgrass, that "on the honor of a gentleman" he had not, since leaving Richmond, tasted anything stronger than cider, and that upon one occasion only. In this he was borne out by the testimony of Mrs. Clemm, who asserted, "I know that for years he never tasted even a glass of wine." Mr. Burton, in making the charge, adds: "I believe that for eighteen months previous to this time he had not drank." Still, the severity and, one might say, almost cruelty of his personal criticisms continued, and nothing could exceed the bitterness of his vituperation against those by whom, as he conceived, he had been wronged or unjustly treated. Mr. Burton, in replying, in a forbearing and even kindly manner, to a very abusive letter from him, advised him to "lay aside his ill-feeling against his fellow-writers, and to cultivate a more tolerant and kindly spirit." He even proposed that Poe should resume his place upon the magazine, but this he proudly declined, and continued to contribute his brilliant stories to other periodicals. These attracted the attention of Mr. Graham, who had just established the magazine which bore his name, and who offered him the editorship, which Poe accepted, and gave to it his best work. Under his management it prospered wonderfully, and soon became the leading periodical of the country. Still, with a good salary and a brilliant literary reputation, Poe was dissatisfied. The old restlessness and discontent returned. What he desired was a magazine of his own, for which he might be at liberty to write according to his own will. His independent and ambitious spirit revolted at being limited to certain bounds and controlled by what he considered the narrow views of editors. We find him as early as June 26, 1841, writing to Mr. Snodgrass: "Notwithstanding Graham's unceasing civility and real kindness, I am more and more disgusted with my situation." It ended at length in his resigning the editorship of _Graham's_ and devoting himself to writing for other publications, a step which was the beginning of a long period of financial and other troubles. From Col. Du Solle, editor of "_Noah's New York Sunday Times_," who as a resident of Philadelphia about that time knew Poe well, I gained some information concerning him. His dissipation, the Colonel said, was too notorious to be denied; and that for days, and even weeks at a time, he would be sharing the bachelor life and quarters of his associates, who were not aware that he was a married man. He would, on some evenings when sober, come to the rooms occupied by himself and some other writers for the press and, producing the manuscript of _The Raven_, read to them the last additions to it, asking their opinion and suggestions. He seemed to be having difficulty with it, said Col. Du Solle, and to be very doubtful as to its merits as a poem. The general opinion of these critics was against it. The irregular habits of this summer resulted in the fall (1839) in a severe illness, the first of the peculiar attacks to which Poe during the rest of his life was at intervals subject. On recovering, he devoted himself to the realization of a plan for establishing a magazine of his own, to be called "_The Penn Magazine_," and wrote to Mr. Snodgrass that his "prospects were glorious," and that he intended to give it the reputation of using no article except from the best writers, and that in criticism it was to be sternly, absolutely just with both friends and foe, independent of the medium of a publisher's will." In these last words we read the whole secret of his past dissatisfaction and of his future aspiration as an editor. The _Penn Magazine_ was advertised to appear on January 1, 1841, but this scheme was balked by a financial depression which at that time occurred throughout the country. But who will not sympathize with Poe and admit that, considering the disappointments to which he was continually subject, and the constant humiliation and drawback of the poverty which met him on every hand, balking each movement and design--together with the ill-health from which he was now destined to be a constant sufferer--his faults and failures should not be treated with every possible allowance? If he were naturally weak, and lacking in the strength and firmness of will to determinately resist obstacles and discouragements, we see in it the effect of the heredity, apparent in his sister; and consequently so much greater is his claim to be leniently judged. CHAPTER XVIII. VIRGINIA's ILLNESS. In all this time of which we have spoken, embracing a period of several years, Mrs. Clemm and her daughter continued their quiet life at the cottage, the former doing what she could toward the support and comfort of the family. But a great affliction was to befall them, in the dangerous illness of Virginia, now in her twenty-first year, who had the misfortune, while singing, to break a small blood-vessel. She had already developed signs of consumption, and from this time forth remained more or less an invalid, subject to occasional hemorrhages, but, from all accounts, losing none of her characteristic cheerfulness and light-heartedness. Poe was at this time still engaged in the editorship _of Graham's Magazine_, and it is now that we begin to hear of him in the character of "a devoted husband, watching beside the sick bed of an idolized wife," with which the world is familiar. Certainly the condition of the helpless creature who so clung to him, and the real danger which threatened her, was calculated to awaken all the tenderness of his nature. "She could not bear the slightest exposure," wrote Mr. Harris in _Hearth and Home_, "all needed the utmost care and all those conveniences as to apartment and surroundings which are so important in the case of an invalid. And yet the room where she lay for weeks, hardly able to breathe except as she was fanned, was a little place with the ceiling so low over the narrow bed that her head almost touched it." Mr. Graham tells how he saw Poe "hovering around his wife's couch with fond fear and tender anxiety, _shuddering visibly_ at her slightest cough;" and mentions his driving out with them one summer day, and of the husband's "watchful eyes eagerly bent on the slightest change in that beloved face." Another literary friend of Poe's who visited the family in this time of trial, Mr. Clarke, tells of his once taking his little daughter with him, knowing Virginia to be fond of the companionship of children; and as a proof of the latter's light-heartedness relates how the little girl was induced to sing a comic song, which Virginia received with "peal after peal of merry laughter." The reminiscences of these kindly gentlemen who, at Poe's own request, called upon him, regarding the poet and his family, are of the most flattering character. Poe in his own home was the perfection of graceful courtesy, and Mrs. Clemm amiably dignified, with a countenance when speaking of "her children" almost "saint-like in its expression of patience and motherly devotion." Of Virginia, Mr. Harris says, "She looked hardly more than fourteen, was soft, fair and girlish." He says, furthermore, that Mrs. Poe, whom he had not known previous to her misfortune, had up to that time "possessed a voice of marvelous sweetness and a harp and piano," which leads an English writer to represent the poet's wife as "an accomplished musician, with the voice of a St. Cecilia." This is a specimen of the exaggeration to which "biographers" sometimes lend themselves, to be taken up by those who follow and received by the public as fact. Poe now again interested himself in getting up a magazine, to which he gave the name of "_The Stylus_" and there seemed an even more brilliant prospect than before of its success. He wrote a prospectus, and went to Washington to obtain subscriptions from President Tyler and the Cabinet, but was taken ill, the result, it was said, of his meeting with a convivial acquaintance; and Mrs. Clemm being notified thereof, on his return to Philadelphia met him at the railroad station and took him home in safety from further possible temptation. Owing partly to this indiscretion, _The Stylus_ was again a failure; and the matter being known throughout the city, did not add to Poe's personal reputation. Now, also, just as for the first time, Poe began to be mentioned in the character of a devoted husband, there arose a widespread scandal concerning a handsome and wealthy lady whom, it was said, he accompanied to Saratoga, and who was paying his expenses there. But while the story appears to have been so far true, it certainly admits of a different construction from that given by the gossips. Poe was at this time in wretched health, hardly able to attend to his literary work, and in consequence the financial condition of himself and family was deplorable. What more probable than that some kind friend of his, seeing the absolute necessity to him of a change, should have invited him to be her guest at the quiet summer resort near Saratoga to which she was going? It was a more delicate and, for him, a safer way than to have supplied him with money on his own account. The lady, it was said, had her own little turn-out, in which they daily drove into Saratoga; and this exercise, with the mineral waters, the nourishing food and other advantages of the place, doubtless secured to him the benefits which his friend desired. It is impossible to believe that Poe could so have defied public opinion as to have voluntarily given cause for a scandal of this nature, for which the gossip of a public watering place should alone be held responsible. Poe now again applied himself to his writing, but, for some reason, with but little success. In desperation he hastily finished the manuscript of _The Raven_ and offered it to Graham, who, not satisfied as to its merits as a poem, declined it, but expressed a willingness to abide by the decision of a number of the office employees, clerks and others, who, being called in, sat solemnly attentive and critical while Poe read to them the poem. Their decision was against it, but on learning of the poet's penniless condition and that, as he confessed, he had not money to buy medicine for his sick wife, they made up a subscription of fifteen dollars, which was given, not to Poe himself, but to Mrs. Clemm, "for the use of the sick lady." This account, given in a New York paper by one of the office committee many years after the poet's death, has been denied by a Mr. William Johnston, who was at that time an office-boy in Graham's employ. He says that he was present at the reading of the poem, and that no subscription was taken up. This may have been done subsequently, without his knowledge. Of Poe, he spoke in the most enthusiastic terms of admiration and affection, as the kindest and most courteous gentleman that he had ever met with; prompt and industrious at his work, and having always a pleasant word and smile for himself. He never, in the course of Poe's engagement with Graham, saw him otherwise than perfectly sober. CHAPTER XIX. BACK TO NEW YORK. Poe, discouraged, and with the old restlessness upon him, suddenly resolved to leave Philadelphia. On the 6th of April, 1844, he started with Virginia for New York, leaving Mrs. Clemm to settle their affairs in general. Most fortunately for Poe's memory, there remains to us a letter written by him to Mrs. Clemm, in which he gives her an account of their journey. It is of so private and confidential a nature, and speaks so frankly and freely of such small domestic matters as most persons do not care to have exposed to strangers, that in reading it one feels almost as if violating the sacredness of domestic privacy. But I here refer to it as showing Poe's domestic character in a most attractive light: "NEW YORK, Sunday morning, April 7, just after breakfast. "MY DEAR MUDDIE: We have just this moment done breakfast, and I now sit down to write you about everything.... In the first place, we arrived safe at Walnut street wharf. The driver wanted me to pay him a dollar, but I wouldn't. Then I had to pay a boy a levy to put the trunks in the baggage car. In the meantime I took Sis into the Depot Hotel. It was only a quarter-past six, and we had to wait until seven.... We started in good spirits, but did not get here until nearly three o'clock. Sissy coughed none at all. When we got to the wharf it was raining hard. I left her on board the boat, after putting the trunks in the ladies' cabin, and set off to buy an umbrella and look for a boarding-house. I met a man selling umbrellas, and bought one for twenty-five cents. Then I went up Greenwich street and soon found a boarding-house.... It has brown-stone steps and a porch with brown pillars. "Morrison" is the name on the door. I made a bargain in a few minutes and then got a hack and went for Sis. I was not gone more than half an hour, and she was quite astonished to see me back so soon. She didn't expect me for an hour. There were two other ladies on board, so she wasn't very lonely. When we got to the house we had to wait about half an hour till the room was ready. The cheapest board that I ever knew, taking into consideration the central situation and the _living_. I wish Kate (Virginia's pet cat, 'Catalina') could see it. She would faint. Last night for supper we had the nicest tea you ever drank, strong and hot; wheat bread and rye bread, cheese, tea-cakes (elegant), a good dish (two dishes) of elegant ham and two of cold veal, piled up like a mountain and large slices; three dishes of the cakes, and everything in the greatest profusion. No fear of our starving here. The land-lady seemed as if she could not press us enough, and we were at home directly. Her husband is living with her, a fat, good-natured old soul. There are eight or ten boarders, two or three of them ladies--two servants. For breakfast we had excellent flavored coffee, hot and strong, not too clear and no great deal of cream; veal cutlets, elegant ham-and-eggs and nice bread and butter. I never sat down to a more plentiful or a nicer breakfast. I wish you could have seen the eggs, and the great dishes of meat. I ate the first hearty breakfast I have eaten since we left our little home. Sis is delighted, and we are both in excellent spirits. She has coughed hardly any and had no night-sweat. She is now mending my pants, which I tore against a nail. I went out last night and bought a skein of silk, a skein of thread, two buttons and a tin pan for the stove. The fire kept in all night. We have now got four dollars and a half left. To-morrow I am going to try and borrow three dollars, so that I may have a fortnight to go upon. I feel in excellent spirits and have not drank a drop, so that I hope soon to get out of trouble. The very instant that I scrape together enough money I will send it on. You can't imagine how much we both miss you. Sissy had a hearty cry last night because you and Catalina weren't here. We are resolved to get two rooms the first moment we can. In the meantime it is impossible that we can be more comfortable or more at home than we are. Be sure to go to the P. O. and have my letters forwarded. It looks as if it were going to clear up now. As soon as I can write the article for Lowell, I will send it to you and get you to get the money from Graham. Give our best love to Catalina." (Signature cut out here.) In this letter, written as simply and as unreservedly as that of a child to its mother, we see Poe himself--Poe in his real nature. Not the poet, with his studied affectation of gloom and sadness; not the critic, severe in his judgment of all that did not agree with his standard of literary excellence, and not even the society man, wearing the mask of cold and proud reserve--but Poe himself; Poe the man, shut in from the eyes of the world in the privacy of his home life and the companionship of his own family. Who could recognize in this gentle, kindly and tender man, with his playful mood and his affectionate consideration for those whom he loved--even for _Catalina_--the "morbid and enigmatical" being that the world chooses to imagine him--the gloomy wanderer amid "the ghoul-haunted regions of Weir," the despairing soul forever brooding over the memory of his lost Lenore? And how readily he yields himself to the enjoyment of the moment; how cheerful he is in a situation which would depress any other man--a stranger in a strange city, just making a new start in life, with "four dollars and a half" to begin with! Surely there is something most pathetic in all this as we see it from Poe's own unconscious pen; with the purchase of the twenty-five-cent umbrella to shield "Sissy" from the rain, the two buttons and the skein of thread, and, ever mindful of Sissy's comfort, the tin pan for the stove. The picture is invaluable as enabling us to understand the true characters of Poe and his wife and the peculiar relations existing between them--Virginia, trustful, loving and happy, and Poe, all kindness and protective tenderness for his little "Sissy." We look upon it as a life-like photograph, clear and distinct in every line; Poe with the traces of care and anxiety for the time swept away from his face, and Virginia--as she is described at this time--a woman grown, but "looking not more than fourteen," plump and smiling, with her bright, black eyes and full pouting lips. It is Poe himself who reveals her character as no other has done, when he says that, though "delighted" with her new experience and situation, she yet "had a hearty cry," childlike, missing her mother and her cat. It would have been well for them could they have remained at this model "cheap" boarding-house, where they were so well provided for. But it was beyond their means, with board for three persons; and so they look about for "two rooms," and when ready send for Mrs. Clemm and Catalina. Two rooms for the three; in one of which Mrs. Clemm must perform all her domestic operations of cooking and laundering, for, as we afterwards learn, Poe was indebted to his mother-in-law for that "immaculate linen" in which, howsoever shabby the outer garments, he invariably appeared. And despite the threadbare suit, he was always, it was said, as well groomed and scrupulously neat as the most fastidious gentleman could be. That in New York Poe did not at first succeed according to his expectations is rendered evident by the fact that in the following October, he being ill, Mrs. Clemm applied to N. P. Willis for some employment for him, who gave him a place in his office as assistant editor. Willis says that Mrs. Clemm's countenance as she pleaded for her son-in-law was "beautiful and saintly by reason of an evident complete giving up of her life to privation and sorrowful tenderness" for those whom she loved. Of Poe, he says that he was "a quiet, patient, industrious and most gentlemanly person, commanding the utmost respect and good feeling of every one." He also says, in speaking of a lecture which he delivered about this time before the _New York Lyceum_, and which was attended by several hundred persons: "He becomes a desk; his beautiful head showing like a statuary embodiment of Discrimination--his accent like a knife through water." It was now--in January, 1845--that _The Raven_ was published in the _Evening Mirror_, taking the world by storm. Probably no one was more surprised at its immediate success than was Poe himself, who, as he afterwards stated to a friend, had never had much opinion of the poem. He now found himself elevated to the highest rank of American literary fame, and with this his worldly fortune should also have risen, yet we find him going on in the same rut as before, writing but little for the magazine and for that little being poorly paid--too poorly to enable the family to live in any degree of comfort. From one cheap lodging to another they removed, with such frequency as to suggest to us the suspicion that their rent was not always ready when due. But after some time the old discontent returned upon Poe. Willis and the _Mirror_ were too narrow for him; and he sought and was fortunate enough to obtain a place on the _Broadway Journal_, at that time the leading journal of the day, and of which he was soon appointed assistant editor. With a good salary, the family were now enabled to live in more comfort. They rented a front and back room on the third story of an old house on East Broadway, which had once been the residence of a prosperous merchant, but had long ago been given over to the use of poor but respectable tenants. It was musty and mouldy, but here they were elevated somewhat above the noise and dust of the street, and had sunlight and a good view from the narrow windows. 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 the _Broadway Journal_ for 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 my _Ode_ would 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 description of 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 with his services. The matter was settled, however, by Poe's proposing to buy the _Broadway Journal_, hoping to make of it in a measure what he had desired for the _Stylus_. 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. CHAPTER XX. POE AND MRS. OSGOOD. 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 had done 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 the _soirees_ of 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 of _Israefel_--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 to me 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'[6] patient, 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. [6] A pencil sketch of Mrs. Stanard by Poe himself. "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 followed her; 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. CHAPTER XXI. AT 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' wagons which 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 her affairs. 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 that _Anabel Lee_ was 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 pretty knick-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 by _her mother_ and Mrs. 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 and _naively_ Mrs. 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 did _not_ seek 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 that _after Poe's death_ the 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 the _Memoirs_ upon 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 woes That crowd around my earthly path-- (Dear path, alas! where grows Not e'en one thornless rose)-- My soul at last a solace hath In dreams of thee--and therein knows An Eden of calm repose. "And thus thy memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off isle In some tumultuous sea; Some ocean throbbing far and free With storms--but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just 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 beam A lonely spirit guiding. "What though that light through storm and night Still trembles from afar? What could there be more purely bright Than 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 wife Dearer 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. CHAPTER XXII. THE SHADOW AT THE DOOR. 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 from the 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 the kitchen 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 looked _too 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 her mother 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 of _The 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. But meantime 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 awful _shadow_ which 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 biographers[7] has 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? [7] Ingraham. 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. CHAPTER XXIII. MRS. SHEW. 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 this time 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." 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. For all 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. CHAPTER XXIV. QUIET LIFE AT FORDHAM. 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_," he would 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 convenient _settle_, 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" tea-cakes 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 the _New 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 was moored 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." CHAPTER XXV. WITH OLD FRIENDS. 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 of the "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 the _Stylus_, 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 her _The 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 beyond but never _at_ you;" 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: "I saw thee once--once only;--" supposed to commemorate his first sight of her as, passing her garden "one July midnight," he beheld her robed in white, reclining on a bank of violets, with her eyes raised heavenward. "No footsteps stirred; the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. Oh, heaven--oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two words-- Save only _thee and me_!" So, he continues, he gazed entranced until--the hour being past midnight and a storm-cloud threatening--the lady very properly arose and disappeared from his sight; all but her eyes. These remained and followed him home, and had followed him ever since: "----two sweetly scintillant Venuses; unextinguished by the sun." All this must have been very gratifying to Mrs. Whitman--if she believed in it--but, remembering her neglected valentine, she was in no haste to acknowledge the poetic offering, and Poe, after waiting some weeks, had his attention drawn in another direction. He had written to his friend, Mr. Mackenzie, concerning his matrimonial aspirations, and he now received an answer, suggesting that he come to Richmond and try his fortune with an old-time school-girl sweetheart, Miss Sarah Elmira Royster, now a rich "Widow Shelton," who had several times of late inquired after him and sent her "remembrances." Animated by this new hope, he, late in the summer of 1847, proceeded to Richmond, where he visited among his friends and called upon Mrs. Shelton, but especially paid attention to a pretty widow, a Mrs. Clarke. This lady, when a resident of Louisville, Kentucky, many years after Poe's death, gave to the editor of a paper some reminiscences of him at this time. "The good lady was deeply interested that the world might think well of Poe, and grew warm on the subject of his wrongs. She claimed that the poet was a Virginian, and, like most Virginians, she is very proud of her State. She wondered where Gill had gotten the material for Poe's vindication. She had first met Poe at the Mackenzies, when he was editor of the _Southern Literary Messenger_, and he afterward boarded at the same hotel as herself; but she saw most of him on his visit to Richmond previous to his last. He was then at her house daily, and sometimes two or three times a day. He came there, as he said, to rest. "If there happened to be friends present he was often obliging enough to read, and would sometimes read some of his own poems; but he would never read _The Raven_ unless he felt in the mood for it. When in Richmond he generally stayed with the Mackenzies at _Duncan Lodge_, and would drive in with them at any time. One day he came in with his sister and two of the Mackenzies and stopped with me. There were some other people present, and he read _The Raven_ for us. He shut out the daylight and read by an astral lamp on the table. When he was through all of us that had any tact whatever spared our comments and let our thanks be brief; for he was most impatient of both." Of Poe's reading, Mrs. Clark spoke with enthusiasm. "It was altogether peculiar and indescribable," she said. "I have heard _The Raven_ read by his friend, John R. Thompson, and others, but it sounded so strange and affected, compared with his own delivery. Poe had a wonderful voice--rich, mellow and sweet. I cannot give you any idea of it. Edwin Booth sometimes reminds me of him in his eyes and expression, but Poe's voice was peculiar to himself. I have never heard anything like it. He often read from Shelley and other poets. One day he pointed out to me in one of Shelley's poems what he considered the truest characteristic of hopeless love that he knew of: "'The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow.' "I enjoyed a good deal of his society during that visit in 1847. On his last visit I saw less of him. He was then said to be engaged to a Mrs. Shelton. Some said he was marrying her for her money. There was a good deal of gossip at that time concerning Poe. His intemperate habits especially were exaggerated and made the most of by those who did not like him, while his companions in dissipation escaped unnoticed. When he was in company at a party for instance--you might see a little of him in the earlier part of the evening, but he would presently be off somewhere. Then his eccentricities; I think that when a very young man he imitated Byron." Mrs. Clarke said she had seldom seen a good likeness of Poe. The best she had cut from an old magazine. "This engraving," she said, showing it, reflects at once the fastidiousness and the virility characteristic of his temperament. All the others have an expression pitiably weak. His worst calumniators could hardly desire for him a harder fate than the continual reproduction of that feeble visage. When he had money he was lavish and over-generous with it. He was always refined. You felt it in his very presence. And as long as I knew him, and as much as I was with him, I never saw him in the least intoxicated. I have seen him when he had had enough wine to make him talk with even more than his usual brilliancy. Indeed, to talk in a large general company, some little stimulant was necessary to him. Dr. Griswold says he was arrogant, dogmatic and impatient of contradiction. I have heard him engage in discussions frequently; oftenest with diffidence, always with consideration for others. In a large company it was only when exhilarated with wine that he spoke out his views and ideas with any degree of self-assertion." Mrs. Clarke said that his sister, Rosalie, was rather pretty and resembled himself somewhat in appearance, but "was as different as possible in mental capacity. She was amiable, patient and sweet-tempered, but as a companion wholly tiresome and monotonous. She seemed to have had little or no individuality or force of character. She thought a great deal of her brother, but during the greater part of their lives they had seen nothing of each other. The family of Mr. Mackenzie treated her affectionately and kindly, and until the breaking up of the household she remained with them, and then went to Baltimore to her relatives, the Poes. I don't know what became of her afterwards." Mrs. Clarke speaks of Poe's reading and lectures during his first visit to Richmond; but these were mere small social entertainments at the houses of various acquaintances. He really gave but one public lecture during this visit to Richmond. One evening at Mrs. Mackenzie's she said to him: "Edgar, since people appear so eager to hear you repeat _The Raven_, why not give a public recital, which might benefit you financially?" Being further urged, he finally yielded. One hundred tickets were advertised, at fifty cents each, and the music hall of the fashionable Exchange Hotel engaged for the occasion. On the appointed evening Poe stepped upon the platform to face an audience of _thirteen_ persons, including the janitor and several to whom complimentary tickets had been presented. Of these was Mrs. Shelton, who occupied a seat directly in front of the platform. Poe was cool and selfpossessed, but his delivery mechanical and rather hurried, and on concluding he bowed and abruptly retired. One of the audience remarked upon the unlucky number of thirteen; and Mrs. Julia Mayo Cabell commented indignantly upon the indifference of the Richmond people to "their own great poet." Poe was undoubtedly in a degree mortified, not at the indifference manifested, but at the picture presented by the large and brilliantly lighted hall and himself addressing the group of thirteen which constituted the audience. But his failure may be explained by the fact that in this month of August the _elite_ and educated people of the city were mostly absent in the mountains and by the sea-shore; and the weather being extremely sultry, few were inclined to exchange the cool breezes of the "city of the seven hills" for a crowded and heated lecture room, even to hear _The Raven_ read by its author. During this visit of Poe to Richmond, I, with my mother and sister, was away from home, in the mountains, and we thus missed seeing him. On our return shortly after his departure, we heard various anecdotes concerning him, one or two of which I subjoin as illustrative of his natural disposition. One evening, quite late, an alarm of fire was raised, and all the young men of Duncan Lodge, accompanied by Poe, hastened to the scene of disaster, about a mile further in the country. Finding a great crowd collected, and that their services were not required, they sat on a fence looking on, and it was past midnight when they thought of returning home. Gay young Dr. "Tom" Mackenzie remarked that it would never do to return in their immaculate white linen suits, as they would be sure to get a "wigging" from the old ladies for not having helped to put out the fire, and, besides, they were all hungry, and he knew how they could get a good supper. With that he seized a piece of charred wood and commenced besmirching their white garments and their hands and faces, including Poe's. Arriving at home in an apparently exhausted condition, they were treated by Mrs. Mackenzie herself, who would not disturb her servants, to the best that the pantry afforded, nor was the trick discovered until the following day. Mrs. Mackenzie laughed, but from Mrs. Carter, the mother of two of the culprits, and who was gifted with eloquence, they got the "wigging" which they had been anxious to avoid. And from accounts, Poe enjoyed it all immensely. A lady told me that one evening, going over to Duncan Lodge, her attention was attracted by the sound of voices in the garden, where she beheld all the young men in the broad central alley engaged in the classic game of "leapfrog." When it came to Mr. Poe's turn, she said, "he took a swift run and skimmed over their backs like a bird, seeming hardly to touch the ground. I never saw the like." Mr. Jones, Mrs. Mackenzie's son-in-law, who was rather large and heavy, came to grief in his performance, and no one laughed more heartily than did Poe. Was this the melancholy, morbid, "weird and wholly incomprehensible being" that the world has pictured the author of _The Raven_? Among these youthful spirits and his old friends, the depressing influences of his late life and home--the poverty, the friendlessness--seemed to vanish, and his real disposition reasserted itself. Pity that it could not have been always so. I am convinced that a great deal of Poe's unhappiness and apparent reserve and solitariness was owing to his obscure home life, which kept him apart from all genial social influences. At the North, wherever seen out of his business hours, he appears to have been "alone and solitary, proud and melancholy looking," says one, who had no idea of the loneliness of spirit, the lack of genial companionship, which made him so. With a few he was on friendly terms, but of intimate friends or associates he had not one so far as is known. Of the Mackenzies, so closely associated with Poe during his lifetime, I may be allowed to say that a more attractive family group I have rarely known. Beside those I have mentioned were the two youngest members, "Mr. Dick" and Mattie or "Mat"--wayward, generous, warm-hearted Mat, indifferent to people's opinion and heedless of conventionalities. She cared for nothing so much as her horse and dog, and spent an hour each day in the stables, while her aunt, Miss Jane, would exclaim in despair: "I don't know what to do with Martha. I cannot make a lady of her;" to which she would answer with a satisfied assurance that nature had never intended her to be a lady. But about this time--in October--Mat was married. There are ladies living who have heard from their mothers, at that time young girls, accounts of this famous wedding. The festivities were kept up for full two weeks, with ever-changing house parties, and each evening music and dancing, with unbounded hospitality. Miss Jane Mackenzie, upon whom the family chiefly depended, and whose fortune they expected to inherit, was gone on a visit to her brother in London; but she had given Mat a liberal sum wherewith to celebrate her wedding. Sadly my thoughts pass from this gay time over the next ten years or so to the time of "the war" and the changes which it brought to this family and to us all. CHAPTER XXVI. MRS. WHITMAN. Poe was still in Richmond, presumably courting the widow Shelton, though in so quiet a manner that it attracted little or no attention, when he unexpectedly received from Mrs. Whitman, who seems to have repented of her silence, a letter or poem of so encouraging a nature that he immediately left Richmond and proceeded to New York. Here he obtained a letter of introduction to Mrs. Whitman, which he on the following day presented to that lady at her home in Providence. The next evening he spent in her company, and on the succeeding day asked her to marry him! Receiving no definite answer, he, on his return to New York, sent her a letter in which, alluding to his previous intention of addressing Mrs. Shelton, he says: "Your letter reached me on the very day on which I was about to enter upon a course which would have borne me far away from you, sweet, sweet Helen, and the divine dream of your love." A few weeks later, when he had obtained from her a conditional promise of marriage, he again wrote--a letter in which he clearly alludes to his still cherished design of establishing the _Stylus_, from which he anticipates such brilliant results. Thus he artfully and apparently for the first time seeks to interest her in the scheme. "Am I right, dearest Helen, in the impression that you are ambitious? If so, and if you will have faith in me, I can and will satisfy your wildest desires. It would be a glorious triumph for us, darling--for you and me ... to establish in America the sole unquestionable aristocracy--that of the intellect; to secure its supremacy, to lead and control it. All this I can do, Helen, and will--if you bid me _and aid me_." Aware of her belief in occult and spiritual influences, he tells her that once, on hearing a lady repeat certain utterances of hers which appeared but the secret reflex of his own spirit, his soul seemed suddenly to become one with hers. "From that hour I loved you. I have never seen or heard your name without a shiver, half of delight, half of anxiety. The impression left upon my mind was that you were still a wife." (No such scruple had disturbed him in the case of Mrs. Osgood and others.) He goes on thus artfully to explain the incident of his declining Mrs. Osgood's offer of an introduction to Mrs. Whitman while in Providence. "For this reason I shunned your presence. You may remember that once, when I passed through Providence with Mrs. Osgood, I positively refused to accompany her to your house. I dared neither go, or say why I could not. I dared not speak of you, much less see you. _For years_ your name never passed my lips, while my soul drank in with a delirious thirst all that was uttered in my presence respecting you." It will be observed that he is here speaking of a time when his wife, whom he "loved as man never before loved," was yet living; and also when he was giving himself up to his unreasoning passion for Mrs. Osgood, whom he had followed to Providence. After this, who shall undertake to defend Poe from the charge of insincerity and dissimulation? Mrs. Osgood calls Poe's letters "divinely beautiful." We cannot tell how Mrs. Whitman was affected by them, but certainly her whole course exhibits her in a constant struggle between her own inclination and the influence of friends who desired to save her from the match with Poe. As early as January 21, 1848, it was known to the public that an engagement existed between the two, and I have the authority of Mrs. Kellogg for the statement that during the summer of that year Mrs. Whitman three times renewed this engagement and was as often compelled to break it, owing to his unfortunate habits. The last engagement was made on his solemnly vowing reformation; on which a day was fixed for the marriage and the services of a clergyman bespoken by Poe himself, who thereupon wrote to Mrs. Clemm desiring her to be ready to receive himself and his bride--at Fordham! One may imagine the dismay of poor Mrs. Clemm when she read this letter and looked around the humble home with its low-ceiled upstairs room, which had been Virginia's; the pine kitchen table and her dozen pieces of crockery. For once her strong mind and resourceful talent must have failed her. How was she to accommodate the fastidious bride of her most inconsiderate son-in-law? How even provide a wedding repast against their arrival? But happily she was spared the horror of such an experience, for on the appointed day Poe arrived at Fordham alone, though in a state of nervous excitement, which necessitated days and even weeks of careful nursing on the part of his patient and long-suffering mother-in-law. This final separation between the two--for they never again met--was caused by Poe's intemperance at his hotel in Providence on the day previous to that appointed for his marriage. He had delivered a lecture which was enthusiastically applauded, and on his return to the hotel he found himself surrounded by an admiring crowd, whose hospitalities he at first resolutely declined, but with his usual weakness of will, finally yielded to. Of the stormy scene when, on the following day, Mrs. Whitman finally and decisively refused to marry him, she has herself given an account, representing Poe as alternately pleading and "raving" in his unwillingness to accept her decision. But there can be no question but that he was at this time either in some degree mentally unbalanced or in such a state physically as that the least excess would serve to excite his mind beyond its normal condition and render him partly irresponsible. Of this we have proof in the fact of his intention of taking his proposed bride to Fordham. That Mrs. Whitman was really interested in her gifted and eccentric suitor is evident, and in her heart she was loyal to him, as is shown by her defence of him after his death, and also by the lines which she addressed to him some months after their separation, entitled, "_The Isle of Dreams_." Most of her poems written after this time had some reference to him; and it is worthy of note that no woman whom Poe professed to love ever lost her interest in him. The fascination which he exerted over them must have been something extraordinary. As regards Poe's feelings toward Mrs. Whitman, it is evident from the beginning that there was no real love on his part. He expressed no regret at the ending of his "divine dream of love," but seems rather to have experienced toward her a degree of resentment which thus found expression in a letter to a friend: "From this day forth I shun the pestilential society of literary women. They are a heartless, unnatural, venomous, dishonorable set, with no guiding principle but inordinate self-esteem. Mrs. Osgood is the only exception I know of." This tirade was doubtless excited partly by a scandal just now started by one of the literary set in question concerning Poe and a young married lady of Lowell. While delivering a lecture in that city he had been hospitably entertained at her home, where he spent several days, with the usual result of contracting a sentimental friendship with the charming hostess, whom he calls "Annie." During the latter part of his engagement to Mrs. Whitman his visits and attentions to this lady did not escape the notice of the "literary set," and a scandal was at once started by one of them, who drew the attention of "Annie's" husband to the matter. He accepted Poe's explanation and his proposal rather to give up the society of these friends than to be the cause of trouble to them, saying: "I cannot and will not have it upon my conscience that I have interfered with the domestic happiness of _the only being on earth whom I have loved at the same time with purity and with truth_." Certainly an extraordinary avowal to be made to the lady's husband; and we ask ourselves to how many women had he made a similar declaration? We have seen that when Poe for the last time left Mrs. Whitman's he went direct to Fordham, where, said Mrs. Clemm, he raved about "Annie," and even sent to her, reminding her of the "holy promise which he had exacted from her in their hour of parting, that she would come to him on his bed of death," and now claiming the fulfilment of that promise. Whether or not she complied does not appear; but it is more than likely that the lines, "_For Annie_," were suggested by his fever-dreams of her presence, first written while still half-delirious, and subsequently slightly altered to their present form. This piece, with the lines, "_To My Mother_," after being declined by all the more prominent magazines, finally appeared in the cheap "_Boston Weekly_," and must have been a surprise to "Annie" and her husband. But there was one woman of the "literary set" who showed that she at least was not deserving of the sweeping condemnation wherewith the irate poet had visited them. This was Mrs. Anna Estelle Lewis, a young poetess who, with her husband, was on friendly terms with Poe, and whose poems he had favorably noticed. Poe was still, mentally and physically, in a state which rendered him incapable of writing, and the condition at Fordham was deplorable. Suspecting this state of things, Mrs. Lewis and her husband invited Poe to visit them at their home in Brooklyn, and Mr. Lewis says that thenceforth they frequently had both himself and Mrs. Clemm to stay with them. It was this kindly couple that R. H. Stoddard so sharply satirizes in his "_Reminiscences_" of Poe, while accepting an evening's hospitality at their home after the poet's death. On this occasion he met with Mrs. Clemm, of whom he has given a pen picture of which we instinctively recognize the life-likeness. We can see the good lady seated serenely among the company in her "black bombazine and conventional widow's cap," lightly fingering her eye-glasses, as was her company habit, and with her strongly marked features wearing that "benevolent" smile which was characteristic of her most amiable moods. "She assured me," says Stoddard, "that she had often heard her Eddie speak of me--which I doubted--and that she believed she had also heard him speak of the stripling by my side--which was an impossibility.... She regretted that she had no more autographs to dispose of, but hinted that she could manufacture them, since she could exactly imitate her Eddie's handwriting; and this she told as though it had been to her credit." Deeply chagrined at the ending of his affair with Mrs. Whitman, and consequent disappointment in regard to the _Stylus_, Poe now, encouraged by his mother-in-law, again turned his thoughts to Mrs. Shelton. It was in July that he and Mrs. Clemm left Fordham, he to proceed to Richmond, and she, having let their rooms until his return, to stay with the Lewises. Mr. Lewis says that it was at his front door that Poe took an affectionate leave of them all; Mrs. Clemm, ever watchful and careful against possible temptation or pitfalls by the way, accompanying him to the boat to see him off. In parting from her he spoke cheeringly and affectionately. "God bless you, my own darling Muddie. Do not fear for Eddie. See how good I will be while away; and I will come back to love and comfort you."[8] [8] Ingram. And so, smiling and hopeful, the devoted mother stood upon the pier and watched to the last the receding form which she was never again to behold. CHAPTER XXVII. AGAIN IN RICHMOND. When Poe came to Richmond on this visit, he went first to Duncan Lodge, but afterward, for sake of the convenience of being in the city, took board at the old _Swan Tavern_, on Broad street, once a fashionable hostelry, but at this time little more than a cheap, though respectable, boarding-house for business men. Broad street--so named from its unusual width--extended several miles in a straight line from Chimberazo Heights and Church Hill on the east, where Mrs. Shelton had her residence, to the western suburbs, where Duncan Lodge and our own home of "_Talavera_" were situated. This was the route which Poe traversed in his visits to Mrs. Shelton. There were no street cars in those days, hacks were expensive, and the walk from "the Swan" to Church Hill was long and fatiguing. Poe would break his journey by stopping to rest at the office of Dr. John Carter, a young physician who had recently hung out his sign, about half-way between those two points. During the three months of his stay in Richmond we saw a good deal of Poe. He appeared at first to be in not very good health or spirits, but soon brightened up and was invariably cheerful, seeming to be enjoying himself. I do not know to what it was to be attributed, unless to his increased fame as a poet, but certainly his reception in Richmond at this time was very different from what it had been two years previously. He became the fashion; and was _fêted_ in society and discussed in the papers. His friend, Mrs. Julia Mayo Cabell--a first cousin of Mrs. Allan--inaugurated the evening entertainments to which people were invited "to meet Mr. Poe." It was generally expected that at these gatherings he would recite _The Raven_, and this he was often obliging enough to do, though we knew that it was to him an unwelcome task. In our own home, no matter who were the visitors, we would never allow this request to be made of him after he had on one occasion gratified us by a recital. I remember on this occasion being disappointed in his manner of delivery. I had expected some little graceful and expressive action, but he sat motionless as a statue except that at the line, "_Prophet! cried I, thing of evil!_" he slightly erected his head; and again, in repeating: "Get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore!" he turned his face suddenly though slightly toward the outer darkness of the open window near which he sat, each time raising his voice. He explained his own idea to be that any action served to attract the attention of the audience from the poem to the speaker, thus detracting from the effect of the former. I was told how, at one of these entertainments, Poe was embarrassed by the persistent attentions of a moth or beetle, until a sympathetic old lady took a seat beside him and, with wild wavings of a huge fan, kept the troublesome insect at a distance. This mingling of the comic with the tragic element rather spoiled the effect of the latter, and though Poe preserved his dignity, he was perceptibly annoyed. I never saw Mr. Poe in a large company, but was told that on such occasions he invariably assumed his mask of cold and proud reserve, not untouched by an expression of sadness, which was natural to his features when in repose. It was then that he "looked every inch a poet." In general companies he disliked any attempt to draw him out, never expressing himself freely, and at times manifesting a shyness amounting almost to an appearance of diffidence, which was very noticeable. A marked peculiarity was that he never, while in Richmond, either in society or elsewhere, made any advance to acquaintance, or sought an introduction, even to a lady. Aware of the estimation in which his character was held by some persons, he stood aloof, in proud independence, though responding with ready courtesy to any advance from others. Ladies who desired Mr. Poe's acquaintance would be compelled to privately seek an introduction from some friend, since he himself never requested it, and it was observed that he preferred the society of mature women to that of the youthful belles, who were enthusiastic over the author of _Lenore_ and _The Raven_. Mr. Poe spent his mornings in town, but in the evenings would generally drive out to Duncan Lodge with some of the Mackenzies. He liked the half-country neighborhood, and would sometimes join us in our sunset rambles in the romantic old Hermitage grounds. Those were pleasant evenings at Duncan Lodge and Talavera, with no lack of company at either place. CHAPTER XXVIII. A MORNING WITH POE AND "THE RAVEN." (A Leaf from a Journal.) One pleasant though slightly drizzly morning in the latter part of September I sat in our parlor at Talavera at a table on which were some new magazines and a vase of tea roses freshly gathered. Opposite me sat Mr. Poe. A basket of grapes--his favorite fruit--had been placed between us; and as we leisurely partook of them we chatted lightly. He inquired at length what method I pursued in my writing. The idea was new to me, and on my replying that I wrote only on the impulse of a newly conceived idea, he proceeded to give me some needed advice. I must make a _study_ of my poem, he said, line by line and word by word, and revise and correct it until it was as perfect as it could be made. It was in this way that he himself wrote. And then he spoke of _The Raven_. He had before told me of the difficulties which he had experienced in writing this poem and of how it had lain for more than _ten years_ in his desk unfinished, while he would at long intervals work on it, adding a few words or lines, altering, omitting and even changing the plan or idea of the poem in the endeavor to make of it something which would satisfy himself. His first intention, he said, had been to write a short poem only, based upon the incident of an _Owl_--a night-bird, the bird of wisdom--with its ghostly presence and inscrutable gaze entering the window of a vault or chamber where he sat beside the bier of the lost _Lenore_. Then he had exchanged the Owl for the Raven, for sake of the latter's "_Nevermore_"; and the poem, despite himself, had grown beyond the length originally intended. Does not this explain why the Raven--though not, like the Owl, a night-bird--should be represented as attracted by the lighted window, and, perching "upon the _bust of Pallas_," which would be more appropriate to the original Owl, Minerva's bird? Also, we recognize the latter in the lines: "By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore."[9] [9] As by also: "And its eyes have all the seeming Of a demon that is dreaming." Poe, in adopting the Raven, evidently did not obliterate all traces of the Owl. Of these troubles with the poem he had before informed me, and now, in answer to a remark of mine, he said, in effect: "_The Raven_ was never completed. It was published before I had given the final touches. There were in it certain knotty points and tangles which I had never been able to overcome, and I let it go as it was." He told how, toward the last, he had become heartily tired of and disgusted with the poem, of which he had so poor an opinion that he was many times on the point of destroying it. I believe that his having published it under the _nom de plume_ of "_Quarles_" was owing to this lack of confidence in it, and that had it proven a failure he would never have acknowledged himself the author. He feared to risk his literary reputation on what appeared to him of such uncertain merit. He now, in speaking of the poem, regretted that he had not fully completed before publishing it. "If I had a copy of it here," he said, "I could show you those knotty points of which I spoke, and which I have found it impossible to do away with," adding: "Perhaps you will help me. I am sure that you can, if you will." I did not feel particularly flattered by this proposal, knowing that since his coming to Richmond he had made a similar request of at least two other persons. However, I cleared the table of the fruit and the flowers and placed before him several sheets of generous foolscap, on which I had copied for a friend _The Raven_ as it was first published. He requested me to read it aloud, and as I did so, slowly and carefully, he sat, pencil in hand, ready to mark the difficult passages of which he had spoken. I paused at the third line. Had I not myself often noted the incongruity of representing the poet as pondering over _many_ a volume instead of a single one? I glanced inquiringly at Mr. Poe and, noting his unconscious look, proceeded. When I reached the line, "And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor;" he gave a slight shiver or shrug of the shoulders--an expressive motion habitual to him--and the pencil came down with an emphatic stroke beneath the six last words. This was one of the hardest knots, he said, nor could he find a way of getting over it. "_Ember_" was the only word rhyming with the two preceding lines, but in no way could he dispose of it except as he had done--thus producing the worst line in the poem. We "pondered" over it for awhile and finally gave it up. (But I may here mention that I have since, in studying the poem, made a discovery which, strangely enough, seems never to have occurred to the author. This was that in this particular stanza he had unconsciously reversed the order or arrangement of the lines, placing those of the triple rhymes first and the rhyming couplet last. Thus all his long years of worry over that unfortunate "_ember_" had been unnecessary, since the construction of the verse required not only the omission of the word as a rhyme, but of the whole line of "And each separate dying ember;" when the succeeding objectionable words, "Wrought its ghost upon the floor," could have been easily altered; and the addition of a third line to the succeeding couplet would have made the stanza correct.) Our next pause was at the word "_beast_," through which he ran his pencil. "Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above my chamber door." "I must get rid of that word," he said; "for, of course, no beast could be expected to occupy such a position." "Oh, yes; a mouse, for instance," I suggested, at which he gave me one of his rare humorous smiles. Leaving this point for future consideration, we passed on to a more serious difficulty. "This and more I sat divining, With my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet _lining_, with the lamplight gloated o'er." The knotty point here was in the word "lining"--a blunder obvious to every reader. Poe said that the only way he could see of getting over the difficulty was by omitting the whole stanza. But he was unwilling to give up that "violet velvet" chair, which, with the "purple silken curtain," he considered a picturesque adjunct to the scene, imparting to it a character of luxury which served as a relief to the more sombre surroundings. I had so often heard this impossible "lining" criticised that when he inquired, "Shall I omit or retain the stanza?" I ventured to suggest that it might be better to give up the stanza than have the poem marred by a defect so conspicuous. For a moment he held the pencil poised, as if in doubt, and I have since wondered what would have been his decision. But just here we were interrupted by the tumultuous entrance of my little dog, Pink, in hot pursuit of the family cat. The latter took refuge beneath the table at which we were seated, and there ensued a brisk exchange of duelistic passes, until I called off Pink and Mr. Poe took up the cat and, placing her on his knee, stroked her soothingly, inquiring if she were my pet. Upon my disclaiming any partiality for felines, he said, "I like them," and continued his gentle caressing. (Was he thinking of _Catalina_, his wife's pet cat, which he had left at home at Fordham, and which after her death had sat upon his shoulder as he wrote far into the night? Recalling his grave and softened expression, I think that it must have been so. But at that time I had never heard of Catalina.) But now came the final and most difficult "tangle" of all--the blunder apparent to the world--the defect which mars the whole poem, and yet is contained in but a single line: "And the lamplight o'er him streaming casts his shadow on the floor." Poe declared this to be hopeless, and that it was, in fact, the chief cause of his dissatisfaction with the poem. Indeed, it may well excite surprise that he, so careful and fastidious as to the completeness of his work, should have allowed _The Raven_ to go from his hands marred by a defect so glaring, but this is proof that he did indeed regard it as hopeless. * * * * * When Mr. Poe left us on this September morning he took with him this manuscript copy of _The Raven_; which, however, he on the following day handed to me, begging that I would keep it until his return from New York. I found that he had marked several minor defects in the poem, one of which was his objection to the word "shutter," as being too commonplace and not agreeing with the word "lattice," previously used. He remarked, before leaving for New York, that he intended having _The Raven_, after some further work upon it, published in an early number of the _Stylus_. I do not doubt but that, had he lived, he would have made it much more perfect than it now is. After his death his friend, Mr. Robert Sully, the Richmond artist, was desirous of making a picture of the _Raven_, but explained to me why it could not be done--all on account of that impossible "shadow on the floor." Of course, said he, to produce such an effect the lamplight must come from above and behind the bust and the bird. No; it was impracticable." This set me to thinking; and the result was that I, some time after, went to Mr. Sully's studio and said to him: "How would it do to have a glass transom above the door; one of those large fan-shaped transoms which we sometimes find in old colonial mansions, opening on a lofty galleried hall?" It would do, he said. Indeed, with such an arrangement, and the lamp supposed to be suspended from the hall ceiling, as in those old mansions, there would be no difficulty with either the poem or the picture. And we were both delighted at our discovery, and thought how pleased Poe would have been with the idea--so effective in explaining that mysterious shadow on the floor. Mr. Sully commenced upon his picture, but died before completing it. * * * * * This manuscript copy of _The Raven_, with all its pencil-marks, as made by Mr. Poe on that September morning, remained in my possession for many years. It is yet photographed upon my memory, with all the details here given from an odd leaf of a journal which I kept about that time--the quiet parlor, the outside drizzle, the books, the roses, and the face and figure of Mr. Poe as he gravely bent over that manuscript copy of his immortal poem of _The Raven_. Had he no premonition that even then a darker shadow than that of the _Raven_ was hovering over him? It was one of the last occasions on which I ever saw him. CHAPTER XXIX. MRS. SHELTON. Poe's first visits on his arrival in Richmond had been to Mrs. Shelton, and it soon became known that an engagement existed between them, although they were never seen together in public, and Poe on all occasions denied the engagement. Yet morning after morning the curious neighbors were treated to a sight of the poet ascending the steps of the tall, plain, substantial looking brick house on the corner of Grace street, facing the rear of St. John's church, and had they watched more closely they might at times have seen another figure following in its footsteps. This was Rosalie Poe, who, delighted at her brother's engagement, and being utterly without tact or judgment, would present herself at Mrs. Shelton's door shortly after his own arrival, as she said, for the pleasure of seeing the couple together. Once she surprised them at a _tête-à-tête_ luncheon at which "corned beef and mustard" figured; but on another occasion Mrs. Shelton met and informed her that Mr. Poe had a headache from his long walk and was resting on the parlor sofa, where she herself would attend to him, and so dismissed her, to her great indignation. Not alone to Mrs. Shelton's were these "shadowings" of her brother confined, but if she at any time knew of his intention to call at some house where she herself was acquainted, she would as likely as not make her own appearance during his visit; or, in promenading Broad street, he would unexpectedly find himself waylaid and introduced to some prosy acquaintance of his sister. It required Mrs. Mackenzie's authority to relieve him from these annoyances. There was, however, something pathetic in the sister's pride in and affection for a brother from whom she received but little manifestation of regard. He treated her indulgently, but, as she herself often said, in her homely way, "Edgar could never love me as I do him, _because he is so far above me_." About the middle of August Mrs. Shelton's interested neighbors observed that the poet's visits to her suddenly ceased; and then followed a report that the engagement was broken, and that a bitter estrangement existed between the two. Mr. Woodbury, Poe's biographer, doubts this, and declares that, "We have no evidence that such was the case;" but we, who were on the spot, as it were, and had opportunity of judging, _knew_ that the report was true. Miss Van Lew, the famous "war postmistress" of Richmond, once said to me as, standing on the porch of her house, she pointed out Mrs. Shelton's residence: "I used at first to often see Mr. Poe enter there, but never during the latter part of his stay in Richmond. It seemed to be known about here that the engagement was off.... Gossip had it that Mrs. Shelton discarded him because persuaded by friends that he was after her money. All her relatives are said to be opposed to the match." From Poe's own confidential statement to Mr. John Mackenzie, who had first suggested the match with Mrs. Shelton, it appears that money considerations was really the cause of the trouble. Mrs. Shelton had the reputation of being a thorough business woman and very careful and cautious with regard to her money. Poe was at this time canvassing in the interests of the _Stylus_, in which he received great encouragement from his friends, but when he applied to Mrs. Shelton it is certain that she failed to respond as he desired. She had no faith in the success of his plan, neither any sympathy with its purpose. Also, in discussing arrangements for their marriage, she announced her intention of keeping entire control of her property. Poe himself broke their engagement. Next there arose a difficulty concerning certain letters which the lady desired to have returned to her and which he declined to give up, except on condition of receiving his own. Possibly each feared that these letters might some time fall into the hands of Poe's biographers. If they were written during his courtship of Mrs. Whitman, and when still uncertain of the result, he appears to have been keeping Mrs. Shelton in reserve. Mrs. Shelton, during a few days' absence of Poe at the country home of Mr. John Mackenzie, came to Duncan Lodge and appealed to Mrs. Mackenzie to influence Poe in returning her letters. I saw her on this occasion--a tall, rather masculine-looking woman, who drew her veil over her face as she passed us on the porch, though I caught a glimpse of large, shadowy, light blue eyes which must once have been handsome. We heard no more of her until some time about the middle of September, when suddenly Poe's visits to her were resumed, though in a very quiet manner. It seems certain that the engagement was then renewed, and that Mrs. Shelton must have promised to assist Poe in his literary enterprise; for from that time he was enthusiastic in regard to the _Stylus_ and what he termed its "assured success." He even commenced arranging a _Table of Contents_ for the first number of the magazine; and Mrs. Mackenzie told me how he one morning spent an hour in her room taking from her information, notes and _data_ for an article which he intended to appear in one of its earliest numbers. He was in high spirits, and declared that he had never felt in better health. This was after an attack of serious illness, due to his association with dissipated companions. Tempted as he was on every side and wherever he went in the city, it was not strange that he had not always the strength of will to resist; and twice during this visit to Richmond he was subject to attacks somewhat similar to those which he had known at Fordham, and through which he was now kindly nursed by his friends at Duncan Lodge. Poe gave but one public lecture on this visit to Richmond--that on "The Poetic Principle"--and of this most exaggerated accounts have been given by several writers, even to the present day, they representing it to have been a great financial success. One recent lecturer remarks upon the strangeness of the fate when, just as the hitherto impecunious poet was "about returning home with five thousand and five hundred dollars in his pocket, he should have been robbed of it all." The truth of the matter is that but two hundred and fifty tickets were printed, the price being fifty cents each, and, as Dr. William Gibbon Carter informed me, there were by actual count not more than one hundred persons present at the lecture, some being holders of complimentary tickets. Another account says there were but sixty present, but that they were of the very _elite_ of the city. Considering that from the proceeds of the lecture all expenses of hall rent had to be paid, we cannot wonder at Poe's writing to Mrs. Clemm, "My poor, poor Muddie, I am yet unable to send you a single dollar." I was present at this lecture, with my mother and sister and Rose Poe, who as we took seats reserved for us, left her party and joined us. I noticed that Poe had no manuscript, and that, though he stood like a statue, he held his audience as motionless as himself--fascinated by his voice and expression. Rose pointed out to me Mrs. Shelton, seated conspicuously in front of the platform, facing the lecturer. This position gave me a good view of her, with her large, deep-set, light-blue eyes and sunken cheeks, her straight features, high forehead and cold expression of countenance. Doubtless she had been handsome in her youth, but the impression which she produced upon me was that of a sensible, practical woman, the reverse of a poet's ideal. And yet she says "Poe often told her that she was the original of his lost _Lenore_." When Poe had concluded his lecture, he lightly and quickly descended the platform and, passing Mrs. Shelton without notice, came to where we were seated, greeting us in his usual graceful manner. He looked pleased, smiling and handsome. The audience arose, but made no motion to retire; watching him as he talked and evidently waiting to speak to him; but he never glanced in their direction. Rose, radiantly happy, stood drawn up to her full height, and observed, "Edgar, only see how the people are staring at the poet and his sister." I believe it to have been the proudest moment of her life, and one which she ever delighted to recall. This occurred during the period of estrangement between Poe and Mrs. Shelton. Quite suddenly, in the latter part of September, Poe decided to go to New York. His object was, as he himself declared, to make some arrangements in regard to the _Stylus_, though gossip said to bring Mrs. Clemm on to his marriage. It is difficult to get a clear idea of the relation between Poe and Mrs. Shelton, owing to the contradictory statements of the two. Undoubtedly they must have met during Poe's first visit to Richmond, and he tells Mrs. Whitman that he was about to address the lady when her own letters caused him to change his mind. And yet Mrs. Shelton speaks of their meeting on his last visit as though it had been the first since their youthful acquaintance. As she entered the parlor, she says, on his first call, "I knew him at once," and, as the pious and practical woman that she was, she adds, "I told him that I was on my way to church, and that I allowed nothing to interfere with this duty." She says also in her _Reminiscences_, "I was never engaged to him, but there was an understanding;" and yet, on his death, she appeared in public attired in deepest widow's weeds. That she was devoted to him appears from her own letter to Dr. Moran when informed by him of Poe's death, "He was dearer to me than any other living creature." Poe himself, writing to Mrs. Clemm, says: "Elmira has just returned from the country. I believe that she loves me more devotedly than any one I _ever_ knew." He adds, apparently in allusion to his marriage, "Nothing has yet been arranged, and it will not do to hurry matters," concluding with, "If possible, I will get married before leaving Richmond." On his deathbed in Washington he said to Dr. Moran, "Sir, I was to have been married in ten days," and requested him to write to Mrs. Shelton. CHAPTER XXX. THE MYSTERY OF FATE. One evening--it was Sunday, the 2d of October--Dr. John Carter was seated alone in his office when Poe entered, having just paid a farewell visit to Mrs. Shelton before leaving in the morning for New York. He remarked to Dr. Carter that he would probably stop for one day in Baltimore, and perhaps also in Philadelphia, on business; would like to remain longer, but had written to Mrs. Clemm to expect him at Fordham some time this week. He would be back in Richmond in about a fortnight. While talking, he took up a handsome malacca sword-cane belonging to Dr. Carter and absently played with it. He looked grave and preoccupied; several times inquired the hour, and at length rising suddenly, remarked that he would step over to Saddler's restaurant and get supper. He took the cane with him, Dr. Carter understanding from this circumstance and his not taking leave, that he would presently return on his way to the _Swan_, where he had left his baggage. He did not, however, reappear; and on the next morning Dr. Carter inquired about him at Saddler's. The proprietor said that Poe and two friends had remained to a late hour, talking and drinking moderately, and had then left together to go aboard the boat, which would start at four o'clock for Baltimore. He said that Poe, when he left, was in good spirits and quite sober; though this last may be doubted, since he not only forgot to return Dr. Carter's cane but to send for his own baggage at the Swan Some persons have insisted that Poe must have been drugged by these men, who were strangers to Mr. Saddler, and there was even a sensational story published in a Northern magazine to the effect that Poe had been followed to Baltimore by two of Mrs. Shelton's brothers, and there, after having certain letters taken from him, beaten so severely that he was found dying in an obscure alley. This story was first started by Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes Smith in one of the New York journals, though it does not appear from what source she derived her information. No denial was made or notice taken of it by Mrs. Shelton's friends, and the story gradually died out. For over forty years the mystery of the tragic death of the poet remained a mystery, strangely and persistently defying all attempts at elucidation. But within the last few years there has appeared in a St. Louis paper a communication which professes to give a truthful account of the circumstances connected with the poet's death, and which wears such an appearance of probability that it is at least worth considering. This letter, which is addressed to the editor of the paper, is from a certain Dr. Snodgrass, who represents himself to have been for many years a resident of Dakota. He says that on the evening of October 2, 1849, being in Baltimore, he stepped into a plain but respectable eating-house or restaurant kept by an Irish widow, where, to his surprise, he met with Poe, whom he had once been accustomed to meet here, but had not seen for some years. After taking some refreshment, they left the place together, but had not proceeded far when they were seized upon by two men, who hurried them off to some place where they were, with several others, kept close prisoners through the night and following day, though otherwise well treated. It was the eve of a great municipal election, and the city was wild with excitement. Next evening the kidnappers, having drugged their captives, hurried them to the polls, where they, in a half-conscious condition, were made to vote over and over again. The doctor, it appears, was only partially affected, but Poe succumbed utterly, and at length one of the men said, "What is the use of dragging around a dead man?" With that, they called a hack, put Poe within it, and ordered the driver to take him to the Washington Hospital. Dr. Snodgrass says positively: "I myself saw Poe thrust into the hack, heard the order given, and saw the vehicle drive off with its unconscious burden." Thus--if this account may be relied upon--ended the strange, sad tragedy of the poet's life; none stranger, none sadder, in all the annals of modern literature. Dr. Snodgrass intimates that his reason for so long a delay in making this story known was his unwillingness to have his own part in the affair exposed, and with the notoriety which its connection with the poet would render unavoidable. But now, he says, in his old age, and having outlived all who knew him at the time, this consideration is of little worth to him. If the story be not true, we cannot see why it should have been invented. At least, it cannot, at the present day, be disproved, and it certainly appears to be the most probable and natural explanation of the poet's death that has been given. It agrees also with Dr. Moran's account of Poe's condition when he was received at the hospital, and with the latter's earnest assurance that he himself was not responsible for that condition, and also with his requesting that Dr. Snodgrass be sent for. The kidnappers had probably exchanged his garments for others as a means of disguise, intending to restore them eventually. They at least did not take from him the handsome malacca cane which was in his grasp when he reached the hospital; and which which would tend to prove that he was not then altogether unconscious. This cane was, at Dr. Carter's request, returned to him by Mrs. Clemm, to whom Dr. Moran sent it. His baggage, left at the Swan, was sent by Mr. Mackenzie to Mrs. Clemm, disproving the story that it had been stolen from him in Baltimore. In addition to the above, we find another and very similar account, apparently by the same Dr. Snodgrass, in the "_San Francisco Chronicle_ of August 31," the date of the year not appearing on the clipping from which I make the following extracts: "You say that Poe did not die from the effects of deliberate dissipation?" asked the _Chronicle_ reporter. "That is just what I do mean; and I say further that he died from the effects of deliberate murder." The author of this assertion was a well-known member of this city's advanced and inveterate Bohemia; a gentleman who has long since retired from the active pursuits of his profession and spends his old age in dreamy meditation, frequenting one of the popular resorts of the craft, but mingling little in their society. When joining in their conversation, it is generally to correct some errors from his inexhaustible mine of reminiscences, and on these occasions his words are few and precise. "Then you knew something of the poet, Doctor?" "I was his intimate associate for years. Much that biographers have said of him is false, especially regarding his death. Poe was not an habitual drunkard, but he was a steady drinker when his means admitted of it. His habitual resort when in Baltimore was the Widow Meagher's place, on the city front, inexpensive, but respectable, having an oyster and liquor stand, and corresponding in some respects with the coffee shops of San Francisco. Here I frequently met him." "But about his death?" "The mystery of the poet's death had remained a mystery for more than forty years when there appeared in a Texas paper an article from the pen of the editor, in which he gave a letter from a Dr. Snodgrass professing to reveal the truth of the matter. "About the time that this article was published there appeared one in the San Francisco _Chronicle_ by a reporter of that paper, telling of an interview which he had with this same Dr. Snodgrass, of whom he says: 'He was a well-known literary Bohemian of this city who long ago gave up his profession and is spending his old age in a state of dreamy existence from which he is seldom aroused except to correct some error concerning people and things of past times, of which he possesses a mine of reminiscences.'" The Doctor, denying that Poe had died from dissipation, gave an account of the manner of his death as he knew it, corresponding in all particulars with that given by him to the Texas editor. In conclusion, he said: "Poe did not die of dissipation. I say that he was deliberately murdered. He died of laudanum or some other drug forced upon him by his kidnappers. When one said, 'What is the use of carrying around a dying man?' they put him in a cab and sent him to the hospital. I was there and saw it myself." "Poe had been shifting about between Baltimore, Philadelphia and New York for some years. Once he had been away for several months in Richmond, and one evening turned up at the widow's. I was there when he came in. Then it was drinks all round, and at length we were real jolly. It was the eve of an election, and we started up town. There were four of us, and we had not gone half a dozen squares when we were nabbed by policemen, who were looking up voters to "coop." It was the practice in those days to seize people, whether drunk or sober, and keep them locked up until the polls were opened and then march them to every precinct in control of the party having the coop. This coop was in the rear of an engine-house on Calvert street. It was part of the plan to stupefy the prisoners with drugged liquor. Next day we were voted at thirty different places, it being as much as one's life was worth to rebel. Poe was so badly drugged that he had to be carried on two or three rounds, and then the gang said it was no use trying any longer to vote a dead man and must get rid of him. And with that they shoved him into a cab and sent him away." "Then he died from dissipation, after all?" "Nothing of the kind. He died from the effects of laudanum or some other poison forced on him in the coop. He was in a dying condition when being voted twenty or thirty times. The story told by Griswold and others of his being picked up in the street is a lie. I saw him thrust into the cab myself." And Mrs. Clemm? When she received Poe's letter bidding her to expect him at Fordham that week, she hastened thither to set her house in order for his reception. Day after day she watched and waited, but he did not come. And at length, when the week had passed, she one evening sat alone in the little cottage around which and through the naked branches of the cherry tree the October wind was sighing, and in anguish of spirit wrote to "Annie": "Eddie is dead--_dead_." CHAPTER XXXI. AFTER THE WAR. In the fall of 1865--the year which saw the conclusion of the unhappy war--I returned to Richmond and to my old home of Talavera, which I had not seen in four years. What a shock to me was the first sight of it! In place of the pleasant, smiling home, there stood a bare and lonely house in the midst of encircling fortifications, still bristling with dismantled gun-carriages. Every outbuilding had disappeared. All the beautiful trees which had made it so attractive--even the young cedar of Lebanon, which had been our pride--were gone; greenhouses, orchard, vineyard, everything, had been swept away, leaving only a dead level overgrown with broom-straw, amidst which were scattered rusted bayonets and a few hardy plants struggling through the trampled ground. The place was no longer "_Talavera_," but "_Battery 10_." In this desolate abode I remained some time, awaiting the arrival of our scattered family, and with no protectors save a faithful old negro couple. Each evening we would barricade as well as we could the entrance to the fort, as some slight protection against the hordes of newly freed negroes who roamed the country, living on whatever they could pick up. One evening when we had taken this precaution, some one was heard calling without, and, mounting the ramparts, I beheld a forlorn looking figure in black standing upon the outer edge of the trench. It proved to be Rosalie Poe; and when I had brought her into the light and warmth of the fire, I saw how changed and ill she appeared. She told me of the Mackenzies. Mrs. Mackenzie was dead. "Mat" (Mrs. Byrd) was a widow, with a beautiful young daughter, and her brother, Mr. Richard, was in wretched health. Miss Jane Mackenzie had died in England, leaving her fortune to her brother, residing there, and the destruction of the war had completed the poverty of the family. They lived on a little place in the country, with a cow and a garden as their chief means of support. "They have to work for a living now," Rose said, forlornly; "but I am not strong enough to work. I am going to Baltimore, to my relations there, and see what they can do for me." I inquired after young Dr. Mackenzie, gay, handsome, genial "Tom," whom everybody loved. "Tom is dead," said Rose, sadly. "He died of camp-fever and bad food. When he came home he had only the clothes which he wore, and a neighbor gave us something to bury him in." With a pang I thought of the gay wedding at Duncan Lodge, and the happy faces that had been there assembled. When Rose left me, I could but hope that she would be kindly received by her relatives in Baltimore. But some months thereafter, being in New York, I received from her a number of photographs of her brother, which she begged of me to dispose of for her benefit at one dollar each. Mrs. M. A. Kidder, of Boston, kindly interested herself in the matter, but wrote me that she met with but poor success, at even the reduced price of twenty-five cents, people saying that they had not sufficient respect for Poe's character to care to possess his portrait. I found it to be nearly the same in New York. And meantime Rose wrote me every few days. "DEAR S----: Haven't you got anything for me yet? Do try and do something for me, for I am worse off now than ever. I walk about the streets all day" (trying to dispose of her brother's pictures), "and at night have to look for a place to sleep. I feel like a lost sheep." Thus the sister of Edgar A. Poe, in the year 1868, wandered homeless and friendless through the streets of Baltimore, as more than thirty years previous her brother had done. We heard long afterward that, through some kind Northern lady, she applied for admittance to the _Louise Home_, in Washington, which Mr. Corcoran was willing to grant, but that certain of his "guests"--ladies who had formerly occupied high social positions--were of opinion that, considering Miss Poe's eccentricities, she would be better suited and better satisfied in a less pretentious establishment. Finally she was received into the "_Epiphany Church Home_," in Washington, where she seems to have enjoyed a good deal of liberty, being often seen riding on the street cars and visiting the offices of wealthy business men, who, if they did not care to possess a photograph of Poe, were yet willing to assist his penniless sister. It was never known what she did with the money so collected; but from a letter to Mrs. Byrd, it would appear that her intention was to purchase a grave for herself near that of her brother. Mrs. Byrd wrote to me: "I think Poe's friends might lay Rose in a grave beside him. It has always been her dearest wish." Rosalie Poe died suddenly, with a letter in her hand but that moment received, and which, when opened, proved to be from Mr. George W. Childs, enclosing a check for fifty dollars; doubtless in answer to an application for aid. They gave her a pauper's grave in the cemetery of the Epiphany Church Home. The record of her death by the Board is: "_Rosalie Poe. Died June 14, 1874. Aged 64._" Some years after the death of Rose Poe, I received a visit from Mrs. Byrd, whom I had not seen since the war, and we talked over times past and present. It had been Rosalie's own choice, she said, to go to Baltimore. She did not like the country or the hard life which they were leading. She must have collected considerable money, but never told where she kept it; nor was it ever found. She told me about her family. Her pretty daughter had married a poor man in preference to a rich one who had offered, and they had two beautiful babies and were very happy. Her brother Richard was infirm and able to do but little work. They had a little place in the country, where they raised their own vegetables, and sent poultry and eggs to market. She and her son-in-law did all the hard work about the place. "I wash and cook for six persons," said she, cheerily. "Yes," she continued, in her old quaint way, "we are poor, but respectable, and I am more content than ever I was at Duncan Lodge. I feel that I have something to live for, and the working life suits me. Yes, we are happy; although there are not two tea-cups in the house of the same pattern." She spoke of Poe, whom she considered to have been always unjustly treated. Everybody could see what his faults were, but few gave him credit for his good qualities--his generous nature and kindly and affectionate disposition, especially as exemplified in the harmony always existing between himself and his wife and mother-in-law. While giving the latter full credit for her devotion to Edgar, her impression was that, except in the matter of his dissipation, her influence over him had not been for good. Her mother and brother, John, believed that the marriage with Virginia had been the greatest misfortune of his life, and that he himself, while patiently resigning himself to his lot, had come to regard it as such. Some ten years after the death of Poe I received from Mrs. Clemm a letter giving a pathetic account of her homelessness and poverty. But, she added, she had been offered a home with her relatives at the South; and she appealed to me, as a friend of her "Eddie," to assist her in raising the money necessary to pay her expenses thither. A similar appeal she made to other of Poe's former friends; but we heard of her afterward as an inmate of the Church Home Infirmary in Baltimore, where she died in 1871, having outlived her son-in-law some twenty-two years. It is a curious coincidence that the building in which she died was the same in which, as the Washington Hospital, Poe had breathed his last. Her grave is in Westminster cemetery, and in sight of Poe's monument. CHAPTER XXXII. POE'S CHARACTER. In order thoroughly to understand Poe, it is necessary that one should recognize the dominant trait of his character--a trait which affected and in a measure overruled all the rest--in a word, _weakness of will_. "Unstable as water," is written upon Poe's every visage in characters which all might read; in the weak falling away of the outline of the jaw, the narrow, receding chin, and the sensitive, irresolute mouth. Above the soul-lighted eyes and the magnificent temple of intellect overshadowing them, we look in vain for the rising dome of _Firmness_, which, like the keystone of the arch, should strengthen and bind together the rest. Lacking this, the arch must be ever tottering to a fall. To this weakness of will we may trace nearly every other defect in Poe's character, together with most of the disappointments and failures in whatsoever he undertook. He lacked the resolution and persistence necessary to battle against obstacles, to persevere to the end against opposition and discouragement, and to resist temptations and influences which he knew would lead him astray from the object which he had at heart. In this way he lost many a coveted prize when it seemed almost within his grasp. The accepted opinion is that Poe's dissipation was his chief fault, as it was that to which was owing his ruin in the end. But even this was the effect chiefly of weakness of will. He was not by nature inclined to evil, but the contrary; and we have seen that, when left to himself and not exposed to temptation, he was, from all accounts, "sober, industrious and exemplary in his conduct." But he lacked firmness to resist the temptation which, more than in the case of most men, assailed him on every side. Dr. William Gibbon Carter has told me how, when Poe was in Richmond on his last visit, and doing his best to remain sober, he would in his visits and strolls about the city be constantly greeted by friends and acquaintances with invitations to "take a julep." It was the custom of the time. Poe, said Dr. Carter, in one morning declined twenty-four such invitations, but finally yielded; and the consequence was the severe illness which threatened his life whilst in the city. The effect of one glass on him, said the Doctor, was that of several on any other man. Often he was tempted to drink from an amiable reluctance to decline the offered hospitality. A marked peculiarity of Poe's character was the restless discontent which from his sixteenth year took possession of and clung to him through life, and was to him a source of much unhappiness. It was not the discontent of poverty or of ungratified worldly ambition, but the dissatisfaction of a genius which knows itself capable of higher things, from which it is debarred--the desire of the caged eagle for the wind-swept sky and the distant eyrie. He was not satisfied with being a mere writer of stories. He believed that, with a broader scope, he could wield a powerful influence over the literary world and make a record for strength, brilliancy and originality of thought which would render his name famous in other countries as in this. His desire was to set established rules and conventionalities at defiance, and to be fearless, independent, dominant in his assertion of himself and his ideas and convictions. As an editor writing for other editors, he found himself trammeled by what he called their narrowness and timidity. He must be his own master, his own editor; and hence his lifelong dream and desire took form in the conception of the Stylus--that _ignis fatuus_ which he pursued to the last day of his life--uncertain, elusive, yet ever eagerly sought, and always ending in disappointment and bitterness of soul. Time and again it seemed within his grasp, and, as he exultantly proclaimed, "his prospects glorious," when, by his own weakness of will, it was lost to him. Undoubtedly, one of the chief factors in the non-success of Poe's life and its consequent unhappiness was his marriage. Setting aside the poetic imaginings which have been and doubtless will continue to be written concerning this marriage as one of idylic mutual love and "idolatry," the story, in the light of established facts, resolves itself into a very prosaic one. Mr. John Mackenzie, Poe's lifelong and only intimate and confidential friend, never hesitated to say that had Poe been left to himself the idea would never have occurred to him of marrying his little child-cousin. In no transaction of his life was his pitiable weakness more manifest than in this feeble yielding of himself to the dominant will of a mother-in-law. Had Poe remained single or have married another than Virginia, his regard for her would have continued just what it had been in the beginning and what it remained to the end--the affection of a brother or cousin for a sweet and lovable child. But no one can believe that Poe's nature could have found its satisfying in such a marriage; and, in fact, whatsoever sentimental things he may have written concerning it, his whole conduct goes to prove its insincerity. Poe was of all men one who most craved and needed the love and sympathy of a woman of a nature kindred to his own--a woman of talent and qualities of mind and heart to appreciate his genius and all that was best in him; one who would be to him not only a congenial companion, but a "helpmeet" as well. Had he married one of Mrs. Osgood's tender sensibilities and feminine charm, or Mrs. Whitman, with her talent and strong character, or even a woman of the practical good sense and judgment of Mrs. Shew, who knew so well how to care for him mentally and physically--Poe would have been a different man. But his imprudent and, as it has been called, unnatural marriage, cut him off from what would probably have been the highest happiness of his life, with its accompanying worldly and social advantages, and bound him down to a life of unceasing toil, penury and helplessness. It deprived him of a social position and social enjoyment; for his poverty-stricken "home" was never one to which he could invite his friends; and he himself seems never to have found in it any real pleasure, but to have regarded it merely as a haven of refuge in seasons of distress. But as the years went by and, despite his incessant toil, his life and his home grew more cheerless and poverty-stricken, he became hopeless and in a measure reckless. It is to be noted that it was only after the death of his wife that he appeared to recover anything like hope or energy. Then his prospects suddenly brightened in the love of a good and talented woman who could have made his life happy and prosperous, when, owing to his miserable weakness of will in yielding to temptation, for which there was no excuse, it was all at once swept from his grasp. Mr. John Mackenzie might well have said, as he did, that Poe's marriage was the greatest misfortune of his life and as a millstone around his neck, holding him down against every effort to rise. But perhaps not even this close friend knew how keenly the poet must have felt the narrowness of his life, the sordidness of his home, and the humiliation of his poverty. Patiently and uncomplainingly he bore his unhappy lot; and it is to be noted to his credit that howsoever he might at times go astray, no word or act of unkindness toward the wife and mother who loved him was ever known to escape from him. It will be seen from all that has here been written, in the light of prosaic truth, that Poe's real character was one very different from that which it has pleased the world in general to ascribe to him--judging him as it does by the character of his writings as a poet. The folly of such judgment, and the extent to which it was until recently carried, is simply surprising. It is true that he appeared to have but one ideal--the death of a woman young, lovely and beloved--and that ideal in the imagining of the world resolved itself into the personality of his wife. She, they concluded, was the original of all the Lenores, and Anabel Lees, and Ullalumes, which inspired his melancholy and despairing lyre; and in its gloom and hopelessness they could see nothing but the expression of the poet's own nature. As well have accused Rembrandt of being gloomy and morose because he painted in dark colors. Like the artist, Poe loved obscure and sombre ideas and conceptions, and he delighted in embodying these in his poems as much as Rembrandt did in transferring his own to canvas. APPENDIX. NO. 1. Lest the reader should be under the impression that much of what I relate concerning Poe's childhood and certain circumstances connected with his early youth is taken from Gill's _Life of Poe_, I will make an explanation. At the time when the first edition of Gill's work was issued I was engaged in writing what I intended to be a little book concerning Poe, compiled from my own personal knowledge of him and what I had been told by others. In some way Gill heard of this, and wrote to me, coolly requesting to be allowed to see my manuscript, which I, of course, excused myself from doing. Again and again he wrote, saying that he "merely wished to see exactly what I had written." In self-defence, I finally sent him the first part or chapter of the manuscript, he promising to return it as soon as read. After some weeks it was returned to me, without a word accompanying; and at the same time a second edition of Gill's "_Life_" was issued--the first having been suppressed--in which, to my surprise, I found copious extracts from my manuscript. All those little anecdotes of Poe's childhood were thus appropriated, with more important matter--such as Poe's dissipation when in Richmond and his enlisting in the army, both of which Gill had in his first edition positively denied; and this he made use of as though it had been his own original material. My book was, of course, ruined, and all that I could do was, some years after, to write "_The Last Days of Poe_," published in _Scribner's Magazine_, though even from this Gill made "_Notes_" for the Appendix of his second or third edition. Some of the material thus appropriated by Gill I have reclaimed and inserted in this work. A comparison between the first and second edition of Gill's "_Life of Poe_" affords a curious study, since in the second he has carefully corrected the misstatements of the former from my manuscript. My friend, Gen. Roger A. Pryor, late Judge of the Supreme Court of New York, brought suit against Gill in this matter, but met with so much trouble and annoyance by reason of the latter's persistence in evading it, that it was finally, at my own earnest request, abandoned. Mr. Gill, I am informed, is still living. NOTE 2. A strange fate was that of the poet's family, all of whom were indebted to charity for a last resting place. His father, David Poe, died in Norfolk in the summer of 1811. His grave is unknown. His mother was buried by charity in Richmond, December 9, 1811. His wife was indebted for a grave near Fordham, in New York, to charitable contributions of friends. His sister, Rosalie Mackenzie Poe, died July 14, 1874, and was given a pauper's grave in the cemetery of the Epiphany Church Home, in Washington. Mrs. Clemm, his mother-in-law, died an inmate of the Church Home Infirmary, Baltimore, and was buried by the charity of friends in Westminster churchyard of that city in 1871. 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23234	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) SEMIRAMIS AND OTHER PLAYS BY OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN BRENTANO'S NEW YORK 1904 Copyright 1904 By Olive Tilford Dargan [Stage rights reserved] THE LITERARY COLLECTOR PRESS GREENWICH, CONNECTICUT CONTENTS SEMIRAMIS 5 CARLOTTA 75 THE POET 175 SEMIRAMIS ACT I. SCENE 1. The tent of Menones ACT II. SCENE 1. Hall in the palace of Ninus ACT III. SCENE 1. The gardens over the lake ACT IV. SCENE 1. The tent of Husak CHARACTERS NINUS, king of Assyria HUSAK, king of Armenia KHOSROVE, son of Husak MENONES, governor of Nineveh ARTAVAN, son of Menones SUMBAT, friend of Artavan VASSIN, officer of the king HADDO, a guard ARMIN, a guard DOKAHRA, woman to Semiramis SOLA, wife of Artavan SEMIRAMIS, daughter of Menones Officers, heralds, messengers, guards, soldiers, dancers, &c. SEMIRAMIS ACT I. Scene: Within the tent of Menones, on the plain before Nineveh. Left, centre, entrance to tent from the plain. Curtains rear, forming partition with exits right and left of centre. The same at right, with one exit, centre. Couch rear, between exits. From a tent-pole near exit, right centre, hang helmet and a suit of chain armor. Sola parts curtains rear, left, and looks out, showing effort to keep awake. She steps forward. Sol. Hist! Armin! Haddo! (Enter two guards, left centre) Still no news? Arm. None, lady. Sol. Oh, Artavan, what keeps thee? Haddo. He will come. Sol. Semiramis is sleeping. I am weary, But I'll not sleep. Arm. Rest, madam; we will call you. Sol. My lord shall find me watching, night or day! Arm. Two nights you have not slept. Sol. Ten thousand nights, I think, good Armin. Had. We will call you, madam. Arm. With the first hoof-beat ringing from the north! Sol. (At curtains, drowsily) I'll be--awake. (Goes in) Had. She'll sleep now. Arm. Ay, she must. Had. And I'd not call her for god Bel himself! Arm. Hark! (Goes to entrance) 'Tis a horseman! Had. (Following him) Two! Arm. Right! We must rouse The lady Semiramis. Had. Make sure 'tis he. (They step out) Voice without. Is this Menones' tent? Arm. (Without) Ay, Sir! The word! Voice. God Ninus! (Semiramis enters, through curtains right centre) Sem. Artavan! His voice! (Enter Artavan, followed by Sumbat who waits near entrance) Sem. My brother! Art. Semiramis! (Embracing her) Three years this kiss Has gathered love for thee! Sem. Has 't been so long Since I left Gazim? Art. Ay,--since Ninus called Our father here, and Gazim lost her dove. Sem. (On his bosom, laughing softly) The dove of Gazim,--so they called me then. But now--(proudly, moving from him) the lioness of Nineveh! Art. A warrior's daughter! Sem. And a warrior's sister! O, I have prayed that you might come! The king Is gracious--loves the brave-- Art. Our father? Sem. Ah! Art. He's well? Sem. Is 't day? Art. Almost. Sem. At dawn he meets The Armenians on the plain. Art. Then he is well! Sem. He went forth well,--and brave as when he drove The Ghees from Gazim with his single sword! But--oh--he needs you, Artavan, he needs you! (Comes closer speaking rapidly) I'm with him night and day but when he battles-- I buckle on his arms--cheer him away-- And wipe the foe's blood from his mighty sword When he returns! But I've a fear so strange! At times he's moved quite from himself,--so far That I look on him and see not our father! If I dared speak I'd almost say that he Who never lost a battle shrinks from war! Art. (Starting) No, no! Not that! You borrow eyes of fear And see what is not! Sem. But I've felt the drops Cold on his brow, and raised his lifeless arms Whose corded strength hung slack as a sick child's! O, it is true! And you must stand by him! Fight at his side! I thought to do it! I! See here, my armor! (Moving with him to where the armor hangs) When I had this made And swore to wear it in the fight, 'twas then He yielded--said that you might come-- (Sound of trumpets at distance. They listen) The charge! Art. I go to him! Sem. (Taking a paper from her bosom) Take this! He'll understand! 'Tis some direction later thought upon! Art. My wife is safe-- Sem. With me! Three days ago She came. And now she sleeps-- (Points to curtains, rear left) Art. In there? One kiss-- Sem. Nay, nay, you go to battle, and should keep Steel in your eye, not woman's tears!... Who comes With you? (Looks toward entrance where Sumbat stands) O, Sumbat! (He advances and drops on knee. She gives him both hands and he rises) Welcome! But no time For gallant greetings! We are warriors here! (A roll of battle is heard) Art. We go! Sem. Ride! ride! The battle over, ye Shall meet the king! (Artavan and Sumbat hasten out. The noise of departure brings Sola to curtains) Sol. What is it? Who was here? Sem. (Absorbed) They'll reach my father! Sol. Not Artavan? Sem. Ay--he. Sol. And gone--my husband! Without a word--a look! Sem. The battle calls, And he who wears ambition's spur must ride! Sol. Ambition! O, you think of naught but war And glory! Hast thou no heart, Semiramis? Sem. I' faith, and love thee with it! (kisses her) Sol. Trifle not! Hadst thou a heart thou couldst not live a maid, So beautiful, and never dream of love! Thou'rt some strange thing-- Sem. What, wilt be angry? Come! I'll tell thee all he said--thy Artavan,-- Ay, every word, and how his eyes grew soft With dimness sweeter than their vanquished light When thou wert his dear theme! (They move to curtains. Semiramis stops and listens) Go in. I'll come. (Sola goes in) Sem. (Listening) Is that a chariot? My father!... Nay! He's safe with Artavan! Whatever comes His son will be his heart and bear him up! Safe, safe, Menones, and thy grizzled locks Shall wear their laurels to an honored grave! (Noise of approaching chariot) It _is_ a chariot! Can it be the king? (Chariot stops without) Armin, who is it comes? Arm. (Appearing at entrance) The Lord Menones. (Semiramis sways, steadies herself, and waits. Menones enters, livid and trembling. In form he is large and mighty, but is grey with age. He staggers over to couch and sits upon it, groaning heavily. Semiramis looks at him in silence. Then approaches and speaks in a low terrified tone) Sem. You fled the battle! Men. Oh! Sem. You must go back! Men. Too late! Sem. (Gaining courage and putting her hands sternly on his shoulders) No! Men. We must fly! Sem. Fly! Never! Men. (Rising) Come! The chariot! The king will leave my race No blood on earth! Sem. If it be coward's blood 'Tis better lost! Men. Come, come! We yet can fly! Sem. Back to the battle! There I'll go with thee! Men. I can not! Oh, the terror's here--here--here! It clutches at my heart! Sem. Tear out thy heart And keep thy honor whole! (He falls on the couch, shaken with suffering. She kneels by him pleading passionately) Sem. Up, father, up! You must go back! You know not what you've done! Our Artavan-- Men. Praise Bel, he's safe in Gazim! Sem. No ... he is here ... he came, and rode to find you. Men. He came? Gods, no! Sem. Nay, true! He's in the battle! Now you will go! You will go back, my father! He does not know the plan! He can not lead Without your counsel! Come--your voice--his arm-- And all is safe! (He rises; noise of battle; he sinks shuddering) Men. No--I'll die here--not there! (Semiramis stands in despair; then lifts her arms praying) Sem. O mighty Belus, give me back my father! (She listens with sudden eagerness and goes to tent door) False! false! They're verging south! North, north, ye cowards! (Rushes to her armor and takes it down. Shakes the curtains right, and calls) Dokahra! (Throws off her robe and begins putting on armor. Enter Dokahra, right centre) Dok. Mistress! Sem. Buckle here! Be quick! Men. You shall not go! Sem. You have no might or right To stay me now! Men. You will be lost! Sem. Lost? No! Did I not plan this battle? Haste, Dokahra! Our lives are in your fingers! Courage, father! (Going, Dokahra still adjusting armor) The king has smiled on me--I do not know-- But there was such a promise in his smile-- And if the victory's mine he will forgive! Dok. This rivet, mistress! (Noise of battle) Sem. Artavan, I come! (Rushes out. Sound of chariot rolling away. Dokahra looks stolidly at Menones for a moment, then turns through curtains, right. Menones presses his heart in pain, moans wretchedly, and draws a blanket over his body) Men. Is this the form that bright Decreto loved? But where the soul, O, gods! (Lies shuddering) Voice without. The King! (Menones draws blanket over his face and becomes motionless. Enter the king, with Vassin) Nin. (At entrance) Stand here! Godagon, haste! Ride to Menones; say We wait within his tent; his messengers Will reach us here. (A rider spurs off without. Ninus and Vassin advance within the tent) Vas. Your majesty, suppose The Armenians gain, you'll be in danger here. Why come so near for news? Nin. For news, good Vassin? I had a better reason. Semiramis Tents with her father. (Points to curtains) Vas. Ah! Nin. The sun will break Through there! Vas. My lord-- Nin. She stirs! She comes! Wait--see! (Dokahra's gaunt figure appears at curtains) Vas. A false dawn, is it not? Nin. Your mistress sleeps? Dok. (Abasing herself) No, mighty king! Nin. She's up? Then give her word We're here. Dok. She's not within, my lord. Nin. Abroad! So soon? She's on the general's business? Dok. And yours, O king! She's joined the battle! Nin. She! Vas. Ha! ha! Do you believe this? Nin. Ay ... 'tis so. I know her spirit. Here's mettle for a queen! (Menones uncovers and half rises) Vas. You would not make her one, your majesty! Though she should lead your troops to victory, Still is she but your general's daughter, and Assyria's crown is given of gods to gods! Nin. And Ninus knows to keep his race untainted. But all the jewels of a king, my Vassin, Are not worn in his crown. Some in the heart Are casketed, and there this maid shall shine For me alone. Were she of heavenly race-- Men. (Starting up) She is, my lord! (Ninus regards him in astonishment) Nin. What do you here, Menones? Speak! Men. (Trembling) I am ill. Nin. Ill, sir? Ha! Now I know! Your daughter leads while you couch safe in tent! She sought to hide your shame! O, what a heart! But you-- Men. I led, my lord, till illness seized-- Nin. Too ill to fight, but not too ill to fly! Hound! hound! My troops are lost! I'd kill you now But 'tis an hour too soon! First you must be Of every honor stript! Men. (Kneeling) My lord and king, I know that I must die, but hear a prayer For my brave daughter's sake! Betray her not, Lest thou offend the gods that gave thee life, For she, too, is of heaven! Vas. Ha! Men. I swear 'Tis true! My lord, Decreto was her mother! She met me on the plains of Gazim when This aged figure was called fair, and youth Still fed its fire to manhood's prime; Our babe she left upon a mountain crest And sent her doves to tend it through a year, Then bade me scale the mount and take my own. I did, and named her for Decreto's dove-- Semiramis! Nin. What precious tale is this? Vas. He thinks to fright you from the maid, my lord. Dok. (Falling at the king's feet) O king, 'tis true! Ask thou in Gazim-- Nin. Go! (Dokahra vanishes through curtains left rear) Nin. 'T will take a better lie to save your head! Men. My head? Thou'rt welcome to it! 'Tis not that! But she--my daughter-- Nin. We will spare her life. Men. (Calmly) It is my prayer that she may die with me. Nin. Not while we love. If e'er she lose her charm, We may remember that you were her father. Men. (Furiously, forgetting himself) She has a brother yet! Nin. A brother! So! We'll look to him as well! Thanks for your news! Men. (Towering up) Though every god in heaven gave thee blood Yet would I spill it! (Lifts his sword; suddenly drops it and falls, pressing his heart. Ninus and Vassin watch him silently until he is still) Nin. Dead? Vas. (Stooping) Ay, dead, my lord. Nin. I would have spared him though I threatened death. Vas. Have spared the coward? Why, your majesty? Nin. Semiramis has spirit passing woman's; I have no hope to force her to my arms, And I'd have wrought her heart to tenderness By mercy to her father. Love is my aim! All else I can command--but that--Guards here! (Enter Armin and Haddo) Not you--my own! But wait--a word! Where sleeps Menones? Arm. (Pointing) There, O king! (The body of Menones lies behind the king and Vassin, unseen by the guards. Exeunt Armin and Haddo. Enter the king's guards) Nin. Take up this body. Place it within. (Guards go in with Menones' body) Vas. What would you do, my lord? Nin. You'll know in time. (Re-enter guards) Hark! You saw nothing! Guards. (Bowing to floor) Nothing. O mighty Ninus! (Exeunt) Nin. I will have her love! Vassin, this story of her goddess birth Is true! Vas. How knows your majesty? Nin. It speaks In all her motions. Every glance and grace Revouches it. E'en your dull eye must know Her beauty is immortal, though her life Is forfeit to the clay and must have end. Vas. Thou'lt find another fair! Youth blooms and goes! Nin. Not such as hers! Her brow's a holy page Where chiselling Time dare never set a mark! The sun hath been her lover, and so deep Hath touched her locks with fire no winter hand May shake his kisses out! Vas. Why, thou'rt in love! (Confused voices without. A messenger runs in and falls at the feet of the king) Nin. Speak, sir! Mes. Assyria wins! The Armenians fly! They've lost their leader-- Nin. Khosrove! Is he taken? Mes. Taken or slain, I know not which, but know He leads no more the enemy! They fly Before Semiramis! Nin. Semiramis! Mes. Ay, all was rout until she reached the field And spurred the-- Voice of herald without. Victory! A victory! Ninus is god and king! Cries. A victory! (Enter herald) Herald. Assyria triumphs o'er his enemies! Nin. Is Khosrove taken? Her. Slain, the people cry! The soldiers hail Semiramis their chief, Call her a goddess, drag her chariot, And shout and swear by Belus' ruling star To be her slaves forever! Nin. So they shall. Vas. Your majesty-- Nin. Peace, Vassin! Wait and see! (Noise and cries without as Semiramis is drawn toward the tent in her chariot) Nin. Ho! Guards! (The king's guards enter. Ninus passes to right centre, facing entrance opposite. Guards station themselves on each side of him and in his rear. Semiramis enters, followed by officers and soldiers. Her helmet is off, her hair falling) Nin. Hail goddess! (Semiramis looks at the king in astonishment then glances fearfully toward Menones' room) Nin. Hail, Assyria's queen! Sem. (Faintly) O king-- (Ninus advances to her. She kneels before him) Nin. Kneel down, Menones' daughter! Rise, The bride of Ninus, nevermore to kneel! (Raises her) This victory is proof, if proof I need, That you are a true daughter of the skies, Mate for the mightiest throne! (To soldiers) Cry festival! The feast of triumph and the wedding revel We'll hold together! Go! (Exeunt soldiers, cheering without) Nin. (Taking the hand of Semiramis) To-day thou'lt come? Sem. (Withdrawing her hand and bowing her head) I am my king's. Nin. (Passing to exit) The royal chariot, Within the hour, will take you from the tent Unto our palace. (Exeunt Ninus and attendants. Semiramis stands dazed. Sola comes out softly and looks at her) Sem. (In rapture) Ah, my father's safe! I'll tell him! (Hurries toward curtains right, rear, and stops at exit) No ... I'll wait. This joy is dead If Artavan be lost! (Sola springs toward her with a cry) Sol. Be lost? Ah, no! Where is he? Oh, not lost! Sem. He pushed too far Amid the flying troops. Sol. And you--you stole His last look from my eyes! Sem. He may be saved. For Sumbat followed him. He must be saved! We'll hope till Sumbat comes. Sol. O, you know naught Of love! Sem. I was his sister, Sola, ere He made thee wife. Sol. A sister! O, such love Is nothing! Thou wilt smile at it If ever thou'rt a wife! (Semiramis is removing her armor. She stops and looks questioningly at Sola; then shakes her head) Sem. Nay, Sola, nay!... Help me with this.... Somehow my heart is gone And armor's for the brave. (Putting on her robe) Now 't has come back. But beats and whispers like a maiden's own. I am but half a warrior.... Do not sob. Sumbat will bring us news.... Ah, he has come! (Enter Sumbat) Sol. (Rushing to him and looking into his face) Oh, lost! (Flies, sobbing, through the curtains, rear left) Sem. Speak.... Is it true? Sum. I fear it is. I could not save him, and they bore him off. Sem. Alive? Sum. Alive! Sem. A prisoner! Not slain! Then we may hope! I've captured Husak's son! Sum. Khosrove! Is he not under guard without? A man most fair ... of lordly form, and young? Sem. 'Tis he! Have him brought hither instantly! To Husak word shall go on swiftest steed That I will yield the prince for Artavan! (Exit Sumbat) He's safe ... if there be time ... if there be time!... Husak, the Fierce ... but he must love his son, And will be merciful to save him. Ay.... So brave a son. Now I recall his face, It would have made me pause had not my eyes Been dim with triumph. (Enter Sumbat, followed by officers with Khosrove. The officers fall back, leaving the captive before Semiramis. He is stripped of all armor, and clothed in a scant tunic revealing a figure of marked strength and grace. He stands erect, but with head bowed, and his arms bound to his sides) Sem. (Gazes at him) Ah!... (She advances a step) Armenian! (At sound of her voice he lifts his head and looks at her with eager recognition) Sem. (Stepping back) Armenian! Khos. (Proudly) Armenia, by your leave! I am my father's house. Sem. I'm glad 'tis so. Then he should value thee. Khos. He does. Sem. So much That he will spare the life of Artavan If we spare yours? Khos. Who is this Artavan Who evens me in price? Sem. Menones' son. Khos. Menones? Governor of Nineveh? Who fled my sword, fear-cold, and pale with terror? Insult not Husak with so poor a suit! That coward's race-- Sem. Am I a coward, sir? Khos. (In sudden dejection) These fettered arms make answer, princess. Sem. Nay, I am Menones' daughter,--Artavan My brother! Khos. Not the Assyrian princess? O, Forgive me, lady! I am proud to be Thy brother's price! Sem. What surety have I That Artavan still lives? Khos. My word. Officer. His word! O, noble madam, it is known to all That Husak takes no prisoners of war. They die before his tent. Khos. Such is the custom-- Sem. O me, my brother! Khos. But I can avouch That Artavan still lives. Off. Trust not the word Of captive foes, my lady. By what means Can he know this? Sem. Speak, sir. Khos. To you alone I'll speak. Sem. Nay--before all! Khos. Unto no ear But thine. Sem. Wouldst save thy life? Khos. Perhaps. Wouldst save Thy brother? Sem. Sumbat, wilt advise me? Sum. Trust him, And hear what he would say. Sem. Out then, my friends, I pray you. (All go out but Semiramis and Khosrove.) Now! Khos. My father swore to me Before I led his troops 'gainst Nineveh, All captives should be held at my disposal And bloody custom waived. I would not speak 'Fore all, lest I should rob fierce Husak's name Of terror which is half his sword. Sem. But now He thinks you dead. Khos. Not so. I've sent him word By a sure mouth that I'm unhurt and held A prisoner. Sem. O then my brother's safe! How gracious art thou, Heaven! (Steps towards entrance) Sumbat! Khos. (Stepping before her) Wait! Sem. What more? Khos. All--everything--there's nothing said! Ninus will spare me not! 'Tis thou must save me! Sem. I! No! The king! Khos. Not he! Is Artavan Grown dearer than his hate to Husak? Nay-- Sem. Sir, fear not Ninus. He will grant my suit. Khos. He will? You--you-- Sem. I've saved his army! Khos. (Relieved) Ah! No more than that? Sem. Enough! Khos. No! 'T will not wipe Revenge from out his heart,--and you have saved But that your father threw away. Sem. Peace, sir! Khos. There's but one way for me--escape! Sem. No more! Nay--not another word! Khos. I must escape-- Sem. Not one! Khos. That word unsaid slays Artavan, Spoken it saves him! Once in Ninus' power I have no hope of life, and with me dies Your brother. Sem. (Scornfully) Do not fear! Khos. I fear? By Heaven! Think you this heart is not a soldier's own Because 'tis captive to a woman's sword? A woman's sword! O little had thy sword To do with my defeat! Unarmed thou wouldst Have taken me--for 'twas thy beauty struck My weapon to my side! (rapidly and passionately) When I bore down Upon your chariot, I could have swept you With one arm from the world! But suddenly A missile struck your helmet and dislodged The glory of your face before my eyes, Your hair ran gold, the shining East looked black Behind the star you made upon its breast! I knew thee for a goddess, and stood still Meek captive to thy wish! O blest am I To learn thou art not greater than myself, But so much less that I may lift thee up! Fly with me--be my queen-- (Semiramis tries to speak) Go, call them in! I'll shout above their heads to reach thine ears! O, trust to me! In me thy brother lives! Come, and thy fallen father shall be brave Beneath Armenia's smile! Here thou mayst save His life, but ne'er again will he know honor! Help me to fly and save three lives in one! Give me to Ninus--give me up to death, And with a father and a brother lost, Though thou wert worshipped 'mong thy country's gods Still thou couldst not be happy! Sem. Sir-- Khos. But come, And they are safe! Sem. (Bewildered) What do I hear? Khos. O, come! Dost know what love is, daughter of Menones? It is the fire that dead puts out the light On every hearth, living makes all the world One altar feeding incense unto Heaven! It gives the soul to life, breath to the soul, Pulse to ambition, strength to warrior arms,-- (Struggling with his fetters) Such strength that they may break all captive bonds To clasp their own! (Breaks his fetters and attempts to embrace her as she retreats gazing at him as if fascinated. She escapes him, and throws off her bewilderment. He drops to his knees holding out his arms to her) And love I offer thee! Sem. Sir, I forgive thee, for thou knowest not To whom you speak! Khos. Know not! Sem. I who am now Menones' daughter, ere the night shall be The bride of Ninus, king of all Assyria! (Khosrove rises, bows before her, and stands with silent dignity) Sem. You--you--were saying-- Khos. Nothing, royal madam. Have you not friends without? (Semiramis hesitates, goes to door and calls) Sem. Sumbat! (To Khosrove) Thou'rt safe! Khos. (Ironically) Assyria's queen should know! Sem. She does! (Re-enter Sumbat and officers) Sum. Unbound! Sem. Ay, he is free! We only wait the word Of gracious Ninus. Guard him until then, We charge you, Sumbat. Keep you nearest him. (Exeunt Sumbat and officers with Khosrove) Sem. My father now! He must have heard the shouts Of victory, yet still he hides himself. ... The king asked not for love. He is Assyria. I would not lessen him by love. Not yet.... 'Tis my triumphant arms he weds. The heart Must sleep.... Voice of guard at entrance. The king approaches! Sem. Ah!... The king! His word, and all is done. I'll speak to him Before I see my father. Then I may say 'Thou art forgiven, and Artavan is safe!' ... And Khosrove ... safe.... The royal chariot!... O, mother, send thy doves--I am once more A babe! (The king enters alone) Nin. Art ready for thy king? Sem. I am-- And yet--a word before I go! Thou know'st That Khosrove is my prisoner-- Nin. Khosrove! He! We thought him slain! Sem. Nay, sir-- Nin. A prisoner! O, welcome gift! We ask no other dower! Sem. But, gracious lord-- Nin. (Turning to entrance) Ho, Vassin! Khosrove's taken! Go! Find him out and drag him straight to dungeon! Bind him with chains until he can not move, Till we've devised some bitter way of death! Vas. (Without) I haste, my lord! Nin. At last my enemy is 'neath my feet! (Returning to Semiramis) And 'tis to thee we owe this gift of fortune! ... You're pale, Semiramis. Sem. O king-- Nin. (Taking her hands) And trembling. Dost fear my greatness? Nay, thou ledst my army-- Sem. O, if for that thou ow'st me aught, grant me-- Nin. Whate'er thou wouldst! Sem. My brother, Artavan, Is Husak's captive! Thou canst save him! Nin. I? Then he is saved! But how! Tell me the way! Sem. Husak will yield him up for Khosrove! Nin. What Send Khosrove back alive! Not though the gods Commanded it! Alive! 'Twas Husak slew My father, and his son shall die! Ten years I've sought for this revenge! And give it up For a green lad fresh from the fields of Gazim? Sem. A warrior, sir, who'll win thee many a battle! And crest thy glory with meridian stars! He's worth the price though pity lent no coin! Save him, my lord! A bridal boon I ask! Give me my brother! Nin. A bridal boon I'll grant. Thou lov'st thy father? Sem. (Choking) You know--that he-- Nin. I know. Sem. Great king-- Nin. One thou mayst save. Sem. O gods! Nin. Thy brother, or thy father? Thou mayst choose. Sem. I know my duty, sir. I choose my father. Nin. A noble choice. We are not harsh, my queen. The people know Menones' life is forfeit, And know how I have sought for Khosrove's death; Did I spare both for your sake they would say That Ninus' scepter is a woman's hand. (Shouts of rejoicing without) But come! The chariot waits. The people call. Sem. First will I tell my father that he lives. He's waiting there the summons to his death. Ah, I must thank you sir. (Takes the king's hand and kisses it. Goes through curtains, right, rear. Her cry is heard within. She returns.) Too late! He's dead! Cold, cold, my father! Oh! (Sobs, her hands covering her face) Nin. (Removing her hands and putting his arm about her) Thou'rt not alone, My bride! Sem. (Withdrawing and kneeling to him, her hands upraised) O king, leave me my brother! Nin. Nay! Did you not have your choice? You ask too much. Sem. (Rising) Ah, so I do! I should demand, not ask! Nin. Demand! Sem. Ay, king! ... 'Tis true I'm not alone. My goddess mother is again with me As when this morn my heart exultant rode The tides of triumph! When the heavens rolled And like a stooping sea caught up my soul Till ranged with the applauding gods it clapped My courage on below! You offer me A place beside your throne. I offer you The hearts of all your subjects now my own,-- The love--the worship of your mighty army! (Cries without) They shout my name--not yours--great Ninus! Hear! Shouts: Semiramis is queen! Semiramis! Sem. I bring a hand, with yours inlocked, shall reach O'er Asia's breadth and draw her glory in! A heart ambitious with immortal beat To make Assyria greatest 'neath the stars! And in return I ask my brother's life! Give me your promise Khosrove goes to Husak, Or leave me where I stand--Menones' daughter! Nin. (Slowly, reading the determination in her face) I promise. Sem. Swear! Nin. I swear it! Sem. (Relaxes, falls at his feet, and reaches up, clasping his hands) O, god Ninus! (CURTAIN) ACT II. The great hall in the palace of Nineveh. The rear is open, showing the sky and the towers of the city. Along the floor, which is high above the ground court, rear, are sculptured lions. On each side of hall where right and left reach open rear are large entrances, with steps leading up to hall, guarded by spearmen and archers. Within the hall, between winged bulls, are entrances to chambers, right centre and left centre. Near front, right, smaller entrance between figures of men with lion heads. The same opposite, left. The walls of the hall are lined with alabaster slabs on which are sculptured and colored the conquests of Assyrian kings. Ninus alone. Enter Vassin, left centre. Nin. (As Vassin enters) You've told her? Vas. Ay, my lord. Nin. What does she say? Does she suspect we ordered Khosrove's torture? Vas. I can not answer that. Nin. Then answer this! You're sure that he will die? You made good work? Vas. Good work, my lord. He can not live a day. Nin. A day! You've hurried then! I bade you fill His wounds with mortal but a lingering bane! Go, have him brought within! He must not die Without my foot upon his neck! (As Vassin is going) What said The queen? Vas. She cried 'My brother's lost!' Nin. No more? Vas. O, then her soul put sorrow's grandeur on, And those about her saw a noble storm; But yet so proud her royal eyes, each drop That fell from them were worth a world To him for whom they fell! Nin. (Aside) He loves the queen! (Enter Semiramis, left, centre) Sem. Is this thing true my lord? O, surely Heaven Will cry out 'No' though thou must answer 'Ay!' Nin. (To Vassin) Go! (Exit Vassin, right front) Sem. Is it true? Nin. Too true, my queen! Khosrove is maimed beyond all hope of life, And thou must make thy husband heir to love That was thy brother's. Sem. Oh! Nin. Thy grief is mine. Sem. I will not weep, though I could shed such streams As when the clouds from riven breast pour down Their torrent agonies!... How strange, my lord, The guards should venture so without your warrant! Nin. I've had their heads for it! Sem. (Shocked) Their heads!... Why, this 'Tis to be royal! Ah! Nin. Put by these thoughts, Semiramis. No theme to-day but love! Sem. Love, sir? Nin. Ay, that! Thou lov'st me, dost thou not? Sem. Thou art great Ninus! Nin. I'd be loved as man! Forget my kingdom, and put arms about me As doth the peasant maid her beggar lord! Sem. (Moving from him) I thought thy greatness married my ambition To make Assyria brave e'en to the gods! I'll keep my promise ... howsoever thine Is broken. Crowned, my glorious purpose beats Higher than any dream my maiden heart Could nourish! I will keep my word. But love? If thou wouldst have it--win it! (Starts away, then turns back to him) Hast yet found A governor for the city? Nin. No. Sem. Delay At this unsettled time? Dost think it safe? Nin. I've ordered every tower-watch redoubled, Each gate close-locked, and keep the keys myself! None goes or comes till I have found the man For governor. Sem. Would not Vassin serve? Nin. (With suspicion) I've other use for him. Perchance he'll go From Nineveh. Sem. My lord, there's one from Gazim, Sumbat, thou'lt find as true as thine own heart. Who with some aid from me-- Nin. From you? So, so! Sem. (In surprise) I was my father's head and hand, my lord. Who knows the guardian locks and wards and plans Secretive for thy safety but myself? Whom thou dost choose must learn somewhat of me. Nin. Ay, you'll nob heads together! Sem. Sir? Nin. Well, well-- I'll choose a man! (Exit moodily, right centre) Sem. Strange ... but he is the king! ... Ah, Khosrove! Artavan!... Nay, I will think Of nothing but my duty to the crown!... ... "And with a father and a brother lost--" (Enter Sola, left, front. She sees that Semiramis is alone and advances) Sem. "Though thou wert worshipped, thou couldst not be happy!" Sol. Tell me! When does he come? Sem. Who, child? Sol. You ask? My husband--Artavan! Sem. He will not come. Sol. Art thou not queen? Sem. And Ninus king. Sol. He will not save thy brother? Sem. Nay, he can not. Sol. O monster king! Sem. Hush, Sola ... he forgave My father. Sol. Oh!--because he knew him dead! Sem. He knew him dead! Sol. Ah, I will tell you now! (Looks about guardedly, and speaks in a low tone) I saw your father die--and Ninus saw him! Dokahra waked me--and unseen we watched! The king came to the tent--discovered all-- Doomed him to death--you to dishonor! Then Your father rose to strike him--and fell dead. The king-- Sem. Go! Leave me, Sola! Leave me! Go! (Exit Sola, left, near front) Sem. (Stands in silent horror, then speaks slowly) ... I'll keep my oath ... and crown. Still will I make Assyria great. Assyria is the army, And I ... am queen of arms ... not love! Not love! (Re-enter Ninus) Sem. (Softly, not seeing Ninus) "Dost know what love is, daughter of Menones?" Nin. (Advancing) My bride! Sem. (Turning to him) My lord, I would see Sumbat. Pray Let him be summoned. Nin. Nay, we've sworn this day Shall be for us alone! Sem. 'Twas he I charged With care of the Armenian prince. Nin. My queen Shall not be troubled. Sem. 'T will not trouble me, My lord. Nin. Enough it troubles me! Sem. He'd know Of this foul fault, against your will-- Nin. Again That theme! Forget it! Sem. O, my lord, forget That noble prince? So brave--so proud--so fair-- Nin. What do you say? O, you changed eyes with him! Sem. My lord! Nin. This is your grief! Your brother! Ha! Sem. Your majesty-- Nin. Not majesty! Fool! Fool! Ho, there! Bring in the Armenian! You shall see This noble prince! So brave--so proud--so fair! Her brother! O, fool, fool, fool! Sem. This the king? Nin. Why, I'm a fool, my lady! (Guards enter right front with a half lifeless body) Look on him! He's had some kisses since you saw him last That struck full deep! Sem. (Staggering back) Is that-- Nin. Ay, it is he! Look on him! 'Tis your Khosrove! Your-- Sem. (Majestically) Peace Ninus! When you have knelt to me I'll hear you speak! (Exit left centre) Nin. (Stares after her and becomes calm) Now I have ruined all. She'll not forgive! (Enter Vassin, left, rear) Vas. My lord, the brother of the queen has come. Nin. Not Artavan? Vas. Ay, Artavan. Nin. He's here? Vas. When Husak had your oath you'd free his son, Prince Khosrove, Artavan was sent at once To Nineveh. Nin. How could he pass The gates? Vas. He passed before your order fell. Nin. We'll welcome him. (Looks toward the queen's room) I'll make my peace with this. (Goes out with Vassin, left, rear. Semiramis enters hesitatingly, sees that Ninus is gone and advances fearfully toward the figure on the floor. The guards stand back, right front. She retreats, covering her eyes; then approaches and bends over the body. Searches his face, and throws up her hands in sudden joy) Sem. Not Khosrove! O, it is not Khosrove! (Leaves him and hurries to exit, trying to suppress her emotion. Returns to the body) Where is the prince? Poor wretch! Can you not speak? ... Are these thy ways, ambition? Voice without. Way! Make way! (Semiramis hurries to her room. Enter the king, left rear, walking with Khosrove, and followed by Vassin and Sumbat) Nin. Speak not of going, Artavan! Khos. I must, O king! I pray your leave to go at once To Gazim. Sudden troubles urge me there. I beg your kingly warrant I may pass The gates-- Nin. Nay, you shall stay! We shall persuade you! (To attendant) Summon the queen. Her voice we'll add to ours. Khos. My lord-- Nin. We like you, Artavan! By Bel, We do! You're worthy of your sister queen! No more--you'll stay! ... See! This is Khosrove! (Bends over body on the floor) Is-- Or was? ... He lives.... Think you these bones will hold Until they reach old Husak? Now you've come, We must keep faith! Ha! ha! Khos. And that--is Khosrove? Nin. Truth, 'tis! ... Bear out the dog! (Guards bear off body, right front. Enter Semiramis. Sumbat crosses to her) Sem. My brother? Where? Khos. Here! (Advancing to her) Sum. (To Semiramis) Be not amazed And Artavan is safe! Nin. This welcome's cold Methinks. We gave him warmer greeting. Sem. Sir, Such sudden joy--My brother knows there's none I hold more dear. Nin. How now? Not one? Sem. (Dropping her eyes from Khosrove) Yes--one-- Perhaps. Nin. (Pleased, taking her hand) We are forgiven? Sem. Indeed, my lord. Nin. And for your brother, hear our royal word. We make him governor of Nineveh! Sem. (In alarm) No! no! Nin. 'Tis done! Go, Vassin, bring the keys! (Exit Vassin, right front) And wear this ring, my general! Khos. My lord, I could not undertake-- Nin. You shall!--The queen Will charge you with all duties. Sem. No! I will not! Nin. Ay, ay! We know we please you 'gainst your word And not your will. Sem. He is too young, my lord! Nin. Menones was too old. And 'twas yourself Who taught us how to prize your brother. (Re-enter Vassin with a chain of great keys, which the king takes) Come! (Throws chains about Khosrove's neck, and singles out the keys) The citadel! The southern arsenal! The northern wall--the secret passages-- And these the tunnel locks and river gates! You'll take command at once, and so relieve The city which we've shut fast as a tomb, Fearing that spies from Husak's camp might creep Into our bosom. Khos. Wisely done, my lord. Sem. O king, if 't must be so, I'll map for him My fathers safe division of the city. Nin. To you we leave him. (Talks apart with Vassin and Sumbat) Sem. Sir, what do you mean? Khos. (Hurriedly) When Vassin came to take me into charge, Sumbat contrived another should be sent-- Sem. We know the rest! But how save Artavan? Khos. When I have entered Husak's camp he's free! You trust me? Sem. O, I must! I do! But not To save my brother may I trust to you The city's keys! You are Assyria's foe-- Khos. Not now! No more a foe, but truest friend! For in my heart you are Assyria, And you I'd serve-- Nin. Cut short thy schooling, for The city waits. Sem. (Aloud, mapping in her hand) The river here divides The eastern guard--(lowers her voice) I must not do this! No! Risk every soul in Nineveh-- Khos. Did I Not trust thee when I entered here? I knew The face that shone upon me in the battle Would not betray me! Who gives perfect trust Is worthy of it! Thou dost know me true By Heaven's sign that only souls may read! I can not say what I would say because Thou art a wife, but wert thou not a wife, Though thou wert thousand times a queen, I'd pour Such worship to your ears you would believe My heart would rend my body's walls and leap Out of my bosom sooner than beat once A traitor to your trust! Take Ninus' ring! Give me this little one--(slipping a ring from her finger) that hath enclosed The sovereign rose and ruby of thy veins That dims his purple power--and thee I serve-- Your general--not his! Whate'er you would I will! Command me now-- Sem. Enough! Go, go! Lose no more time! Khos. O, in some dream to come, When innocence may wear what form it will And on thy waking nature leave no blush, May words I must not speak take life and pay The debt they owe this hour! Sem. I beg you go! Assyria's in your hands! Khos. Nay, in my heart! Nin. Come, Artavan! No more delay! Your troops Await before the citadel. Khos. I go, My lord. (Confusion without, left rear. Enter an officer) Off. Pardon, your majesty! A man Who says he's brother to the queen, makes bold To press before you! Nin. Yet another brother? Sem. No, no, my lord! Off. He comes from Husak's camp. Sem. It is some madman surely, or a spy Who plays his wits are lost and takes this way To force into the court! Khos. I'll thrust him out! He may mean danger to your person. Nin. Nay, We'll sport with him. Let him come in! (Exit Officer) Sem. My lord-- Nin. Your brother! Ho, ho, ho! (Enter Artavan) Art. My sister! Sem. (Staring) Sir? Art. Though queen, art thou not still my sister? Sem. No! Art. (Bowing with scornful ceremony) Your majesty! Nin. Ha! ha! His sister! Then Thou wouldst be brother to the king? Art. (Bitterly) My hope Runs not so high, and even to her I now Give up all claim. I'll own no blood but that In my own veins keeps honor! So farewell! Nin. Be not so fast! Whence comest thou, my man? Art. From Husak's camp. When he received thy word His son should go to him, he set me free. Sem. Oh, set you free! Art. And now, O king-- Sem. (Seeing that the king is impressed) My lord, If he came from the camp how has he passed The city gates? Nin. Ah ... true ... he could not pass. Sem. (Mockingly) Perhaps he scaled the hundred feet of wall, And crossed the rampart 'neath the arrow watch Of towers eighty-score! Art. I found a way, Proud woman! Nin. How? (As Artavan speaks Sola enters left front, and is held aside by Sumbat) Art. This morning ere the battle She who was then my sister gave me this. (Shows paper) 'Twas some direction sent unto my father, The lord Menones. (Turning paper) On this side I found A map whose secret key I knew, that marked A passage 'neath the river. This I sought, Found it unguarded-- Nin. By the seven winds!-- (Enter an officer) Off. O king! Nin. You're of the northern watch? Off. I am, O king! The Armenians advance upon The northern wall, but come with lances down! Art. They come in peace to meet the son of Husak! Sem. O, haste, my lord! Haste, Artavan to duty! Their rage when they shall learn the fate of Khosrove May give them courage to assail our walls! Go, brother! Nin. Hold! This man speaks not as madmen! Sem. Should I not know my brother, sir? Nin. You should. Choose which is he. The other we condemn To death. Art. (Holding out his arms) Save me, Semiramis! Khos. (Holding out his arms) Save me, My sister! Sem. (Going to Khosrove's arms) Brother! Nin. (To Khosrove) Haste thee to thy office! Vassin, attend him! Sumbat, be his chief! We trust where trusts the queen! Sem. (To Khosrove) Give up the keys To Sumbat! (Exeunt Khosrove, Vassin, Sumbat, left rear) Nin. (To Artavan) You to death! (Signs to guards) Sem. My royal lord, First would I question him alone, and learn The truth about this passage. He may be In league with traitors subtler than himself. One moment, sir, I pray. Nin. O, ever wise! Bribe him with any promise death may keep To tell you all. But do not linger, love; We lose our bridal day! (Exit, right centre. Semiramis looks at Artavan with the greatest tenderness. He gazes coldly upon her, Sola clinging to him) Art. What would the queen? Sem. To be again thy sister. Dost not guess? That man-- Art. Who can he be you prize above Your honor and my life? Sem. The son of him Who set you free on Ninus' oath, an oath Broke in the heart ere it had left the lips! Art. My brave Semiramis! You've saved the prince, And with his life my honor! O, pardon me! Sem. He was escaping in your name when you Arrived too soon-- Art. Forgive me that! Sem. And now To save my brother! Art. Hope it not. Be glad That one is safe. Had Khosrove lost his life In Ninus' court, my oath had driven me back To Husak--and to death. No power then Had saved me. Now-- Sem. Now thou shalt live! Art. Nay, see! His guards watch well! There is no way. Sem. No way But through the will of Ninus. He shall save thee! Art. O, for your own dear life, Semiramis, Let Ninus know not I am Artavan! Sem. He dare not touch me, for the army's mine! (Goes into Ninus' chamber) Sol. My love! Art. 'Tis welcome and farewell, my Sola! Sol. O, she will save thee! Art. Teach me not to hope. (A band of dancing maidens enter, left, and sing a bridal chorus before the doors of Ninus' chamber) Love and Beauty now are one, No more wandering away! Love's the sky to Beauty's sun, From him she can not stray. And he is bright by her fair light or none! Love and Beauty dreaming lie, Who shall say it is not meet? Who shall say, O fie, O fie, To the favor sweet That Love will ask and Beauty not deny? (Maidens dance out, right. Re-enter Semiramis) Sem. He's wild with rage! I can not calm him! Sol. Oh, To lose thee now! (Enter Ninus. He advances upon Semiramis) Nin. Who is he, then--that man-- If not thy brother? To whose arms you went As you have never come to mine? Sem. A man Whose life you owed to me by holiest promise And oath unto the gods! I saved your soul When I so saved-- Nin. Speak! Who? Sem. The son of Husak, Prince Khosrove, of Armenia! (Utter silence. Ninus stands choked and dumb; then moves to strike Semiramis) Sem. Strike me You strike your army! (Ninus drops his hand and stares at her, livid and shaken, then turns fiercely upon Artavan) Sem. (Rushes before him and falls, clinging to his knees) Wait, O wait, my lord! If thou dost Hope to know my love! Dost dream Of bridal joy! Wouldst rest thy head in peace Upon my bosom, say thou wilt forgive! And I, too, will forgive! No more will ask What thou hast done or not done! All thy past Is fair as Heaven by this moment's sun! I'll love thee as thou hadst been born this hour That gives my brother life! O, speak the word, And take me to thy heart--thy wife--thy slave-- Nin. By earth and heaven, he shall die--and now! (Raises his dagger to strike. Enter Vassin) Vas. (Excitedly) My lord, this is the strangest governor! He ordered me with Sumbat to lead out The city troops beyond the southern gate, Then spurred to north! Sumbat obeyed, but I, Not liking this, returned to you! Nin. 'Tis Khosrove! Vas. (Staggered) Then we are lost! Nin. Pursue him! Fly! Call back Our troops! Vas. Too late! By now they're locked without The southern wall, and Khosrove rides to ope The north to Husak! Sem. (Aside) False! Down, slanderous thought That darkens me not him! That face that looked As Truth had chosen it to show her own To man! That voice--each word the enchanted door To holier worlds unspoken! No. I'll trust! (Enter an officer) Off. O, great Assyria, the Armenians come! The Gazim traitor's sold thee unto Husak! Thy foes are pouring through the northern gate And bear down on the palace! Sumbat holds Thy troops upon the southern plain And bars All passage! There's no help! (Ninus listens speechless) Attendants. (Running in) O, we are lost! Off. The city will be sacked! The palace guards Are but a handful! Sem. False? O, Khosrove! False? Then there is no man true? E'en Sumbat lost To thy sweet promises! False! false! (Enter a second officer) Off. (Prostrating himself) Oh Ninus! Call on thy gods! Thy enemies are at thee! The palace is enclosed, and every foe Bears in his hand a torch that blazes death To all within! (The inmates of the palace are running to and fro, rear, and looking fearfully out into the court below) Sem. O beauteous gods, is this Your earth? Where Falsehood steals your garments, nay Your smile, seduces with your voice, and stamps Your semblance upon fiends? Voices. Save us, O king! (Ninus stands immovable, as if made deaf and dumb by impending disaster) Voice. We burn! They cast the brands! Another. Not yet! They wait! Voices of prostrate figures. Save us, O king! Voice. See! see! The leader speaks! Another. His herald! Hear! (A trumpet sounds below) Voice of Khosrove's herald. Assyria, come forth! (All within listen, silent, eager, fearful) Hear thou, O Ninus! Hear the word of Khosrove! He will depart with the Armenian troops, And leave the city free of sword and fire, If thou'lt decree that Artavan shall live Free and unharmed! (The face of Semiramis illumines with joy) Deny and Nineveh Shall flame! Nin. My herald there! Stand forth! (The herald of Ninus takes station centre rear) Decree As Khosrove wills! Her. of Khos. Appear, O Ninus! Nin. No! Her. of Khos. Appear, O Ninus! (Ninus goes slowly to rear and stands by his herald) Her. of Khos. Hear, all Nineveh! Hear the decree of Ninus, king and god! That Artavan, the brother of the queen, Shall freely live, and die by no man's hand! Her. of Ninus. (Blows trumpet, then speaks) Hear the decree of Ninus, king and god, That Artavan, the brother of the queen, Shall freely live, and die by no man's hand! (Silence. The voice of Khosrove below) Khos. Assyria, speak! Nin. I, Ninus, so decree! (Staggers back toward front as all press to rear to see the troops go out. Semiramis, Artavan and Sola stand together gazing out) Sem. O, Khosrove! See--he rides--away--away! (Leans forward waving her scarf. Ninus, alone in front, goes toward his chamber, falls on the steps overpowered with rage and lifts his clenched hands) Nin. O, vengeance! Vengeance for a king! (CURTAIN) ACT III. Scene: The gardens over the lake. A wide bridge extends from the bank of the lake, left, to the gardens which are partly visible on the right. At the rear, right, is a garlanded archway. At the left, front, steps lead from the bridge to the bank and top of the bridge. Beyond the bridge, rear, clouds show that the sun is setting. A score of spearmen, with lances down, march in right, front, and out through archway, right, rear. Enter, right, front, the king and Sumbat. The king is royally clad and crowned; Sumbat in official robe. Sumbat. Khosrove delays. Nin. But do not doubt he'll come. I have his word, and couriers have seen His horsemen on the plain. Sum. How noble, sir, To close the Feast of Peace with supreme revel In honor of your foe! Nin. Not foe, good Sumbat. We have no foes. Our queen's triumphant arms Have made glad subjects of all enemies But one, and him we make our friend. To-night Assyria and Armenia sup as one! (Turns toward right, rear) We'll see if all's prepared as we gave order. (Exeunt under the arch of garlands. Dancers enter, right, front, and pass out through arch. Following them, Semiramis with her women. All are in rich attire but the queen who wears simple white robe. A dove nestles on her bosom. She gives the women leave to pass on and they go out merrily through arch, right, rear. Semiramis lingers; comes to the railing of the bridge, centre, and leans upon it) Sem. Will Khosrove come? I do not doubt the king,-- And yet--I pray he will not come! (Re-enter Sumbat, through arch. He comes out to the queen) Sem. You, Sumbat? Where is the king? Sum. I left him in the garden, Giving new orders for Prince Khosrove's honor. Sem. Sumbat, you trust the king? Sum. I do. You've wrought Such noble change in him that drop by drop He's mated all his blood unto your virtues. Sem. I must believe it, lest a doubt should breed The weakness it suspects. But is 't not strange Khosrove should trust him too? Sum. He knows that you Would warn him if there lay a danger here. Sem. I warn him? But suppose the warning false? 'T would wrong the king, whose purpose seems so pure It might have journeyed with his soul when first It came from Heaven! No. I'll answer for him! He could not counterfeit so deep my eyes Would find no bottom to deceit!... But now What hast thou heard of Artavan? Sum. No word. Sem. I fear-- Sum. He's safe. Be sure of that. No man Would dare lay finger on him! Sem. But to go Without a word! Poor Sola grieves, and weeps As though she'd drown her wits in tears. (A boat glides from under the bridge and over the water beneath them) See there! 'Tis she! Alone below! (Sola alights from boat and runs up steps to the bridge) I'll speak to her. Go, Sumbat! (Sumbat goes off right) Sister, stay. (Stops Sola as she is passing) Why do you run? Sol. I'm running from the king! Sem. The king, my love? There's no king here. Sol. Nay, he's below! Sem. Below? Sol. Under the bridge with Vassin! Sem. Vassin? No. The king has sent him out of Nineveh! Sol. He did not go. I swear that he's below! Sem. What were you doing 'neath the bridge? Sol. Ah me, I seek in every place for Artavan. I'll save him from the king! Sem. So kind a king? Sol. O, kind! As death, or plague, or leprosy! 'Tis he has taken revenge on Artavan! He'll kill the prince, too, when he comes! Sem. My child-- Sol. (Pointing down) I heard them talking there! Sem. Thy husband's safe. Bethink thee that the king's decree protects him. Sol. Not from the king! From man, not from the gods, And Ninus is a god, or dreams he is! Sem. From man--not from--no, no! I will not say Or think it! My poor child-- Sol. You'll save the prince? 'Tis you he trusts, not Ninus! Sem. Sweet, be calm. You did not see the king. Sol. Hear all, and save him! When Khosrove takes the seat of highest honor, Lord of the Revels by Assyria's favor, The floor will part, the chair fall to the lake, Where Vassin waits to slay him, while the king Strikes down in wrath the master of the feast For fault of accident! Sem. Where are your wits? See, yonder comes the king! (Re-enter Ninus through archway) Sem. (As he approaches) Is all prepared, My lord? Sol. (To Semiramis) 'Tis true--true--true! (Runs off, right) Nin. Ay, all is ready Except the queen. What means these simple robes, Semiramis? Sem. A compliment unto Your majesty. Nin. It shows more like affront! I would have Khosrove see a splendor here Unpainted in the daring of his dream, And thou the star of it! A merchant's daughter Would robe her handmaid with more care--lend her A pearl or two--a bit of scarf--or scrap Of tinsel sun-- Sem. My lord-- Nin. A compliment! 'Tis your disdain-- Sem. It grieves me, sir, that you Should read in outward sign what never yet Was in my soul. Our wars are done, my lord; And exultation of the conquering hour Calms into peace; as I laid armor by For victor robes and symbol of my glory, I now cast off the purple of the queen, And but remember that I am a wife. Nin. (Embracing her) Beloved Semiramis! Forgive thy slave! No royal dye could shine so to my eyes As this soft white put on for me alone! Thy pardon, love, and thou shalt shortly learn A king, too, knows how best to compliment! An honor waits for thee-- (Enter officer, left) Off. O king! Nin. We hear! Off. The Armenian approaches. Nin. Khosrove comes? (Semiramis watches the king closely) Off. He comes, great Ninus! Nin. Well, and more than well! Summon our train. (Exit officer, right) But one is lacking here, Our brother--Artavan. Sem. My lord--you think-- Nin. Who would dare harm him? He is safe. Sem. (Coming very near him) From man, Not from the gods. Nin. (Stepping back) What do you mean? Sem. The truth! Nin. (Seizing her arm) It is not so! I do deny it! Sem. (Calmly) What, My lord? Nin. What meant you when you said 'the truth'! Sem. That gods may work some harm to Artavan. Nin. (At ease) True, love! Uncertain is their favor. Look! He comes! (Gazing off left) Sem. (Aside) He's false! And if he's false in this--then is-- O, Khosrove, thou art lured to death! And I Have been thy traitorous star! (Enter Khosrove, left, attended by Armenians) Nin. Hail, Khosrove! Hail! Assyrians. Hail to Armenia! Hail! Khos. O, Ninus, hail! Armenians. Hail to Assyria, greatest over kings! Nin. Thou'rt welcome, and we thank thee for thy trust, Which we'll betray when Heaven has no god To damn our treachery! In proof of faith, Wear thou the royal dagger with thy own. (Detaches his weapon, which he gives to Khosrove) Our queen--has she no word? (Khosrove bows low before Semiramis) Sem. Peace and long life To Khosrove. Nin. Now to revel! Sound the trumpets! (Exeunt officers through archway. Trumpets sound from the gardens. Dancing maidens in white robes, each with a dove resting on her hand, enter right front, reach the centre of the stage, and begin the dance of doves. As the maidens describe circles in the dance the doves rise and fly in similar circles above their heads, and re-alight on their extended hands) Sem. (Who has stood aside during the dance, apparently disturbed) It is not true! Were any man so vile Nature would spurn him back to chaos ere His mother had beheld him! (The dance ends. The maidens pass out under arch. All move to follow when Ninus speaks) Nin. Stay! Hear, all! Before we feast in honor of our guest, We would do honor to our noble queen, Whose arms of might have brought our land to peace. Whose looks of love have brought our heart to rest! To-night we doff our crown that she may wear it! (Removing crown) And here decree her word shall be obeyed Above our own. (Puts crown on the queen's head) Dost like our compliment? Sem. It is too much, my king. Nin. (Kneeling) Nay, nay, thy subject! (Semiramis seems gay with a sudden resolve) Sem. If it so please thee then I'll be the king! Nin. (Rising) We have decreed. If any here refuse To honor thy command, though thou shouldst doom My death, himself that instant dies. (To officer) You, sir, Take order for it, and if your own hand fail, When we are king again we'll have your head! Off. My arm be as your will, my lord! Sem. O, then I have a wish I did not dare to voice. Nin. Command it now. Sem. It hath much troubled me That Khosrove should be honored over you, Lord of the Revels. Khos. (Astonished) Lady-- Sem. King, if 't please you! I've laid my purple by, but I have still The royal color in my heart. Think'st thou To sit above Assyria, who wearest not The brave investment of the gods? who hold'st Thy sceptre still from warrior chiefs, not from Anointed kings? Khos. Because my race is proud! Too proud to kneel to any earthly king And take the sacred vestment from his hands! Sem. You see, my lord, that even in his heart He ranks himself above you! Nin. But, my love-- Khos. Farewell! Thou didst me service once, and here I thought to thank thee, but-- Nin. Stay, Khosrove, stay! Khos. Farewell, with all my heart! Nin. Nay-- Sem. O, my lord. Let him depart. He mocks our glory, and bears A challenge in his proud simplicity That puts our splendor to defense. Khos. Nay, madam! I came to lay my duty at your feet, And lift my eyes no higher than your hand Without your royal leave! But now I'll cast My gaze upon the stars, forgetting that You walk beneath them! (Going) Nin. Stay, O prince! (To Semiramis) A boon, your majesty! 'T would blot our honor To send him from us thus! We shall be plunged Anew in wars, for Husak will avenge it! I am thy most unhappy subject, and Thou'lt hear my prayer! (Goes after Khosrove and leads him back) You'll stay, O Khosrove? Khos. Ay, On one condition. Nin. Name it! Khos. That you will take Our seat at feast. Nin. Nay-- Sem. That is our command! Nin. No, no! Sem. We'll have it so! Nin. I'll not consent! Sem. It is our royal order! Guards for Ninus! Nin. What do you mean? Sem. To have our way! Guards here! You shall not do this wrong to your high self! We'll look unto your honor! (To guards) Bear him in! (Guards stand in amazement) Did ye not hear the king's decree? I reign! (Guards take hold of Ninus) Nin. By Hut and Nim! Sem. Place him in Khosrove's seat! (Guards draw Ninus through the archway. Khosrove follows, then all but Semiramis, who lingers fearfully, runs toward front, then back and listens) Sem. 'Tis true! What have I done? Ye gods! 'tis true! He would not so rebel if 't were not true! But Vassin is below! He'll know his king And save him! (Kneels) Belus, mighty Belus, pardon! (The sun has set, and red clouds show almost black over water, rear. The front of stage is nearly dark. Lights glimmer from the gardens, and a faint torch shows in the darkness under the bridge. Shouts and shrieks come from within. People rush out) Voices. The king! the king! Sem. (Retreating to railing, front) 'Tis done! Officer. (Running across) The king has fallen Into the lake! Lights there! below! (Runs down steps leading under the bridge) Other officers following. Lights! lights! (Torches flare under the bridge. Darkness above as the last light fades from the sky. A moment of noise and search, and officers appear on the bridge, right, rear, with Vassin. A guard bears torch which throws light on his face) Sem. (Confronting him) You've saved the king! Vas. I have. For I have slain His foe! Sem. His foe? No--you have killed the king! (Falls back into the arms of her women. Complete darkness on stage. An instant later moonlight. Khosrove and Semiramis alone on the bridge, centre, front) Khos. (Bowing ceremoniously) Farewell, Assyria! Sem. O, not that name! Not yet--not yet. Khos. Does it not please your pride? Sem. My pride? 'Tis gone. Now I could lay my head Upon the dust. Khos. In truth! But you'll not do it! Humility's a word the great think sweet Upon the tongue, but near the heart they find It loseth flavor! Sem. Ah ... you do not know? You think the words I spoke were born of pride? So far from that--no, no--I will not tell, And yet you wrong me, prince. Khos. (Eagerly) Did you suspect Some danger to me here, and seek to force My angry leave? You did not care so much? Sem. I cared so much that rather than betray you I would have let you go believing me A woman worth your scorn. Ah, there my pride In truth did suffer! Khos. O, Semiramis! Thou art the same as when I saw thee last? As when I rode away and left thy face-- The only face in Nineveh--nay--I-- Will go. Farewell, most noble queen! Sem. Farewell! (He lingers) Sem. Why go in haste? Khos. I left my father sick. He will be troubled till I come again. Sem. How dared you trust-- Khos. What would I not have dared To look on thee again?... My horsemen wait.... (Waving toward left) I come! Sem. Farewell!... Armenia is my friend? I'm sad.... The manner of this death.... It weighs Upon me. Khos. Let it not. Thou'rt innocent Sem. O, some may doubt! Khos. But who wrongs Virtue puts A crown upon her! If thou hadst foreknown The accident-- Sem. The accident? Khos. 'Twas not Designed? Sem. It was ... for you. Khos. By Ninus? Sem. Ay. You were to die. Khos. Then you--you knew--that he-- (Starts from her in horror) Sem. What's in thy mind? What thought doth paint thy face In dreadful silence? Oh! you think that I-- (Looks at him with equal horror. Removes farther from him, regains composure, and speaks with haughty coldness) This serves me well! Right well, Armenian! Yes--yes--I knew--I knew the king would fall. But knew, too, sir, that Vassin was below, And, by my precious gods, I did not dream He would not save his king! While you--my guest-- You would have gone to death! Khos. Forgive me! (Semiramis walks farther, not heeding him) Oh, I found a stream that ran from heavenly springs And in it cast the soot of hell! Sem. Well served-- Well served, Semiramis!... I was so sad ... And would not be content to let him go ... I wanted but a word ... a word to cheer me ... And now I have it--murderess! Khos. (Who has advanced to her) No, no, I did not say it! Sem. The tongue may well keep silent When eyes speak lightning. I have heard too much! 'T were better I had let you die! Khos. Ay, better ... Better than this! Sem. Now, now I am Assyria! No more a woman! Softness to the winds! And let my heart be as my armor--steel! Khos. Thou canst not make it so by saying it. There is no cold or heat may temper hearts Away from their true nature. Mail thyself From head to foot, thou'rt still Semiramis! Sem. A queen! (An officer enters, left) Off. Your majesty, an urgent hand Brings this report. (Gives paper to her, which she reads) Sem. The Ghecs are in revolt! Thank them for me! They could not show me favor More to my heart! (Exit officer, left) I'm sick of peace--this peace That gives men time to brood and breed foul thoughts And fouler deeds! Give me the open war whose blows Rain down as free as moonbeams from the sun! Who meets me there I know, at least, he's brave, And there-- Khos. Semiramis! Sem. (Proudly) Armenia, speak! You have our leave. Khos. These Ghecs--my father is Their ancient, sworn ally! Sem. Well, sir? Khos. His oath Binds him to give them aid. Sem. The braver then The battle! Khos. I am my father's son! Sem. You mean We'll meet upon the field! Khos. I can not take The field against you! Sem. No? Why not? Khos. You know! Because I love you! Sem. Sir, I am Assyria! Khos. Nay, but Menones' daughter! She whose heart I touched-- Sem. You touched? Khos. Ere taint of pride or power Or mad ambition had laid a canker there! When she was maiden still, and knew no thought She might not whisper in her father's ear! Gentle as Spring when hushing the young dove, But strong from virgin battle, with the flush Of valorous purpose pure as goddess' dream Starting the noble war-blood in her cheek! 'Tis she I speak to now--she that I love-- Not the proud queen grown bold in blood and triumph! Love me, Semiramis! You shall have peace! Not this sick peace that turns your heart to hate, But peace that charms the beauty back to life And new dreams to the soul! O, no more war! Then lilies springing in thy steps shall say What fairer grace went by! These fingers shall Forget the sword whose music is men's groans, And on sweet strings draw out the heart of love To give the world the key of melody! Ah, you shall war no more-- Sem. Sir, you forget! These Ghecs-- Khos. Will not revolt if I become Assyria's head! They trust me as their-- Sem. You! Assyria's head! You! you! O, now I see! I'm not yet blind, although my heart was fast Upstealing to my eyes to make me so! Khos. O clear thy sight a second time, my queen, And read me true! Sem. And you had almost moved me! Khos. Melt, stony eyes-- Sem. The magic's left the earth That had the power to soften them! Khos. Not so-- Sem. You'd keep me still the general's humble daughter While you would wear the glory I have won! Khos. Nay, by Mylitta's fire!-- Sem. We'd war no more. For who has all may well hang by the sword! Khos. By Heaven, I-- Sem. O, you are man as _he_ was! (Looks toward the garden shuddering) I'll trust no more! Who's worthy trust will give it! So saidst thou once! But thou couldst doubt--so dark A doubt my soul-- Khos. Nay, that's not my offense! You are a woman, and you must forgive! But you are queen, too, and the queen in you Guards her ambition from my honest love Lest it divide her glory! Sem. True, she guards it! Out of Assyrian stone I'll make a heart And wear it in my bosom! Khos. Do not say it! I did not mean the words! They are not so! Thou dost not know thyself! Hard are the lips That never know a kiss, and thine were made With softness of the rose! Though all the streams Of power on earth poured to thy sovereign sea, Still wouldst thou want, and empty be the heart One drop of love would fill! Sem. You speak As to a woman! Khos. Ay, for so thou art! Be now thyself! Thy peace alone I plead! I can bear all but thy unhappiness! For love--true love--forgets itself and makes But one prayer unto Heaven--prayer for the good Of the beloved! Sem. Thou wouldst not share my throne? Khos. Thy throne? Sem. Ay, so I said. Khos. I care not for it, But since 'tis thine, I could not be a man Worthy thyself and take a place beneath thee. I'd be thy husband, and I know thou'rt not A woman to look down and love! Sem. O theft In argument! To make my monarch soul Speak from thy mouth against me! Khos. Not against thee! To beg thee yield to love is but to plead Thy greater cause! Ah, days will come to thee When all the maiden in thy heart will rise And drown the queen's! Thou canst not call me back! To-morrow is the battle! O, I lied To say thou wert ambitious and ungentle-- Sem. No, thou didst not! 'Tis true! I am-- Khos. No, no! I'll prove it is not so! See here--the dove-- That nestles at your breast! Why is it here? Sem. Because I was a woman once--and dreamed On foolish, woman things! (Frees bird from her bosom) Fly! fly! And as I pluck thee out I pluck away All thought of mortal love, and stand alone Beneath Assyria's crown! Khos. (Gazes at her in despair) Then I'll be gone! Sem. You've pleaded well, but my domains are broad, And might give tongue to wilder eloquence Without love's sweet excuse! Khos. No more! I go! (Moves off, left. Near exit, turns) I lead my father's troops! Sem. I lead my own! (Exit Khosrove. She looks after him without moving until he passes out of sight. The moonlight is less bright. Her dove flies over her head. She starts and looks after it. The bird alights. She watches it eagerly and waits. It circles about her, then darts to her bosom. With an exultant moan she clasps it to her breast) (CURTAIN) ACT IV. Scene: Within Husak's tent. Husak, Khosrove, Armenian lords and soldiers. Husak. Bring in the widow! (Exeunt officers) Now, my son, thou'lt see Assyria at thy feet. Ay, she who scorned To match her crown with thine, shall low as earth Cry up for favor! Khos. Sir, I would not see it! Hus. Still in that humor? Well, I promise thee She shall have mercy. Khos. Mercy, father? Hus. Ay. Khos. What wilt thou grant? Hus. Ask of thy heart, (Khosrove is about to speak) Peace, boy! For once we'll be a father, not a soldier! Wait! (Khosrove kneels and kisses his father's hand as Semiramis enters between guards. She is robed and crowned, her arms fettered with golden chains, and holds herself proudly, not looking at Husak. She turns to Khosrove, who watches her eagerly) Sem. We meet again. Wert thou upon the field? I saw thee not. Perchance thy father thought 'T were wise to find his health and lead his troops Lest _Love_ should blunt thy sword! Hus. By Bel, his sword Was sharp enough to find the heart of Sumbat,-- Your general! Sem. Sumbat slain! (Turns to Khosrove) and slain by you! Khos. I had my choice--to slay him or to die. Sem. (With bitter scorn) And did the love that makes one prayer to Heaven Rule in that choice? Hus. These taunts, Semiramis-- Khos. Nay, father, she has cause to use me so. Sem. Oh, you confess you played with me! Then, heart, In with thy scorn for this outbraves thy own! (Turns away, folding her chained hands on her breast, and stands as if she would speak no more) Hus. You make no suit for mercy? Sem. (Turning to him) What! from thee? Who kill your captives ere your tent is struck, Nor spare a guard to drive them from the field? Hus. I grant what I would ask--death before serfdom! You'd keep them for your dogs and slaves! Sem. And when Am I to die? Why breach thy custom now? Hus. We like your spirit, but push not so far, Or we shall break the bounds we've set ourselves. Have you not found us gracious to your rank? You look not like a prisoner! Sem. No thanks For that! This robe and crown, these chains of gold Are compliments that Husak pays himself, Proclaiming him a royal victory, Though not a royal victor! Hus. What! Dar'st fling Into my face that the Armenian kings Rule unanointed? Dost think that I would sue To Nineveh or Babylon for leave To take my kingly emblems from their hands? But thou--thou shalt owe thine to me! I wear No proud insignia of the gods, and yet My hands shall strip and clothe thee as I will! (Tears off her robe and crown) Khos. Father! Hus. By sun and moon-- Khos. O, sir-- Hus. Her pride Insults my mercy, but I'll keep my word. Take these. (Gives him the robe and crown) Now, woman, learn that Husak--ay, Husak, the Fierce, can pity fallen glory! Stand forth, my son! Look, captive, on this prince! A man not made to sue to less than gods! Make him thy husband-king, and from his hands Receive thy purple and remount thy throne! (All are astonished. Khosrove shrinks back in shame, which Semiramis misunderstands) Sem. Methinks this lover makes no ardent suit, King Husak! Why, the sun has not twice set Since he did swear me dearer than my crown, And now the crown's too much if my poor self Must burden it! (Khosrove kneels before her, holding up the crown) Hus. Rise, sir! You give, not sue! (Semiramis looks down on Khosrove, then turns to Husak) Sem. Thank, thanks, Old man, for making me once more myself! For by the blood that storms through all my veins I know I'm still a queen! Now all the pride That lives in my lost crown, and all the scorn Should meet thy fawning suit, be in my words,-- I do refuse your son! Assyria Shall owe her throne to none! (Khosrove springs up, trampling the robe) Hus. Now thou wilt rise! A prince who might have gone with gods to wive Nor bated them in choice! This to my face! I, Husak, fawn on woman! Out with her! Drag her to death! To instant death! Out! out! (Guards approach Semiramis) Khos. To _instant_ death? Hus. (Looks searchingly at him.) Ha! ha! Not yet! She's thine! Choose thy revenge! Have now thy will! Khos. Thou'lt grant it? Hus. Ay, ay, whate'er thou wouldst! Khos. She is thy captive. Hus. I make her thine! My conqueror's right I yield To thee! Khos. Dost swear it? Hus. Doubt me not! I swear! Khos. By Belus' star? Hus. By Belus' star, whose beams Are death to breakers of an oath! We ask This crown--no more. (Takes crown from Khosrove's hand) You pause. Stand not, my son. Thy vengeance waits. Do what thou wilt with her, We'll question not. (Khosrove strikes off the chains of Semiramis) Khos. Go free to Nineveh. (Husak stands in amazed silence, then understands and burns with speechless anger. At last he speaks slowly with intense wrath) Hus. All madmen in my kingdom die! Bind him! (Guards bind Khosrove) Sem. Die? No! O, sir, you would not slay your son? Hus. This loathsome thing is not my flesh! Sem. Thy son! Hus. We have no son. Armenia has no heir. Bear him away! Sem. (Holding out her hands) My chains! Dost think I'll owe My life to him? Thou know'st not yet my pride! Bind me and set him free! Hus. (Thunderingly) No! Husak breaks No oath! We're not a god as Nineveh, And bold to mock at Heaven! Khos. (To Semiramis) I knew the price, And chose to pay it. 'Tis my wish. Farewell! (Guards bear him out) Hus. (To Semiramis) Go free to Nineveh! Sem. No! O, kill me! Hus. Nay, go! But go alone--on foot--and through A hostile country! Sem. Ah! Hus. That subject who Shall give thee food or drink dies in the act! Proclaim it, all!... Come, friends, we've not yet held The feast of victory. The slighted gods Will snatch away their favor if we long Delay our revels. Though we'll miss one face, (Suppresses a groan) We'll know this much--there'll be no traitor there! (All leave the tent but Semiramis) Sem. Alone ... on foot ... and through a hostile country! I'll overtake thee, Khosrove, ere thou 'st reached Thy throne among the stars! Thou goest from love, And wilt look back and weep from every cloud; I on thy track shall pause not till our wings Stir the same air and lock in kisses flying! ... So pay my scorn? How then hadst loved if heart Had brought to heart its swelling measure? Then Our rosy hours had been the pick of time, And hung a flower 'mong withered centuries When every age had brought its reckoning in! O, why will we, some cubits high, pluck at The sun and moon, when we have that within Makes us the soul and centre of Heaven itself? Ambition, thou hast played away my crown And life. That I forgive thee, but not this-- Thou 'st robbed me of the memory of his kiss. ... Go, world! The conqueror's trump that closed my ears Unto the angel in a lover's voice Dies to a moan that fills but one lone heart. And soon 'tis silent. Ah, though woman build Her house of glory to the kissing skies, And the proud sun her golden rafters lay, And on her turrets pause discoursing gods, Let her not dare forget the stanchion truth-- Immortal writ in every mortal face-- "Thou art the wife and mother of the world!" (Sees Khosrove's cloak upon the floor, and kneels by it, taking it in her hands) My Khosrove!... Methought a god struck off my chains So strong and fair he seemed, yet strove to hide The beauty of his act, as might a star Shrink in its own sweet light! (Buries her face in the folds of the cloak) O, noble prince, I might have kissed thy lips and not thy garment! (Rises and wraps the cloak about her. Spurns with her foot her own robe which has been left trampled) Thou purple rag, lie there! Love's vesture shall Enfold me as I go! (Starts out) Alone ... on foot ... But I've not far to journey. Foes are kind.... The first one met ... well, I will thank him!... Cries? It is the feast. A man may feast who had-- But has no son!... (Startled) 'Tis not the feast!... I know That noise confused--hoarse shouts--shrieks--pawing steeds-- And rumbling chariots! Those are the tones Of battle! O, the bloody work! 'Tis war! Did it delight me once?... Assyrian cries! My troops! my troops! They've rallied! How they cheer! What brave heart leads them on? (Cries come nearer) Poor creatures, they Would save me knowing not I died with Khosrove. I will not live-- (The rear of the tent is torn away by an onslaught. Assyrian troops enter, led by Artavan) Art. Semiramis! Sem. My brother! You live! Art. And you! Sem. Praise Heaven there is one Will comfort my sad kingdom! Art. Nay, all's well! The death of Ninus freed me from my prison; I gathered troops and pushed hard after you, To hear you had been taken; then I planned This rescue. Thank great Belus, I'm in time! Sem. In time? Nay, thou'rt too late! Art. Too late? When thou Dost live? Sem. I live? No! Thou'rt deceived! Art. O Heaven! ... She's dazed! Her troubles have bewildered her. All's well, my sister! Husak has been taken. Thy crown itself is in our hands ... The crown! (A soldier hands it to him) You see 'tis safe. (She takes it idly) Sem. A crown. For such a thing Wouldst give thy Sola? Art. She is dear to me, But ay, by Heaven, I would! Sem. You would? I know A greater thing than this. Art. What, sister? Sem. (Letting the crown fall) Love. Art. O, she is crazed! This is some evil work! Bring in the captive Husak! He shall speak! Sem. O, brother, once I thought thy love was truest That ever husband gave to wife, but now It showeth dark against my lover's truth! Art. Semiramis ... sweet sister ... What dost mean? ... I'll know the cause of this! Call in the prince With Husak! Sem. Prince? Art. Ay ... Khosrove, whom we found In chains--I know not why--and I unbound him, Recalling how he saved my life,--but now I'll know what thou hast suffered at his hands! Sem. You found him bound? I can not hear--or see! Art. She swoons--she dies--O, true, we are too late! Sem. No, brother, thou'rt in time! I live! I live! I am Semiramis! Give me my crown! Now this small circlet seems to me the world, And it is mine--to wear--or give away! Is 't not, good friends? Voices. Ay, 'tis! (Enter soldiers with Husak and Khosrove, Husak in fetters) Sem. King Husak, hear! Assyria and Armenia should be friends, Joining true hands to bring a happy peace O'er all the East. And in that dearest hope I free thee. (Unbinds him) But thy son, the prince, must be Again my prisoner. Hus. O, queen, I've spent One childless hour, and rather would I die Than know another. Take my life for his. Art. Dost thou forget, Semiramis, that once He saved thy brother? Sem. I remember all, But will not change his doom. He must be bound, Nor from my fetters may he go alive. These are his chains--(Putting her arms about his neck) his prison deathless love, And here I pray that he will wear this crown, And hold with me the great Assyrian throne! ... (calls) My chariot! Khos. My queen! my queen! Sem. Wilt thou Consent? Khos. (Kisses her lips) I answer here. (The royal chariot appears, rear. They step in) Sem. (Giving the reins to Khosrove) To Nineveh! (CURTAIN) CARLOTTA ACT I. SCENE 1. Miramar. SCENE 2. In the mountains of Mexico. ACT II. SCENE 1. Chapultapec. ACT III. SCENE 1. Before the Imperial Theatre. SCENE 2. Within the theatre. ACT IV. SCENE 1. Queretaro. ACT V. SCENE 1. The Tuileries. SCENE 2. Miramar. CHARACTERS MAXIMILIAN, Emperor of Mexico CARLOTTA, Empress of Mexico LOUIS NAPOLEON, Emperor of France EUGENIE, Empress of France BENITO JUAREZ, President of Mexico IGNACIO, nephew to Juarez RAFAEL MENDORES, friend of Ignacio ASEFFA, wife of Rafael TREVINO, ESCOBEDO, GARZA, officers in the Liberal Army MIRAMON, leader of the Imperial party MARSHAL BAZAINE, head of the French Army in Mexico MARQUEZ, MEJIA, MENDEZ, DUPIN, LOPEZ, of the Imperial army ABBOT of Lacroma ARCHBISHOP LABASTIDA, head of the Mexican church PRINCE SALM-SALM, friend and officer of Maximilian PRINCE ZICHY, RUIZ, BERZABAL, ESTRADA, Mexican nobles LADY MARIA, sister to Count Charles PRINCESS SALM-SALM PRINCESS ZICHY PRINCESS METTERNICH SENOR HURBET, GENERAL CASTLENAU, MARQUIS DE GALLIFET, in the service of Louis Napoleon AUSTRIAN, BELGIAN, PRUSSIAN, and other foreign ministers at the court of Napoleon III. Imperial soldiers, Liberal soldiers, guards, rabble, ladies of honor, officers of the court, etc., etc. CARLOTTA ACT I. Scene I: Reception hall, castle of Miramar, near Trieste. Enter Count Charles, book in hand. Char. Ah, books must be put by for swords, I wot, When this wild journey to the West begins. 'Tis change enough! O shifting, shuffling life! Come, Shakespeare, magic mason, build me worlds That never shake however winds may blow, Founded on dream imperishable! (Sits and reads. Enter Lady Maria) Mar. Charles! Not reading! Dost know what day it is? Char. Ay, sister! A day to make a scholar tremble, and hug His books in fever of farewell. Mar. Didst see The splendid carriages glittering up the drive? And O, so many! Char. They have arrived? Mar. Arrived! Why, all the Mexican deputies, arrayed Like their own sunsets,--the ambassadors From Austria, Belgium, France,--the princesses, And countesses, now in the guest-room wait The stroke of twelve to enter! 'Tis nearly time, And you sit here! Put by your Englishman! Come, put him by, I say! He's dead; we live. He's had his due and passed. Char. Nay, his account Is writ forever current. His book of praise Time closes not, but waits some language new To enter it, and at his monument Fame yet stands carving. Mar. (Taking book and closing it) So! She's time enough! We've other work. (Gently) Is not the princess sad? Char. I pray her heavy tears, weighing like stones, Will hold her back from sea! Mar. Hush, Charles! She comes! (Enter Carlotta, richly dressed) Car. Ah, cousins, trimming now your smiles to greet The deputies? Char. Nay, calling up our tears To grace farewell to Miramar! Car. No tears! We'll think but of an empire and a crown, Not Miramar! (Enter Maximilian, dressed in the uniform of Vice-Admiral of the Austrian navy) Max. An empire and a crown? At last I am out-rivalled in your heart! Car. Nay, nay, thou know'st, my lord, thou art my empire! Grant me so much as now I look upon And I'm as rich as Jove with Saturn's sceptre New-swinging o'er the world! Char. Then you risk much For an unstable throne. Car. Not risk! Char. The men Who've governed Mexico, for the most part, Have paid their heads for it. Mar. O, Charles! Char. 'Tis true. Car. Our safety is in the Emperor of France. He's the strong angel in this noble scheme! Char. Safety in him? Nay, madam, by my soul, The lightest smile that breaks upon his lips, As though a breeze but touched there, hides a plot May hang our hearts with lead! Car. How you misjudge him! In Paris when he pledged his faith to us His eyes more than his words assured his heart Unto our cause. I trust him, yea, I trust him! Char. There is a woman on the throne of France! She is the Eve to this slow-blooded Adam, Dutch-born Napoleon, and holdeth up The globe as 't were an apple for his hand. She builds mock images of dreams that died On Helena's lone rock, and teaches him They are not ghosts of dream but dream indeed! Mexico, burning with gold and sunset's fire, Pouring the crimson of internal strife, To her is but a jewel in crude bed She'd have you pick and polish for her crown! Car. Had you but heard her sweet devoted voice Pleading with us for sake of the true Church To finish now this great emprise begun, You would believe her holy. Char. If she is holy, And if Napoleon be true in this, Then is he God's perfection of a man, And she earth's sole and sainted paragon! But wait--O wait and see ere you risk life And honor! Car. You're wrong--so wrong--but this is strange. O why are we not happy? (Turning to window and gazing out) Char. (Following her) Because, my cousin, This is not Miramar as we have known it. The scholar's home, the soldier's fair retreat, The noble heart's sweet fane and altar spot, But Miramar with great ambition's storm Rolling its thunders 'gainst her peaceful walls! Max. But to live idly is never to be born. Shall we sit here at ease when God has found The work for us? He with his pontiff finger Points to the sea-- Car. (Turning) Sweet Miramar! If God points to the sea, why gave he this? This heaven-spot, this nesting place of love, Hung like a garland 'tween the sea and rocks! Ah, dear my lord, some curse will follow us Who can desert this peace-embalméd place To seek a glory fairer but in name! I dare not do it! Max. (Taking her hands) 'Tis you shall say, my wife. If to stay here's your wish, that wish is mine, Maybe I've dreamed too much of deeds of good, And visionary feats in that far land; Then let it be your yea or nay, my love. Car. O leave it not to me, for in a yea My vanity will speak, and in a nay My fear! Max. A slander on these lips? A kiss Were better! (Kisses her. Enter Marquis Corio) Cor. The noble guests approach. Will 't please Your Highnesses assume your places? Max. Yea, Or nay, Carlotta? Mar. O, they come! they come! Char. (Hastily and earnestly) Nay, if you love your lord! That is a land Of murder, treason, carnage and revolt! The very air cries out 'go not! go not!' E'en yon cloud-turbanned peak, that never moves Whate'er the circling stars propound to vex His silent wisdom, warns with forbidding nod! O noblest cousin-- Car. (In agitation) An empire! Miramar! (Maximilian takes place centre. A table in front of him covered with maps and papers. Carlotta by him, Count Charles and Lady Maria in their rear. Enter Archduke of Austria, and nobles, who take position at some distance from Maximilian on his right. Enter Belgian Minister, Abbot of Lacroma, Princess of Metternich, Princess Zichy, Countess Kollonitz, and others. They stand at distance to left of Maximilian. Enter the Imperial delegate, Senor Hurbet, and General Frassart, Napoleon's Adjutant of the Field. The former takes place immediately at Maximilian's right, the latter at left of Carlotta. Marquis Corio at door. Enter the Mexican deputies, Estrada, Berzabal, Negrete, Ruiz, and a dozen others. Estrada, as president of the deputation, makes low salute) Max. Welcome, my lords, to Miramar! Est. Hail, Prince, And fairest princess! The grace and hope of morning Be ever on your lives! Car. Must noble senors, We give you thanks and greeting. Max. Your presence here, My lords, would move our hearts although you brought No crown to guerdon welcome. Est. O, gracious prince, Our tongues but feebly bear the mighty love The land of Montezuma bade us lay Low at your feet. Your starry virtues draw Her prayers and hopes and holiest desires Across the sea in humblest supplication. We make no weary tale of our misfortunes; They are so great the world is heavy with them, And Mexico means but calamity To every ear. Max. My dear and honored lords, The heart is granite and the veins are ice That will not stir at your deep miseries. Est. Ah, sir, this crown is heavy, but you will bear The golden weight as 't were the aureole That seals the saint to God! Max. But not without Consent of every subject should I wear it. Does Mexico send all her hearts with you? Ruiz. (Spreading paper on table) Read here the proclamation now in force In all our provinces. Max. And this has been By each assembly ratified? Berzabal. Ay, prince! It is a nation, not these dozen men, That with a million voices prays to you! Max. From childhood up I've sought to obey my God, But never dreamed that he would bless my life With such high sanction as I read herein. (Lifting paper) Forgive a tear, my lords.... But we must ask That crownéd Europe give a sacred oath To guarantee our empire's permanence. Archduke. Brother, I bring the word of Austria, Whose prayers, whose arms, whose subjects' blood are yours, While she has blood or arms to give! Belgian Minister. For Belgium I speak--the princess' true and royal father, Whose little kingdom measures not his heart! Senor Hurbet. And I, my lord, have here the signéd oath Of Mightiest France, whose fifty-thousand men Now guard the cradle of the new born peace In Mexico! Read here what he will do. Max. (Reads) Enough.... My lords, should I accept this crown, 'T would be with holiest expectation To reign in love and peace, but your past struggles Point to a term of danger and much risk Ere our star shines above all factious spite. Stood I alone I should not hesitate, But here is one more dear than my own life, Whom I must cherish more than my own life, Within whose heart I must find out my answer; And God be thanked her wisdom beams so true Above the hesitations of my mind That I can love her yea or nay as 't were By Heaven spoke! Est. Then to your mercy, princess, We now commit our hope. Car. Most worthy lords, I am so proud that I would wear a crown, So pitying I would weep my heart away For your sad country, and so vain I think The lord that married me might lead you from Rebellion's night to civil-kissing hours; But yet a woman bonded unto love, Not my own mistress. The life bound up with mine Is dearer than the peace of any state, And looking deep into your country's heart I read some cruel marks of history That teach me fear for any precious thing Consigned unto its love. Est. If ever souls Lay bare to human eyes, read now in ours The loyalty which you will find in every subject! Ruiz. Be merciful! Earth aches through her rock-ribs With our old woes, and it is you may heal them! Ber. Pity will teach thee soon to love our land! Car. My lords, already I love Mexico, And would forego the peace of Miramar,-- All happy days that from the future lean To meet my smiles, as trifles whose light thought Shames this great hour; but when in dream I see My lord beset by foes in foreign land, The help he needs beyond a three-months' sea, My princess pride flags to a peasant fear For one dear life! Est. Wrong not yourself, your lord, And Mexico, O gentlest lady-- Car. Nay-- Est. Say yea, and our expectant land will feel The thrill of that affirmative across The glad Atlantic! Yea--and France, whose name Is in our hearts as God's, will bless thy tongue! Say yea, and noble England, watchful Spain, Who with great France began the holy work Of blessed liberation will applaud With happy echoes to the guardian skies! Say yea, and the white spirit of the Church Will take 'neath her soft wings our blood-drenched land, That waits but for that word to hail thy lord Regenerator, king! Car. My lords, my lords, We are but human! Mayhap we will not keep The love that we have won! Senor Hur. Fear not, O princess! Behind your throne, with unretreating sword, Will stand the first great power of all the world! Thus speak I for the emperor of France! Princess Metternich. (Advancing) I for the empress! Eugenie bade me speak Her heart out here, and hail thee sister empress! To ask when your young empire blooms above The lily of old France, and lures the East To pour her golden heart into your port, And ocean blossoms with your argosies, You'll still remember that she loved you when You were but princess and no farther ruled Then stretch the gardens of small Miramar! Car. O generous Eugenie! But the fear-- Abbot of Lacroma. To speak of fear in this is to doubt God! He does not bless in vain a noble prince With such rare qualities as crown the mind Of Maximilian! 'Tis for some purpose rare He rounds such excellence with highest birth And puts a sword of power in his hand! From over seas unto your very feet A nation comes to choose from all the world One made by Heaven to be its sovereign lord, Cool hearts of passion in his amity, Make bitter eyes forget their ancient hate, And proudest knees bow with old enemies In worship of his star beneficent! There pale and crushéd Peace Shall take the color of the living rose, Hearing the voice of his protecting love That comes to lift her beauty from the dust And on that ground volcanic nobly build Her temple indestructible! There shall his kingly mind find outward means To write sublimity upon the world, And like old Egypt speak in pyramids To nations unbegot in dream of Time! And can you shock the hour with hesitation? Ask all the waiting world,--ay, even God, To pause and count the heart-beats of a woman? Car. (Devoutly, with uplifted hands and eyes) Forgive me, Heaven, that I doubted thee! (Takes Maximilian's hands, turns with great dignity to the deputies, and speaks solemnly) Senors, we'll wear the crown of Mexico. (Silence. The abbot of Lacroma advances; Carlotta and Maximilian drop to their knees as he extends his arms above them in blessing) Scene II: A camp in the mountains of Mexico. Night. Aseffa preparing food by a fire. She goes aside, listens, and returns. Asef. O Mexico, thou traitress unto love, Wilt trample every heart that's true to thee? (Listens. Enter Miguel and Lerdo, very ragged and gaunt) Miguel! Lerdo! Rafael not come? Where did you leave him? Lerdo. Nowhere, Senora. Asef. Oh! Mig. Don't flutter, little bird. We mean that he left us. He set off as fresh as the morning to make the circuit of another mountain while we could barely creep up to camp. Asef. You are hungry! I'll give you Rafael's supper! Ler. Hungry? No! I've had two biscuits since yesterday, and sixty miles isn't far to go on that. Mig. And as much good air and water as a soldier need want! Asef. Here! Take it. 'Tis good. Indeed it is! Mig. Smoking meat! Ha! Who brought it? Has the Holy Virgin been in camp? Asef. No, but I've been down to the valley. Ler. You? Asef. Yes,--and I've a little gold left, too! (Showing purse) Mig. You paid five pesos for that dish! Asef. A good guesser would double the price. Mig. And for Rafael's supper! No, I can go two more days yet. (Puts food aside) Asef. But you shall not. Come, eat! I'll feed you then, and you don't want Juarez' soldiers to be turned into babies, do you? Mig. I'll yield! In fact, there's an orator within that speaks with a most convincing pinch. (They eat) Asef. (Watching) Poor fellows! They'll not leave him a mouthful! Ler. Where is the general? Asef. (Pointing up the hill) Asleep. Have you news? Ler. None to bring good dreams. Let him sleep. Mig. Lord, a meal a day like this and I could drive the whole French army into the sea! (Rising) Now if these rags could be turned back to their first fortunes, I'd be Don Miguel de Tejada again! You wouldn't think that these tags and tatters had waltzed with the president's niece at the capital, would you now? Asef. You must let me mend your clothes as I do Rafael's. Mig. Faith, Senora, you would have to begin too many months back. No, I'll hang out my banners as a knight of liberty should, and be Don Miguel de Tejada still. Asleep, my Lerdo? A good example, too. (Lies down) Good-night, Senora the Blessed! Asef. Good-night, Don Miguel de Tejada! (The soldiers sleep. She waits and listens. Runs aside and looks down the valley) Asef. Rafael! (Steps approach. Enter Rafael) Raf. (Embracing her) Here's Heaven for the weary! Asef. So tired? And I have nothing for you! (Looks toward soldiers) They were so hungry. Raf. They're welcome to it. (Kissing her) Here is my banquet,--my feast of beauty and my wine of love! (Staggers to a rock and sits feebly) Asef. Oh! You've been so far!--too far! Raf. We rode all day, but made no terms for food. The people are afraid. Whoever gives us bread forfeits his life and home. Asef. I bought some meat of a poor woman to-day. She needed the money. Raf. And if the Imperials find her out they'll murder her and set her hut in flames! Asef. Oh! What shall we do? Raf. We are an army. We'll do as armies do. Take food where we can find it. Asef. O, Rafael! Raf. Yes, love, we'll play the robber to fill the mouth of Liberty,--she's fed too long on thistles. Asef. She's a stern mistress, Rafael. Raf. But sweeter, love, Her harshest frown that summer smiles of kings! O, I reproach her not, even when I see My dearest friends lie dying in her name! A bed of stones is soft enough for me If she but rock to sleep,--a crust to-day, To-morrow none, and at her board I'm fed. But when I look on you, my traitor blood Flies from her service. Oh, to see these hands That plucked no beauty ruder than the rose, So meanly laboring in the basest needs! Your gentle body resting on cold earth, Glad of a blanket 'tween you and the sod, While in your bed the foreign robber sleeps! This shakes my loyalty till I could hate The fair, unspotted cause my sword is drawn in! Asef. Stop, Rafael! O thank God these hands have known That blessed of all fortunes,--to toil for love! These eyes that sought for but a face more fair, A flower more sweet, have found the stars that rise Where Truth and Courage wander in the night! In southern vales maybe we'll hear again The morning birds sing at our bowered windows, But we will not forget the nobler song Now borne by winds about these mountain peaks,-- The song of man made free! Raf. We'll not forget. But will that sweet day come? Tell me, Aseffa, You who are half a sibyl,--shall we go down That valley to our home? Asef. 'Tis not to gain Our father's halls, and sit 'neath fig and vine, We hide and starve and stagger in these hills, But to keep noble the last hour of life, That Death who gathers it may read thereon The seal immortal of approving God. Raf. Yes--dear Aseffa--but--(Faints) Asef. Rafael! Rafael! Ah dying! O my prating virtue's gone! I care for naught but that my love shall live! O, Liberty, wilt spare me this one life? ... Ho! Miguel! Up! Mig. Hey! What! Senora!... Ah! Lerdo. What's here? Asef. There's wine in the general's tent! Rafael! My love, my love, look up!... O Mexico, With all thy veins of gold thou art not worth One dear drop of his blood! (Enter General Trevino) Trev. What's this new grief? Not Rafael!... He faints. 'Tis hunger ... hunger. Miguel! Lerdo! Bear him to my tent. Give him what food you find there. First the wine! (Soldiers go out with Rafael. Aseffa follows. As she passes the general she drops to her knees and kisses his hands) Trev. (Alone) Starvation now or plunder. We'll quarter where We can.... A horseman! If 'tis Ignacio We shall have news. (Enter Ignacio, from riding) Ig. Who's here? Trev. Ignacio? Ig. (Saluting) Your pardon, sir! Trev. You're from the capital? Ig. Three days ago I left the city. I've slept On horseback since. Trev. Your news! Ig. We fight an empire. The Austrian is crowned. Trev. Impossible! Where are our people? Salas? and LeVal? Ig. They shouted at his welcome. At Vera Cruz Began the unholy pageantry, that showed As Christ had come again and all men knew him! Each province drained its beauty by the way; The mules that drew him caught the vanity And picked their steps on flowers. Trev. Tell me no more. O Gratitude, thou hast no home on earth! Twelve months did Juarez rule, and in twelve months Did what no man can do but God is with him! He healed contention's wounds, set up new schools, Released the land from priestcraft's ancient grip, Rebuilt our credit, destroyed by Miramon, The robber president, who bonded the land To France, then set the sword of Europe 'gainst us Because we could not pay the unjust debt From treasuries that his own hands had emptied. O, 'twas a crime too big for Heaven's eye, And so God let it pass! France could not know-- But our own people knew--how Juarez toiled To shape the nation to his noble thought! Ig. Yes--yes--they knew! Trev. We'll break our swords, my boy. We have no country. Ig. Is my uncle yet In Texas? Trev. Ay, and we will go to him. ... Ungrateful ground that casts all goodness from it, And sucks a gilded poison! (Enter Rafael, Aseffa, Miguel, Lerdo, and others of the camp) Raf. (To Trevino) Sir, you will miss Your breakfast, but I pledge my sword you'll have To-morrow's supper!... Ignacio! Ig. You here, My Rafael! (They embrace) Aseffa too! Asef. Dear friend! (They greet affectionately) Raf. And Maximilian is crowned? Ig. Yes ... crowned. Raf. You saw him? Ig. In the cathedral, with the empress. Asef. The empress? Raf. What looks he like? This Austrian duke That with a stolen crown mocks majesty! Ig. He looks like majesty, and yet is graced With Nature's gentlest stamp; his countenance Takes beauty from his smile; his smile, one thinks, Takes sweetness from a heart that has its own Nobility from heaven. Trev. An enemy Well praised! Asef. The empress? She bewitched you too? (Ignacio is silent) Come, sir! The truth of her! Ig. The truth? Go ask The angels. They've tongues for such sweet purpose. Trev. What! Ignacio turned squire o' the empire? Ig. No. But I can read a holy woman's face, Though she by some strange counterfeit of truth Would put an empress' foot upon our necks. Asef. What is she like? Ig. Like nothing but herself. She is not gentle, for gentleness is but Rude servant to that quality in her; Gracious she's not, for grace herself doth serve A poor handmaiden to her excellence; Nor beautiful, for Beauty asks her name To wear but that and know her own no more. (In the silence that follows a rider rushes up and dismounts) Messenger. Where is the general, Trevino? Trev. Here. Mess. Juarez approaches. (Saluting) Trev. Juarez! Call up the camp! Light all the beacons! Juarez! Build up the fires! Shouts. Juarez! Juarez! Hurrah! El presidente! Trev. We'll let him know the hearts he left i' the hills Still beat with loyal blood! Shouts. Juarez! Juarez! (Enter Juarez. Silence) Jua. Trevino! Trev. Your Excellency! (They embrace) You've heard? Jua. I know. Now monarchy has spread her gilded sails, And from the East comes like another sun To blind our eyes with wonder of a crown While shackling us by hand and foot to earth. But from these mountains will arise a queen, The figure grey of ancient Liberty, Mourning and wronged, but with the unpaling star Of God's own favor set upon her brow: These two shall meet--and that mock sun go down! Trev. You still have hope when Mexico deserts us? Jua. Dost read your country in the smile she shows Her conqueror? She has a heart beneath! Ay, sir, did she not prove it at Puebla? Where dead fell on the dead with gun in hand Still pointed to the French! Where, hope once lost, And the enemy pouring through the shattered gates, Our men blew up their city and themselves To keep their souls free from Napoleon! These men have brothers left, and sons, And _they are Mexico_! Soldiers. El presidente! Liberty and Juarez! A soldier. (Waving his sword) We'll be revenged, Or spill more blood than hell can drink! Soldiers. Down with the empire! Death to Maximilian! Jua. No, not revenge,--but justice. That's enough. We've but to wait--and strike. Yon mists now spread Their fair illusion o'er the eternal mountains 'Till 't seems they are the world, and the great hills Are naught. But by to-morrow's noon-sun see Their fortunes faded as a dream of night, While the rock peak looks up as if to say From the foundation of the world I am! So will this glamour o'er our godly cause Pass as a breath, while all the world shall read Our right and title to unbonded life In our free bosoms founded and God-set! A soldier. We'll die for freedom! Jua. Die? That's the one thing We can not do. We may lie down in graves, But from our living dust will spring new challenge To make in noble minds continual war Until our race be righted! Trev. Many fly From our misfortunes. Amaldo and LeVal-- Jua. Call 't not misfortune that teaches us our friends. Now are we sifted and the chaff is known! ... LeVal! ... But Diaz is true? Trev. On yonder mountain His fires make answer for him. Jua. (Looking into distance) Forgive me, comrade! I know you true, and sooner will yon moon Make her last change and fall than you change once From the full circle of a complete man.... (Turns and sees Ignacio) My nephew here? Ig. Just from the capital. Jua. Where you must back again. Rafael, too! Both my young soldiers! My right arm and my left,-- Though which is which I know not. Ignacio, You saw the Austrian? No matter. He's but The drift-piece of a rotten monarchy That thinks to graft upon the living tree Of our new-sprung republic! We'll shake him off As a June oak a spray of winter wreck, Nor ever know he clung upon our boughs! Ig. The church is powerful yet, and seeks to join Her cause with his. Jua. The church? Say not the church, But mockers in Christ's name, who steal the land And drain its fruitage into Satan's purse, Keeping the poor a race of hopeless slaves Who worship their own shackles! O, Ignorance, Thou art the great slave-master! Thy very chains Are vital and beget themselves; and he Who strikes them seems the monster of the earth To the poor serf who thinks it is himself That bleeds! The church be with our foe, with us Be God, we'll ask no more. Hear me, my men! The great republic of the North's our friend. When her own war is done you'll hear her speak To France in cannon tones that will make quake Napoleon on his throne! That great mock-god. Who seeks to free all men that he may fit Their necks to his own yoke! (With growing intensity) That adder who Would coil about the world! That serpent scruffed With white deceit and low ambition's slime, That crept into the garden of my dream And cankered bud and root, nursed by my toil, Fed with my dearest blood! Ay, he will quake, And cry for mercy to a stony Heaven Whose pity drops long since were drained upon The woe that he hath made! Ay, he-- Trev. (Touching him) But now, My friend? Jua. (Composed) You're right. No more of that. Nephew! Ig. Here, sir! Jua. Your place will be the capital. We must have eyes there, and a heart to serve us. This hour set out. Here are instructions. (Gives papers) Trev. Sir, He's had no rest. Jua. True ... true.... Ig. And need none when Juarez commands. Jua. (Taking his hand) Thou'rt still my son. My house Will not fall down when I no longer prop it. Raf. May I not beg this office, sir? Trev. Send him! His heart is in the hills, and he'll come back. Ignacio's yet unanchored. Trust him not To high tides of a court. Jua. I trust them both. But my own blood I know. (To Ig.) Kneel for the oath. (Ignacio kneels. Murmurs around, then silence. Juarez takes a crucifix from his bosom and holds it over Ignacio) Jua. By this true image of the bleeding Christ, May you be damned to everlasting fire, Nor prayers of saints lift up your soul from hell, If you prove false in what you undertake This night for Mexico! Ig. By Christ's own blood. I swear, and may that blood be powerless To save me from the damned if I prove false! Jua. The stars that hold The witness angels of the Lord have heard Thy oath. Ig. (Rising and looking up) Let them record it. Asef. (Fearfully) Ah! Trev. (Holding out a brand) The brand! Jua. Not that! Ig. (Baring his arm) I choose it! (Trevino quickly brands his arm with a cross. Juarez, too late, dashes the brand from his hand) Ig. (Throwing up his arm) Sealed to the cause! (Hurries to go) Jua. My boy! (Ignacio returns for Juarez' embrace) Ig. (Going) Liberty and Juarez! Soldiers. Juarez! Liberty and Juarez! (All but Juarez follow Ignatius out, cheering) Hurrah! hurrah! (Juarez draws his grey mantle about him and stands silent. The fires die down. The moon clouds. He looks up invoking) Jua. Spirit of Montezuma, be thou here And on thy son drop wisdom out of Heaven, That these thy children he may lead to peace, And this thy country give again to him Who set his iron in the earth and said "Man, make thy weapon; there shall be no slaves!" (CURTAIN) ACT II. Scene I: Palace of Chapultapec. Hall adjoining ball room. Gaily dressed women, and men in glittering official costumes passing doors. Marquez and Mejia talking. Mar. You've caught Trevino! Mejia. Rafael Mendorez too. Mar. Still better. You'll have them shot at once? Mejia. They've too many friends. I must have the emperor's warrant. Mar. He will sign the decree to-night. Mejia. The Lord be thanked! I'm tired of risking life and men taking prisoners that his majesty may have the pleasure of pardoning them. Mar. If he signs the decree he will be sure to reserve the right to pardon. You must try my method. Mejia. And that? Mar. Shoot on the spot, and report no captures. (Enter from the ball room Maximilian, Marshal Bazaine, General Miramon, and Count Charles) Mir. Your majesty will sign the law to-night? Max. These men wear the brave name of soldiers; fight Beneath a flag, and claim the rights of war. Baz. They borrow war's fair name to kill and plunder! Max. It was my dream when I took up this crown To claim each subject of the land my own. Mir. And so you may, your majesty. 'Tis true. These men are subjects to no law or nation; They are not Mexico's; they are not God's; But from the heavenly and the human pale They have outbarred themselves. Our honest land Has cast them out as venom to her health! Nurse not this canker in your realm, my lord! Max. I do not know ... but here's my head and heart, (Touching Prince Salm-Salm and Count Charles) And they may answer. Prince, what do you say? Prince Salm. As friend and soldier to your majesty, I must advise the passage of the law. Max. You, Charles? Char. My lord, if as you say, these men Fight 'neath a flag, and for supposéd rights, You violate the law of noble nations In sentencing to death the prisoners Of recognizéd war. Baz. (Sneering) Sir, recognized? Char. Does not the United States still call Juarez The president of Mexico? Baz. Why, count, You'd best consult those books of yours again! Juarez has fled and given up his cause. These men are robbers! Your majesty will sign? Max. Forgive me, friends, if I again say no. Mir. Your majesty, 'tis we should ask your pardon For having failed to lustre as we should This seeming-dark decree,--so wise, so just, And as undoubtedly your duteous act As though some stern necessity of the stars Enjoined it. Max. (Uneasily) Press it not now. The people wait. (All but Marquez go into ballroom) Mar. Some fools have sat on crowns but not for long. He'll sign. The Liberals must be dispatched Fast as we capture them, for we've short time. The United States will soon be free again To turn to us, and what we wish to do Must be well done ere that. Dispatch! Dispatch! Use Maximilian and the French to crush The Liberals, then with the church unite To pull down Maximilian and set up-- Marquez!... The Empress--and Ignacio! One I suspect,--a half-breed full of pride! Who'd have the court forget his Indian mother And bear in mind his father was a noble! (Goes aside. Enter Carlotta and Ignacio, followed by Prince and Princess Zichy, Prince and Princess Salm-Salm, Princess Josefa de Varela, Colonel Lopez, making merry with a fortune teller. The Empress steps apart with Ignacio) Car. Ignacio! I've met strange looks to-night! Ig. But not unkind ones, noble madam? Car. O, such As can not be distinguished by a word, Cold, warm, or dark or fair, bitter or kind! Ah, looks that will not advertise the heart, And yet betray too much! Ig. Your majesty-- Car. A little coldness that might melt to love, A little pity that might soon be hate, A fair 'God with you' shaping to a curse-- Ig. What eye can harbor evil meeting yours Where lies a grace that turns all ill to virtue? Car. Would all were true as you, Ignacio! (Looks to ballroom and shudders) Those eyes! Would I looked not so deep in eyes! ... You love my lord? Ig. I do, your majesty. Car. Above all other men? (He is silent) Nay, do not answer! 'Twas wrong to ask, for you have kinsmen maybe, Brother, or uncle, some one dear in blood Whom Heaven bids you cherish. But you will guard Your Emperor! You'll watch with me for foes? For foes? He has none! How the thought Blasphemes his excellence! But 'tis a world Where whitest merit draws the darkest souls To prey upon it, while mere indifferent good Escapes!... Ignacio, is it true, Juarez Is not in Mexico? Ig. O, madam! Car. Ah! Is 't true the Liberals are disbanded? Ig. True? Car. You do not answer, sir! Ig. It is not true. Car. You know it! You? And they still hope? Ig. They do. Car. Then we are playing with an enemy! How do you know?... You traitor, too!... O Heaven! 'Tis time now to be up or treachery Will take us all asleep! (Goes from him) Ig. (Following her) O madam! madam! My heart is all your own! Car. (Turning to him) Forgive me, friend, And I will wrong no more these honest eyes. But there is danger here, and we must strike! We hold a nation's future in our hands, And now defence is virtue, patience crime! Ig. Your majesty-- Car. (Not heeding) Shall we stand here and smile Till rebel blows have shattered life and throne? ... Dupin shall drive these desperate people back-- This law be signed-- Ig. (With horror) Dear Christ! Car. What do you mean? Ig. Will Maximilian pass a law of death, Condemning patriots to a robber's grave? O, Empress, sue upon your knees that he Do not this thing, for every act of his Not marked with justice to his enemies Will rob him of the pity they would show When victory is theirs! He writes his doom As certainly as he doth set his name To that black law, and gives Dupin his will Among our helpless people! Princess Zichy. (From group about the gipsy, as all laugh) Your majesty, You heard? Car. I heard. (To Ignacio, much disturbed) Go join them! Go! (Ignacio joins group) He's true! My lord in danger! Princess de Varela. Now mother, my hand next! (Gipsy scans her hand) Car. 'Rob him of pity!' 'When victory is theirs!' I know the pity given to the fallen In this blood-drunken land! There's but one way... We must not fall!... 'Tis war, then,--war! Not for An empire, no,--but Maximilian's life! And we must use the weapons in our hands! Gip. (Reading) Days of brightness, days of smiles, Read I here or Fate beguiles! Princess S. O these fortunes are like lines from a fairy book! Surely we are not all going to be happy! Gip. I'll read for you, madam. Princess S. But let not your change of song begin with me, dark mother! Gip. (Reading) Days of darkness, days of moan! A friend shall sigh, a friend shall fall, And wring thy bosom more than all The sorrow that thou yet hast known! Princess S. O think better of it, mother! Gip. Your sweet eyes deserve a better portion than tears, and I read too, But ere thy last hour be nigh Sorrow from thy breast shall fly! Princess S. A friend, you say? I thank you, 'twas not my husband! Gip. And yet a husband he, And many tears thou'lt see! Car. (Aside) A friend--a husband--and a fall! Gip. Shall I read for her majesty? Car. No! no! Lopez. She has peeped into Fate's urn, madam, I assure you! Car. Nay, I'm content. What I choose for myself I will abide, and what I choose not is the gift of God and I'll abide that too! Prince Zichy. I congratulate you! Majesty is not always able to show such noble indifference to the future, and lesser mortals--never! Gip. Please the stars, may I read for you, sir? Prince Zichy. I give you a proxy,--Senor Ignacio. If the fortune be fair, I take it, if not, I leave it with him. Ladies. O, hear Ignacio's fortune! (They crowd about him and the gypsy) Car. (To Lopez) A favor, sir! Will you take a message to his majesty? Lopez. I am twice blest--to bear your message--and bear it to the emperor. (They talk apart) Gip. Here's a secret matter, sir. Shall I speak it out? Ig. O spare me! Come aside! Ladies. Nay, nay, Ignacio! You heard our fortunes! Ig. But yours were fair and innocent, and mine is dark and guilty--maybe with crime! Ladies. Oh! A crime! Ig. Come, witch! (They go aside, near where Marquez is stationed unseen) Aseffa! Asef. Rafael is prisoner at Savarro! Trevino is taken, too! Ig. O Heaven! (To ladies) Stay back! 'Tis crime indeed! Ladies. Villain! Asef. Help me to Maximilian! O, I must see him! You called him gentle! When I tell him what Rafael is--the fairest soul man ever called a foe-- Ig. Softly, Aseffa! You can not see the emperor to-night. Asef. I must! To-morrow 't will be too late! He dies at sunrise! Ig. Rafael! My friend! my brother!-- Asef. Quiet! quiet! Smile, Ignacio! Ha! ha! I'll pray it be not true, sir! Ig. But you can see Count Charles. He's Maximilian's very heart, and once you win him the Emperor is won. Go in! Go in! I'll bring you to the count! Be light of heart! Our Rafael is safe! Asef. Ignacio, the Empress is all you said. Prayers on their way to Heaven meeting her Would think their journey ended. Can you be true? Ig. (Touching his arm) I bear the seal. Asef. God help thee! Ig. Go! (To ladies) 'Tis done! I know my sins! Princess de V. But what a smiling sinner! Princess Salm. A cloud is hovering. Come, sir! I shall know it! (Takes his arm. Mexican national dance begins. All go into ballroom, the Empress with Lopez) Mar. Ignacio a Liberal! And branded! He's finished! But I'll pick my hour for it! Mendorez safe! Ay, if he's bullet-proof! (Re-enter Carlotta with Archbishop Labastida) Lab. I thank your Highness for this gracious moment! Most holy Empress-- Car. Not holy, sir, and yet I hope with touch of God's anointment on me. Lab. Did it but rest with you His love would soon Like cloud of rose veil Mexico in beauty. Car. But rest with me? Lab. Ay, noble lady, you. I bear a letter from his Holiness, In which he says his Empress daughter's zeal Is jewelled in his heart,--but urges me To speak to Maximilian of his strange Reluctance to fulfill his promise. Car. Promise? Lab. To give the Church the olden glory that She shone with here! Restore her rights-- Car. 'Tis true He promised that, and he has kept his word As an account with God. He is convinced The rights claimed by the Church are stolen rights She wrung from ignorance for her earthly glory, And he's resolved to maintain Juarez' law So far as it accords with justice. Lab. Madness! Call back Juarez to power! Yield the throne To the republican! For 't will so end If Maximilian scorns us and our help! Car. He does not scorn you, sir, but seeks to find Where the division comes 'tween you and Christ And set himself upon the side of Heaven. Lab. You will divorce the favor of the pope, Without whose help you may not hope to stand. Plead with your lord again to probe our claim, And find therein some wise and prudent reason To give us aid,--and thereby keep his crown. Car. Yes, I will speak; but I shall not forget, Whate'er I say, he is an Emperor! (Exit) Mar. (Coming forward) A pair of fools are jiggling with a crown. Lab. You heard, Marquez? Mar. And knew before I heard. Lab. And you are patient? Mar. Maximilian Means France, and France we must keep ours,--at least Till we have finished with the Liberals,-- Lab. And then? Mar. We need not go so far to make A wiser choice. Lab. (Looking at him meaningly) Not far indeed! Mar. I thank you. But that's hereafter. Come with me, your grace. I'd speak of something more immediate. (Exeunt left) (Enter from ballroom General Miramon, Marshal Bazaine and Colonel Dupin, the last a large, vain, blustering man, gorgeously and expensively arrayed from head to foot. A sombrero wonderfully trimmed with gold and silver is carried in his hand and used in sweeping salutations) Dup. At last I am called to court! I thought his majesty would soon or late have need of my experience in throat-cutting. Mir. But, my dear Dupin, it is not in your capacity of throat-cutter that we introduce you. These towns that have given aid to the Liberals must be punished without the Emperor's knowledge. You will make an example of them? Dup. Will I? Hear him, Marshal! Will I? Mir. But not a word to the Emperor! Dup. Softish, eh? Mir. His spongy heart is filled with water of compassion. Touch it anywhere it pours! Baz. I'm not going to throw away the lives of any more Frenchmen just to give him a chance to play at clemency! An emperor should be a sort of vitalized stone, capable of action but incapable of impression. Dup. Then I'm the man for emperor! I've always suspected my qualifications for the part. By the lord, I've made women who were hungry enough to eat their own children watch my soldiers throw bread into the sea! And when I was with the French and English in old Chinee--well, they've called me the 'Tigre' since then. You've heard about that! (Struts and sings) I'm the tigre of the East, Got my claws in old Pekin When the yellow kids we fleeced And held up the mandarin! O we caught him by the queue, As he from our captains flew, That quaking little, shaking little mandarin. And we dragged him out to view By that most convenient queue, When we sacked the summer palace at Pekin! My friends, if you will excuse me, there are several dozens of ladies in the ball room waiting for a dance with the costume par excellence of the evening. I am not always sure of a welcome for my face, but my costume is never in doubt. Ah, sweet woman! you can please me twice. I can dance with you--and I can kill you! When the Emperor asks for me I shall not decline an introduction,--though he was not born an emperor and I was born Dupin! (Exit) Baz. Is he as villainous as his conversation? Mir. His talk is but the mildest prologue to his deeds. Baz. Then he's the man for us. We shall never drive back the Liberals but by methods of unmitigated severity. Mir. There is no barbarity too great for the intimidation of these towns. Baz. The only absolutely safe plan is to raze them from the earth. Mir. Trust Dupin! (They go into ballroom. Enter, right, Count Charles and Aseffa. Her disguise is thrown back revealing her beauty) Asef. You help me though a Liberal and your foe! Char. A foe! Dear lady, when you besought my aid Methought it was divinity that spoke, So sacred sweet seemed the request. I'll save Your brother. Asef. Ah, dearer than a brother, sir. It is my husband! Char. Husband! Asef. Yes, my lord. And dearer than--You have a wife? Char. No, lady. Asef. O, then you can not know! But you have loved? Char. I love. Asef. A lover--not a husband. Ah! Add to thy love a thousand dearer loves And take their sum a thousand times a thousand, 'T will be the smallest part divisible Of my dear love for Rafael! You'll save him? Char. Yes--I will save him. Do you trust me? Asef. Trust you? As I would Heaven! (Kisses his hands and goes out, right) Char. Gone! Aseffa! Gone? No, never gone! Her kisses here! O lips That swept like drifting roses o'er my hands-- Both hands,--sweet equity! Still are they warm As they were dipped in summer, though her touch Was maiden light nor robbed him of a jot Who should have all. Her husband--'twas a word She used to slay me with!... Even in sorrow She is more fair than any other fair Met on a holiday. But when she smiled She seemed like Fortune giving away a world. So gracious was her splendor. Thou art revenged, O little demon god so long my scorn! Would I had given my heart by piecemeal out Since I was ten than to have lost it so, For going all at once it takes my life And I must lose my life or follow it. Ah, love should come like waves unto a shore, Soft creeping up and back and up again. Till taught to stand receptive we are firm When the last, highest wave envelops us. ... May God restore me!... O her beauty burns As she were limned by lightning on the night! Her eyes are torches that Eternity Lends life to read her dreams! Her cheek Is June within a bud! Her veins have caught The falling sun that in them strives to rise To a new dawn!... And I must save him--save him! This unknown man that holds the flaming sword Above my paradise!... If this decree Is signed she will be widowed ... (Stops in horror) I am mad!... ... She will be free ... Away, sweet hell, whose face Is masked like heaven!... Let solid earth be air, The air be lead, light change to dark, and dark Be as the sun, 't will be no miracle When murder finds a welcome in my heart! (Enter Maximilian, Bazaine, Miramon, Dupin, Berzabal, Ruiz, Estrada, Ignacio) Max. (To Dupin) We're glad to welcome you. 'T will be your charge to guard the unprotected towns now suffering from the raids of Liberals. Mir. Of men, your majesty, who steal that title to grace a brigand's life! Max. So we're assured. Dup. I'll see to it, sir, that these towns play no love-tricks with the enemy! Baz. Sh! Max. No danger that way. Your duty is to protect them! Dup. No offense, I hope. But treason is a lively beast and hard to keep low. As your majesty's officer I must cudgel it down wherever I find it. Max. If unhappily you find it, sir-- Dup. I'll cut the throat of every man dog of 'em! Max. Sir? (Turns to Bazaine) The Colonel's speech is very figurative, good Marshal. (To Dupin) All instances of treason, (and God forbid there should be one!) will be reported to me for careful investigation. Dup. A thousand pardons, your Highness! I was swept away by my devotion to your majesty! I shall remember that you wish me to observe the mildest temperance in dealing with your majesty's enemies. (As the emperor looks questioningly at Bazaine, Dupin snarls, then repeats suavely) The mildest temperance in dealing with your majesty's enemies. Max. That is our wish. The mildest temperance. And this decree, Colonel Dupin? Would you advise its passage? Dup. I should be so hot to sign it, sir, my zeal would boil the ink in the bottle! Max. Very figurative, Marshal! (To Dupin) As yet we have not reconciled the matter with our conscience. (Lopez enters and comes up to the Emperor) Lop. (Handing him a slip of paper) Your majesty, the Empress sends you this. (Maximilian reads aside:) 'Sign the decree.' Max. (Aside) What has she heard? Dup. (At a distance, in rear of Maximilian, folds his hands meekly on his breast and whistles softly) 'When we sacked the summer palace at Pekin!' (Mimics) 'As yet we have not reconciled the matter with our conscience.' Does he think he can govern Mexico with a prayer-book? Put him in his cradle and sing by-lo-baby! Max. (To Miramon, who has spoken to him) There's only one left to oppose it--Charles. Mir. My lord, you'd set a scholar's word against A general's in matters of the field? The count's opinion, born within a closet, Would die in open air but for your nursing. Max. Come, Count, defend your cause. Char. My cause, my lord? Max. You are but one against the government. Canst talk above so big a head? If not, I fear we'll pass this law of blood. Come, come! Be eloquent! My heart would have you win! Char. (Very pale and hesitating) Your majesty--I beg-- Max. Goes it so deep To your good heart? Mir. My lord-- Max. Forgive me, Charles, For pressing you so much. We'll rest to-night. To-morrow there'll be time. Char. (Hastily) No! Not to-morrow! Sign the decree! Sign it to-night! (Maximilian looks with the greatest astonishment at his now flushed face and eager manner, then thinks he understands) Max. Ah, Charles, This tender heart of yours will kill you yet. No more of this. I'll keep you at your books. Char. (Recovering, proceeds with suavity, completely sold to his desire) My mind has cleared with deeper thought, my lord, Discord, the ancients tell us, was at first So small a gnat did give her birth, but grew So great her feet o'erturned proud cities while Her head upset the gods in council. So this Small trouble may o'ercast your destiny-- And is 't not better, sir, to pass a law, However dreaded, 'gainst the rebel few Than that the nation trusted to your care Should be broad cursed with civil slaughter? Max. Better? If such a danger threatens 'tis a crime Not to forfend it! (Enter Marquez and Archbishop Labastida) Lab. Gracious sovereign! Max. Most reverend father, you would counsel us? Lab. We would, your majesty. If yet the wish Of Heaven has power over you; and Christ Be your most high example, you will prove A careful guardian to your trusting people, And crush this villainous and robber race Now preying on the true and innocent, Swelling each day more poisonous and foul! Max. We are decided. Are we not, good Charles? Mar. (Hastily) Nay, sire-- Max. We are decided--to pass this law. Convinced that 'tis the honest course. (All surprised and relieved but Ignacio, who starts with horror) Ig. My God! Mir. Blest majesty, we thank you! Lab. You do but set Your name where Heaven's seal already shines. Ig. The seal of Hell! O noblest man that breathes This corrupt air, take back that word of death Ere it is stamped in black upon your soul! Mir. (After a silence) An Aztec, sire, and nephew to Juarez. Max. You think that is a sin? Among our friends Are many whose nearest kinsmen nobly served The lost Republic. Hear us, Ignacio. This law is subject to a firm condition: Each officer shall make report to us, And every captive who deserves not death Shall have our pardon. Ig. Then, you'll pardon two Now at Savarro, Trevino and Mendorez, Both doomed to die at sunrise! Mir. Ravagers! Brigands! Ay, murderers! Ig. No! Patriots! Soldiers! And martyrs if they die! My lord, If they have plundered, 'twas to feed an army; If they have killed,--that is the aim of war. They are your foes, but noble ones,--and men, Not creatures to be caught in traps and shot Like beasts! Max. We'll look to this. Marquez, at once Send a dispatch commanding they be held As prisoners of war until we've time To examine them. Mar. I will, your majesty. Ig. My lord, at Callovalla when the French Had routed the Republicans, there came At night some student priests into the field To help the wounded and to cheer the dying. This man, Marquez, set on them with his troop And made them prisoners. The morning sun Beheld each saintly minister shot dead. And you would trust this devil with the life Of captive foes? A man whose hands are red With God's own blood? Mar. He lies! Your majesty, I'll prove him traitor to your very eyes! Ig. Traitor? Mar. Ay, sir, and spy! Lay bare his arm, And see the branded cross!--the sacred mark Of those who've sworn to die in Juarez' cause! (Snatches at Ignacio's arm as if he would expose it) Ig. Liar and devil! do not touch me! Mar. Spy! Lop. The proof is easy, sire. Expose his arm! Ig. I scorn such proof! And with my sword I'll meet Who dares lay hand upon me! Lab. Justice, sire! Command him to lay bare his arm! (Silence. Maximilian approaches Ignacio slowly and lays his hand on his arm) Max. (Turning to Marquez, his hand still on Ignacio) You are a soldier, able and honorable. I trust you with my captives.... Ignacio, You are no traitor,--and I trust you with My confidence. Both are deceived. 'Tis I Must study how to heal this sad division. ... But now, we'll sign this necessary law. Come in with me, my friends. (Exeunt all but Ignacio) Ig. Too noble soul! Too gentle heart! O foul, most foul betrayal! He dooms himself. O, Maximilian, We go on different ways, but each to death! The truest heart about thee is my own, And I'm a spy--death-vowed to be thy foe! I'll warn the empress!... No. Sealed to the cause. Dead I may guard her. Death alone may give Me to her service. There's no oath can bind The disembodied spirit. (Takes paper from his pocket) Here's set down All I have learned of the Imperial plans. (Burns paper in candle flame) 'Tis fixed in memory, and if I live Juarez shall hear it all,--and--if I die-- The grave is asked no questions. (Suddenly) Rafael! This signed to-night, to-morrow Rafael dies. Marquez will cut off all reprieve. One way Is left.... I'll go. With life already lost Who would not fling the corpse to save a friend? My honor's bound to freedom and Juarez, My heart bound to the Empress and her lord. O, love, while I have life thou must command me, Then to save honor ... let me die!... Ah, could I save thee too, Carlotta! O, what woe Awaits thy heart, madonna, saint ... and love! Might I but say farewell before I go, Then I could spur to death with happy heart, And I must travel fast to reach Savarro. (Takes a lady's glove from his bosom) My treasure, come! (Enter Carlotta) Car. It must be signed ... it must ... (Sees Ignacio) Ig. O, little finger casements, do you mourn Your pretty tenants lost?--five rose-sweet nuns That pray at one white shrine! (Kisses glove) Car. (Advancing) I hope, my friend, She's worthy of your noble love. Ig. O, madam, In her doth Heaven on earth make sweet beginning. And aspirations tend her from the skies. Car. And she is beautiful as good? Ig. O, fair As olden marble walking down to us. Or that immortal Helen on whose lip Poets still feed the dream that's never fed! Car. She must be fair indeed. I hope she loves As much as she's beloved. Ig. Nay, she dreams not Of my poor worship. Car. You must tell her, sir. Ig. With her I have no tongue, and can not woo. To see her is to think in hurrying dreams That move about some new desire of God. Nay, she's the picture finished, vision complete, That perfect stands where dream no farther goes And shuts the gates to prophecy! Car. Would you But woo her thus you'd win her, never fear! We women would be beautiful, and love The tongue that makes us so. Go, talk to her As you have talked to me. Ig. 'Tis not the same. There's something in your smile inviteth speech. Were she but you then would I kneel and say, (kneels) O rest me 'neath the heaven of your eye That gathers blessings as the sun his dews To give again to earth, and let your heart Throb once with pity sweeter than the love That other women give, and yet be dumb, That this sweet moment's balm may wrap my heart Till death bids it be still. O, love me not, But on my head lay thy madonna hand, And bless me as a mother would her child Who goes to death in going from her eyes! Car. (Laying her hand on his head) And I will bless thee, too, as she would do, True knight of love, gentle Ignacio! And yet I hope you will ask more of her, And she will grant it. Ig. (Rising) More is too much. Farewell. I leave the court to-night,--but go content,-- Ay, happy! (Exit) Car. He leaves the court!... What a strange youth! But very true and noble, and well deserves The fairest woman's love. (Picks up glove dropped by Ignacio) He's lost her glove. I'll send it after him. (Calls attendant) Andorro!... Ah! It is my own! Yes ... yes ... the same ... here is-- My own indeed!... And that is why he leaves The court!... Poor youth! (She drops glove. Enter Andorro) Ignacio just passed out. He dropped this glove. His lady's favor maybe. I'm sure 'tis prized. Haste, take it after him. And. (Picks up glove) Your pleasure, royal madam! (Going) Car. No--that way. (Exit Andorro) ... Unhappy boy!... I'm glad I sent the glove. (Enter Maximilian and ministers) Car. (Going to him and taking his arm) 'Tis signed? Max. 'Tis signed, my love. Come, friends! This act Of wisdom passed gives me a lighter heart! (All but Marquez go into ballroom) Mar. The great death-warrant's signed. Ere its black list Be full, there'll be an emperor on the roll! (National music. Dancers seen through doors, the emperor and empress among them) (CURTAIN) ACT III. Scene I: Before the Imperial Theatre. Brilliant lights. Crowd confusedly assembled. All talking. Shouts. Long live the Empire! Citizen. O you mob, you puppet throat, that whistles as you're squeezed! A Mob Orator. My friends, to-day we gloriously celebrate the birthday of the most glorious empire-- Cit. Long live the Republic! Hail to Juarez! Voices. To dungeon with him! The traitor! Tear him to pieces! (Guards dash upon citizen and drag him off) 1st Officer. Don't tell me the Republic is dead when a man is willing to die just to give one shout for it. 2d Officer. Three-fourths of the Mexicans have hearts of that color. But the Empire stands. Miramon is a miracle. How does he manage it? 1st Off. He understands the use of the bayonet. As our friend over the water says, you can do anything with bayonets but sit on them. 2d Off. Isn't this a rabble? Motley's the only wear in Maximilian's court. He might succeed in running this country if so many people hadn't come along to help him do it. You ask a French question and you get a Dutch answer. You give an order in Prussian and it's obeyed in Irish,-- Voices. He comes! Make way! Make way! Hail to Maximilian! Chief Guard. Back, all of you! The Emperor will greet you yonder! We've orders to clear the plaza! Back! Back! His carriage stops! Go, get your places! Out! out! (Guards drive mob out) 1st Guard. If all the Empire's birthdays are to be like this I hope it will never come of age. It's work, I tell you! I'm dripping like a squeezed cloud! 2d Guard. If it had pleased the Empire to spend a little of the money it has wasted to-day for the widows and orphans it has made-- 1st Guard. Sh! We're paid for our muscle, not our opinions. (Shouts outside) 2d Guard. And the mob is paid for its lungs! 1st Guard. Yes. Miramon sees to that. 2d Guard. Only the Emperor's carriage approaches the door? 1st Guard. None but his. 2d Guard. If I were he I wouldn't make such a glittering show of myself in that Milan carriage--all gold and silver and tortoise shell, and an angel at every corner--while there are so many hearts breaking in sound of it. 1st Guard. Ph! He knows nothing of the breaking hearts! Miramon sees to that. 2d Guard. He'll have to know soon, or Juarez will tell him in the capital. 1st Guard. Not a word! On your life! (Shouts without) Here they are! By Jesu! The fools have taken the mules from the carriage and draw it themselves! Now I wonder how much a head Miramon pays for that! (Enter rabble of shouting citizens drawing carriage in which sit the Emperor and Empress. They are followed by a brilliant party of ladies and gentlemen. General and Madam Miramon, Princess de Varela, Prince and Princess Zichy, Prince and Princess Salm-Salm, Lopez, Count Charles, Marquez, Archbishop Labastida, Estrada, Berzabal, and others) Max. (To citizens) My friends, though I protest against this honor, I thank you from my heart for such kind proof Of your affection. (Alights) Voices. Long live Maximilian! One of the rabble, awkward and ignorant. Long live the President of the Empire! Max. (Smiling) I've no objection to that title, friend, but I fear it would be criticised in Europe. (Crowd passes out shouting and dragging carriage) Max. (To Carlotta, as he looks at theatre) A noble building! Fair and magnificent! Car. How yonder gardens gleam beneath the lights Like some soft dream of worlds we do not know! Max. And all is yours, my sweet,--all planned by you! O love, you shall be mistress of a land The fairest ever smiled up to the sun! What say you, Charles? Does not this hour repay Even the sacrifice of Miramar? Car. (Smiling) Nay, he longs still for the old nooks and books. Char. Let me admit it. This mistress Pleasure, sir, Though she is fair is not so wondrous fair As goddess Knowledge. Beautiful as bride To her lord's eye is she to worshippers, Who seek and woo her till she yieldeth up Her locked virginity--the Truth! Max. (Affectionately) Ay, Charles, Get knowledge if thou canst, and yet despair not, For none so poor but virtue may be his; And though your knowledge is earth's silver key That opens man's and nature's heart, 'Tis golden virtue opens Heaven and shows The God among his stars.... But, come, dear friends! Pleasure is a true goddess too. We'll show Her fair respect. (All go into theatre but Charles, who drops back unnoticed) Char. He constantly unmasks me And knows it not. Knowledge! 'Tis withered leaves Amid a world of dewy boughs! Knowledge! To one school will I go--one book I'll read, The school of love, the page of woman's eye, And I'll know more than sages and divines Who study stars and Scripture!... 'For none so poor but virtue may be his' O noble soul, had I been true to thee I now could open thy deceivéd eyes. Crime seals my lips. I can but pray This empire built on blood may stand. We are The creatures of our deeds, more bound to them Than slave to master, for the terms of service Are fast indentured in the soul and know No razure!... But I will find Aseffa! Then, Though sin should set a darkness on my life To draw each night out to a winter's length That constant storms from sallow leaf to green, Still love's sweet lamp shall light me! In my heart 'T will be as day! (Enter Aseffa veiled, her dress covered with a black cloak. An attendant following. She tries to cross over to side entrance of theatre. A guard stops her) Asef. I am a singer. Guard. Show Your pass. Asef. Here, sir. (Guard signs for her to pass on. She sees Charles and stops. Steps before him, throwing back her veil) Asef. You swore to save him! Char. You! Aseffa! Blest-- Asef. You swore it! Char. And would have died To keep my oath could I have kept it dying. Asef. The Emperor refused you? (He bows his head) Demon! Oh! (Turns to go, moaning) Char. (Aside) I lose her!... Stay! Is there no hope for grief? Asef. Not mine! Can you not read it here? Char. Too well. Thy sorrow is a veil through which thy beauty Burns like a shrouded sun. Asef. You pity me? Char. As Heaven knows! Asef. Then you will help me, sir? Char. I'll give my life to do it! Asef. Ah, you will? Then get me access to the Emperor. Char. O sweet Aseffa, you ask a miracle, And I am sadly mortal. Asef. I knew! I knew! My misery is your plaything! Char. His ministers So hedge him with their care-- Asef. O spare excuse! But I shall see him, sir! Ay, face to face! Char. Why would you see him? He can not call the dead. Asef. The dead! Thou hast but daggers for me! Ah! Char. Aseffa-- Asef. Yes, I'll see him! What think you? Should I go shouting 'murderer' through that hall, Would he arise and answer to his name? Char. You're mad, Aseffa! Asef. Thank Heaven I am! 'T would be The shame of woman to know all that I know And not be mad! Char. You must not go in there. Asef. (Fiercely) Must not! (Suddenly calm) Nay, sir! Why see, I go to sing A welcome to the noble Emperor. (Throws back her cloak) As this dark cloak now hides my gay apparel, So shall my gay demeanor hide my woe. Char. You would not harm the Emperor? Asef. No need! Yon moon is worshipped for her borrowed gold, Though charred and cold without a leaf to dower Her black sterility. So Maximilian. Napoleon's favor is the sun that gilds His worthless crown. But now the French are going-- Char. What? Asef. Ah! The French are going. Char. No! Asef. And Maximilian shall fade to air, Unheeded as the moon no eye could find Without her sun! Char. But hearts can live and love Though Maximilian falls. Asef. Can live--and love! You torture me! Char. Forgive me. But the share Must rip the glebe before the corn may spring. Asef. What do you mean, cold Austrian? Char. Austrian! No! Your southern sun has poured into my veins A life that makes me new! I feel as you Those throbs that shake the stars until they fall Into the heart and make it heaven! My lips Can move toward lips as haste rose-gloried clouds To swoon into the sun! Asef. Ah, yes--I know-- You told me that you loved. But why say this To one who has lost all? Char. I'd have you learn That you must live, Aseffa, and life for you Means love. Your eyes, your lips, your hands, your hair, Like coiléd sweetness of the night, and all Your swaying, melting body, gather love As roses gather smiles, as waves draw down The heart-flood of the moon and hold it deep And trembling. Asef. Sir, your roses, waves, and smiles, Are poet-nothings. You play with them as shells, Stirring chance colors for an idle eye. It is your way of saying, is it not, That I shall love again? Char. You must! you must! Asef. Such words are like bright raindrops falling in Another world. They glitter, but I hear No sound, grief has so closed my ears. Take back Your comfort. You would be kind, but noble count, You talk of what a man can never know,-- A woman's sorrow for a husband loved. So high no height can reach it, so great and deep The sea can not embrace it, and yet her heart Can hold it all. O strangest of all love, That makes her rather stoop in beggar rags To kiss the happy dust where his foot pressed Than from a throne lean down to give her lips Unto a kneeling king! Char. Aseffa, grief Is not for you. You must--you must be happy! The shy and tender Dawn creeps up in fear That Night has laid some blight upon the world, But finding all is well, steps forth, and lo! Out of her courage the great sun is born. So doth the heart look outward after grief To find the world all dark, but nay, the light Is more of heaven than it was before, Because a face is shining from the clouds. You dim your loved one's eyes in paradise With your earth-tears. He mourns your splendor paled,-- Though 't must be beautiful to the last tint, As sunset clouds that bear the heart of day Into the night. Asef. You but offend my grief. Sir, keep your flattery for her you love! Char. I flatter thee? It is not possible! Who dares to add fire to the sun, or bring The Spring a flower? Be angry if you will. The morning's eye is not more glorious Rising above a storm! I flatter thee! When but to praise thee as thou art would put A blush on Poesy that ne'er has rhymed As I would speak! E'en thy defects would make Another fair, and were they merchantable Women would buy thy faults to adorn themselves! O, sweet-- Asef. (Shrinking in horror) What do you mean? Char. (Seizing her hands) You know! O, all my life has been but dreams of you, And when I saw you first, my love!--my love!-- As lightning makes the midnight landscape speak The language of the day, your beauty flashed O'er all my years and made their meaning clear! 'Twas you made sweet the song of every bird, 'Twas you I found in every book I loved, 'Twas you that gave a soul to every star! I can not speak it! Kiss me once--but once-- And you will understand! Asef. What thing is this? It is not man, for man respecteth sorrow, Nor brute, for it doth speak! Char. O look not down! Thou canst not guard thee! Every silken sweep Of thine eyes' soft defence but whets assault! You shall not go! You are the element In which I breathe! Go from me and I fall A lifeless thing! Aseffa, pity me! 'Tis I who die, not you! (Drops her hands and kneels) O blame me not That I must worship here-- Asef. Ah, Rafael, I'll live an hour to pray this wrong away Before I meet thine eyes! (Goes. Charles grasps her cloak) Beast! Claw me not! (Goes in. Charles gazes after her in a bewildered way. Tries to steady himself, and goes into theatre by main entrance) (CURTAIN) Scene II: Within the theatre. Gay decorations. Part of stage shown, on which chorus is assembled. The Emperor and Empress in royal box. Imperial cabinet and friends in boxes adjoining. Part of pit shown, filled with brightly dressed people. Max. (To Carlotta) O, this is welcome! Are you not happy now? There's not a wrinkle on these smiling brows Where discontent may write her annals dark! My empire now is fixed, and strength and love Are gathering to my side. I can not put My hand out but 'tis clasped by some new friend. Car. And true? Max. And true. You are too fearful, sweet. Car. And you too trustful. Max. Nay, we can not trust Too much. Brutus spoke noblest when he said 'My heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me.' And I would hope as much. Car. (Aside) None, none are true! Even I am false who fear to speak my fears And ease his own when I should quicken them! (Chorus from stage) Hail, ye royal pair, O hail! Like two souls within one star May your heavenly light ne'er fail. Empress and great Emperor! Hail to thee who ruleth mild As the manger-cradled child! Hail to her who long may be Guardian of us and thee! Hail, O hail, ye pair divine! As two souls within one star May your light forever shine, Empress and great Emperor! (Estrada appears on stage in front of chorus) Est. Great Majesties, forgive our feeble welcome. We are in all things spotted and imperfect Save in affection for your Highnesses. Max. (Rising) No, no! My friend--and friends--had you not hearts That turn to virtue as the flowers to sun, We had not made such progress to an hour When all the Empire wears the smile of peace, And we may rest like Love with folded arms Round his desire. Est. 'Tis you have led us, sire. Pardon this mockery of what we'd do To celebrate this day had we but means. We shout thy name, but not above the clouds; We send up fires, but lightnings higher reach: We have adorned the city and ourselves, But India and the sea keep back the pearls We would pour here! Max. Enough--and more, my friends. O, far too much! None mourn now but the gods Who are made indigent by this display Of wealth and joy! Est. (Making low obeisance) We thank your majesty. This land shall e'er be called the happy land, And he who rules it-- Asef. (Stepping wildly from chorus) Prince of Murderers! The happy land! O land where widows' cries Choke Heaven, and mothers' tears make each new day A flood! Mir. Guards there! Take her away! The guards! Max. No! Let her stay! We'll answer her! Mir. My lord-- Max. Madam, we seek your country's love. Asef. How do you seek it? By killing her dear sons! Setting your tigers loose among her children! Mejia from your very breast makes fire On patriot virtue! Dupin wets his teeth By day and night in infant and mother's blood! Maximilian, In brave Trevino's name, Salazar's name, In name of all as noble and as dear To Mexico as they, who daily die Beneath their country's flag the death of dogs, Shot down by your black law--signed by your hand-- In name of him as dear to me as thou To that proud woman who shall know what 'tis To clasp a ghost where throbbed her living love,-- I tell thee--die! (Leaps from stage to Emperor's box attempting to stab him. As she leaps Carlotta springs before the Emperor) Car. This heart--not that! (Aseffa drops her dagger and stands bewildered. An officer seizes her. Utter confusion in theatre. Maximilian goes onto the stage. Silence) Max. My friends,-- All you who love me see me here unhurt, And you who love me not, if any's here, (Cries of "none, none!") Take aim now as you will. (Cries of "No! no! no! no!") A Voice. Long live the Emperor! Maximilian! Max. Then if you love me, friends, I beg you'll leave This place of song and go to the Cathedral. There pray for me to Him who spared my life, And, if you will, pray that He yet may spare it To work His will and yours. (Crowd goes out silently) Mar. (To Labastida) That was well done. Lab. Sincerity is once a diplomat. Car. (To Princess Salm-Salm) Princess, take this poor creature to your care. (Officer releases Aseffa, who goes out as in a dream with Prince and Princess Salm-Salm and several ladies) Mar. (Approaching Maximilian) Your Majesty, let me congratulate-- Ill, sire? Max. Sick, sick, O sick of compliments! If I've a friend here let me hear the truth! What did that creature mean? The truth, I say! (Silence) You, Miramon? Lopez? (Silence) Trevino's dead? Lop. He is. Max. And Rafael Mendorez? Lop. Dead. The woman is his widow. Max. Oh!... And this! (Taking out message) This from Dupin! 'All quiet in Savarro.' It means-- Lop. The town is ashes. Max. O God! O God! You ministers! Ay, ministers of hell! Didst think ye served the devil? Est. O, my lord-- Max. No friend! Not one! Charles! Charles! you must have known! These foreign hearts have their excuse, but you-- The tower of confidence between us two, Built part by part by faithful mason hours, Is shaken to atoms! Char. I will build it o'er! Max. First will the wind-strewn rose upgather all Her petals from the dust, and cheek by cheek, Hang them new-smiling on the nodding bough! Mir. Your Majesty, what we have done was done To save our country and your beloved life. Your noble heart was blind to your great danger, And 'twas our duty and our work of love To save you from your fatal tenderness. Lop. (Kneeling) O gracious sovereign, had I but known You did not know, I would have dared the wrath Of all the court, and spoken to you but truth! Max. (Lifting him up) And 'twas your tongue at last that broke the silence, I must forgive you. Mar. By your necessity, Your Majesty, we may all hope for pardon. Juarez, encouraged by the United States, Is roused again to war. We have appealed For compromise and terms of friendly union, But his one answer for us all is--death! Yet are we faithful to you, sire. Max. O Heaven! What poisonous opiate have you fed me with And called it peace? But war is not the worst! Oh, Miramon, did you not swear to me All prisoners taken by that cruel law Should be reported day or night to me That I might pardon or remit their sentence? Mir. O, sir, you knew not your extremity, Nor could you know it though we told it you, The hearts of Mexicans once turned to hate Are far too deep for sincere eyes to pierce. But I thank God we knew the danger, sire, And struck the serpent raised even at your life. When you, all gentleness, could not have given The necessary blow. Ay, God be thanked, although You cast me from your heart. 'T will be my comfort To know I served you better than you dreamed. And 'tis the penalty of over-love To suffer by the hand that (kneels and kisses Maximilian's hand) it would kiss! Max. Must I forgive him, Heaven? Lab. Ay, sir, you must, For his deceit was but the greater truth That served your blind necessity. Est. O, sir, Do not desert us! If now the Empire falls 'Tis death to all that have been true to you. Juarez will give no quarter to your friends. Max. The Liberals advance? Mar. Each day they're nearer; And towns and provinces fall by the way. Berz. Without you, sir, our cause will die in blood, And Mexico be but a grave for those Who've loved and served you! Mar. The United States has ranked Full sixty thousand men on our frontiers,-- But we have France-- Max. I am awake! At last! From now no man shall risk his life for me But I take equal chance with him! Ah, this Is war, not murder! Mar. You will lead our troops? Max. I will. Mar. Then Mexico is saved! The way To win the southern hearts is but to trust them. Leave at your capital the foreign troops And lead your native soldiers 'gainst the foe! Car. (Aside) No! Never! Never! Alone with those dark hearts! (Enter Marshal Bazaine with envoy from France, Comte de St. Sueveur, Marquis de Gallifet, and General Castlenau) Baz. My lord, we bring new messages from France. Gen. Cast. Your majesty, we beg your gracious pardon For this unseemly pressure. Max. You have it, sir. What says Napoleon? Cast. He greets you, sire, with my unworthy tongue, And sends this letter. (Maximilian reads) Max. My eyes, I think, turn wizards And conjure 'gainst the truth that must be here. For I read false. (Puzzled) What does he mean? Not this-- Baz. My lord, my letters make the import clear. I have instructions here to counsel you To make immediate abdication. Max. No! Car. What? Abdication? Baz. Ay! That is the word. Car. A word for fear and weakness, not for strength, And Maximilian is as strong as France While great Napoleon respects his oath! His troops are ours-- Baz. Nay, princess-- Mir. (Fiercely) Her Majesty! Baz. (Sneers) You prize the feather when the cap is lost? (To the Empress) Pardon a slipping tongue, your Majesty. Those troops you speak of go with me to France. Such is my order--such the firm demand Of the United States. Car. Is France a province Of the United States? Napoleon Page, lackey, footboy to America? Is she an Empire, he an Emperor? Or have we dreamed he is Napoleon? Max. (Recovered from his bewilderment) Withdraw his troops! He can not--dare not do it! 'T would blister history's page to set it down, And 'tis his burning wish to be the star Of human chronicles. I'll not believe it, Though all my senses brand confirming yea Upon my mind. O shout it in my ears, And let me see the troops go marching out, Still I'll believe it is my eyes and ears That mutiny, not France turned traitor! Baz. Your Majesty, you must believe the truth, And make you ready for a swift departure. 'T will not be safe here let a moon go by. Max. If danger's here, then here I stay to share it. Dost think I'll leave my friends to die alone While I by flight dishonor Majesty? Baz. 'Tis death to stay. You would not be so mad. Mir. Hail to our new-born king! New-born thou art Unto our love. Nay, we did love before, But now we'll worship thee. Car. Napoleon! You shall not do this monstrous thing! You shall not! Baz. The crown of France doth ask consent of none. Car. I'll go to him and say such words that from His shame-marked brow his outraged crown will fall In horror. I will go! Take out the troops, Bazaine. Ay, take them out! He will be glad To send them back and purchase with his blood Redemption from such shame. He'll empty France To do it! I will go. But I'll not kneel. A thousand years my blood has run through kings, And he's the _third_ Napoleon! (Sinks, exhausted with emotion. Ladies attend her) Mir. The traitor! We have no need of him! To France, Bazaine, And tell your Emperor our Emperor Needs not his fickle strength to stand upon! Sire, we have men, and money in our banks-- Lab. A mighty church whose power is untold If you restore her rights, as now we hope, And thus united we shall defy the world! Max. And Heaven, too? For that is what we do When we set up the church in her old wrongs. Nay, keep your aid, and I will keep my soul. Lop. Your virtuous angel strives to make you god. Max. No, but to keep me honest. Mar. (Aside to Lab.) Yield to him. 'Tis not the hour to cast him off. Lab. My lord, Your virtue conquers, and unto your hands I yield the power o' the church. Max. I thank your grace, Nor for myself, but Mexico. Baz. I go to France. What message have you for Napoleon? Max. Tell him that he has placed me here between Death and dishonor--and my choice is made. (Bazaine and French ambassadors turn slowly and go out) Max. (Quietly to Miramon) We'll join you at the door. (Exeunt all but Carlotta and Maximilian. He holds out his arms, and she goes silently to his embrace) (CURTAIN) ACT IV. Scene I: Queretaro. Plaza La Cruz before church and convent. Grey light before dawn. Occasional distant firing of guns. Maximilian comes out of church and walks about plaza. Max. Carlotta! Where dost thou pray to-night? In all Our fearful scanning of prophetic heavens No swart star showed us this--our separation. Thou wert the all of me, the breath, the soul! Nature conceived thee when her blood was young, And May was in her spirit, but stayed thy birth Till Time had taught her skill in all perfections! ... I will not weep.... Yon stars have memories too, And tell old tales of grandsire suns that shook Their locks and fell ere they were young who now Are eld of all!... (Walks) To lie so low.... O man, Who in the heavens carvest out redemption, Laying thy golden streets in very skies, Making the stars but eyets of thy port, Must thou compact thee to a little earth, Displace some few small tenants of the sod, And find thou 'st room enough?... (Looks up) City of dream! Time's far ghost inn! Eternity's mirage! Desire's dim temple fashioned out of prayer, Builded and jointured by no carpenter But captious Fancy!... O Carlotta, wife! Thou wert my Christian heart! Faith, faith, my God! Death to the unbeliever is to land Upon a coast dumb in the moonless dark, Where no hands wave a welcome, no eyes shine With promise of sweet hours, no voices call The greeting that makes every shore a home. (Listens) My officers! I can not see them yet. (Goes in. Enter Colonel Lopez in close talk with Lieutenant Garza who is disguised as an Imperial officer) Garza. I'm satisfied. Lopez. This hill is the key to the city. Gar. Yes. Lop. And yours on terms we have considered. Gar. Here's Escobedo's guarantee. (Gives paper) Lop. This to my pocket, and Queretaro to the Liberals! Gar. 'Tis heavy business. You do it lightly, colonel. Lop. The world's a feather. Gar. If we but think so. Lop. At dawn my troops are yours. Gar. And you command the Empress' regiment. Lop. Yes. The pick of Maximilian's soldiers. Gar. One other question. The southern gate--Hist! Lop. The nuns. (They draw aside and converse. Two nuns come out of convent and cross plaza) 1st Nun. The good Emperor is not out yet. He is often here long before day walking and thinking, 'Tis then, they say, his mind is on the blessed Empress who has gone across the sea to get help for him. By day he never speaks her name, but thinks only of our poor country. 2d Nun. Hark! The enemy's guns! They can not reach us. 1st Nun. Can not? A shell broke here yesterday. The Emperor stood just there. 2d Nun. Holy mother! What did his Majesty do? 1st Nun. He smiled, and said he might have chosen his place better; then moved to the very spot where the ball had burst, as though he hoped another would follow it. 2d Nun. Blessed virgin! Would he die? 1st Nun. I'm sure he would not live. Come, sister. Ah, we have but one loaf this morning. 2d Nun. Let us be glad we can give that,--for many are hungry. 1st Nun. Many are starved--dead. 2d Nun. But the good Emperor! It is so sad to think of him without food. 1st Nun. He will give this to his officers. Yesterday I saw Prince Salm-Salm and the general Miramon each with a bit of white bread that can not be found in all Queretaro outside of our convent. 2d Nun. The good man! Holy Mother bless and keep him! (They go into the Cruz) Lop. What will you do with Maximilian? Gar. Make a Liberal of him. Lop. Ha! How? Gar. Shoot him! Lop. Shoot him? Gar. Yes. The grave's the great republican senate house,--where each man has the floor. Lop. (Laughing) And you will introduce him! Gar. Hark! Lop. The Emperor! Go! (Exit Garza. Enter Maximilian and Prince Salm-Salm) Max. (Greeting Lopez affectionately) You're early out, my boy. Lop. Your majesty, I am the officer of the day. Max. Yes,--I remember. Who was your friend? Lop. Ramirez, of Dupin's regiment. Salm. Ramirez! He's much changed if that was he. Lop. Shall I call him back, your majesty, that the prince may convince himself that his memory of faces is not infallible? Max. Nay, my trusted two! (Puts an arm about each) Would you might love each other as I love you both. My prince, whose courage is the very heart of my army, and my young hussar, dear for your own sake--dearer still because--she trusted you! (Blasio, the Emperor's secretary, comes out of the Cruz) Blasio. Your majesty, I have finished the letters. Max. Good. There will be no more to write. (Stumbles over something) What's this? Blasio. A fallen Christ. Max. You mean a fallen figure of the risen Christ. Lop. Here is the crown of thorns. Max. Give it to me. (Holds it meditatively) How well it suits my fortunes! Salm. Nay-- Max. Ay, better than my golden one. (Gives it to Blasio) Hang it above my bed. My Queretaro crown! Salm. Do not, your majesty! Max. (To Blasio) Take it. (Exit Blasio) Why, prince, 'tis something to have won a crown. My first was given me. (Firing and falling of shells) Salm. I beg you, sire, to move your quarters to a safer station. This is death at any moment! Max. Death at any moment--(Regretfully) And I have been here sixty days. Lop. Courage, sire! Marquez will come! Max. (Eagerly) Has there been news? Lop. Not yet, your majesty. Max. Not yet! What does it mean? You heard him take the oath to bring me help or die. 'Twas here he swore--before us all. Vowed to return with troops in fifteen days! Ah, he is dead. Salm. No, your majesty. Max. But if he lives? Salm. He is a traitor. Max. You heard his oath-- Salm. A traitor's oath! Lop. He's true, your majesty. His messengers are murdered. Salm. He's false! Max. But that means--death. Salm. Or flight. Max. Not flight! (Enter Miramon and Mendez) You're welcome, gentlemen. Your eyes bring news. Mir. Your majesty, Metz has returned. Max. At last! News of Marquez! He comes! I know he comes! Men. O, sire,-- Max. The faithful Metz! Where is he? Metz. (Entering) Sire! (Kneels) Max. Rise, sir. Metz. O pardon me, your majesty! I bring but wintry news. Max. Marquez-- Metz. Is false. Max. Oh, no, no, no! He comes! I know he comes! Metz. He's leagued with Labastida,--for the church Deserts you too. Max. The church gone with him! No! no! I can't believe it! Metz. You do not doubt me! Max. Not you! But in my ear The tale turns miracle! And I must doubt, Though on your tongue 'tis truth! Metz. 'Tis truth indeed! The troops he was to bring you from the city, He led for his own glory against Diaz, Thinking to make himself the conqueror And president of Mexico. Max. My troops! What then? Metz. Porfirio Diaz routed them To the last man. Marquez himself escaped Alone,--fled unattended from the field. Max. My troops! my troops!... And this is friendship! O God, Give me but enemies! Salm. Your Majesty-- Max. Who calls me majesty? There's none in me. I am a riven oak whose leaf-light friends Fly with misfortune's Autumn. (Steps away, bowed in grief) Salm. (Following him) I love you, sire. Lop. (Eagerly) So do we all! Your majesty, believe us! Mir. Canst not spare one who have so many true? Max. Forgive me, friends. This treachery's the night Wherein your hearts of gold beat out like stars! Lop. My life is yours, my lord! Max. Thanks, dear Lopez. (Takes his hand) In friendship lies the joy superlative, And nearest Heaven. We touch God's hand whene'er We clasp a friend's. ... But now we must take counsel. Salm. No, sire, we must take action. Pardon me, But our sole hope of safety lies in flight. Max. What! Leave the town to sack and ruin? No! Desert the poor inhabitants, so long our friends? And all our wounded, sick and dying? Never! Salm. But if you stay, my lord, you sacrifice The living with the dying. Max. Oh, Heaven, Heaven! Lop. Your Majesty, this counsel is not wise. It is not honor! Salm. Honor will lead the flight! To stay were crime! Sire, give the order now. At once! The firing to the north has ceased. All night I've reconnoitered. The way is clear For the last time. We'll arm the citizens To cover flight, and in an hour-- Lop. We'll be Attacked on every side! A madman's counsel! Salm. O, sire, lose not a moment! Mir. Lopez is right. To fly from death is not dishonor, but who That values honor throws away one chance Of victory? Salm. There is no chance. Not one! My word is fly, and I'm no coward, sire. Max. You've led our troops where every track was blood, And in the throat of battle, hand to hand, Have fought with Death! We know you'll dare a fight As far as any man while there's a hope Of victory. Salm. But I'll not make my folly The captain to defeat. Lop. 'Tis not defeat! The Liberals are at their fortune's ebb. They're sick with fear, and tremble in their rags. Mendez. Let's fight it out, my lord! Max. With starving men? Lop. We're starving, but our foes are starved. Our ammunition fails, but theirs has failed-- (A shell breaks near them) Salm. That, sir, unspeaks your words. Lop. Not so. One shell But tells how few they are, for yesterday They fell in numbers. And to the north, you say, The guns are silent. Salm. Sire, a moment lost May mean the loss of all. (Enter Dupin with two prisoners. Lopez goes to meet him) Dupin. What did you mean by your infernal order to bring these men here? Don't you know old Saint-face won't let them be shot? Lop. Keep quiet. They are my captives, not yours. Dup. I've plugged just ninety-eight this week, and it's too bad not to make an even hundred. Max. (Approaching) Prisoners? Dup. Deserters, your majesty. They have confessed it. I've brought them here for sentence. Will you have them shot at once, or wait till sunrise? Max. None shall be shot. Not one. How often must we say it? If things go well here, good; if not, still is my conscience clear of blood. (To deserter) You've been with the enemy? 1st Des. Yes, curse the day! Your pardon, blessed majesty! Max. How fare our foes? 1st Des. The best of them as bad as the worst with us. Lop. You note that, prince? 2d Des. We have a little food, but they have none. The country is eaten bare. Diaz is trying to reach them with supplies, but at present there isn't enough meal in ten miles of the army to make an ash-cake. Lop. More proof for the prince, your majesty. Max. Their powder fails? 2d Des. Yes, sire. 'T would be all the same if it didn't, for they've hardly strength left to stand on their toes and fire the guns. Max. Poor fellows! Lop. You can not doubt, my lord, that we shall win with the next assault. Mir. Cast fear to the winds, your majesty! Salm. Who spoke of fear? Mir. Not I! Fear is the devil's magic-glass He holds before us to swell out our vision, Turn hares to lions, stones a lamb might skip To beetling cliffs that ne'er knew human foot, And slightest obstacles, that do but make The mind's fair exercise and moral zest, To barriers, high as heaven, to success! Lop. (Sneering) And Juarez' men of rags to glittering armies! Max. We'll hazard battle. Salm. I beg your majesty-- Max. We know your courage, prince, for it is writ In many a scar; but you are wrong in this. Lop. You'll hear no more of flight, my lord? Max. No more. Lop. Then I'll to duty, knowing all is well. (Exit Lopez) Dupin. (Aside) And I'll go find a breakfast for my little man-eater. (Clapping his weapon) There's never anything to be done around his saintship. (Exit) Mir. In half an hour? Max. Yes. The plans will then be ready. (Turns to go in) You, prince, with me. Though I've dismissed your head from service, I still must have your heart. (Goes into church with Salm-Salm) Mir. (To Mendez) What do you think of it? Men. Why, sir, I'd rather die fighting than running. And there's a chance for us. The Liberals are beggared. There's hardly a uniform in camp. If Marquez had kept true, we should have saved the empire. Mir. Don't speak of him! Hell's throne is empty while he's on earth! (Exeunt Mendez and Mir.) 1st Des. Well, comrade, here's promotion fast enough. We that were prisoners are captains of the field. Lead on! 2d Des. Be sure the Tigre is not around. He's got a long claw. Ugh! I feel shaky yet. (Exeunt. It grows lighter. Guard comes out of the Cruz and takes station by door. Enter Princess Salm-Salm, Aseffa, and women of Queretaro) Princess S. (Excitedly) Admit me to the emperor! Guard. Your pardon. He must not be disturbed. Princess S. Oh, but he must! The pity of it that he must! Guard. Nay, madam-- Princess S. Admit us, sir, or I will beat the door! (Maximilian comes to door) Max. Some trouble here? The princess! Always welcome! Princess S. But such unwelcome news, your majesty! You know I've rooms at Senor Barrio's house. I've long suspected him. Last night he lodged Two men whose conference I overheard. All was not clear, but part was clear enough. One of your trusted officers is false, And you to-day--this hour--will be betrayed Unto your foes. Max. Impossible! Princess S. O, sire, Be blind no longer. This lady heard the men As I did. There's no doubt! Lady. 'Tis certain, sire, That they were officers in the Liberal army, And spoke of things that set me all aghast. Max. Good women, I thank you, but you are deceived. There's not a man about me whose true face Is not the table where fidelity Writes him my own. Princess S. O, sir, 'tis one whose hand Is in your bosom. Max. Nay-- Princess S. That much I know, Though I know not his name. Max. Bold Miramon Is staunch as death. Mendez would in his breast Receive the bullet meant for me. Dupin Has been too cruel to the enemy To hope for life even at treason's price. And Lopez is my own created love, The Empress' guard,--the only Mexic heart I've taken a very brother's to my own. Princess S. What shall I do? This moment you must fly! Stand not, your majesty! 'T will be too late! (Prince Salm-Salm comes to door) Thank God, my husband! His majesty's betrayed! You've never doubted me! Prince Salm. Betrayed? Max. No, prince,-- Prince Salm. I'll visit every post! Princess S. You but lose time. (The prince hurries out) Oh God! Oh God! Max. Sweet princess, be not troubled. There is no cause. Princess S. Ah, we are lost! (The bells of the city begin to ring) Max. You hear? The bells! The enemy has raised the siege! O joyous news! Princess S. No, no, your majesty. That is the traitor's signal of success. Oh Heaven! Max. What madness! 'Tis impossible! Princess S. Those bells proclaim that every Imperial post Is in a Liberal's command. We're lost! (Enter citizens and soldiers in confusion) 1st Cit. What mean the bells? 2d Cit. That Escobedo's fled! 3d Cit. Marquez has come! 1st Soldier. No, no! The city's taken! 2d Soldier. Juarez is here! The Liberals are on us! (Confused talking and shouts continue. Re-enter Prince Salm-Salm) Max. What is it, prince? Prince Salm. O dearest majesty-- Max. The worst! P Salm. 'Tis treachery. We are surrounded! Max. Those bells-- P Salm. Ring out the enemy's success. Each post is captained by a Liberal. Max. (Calmly to princess) Forgive me. You were right. (To Prince Salm-Salm) Who is the traitor? P Salm. Ask not, I beg you. Max. His name! P Salm. Lopez. Max. Lopez? (Staggers) Unsay that word--and take my crown! P Salm. O, would I could, your majesty! It is too true! Max. Lopez! Carlotta's chosen officer! And heaped with favors high enough to make A pyramid to faith!... Is this the world, Or some strange fancy spinning in my eyes? P Salm. My dearest liege-- Max. Who would not leave a life Where such things be, though death were sleep eternal? ... Lead me 'mong shells and bayonets. But not To kill. My God, there's blood enough been shed. Bid all surrender. Let no more lives be lost. Farewell, my prince.... Now for a friendly shell!-- Just here! (Striking his heart, rushes out) Princess S. O save him! I am safe! Go! go! (Exit Salm-Salm) 1st Woman. We shall all be butchered! Aseffa. Juarez is no butcher. 2d Woman. 'Tis Escobedo leads,--and many have bled by him. Aseffa. Be not afraid. I know the Liberals. Voices. They come! they come! (Miramon and Dupin rush in) Mir. Where is the Emperor? Dup. Emperor dunce-cap! We must look to our own skins. (Enter a score of ragged Liberals led by Rafael. Aseffa stares at him, speechless) Mir. Too late for that! Raf. You are our prisoners. (Liberals take Dupin and Miramon) Soldiers. Shoot them! Shoot them! Miramon and Dupin! The butchers! The dogs! Raf. Hold! You are soldiers! Not murderers! Dup. (To soldiers) You rags and bones! Go wash and eat before you touch a gentleman! Sol. You'll not be so nice to-morrow when the worms are at you! Asef. Raphael! (Flies to him) Raf. You here! O blessed fortune! My love! my love! Asef. O, is it true? You are alive! Alive! I too am resurrected, for I was dead, Slain with the news that you were murdered! Raf. I've news too bitter for so sweet a moment. Ignacio bribed my guard--stood in my place-- And died. Asef. (Recoiling) You let him die for you? Raf. No, no! He carefully deceived me. I thought he planned His own escape with mine. Asef. O noble friend!... Juarez! He knows? Raf. Not yet. Asef. What grief for that Great heart!... But you are here--my Rafael! Raf. By all these kisses--yes! Asef. These are your lips-- Your eyes--your hands--alive! I hear your heart! Your arms are round me, yet this is the earth! My country and my husband safe! Raf. God gives Some moments out of Heaven, and this is one! (Enter a soldier) Sol. The Emperor is captured by Escobedo! Princess S. Not killed! not killed! Thank Heaven for that! Sol. 'Twas strange To see him stand like this (folds his arms) among the shells! Asef. Now I could pity him, for he must die. Princess S. Die, woman! Die? You know not who he is! Why all the outraged world would rise and raze This devil's country from the face of earth Were Maximilian slain! Let Juarez dare To harm this son of kings and he will learn His beggar's power is but an infant's breath! Asef. Good madam, you have been my noble friend. I would not wound you, but would have you know That better men than Maximilian Have died for lesser crimes. (Enter Juarez with soldiers. Dawn has gradually opened and it is now broad sunlight) Voices. Juarez! Juarez! El Presidente! El Presidente! Jua. My men, The town is ours, and with it Mexico. Citizens of Queretaro. I give you back More than your homes,--your liberated country. Voices. Long live the Republic! Liberty forever! (Enter Escobedo) Esc. Your Excellency will see the prisoner? Jua. The illustrious duke? Ay, bring him here. Esc. He comes. (Enter Maximilian under guard) Jua. Great duke, I grieve that I have cause for joy To see you thus. What wishes would your grace Prefer to us? Max. I have but one request, Your excellency. If more blood must be spilt, Let it be mine alone. Jua. We grant it, sir, With two exceptions justice doth demand. Dupin and Miramon must die with you. Dupin, who put to most ignoble death The noblest prisoners of righteous war. Dark Miramon, whose cowardly ambition Has sunk his country in her own dear blood, And would do so again did life permit Him opportunity. And you, my lord, Who signed the foulest, most inhuman law Writ down since Roman Sulla's hand grew cold. Princess S. O spare him! Spare him, sir! He was deceived By treacherous ministers! Jua. His ministers Were but his many hands, and for their deeds His heart must answer. Princess S. O could you know that heart! Max. Dear lady, peace. Princess S. Beloved majesty, I speak for her who prays beyond the sea. ... O, sir, you can not mean that he must die! Help me, Aseffa! Help me plead for him! Does not your Rafael live? Asef. He lives because Ignacio is dead. (Juarez starts) I must be just. Princess S. What has a woman's heart to do with justice? 'Tis mercy is its heavenly quality! Jua. Is this thing true? My boy.... Speak, Rafael. ... Tears in your eyes. You need not speak. My boy ... Ignacio.... Unto God I give thee!... Princess S. 'Tis right That they who would be gods to others' woe Should be proved human by their own. Jua. (Not hearing her) And this Is what so many hearts have borne since first The Austrian came. Princess S. O mercy, mercy, sir! By your own woe show pity unto those Whose hearts must bleed if Maximilian dies! Be merciful! These tears of mine are but The first few drops of the unbounded tide That weeping as the sea weeps round the world Shall drink thy hated land if this good man Dies by your word! Be Christ, not man, and spare him! Juarez. Madam, it is the people and the law Demand this expiation, not Juarez. I grieve to see you on your knees before me, But did each queen of Europe--ay, and king,-- Kneel in your place, I could not spare that life. (Silence. Sobs. Juarez signs to Escobedo, who leads prisoners away. Dupin's broad hat is pulled low. Miramon steps proudly. At exit Maximilian turns and salutes the people) Max. Mexicans! Long live Mexico! (CURTAIN) ACT V. Scene I: Audience chamber, the Tuileries. Louis Napoleon alone. Lou. Succeed or fail! However men may run The goal is marked. Yet will we race with Fate In forgone match. Some free of foot and hand, Some stumbling with huge empires on our backs Less certain than the overburdened ant Housing a winter crumb.... Victoire! (Enter Secretary) Sec. My lord. Lou. If any dispatch from the West arrives Bring it at once. Sec. Yes, sire. (Exit) Lou. America! Thou strange, new power where each man is a king, I have obeyed thy will. Pulled down my empire, Built up that France might the Atlantic stride And stand firm-footed in two worlds. This slap Upon the cheek imperial insults All monarchy, yet Europe shrugs and smiles, When she should blush to ruddy rage of war. ... The West must go ... but here I'll be supreme. Austria and Prussia I urge again to conflict, And promise aid to each, but in my dream They both are doomed and France shall reign alone. (Enter Chamberlain) Chamb. Your majesty, the Marechal Bazaine. Lou. Bazaine! Admit him. (Exit Chamberlain) 'Tis penance night with us, And this man is the mirror of our conscience, Showing its foulest spots. (Enter Bazaine) Baz. Sire, I salute you. Now Paris is the star that all eyes seek. The Exposition draws the world to you, Who glitter here as you were made for heaven. Lou. Ay, Here we would shine that none may see our star I' the West grow dark!... Now Maximilian? Baz. He will be shot. Lou. No jests! I ask you, sir, What terms he may arrange for freedom. Baz. None. Lou. You speak not to a fool. Baz. I trust not, sire. Lou. You know the Mexicans. Tell me the truth. Baz. I know the Mexicans. He will be shot. Lou. God, no! That noble man! Baz. Pray, sir, what fate Had you in mind for Maximilian When finding him too true to Mexico For your proud aims, you sent such covered word To one Bazaine he could but read therein A revolution and the Emperor's fall? Lou. I would have spared his life. Baz. (Taking out paper) Then what means this? (Reads) 'France weeps no death that brings her better fortune.' Lou. You'd spy a warrant in the alphabet Did you but wish to find one! Think you that Meant--death? Baz. (Closer) I know it. Lou. What dare you? Baz. Anything-- With this safe in my pocket. (Puts up paper) Lou. Beware, Bazaine! Baz. When one so mighty as your Majesty Is my protector? Lou. You-- (Enter Chamberlain) Chamb. The Count von Ostein Beseeches word with you. Lou. He's welcome to it. (Exit Chamberlain) Adieu, le marechal. Baz. My lord-- Lou. Adieu, Le marechal. (Exit Bazaine) Prussia's ambassador. Now for our role of cheat and crowned dissembler. O for a throne where Truth might keep her head! (Enter the Prussian Minister) Welcome, my lord. Prus. Most gracious majesty, The foreign ministers have come in body To speak congratulations and confirm The triumph of the Exposition. Lou. They have our truest thanks. But first, my lord, A word in private with you. Is 't Prussia's wish That we withhold our aid from Mexico? Prus. A question, sire. You know that Austria threatens. Is France in this the friend or enemy To Prussia? There's not an inch of middle ground To stand on. If our foe, then pour your strength To Mexico. If friend, keep it at home, Ready for Prussia's need. Lou. To be your friend May cost some blood to France. Prus. I've heard it said The left bank of the Rhine is a fair country, And worth a little blood. Lou. Enough, my lord. Let Prussia know she has a friend in France, And with your sanction cover our retreat From Mexico. (Enter Chamberlain) Chamb. Pardon, your majesty. The Empress of Mexico begs audience. Lou. Carlotta? No! Chamb. She presses urgently To enter. Lou. Here?... We sent our word to her At Miramar!... And yet--she comes--she's here. ... Admit the deputation, and summon, too, Our Empress. Chamb. The Empress comes. (Enter Eugenie attended. Exit Chamberlain. Enter guards) Eug. I hear the ministers Have come to us with state congratulations, And though unbidden, I'll not leave my chair-- The co-seat of imperial dignity-- Vacant at such a time. Lou. Welcome, Eugenie. We were about to summon you. Eug. Thanks even For tardy courtesy. Lou. But we have more Than compliments to hear. Carlotta waits Our audience. Eug. Carlotta! I can not see her! (Rises) Lou. Nay, it was you first cast ambitious eye To Mexico. Now see the end. Eug. My lord-- Lou. Be seated, madam. Eug. You command me, sir? Lou. We do. Eug. (Going) Come, ladies! Lou. (To guards) Let no one pass out! Eug. France, sir, shall know this outrage! Lou. When you wish To make it known. (Enter ambassadors, Austrian, Russian, Italian, Belgian, and others) Rus. Most glorious Majesty! Belg. Mighty France! It. Italy's savior! Aus. Christendom's king! Lou. I thank you, my good lords; but we're too sad To smile at compliments; Carlotta comes To beg our power to uphold her throne, Though Heaven has decreed her empire's fall. We ask you hear our open clear defence, And help set forth our duty, that the Empress May see our wisdom through our tears. It. We'll lend Your Majesty what voice we can. Lou. I thank you. (Aside to Austrian) My lord, a word. The Prussian talons creep Toward Austria. France is your friend. Aus. O, sire! Lou. If you would have her strong pray that no sword Of hers be lost in Mexico. Aus. I will, My lord. (Enter Carlotta, attended by Count Charles, Count de Bombelles, her priest, and women. She goes to Louis and would kneel. He takes her hand) Lou. An Empress must not kneel. Car. I'm still An Empress, sir? Lou. Once to have worn a crown Is always to be queen. Car. Sire, mock me not. Didst mean no more than that? Lou. Lady, you come To beg your empire? Car. I do not beg, Napoleon. I come to ask you keep your sacred oath, But do not make a beggar of me, sir, Who was a princess in my cradle. Lou. Nay, Royal Carlotta, if beggar here must be, See one in us who sue your gentle patience. While strength was ours to give we gave it you, But now is France grown needy of her troops, With Europe surging to a conflict round her. Car. My lord-- Lou. America turns baying on us. Should we make war on one who twice o'ercame Our island neighbors when she was but child To what she now is grown? Prus. Your majesty, 'T would be a folly for a clown, not king. Car. America? Easier to stop her now Than it will be when she wears Mexico Like sword at her right side. Austria, Prussia, Strike you no more at neighbor throats, but come And win a fight for God. Napoleon, come! There lies a world that's worth the price of war. Whose swelling breasts pour milk of paradise, Whose marble mountains wait the carver's hand, Whose valley arms ne'er tire with Ceres' load, Whose crownless head awaits the diadem That but divine, ancestral dignity May fix imperishably upon it! A bride For blessed Rome! And will you give her up To ravishers? To enemies of the Church? To unclean hands ne'er dipped in holy chrism? Aus. The time's not ripe for our united swords To ransom her. Car. The time is always ripe For a good deed. Napoleon, you will come! And though you fail, failure will be majestic. Withdraw like frightened schoolboy and you make Your throne a penance stool whereon you sit For laughter of the nations. But come, and though You fail, when time has brought America To her full, greedy strength, these scornful kings Will then unite in desperate endeavor To give your great conception form and face, And at your tomb they'll lift their shaken crowns And beg a pardon from your heart of dust! Prus. (Aside) He'll yield to her!... Most noble lady, we-- Car. I speak, sir, to Napoleon. Lou. What help Can Austria give? Aus. Sire, she has many troubles. The clouds of war threat her with scarlet flood, And little strength has she to spare abroad When foes besiege at home. Car. And Austria's chief Is Maximilian's brother! It was not so That day at Miramar when three proud crowns Took oath to serve him in an hour like this. Austria powerless! And Belgium--dead. But France--Ah, France, she will prove noble, loyal To God and honor! Lou. My honor, dearest lady, Permits me not to risk my country's life That you may wear a crown in Mexico. I can not save your empire. Car. Then let it fall, But save--my husband's life! (Astonishment and silence) Lou. You speak but madly. America has sent us guaranties She will demand that Maximilian Be held but as a prisoner of war. The Mexicans dare not proceed against him Contrary to the mighty government That is sole friend unto their scarce born state. Car. America demands with paper words That can be torn and laughed at. Would she save him? Let her demand his life with cannon turned Upon his murderers. Then, sire, I'll trust To their obedience. Till then I'll plead With you. All hope is here. Lou. Not so, dear lady. Italy, Austria, and your Belgium, Have sent their ablest counsel to defend him. Car. Troops, troops, my lord, not wordy men of law, Are his sole need. Should God send angels there He'd choose but those who bear the flaming sword. ... Here, here, my lords! Look here! His guaranties, In his own hand set down! Here he vows faith To Maximilian--and to Heaven! Hear! 'I, Louis Napoleon, take solemn oath Upon the honor of a man and king--' Shall I go on, my lord? Have you forgot? Then let my tongue be as a burning pen To write it new upon your heart! Lou. No! no! In God's name, no! Aus. Dear lady, this is torture. Car. Torture for you?--for him? Then what is it For me, my lord? Prus. Wouldst have his majesty False to his country to be true to you? Aus. The oath he took was, by the courtesy Of nations, subject to the change that time Visits on countries as on men. Car. You'd win His sword from me that you may use it! Sirs, He plays you 'gainst each other as the eagle Sets ospreys in contention over prey That he may filch the prize! Lou. Carlotta! Car. Be warned! He'll know no ease till in your capitals He has re-crowned the great Napoleon! Lou. Nay-- Car. Stop me not! Here you shall stand as bare To these men's eyes as you do to my own! Lou. My lords, you will not let her troubled mind Weaken your trust in me? Prus. Your majesty, We know you noble. Car. Noble! Napoleon, This wondrous city is aflame with joy, The blazing fires now dart aloft and write In golden light your name upon the skies, But in your heart will burn a torch of hell Unquenchable, if you deny me aid! Lou. Dear madam, pray believe that I am helpless. Car. You are as strong as France, Eugenie, help me! If e'er you held a dear head on your breast-- You have!--for you've both son and husband! Ah, I have no child. My lord is all to me. O put your two in one and you will know What now I plead for! By the kisses dropped Upon your baby's cheek, and by the hope That you will see him grow up at your side, Another self with heart-strings round your own, I pray you, lady, soften that stone heart! I kneel to you, an empress though my crown Has fallen, as yours I pray will not, And at your footstool beg my husband's life! (Eugenie rises) By your child's love, I beg you for one word! Help me, Eugenie, or the day will come When you will know a crown is but a band Of metal cold, and one warm kiss more dear Than all such circling glory! When you will grow Mad with the longing but to touch the hand Now lies in yours as it would never part, Strain for the face whose beauty fed you once Until your madness builds it out of air To gaze with sweet unhuman pity on you Yet come not near for kisses! O, even now I look through sealed up time unto a night When sleep will fly from your woe-drownéd eyes, And you will cry to Heaven for blessed death To lead you from the midnight desolation! Eugenie, save thyself! For thy own sake Show pity unto me, and in that hour Receive the mercy that thou now dost give! Eug. (Going) Help me! I'm ill! (Her women assist her out) Car. Gone! Gone? And yet a woman! Ah, there's a God will suffer not this wrong! ... Napoleon-- Lou. Nay, madam, we've said all. I can not cast my country into war. You but fatigue yourself. Car. O Heaven! Fatigue! Canst think of that when Maximilian Is facing bayonets for honor's sake? Lou. Believe me, he is safe! Car. I tell you no! To-day the guns from Mont Valerien Pealed out your glory! Your arm was in the arm Of Prussia's monarch, and Waterloo forgot! You laughed with Austria's chief, as though the duke Of Reichstadt were not dead! The bloody snows Of Moscow melt in Alexander's smile! Edward's in France, St. Helena's a myth! And all the world is trooping here to feed Your monstrous vanity! But let the morn Bring news of Maximilian's death, These kings will shudder from you as from plague, The conscious earth refuse your feet a base For shame to bear you! Then will begin your fall. Down, down you'll creep to an unpitied death, And winds that shriek around your exile bed Will cry me prophetess! Lou. (After a silence) Your audience Is over. Pray go and rest. You need much sleep. Car. A woman sleeps not till her heart is safe. My eyes shall not be closed till I've your answer. Lou. You have it, lady, and we beg you leave us. Car. Leave! leave! O sir, it is a lie I hear! (Falls at his feet) You did not say it! See! I kiss your feet! O sir-- Lou. (Withdrawing) You put us to discourtesy. Since you will not withdraw, we leave you. Car. (Leaping up) Coward! Then, Louis Napoleon, Emperor of France! Thou art a murderer, and I have kissed The devil's hoof! (Exit Napoleon) (Carlotta stands dazed, looking after Napoleon. Puts her hand over her eyes. Count Charles goes to her) Char. Dear madam, come with me. (She looks about bewildered) One of her women. Your majesty, We pray you come. Car. (Strangely) Yes--yes-- I'll go. Away! (Exit with her attendants) Aus. A gloomy business, truly. Prus. 'T has wrought upon me. (Re-enter Napoleon) Lou. My lords, believe me grateful for your help In this most wretched business. (Enter Secretary) Sec. A dispatch, sire, from Mexico. Lou. We'll hear it. All here should share this news with me. Sec. 'Tis short, Your majesty. Lou. The sooner read. We wait. Sec. (Reads) 'By order of Juarez, the Austrian duke, Ferdinand Maximilian, has been shot.' (Silence. Napoleon groans) It. It can't be true! Bel. 'Tis false! I'll not believe it! Prus. Grieve not, your Majesty. This is a mock Dispatch. Aus. A noble archduke! Bound by ties Of blood and love to every court of Europe! Believe this not, my lord! Sec. Your Majesty, This second message from America Confirms the other. Lou. 'Tis true! My God, 'tis true! It. Carlotta! Who will tell her? Lou. None shall do it! She must not know. Rus. Pardon me, sire, she must. Lou. Then his death bullet has not stopped its flight. 'T will end but in her heart. (Re-enter Count Charles. Napoleon silently gives him the despatch, which he reads with great agitation) Char. (To himself) O terrible! And yet No news to me--to me. Lou. You'll tell her, sir? Char. There is no need, my lord. Her reason's fled. She's mad. Bel. 'Tis Heaven's mercy! It. Unhappy woman! Char. She is not wild, but gentle, and thinks, my lord, You've granted her request. Lou. Noble Carlotta! My lords, forbear awhile. I'd be alone. It. God grant you rest. (All go out but Napoleon) Lou. These kings I've called here to a dance must lead A funeral. What can I say to them? To Austria--his brother! England--his own cousin! To Belgium--_her_ brother! Spain-- O, all The _world_, that loved him!... An Emperor--and shot. (Musical procession passes in street. Shouts of 'Vive l'empereur! Vive l'empereur!') He too heard shouts like those--saw fires ascend To write his triumph--ay--and he is cold-- Quite cold--shot dead.... Carlotta! prophetess! I feel--I know--thy oracle's from God! (Falls at the foot of the imperial chair) (CURTAIN) Scene II: Miramar. A balcony overlooking the sea. Lady Maria alone. Mar. Here they went out together--arm in arm,-- Sweet, healing spirits to a bleeding land. Down yonder terrace to the sea they passed,-- He unto death, and she--to--(Sighs deeply) Car. (Without) Cousin! Mar. Ah! (Turns smiling to greet Carlotta who enters carrying flowers) So early out? What treasures have you there? Car. The sweetest flowers that ever peeped up head. They grow along the path in that dear wood Where Maximilian took me gypsying When we grew weary of the world. Mar. I'm sure That was not often. Car. True. We loved too well Our work among the people to hide ourselves In little corners of delight. But oh, those times! How he would catch me as I ran and say His little wild-girl with her flower crown Was dearer than his princess ermine-gowned. And so I'll wreathe these buds into my hair, And meet him as he loved me best. (Goes to edge of the balcony and looks to sea) To-day! This blessed, beauteous day our eyes shall see him! (Drops flowers in trance of happiness) Mar. Sweet Empress-- Car. Empress? No! To-day I am His little wild-girl with her wreath of flowers. O, I must make my crown! Now, now, how careless! (Picks up flowers, sits and weaves them) You see this flower? Mar. 'Tis very beautiful. What is it? Car. I've seen it only in our wood. Maximilian says it grows but for my hair. (Sings) In a young, sweet hour of Spring I sat 'neath an old tree to sing Of love, only love! The little brook took up my tune And to his soft green banks did croon, The green grass rippled to the tree And every leaf shook melody Of love, only love! And then the birds that flitted by Told it the clouds that told the sky, And all the world to song did start With what I sang but to my heart! Ay, all the world sang back to me A little maiden 'neath a tree Of love, only love! (Puts down flowers and goes to Lady Maria) Ah, cousin, do you think he'll be delayed? Mar. Dear madam, I fear me so. Car. These ships! these ships! How slow their wings when they do bear our loved ones! The wandering treasures of our empty arms! The western waters must have sirens too, And will not let him pass. Mar. Indeed they would not, Did they but know what majesty is in him. Car. (Embracing her) O help me love him, dear. My heart's too small. (Enter Count Charles) Char. A message. Car. Oh! a message! I do not want A message. Char. The admiral of the port has word The Emperor's ship's delayed. Car. Why, we'll not weep.... 'Tis but a day.... (Goes forward, looking out) To-morrow, then--to-morrow! (To Lady Maria) Why do you weep? A day's not worth a tear. See, I can smile!... But my poor flowers will fade. I plucked them all.... No more grow by the path.... (Suddenly) Cousin, why wear you black? Mar. (Confused) I--madam--I-- Car. Such sable hues for this so rosy day? Go dress your body like our happy hearts! Dost think a coffin comes across the sea? A coffin--(Shudders) Go! I can not bear this black! (Exit Lady Maria) I am displeased. Have I not reason, Charles? 'Twas very wrong of her to dress in black When Maximilian comes. I will go in. I'm tired--but I am very happy. Ah! (Exit) Char. O wounded heart! Thus every day she hopes, And every day begins her hope anew. It is my penance now to watch her sorrow, To guard perfection's wreck in her sad body, And hear the name of Maximilian fall Each moment from her lips. O, God, remember When once I am in hell, I've suffered here! (Re-enter Carlotta) Car. I can not stay away. This is my place. Here will I catch the first light on his sail. O Charles, dear Charles, to-morrow we shall see him! Look in his noble eyes,--ah me, what eyes! Dost not remember? Talk of him, cousin. It brings him faster to me. My heart! my heart! This waiting breaks it though 'tis but a day! An hour that keeps him from me lengthens like The drawn out ages 'tween the ends of time! But oh, to-morrow! Let me think of that! Then will the small globe of mine eye contain The wide and complete world of my desires! ... Have you forgot Aseffa? You do not speak; But you have not forgot. She said--Oh, cruel!-- That he, my Maximilian, should lie cold While yet my arms were warm and reaching for him. How could she say it? But you stood by him--you-- His faithful friend. You knew 't would ne'er be true! ... Do you remember, Charles, the winter day He climbed to Valtelina's ice-bound huts To bear the starving people food? Char. Yes--yes! 'Tis my sole virtue to remember his! Car. And when the flooding Ambro left her banks, Rolling a very sea o'er farm and town, Who was the first to ride the dangerous waves, A rescuing angel saving man and child? Char. 'Twas Maximilian! Car. Yes, our Maximilian. I feared the Mexicans would take his life. Was not that foolish, cousin? I should have known God could not spare him from His world. Hast heard The men of Licio tell how he was first To bring them aid when all their silkworms died And silence struck the looms that gave them food? This man will say 'I have a son alive Because of Maximilian!' And that will say 'I have a daughter now to tend my age, Because the Lombard governor brought bread Unto her cradle.'... And he is coming back. ... Beautiful Miramar! We'll never leave thee, Though stars should beckon to a golden world! To-morrow he'll come! Maximilian! (Holds out her arms toward the sea, looking radiantly into distance) Charles! (Turns suddenly, laying her hand on his arm) Look! What men are those? Do you not see them? Char. There's nothing, cousin,--nothing but the sea. Car. Oh, look! They wear the Mexican dress! Char. Come in, Sweet princess! Car. Ah yes, they're Mexicans. Char. Come! You've had some fever. 'Tis a sick-room vision. Car. No, no! I'm well! Ah, never in such health! I see like God! O look! A score of them! Moving but silent as death! Where are they marching? The sun gleams on their guns! O see, Charles, see! There is a prisoner! Poor man! poor man! I can not see his face. He walks most sadly,-- And proudly too! An upright soul, I know! Char. Dear cousin, come away! Car. He's humbly dressed, And but for that I'd think he might be royal, Ah, royal as Maximilian! O Charles, I am so glad he's safe upon the sea! Safe--safe--and coming to me! Char. (Most pleadingly) Come, wait within, Dear princess! Come! Car. I will not leave him! No! The poor, sad prisoner! Those cruel weapons! I fear--I fear--he is condemned to die. ... Perhaps he has a wife. Ah me, I pray not. Then would be tears! He is a noble man,-- But still his face is from me.... They reach the field. The soldiers halt and lift their guns. O how they gleam! ... I can not see.... Why is the face so dim? Will no one save him? Let us pray for him! We can do that! Down on our knees and pray! O men, men, men! What sin beneath the sun Can give excuse for such a deed as this? O, Heaven, are you looking too? A man So noble! Oh, he turns--he turns--his breast Is to the weapons! Now they fire! He falls! His face! (Gives a wild cry) Oh God! 'tis Maximilian! (Falls forward on her face) (CURTAIN) THE POET ACT I. SCENE 1. Helen's room, Truelord house, New York. ACT II. SCENE 1. Exterior of Clemm cottage, near Richmond. ACT III. SCENE 1. Interior of Clemm cottage. SCENE 2. The Same. ACT IV. SCENE 1. An old book store, New York. SCENE 2. Poe's cottage, Fordham. ACT V. SCENE 1. Poe's lodging, Baltimore. SCENE 2. A bar-room. CHARACTERS EDGAR ALLAN POE VIRGINIA CLEMM MRS. MARIA CLEMM HELEN TRUELORD MRS. TRUELORD ROGER BRIDGMORE NELSON CLEMM MRS. DELORMIS DOCTOR BARLOW MRS. SCHMIDT GEORGE THOMAS, Barkeeper HAINES, JUGGERS, SHARP, BLACK, gamblers BOOKSELLER MUM ZURIE, TAT, BONY, servants at Clemm cottage. Gertrude, Mabel, Annie, Sallie, Dora, Gladys, Ethel, Alma, Allie, friends of Virginia. THE POET ACT I. Scene: Room in the Truelord House. Helen lies on a couch before large windows, rear, reading by light from a small lamp on table near couch. She wears a loose robe over night-dress. A light knock is heard at door, left centre. Hel. (Sitting up) Mamma? Voice. Yes, dear. Hel. (Kissing book and closing it) Good-bye, my poet! (Drops book on couch and goes to door) Voice, as Helen opens door. I saw your light. (Enter Mrs. Truelord) Forgive me, love. I could not rest. (Helen is closing door) No! Kate is coming. Mrs. Delormis. (In door) Yes, I'm here, too, Helen. Hel. Come in, Cousin Catherine. (All three advance) Mrs. Del. Madela had a feminine version of the jim-jams--tea-nerves, you know--so must get us both up. Hel. (Drawing forward a huge chair for Mrs. Truelord while Mrs. Delormis takes a smaller one) I was not in bed. Mrs. Tru. (Looking toward bed in alcove, right) But you have been! You could not sleep either. Ah! (Sighs deeply) Hel. (Goes to couch) Now, mamma! Mrs. Tru. (Embarrassed by Helen's straightforward look) Helen--I--I've just got to have it out to-night. You are only my step-daughter, but I've loved you like my own. Hel. (Quaintly) Yes. Mrs. Tru. Haven't I always treated you as if you were my daughter born? Hel. (Slowly) You have indeed! Mrs. Tru. And I can't bear for you to--to--O, I just can't bear it, I say! Hel. Bear what, mamma? Mrs. Tru. This--this man-- Mrs. Del. Edgar Poe, Helen. Mrs. Tru. You are going to give up Roger--Roger who has worshipped you since you were a baby, who has lived under the same roof and been a brother to you since you were two years old--you are going to give him up for a strange man--a man without a penny--a man you have seen but once--(Almost shrieking)--but once--(Rising) Hel. (Crosses, and stands before her, speaking calmly) We know angels at first sight, mamma. Mrs. Tru. (Grabbing Helen by the shoulders and staring at her) You have done it already! (Falls to chair as if fainting) Hel. Soothe her, Catherine. I will get some wine. (Exit) Mrs. Tru. (Sitting up, at once recovered) She's made up her mind. When her eyes shine like that it's no use to argue. And all of Roger's fortune in Mr. Truelord's hands! We've considered it a family resource for years! Mrs. Del. What a fool Roger was to bring Edgar Poe to the house! Mrs. Tru. He's crazy about the man. Says he's a genius, and all that stuff. Mrs. Del. Well, he is. But to introduce him to a girl like Helen! They'll be off before morning! Mrs. Tru. Oh-h! Don't, Kate! Roger actually wants me to ask him to stay in the house. Mrs. Del. Idiot! He deserves to lose her.... But your guest! (Laughs) Poor Madela! How he would upset your nice, comfortable theories of life! Why, you couldn't hand him a cup of tea without feeling the planet quake. Mrs. Tru. But what are we to do? Kate, you _must_ help me. Mrs. Del. I'm going to. You can't tell her father, because Helen must be persuaded, not opposed. And don't speak about the money. If she loved a beggar she would trudge barefoot behind him. Mrs. Tru. (Despairingly) O, don't I know it? Mrs. Del. Now you leave this to me, Madela. I will say a few things to Helen about meeting Mr. Poe in Europe--and--you know-- Mrs. Tru. (Kissing her violently) O, Kate! Tell her all--and more, if necessary! Don't think about your reputation if you can save Roger's fortune-- Mrs. Del. Sh!-- (Enter Helen, with wine and a glass) Mrs. Tru. (Feebly) Thank you, dear, but I'm better now. (Rising) I'll try to rest. (Goes to door) Hel. I would see you to your room, mamma, but I'm sure you would rather have Catherine. (Mrs. Delormis makes no move to go) Mrs. Tru. O, I am quite well--I mean--I need no one--no one at all! Goodnight, my dears! (Exit) Hel. (Politely) And is there anything which you must have out to-night, cousin Catherine? Mrs. Del. Sit down, Helen. (Helen takes a chair) You have never loved me, but I have always had a warm heart for you, little girl. And you will take a warning from me in good part, won't you? Hel. A good warning, yes. Mrs. Del. I told you about meeting Mr. Poe last summer in Normandy. But--I did not tell you how often I met him. (Helen rises, then Mrs. Delormis rises) Helen, I prove my love for you by saying what it is so hard to utter to your pure self. My life has not been--all you would wish it to be--and Mr. Poe knows more about it than any other man. Hel. You lie! I have seen his soul! (She goes to door and opens it for Mrs. Delormis to pass out. Mrs. Delormis sweeps through with an attempt at majesty) Hel. (Motionless with clenched hands) Wicked, wicked woman!... (Goes to window, rear, opens it, draws long breaths as if stifling, and turns back into room) Edgar! My love! I was a thing of clay. One look from your eyes has made me a being of fire and air.... (Lies down on couch and takes up her book) ... I can not read ... or sleep ... or pray. There's too much whirling in my heart for prayer.... (Starts) What moan is that?... (Rises, takes light from table, goes to window, leans out, casting the rays down) Nothing.... I'm fanciful.... The moon is rising. (Goes back, putting light on table) O, Edgar! God help me to be what love must be to thee. Love that can look on miracles and be sane. What a face when he said goodnight! Like an angel's whose immortality is his wound.... Poor Roger!... What will my father say?... (Moonlight floods the window) Welcome, soft nurse of dreams! (Extinguishes lamp) A little rest.... Ah, I know _he_ does not sleep.... (She lies on couch in the moonlight, her eyes closed. Poe enters by window, gazes at her, and throws up his arms in gesture of prayer) Hel. (Looking up, and springing to her feet) Edgar! My God, you must not come here! Poe. Is this love's welcome? Hel. Go! go! Poe. I was dying out there. Hel. Leave me! Poe. Life was passing from my veins. Only your eyes could draw back the ebbing flood. Hel. I will light the lamp! (Turns hastily) Poe. And put out Heaven's! (She drops her hand) Hel. Go, O go at once! Poe. Again I am alone! The twin angel who put her hand in mine is flown! Hel. Edgar, be calm! Poe. Calm! With such a look from you burning me as if I were a devil to be branded? Such words from you hissing like snakes through my brain? Hel. O, I beg you-- Poe. I would but touch the hand that soothes my blood--look in the eyes that wrap my soul in balm--and you cry out as though some barbarous infidel had trampled you at prayers! Hel. My father--Roger--they will not understand. Poe. O, you would bring the world in to say how and when we shall love! Take note of the hour, and kiss by the clock! Great love is like death, Helen. It knows no time of day. If a man were dying at your gates would you keep from him because 'twas midnight and not noon, and you were robed for sleep? It was your soul I sought. Must you array that to receive me? O, these women! On Resurrection day they'll not get up unless their clothes are called with them from the dust! 'Excuse me, God, and send a dressmaker!' Ha! ha! ha! (Walks the floor in maniac humor) Hel. Edgar, for love's sake hear me! Poe. Speak loud if you would drown the winds! Hel. Listen! Poe. (Turning upon her) If my body bled at your feet you would stoop to me, but when my spirit lies in flames you cry 'Don't writhe! Don't be a spectacle!' Hel. (Putting her hands on his shoulders and speaking steadily) The spirit does not murmur. Only the body cries. Poe. (Calming) Forgive me, Helen! Hel. Yes, love. (Draws him to couch and sits by him soothingly) ... O, your forehead is on fire. Poe. No wonder, when I have just come out of hell.... Keep your cool hand over my eyes.... O, this is peace!... (Takes her hand from his forehead and holds it) I made you a song out there, in the darkness. I was fainting for one gleam of light when you opened the window and stood as beautiful as Psyche leaning to the god of love. Listen ... and believe that my heart was as pure as the lines. (Sings softly) Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently o'er a perfumed sea The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, An agate lamp within thy hand,-- Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are holy-land! (Drops his head to her hand and kisses it gently) Hel. Edgar, my life shall be my song to thee. (They are silent for a second. His hand touches her book) Poe. A book! Who could write for such an hour? (Holds book in moonlight) Shelley! Lark of the world! You would know!... You will give me this book, Helen? Hel. It is precious. You will love it? Poe. Always! (Kisses book, and puts it inside his coat. Taking her hand) O, all our life shall be a happy wonder! Wilt lie with me on summer hills where pipings of dim Arcady fall like Apollo's mantle on the soul? Dost know that silence full of thoughts?--and then the swelling earth--the throbbing heaven? Canst be a pulse in Nature's very body? (Leaping up) Take forests in thy arms, and feel the little leaf-veins beat thy blood? Hel. (Rising) Yes--yes--I know. Come to the window, love. The soft Spring air begins to stir. (They move to window) Poe. O, what a night! 'Tis like a poem flowing to the sea. Here I shake death from my garments. Oh, had my soul a tongue to trumpet thought, men from yon planets now would stare and lean to earth with listening ears!... Hark! 'Tis music! Hel. (Looking down) A serenade. Poe. Canst call it that? I hear nothing that comes not from the stars. 'Tis Israfel! The angel whose lute is his own heart! If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than his might swell From my lyre within the sky! Some day we shall live there, Helen, and then I will sing to thee! Hel. But now--my love--you must rest--you must sleep. Poe. Sleep! Nothing sleeps but mortality! Hel. And you are mortal, Edgar. Poe. I! Nay, thy love has given me kinship with the deities! Sleep? Ay, when Nature naps, and God looks for a bed! When yonder moon forgets her starry whirl and nodding falls from heaven! When Ocean's giant pulse is weary and grows still! When Earth heaves up no seasons with their buds! No, no, we will not sleep! But see--there gleams the river--and yonder rise the hills touched new with Spring! Wilt go there with me, Helen? Now! Hel. Now? Poe. To-night! Hel. To-night? Poe. Why not? You say it as though night and day were not the same to the soul--except that night is more beautiful! Why not go? Hel. I will tell you, love. (Drawing him back to the large chair) Come, listen. (She sits in chair, and he kneels by her, the moonlight covering them) Because I love you more than you love beauty, God or night, and you must live for me. And to live means--rest--sleep-- Poe. Do you love me so much? O, 'tis like cool waters falling about me to hear you say it. Hel. I will help you, Edgar. Already I feel my strength. Where I may serve you I'll not meekly go, but go exultant. The thorns and stones so harsh to human feet, I'll press as they were buds, and leave my blood for kisses. Poe. Oh, go on. Hel. Yes, I've more to tell you. It is--that you must help me, too. To-day--before you looked at me the first time--I was dying. Ah, more,--I was about to set the seal of death on my soul. My mother, who died at sea when I was born, gave me a heritance with winds and waves and stars. But I was nursed by hands through whose clay ran no immortal streams. Cradled in convention, fed on sophistries, I wove a shroud about my soul, and within that hardening chrysalis it was dying away when you called it forth in time to live--dear God, in time to live! Now you see how much you are to me, Edgar. I must not lose you. But you must be careful and patient with me, for my newly-bared soul shrinks from the wonders so familiar to you, and I may fly back to my chrysalis to escape the pain. Poe. I am not afraid. Would a mother leave her babe? And I am a child now, Helen. This strange, new rest you give me is like a gentle birth. I have been old all my life. Now the longing comes for a little of the childhood that was never mine. The years fall from me, and I have no wish but to lie on a mother's bosom and hear her voice prattling above me. Hel. (Archly, leaning over him as he sits at her feet) Does my little boy want a story? Poe. (Smiling) About the fairies, mama? Hel. About the fairies--and a big giant--and a little girl lost in a wood-- Poe. And a little boy too? Hel. Yes, a little boy, too! And the little girl was crying-- Poe. And the little boy found her? Hel. Yes, and he told her not to cry, that he could kill the big giant, and he hid the little girl in a cave-- Poe. Was it a dark cave, mama? Hel. No-_o-o_! It was a cave--with--windows in it! And by and by he heard the giant coming-- Poe. Oh! (Hides his face on her breast. She holds him to her, her hands on his hair) And when the little boy heard the leaves rustling closer and closer he climbed a great tree-- Poe. (Lifting his head) But he wasn't afraid, mama? Hel. O, _no-o_! Poe. Because that little boy was me! Hel. Yes. And when you got to the top of the tree-- Poe. O, what did I do then? Hel. Why, you see this was the biggest giant that _e-v-e-r_ lived--and his head was just as high as the top of the tree--so when he came by-- Poe. I know! I know! I just out with my sword, and off went his head! Hel. So it did! And then you climbed down from the tree-- Poe. And the little girl came out of the cave-- Hel. And you went off together happy ever after! Poe. What was that little girl's name, mama? Hel. Why, I don't think you ever told me that, did you? Poe. I was just thinking-- Hel. What, darling? Poe. That I wish you weren't my mama, so you could be that little girl! Hel. O, I can, dear. For there were the fairies. We forgot the fairies. They gave me this pretty ring, so that when I put it on I can be whoever I please, and I please to be just whoever my little boy likes best. Poe. (Rises, and speaks in his own manner) Madonna, Oh, Madonna! You will save me. (Kisses her forehead) Good-night. To-morrow I will tell you about my work--our work. There are miracles yet to be. And Poesy shall speak them. Hel. But do not try to write out all your soul, Edgar. That cannot be. Poetry is but one gate. The soul goes out by a thousand ways. Poe. True. And we will find those ways together, Helen. We will gather truth in every path,--truth that flowers out of the struggle and carnage of life like the bloom of song on the crimson of war. Hel. But we may not know all. Man's greatest knowledge is but the alphabet of the eternal book. We must be content with the letters, and not unhappily strive to read. Poe. I will remember. But what mortal can attain shall be mine. Already thoughts that fled my agony come to me as gently as the alighting of birds. Truths open about me like the unfolding of roses yet warm with God's secret. Good-night. (Takes her hand) I am not the greatest genius, Helen, for I can not stand alone. (Drops her hand and goes to window. Hesitates and turns back) One kiss. (Kisses her) O, look at me! I lose divinity when you close your eyes! Look at me, and I can not fall for Heaven bears me up! Hel. (In sudden alarm) I hear a step! Poe. (Looking at her reproachfully) Listen better, you will hear God's footfall. Hel. Some one is up. Poe. And do you care? Would you put a stain upon this hour? This flower of love blown perfect from the skies? Hel. Ah, it is gone. Poe. (Wildly) O, you will leave me, Helen! You can not stay! For I will play the madman to thy sense when I am sanest, and like a shivering Atlas shake thy world when most thou wouldst be still. This body wraps more lives then one, my girl. When I was born no pitying angel dipped my spirit-fire in Lethe. I weep with all the dead as they my brothers were, and haunt the track of time to shudder with his ghosts. Wilt fare with me, brave Helen? Wilt tread the nadir gloom and golden paths of suns? Canst gaze with me into the fearful, grey infinitude-- Hel. That grey infinitude is yet the circle of your being. The mind can not leave itself. You are always in your own country. Why should you fear? Poe. The mind that can not leave itself knows nothing. Not the 'I am' but 'Thou art' is God. O, there is a realm of which imagination is but a shadow--where the mind is burnt away in His vision's fire, and thought becomes celestial angel of itself! And you turn back with the first step--already I am alone-- Hel. No! I, too, have hung upon the boundaries of the world to catch God's flying dreams! O, trust me! Thou shalt fling no lance but I will cast it on to gleam in a farther sun! Bring me roses from Jupiter, I'll bring thee lilies from Uranus! O,-- Poe. Mine, by Heaven! (Catches her to him) Here we'll begin the immortal pilgrimage! We need not wait for death! From world to world-- Hel. (Springing from him) It _is_ a step! Go, Edgar! Go! Poe. No! By the god in my bosom, you are mine from this moment! Hel. My father! my father! He will tear me from you--You do not know him! Poe. I know he's mortal. Heaven could not part us. I will not move! (He is standing in the window. She hastily draws the curtain before him) Hel. Then keep your word! (A knock at the door. Helen is silent) Voice. Helen? Hel. It is you, Roger? Come in. (Roger enters, carrying a lamp. Looks about and sees Helen.) Rog. I heard voices.... Who was with you, Helen?... I could not be mistaken.... (puts lamp on a table, and comes nearer Helen.) Look at me, Helen.... I am your brother. Who was here?... I know that Love has laid his mighty hand upon you, but yet you are an angel. I thought--it was--his voice.... Tell me what this means.... _He_ was not here! O, I shall die when I learn that you are but a woman! Poe. (Leaping out) I am here, sir, to defend that lady's honor! Rog. (Staggers back, regains composure, and bows ironically) I rejoice to hear it, sir, for you alone can do it. It is wholly in your keeping. (Turns to go) Hel. Roger! Rog. Madam. Hel. You forsake me? Rog. You have forsaken yourself. Hel. Oh! (Swoons. Poe bends over her wildly affectionate. Roger stands apart, proud and despairing) Poe. Helen! Speak! Speak to me! Hel. Leave me! Leave me! Poe. It is I, Helen! Your lover! Edgar! Hel. You, you, I mean! (Rising) Thou wing of hell across my life! Away from me! (Poe stands back speechless with bewilderment. Roger goes to Helen, takes her hand, and leads her from the room) Poe. Lost! lost! lost! (Looks about the room) This place!... O, I was mad to come here!... She will never forgive me! (Falls on the couch and lies motionless. After a moment enter Mrs. Delormis.) Mrs. Del. Where is the wild man?... Oh, he has fainted! The wine! (Goes to the table and pours wine) Poe. Oh! (Mrs. Delormis turns to him. He rises ceremoniously, with effort) Well? Mrs. Del. Well, indeed! Here I am to your rescue, and you reward me with a 'well' (mimicking) up to ceiling. Poe. What are they saying to her? I must go to her! I must! Mrs. Del. Must _not_! Listen! (Grasps his arm to detain him) Poe. (Releasing his arm and bowing stiffly) Mrs. Delormis. Mrs. D. (Copying his manner) Mr. Poe!... Mr. Truelord has not yet been roused. No one will wake him unless you choose to do it yourself by increasing the hubbub. Roger defends you to Mrs. Truelord--says you are ill--out of your senses--and other complimentary things. Both of them are soothing and mothering Helen, and--(dropping into tenderness) I wanted you to have a little mothering, too-- Poe. Do you really want to help me? Mrs. Del. O, if you would only let me be your friend! Poe. You may! Stay here with me till she comes! I know she will come. She can not let me go without one word. It would be too terrible. She can not! Stay till she comes. Talk to me. Do not let me think! Mrs. Del. I'll make myself comfortable then, and we'll have a good chat. You know I've been told that I talk my best between two and three in the morning. (Takes pillow from couch to make herself cosy in chair) Poe. Do not touch that pillow! Mrs. Del. (Dropping into chair) Well! Poe. Do not sit in that chair! Mrs. Del. (Rising) May I stand on the carpet, or shall I take off my slippers before the burning bush of your love? Poe. Forgive me! Don't you see that I have lost her? Mrs. Del. Well, you _were_ out of your senses to come here and think Helen would understand it. Poe. I was not! She did understand! The vision that led me to her feet was as clear as an archangel's! It is now that I am mad, and see everything gross and darkened with earth and flesh! (Overcome, sinks on couch. She hastily brings wine) Mrs. Del. Drink it. You must. Poe. No! You offer me hell! And you know it. Put it down. If you want to help me, go to her and bring me one word. Mrs. Del. Drink this for me, and I will. Poe. (Taking glass) You will?... No! (Puts glass down) Mrs. Del. My dear boy, you are too weak to stand! It's that old habit of not eating. I don't believe you have tasted food for days. Poe. True ... but.... (Faints. Mrs. Delormis gives him wine. He rouses) Mrs. Del. Now will you kill me? Poe. (Brightening) No. You were right. 'Twas what I needed. 'T will keep life in me till she comes. Go to her now. Tell her I will leave her--I will go away for a year--a thousand years--if she will only say I may come back some day. I will live in a desert and pray myself to the bone! Bring me one word from her--a curse--anything! Mrs. Del. (Pouring wine) A little more of this then, so I shall be sure to find you alive when I return. Poe. (Drinks eagerly) 'Tis life! Life! I've drunk of Cretan wines against whose fragrant tide the Venus-rose poured all her flood in vain, but never thrilled my lips till now with drop so ravishing! And you brought it to me! Helen left me to die ... cruel ... cruel ... cruel.... (Sits on couch, taking his head in his hands. Looks up) Florimel! Mrs. Del. My Calidore! Poe. You are a very beautiful devil. Mrs. Del. (Pouring wine) Thanks. I'm glad you like my style. (Sips wine) It _is_ good, isn't it? Poe. 'Tis an enchantment to pilot grief to new and festal worlds! Another cup! (Drinks) O, 'tis a drink to rouse the drooping soul for warrier quest till on the conquered shores of dream man strides a god!... (Pours another glass) Again? No ... no more!... (Sinks down) O, my bird of Heaven, come quickly, or I am lost!... Florimel! Mrs. Del. My knight of Normandy! Poe. Since we are going to hell let us be merry about it. Mrs. Del. At last you are sensible. Poe. Wine! wine! Mrs. Del. (Holding glass) I mean to have my price for this. Poe. Take my soul! Mrs. Del. Something better--a kiss! Poe. 'Tis yours! (Kisses her) Why not? For but a kiss did Jove forsake the skies, and jeopard his high realm! Mrs. Del. For but a kiss did Dian leave her throne and waste her goddess dower on shepherd lips! (Sits by him) Now you are going to tell me something. Why did you fly from Normandy, and not a word, not a word to me? Come, my Calidore! Why did you fly from me? Poe. (Momentarily sober) Because--a woman shall never become less holy than God made her through me. (Rises and walks away) Helen ... my amaranth, I may not pluck thee!... (Staggers) One cup more ... one.... (Pours wine, and holds up glass apostrophizing as Roger and Helen enter unnoticed) O, little ruby ocean that can drown all mortal sighs! Call buried hope to put life's garland on, and limping woes to trip like Nereids on a moonlit shore! For thee, frail sickness casts her pallid chrysalis and blooms a rosy angel! For thee, Death breaks his scythe and owns Life conqueror! (Drinks) Were this Antonius' cup.... Ha! Are you there, my devil? Another kiss, sweetheart! (Throws his arm about Mrs. Delormis. Helen cries out. Poe turns and faces her) Hel. (To Poe, speaking slowly and mechanically) I came, sir, to ask you to forgive me. (Turns to Roger) It is to you, Roger, that I make my plea. (Poe looks at her helplessly, then understands, and with a terrible face, turns and leaps through the open window. Helen, with a sob, droops, and Roger takes her in his arms) (CURTAIN) ACT II. Scene: Lawn in front of Clemm cottage, near Richmond. Bony and Tat on a side porch shelling peas. Tat. Sho' Mars Edgah come in good time! Pea-vines jes a hangin' low, an' sweet as honey! Bony. Mars Edgah hab peas ebry day wha' he came f'om! Big city hab ebryting! Tat. Dey can't hab ebryting when it don' grow! Bony. Sho', dey hab it when it don' grow same lak when he do grow! Tat. You nebah did hab no sense! Bony. I ain't got no sense? Take dat, Tatermally Clemm! (Strikes at her. They scuffle and bring Zurie to side door) Zu. Dem chillun' jes kill me! Why de Lawd make ol' Zurie bring dem two twins to dis heah worl' she nebah could tell! Dey haint shell 'nuf fo' a hummin' bird's stomach, an' de pot bilin' mad fo' 'm dis minute! Wha' yo' do, yo' black niggahs? Come in heah! I make yo' sit still an' do nuffin' an' yo' ol' mammy wu'kin' hussef to def! (Picks up basket and drives children into the kitchen. Calls after them beamingly) Wha' yo' reckon yo' ol' mammy cookin' in dat ubbin fo' two little no 'count niggahs? Children. (Within, scampering with delight) Cherry cobblah! Cherry cobblah! Zu. (Shutting the door) Don' want dat wind blowin' on my poun' cake! It'll fall sho'! (Virginia comes out at the front door of cottage, and walks across the lawn to the shade of a bay tree where Poe lies in a hammock as if asleep. A book on the ground. She goes up softly and sits on a garden chair near him. He opens his eyes) Vir. O, I have waked you! Poe. No, little houri. I was not asleep. I would not give one breath of this sweet world to cold, unconscious sleep. Vir. You are happy, cousin Edgar? Poe. No, Virginia. This is all too delicious to be called happiness. Too calm, like the stilling of a condor's wings above sea-guarding peaks. He flies when he is happy. When more than happy, it is enough to pause in the blue and breathe wonders. Vir. Is it wonderful here, Edgar? It has always seemed so to me, but I have been afraid to tell anyone. It seems like a great fairy house with God in it. Is it wonderful, cousin? Poe. _You_ are wonderful. Vir. O, no, no, no! I want to tell you too, Edgar, I have never felt that I quite belong here. It is all too good for me--so beautiful, and I am not beautiful. Poe. (Rising) Why, my little aspiring Venus, let me tell you something. I have wandered somewhat in life--at home and over sea--and I have never looked upon a woman fairer than yourself. Vir. (Springing up in delight) O, I am so happy! You would not flatter me! You are the soul of truth! Poe. It is no flattery, little maid, as the world will soon teach you. Vir. I have nothing to do with that world, Edgar. My world is the circuit of our mocking-bird's wing. O, where is he? (Calls) Freddy! Freddy! He is not near or he would come. But he never goes farther than the orchard. Freddy!... He has not sung to me this morning. You haven't heard his finest song yet. O, 'tis sweeter than-- Poe. (Picking up book) Than Spenser? Vir. Yes--than Spenser. Though he makes music too, and we were just coming to the siren's song. Shall I read? Poe. Do! I knew not how to love him till he warbled from your tongue. Vir. 'Tis where the mermaid calls the knight. (Reads) O, thou fair son of gentle faery, That art in mighty arms most magnifyde Above all knights that ever battle tried, O, turn thy rudder hetherward awhile! Here may the storm-bett vessel safely ride; This is the port of ease from troublous toil, The world's sweet inn from pain and wearisome turmoyle! Poe. No more--no more! Vir. Why, cousin? Poe. I shall have the water about my ears presently. I thought I was drowning on a mermaid's bosom. Read no more, Virginia. One nibble at a time is enough of Spenser. He ought to be made into a thousand little poems. Then we should have a multitude of gems instead of a great granite mountain that nobody can circuit without weariness. Vir. You know so much, Edgar. Will you teach me while you are here, if I try very hard to learn? Poe. (Plucking a flower) My little girl, what lore would you teach this bud? God makes some people so. Be happy that you are a beautiful certainty and not a struggling possibility. Vir. But the rose has no soul, Edgar--no heart, as I have. It does not sigh to see you look so pale, and read these lines of suffering here, (touching his brow) but I--it kills me, cousin! (He hides his face) Forgive me! O, I am so unkind! (Mrs. Clemm comes out of cottage and crosses to them. She gently takes Poe's hand from his face and kisses him) Mrs. C. My dear boy! Poe. (Seizing her hand and holding it) Don't--don't be so kind to me, aunt! It tells too much of what has never been mine. Curious interest--passing friendship--love born in a flash and dead in an hour--these I have had, while my heart was crying from its depths for the firmly founded love that shakes but with the globe itself. Mrs. C. (Taking his head on her breast) My dear Edgar! You will be my son--Virginia's brother! Poe. (Lifting his face smiling) I _will_ be happy! No more of that solitude lighted only by the eyes of ghouls! Here I have come into the light. I have found the sun. I see what my work should be--what Art is. She is beauty and joy. Her light should fall on life like morning on the hills. The clouds of passion and agony should never darken her face. O, I can paint her now ready for the embrace of the soul! Mrs. C. I can not see things with your rapturous eyes, Edgar, but I know that your work will be noble, and I love you. Poe. O, aunt, you and this little wonder-witch have enchanted me back to happiness. I promise you never again shall you see a tear on my face or a frown on my brow. (Virginia, looking toward the road, bows as to some one passing) Poe. Blushing, cousin? Who is worth such a rosy flag? (Stands up and looks down the road) Brackett! I do believe! Mrs. C. You know him, Edgar? He is staying with my brother-in-law, Nelson Clemm, for a short time, and has asked to call on us--on Virginia, I mean, for of course I don't count, now that my little girl is suddenly turned woman. Poe. Don't for Heaven's sake! Mrs. C. You don't like him, Edgar? Poe. Like him! We were at West Point together. He refused to accept a challenge after slandering me vilely, and I was obliged to thrash him. That's all. (Turns suddenly to Virginia) And you were blushing for him! Vir. It was not because I like him, Edgar. Poe. (Looking into her eyes) You are a wise little piece. Mrs. C. This is painful, Edgar. Of course he must not call. Poe. Call! Let him but look toward the house again, and I'll give him a drubbing that will make him forget the first one! The coward! He wouldn't meet me--after-- Vir. How about the frowns, Edgar? Poe. (Smiling) Let him go! Mrs. C. You should not make such bitter enemies at the beginning of life, my boy. Poe. He can not touch me. He is not of my world. Mrs. C. We are all of one world, Edgar, and never know when we may lap fortunes with our foes. Mr. Brackett is going into literature too. Poe. Yes. The trade and barter part of it. I shall be in the holy temple while he keeps a changer's table on the steps. (Shrugging) Brackett! Pah!... But goodbye for half an hour. I'm going to the orchard to take counsel with the birds on my new philosophy. (Starts away) Come, (turning to Virginia) my mocking bird, there won't be a quorum without you! (Virginia goes to him. Zurie puts her head out of a window and calls.) Mum Zurie. Mars Nelson comin' up de lane! Mrs. C. Come back, Virginia, you must see your uncle. Edgar, won't you wait and meet him? Poe. Thank you aunt, but I don't think it would give him any pleasure. (Exit) Vir. (Coming back reluctantly) O mama, we _will_ make him happy! Mrs. C. We'll try, my dear. But you must get ready for the picnic. The girls will be here soon. Is Edgar going with you? Vir. No, mother. He said he would go to a picnic only with nymphs and naiads. Mrs. C. Here is uncle. (Enter, from the road, Nelson Clemm) Mr. C. How d' do, Maria! Howdy, girl! Go get your hat. Mrs. C. What now, Nelson? Mr. C. Nothin'. Only I'm tired o' foolin' and talkin' about that girl's education. I've come to take her this time. Vir. To send me to school? Mr. C. High time, ain't it? I couldn't make up my mind before whether 'twas to be the seminary at Bowville or Maryburg. But I had a letter this morning which settled it for Bowville. Suits me exactly--suits me _exactly_. So get your hat and come along. I drove across the ridge and left my trap at Judge Carroll's. Mrs. C. Her clothes, Nelson! There's nothing ready-- Mr. C. You mean to say! When we've been talkin' this thing a whole year? And you a thrifty woman tell me her clothes ain't ready? Well, she'll come without 'em, that's all. You can send 'em along afterwards. I've got it all fixed up, I tell you. My brother's child shall have her chance--she shall have her chance, so long as I've got a dollar in my pocket and she walks exactly to please me--walks _exactly_ to please me. It's for you to say, Maria, whether you'll stand in the way o' your own flesh and blood or not. Mrs. C. Of course, Nelson, I am very grateful, and do not dream of depriving Virginia of this opportunity, only-- Mr. C. That's all there is to it then. No onlys about it. Go get your hat, girl. (Virginia goes slowly into the house. At the door she meets Zurie who turns back and goes in with her) Mrs. C. Now, Nelson? Mr. C. It's just this. My brother's child shan't stay another hour in the same house with Edgar Poe. That's the plain tale of it, Maria. Mrs. C. Nelson Clemm! Mr. C. O, I've been hearin' things--I've been hearin'! He didn't cover all his tracks at West Point--or New York either! Mrs. C. Lies! All lies! Every one of them! He is the soul of honor! Already Virginia loves him like a brother! I trust her instinct! I trust my own! Mr. C. O, I'm not arguin', I'm just doin'. You can't turn him out, of course. Wouldn't do it myself. Nobody'll ever say Nelse Clemm was an inhospitable dog! But I can look out for Virginia, and I will. She goes with me now, or I'm done with you and yours--and you know that mortgage ain't paid off yet. Mrs. C. Yes, she shall go. She ought to be in school and again I thank you for helping us. But you are wronging my nephew,--one of the noblest of men. You don't know him! Mr. C. It's plain enough _you_ don't! Mrs. C. Has Mr. Brackett-- Mr. C. Mr. Brackett is a guest in my house. Now, Maria, say what you please. (Virginia comes out of cottage carrying a small satchel) That's a good girl! We'll fix up a fine trunk and send it after her, won't we, mother? Vir. (Putting her arms about her mother's neck) He--wasn't in the orchard, mama. Won't you say goodbye to him for me? Mr. C. Come, come now! (Leads her away) Don't worry, Maria. I'll drive you over to Bowville every Sunday Doctor Barlow doesn't preach. (Half turning) By the by, I saw him down the lane at the widow Simson's. Reckon he'll be along here pretty soon. Seems to be on his widow's route to-day. Good morning! (Exeunt) Mrs. C. (Looking after them) I shall go to her myself to-morrow. My little daughter! A stately woman now, but always my little daughter! (Starts into the house, pausing on steps) Poor Edgar! How he is misjudged! (Goes in) (Zurie, Tat following, comes out of the side door and sets to work digging up a shrub) Zu. (Muttering) Wha' Mis' Clemm gwine ter say ter all dem young ladies comin' heah fo' de picnic? An' who gwine ter eat dem pies Zurie been two days makin'? An' sech a poun' cake! It ought to be a weddin' cake, deed it ought! (Bony comes out of kitchen with a knife in his hand) Heah, niggah, gimme up dat knife an' don' be so slow-back! Dis heah bush done grow an' bloom till yo' get heah! (Enter Poe, left, singing) Old winter is a lie As every spring doth prove, And care is born to die If we but let in love-- Hey Mum Zurie, what are you doing? Zu. I's diggin', honey. Poe. That rosebay is the most graceful shrub in the yard. You kill one leaf of it, if you dare! Zu. Miss Virginia she say how her bru'r Edgah lub dis heah tree, an' she want it under her window. Poe. Oh! Can't I help you, Zurie? Tenderly now! Zu. Miss Babylam' ax me to move it yistiddy but I don't git no time, an' I ain' gwine to leab it now jes cause she's gone away. Poe. Gone away? Zu. O Lawd, I forgot you don' know! Why, honey, Mars Nelson he come jes now an' frisk her off to school. Zip! an' Babylam' gone! An' law, ef you seen dat po' chile cryin'! Poe. She cried, Zurie? Zu. Deed she did, and she ax me twenty hundred times to tell her bru'r Edgah goodbye. Poe. Virginia gone? Zu. I done tol' yo, Mars Edgah! Sho' yo' don't think ol' Zurie know how ter tell lies, does yo', honey? Poe. No, Zurie, I know she is gone. The birds have all stopped singing. Zu. Law, Mars Edgah, dey jes be a chipperin'! Heah dat now? Poe. That is not a song, Zurie. It is a wail from Stygian boughs. Zu. O, yo' go way! Poe. Gone! I'll not permit it! My aunt must bring her back! (Hurries into house) Zu. Wha' make him ac' so now? An' wha' make Miss Babylam' cry hussef sick when she's gwine away ter be a fine lady? Mars Nelson he mighty good to gib her eddication, but true fo' sho he might jes' well gib it to my Tatermally fer all de thanks he's gittin'. Ol' Zurie reckon it a sin to cry ober de goodness ob God! (Mrs. Clemm and Poe come out of cottage, both disturbed) Poe. But, aunt, how are we going to live without her? Mrs. C. My dear Edgar, we must not let our affections root so deep in mortal things. Poe. Mortal? Virginia mortal! She is a sister to Psyche, immortal as the breath that blew her into beauteous bloom! Mrs. C. While I am glad, my son, to see you so devoted to your sister-- Poe. Sister! Thank Heaven she is not my sister! Aunt, Virginia must be my wife! Mrs. C. (Bewildered) Are you mad, Edgar? Poe. No. Sane at last. I have been mad until now. I have drunk loneliness and death. Here I breathe, grateful, glad as a flower! My breast swells and falls as a bird's throat with happy song! O, aunt, help me to accept this fair new life--the only real life! Do not drive me back to gloom and the devils! Give me your Virginia! Mrs. C. A child, Edgar! A child! Poe. To you--only to you. She has her full dower of beauty--womanhood's portion. Mrs. C. She has a right to her education. I can not wrong my child. Poe. I will teach her--teach her more than she will ever learn at the great mess table of knowledge where the genius must take his treacle and the blacksmith his ambrosia! O, aunt, you will give her to me? Mrs. C. Edgar, I love you dearly,--but--my little girl--my Virginia-- Poe. (Bitterly) There is a difference then. She is yours, I am not. Mrs. C. Do not be cruel. I am a distracted mother! Poe. My dear aunt! (Virginia runs into yard and flings her arms about her mother) Vir. O, mama, uncle had to stop at Judge Carroll's and they got into an argument and Mrs. Carroll said they would be at it for hours--she knew by the way the judge was filling his pipe--and told me to run back if I wanted to--Mama! Edgar! What is the matter? Mrs. C. Edgar does not want you to leave home, dear. Poe. Tell her all, aunt. (Mrs. Clemm is silent. Poe takes Virginia's hand) Poe. Virginia, you who have the face of a houri, the form of a sylph, and the heart of an angel, will you be my wife? Mrs. C. Edgar! Poe. My gentle one, can I not teach you to love me? Vir. Teach me? Ah, I love you now, Edgar! Mrs. C. Virginia! Vir. I do! I do, mama! And oh, what happiness beyond my dream--to be--his wife! (Poe embraces her gently and draws her toward the garden, right. They go out slowly. Mrs. Clemm turns toward the cottage, weeping. At the step she hesitates, looks toward the garden, and slowly goes after them, murmuring distractedly) Zu. (Who has observed the scene with growing horror) Fo' de Lawd, fo' de Lawd, bless dem two babies! O, de signs am all wrong! Miss Babylam' came back when she done start away! An' Freddy bird hop right on my ol' wool dis mawnin', kase why, he want tell me sumpin gwine happen to Babylam'. An', oh, dis po' ol' niggah is kilt, kase dis is de day Miss Babylam's fadder done die! De missus she go 'bout cryin' dis mawnin, an' I allus 'member she do dat dis bery day! Wha' make Mars Nelson come fo' Babylam'? O, fo de Lawd, fo de Lawd! (Tat and Bony stare at their mother in terror as she proceeds) I see de black hawk what flies outen de dead swamp! Ooo! I see knives a drippin' an' guns a poppin'! Oooooooo! I see de coffin, de coffin--an' it's all dark night, an' de rain comin' down de chimney--an' de wind--de wind--it say "Ooooooooooo!" (Bends her knees and body, and stares moaning. Tat and Bony cling to her skirts. She turns on them with a scream, at which they tumble to the ground) Wha' yo' doin' heah, yo' black no 'count niggahs? (Enter from the gate the old minister, Doctor Barlow) Doctor B. Good morning, Mum Zurie. You seem to be agitated. Can I help you? Zu. Lawd, no! beg yo' pahdon, sah! I's jes so mighty tickled! Dese heah two niggahs so comicky like! Lawd, no, I wasn't alligated at all, beg yo' pahdon, sah! Doctor B. I'm glad to hear it, Zurie. Is your mistress at home? Zu. Yes, sah. Dey all be in de gahden. Doctor B. I'll just take a walk in there then. (Exit, right) Zu. Wha' make me le'm go in de gahden? My brain it jes all wool and no sense at all! Wha' now he fin' Mars Edgah kissin' Miss Babylam'? Well, ain't dey gwine ter be married? Married! O, lawd! (Throws her apron over her head and sits on the ground. Re-enter Mrs. Clemm and Doctor Barlow. He carries his hat in one hand and mops his brow with the other) Doctor B. Well, well, well! Upon my word! Your nephew--pardon me--is possessed of a rather impetuous spirit--rather impetuous, pardon me! Mrs. C. O, Doctor Barlow, what must I do? You heard him! He wants to be married now--this hour! Doctor B. Trust me, Mrs. Clemm, I shall perform no ceremony without your full consent. Mrs. C. O, I am sure of that! But must I consent? If I refuse him he may take her away from me. And Nelson will make trouble if we wait. Edgar will let no one oppose him. Doctor B. _I_ should not attempt it, Mrs. Clemm. Mrs. C. If it _is_ to be, it is better to let it be now. What makes me so helpless is the fact that Virginia is against me. She loves him. Doctor B. Naturally, Mrs. Clemm, naturally. (They enter the cottage) Zu. Wha' dat man talk so now? He better quit preachin' ef he can't hep folks no more 'n dat! Sho', ol' Zurie hussef know dat much! (Enter from the road a swarm of girls. They wear graceful organdie gowns, and large ricestraw hats trimmed with bows and streamers. Some carry baskets, which they drop, and all troop about the yard) Gertrude. Where's Virginia, Mum Zurie? Zu. (Hesitating) She wa' in de house 'bout so long ago. Ger. I'll see! Zu. Wait a minute! Mis' Clemm she an' de minister talkin' on impo'tant business. Maybe it's dat mortgage, I dunno! (Grimaces) Ger. We'll go into the garden then. (All start, right) Zu. Law, you jes oughter see dat cherry tree hangin' full by de back gate! Girls. O! O! O! (They rush off, disappearing behind the cottage. Re-enter Poe and Virginia from the garden as Mrs. Clemm appears at the front door) Vir. O, 'tis too sweet to be true! How have I won you, Edgar? Poe. By beauty, that speaks loudest when most silent. (Mrs. Clemm meets them) God bless you, aunt. I see 'yes' in your eyes. You could not deny me. Mrs. C. No. Poe. Run, Virginia, and put on your fairy's dress! I want you to look as if you were leaping out of a flower into my heart! (Virginia goes in) O this beautiful world! Just to live, my aunt! Is it not enough? Literature is disease! The sick-robe of the soul! Who can write that does not _live_--and who that _lives_ would write! But I must do it--I must work for her. Not a wind shall blow upon my Virginia! I will find the fairy paths for her feet! Not a satyr shall leer from the wood! She will be ready soon. I shall wait for her in the orchard. I would not see her again until she is mine--all mine! (Exit, left, singing) 'Come, Apollo's pipes are merry--' (Mrs. Clemm goes in) Zu. (Rising) I don' reckon it make no difference 'bout dis heah bush now! (Goes to side door and sits on step disconsolately. The girls come running back) Mabel. Here's the finest cherry on the tree for the prettiest mouth! Open, who gets it! (Girls open their mouths. Mabel eats cherry) Gertrude. O, vanity! Mab. No, I just took it for Virginia. Annie. Let's play _Ant'ny Over_ while we're waiting! Where's a ball? Bony, get a ball! Bony. Can't do it, missis! Y'all los' it las' time yo's all here! Dora. _Marlow Bright_ then! Half with me and half with Mabel! (Girls divide, the two companies taking opposite bases some distance apart) Dora. Marlow, marlow, marlow bright! How many miles to the old turnpike? Mab. Three score and ten! Dora. Can we get there by candle light? Mab. Yes, if your toes are tripping light! Dora. Any robbers on the way? Mab. Three blind witches, so they say, And Robin Hood with all his _men_! (With the last word the girls exchange bases, the travellers, with Dora, trying to reach the opposite base without being caught by the robbers with Mabel. Virginia comes to the door of cottage) Annie. There's Virginia! (Girls stop playing as Virginia joins them) Gert. How pretty you look! Mab. You're a _real_ nymph! Annie. Come, let's be off now! (Picks up a basket) Vir. Girls--I--there isn't going to be any picnic. Girls. No picnic! Vir. But a wedding. Girls. A wedding! Where? Where? Vir. Right here--under the bay tree. Girls. Who? Who? Vir. Why--cousin Edgar--and-- Girls. You! you! (All talk at once in excited babble. Virginia breaks from them and runs into the house. Girls keep tumultuous talk partly distinguishable) Gert. He's so handsome! Sallie. He's a prince! Annie. Too young to be married! Ethel. He's twenty! Gladys. Older! Mab. No! Mamie. Virginia is a baby! Alma. She's taller than any of us! Annie. But younger! Sallie. Yonder's Allie Kirby! Mamie. Won't she be surprised! I wasn't one bit! Annie. Nor I! Other Girls. Nor I! Nor I! Ethel. I'll tell her! Annie. No, let me! Other Girls. I will! I will! (As Allie enters all the girls rush to her and talk at once, trying to tell her the news. Mrs. Clemm and Virginia come out of the house and join them) Mrs. C. My little yard never held so many flowers before. Allie. Is it true, Mrs. Clemm? Annie. Of course it is! But you're not going to let him take her away from us! Mrs. C. No, my dears. She will be one of you still. Vir. Where is Edgar? Bony. 'Deed, he wah in de orchard 'bout two drecklys ago. Vir. He doesn't know I'm ready. I'll go tell him! Girls. Do! do! Mrs. C. Daughter! Girls. Do let her go, Mrs. Clemm! Mab. We'll all go! What fun! Gert. We'll play 'hunt the bridegroom!' (Girls run off, disappearing in various directions) Mrs. C. What will Doctor Barlow think? (Goes in. Allie, the last of the girls, pauses as she passes to the side door where Zurie is sitting) Allie. Why, Mum Zurie, you look as if Miss Virginia were going to be buried instead of married. Zu. (Jumping at the word 'buried') Sho' now, can't Zurie hab de toothache wheneber she please, missus? Allie. Toothache? O, I'm sorry, Mum Zurie. Zu. Mars Edgah he's a mighty fine young man! Yo' won't see no sech grow up roun' _heah_! Allie. But what a pity he isn't rich! Zu. Rich? Wha' fo' Mars Edgah want to be rich? All he got to do is jes scribble, scribble on a piece o' papah, an' de gol' come rollin' down de chimney! Rich! Yo' better say yo' prayers yo' get a Mars Edgah too! Allie. I'll get you to pray for me, Mum Zurie. (Runs away laughing) Zu. Wha' fo' now she say I look lak Miss Babylam' gwine ter be buried? O, de good Lawd hep ol' Zurie! (Goes in. Enter Poe, left. He is moody and disturbed) Poe. I feel it--a wind from out that solitude. It calls me back ... it calls me back.... Vir. (Without, calling) Edgar! Poe. Sweet voice from the fields of the sun! (Prays) Jehovah, guide thou me! (Virginia peers around a shrub) Who could lock life's door on such a face? It is God's gift. I take it. (Virginia comes to him slowly. He takes her in his arms. Mrs. Clemm and the minister come out of the house and pause on the steps looking at them. The girls come rushing back laughing and shouting, and at sight of Poe and Virginia become suddenly silent) (CURTAIN) ACT III. Scene I: Interior of Clemm cottage. A large room simply furnished. Low fire burning in fireplace. Poe at table writing. Suddenly drops pen and picks up two letters) Poe. I must destroy these. She must not know.... My wife.... (drops letters absentmindedly) ... Married. Married? What spirit so subtly fine can mingle here?... Back, back, ye troops of devils damned or angels blest--I know not which to call ye--summoning me to those lone regions of the mind where none may follow! None?... Helen could tread those airy worlds with me!... Helen!... Far, far as zenith stars that ride the blue meridian thou art, and I, deep, deep, to nadir sink! (Drops his head to the table) Virginia. (Without) Edgar! (He lifts his head smiling as she enters) Vir. (Holding out a book) O, I know the alphabet! I can say it all! (Gives him the book) Watch now, and see if I make a mistake! Edgar. (Smiling.) I'll hardly need the book, dear. Vir. (Pouting.) O, I forget that you know everything! Poe. Not everything. (Taking her face between his hands as she sits on his knee, the book falling at their feet) I do not know how to be happy when this beautiful face is gone. My wife is the fairest lady in all the world. Vir. Then what does it matter about this old Greek, Edgar? (Touching book with her foot) Poe. Just this. You can not always be young and beautiful, and when you are no longer the fairest I want you to be the wisest. Vir. And if I am you will love me always? Poe. Always. Vir. Give me the book! (Picks it up) O, I will eat Greek! I will breakfast with the heroes, dine with the bards, and sup with the gods! But what a pity one must begin with the alphabet to end with--what were those lovely lines I found in your book yesterday? And Helen on the walls rose like a star, And every Trojan said 'she's worth our blood,' And every Greek ploughed new his way to her-- Go on, Edgar! I'm sure you know them! (As she repeats the lines he presses her head to his shoulder and puts his hand over her eyes. His face is full of agony, but there is only sweetness in his voice.) Poe. Not now, my little wife. Some other time. Vir. Helen is such a beautiful name. I wish I had been named Helen. Poe. Thank God you are not! Vir. (Looking up hastily) Why-- Poe. I mean that I want you to be just as you are--my Virginia--nothing else! Vir. (Seeing he is troubled) I am keeping you from your work. You should have sent me away. I'll be angry with you, Edgar, if you let me disturb you. Now I'm going to find the last rose of summer for you. Poe. But you haven't said your lesson. Vir. O! (begins) Alpha, beta,--now if I say them right you are to give me a kiss for reward! Poe. And if you miss one, I'll give you a kiss for encouragement. Vir. (Seeing letter) O, a letter from New York! You've made me your secretary, you know, and of course I must read your letters! (Picks it up and glances at it) He says Mr. Willis will certainly give you a place on his paper. (Drops letter and looks at him quietly) It is your chance for fortune. Poe. I am not going, love. Vir. If you go now it means success, if you wait failure. Poe. I shall not go, Virginia. Vir. If you were not married you would go. Poe. Then I am glad I can not go. Vir. But you _can_ go, Edgar. Poe. My darling, I will never take you away from your mocking birds and roses. Don't you think any more about it. Run away now and find me a flower. You will have to look sharp under the leaves, for the wind is whistling to-day. Our little sham winter has begun to bluster. (Exit Virginia) She shall not suffer. She shall not! Though my heart surges like a prisoned sea hers shall not move her bosom's alabaster!... Why didn't I burn that letter. (Throws it into the fire. Take up the other one) I must keep the lawyer's. I shall need it. (Puts it in his pocket) Now work--work--work--(Resumes writing) '_The Kingdom of the Sun is peopled with beings whose distinguishing attribute is color instead of form as with us. This color varies with each thought of the spirit that it invests, and also with the eye that beholds it. There is no need to pellet the ear with rude words, for the most refined meanings and emotions are conveyed by these subtle variations of color coming and going like breathing light. Were--_' (Enter Mrs. Clemm) Mrs. C. Edgar, dear, your breakfast has been waiting two hours. Poe. O, thank you, aunt. Don't trouble about me this morning. I shall want nothing. Mrs. C. But, Edgar, my son, I must speak. You do not sleep and eat as people should who wish to live long for those who love them. Poe. Dear aunt, pray--we'll talk about it some other time. I _must_ work now! Mrs. C. I am sorry to disturb you, love, but there is one question I must ask you. Have you heard from the lawyer? (Poe is silent) A letter came. I thought you would tell me, and not force me to ask about what I must know. Is the place sold? Poe. No. Mrs. C. But it will be? We must lose our home? Poe. No, darling mother! I am going to pay off everything! This very article I am writing will bring me fame if I finish it. So please help me by not worrying one bit, and don't let our Virginia suspect anything. Mrs. C. It would kill her! O, Edgar, I have been wanting to tell you how grateful I am to you for your gentleness to her. Though she looks so strong, she has been frail from her birth. I know that she must die early. I ought to have told you--that day--but I could think of nothing. You will forgive me, Edgar? She is such a child. I wonder at your patience. But you will never be impatient with her, Edgar? Poe. If I am, may God that moment end my villain's life! Go now, sweet mother, for I must work, and remember that you are to be troubled about nothing. (Exit Mrs. Clemm, right, rear) Goodbye, Art! Thou pure chrystalline dream! I must turn my brain into a mint and coin money! O, Poesy, thou only divine mistress given to man, some day I will return to thee! (Writes) '_Were zephyrs made visible by means of ever changing hues--_' (Bony and Tat rush into the room. Poe glares at them with a face of fury. They turn to fly panic-stricken. Tat trips on a chair and lies moaning. Poe goes to her) Poe. (Gently) Are you hurt, Tatsy? Bony. (At door, turning back, suddenly impudent at sound of Poe's softened voice) She jes sullin', Mars Edgah. She play possum like dat wid me! Poe. Get out, you little imp! (Bony vanishes) Where are you hurt, Tatsy? (She moans bitterly) Poor little girl! Her foot is twisted. A sprain perhaps. (Picks her up and carries her to sofa) Never mind! I've got a fairy in a bottle will cure that in a jiffy. Just rub it on, and ho, Tatsy is well again! (Enter Zurie, Bony clinging to her) Zu. Wha' my chile? Lawdy God, my chile sho' 'nuf hurt! (Goes to Tatsy) Poe. It's the foot, Zurie. Be careful! Zu. Yas, I's seen dat foot befoh! (Gives foot a yank) Dat's her ol' trick, Mars Edgah. She jes foolin' yo'! Don' yo' be so soft hearted next time. Yo' jes take her by de back ob de neck and wring her head off! Poe. I certainly will! (Exit Zurie, drawing Tat. Poe goes back to his work. Groans, and looks with desperation at his manuscript) Poe. O, if this eludes me! I must not lose it now! (Writes) '_In this Kingdom of the Sun there is a central creating light that plays upon these color-beings with its own transmuting--_' (Re-enter Mrs. Clemm, bearing a tray) Mrs. C. My dear, I've brought you some toast and an egg. Poe. (Jumping up and staring at her) They don't eat toast and eggs in the Kingdom of the Sun! Mrs. C. Edgar! Poe. Forgive me! It's just something I'm writing here. But for God's sake take the stuff away! (Mrs. Clemm turns to go, the tray trembling in her hands. Poe runs to her and kisses her) You sweetest and best of mothers, don't you see that if I eat this I'll spend the next two hours digesting toast and eggs, and if I don't eat it I'll be making our fortune, putting a roof over our heads, and keeping our Virginia happy! Mrs. C. I only meant to be kind, Edgar. Poe. I know you did, and you're my darling mother,--but don't be kind any more. (Exit Mrs. Clemm. Poe sits despairingly at table. Enter Ethel and Annie) Eth. O, Edgar, where is Virginia? We want her to go nutting with us. Annie. We shall have her now! You shan't keep her all to yourself just because you've married her! Poe. Take her by all means! Eth. You needn't be vicious about it. Where is she? Poe. I don't know,--and pardon if I say that just at this moment I don't care! (Gathers up papers and goes toward stairway in corner of room) Annie. You needn't run from us. I'm sure we're glad to go. I'll find Virginia. Eth. And I'll write that note to Gladys while you're gone. (Seats herself in Poe's chair. Exit Annie, left, rear) Come back, if you want to, Edgar. You won't disturb me at all. (Writes. Poe pauses on stairway and looks at her. Ethel lifts her eyes) You needn't look so far to see me. I'm not the North Pole! What _are_ you thinking of, Edgar? Poe. Of what Anacreon said to a fly that lighted on his brow when he was composing an ode to Venus. Ethel. O! What was it? Poe. Away, thou rude and slight impertinence, That with thy puny and detested bill Dost think to feed on immortality. (Goes upstairs) Ethel. Beast! (Writes) Virginia spoils him. If I had him now I'd soon make a nice comfortable husband out of him!... An envelope?... Yes.... (Takes one) Stamp?... Yes.... (Takes one) I'll get Bony to mail this for me. (Exit, right, rear. Poe comes down stairway) Poe. Gone? Deliverance! It's too chilly for work upstairs. (Coughs) What shall I do here this winter with only one comfortable room in the house? Keep warm by the fire in my brain, I suppose. (Sits and writes. Virginia is heard without, humming a song. She enters, left, front, with a rose in her hand) Vir. Darling, I found it deep under the leaves--Oh! (Starts out softly. Poe writes on without looking up. At the door she turns and throws the rose towards him. It falls onto the table and upsets ink over papers) Poe. (Leaping up) By every fiend in hell! (Mrs. Clemm rushes in, followed by Zurie, Tat and Bony) Mrs. C. My son, what is the matter? Poe. See what that child has done! Mrs. C. (With dignity) Your wife, Edgar. Poe. My wife! Great God! O, Helen! Helen! (Rushes from the room, left rear) Bony. I tol' yo' he wah mad! I done tol' yo' Mars Edgah gone mad! He look at me jes so! (Mimics) Tat. (Looking through window) Dah he go now troo de orchard jes a runnin'! Bony. Obah de fence! Tat. An' no hat on! Zu. Stop yo' mouf an' come out o' heah, yo' wussless niggahs! I make yo' know wha' yo' b'longs! (Takes them out) Mrs. C. O, Virginia! What an hour for you! Vir. What an hour for _him_, mamma! Mrs. C. Strange child! Not to think of yourself! Vir. How can I, when he is suffering so? Mrs. C. My angel daughter! Vir. (Kissing her) We will be brave, my mother. I hear the girls. Go to them one moment--do! (Exit Mrs. Clemm) ... Helen! Dear God above! (Drops on her knees by a chair. After a moment of agony, rises, goes to table and looks at papers) What is it I have ruined? (Reads silently) O, what beauty!... I think I can make this out and copy it for him. But now he may never finish it. The heavenly moment is gone ... and I robbed him of it.... I, who should guard him and keep the world away. That is my little part--too little, God knows! O, if I could really help him! (Enter Ethel and Annie) Eth. O, Virginia, now that we're rid of that troublesome husband let's have one of our good old-fashioned times! We'll sit by the fire and tell tales. It's too cold anyway to go to the woods. Vir. (Absently) Edgar is there. Annie. And there let him stay! I'm sure it's better for both of you. You hang about him too much, Virginia. He'll quit loving you, mamma says he will, if you're not more sensible. Help me draw up this sofa, Ethel. (They pull sofa to the fire. Annie settles herself comfortably) I feel just like giving you a lecture, Virginia. You must make Edgar go out more. Anybody will get queer shut up here. The other day when mamma asked him to come to our party he wasn't more than half polite when he refused, and we were going to have Mr. Melrose Libbie to meet him too. Said his work would keep him at home! Now you know, Virginia, that poetry isn't work. It's just dash off a line now and then, and there you are! Mr. Libbie said so. O, he had the sweetest thing on the woman's page in last Sunday's paper! Did you see it? You'd better call Edgar's attention to it. Mamma read it to all of us at the breakfast table, and-- Eth. O, stop your chatter, Annie, and let Virginia tell us one of her fairy stories just as she used to do. We'll forget all about Edgar and make believe she isn't married at all. Vir. (Painfully) Forgive me, dear girls, but I've some work that I must do to-day. Mabel. Must do! Who ever heard the like? Vir. I was wrong. It is some work that I choose to do--that it will be my happiness to do. Ethel. For Edgar? Vir. Yes. Annie. You are a little fool! Vir. Yes ... I am a little fool. Ethel. O, there's help for you if you know it! Vir. If I were not a little fool I could be of more help to Edgar. Ethel and Annie. Oh! Annie. (Jumping up) Then we can't stay to-day! Vir. I am so sorry--but-- Annie. O, we might as well give you up first as last! (Exeunt girls) Vir. (Sits at table and stares at the papers) ... A little fool ... a little fool. (CURTAIN) Scene II: Same room as before. Night. Virginia sits motionless in the dim firelight. Mrs. Clemm comes softly down the stairs) Mrs. C. Virginia? Vir. Naughty mamma! You said you would sleep. What a story to tell your little girl! Mrs. C. (Advancing) The rain--wakes me. (Comes to fire) Did Edgar take his cloak, dear? Vir. No, mother. Mrs. C. Are you not cold in that dress, darling? Vir. O no--quite comfortable--and Edgar likes me in white, you know. (A window rattles. Both look anxiously toward the door) Mrs. C. What a gust!... I wonder what winter is like at the north. (Virginia looks at her quickly, and both drop their eyes) ... To think of him out on a night like this! And he has not been well lately. Had he no purpose? Did he say _nothing_ when he went out? Vir. He said he was going to seek Truth. Mrs. C. And what does he mean by truth, Virginia? Vir. O, I don't know. When he is talking I understand, but when he is gone it all fades and I know nothing about it. Mrs. C. Nor does Edgar, mark me, dear. He is trying to know things that the wise God decreed should remain unknown to mortals. That is what makes him so unhappy.... Did he eat his breakfast this morning, Virginia? Vir. No, mamma. Mrs. C. Did he take any food yesterday?... Tell me, daughter. I can not help you if I do not know. (Virginia begins to sob) There! there, darling! A little patience and we'll get him over this. Vir. O, mother! Mrs. C. Come here, my little girl. (Takes Virginia in her arms) Now tell me! Don't let the heart go heavy when mother ears are waiting. Vir. He ... goes out at night ... and I follow him because it kills me to think of him wandering alone. We were on Burney hill last night. Mrs. C. Five miles!... Then that is what these pale cheeks and dark eyes mean! And Edgar let you go! Vir. No! I _go_! I am not a child, mother. Ah, I knew you would not understand! Mrs. C. Yes, yes, I do, Virginia. I know he suffers, but you-- Vir. Don't speak of me! You shame me! Were I to lie down on those coals my torture would be less than his. Remember that, mother. When you doubt, as you surely will, remember that I told you, and I know. His mind is a _living_ thing, throbbing through his body and leaving him no shield of flesh. O, mamma, help him! Promise me! You will never forsake him? Mrs. C. Never, my love. Vir. I would not have told you, but my strength is gone, and somebody must know,--somebody who is strong. (A gust shakes the window) O, my darling! Out in that blackness alone! And if I were there I could say nothing. That is the pity of it, mamma. I have no words, and thought without tongue is nothing so long as we are mortal and wear these bodies. Some day it may be enough just to _be_ a soul, but not now--not now! Mrs. C. O, my daughter! Vir. Promise me, mamma, that if I die you will find Helen. _She_ could help him! Mrs. C. (Rising) Virginia, if you say another word like that I shall think you are mad--or I am! (Bursts into weeping) Vir. Darling, darling mother! Now I have given you all my burdens you will grow weak under them, and I want strength, strength by my side! Mrs. C. (Calm) You must go to bed, dear. I will wait for Edgar. Vir. No, no! Mrs. C. I will coax him to eat something. Vir. (Smiling sadly) Coax him, mamma? Mrs. C. Yes, dear. Go now. Vir. I can not. Mrs. C. I command you, my daughter. Vir. Please do not command me. You have never had to pardon disobedience in me. Mrs. C. Nor shall I have cause now. Obey me, Virginia. Vir. Would you send me into hell, mother? Mrs. C. Daughter! Vir. That is what a bed is to me when Edgar is out like this. Mrs. C. You make too much of these wanderings. Night and day are alike to him. Vir. Ah, it is not the night that I fear!... Go, mamma! It is you who must rest. O, how we need these strong arms--this clear head! I shall nod in my chair for the thought of you getting your needed rest will bring the winks to my own eyes. Come! (Draws her toward stairway) I promise you that I will sleep in the big chair as snug and tight as kitty herself. (Kisses her) Mrs. C. (On the stairs) I can not leave my sick child to watch. You ask me to do an inhuman thing, Virginia. I will not go. Vir. Mother!... Do not let me hurt you ... the dearest, the most unselfish of mothers ... but it is better for me to meet my husband alone. (Mrs. Clemm turns and goes slowly upstairs. Virginia goes back to fire) Vir. Watch and pray! I can but watch and pray!... He said 'twas love he wanted ... and I brought him that ... love that shakes but with the globe itself. But it does not help ... 'twas all wrong ... all wrong! (Weeps. Rises, and busies herself about an oven on the hearth) Three times I have prepared his supper that it might be fresh enough to tempt him. But now ... I am so tired. I must try to keep this warm. The sight of it may make him angry ... but I must try. (Arranges some clothes on a chair) He will be so wet with the rain. Ah, I can do nothing ... nothing. (Looks toward door) He is coming! Strength, strength. O my God! (Poe throws door open. Turns and speaks as if to companions outside) Poe. Goodnight, goodnight, brave Beauty's fearless angels! (Comes in) Well, Dame Venus, what thoughts for your hobbling Vulcan? Vir. (Brightly) My Hermes, you mean. I'm sure you're feather-footed, you go so far and fast. Poe. Why, sweet-mouth, a kiss for that! (Kisses her) Vir. O, my love, you are dripping with the rain. Poe. Well, and so are the trees. Not a leaf out there but is shaking her pearls. Who flies from Nature but man? Let her be terrible, glorious, worthy of his eyes and his heart, and forthwith he takes to his hole. Vir. I hate her to-night. She kept me from following you. Poe. Virginia! (Seizes her hands, crushing them in his, and gazing at her with fierce earnestness) Never do that again! Never again! (Lets her hands fall, and turns toward door as if he must go out. Her eyes follow him eagerly, but she tries to speak carelessly) Vir. Here are your dry things, dear, and I've kept something hot for your supper. Poe. (Turning) Yes ... this is a very valuable skin of mine. Make it comfortable. But what of me, Virginia? That something here burning with fires that would brighten Olympos' head! Have you no welcome for me? (Virginia is silent) Why are you so pale? Light all the lamps! You should not sit in the dark. There are no stars in this den! Vir. (Hurriedly lighting lamp) I'm sorry, love, but last night you wanted the dark--don't you remember? Poe. No, I don't remember. Memory is a hyena, always scratching up our dead selves! You must not remember, Virginia! Vir. Yes, dear. Poe. Forgive me, love. O, I am driving myself mad! Selling myself to the devil of prose that I may bring in that fool's litter--money, money, money--and for what? That we may feed the flesh that devours our souls, and hang such rubbish as this on our backs! (Sweeps garments from chair) O, Virginia, if you were brave enough we would forget these rags of the body and go like spirits to meet our brothers of the night! They are all out there! Will you go with me, my bride? Vir. O, Edgar! Poe. Ha! You would rather ask them in to have something dry and something hot! But I must have the air! (Throws door open. Lightning flashes on falling rain. Virginia shrinks from the wind) Hear those winds! Gathering lost souls to the bosom of Night! Feel those drops! Every one of them the tear of a fallen god! O, is it nothing but rain? Ha! ha! ha! (Virginia coughs. Poe closes the door hastily. She coughs again) Poe. Don't, Virginia! Vir. Yes, dear. Poe. My angel! (Embraces her. She coughs) O, it is these wet clothes! (Throws off coat, picks up dressing gown from the door and puts it on hurriedly) Vir. (Eagerly) Your slippers too, dear! Poe. Yes, yes, my slippers! (Puts them on. Sits in big chair, taking her on his knee, and embracing her tenderly) What made you cough, Virginia? Vir. O, 'twas nothing, dear. 'Tis all right now. Everything is all right. Poe. Is it, little wisdom? O, ye gods! Vir. (Concealing anxiety) Darling? Poe. What, my beautiful earth-bird? Vir. You will take your supper now? Poe. (Impatiently) No, no! Is there any wine in the house? Vir. Yes, love, but-- Poe. I must have it! Quick! I shall faint. Vir. (Rising) No, Edgar. It is food you need. Poe. (Rising) Where is it? Vir. O, my dearest! Poe. Tell me, Virginia! (Goes toward a closet) Vir. (Getting before him) If you were reaching for a cup of poison, Edgar, I would risk my life, ay, risk your love, to dash it from you. And wine is your poison. I can not let you drink death. Poe. Death! It is all the life that is left to me, and you deny it! Vir. Be quiet, love. You will wake our mother. Poe. Down, gods, and let the lady sleep! Vir. She is not well, Edgar. Poe. But she will be well to-morrow, and I--I am immortally sick and you deny me a drop of wine. Vir. O, my poor boy! I'm so sorry for you! Poe. And is that all, O Heaven? I'm her poor boy, and she is so sorry for me! Why, here's a heart that loosens in its throbs the birth-song of new stars! Come, strike thy chime with mine, and though all bells upon the planet jingle, in us will still be music! Vir. O, Edgar! Poe. Well? Vir. I can not speak. Poe. Virginia, Virginia! I pour out my soul to you! I keep back no drop of its sea! From the infinite, shrouded sources of life I rush to you in a thousand singing rivers, only to waste, to burn, to die on the sands of silence! (She remains motionless, her head bowed) ... It is so still upon the eternal peaks. Will you not come up with me and be the bride of my dreams? You need not speak ... you need not say a word. Only put the light of poesy in your eyes and let me _see_ that through the channel of their beauty course the mysteries that begin with God and end not with time! (She looks at him. He gazes into her eyes) ... Tears ... only tears. (Turns away) Can a soul's _eyes_ be dumb? (She sits, weeping silently) ... Come then ... talk of what you will. Only talk! You have read a little Byron to-day? The new magazine came? And you have made me a handkerchief? (She sobs. He looks at her remorsefully, crosses the room, gets her harp and brings it to the fireside) Come ... sing to me, Virginia. You can do that. Vir. (Taking harp) What shall I sing, dear? Poe. Something to charm the very heart of �olus! That will turn a tempest into a violet's breath! Vir. Ah, my love! Poe. O, sing--sing anything! Vir. (Sings) Great and calm, cool-bosomed blue, Take me to the heart of you! Not where thy blue mystery Sweeps the surface of the sea, Leaving in a dying gleam Living trouble of a dream; Not where loves of heaven lie Rosy 'gainst the upper sky Burning with an ardent touch Where an angel kissed too much; But where sight and sound come not, All of life and love forgot, All of Heaven forfeited For thy deep Nirvana bed. Wide and far enfolding blue, Take me to the heart-- (Her voice breaks suddenly) Poe. Virginia! (She coughs) Don't! (Her cough increases. She puts her handkerchief to her lips. Poe takes it from her hand and looks at it.) Blood! (Throws handkerchief into the fire, and stands as if paralyzed, gazing at Virginia. Falls at her feet and begins kissing her skirt) My angel! my angel! I have killed my little bride! Vir. (Urging him gently up) No, dear. I was marked for this from birth. My doom was written by Heaven, not you. Poe. Not doom, my Virginia! (Rising) I will save you, my darling! You shall have everything! With the sickle of a wish you shall harvest the earth! We will sail southern seas! We will follow the Spring as she flies! I will knock at the orient gates and bring thee the health of morning! I'll make the world so bright for thee, Hyperion's self shall wear new gold and shame remembered suns from chronicle! Spring from perfection's heart shall pluck her buds, and set such gloss on Nature she may laud her old self in one violet's requiem! O, I'll sing the world into a flower for thy bosom! My love, my love, my love! (She coughs restrainedly. He hides his face till she stops) Even the senseless oak velvets its rude sides to the tender vine! But I--a man--O, beast too vile for hell! too low to be damned! Vir. Edgar! Poe. Do not touch me! is not the mark here? (Touching his brow) O, where shall I hide it? Vir. (Drawing him to her) On my bosom, Edgar. (Presses him to the large chair and sits on the arm of it, caressing him) This forehead is as pure as heaven-lit ivory of angels' brows! Poe. O, golden heart! (Kisses her over her heart) I will work so hard, Virginia! We shall be rich, and I will take you to some wonderful land where beauty can not die! Will you forgive me then when you are bright and strong in some happy isle of roses? Vir. I will forgive you now, dearest, if you will do one thing for me. Poe. O, what, my darling? Vir. Eat the poor little supper I have cooked for you. Poe. Yes--yes--I'll eat it though it be hell's coals! Vir. Now that's a compliment to your cook, isn't it? (Takes food from oven and puts it on table. Poe eats, at first reluctantly, then hungrily) Poe. It is late--so late! O, my Lenore, you kept up for me! Your weary eyes would not close until they had found their lover! O, can you forgive me, and take me back to your heart? You will love me again? Vir. Ah, Edgar, if love were enough we should always be happy. Poe. Love me, love me, dear! I want no more! And this cough ... we shall stop all that, darling! O, how weary you must be, and you tried to have everything so beautiful for me! How pretty your dress is! You look like a Naiad smiling out of a lily. But it's too cold! Here, I will wrap you! (Puts shawl about her) Ah, little wife, little wife, what evil power locked your gentle heart with mine? Bear with me, love. It will all be different soon. I shall try so hard the gods for pity will not let me fail! See how I have eaten! You may give me more, love. You did not cook this, I know. You stole it from Jove's kitchen. Vir. (Getting food) Yes, I did, and Jove caught me, but he let me go when I told him it was for a poet. Poe. Little witch! (Kisses her) How happy we shall be, Virginia, as soon as I have money. I shall go to New York for a year. It will take only a year. Then I shall come back bringing the lady Fame with me, and you must not be jealous of her. Vir. (Slowly) You--would not--take me? Poe. Why, the north-wind would blow the Spring from my little girl's cheek! Just a year! That is the first step--a cruel one--but we shall be happy when it is over. Just a year, sweetheart! I must take no chances now! I _must_ win! Vir. You shall not leave me! A year will not hurt me, Edgar! But it would kill me to be left here ... and not know ... every minute.... Poe. Do you care so much, Lenore? Then we will both stay here. It will take longer, but I will work harder-- Vir. Enough for to-night. We are too happy for to-morrows, Edgar. Now you must have a long, long sleep-- Poe. No, no! No bed for me to-night! I must work! Vir. No bed, indeed! I did not say bed, my lord! You are going to sit down here (Places him on footstool) and I shall sit here, (settles in chair) and your head in my lap--my hands on your head--and the crooningest of little songs will bring you the sweetest snatch of sleep that you ever, ever had! Poe. O, 'tis heaven, Virginia! But you are too tired, my angel. _You_ must sleep. Vir. And so I shall when my lord shows me the way. (Poe drops his head on her lap. She turns down light. He falls asleep as she sings softly) Like a fallen star on the breast of the sea My lover rests on the heart of me; The lord of the tempest hies him down From his billow-crest to his cavern-throne, And 'tis peace as wide as the eye can see When my lover rests on the heart of me. (Silence. Virginia droops in sleep. No light but dull red coals.) (CURTAIN) ACT IV. Scene I: An old bookstore, New York. Bookseller arranging books. Helen at one side looking over shelves. Poe enters. He wears a military cloak and jaunty cap. Throws book on table and whistles carelessly. Bookseller. (Looking book over doubtfully) Forty cents. Poe. (Loudly) Forty devils! (Helen turns and recognizes him. He does not see her) Look at that binding. You can't get a Shelley put up like that for less than ten dollars. Hel. (Aside) My book! Bookseller. It's badly marked. Poe. Marked! Of course it's marked. And every mark there worth its dollar. In ten years you'll wish the marks were as thick as the letters. Bookseller. Say fifty, and strike off. Not a cent more. Poe. Take it. Hel. To sell my book! (Moves slowly to door) How pale he is! But he is neatly dressed. He can not need fifty cents. To sell my book! I'll speak to him and see if he is past shame. (Steps before Poe as he turns to go out) Hel. Mr. Poe! Don't you remember me? 'Tis delightful to meet an old friend. Poe. (Bowing low) Mrs.... Hel. Yes, I am Mrs. Bridgmore. Poe. My dear Mrs. Bridgmore! The pleasure of years gathers in this happy moment. Are you making holiday purchases? Hel. No ... just poking about. I love these old stores. I see you've made a sale. 'Tis a relief to get rid of old books when we've lost our love for them, isn't it? They take up good room on our shelves pretty much as people do in our lives long after we have ceased to care for their friendship. But what one is weary of another is ready to take up. (To bookseller) May I see the book the gentleman has just disposed of? (To Poe) Anything you have liked will be sure to please me. Poe. O, you are mistaken! I am simply leaving the book to be duplicated if possible for a friend of mine who has taken a fancy to my copy. (Gesticulates to bookseller) One glance, Mrs. Bridgmore, will tell you that the book is not for sale. Hel. Ah ... of course not. Pardon the mistake. It seems to be my fate to blunder where you are concerned. (Icily) Good morning, Mr. Poe. (As she is going out she drops her purse. Poe hastens to pick it up and restores it to her with a bow. In doing so he forgets his shabby coat and throws back his cloak over his arm, exposing a badly worn sleeve. He becomes suddenly conscious of her observation, and straightens up in his most dignified fashion) Hel. Thank you. (Goes out) Poe. (Turning to bookseller) Here! Take your damned silver! Give me my book! Bookseller. A bargain's a bargain, sir. Poe. Bargain! bargain! Do you call that theft a bargain? You parasite! you bookgnat! You insect feeding on men's brains! You worm in the corpse of genius! My book, I say, or by Hector I'll tear your goose-liver from your body, you pocket-itching Jacob! Bookseller. Here! take it! Poe. There's your Judas' blood! (Throws down money and starts out with the book. Enter Brackett) Brackett. (Stopping Poe) Mr. Poe, I believe. Poe. Right, sir. And Brackett, I think your name was when I knew you. Bra. Quite right, Mr. Poe. I saw you coming in here, and though you have changed somewhat with the help of years I was sure it was you. Poe. And how, Mr. Brackett, may that knowledge be of interest to you? Bra. Well, perhaps it does concern you more than myself. Poe. Kindly tell me in what way that I may regret it. Bra. Your pen has been supplying matter for _The Comet_, I believe. Poe. If you have any doubt of it a perusal of that magazine's issues for the past two years will satisfy you. Bra. The returns therefrom have contributed somewhat to your comfort, I suppose. Poe. Do you? Bra. Ah, I am mistaken? Then I have less hesitation to tell you that the articles recently submitted are unavailable. Poe. _You_ tell me! What have you to do with it? Who are you? Bra. I am the present editor of _The Comet_. Poe. You! Bra. I! You see I am in a position to speak with authority,--and it is only just to tell you that your articles will meet with no further recognition in that quarter. Poe. Brackett ... I have been very ill. I wrote those things on what I believed to be my death bed. My wife.... Bra. I should say then that you are in great need of money. Poe. God help me, I am! You know I am not one to beg! Bra. But it's beg or starve with you, eh? (Poe looks at him silently) Well, I should advise you to make application without loss of time to some one who does not know you quite so well as the new editor of _The Comet_. Good morning. Poe. (Calling to him as he stands in door) I say, Brackett! (Brackett turns) _I_ should advise _you_ to change the name of _The Comet_ as well as its editor. Suppose you call it _The Falling Star_? Ha! ha! (Exit Brackett) Curse me for a whining dog--but Virginia-- (Goes out) Bookseller. (Arranging books) Queer chap. We public men get to know all sorts. That book will be mine yet. It's a good seller at ten dollars, and blest if I wouldn't like to help the wretch out with fifty cents. He'll be back. (Enter Helen) Hel. I wish to buy the book the gentleman has just left with you. Bookseller. Why ma'am, he's gone and took it with him. Hel. Took it with him? Bookseller. Yes, ma'am, and thereby I've lost time and trade. (Aside) She'd give fifteen! Hel. He needed money? Bookseller. Well, I should _guess_ so, ma'am. That's the last book he had. He told me about it before. He's been bringin' them all here. I _think_ he'll be back, ma'am, and I'll keep the book for you. Hel. Thank you. (Turns to go. Sees letter on the floor and picks it up) Why, 'tis ... he dropped it! I wonder if I may ... he is suffering ... that shabby coat ... and he is so proud. I think I ought to read it. I must know where to find him. (Looks at letter) Fordham! (Reads) My Dear Son: One last prayer the mother of your Virginia makes to you. She is dying. Come and sit by her and she will carry a smile to her grave. Do not stay away because you can not bear to witness her suffering,--because you have nothing to give her. Come, and by your loving presence lessen her pain. God bless you! Your devoted mother, MARIA CLEMM. (Helen stands trembling and holding the letter) ... And I hurt him ... I hurt him.... (CURTAIN) Scene II: Poe's cottage, Fordham. A room almost bare. Virginia sleeping on bed. Poe's cloak over her. Mrs. Clemm kneeling in prayer beside her. Poe enters, carrying a bundle of broken sticks which he lays down softly, one by one, on the hearth, looking anxiously toward the bed. Mrs. Clemm rises and comes to the fire) Mrs. C. My child, you have been out in the snow without your cloak! (Brushes snow from his shoulders) Poe. Could I take the least warmth from yon shivering angel? Mrs. C. You forget that you, too, are ill. O, my boy, be careful, or I shall soon be childless in the world. One is already lost.... Poe. Not lost. See how she sleeps! She is better. I know she is better. Mrs. C. Since you came. We will hope so, dear. Poe. If she would only speak to us! O, why does she not speak? Not once to-day. Mrs. C. She is very weak, my son. Poe. I could bear it so long as she could tell us there was no pain ... but now she only looks at us.... Oh-- Mrs. C. You will control yourself for her sake. Poe. Yes, yes, for her sake. Mrs. C. It will take her last breath to see you disturbed. Poe. I know! I know! Have no fear, mother. I am strong now. Vir. Edgar! (He flies to the bed) Poe. My darling! Vir. I am better, dear. Mamma! (Mrs. Clemm goes to her) I feel so rested, mamma. Poe. I told you! She is better! And you will sit up a little now, dear? I will carry you to the fire. Mrs. C. My boy! Poe. O, mother, don't you see how well she is? Look at her cheeks--her eyes--how beautiful! Vir. (Smiling) Hear him, mamma! How proud he is! He must always have it that his wife is beautiful. Poe. But it is so true, my dearest! Vir. Let me believe it, for it is sweet to think that I have been that, at least, to you. Poe. O, my darling, you have been everything! Vir. You think so now, dear, and I love to hear you say it. Poe. And you will get well for me? Vir. No, O no! That would bring all your troubles back. You will live a great life, Edgar, when you have left this little care-bundle of a wife behind you. Poe. O, don't, Virginia! I shall do nothing without you! Vir. You will do everything. I am the wise one now, Edgar. And, dear, while I can talk ... I must ask you ... must beg you ... I must hear you say that you forgive me. Poe. Forgive you! Vir. Yes, dear. I was so young ... I thought I could help you ... and so I let you marry me. I did not know. I thought because I loved you so much that I could make you happy. But women who can only love are not the women who help. They must be wise and strong too, and oh, so many other wonderful things. If they are not, then all the love only hurts and makes things go wrong. Poe. O, little angel! Vir. Yes ... little angel ... when I ought to have been a brave, great angel who could bear heaven on her wings. Long ago I knew it, Edgar. When the truth came I looked every way and there was no help. Then when I found I was to die, it seemed that God had pitied and helped me. For that was the only way.... O, these little women who can do nothing but love! I wish I could take them all with me. These tears are for them, not for myself, darling. O, I am happy, but they must wait ... they can not die. How you shiver! You must take your cloak. I am warm now. Indeed, I am quite comfortable.... Don't--don't weep. You must be happy because I am. Let us smile the rest of the time, darling,--it--is such a little while. Poe. (Brokenly) Yes ... yes.... O little flower, little flower, dropping back to God's bosom, how have I dared to touch thee! Vir. (Rubbing her hand on his arm) 'Tis damp! You have been out? O, my dear, you must, must take your cloak! I am quite, quite warm! See, feel my hands! (Smiling) Poe. (Taking her hands) Little icicles! Vir. You have been out! O, save yourself for the great things ... now I am going out of your way. Don't let my death be as vain as my life. Let that count for something, Edgar. O, promise me you will live for your genius' sake, you will be true to your heavenly gift! Kneel by me and promise! Poe. I ... promise. Vir. Dear husband ... I.... (faints) Mrs. C. O, she is gone! Poe. No! She faints! My beautiful idol! O, some wine! Heaven and earth for some wine! Mrs. C. She looks at us! My daughter! Poe. O, do not try to speak! Let your beautiful eyes do all the talking! Mrs. C. She looks toward the fire. She would have you go, Edgar, and try to keep warm. Come, dear. (Poe kisses Virginia gently, and goes to fireside, looking back adoringly) Do not look at her, and she will sleep again. Poe. Ah, God! It will take more than sleep to help her. And I can give her nothing--nothing! Mrs. C. Don't, Edgar! Remember your terrible illness--how you worked for her when fever was burning your brain--until your pen fell from your hand. Poe. I brought her to this land of ice and snow! Mrs. C. No. Destiny brought her. We lost our home. Your work was here--and she would not stay behind you. Poe. A _man_ would have saved her! Mrs. C. O, my boy, do not take this burden on your soul! For once spare yourself! Poe. I can not even give her food! Mrs. C. (Restraining him) My son, she sleeps. Poe. Yes ... sleep ... let me not rob her of that too! Be quiet ... just be quiet ... while she dies. (Seats himself with strange calmness) Come, mother, let us be cheerful. Take this chair. Let us be rational. Let us think. Death is strange only because we do not think enough. God must breathe. Life is the exhalation, death the inhalation of deity. He breathes out, and the Universe flames forth with all her wings--her suns and clusters of suns--down to her mote-like earth, the butterfly of space, trimmed with its gaudy seasons, and nourishing on its back the parasitical ephemeran, Man! Mrs. C. My love-- Poe. Be calm, mother. Be calm. Then the great inbreathing begins. The creative warmth no longer goes out. The parasites vanish first, then the worlds on which they ride, and last the mighty suns,--all sink into the still, potential unity, and await the recurrent breath which may bear another universe, unlike our own, where the animate may control the inanimate, the organic triumph over the inorganic,--(rising) ay, man himself may dominate nature, control the relentless ecliptic, and say to the ages of ice and fire 'Ye shall not tread on me!' Mrs. C. Edgar! Poe. I beg your pardon. We must be calm. (Resumes his seat) But God will not stop breathing (with bitter sarcasm) though your daughter--and my wife--is dying. (Mrs. Clemm weeps. He turns to the window) Do you know that elephants once nibbled boughs out there where the snow is falling? They ran a mighty race--and died--but no tears were shed. In the records of the cosmos, if man is written down at all, I think he will be designated as the 'weeping animal.' Mrs. C. Are you human? Poe. I regret that I belong to that feeble and limited variety of creation, but with the next self-diffusion of the concentrated Infinite I may be the Sun himself! Mrs. C. O, my mother-heart! Poe. Think a little more and you will forget it. The heart makes the being there on the bed your daughter--my wife--but the mind makes her a part of the divine force which has chosen her shape for its visible flower. The heart is wrung by the falling of the bloom, for it is endeared to that only, but the mind rejoices in its reunited divinity. Come.... (Moves a step toward the bed) I can look on her now ... and be quiet. Sweet rose, I can watch your petals fall. But they fall early ... they fall early ... blasted in the May. Not by the divine breath drawing you home, but by my mortal, shattering hand! I promised you sun and dew.... I have given you frost and shadows. O God! O God! let me _not_ think! Keep me a little, weeping child! Mrs. C. Dear son, cast out this bitterness. Only your love and devotion have kept her alive so long. Poe. No! I touched her like a wing of doom, and she fell blasted! (She tries to soothe him) No, no! Call devils from hell to curse me! (A knock at the door. Mrs. Clemm opens it and a basket is delivered to her. Poe, deep in agony, does not notice. She takes things from the basket) Mrs. C. O, Edgar! Wine, and soft blankets! (He looks up, and rushes across to her) Poe. Wine! wine! O, spirit that bendest from pitying clouds, a mortal thanks thee! Quick, mother, these drops of strength will give her back to us! Mrs. C. She sleeps, my son, which is ease more precious than these drops can give. Poe. (Taking bottle) Give it to me! Mrs. C. Edgar, Edgar, do not wake her! Poe. Lenore, Lenore, out of thy dream, though 't were the fairest ever blown to mortal from Elysium! This will put thee to such smiles that dreams-- Mrs. C. Be quiet, for God's sake! Poe. Quiet! 'Tis a word for clods and stones! You'd hold me from her when my hand brings life? (Rushes to cupboard and gets a glass which he fills) Mrs. C. Just a little, Edgar. Too much would-- Poe. She shall drink it all, by Heaven! I will save her! (Mrs. Clemm sinks to a chair, helpless and sobbing. A knock at the door which neither hears. Enter Helen. As Poe turns to approach the bed he faces her, stares, and lets the glass drop shivering) Poe. You! Hel. I, Edgar. You see I can remember my friends--and I've come to scold you for not--letting me know-- Poe. It was you who sent-- Hel. Some blankets soft as summer clouds for the most beautiful lady in the world? And wine delicate enough for a fairy's throat? I knew you would not have it else. (Turns to Mrs. Clemm) You do not know me, but-- Mrs. C. (Taking her hand) I know you are a good woman reaching a hand to me in my sorrow. Hel. (Embracing her) No ... my arms! (Poe goes to bed and kneels by Virginia. Speaks softly to her, then rises and brings a little wine) Poe. Just a drop, dear,--a butterfly's portion. (Virginia drinks) Hel. (To Mrs. Clemm) How is she? Mrs. C. She will have but one more word for us--goodbye. Hel. Can I--may-- O, you must let me do something for her--for you! Do not make me miserable by saying there is nothing I can do. Mrs. C. There is ... something. I have never begged-- Hel. Do not use such a word. It is you who give--make me happy. Mrs. C. But I will beg this. Some linen for her last robe. Hel. God bless you for telling me! Poe. (Rising from his knees by Virginia) Helen, Virginia would speak to you. Hel. O, save the precious breath! (Approaches bed) Ah ... how lovely ... I understand.... Vir. (Lifting her head) Helen ... help my Edgar. (Sinks back. Poe lays his head on her pillow. Helen stands with her arm about Mrs. Clemm. Curtain falls, and rises on same room at night. Virginia's body lies on the bed. Poe watches alone. A candle burns on table) Poe. (Standing by bed) ... So low in sleep, little girl?... I took thee mid thy roses. O, broken gentleness, little saint-love, move but a hand, a finger, to tell me thou art still my pleading angel!... Not one breath's life. Still ... quite still. O, might such rest be mine! (Turns away) I'll write. (Goes to table) I promised. Yes ... I'll write. Behind the glorious chancel of the mind still swings the incense to the deathless gods!... (Sits and writes) ... No. (Rising) No rhymes--for Poesy must mourn to-night. (Goes toward bed) Too much of her is dead. (Gazes at Virginia) Cold ... cold. What art thou death? Ye demons of a mind distraught, keep ye apace till I have fathomed this!... Ha! What scene is that? (Stares as at visions) A valley laid in the foundations of darkness! The unscalable cliffs jut to heaven, and on the amethystine peaks sit angels weeping into the abyss where creatures run to and fro without escape! Some eat, some laugh, some weep, some wonder. Now they make themselves candles whose little beams eclipse the warning stars ... and in the pallid light they dance and think it sun! But on the revel creeps a serpent, fanned and crimson, with multitudinous folds lapping the dancing creatures in one heaving carnage! The candles die.... The stars cannot pierce the writhing darkness.... Above on the immortal headlands sit the angels, looking down no more, for the dismal heap no longer throbs.... I must write this! Now! While I see it! That moaning flood ebbing to silence ... those rosy promontories lit with angel wings ... and over all as large and still as heaven, the cold, unweeping eyes of God!... (Writes.... A tapping at the door. He does not hear. Another tapping. He looks up) Who's there?... This is my vigil. Nor devil nor angel shall share it!... (Listens. Tapping. He goes to door and throws it open) ... Nothing ... nothing ... but darkness. (Stands peering, and whispers) Lenore!... (Closes door, bolts it, returns to table and writes silently. Utter stillness, then a rattling at the window. Poe leaps up) What's that? (The shutter is blown open. Poe stands watching. A raven flies in and perches above door) Out, you night-wing! (He looks at raven silently) You won't? Why, sit there then! You're but a feather! (Sits and writes. After a moment rises and reads) Out--out are the lights--out all! And over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm-- And the angels all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling affirm That the play is the tragedy 'Man!' And its hero the Conqueror Worm! Ah! the thought pales from these lines like light from dying cinders. Poetry is but ashes telling that a fire has passed. (Sits gloomily. Suddenly remembers the raven, turns and stares at it) You bird of damnation, leave me in peace with my dead!... O, dreaming fool, 'tis nothing.... My mind's a chaos that surges up this fancy. (Tries to write, stops, goes on, trembles, and looks up) ... Can I know fear? I, the very nursling of dreams? Who have lived in a world more tenanted with ghosts than men? I can not be afraid.... (Tries to write. Drops pen. Shudders, looking with furtive fear at the raven) ... I am ... I am afraid.... Virginia! (Creeps toward bed) Stay with me, little bride. My little rose-bride! (Fingers along coverlet, looking at raven) Do not leave me. Quick, little love! Give me life in a kiss! (Touches her hand, shrinks, and springs up) Dead!... (Leans against foot of bed, wildly facing the raven) Speak, fiend! From what dim region of unbodied souls hast come? What hell ungorged thee for her messenger? What sentence have the devils passed upon me? To what foul residence in some blasted star am I condemned? Speak! By every sigh that poisons happy breath!--by every misery that in me rocks and genders her swart young!--by yonder life that now in golden ruin lies!--I charge thee speak! How long shall I wander without rest? How long whirl in the breath of unforgiving winds? Or burn in the refining forges of the sun? When will the Universe gather me to her heart and give me of her still, unthrobbing peace? Speak! When--O when will this driven spirit be at home? (Silence. Poe listens with intense expectation and fear. The raven flies out) It spoke! (Hoarsely) It spoke! I heard it! (Whispers) Nevermore! (He falls in a swoon. Candle flickers in the wind and goes out. Darkness) (CURTAIN) ACT V. Scene I: Poe's lodging, Baltimore. Small room. Cot, table, and one chair. Poe writing) Poe. (Pressing his temples) Throb--throb--but you shall finish this. (Writes) You, too, rebel, old pen? On, on like a lusty cripple, and we'll scratch out of this hole. (Lifting pen) Why, old fellow, this will buy bread. O, bread, bread, bread, for one sweet crumb of thee to feed an angel here! (Touching his forehead) Gordon will not fail me. His letter will come to-day. And with his help I'll get on good ground once more. And _then_!... (Writes. Drops pen with a groan) ... Gordon's letter _must_ come to-day. O, I would live, would live, for seeds are gendering in my mind that might their branches throw above the clouds and shake immortal buds to this bare earth!... (Looks at writing) Words! Ye are but coffins for imagination! No more of you! (Crushes paper) Eternity's in labor with this hour! (Leaps up) I could make Time my page to carry memories from star to star! O Heaven, wouldst thou vouchsafe thy visions to these eyes, then fill them with cold clay? Pour to these ears thine own philosophies, then send the crawling worm to pluck their treasure out? (Falls to chair. Enter Mrs. Schmidt) Mrs. S. (Holding out letter) Here it is, sir. Poe. (Rousing) What, Smidgkin? Mrs. S. The letter's come, sir. Poe. Thank you. (Takes letter. Mrs. Schmidt waits expectantly) If you will be so good, Smidgkin--I mean if you will be so cruel as to bereave me of your presence while I break this very personal seal--very personal, I assure you-- Mrs. S. No, sir. I stay to see what's inside o' that! Poe. Since you desire it, madam. (Starts to open letter and hesitates) I--hope you are well, my good Smidgkin. Mrs. S. Always am. Hadn't you better see what's in it? Poe. To be sure.... I hope you have a good fire in your room this chilly weather, Smidgkin. Mrs. S. Always do. I'll break it for you, Mr. Poe. Poe. O, no, no! I couldn't think of troubling you. The rain beats very heavily. I hope your-er-roof will not be injured. Mrs. S. Law me, I had every leaf tinkered up them sunny days last week. I believe in preparin' for a rainy day, _I_ do, Mr. Poe. Poe. Indeed, yes,--if only we were all so wise, but, alas, my dear Smidgkin, some of us build so high that the angels have to come down and tinker our roofs ... and when they won't, Smidgkin ... when they won't (Lays letter on the table) ... I hope you have no errands to take you from your cheerful fireside in weather like this, Mrs. Smidgkin. Mrs. S. My name is Schmidt, Mr. Poe. Poe. Pardon me, madam. Mrs. S. Air you a goin' to open that letter or air you not? Poe. Why, good woman, to be sure I am. I did not know you were particularly interested. Excuse me. Here goes--and God mend the devil's work. (Opens letter and reads) 'I have talked with Brackett--' Brackett! (Drops letter and sits dumb) Mrs. S. He sent you the ten dollars, hey? Where is it, hey? Seems to me that's white paper with mighty few marks on it! Not much like a ten dollar bill! Where is it, I say? Lost in the mailbags, I reckon! It will come by next post! You're certain--quite certain, Smidgkin! I tell you, Mr. Poe, this is once too often! Poe. A bare, unfurnished room like this-- Mrs. S. Is worth just a dollar a week to me, which is exactly a dollar more than you can pay! Poe. Mrs. Smidgkin, there is a legend in the world that pity never wholly leaves the breast of woman. Mrs. S. Shame to your tongue, Mr. Poe, that says I haven't been as kind to you as your own mother--sister! Haven't you had this room nigh to a month since I've seen a cent for it? Didn't I give you stale bread a whole week, an' coffee a Sunday mornin'? An' you dare say I'm not a Christian, merciful woman? You come out o' here, or I'll put hands on you, I will! Poe. Mrs. Smidgkin, Mrs. Smidgkin, are you aware that the rain pours outside like the tears of the Danaides on their wedding night? And speaking of weddings, Smidgkin-- Mrs. S. Schmidt! As you'll find on my good man's tombstone, an' some day on my own, bless God! Poe. O, don't talk so, I beg you! Mrs. S. Why now, Mr. Poe! Law me, who'd a thought you could be so softhearted--about a tombstone, too! Poe. As I said, my dear madam--speaking of weddings--pray take this chair. 'Tis all I have to offer. Gladly will I stand before you, though I am but slightly bolstered within for the attitude. Speak to me, madam. Let one thought fly from thy caging brow to me a beggar vile. Mrs. S. O, Mr. Poe! Poe. Thanks for the burden of those syllables. Mrs. S. My dear Mr. Poe! Poe. Again? You overwhelm me? Dare I speak? You have suspected? You know why I linger in this dear room--dear as the barrier that staves off guttery death? This kindness is sincere? I may trust it and speak? Mrs. S. You may, Mr. Poe. Poe. Well then, sweet Smidgkin, will you open the broad gates of genial widowhood to admit a fallen wretch to the warmth of your bosom and hearthstone--particularly the latter? Mrs. S. (With dignity) I presume, Mr. Poe, that I am addressed by an offer of marriage. I have had offers before, Mr. Poe,--one an undertaker who drove a good business, but he looked for all the world like one of his own corpses an' what is business says I to a woman in good circumstances with a longin' heart? I don't mind sayin' it, Mr. Poe, a nice lookin' man always did take my eye, an' you'll be a pretty figure when you're plumped out a bit, indeed you will, but your addresses of this offer is somewhat unusual, an' if you'll give me time-- Poe. The weather, madam, will admit of no delay. Since you are so determined, I must give up hope and seek shelter under Jove's great canopy. Mrs. S. O, don't go there, Mr. Poe--it's a bad place, that Canpy house, an' I've heard Jove talked about for a vile barkeep! I guess since you're so impetus I'll say yes to these addresses of marriage, Mr. Poe. Poe. Ha! ha! ha! Mrs. S. What do you mean, Mr. Poe? My dear Eddie, I should say! Poe. I mean, madam, that death loves a joke. Mrs. S. O, my sweet Eddie, don't be talkin' about death. You're so pale I don't wonder--and a'most starved out I'll venture my word for it. But you won't know yourself in a week. I've got the sweetest room downstairs--all in blue an' white, with a bed three feet o' feathers, soft as a goosebreast, I warrant, an' I'll tuck you in an' bring you a toddy that'll warm you to your toes, it will, an'-- Poe. Ha! ha! ha! Well, why not? I seize this wretched plank or sink with all that in me is. Men have done it. But not Edgar Poe! Sell my soul for a broth-dish--a saucepan--a feather-bed-- Mrs. S. O, he's out of his mind, sure he is! My sweet Eddie, he's loved me distracted! Poe. Can this be woman? Mrs. S. Law me! Poe. The sex that knew a Virginia--that knows a Helen? No! there are men, women ... and angels! Mrs. S. Look here, Mr. Poe, don't you mention no women 'round me! O, Eddy, my Eddy! (Offers to caress him) Poe. Away! You wench from Venus' kitchen! (Going) This weather ... once I could have braved it with the wildest wing that ever flew. But now.... (coughs wretchedly) Mrs. S. No rent an' no husband either! Poe. Up, heart, we go! Henceforth I live by spirit-bread! Lead me, ye unseen comrades, to immortal feasts! (Exit) (CURTAIN) Scene II: An hour later. A bar-room. Door in center, rear. Four men at table, left, rear, playing cards. Haines. Was afraid you wouldn't show up to-night, Juggy. Juggers. Nothing like a stormy night for a good game. Never miss one. Rain brings me luck. Black. Then, by Jacks, you'll have it all your way to-night. It's pouring hogsheads. Your deal, Sharp. (They play in silence. Poe enters, rear, walks uncertainly across the room and takes a seat, right, front. There seems to be life only in his eyes, their burning light revealing a soul struggling free from a corpse. He sits unnoticed for a short time) Sharp. (To barkeeper) Say, Thomas, I thought this was a gentleman's house. What's that in the corner? Looks like a coffin might 'a' spilt it on the way to the graveyard. Bark. (In lower tone) He's one o' these writin' fellers in hard luck. I've let him hang around here a good deal, for he's always quiet and gives me no show for kickin' him out. But say the word and he goes. Haines. Looks more like a sick man than a bum. Sharp. Bah! He can drink till he wets his boots. I know that sort of a face. Bark. Never drinks anything 'round here. Sharp. Good reason. You don't wear a charity medal. Jug. Let him stay for luck. Sharp. Whose luck? You're doing all the winning to-night, Juggers. He's a Jonah for the rest of us. I want his eye off me, I say. Black. O, let him alone. I'd ask a burglar to have a seat in my house a night like this--'pon honor, I would. Play up. (They play on) Poe. What a noble palace is here! How the gleaming vault reaches to heaven and mocks the stars! What resplendent lights! As though the master had taken burning planets for his candles! How far they throw their beams--around the world and into the nether sea! Jug. (To Haines, who is looking at Poe) Mind your play there, Haines. Poe. I know this place. It is the poet's house of dream that all my life I've sought to reach. I am dying now, and they let me in, because I have been true to them. The master will read it in my face. I have not eaten of the flesh-pots! I have beggared my body, but I have not beggared my soul! Sharp. Curse it, Juggers! It's yours again! Haines. Take your medicine, Sharp. A man must know how to lose as well as win. Poe. Yonder is the master, arrayed all in white and gold and sapphire. Those angels that attend him are poets wrapped in fires of love. They talk about me now, and ask if I am worthy to come in. O, I have loved ye well, immortal dead! Through noons that burnt the world I've tracked your dewy shadows! No day died in my eyes but ye were whispering priests! And midnight stars have learned your names of me! Sharp. (Throwing down cards) It's that hoodoo in the corner! Poe. How wonderful their voices! They speak a strange language, but I can interpret it. Sharp. I'll not play another card until he goes! Poe. He says that by the trembling of the planet-lights an earth-soul come this way. He sees me! Black. Well, by Jacks, I've got a dollar for his supper and bed. Poe. He says that 'tis a strange creature carrying a burning brand in his bosom. Sharp. You can afford to be a fool. You've helped Juggers rake in. Poe. Not a brand, he says, but an immortal star. Sharp. Thomas, set that oil painting outside, will you? Poe. They ask the master if they may come to meet me. (Barkeeper approaches Poe) Ah, the master comes himself, for I am one of the chosen. Barkeeper. Get out o' this! Poe. (Rising slowly) Thou mighty one, thy servant hears thee! Bark. Eh? Poe. I'll be the humblest round thy throne. Bark. Look here, I was a little soft about you, but now you just shove along! Poe. I beg your pardon,--may I ask the name of this planet? Bark. Eh? Poe. Is it--the earth? Bark. (Shaking him) None o' your squibs! Poe. (Recognizing and throwing him off with momentary strength) Do not touch me, George Thomas. I will go. Black. (Flinging him a piece of silver, which falls to the floor) There's a bed for you. Poe. I dare not touch it, sir, lest I be infected, for the angels who look upon us know that I shall be in health when fever shall sit on your bones and agues make their bed in your marrow! Jug. A gentleman can't stand that jaw. Kick him out, Thomas, or I will. Poe. Do not touch me! You walking clay! who button your coats about three meals a day and think you have belted in the universe! Go listen to the sea lapping rock and bone to her oblivious mill, and know your hearts shall sleep as sand within her shells! By the dead worlds that drift in yonder void, and long have sung the swan-song of their deities, this too shall pass, and ere it passes flesh shall learn its impotence! Grey stalkers from the past shall clutch the throat of days! All wrongs shall rise and gather their revenge! And man-- Sharp. Here you crazy Tom! That's just enough! (Tries to take hold of Poe) Poe. Off! See what I see! The Conqueror Worm! Fold on fold the red-fanged monster creeps! Look! your doom, ye swine with sodden eyes fast shut against sublimities! Ye-- Jug. (Taking Poe by the throat) I'll stop your croaking! (Haines and Black pull Juggers from Poe, who falls to seat utterly exhausted) Haines. Can't you keep your hands off a sick man? Jug. Sick! He's the devil! Haines. Then you might as well make his acquaintance. Poe. 'Tis here ... death ... and all is yet to say. O, I have chattered as a babe! Now, I could speak, and dust is in my mouth!... Helen, you told me to be content with the letters.... I have tried to read ... to steal God's book. He has punished ... but death pays my bond. Soon I shall read with His eyes and be at peace. Peace! (Gives a dying shudder) Nevermore!... (Rises, staggers to door and opens it wide) O, Night, with thy minstrel winds, blow gently on me dead ... for I have been thy lover! (Looks back at the men who are gazing at him intently, and speaks lowly, erect and godlike) In His own image created He man!... (Turns and steps into the darkness.) (CURTAIN) 
17389	----	THE DREAMER A Romantic Rendering of the Life-Story of Edgar Allan Poe by MARY NEWTON STANARD (Author of "The Story of Bacon's Rebellion") "They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find they have been upon the verge of the great secret." --_Edgar Allan Poe, in "Eleanora"_ Richmond, Virginia The Bell Book and Stationery Company 1909 Copyright 1909 By Mary Newton Stanard [Illustration: THE HERMITAGE PRESS Bindery of L.H. Jenkins Richmond, Va.] In the Sacred Memory of My Father and Mother TO THE READER This study of Edgar Allan Poe, poet and man, is simply an attempt to make something like a finished picture of the shadowy sketch the biographers, hampered by the limitations of proved fact, must, at best, give us. To this end I have used the story-teller's license to present the facts in picturesque form. Yet I believe I have told a true story--true to the spirit if not to the letter--for I think I have made Poe and the other persons of the drama do nothing they may not have done, say nothing they may not have said, feel nothing they may not have felt. In many instances the opinions, and even the words I have placed in Poe's mouth are his own--found in his published works or his letters. I owe much, of course, to the writers of Poe books before and up to my time. Among these, I would make especial and grateful acknowledgment to Mr. J.H. Ingram, Professor George E. Woodberry, Professor James A. Harrison and Mrs. Susan Archer Weiss. But more than to any one of his biographers, I am indebted to Poe himself for the revelations of his personality which appear in his own stories and poems, the most part of which are clearly autobiographic. M.N.S. THE DREAMER CHAPTER I. The last roses of the year 1811 were in bloom in the Richmond gardens and their petals would soon be scattered broadcast by the winds which had already stripped the trees and left them standing naked against the cold sky. Cold indeed, it looked, through the small, smoky window, to the eyes of the young and beautiful woman who lay dying of hectic fever in a dark, musty room back of the shop of Mrs. Fipps, the milliner, in lower Main Street--cold and friendless and drear. She was still beautiful, though the sparkle in the great eyes fixed upon the bleak sky had given place to deep melancholy and her face was pinched and wan. She knew that she was dying. Meanwhile, her appearance as leading lady of Mr. Placide's company of high class players was flauntingly announced by newspaper and bill-board. The advertisement had put society in a flutter; for Elizabeth Arnold Poe was a favorite with the public not only for her graces of person and personality, her charming acting, singing and dancing, but she had that incalculable advantage for an actress--an appealing life-story. It was known that she had lately lost a dearly loved and loving husband whom she had tenderly nursed through a distressing illness. It was also known that the husband had been a descendant of a proud old family and that the same high spirit which had led his grandfather, General Poe, passionately denouncing British tyranny, to join the Revolutionary Army, had, taking a different turn with the grandson, made him for the sake of the gifted daughter of old England who had captured his heart--actress though she was--sever home ties, abandon the career chosen for him by his parents, and devote himself to the profession of which she was a chief ornament. A brief five years of idylic happiness the pair had spent together--happiness in spite of much work and some tears;--then David Poe had succumbed to consumption, leaving a penniless widow with three children to support. The eldest, a boy, was adopted by his father's relatives in Baltimore. The other two--a boy of three years in whom were blended the spirit, the beauty, the talent and the ardent nature of both parents, and a soft-eyed, cooing baby girl--were clinging about their mother whenever she was seen off the stage, making a picture that was the admiration of all beholders. The last roses of the year would soon be gone from the gardens, but Mrs. Fipps' windows blossomed gallantly with garlands and sprays more wonderful than any that ever grew on tree or shrub. Not for many a long day had the shop enjoyed such a thriving trade, for no sooner had the news that Mr. Placide's company would open a season at the theatre been noised abroad than the town beaux addressed themselves to the task of penning elegant little notes inviting the town belles to accompany them to the play, while the belles themselves, scenting an opportunity to complete the wreck of masculine hearts that was their chief business, addressed themselves as promptly to the quest of the most ravishing theatre bonnets which the latest Paris fashions as interpreted by Mrs. Fipps could produce. As that lady bustled back and forth among her customers, her mouth full of pins and hands full of ribbons, feathers, flowers and what not, her face wore, in spite of her prosperity, an expression of unusual gravity. _She could not get the lodger in the back room off her mind._ Mr. Placide, who had been to see the sick woman, was confident that her disorder was "nothing serious," and that she would be able to meet her engagements, and charged the thrifty dealer in fashionable head-gear and furnished rooms by no means to let the fact that the star was ill "get out." But the fever-flush that tinged the patient's pale cheeks and the cough that racked her wasted frame seemed very like danger signals to good Mrs. Fipps, and though she did not realize the hopelessness of the case, her spirits were oppressed by a heaviness that would not be shaken off. Ill as Mrs. Poe, or Miss Arnold, as she was still sometimes called, was, she had managed by a mighty effort of will and the aid of stimulants to appear once or twice before the footlights. But her acting had been spiritless and her voice weak and it finally became necessary for the manager to explain that she was suffering from "chills and fevers," from which he hoped rest and skillful treatment would relieve her and make it possible for her to take her usual place. But she did not appear. Gradually her true condition became generally known and in the hearts of a kindly public disappointment gave place to sympathy. Some of the most charitably disposed among the citizens visited her, bringing comforts and delicacies for her and presents for the pretty, innocent babes who all unconscious of the cloud that hung over them, played happily upon the floor of the dark and bare room in which their mother's life was burning out. Nurse Betty, an ample, motherly soul, with cheeks like winter apples and eyes like blue china, and a huge ruffled cap hiding her straggly grey locks from view--versatile Betty, who was not only nurse for the children and lady's maid for the star, but upon occasion appeared in small parts herself, hovered about the bed and ministered to her dying mistress. As the hours and days dragged by the patient grew steadily weaker and weaker. She seldom spoke, but lay quite silent and still save when shaken by the torturing cough. On a Sunday morning early in December she lay thus motionless, but wide-eyed, listening to the sounds of the church-bells that broke the quiet air. As the voice of the last bell died away she stirred and requested, in faint accents, that a packet from the bottom of her trunk be brought to her. When this was done she asked for the children, and when Nurse Betty brought them to the bedside she gave into the hands of the wondering boy a miniature of herself, upon the back of which was written: "For my dear little son Edgar, from his mother," and a small bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon. She clasped the baby fingers of the girl about an enameled jewel-case, of artistic workmanship, but empty, for its contents had, alas, gone to pay for food. She then motioned that the little ones be raised up and allowed to kiss her, after which, a frail, white hand fluttered to the sunny head of each, as she murmured a few words of blessing, then with a gentle sigh, closed her eyes in her last, long sleep. The baby girl began to whimper with fright at the suddenness with which she was snatched up and borne from the room, and the boy looked with awe into the face of the weeping nurse who, holding his sister in one arm dragged him away from the bedside and out of the door, by the hand. There was much hurried tramping to and fro, opening and closing of doors and drawing to of window-blinds. These unusual sounds filled the boy with a vague fear. That night the children were put to bed upon a pallet in Mrs. Fipps' own room and Mrs. Fipps herself rocked the baby Rosalie to sleep and gave the little Edgar tea-cakes, in addition to his bread and milk, and told him stories of Heaven and beautiful angels playing upon golden harps. The next day the children were taken back to their mother's room. The shutter to the window which let in the one patch of dim light was now closed and the room was quite dark, save for two candles that stood upon stands, one at the foot, the other at the head of the bed. The air was heavy--sickening almost--with the odor of flowers. Upon the bed, all dressed in white, and with a wreath of white roses on her dark ringlets, lay their mother, with eyelids fast shut and a lovely smile on her lips. She was very white and very beautiful, but when her little boy kissed her the pale lips were cold on his rosy ones, as if the smile had frozen there. It was very beautiful but the boy was a little frightened. "Mother--" he said softly, pleadingly, "Wake up! I want you to wake up." The weeping nurse placed her arm around him and knelt beside the bed. "She will never wake up again here on earth, Eddie darling. Never--nevermore. She has gone to live with the angels where you will be with her some day, but never--nevermore on earth." With that she fell to weeping bitterly, hiding her face on his little shoulder. The child, marvelling, softly repeated, "Nevermore--nevermore." The solemn, musical word, with the picture in the dim light, of the sleeping figure--asleep to wake nevermore--and so white, so white, all save the dusky curls, sank deep into his young mind and memory. His great grey eyes were wistful with the beauty, and the sadness, and the mystery of it all. The next day the boy rode in a carriage with Mrs. Fipps and Nurse Betty who had left off the big white cap and was enveloped from head to foot in black, up a long hill, to a white church in a churchyard where the grass was still green between the tombstones. The bell in the white steeple was tolling slowly, solemnly. Soft grey clouds hung over the steeple and snow-flakes as big as rose-leaves began to fill the air. Presently the bell ceased tolling and he and Nurse Betty moved up the aisle behind a train of figures in black, with black streamers floating from their sleeves. The figures bent beneath a heavy burden. It was long and black and grim, but the flowers that covered it were snow-white and filled the church with a sweet smell. A white-robed figure led the way up the aisle, repeating, as he walked, some words so solemn and full of melody that they sounded almost like music. The church was dim, and quiet, and nearly empty. The organ began to play--oh, so softly! It was very beautiful, but still the boy shuddered, for he dimly realized that the grim box held the sleeping form that seemed to be his mother, but was not his real mother. _Her_ kisses were not frozen, and _she_ was in Heaven with the angels. The choir sang sweet music and the white-robed priest said more solemn words that were like spoken music; then the procession moved slowly down the aisle again and out of the door. The bell in the steeple was silent now, and the organ was silent. Silently the procession moved--silently the snow came down. Silently and softly, like white flowers. The green graves were white with it now, like the flowers on the coffin lid; but the open grave in the churchyard corner, near the wall--it was dark, and deep and terrible! The boy's heart almost stood still as, clinging to Nurse Betty's hand, he stared into its yawning mouth. He felt that he would choke--would suffocate. They were lowering the box into that deep, dark pit! What if the sleeping figure should awake, after all--awake to the darkness and narrowness of that narrow bed! With a piercing shriek the child broke from his nurse's hand and thrust himself upon the arm of one of the black figures who held the ropes, in a wild effort to stay him; then, still shrieking, was borne from the spot. CHAPTER II. "Since it seems you have set your heart upon this thing, I do not forbid it; but remember, you are acting in direct opposition to my judgment and advice, and if you ever live to regret it (as I believe you shall) you will have no one but yourself to blame." John Allan's voice was harsher, more positive, than usual; his shoulders seemed to square themselves and a frowning brow hardened an always austere face. His whole manner was that of a man consenting against his will. His young wife hung over his chair vainly endeavoring to smooth, with little pats of her fair hands, the stubborn locks that _would_ stand on end, like the bristles of a brush, whatever she did. Her soft and vivacious beauty was in striking contrast to the strength and severity of his rugged and at the same time distinguished countenance. His narrow, steel-blue eyes, deep sunk under bushy brows and a high, but narrow, forehead, were shrewd and piercing; his nose was large and like a hawk's beak. His face too, was narrow, with cheek-bones high as an Indian's. His mouth was large, but firmly closed, and the chin below it was long and prominent and was carried stiffly above the high stock and immaculate, starched shirt-ruffles. Her figure, as she leaned against the chair's high back, was slender and girlish,--childish, almost, in its low-necked, short-waisted, slim-skirted, "Empire" dress, of some filmy stuff, the pale yellow of a Marshal Niel rose. Her face was a pure oval with delicate, regular features. Her reddish-brown hair, parted in the middle, was piled on top of her small head, and airy little curls hung down on her brow on either side of the part. Her eyes--the color of her hair--were gentle and sweet and her mouth was tenderly curved and rosy. With her imploring attitude, the sweetness of her eyes and mouth and the warmth of her plea, her fresh beauty glowed like a flower, newly opened. All unmoved, John Allan repeated, "You will have no one but yourself to blame." Her ardor undimmed by the chariness of the consent she had gained, she showered the lowering brow with cool, delicate little kisses until it grew smooth in spite of itself. "Oh, I know I never shall regret it, John," she cooed. "He is such a beautiful boy--so sweet and affectionate, so merry and clever! Just what I should like our own little boy to be, John, if God had blessed us with one." "I grant you he seems a bonny little lad enough, Frances. But I realize, as it seems you do not, the risk of undertaking to rear as your own the child of any but the most unquestionable parentage. I confess the thought of introducing into my family the son of professional players is extremely distasteful to me." "But John, dear, you know these Poes were not ordinary players. The father was one of the Maryland Poes and I understand the mother came of good English stock. She certainly seemed to be a lady and a good, sweet woman, poor thing! The Mackenzies have decided to adopt the baby Rosalie, though they have children, as you know; and with this charming little Edgar for my very own I shall be the happiest woman alive." "Well, well, keep your pretty little pet, but if he turns out to be other than a credit to you, don't forget that you were warned." * * * * * And so the little Edgar Poe--the players' child--became Edgar Allan, with a fond and admiring young mother who became at once and forever his slave and whose chief object in life henceforth was to stand between him and the discipline of a not intentionally harsh or unkind, but strict and uncompromising father; who though he too was fond of the boy, in a way, and proud of his beauty and little accomplishments, was constantly on the lookout for the cloven foot which his fixed prejudice against the child's parentage made him certain would appear. In her delight over her acquisition, Frances Allan was like a child with a new toy. She almost smothered him with kisses when, accepting her bribe of a spaniel pup and his pockets full of sugar-kisses, he agreed to call her "Mother." With her own fingers she made him the quaintest little baggy trousers, of silk pongee, and a velvet jacket, and a tucker of the finest linen. His cheap cotton stockings were discarded for scarlet silk ones, and for his head, "sunny over with curls" of bright nut-brown, she bought from Mrs. Fipps, the prettiest peaked cap of purple velvet, with a handsome gold tassel that fell gracefully over on one shoulder. Thus arrayed, she took him about town with her to show him to her friends who were ecstatic in their admiration of his pensive, clear-cut features, his big, grey eyes and his nut-brown ringlets; of his charming smile and the frank, pretty manner in which he gave his small hand in greeting. "Oh, but you should hear him recite and sing," the proud foster-mother would say. "And he can dance, too." She gave a large dinner-party just to exhibit the accomplishments of her treasure--actually standing him upon the table when it had been cleared, to sing and recite for the guests. Even her husband unbent so far as to applaud vigorously the modest, yet self-possessed grace with which the mite drank the healths of the assembled company--making a neat little speech that his new mother had taught him. The boy's young heart responded to the affection of the foster-mother to a certain degree; but, mere baby though he was, his real heart lay deep in the grave on the hill-top, where the earthly part of that other mother was lying so still, so white, with the roses on her hair and the frozen smile on her lips. The churchyard on the hill was but a short distance away from his new home, and as spring opened, became a favorite resort of nurses and children. The negro "mammy" who had replaced Nurse Betty used often to take him there, and often, as she chatted with other mammies, her charge would wander from her side to the grave against the wall, where he would stretch his small body full length upon the turf and whisper the thoughts of his infant mind to the dear one below; for who knew but that, even down under ground she might be glad to hear, through her white sleep, her little boy's words of love and remembrance--though never, nevermore she could see him on earth. He would even imagine her replies to him, until the conversations with her became so real that he half believed they were true. At night, when bed-time came, he said his prayers at the knee of his pretty new mother, who told him jolly stories and sang him jolly songs, and patted him and soothed him with caresses which he found very agreeable, and accepted graciously. But he always took the miniature which had been his dying mother's parting gift to bed with him and he was glad when the new mother kissed him goodnight and put out the light and softly closed the door behind her; for it was then, with the picture close against his breast, that the visions came to him--the visions of angels making sweet music upon golden harps and among them his lost mother, with her sweet face saddened but made sweeter still by that thought of nevermore. Oh, that wondrous word nevermore! Its music charmed him, its hopelessness filled and thrilled him with a strange, a holy sorrow, in which there was no pain. With the lovely vision still about him, the picture still clasped to his breast, he would sink into healthful sleep to wake on the morrow a bright, joyous boy, alive to all the pleasures of the new day--delighting in the beauties of blue sky and sunshine, of whispering tree and opening flower, ready for sport with his play-fellows and his pets, and full of all manner of merry pranks and jokes. For in the frame of this small boy there dwelt two distinct personalities--twin brothers--yet as utterly unlike as strangers and foreigners, thinking different thoughts, speaking different languages, and dominating him--spirit and body--by turns. One of these we will call Edgar Goodfellow--Edgar the gay, the laughter-loving, the daring, the real, live, wholesome, normal boy; keen for the society of other boys and liking to dance, to run, to jump, to climb, even to fight. The other, Edgar the Dreamer, fond of solitude and silence and darkness, for they aided him to wander far away from the everyday world to one of make believe created by himself and filled with beings to whom real people were but as empty shadows; but a world that the death and burial of his beautiful and adored young mother and the impression made upon him by those scenes, had tinged with an eternal sadness which hung over it as a veil. The life of Edgar the Dreamer was filled with the subtle charm of mystery. It was a secret life. The world in which he moved was a secret world--an invisible world, to whose invisible door he alone held the key. Edgar the Dreamer was himself an invisible person, for the only outward difference between him and his twin brother, Edgar Goodfellow, lay in a certain quiet, listless air and the solemn look in his big, dark grey eyes which his playmates--bored and intolerant--took as indications that "Edgar was in one of his moods," and his foster-father--eyeing him keenly and with marked displeasure--as an equally unmistakable indication that he was "hatching mischief." There were times when in the midst of the liveliest company this so-called "mood" would possess the child. He would fall silent; his mouth would become pensive, his dark grey eyes would seem to be impenetrably veiled; his chin would drop upon his hand; he would seem utterly forgetful of his surroundings. The familiar Edgar--Edgar Goodfellow--would have given place to Edgar the Dreamer, who though apparently of the company, would really have slipped through that invisible portal and wandered far afield with the playmates of his fancy. At such times Mrs. Allan would say, "Eddie, what are you thinking about?" And brought back to her world with a jolt, the boy would answer quickly (somewhat guiltily it seemed to Mr. Allan--noting the startled expression), "Nothing." It was his first lie, and a very little one, but one that was often repeated; for he that would guard a secret must be used to practice deception. Mr. Allan would say, "Wake up, wake up, child! Only the idle sit and stare at nothing and think of nothing. You'll be growing up an idle, trifling boy if you give way to such a habit." Between the Allans and Edgar the Dreamer a great gulf lay--for how should a dreamer of day-dreams reveal himself to any not of his own tribe and kind? Upon Edgar Goodfellow Mrs. Allan doted. All of her friends agreed with her that so remarkable a child--one so precocious and still so attractive--had never been seen, and Mr. Allan was secretly, as proud of his wrestling, running, riding and other out-door triumphs as his wife was of his pretty parlor accomplishments. Their friends agreed too, that she made him the best of mothers, barring the fact (for which weakness she was excusable--he was such a love!) that she spoiled him, and perhaps permitted him to rule her too absolutely. Was he grateful? Oh, well, that would come in time. Appreciation was not a quality to be expected in children, and what more natural than that the boy should accept as a matter of course the good things which she made plain it was her chief pleasure in life to shower upon him? She was indeed, as good a mother as it was possible for a mother without a highly developed imagination to be. A most lovely woman was Frances Allan, justly admired and liked by all who knew her. She was pretty and gracious and sunny-tempered and sweet-natured; charitable--both to society and the poor--and faithful to her religious duties. Withal, a notable house-keeper, given to hospitality, fond of "company" and gifted in the art of making her friends feel at home under her roof. If she was not gifted with a lively imagination she did not know it, and so had not missed it. As Mr. Allan's wife she had not needed it. And so she lavished upon Edgar Goodfellow everything that heart could wish. She delighted to provide him with pets and toys and good things to eat, and to fill his little pockets with money for him to spend upon himself or upon treating his friends. Fortunately, the other Edgar--Edgar the Dreamer--was not dependent upon her for his pleasures, for the beauties of sky and river and garden and wood which nourished his soul were within his own reach. If Mrs. Allan had known Edgar the Dreamer, she would have been puzzled and alarmed. If Mr. Allan had known him he would have been angry. A man of action was John Allan. A canny Scotchman he, who owed his success as a tobacco merchant to energy and strict attention to business. If there were dreams in the bowl of the pipe, there was no room for them in the counting-house of a thrifty dealer in the weed. Meditation had no part in his life--was left out of his composition. He believed in _doing_. Day-dreaming was in his opinion but another name for idling, and idling was sin. The son of their adoption vaguely realized the lack of kinship--the impossibility of contact between his nature and theirs, and as time went on drew more and more within himself. The life of Edgar the Dreamer became more and more secret. So often however, did the warning against his idle habit fall upon his ears that the plastic conscience of childhood made note of it--confusing the will of a blind human guardian with that of God. The Eden of his dreams, guarded by the flaming sword of his foster-father's wrath, began to assume the aspect (because by parental command denied him) of an evil place--though none the less sweet to his soul--and it was with a consciousness of guilt that he would steal in and wander there. Thus the habit that nurtured God-given genius, branded as sin, and forbidden, might have been broken up, altogether or in part, had not the special providence that looks after the development of this rare exotic transplanted it to a more fertile soil--a more congenial clime. CHAPTER III. Upon a mellow September afternoon three years after the newspapers had announced the death, in Richmond, Virginia, of Elizabeth Arnold, the popular English actress, generally known in the United States as Mrs. Poe, the ancient town of Stoke-Newington, in the suburbs of London, dozing in the shadows of its immemorial elms, was aroused to a mild degree of activity by the appearance upon its green-arched streets of three strangers--evidently Americans. It was not so much their nationality as a certain distinguished air that drew attention upon the dignified and proper gentleman in broadcloth and immaculate linen, the pretty, gracious-seeming and fashionably dressed lady and especially the little boy of six or seven summers with the large, wistful eyes and pale complexion, and chestnut ringlets framing a prominent, white brow and tumbling over a broad, snowy tucker. He wore pongee knickerbockers and red silk stockings and on his curls jauntily rested a peaked velvet cap from which a heavy gold tassel fell over upon his shoulder. The denizens of old Stoke-Newington gazed upon this prosperous trio with frank curiosity; the reader has already recognized John Allan and his wife, Frances, and little Edgar Poe--their adopted child. The sun was still hot, and the refreshing chill in the dusky street, under its arch of interlacing boughs, was grateful to the tired little traveller. As he moved along, clinging to Mrs. Allan's hand, his big eyes gazing as far as they might up the long, cool aisle the trees made, the hazy green distance invited his mystery-loving fancy. The odors of a thousand flowering shrubberies were on the air and he felt that it was good to be in this dreaming old town--as old, it seemed to him, as the world; and there was born in him at that moment, though he could not have defined it, a sense of the picturesquesness, the charm, the fragrance, of old things--old streets, old houses, old trees, old turf and shrubberies, even--with their haunting suggestions of bygone days and scenes. They passed the ancient Gothic church, standing solemn and serene among its mossy tombs. In the misty blue atmosphere above the elms the fretted steeple seemed to the boy to lie imbedded and asleep, but even as he gazed upon it the churchbell, sounding the hour, broke the stillness with a deep, hollow roar which thrilled him with mingled awe and delight. Ah, here indeed, was a place made for dreaming! In the midst of the town lay the Manor House School where the scholarly Dr. Bransby, who preached in the Gothic church on Sundays, upon week-days instructed boys in various branches of polite learning--and also frequently flogged them. This school was the destination of the three strangers from America, for here the foundations of young Edgar's education were to be laid during the several years residence of his foster-parents in London, in which city the boy himself would pass his holidays and sometimes be permitted to spend week-ends. The ample grounds of the school were enclosed from the rest of the town by a high and thick brick wall, dingy with years, which seemed to frown like a prison wall upon the grassy and pleasantly shaded freedom without. At one corner of this ponderous wall was set a more ponderous gate, riveted and studded with iron bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron spikes. As the boy passed through it he trembled with delicious awe which was deepened by the ominous creak of the mighty hinges. He fancied himself entering upon a domain of mystery and adventure where all manner of grim and unearthly monsters might cross his pathway to be wrestled with and destroyed. The path to the house lay through a small parterre planted with box and other shrubs, and beyond stretched the playgrounds. As for the house itself, that appeared to the eyes of the boy as a veritable palace of enchantment. It was a large, grey, rambling structure of the Elizabethan age. Within, it was like a labyrinth. Edgar wondered if there were any end to its windings and incomprehensible divisions and sub-divisions--to its narrow, dusky passages and its steps down and up--up and down; to its odd and unexpected nooks and corners. Scarce two rooms seemed to him to be upon the same level and between continually going down or up three or four steps in a journey through the mansion upon which Dr. Bransby guided him and his foster-parents, the dazed little boy found it almost impossible to determine upon which of the two main floors he happened to be. It was afterward to become a source of secret satisfaction to him that he never finally decided upon which floor was the dim sleeping apartment to which he was introduced soon after supper, and which he shared with eighteen or twenty other boys. The business of formally entering the pupil about whom the Allans and Dr. Bransby had already corresponded, in the school, was soon dispatched, and once more the iron gate swung open upon its weirdly complaining hinges, then went to again with a bang and a clang, and the little boy from far Virginia, with the wistful grey eyes and the sunny curls was alone in a throng of curious school-fellows, and in the dimness, the strangeness, the vastness of a hoary, mysterious mansion full of echoes, and of quaint crannies and closets where shadows lurked by day as well as by candle-light. Alone, yet not unhappy--for Edgar the Dreamer was holding full sway. With the departure of his foster-father, all check was removed from his fancy which could, and did, run riot in this creepy and fascinating old place, and at night he had to comfort him the miniature of his mother from which he had never been parted for an hour, and which he still carried to bed with him with unfailing regularity. He had always known that his mother was English-born, and somehow, in his mind, there seemed to be some mystic connection between this ancient town and manor house and the green graveyard in Richmond, with its mouldy tombstones and encompassing wall. * * * * * Not until the next morning was the new pupil ushered into the school-room--the largest room in the world it seemed to the small, lonely stranger. It was long, narrow and low-pitched. Its ceiling was of oak, black with age, and the daylight struggled fitfully in through pointed, Gothic windows. Built into a remote and terror-inspiring corner was a box-like enclosure, eight or ten feet high, of heavy oak, like the ceiling, with a massy door of the same sombre wood. This, the newcomer soon learned was the "sanctum" of the head-master--the Rev. Dr. Bransby--whose sour visage, snuffy habiliments and upraised ferule seemed so terrible to young Edgar that on the following Sunday when he went to service in the Gothic church, it was with a spirit of deep wonder and perplexity that he regarded from the school gallery the reverend man with countenance so demurely benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast, who, with solemn step and slow, ascended the high pulpit. Interspersed about the school-room, crossing and recrossing in endless irregularity, were benches and desks, black, ancient and time-worn, piled desperately with much bethumbed books, and so beseamed with initial letters, names at full length, grotesque figures and other multiplied efforts of the knife, as to have lost what little of original form might have been their portion in days long departed. A huge bucket with water stood at one extremity of the room and a clock, whose dimensions appeared to the boy to be stupendous, at the other. But it was not only Edgar the Dreamer who came to Manor House School, who passed out of the great iron gate and through the elm avenues to the Gothic church on Sundays, and who regularly, on two afternoons in the week, made a decorous escape from the confinement of the frowning walls, and in company with the whole school, in orderly procession, and duly escorted by an usher, tramped past the church and into the pleasant green fields that lay beyond the quaint houses of the village. Edgar Goodfellow was there too--Edgar the gay, the frolicsome, the lover of sports and hoaxes and trials of strength. Upon the evening of the young American's arrival, his schoolmates kept their distance, regarding him with shy curiosity, but by the recess hour next day this timidity had worn off, and they crowded about him with the pointed questions and out-spoken criticisms which constitute the breaking in of a new scholar. The boy received their sallies with such politeness and good humor and with such an air of modest dignity, that the wags soon ceased their gibes for very shame and the ring-leaders began to show in their manner and speech, an air of approval in place of the suspicion with which they had at first regarded him. When the questions, "What's your name?"--"How old are you?"--"Where do you live?" "Were you sick at sea?"--"What made you come to this school?" "How high can you jump?"--"Can you box?" "Can you fight?"--and the like, had been promptly and amiably answered, there was a lull. The silence was broken by young Edgar himself. Drawing himself up to the full height of his graceful little figure and thumping his chest with his closed fist, he said, "Any boy who wants to may hit me here, as hard as he can." The boys looked at each other inquiringly for a moment--they were uncertain, whether this was a specimen of American humor or to be taken literally. Presently the largest and strongest among them stepped forward. He was a stalwart fellow for his years, but his excessively blond coloring, together with the effeminate style in which his mother insisted upon dressing him, caused the boys to give him the name of "Beauty," which was soon shortened into "Beaut," and had finally become "the Beau." "Will you let _me_ hit you?" he asked. "Yes," replied Edgar. "Count three and hit. You can't hurt me." As "the Beau" counted, "One--two--three"--Edgar gently inflated his lungs, expanding his chest to its fullest extent, and then, at the moment of receiving the blow, exhaled the air. He did not stagger or flinch, though his antagonist struck straight from the shoulder, with a brawny, small fist. The rest of the boys, in turn, struck him--each time counting three--with the same result. Finally "the Beau" said, "_You_ hit _me_." Edgar counted, "One--two--three"--and struck out with clenched fist, but "the Beau" not knowing the trick, was promptly bowled over on the grass--the shock making quick tears start in his forget-me-not blue eyes. The boys were, one and all, open and clamorous in their admiration. "Pshaw," said young Edgar, indifferently. "It's nothing. All the boys in Virginia can do that." "Can you play leap-frog?" asked "Freckles"--a wiry looking little fellow, with carotty locks and a freckled nose, whose leaping had hitherto been unrivalled. "I'll show you," was the reply. Instantly, a dozen backs were bent in readiness for the game, and over them, one by one, vaulted Edgar, with the lightness of a bird, his brown curls blowing out behind him, as his baggy yellow thighs and thin red legs flew through the air. "Freckles" magnanimously owned himself beaten at his own game. "Let's race," said "Goggles"--a lean, long-legged, swathy boy, with a hooked nose and bulging, black eyes. Like a flash, the whole lot of them were off down the gravel walk, under the elms. Edgar and "Goggles"--abreast--led for a few moments, then Edgar gradually gained and came out some twenty feet ahead of "Goggles," and double that ahead of the foremost of the others. It was not only these accomplishments in themselves that made the American boy at once take the place of hero and leader of his form in this school of old England, but the quiet and unassuming mien with which he bore his superiority--not seeming in the least to despise the weakest or most backward of his competitors, and good-humoredly initiating them all into the little secrets of his success in performing apparently difficult feats. It was the same way with his lessons. Without apparent effort he distanced all of his class-mates and instead of pluming himself upon it, was always ready to help them with their Latin or their sums, whose answers he seemed to find by magic, almost. CHAPTER IV. During the winter before Edgar went to Stoke-Newington, he had attended an "infant school," in Richmond, taught by a somewhat gaunt, but mild-mannered spinster, with big spectacles over her amiable blue eyes, a starchy cap and a little bunch of frosty cork-screw curls on each side of her face. As a child, she had played with Mr. Allan's father on their native heath, in Ayrshire, and to her, little Edgar was always her "ain wee laddie." She had spoiled him inordinately and unblushingly. Also, as she contentedly drew at the pipe filled with the offerings of choice smoking-tobacco which he frequently turned out of his pockets into her lap, she had taught him to read in her own broad Scottish accent, and to cypher. She had furthermore drilled him in making "pothooks and hangers," with which he covered his slate in neat rows, daily. But it was at the Manor House, in Stoke-Newington, that he was initiated into the mysteries of writing. His hands were as shapely as a girl's, with deft, taper fingers that seemed made to hold a pen or brush, and he soon developed a neat, small, but beautifully clear and graceful hand-writing. This new accomplishment became at once a delight to him, and as time went on opened a new world to Edgar the Dreamer, who now began, when he could snatch an opportunity to do so unobserved, to put down upon paper the visions of his awakening soul. Sometimes these scribblings took the form of little stories--crudely conceived and incoherently expressed, but rich in the picturesque thought and language of an exceptionably imaginative and precocious child. Sometimes they were in verse. For subjects these infant effusions had generally to do with the lonely grave in the churchyard in Richmond and the sad joy of the heart that mourns evermore; with the beauty of flowers--the more beautiful because doomed to a brief life; with the Gothic steeple, asleep in the still, blue air, and the bell in whose deep iron throat dwelt a note that was hollow and ghostly; with the great wall around the Manor House grounds and with the mighty gate that swung upon hinges in which the voice of a soul in torment seemed to be imprisoned, and with other things which filled him with a terror that "was not fright, But a tremulous delight." His learning to write bore still another fruit. When Mrs. Allan had first adopted him and set apart a room in her home for him, she had placed in a little cabinet therein the packet of letters his dying mother had given him. She had not opened the packet, for she felt that the letters were for the actress's child's eye alone. He, when he looked at it, did so with a feeling of mixed reverence and fascination which was deepened by his inability to decipher the secrets bound together by the bit of blue ribbon tied around it. How the sight of the packet recalled to him that sad, that solemn hour in which it had been given into his hands! When getting him ready for boarding-school, Mrs. Allan had packed the letters with his other belongings, for she was a woman of sentiment, and she felt the child should not be parted from this gift of his dying mother. But at length, when a knowledge of writing made it possible for him to read the letters, he was possessed with a feeling of shrinking from doing so, as one might shrink from opening a message from the grave. What grim, what terrible secrets, might not the little bundle of letters reveal! It was not until his fifth and last year at Stoke-Newington that Edgar decided one day to look into the packet. He was confined to his bed by slight indisposition and so had the dormitory to himself and could risk opening the letters without fear of interruption. He untied the blue ribbon and the thin, yellowed papers, with fragments of their broken seals still sticking to them, fell apart. He picked up the one bearing the earliest date and began to read. It was from his father to his mother immediately after their betrothal. His interest was at once intensely aroused and in the order in which the letters came, he read, and read, and read, with the absorption with which he might have read his first novel. They were a revelation to him--a revelation of a world he had not known existed, though it seemed, it lay roundabout him--these love-letters of his parents, literally throbbing with the exalted passion of two young, ardent, poetic spirits. The boy had not dreamed that anything so beautiful could be as this undying love of which they wrote and the language in which they made their sweet vows to each other. His own heart throbbed in answer to what he read. His imagination was violently wrought upon and exquisite feelings such as he had never known before awakened in his breast. Under the spell of the letters the child-poet fell in love--not with any creature of flesh and blood, for his entire acquaintance and association was with boys--but with the ideal of his inner vision. From that time, his poetic outbursts came to be filled with--more than aught else--the surpassing beauty, the worshipful goodness, the divine love of woman. He was a naturally reverent boy, but for these more than mortal beings, as they appeared to his fancy, was reserved the supreme worship of his romantic soul. Indeed, the adoration of his ideal woman--perfect in body, in mind and in soul, became, and was to be always, a religion to him. To imagine himself rescuing from a dark prison tower, hid in a deep wood, or from a watery grave in a black and rock-bound lake, at midnight, some lovely maiden whose every thought and heart-beat would thenceforth be for him alone--this became the entrancing inward vision of Edgar the Dreamer--the poet--the lover, at whom Edgar Goodfellow with whisper as insistent as the voice of Conscience, scoffed and sneered, seeking to make him ashamed; but all in vain. Of course it was to follow, as the night the day, that the boy would find someone in whom to dress his ideal. Upon a Sunday soon after his falling in love, he saw the very maiden of his dreams in the flesh. It was in the Gothic church. From the remote pew in the gallery where he sat with his school-mates, he looked down upon a wonderful vision of white and gold in one of the principal pews of the main aisle. Clad all in white and with a shower of golden tresses falling over her shoulders, she was like a glorious lily or a holy angel. Her eyes, uplifted in the rapture of worship, he divined, rather than saw, were of the hue of heaven itself. He loved her at once, with all his soul's might. Her name? Her home? These were mysteries--sacred mysteries--whose unfathomableness but added to her charm. After that, service in the Gothic church was a much more important event to The Dreamer than before--an event looked forward to with trembling from Sunday to Sunday. After that too, upon his periodical week-day walks with the school, he would look up at the quaint old homesteads they passed, with their hedged gardens, ivied walls and sweet-scented shrubberies, and try to guess which was the house-wonderful in which she dwelt. Then suddenly, one sweet May afternoon, he discovered it. It was, as was fitting, the most antique, the most distinguished mansion of them all. He saw her through the bars of the stately entrance gate as she sat beside her mother, on a garden-seat, tying into nosegays the flowers that filled her lap. Stupified by the shock of the discovery, he stood rooted to the ground, letting his school-mates go on ahead of him. She was much nearer him than she had been in the dusky church, and upon closer view, she seemed even more lovely, more flower-like, more angelic than ever before. He stared upon her face with a gaze so compelling that she looked up and smiled at him; then, with sudden impulse, gathered her flowers in her apron, and running forward, handed him through the gate, a fragrant, creamy bud that she happened at the moment to have in her hand. As in a dream, he stretched his fingers for it. He tried to frame an expression of thanks, but his lips were dry and though they moved, no sound came. She had returned at once to her seat beside her mother, and the voice of the usher (who had just missed him) sharply calling to him to "Come on!" was in his ears. He hurried forward, trembling in all his limbs. Twice he stumbled and nearly fell. The bud, he had quickly hidden within his jacket--it was too holy a thing for the profane eyes of his school-fellows to look upon. When strength and reason came back to him he was like a new being. Happiness gave wings to his feet and he walked on air. A divine song seemed to be singing in his ears. Mechanically, he went through the regular routine of school, with no difference that others could see. To himself, heart and soul--detached and divorced from his body--seemed soaring in a new and beautiful world in which lessons and teachers had no place, no part. Whenever it was possible for him to do so unobserved, he would snatch the rose from his bosom and kiss and caress it. He only lived to see Sunday come round. But on the next Sunday and the next she was absent from her accustomed place. Such a thing had not happened before since he had first seen her. He was filled with the first real anxiety he had ever known. Here was a mystery in which there was no charm! The Wednesday after the second Sunday upon which he had missed her was a day dropped out of heaven. The mild, early summer air that floated through the open windows into the gloomy, oak-ceiled schoolroom, was ambrosial with the breathings of flowers. Young Edgar could not fix his thoughts upon the page before him. The out-of-door world was calling to him. He found himself listening to the birds in the trees outside and gazing through the narrow, pointed windows at the waving branches. Suddenly his heart stopped. The deep, sweet, hollow, ghostlike voice of the bell in the steeple, tolling for a funeral, was borne to his ears. In a moment his fevered imagination associated the tolling with the absence of his divinity from her pew, and in spite of passionately assuring himself that it could not be, and recalling how lovely and full of health she had been when he saw her through the gate, he was possessed by deep melancholy. The days and hours until Sunday seemed an age to him--an age of foreboding and dread--but they at last passed by. In a fever of anxiety, he walked with the rest of the boys to church, and mounted the steps to the school gallery. It was early; few of the worshippers had arrived, but in a little while there was a stir near the door. A group of figures shrouded in the black habiliments of woe were moving up the aisle--were entering _her_ pew, from which alas, _she_ was again absent! _Then he knew_--knew that she would enter that sacred place _nevermore_! After the service there were inquiries as to the cause of a commotion in the gallery occupied by the Manor House School, and it was said in reply that the weather being excessively hot for the season, one of the boys had fainted. CHAPTER V. The June following young Edgar's eleventh birthday found him in Richmond once more. The village-like little capital was all greenery and roses and sunshine and bird-song and light-hearted laughter, and he felt, with a glow, that it was good to be back. In the five years of his absence he had grown quite tall for his age, with a certain dignity and self-possession of bearing acquired from becoming accustomed to depend upon himself. All that was left of the nut-brown curls that used to flow over his shoulders were the clustering ringlets that covered his head and framed his large brow. His absence had also wrought in him other and more subtle changes which did not appear to the friends who remarked upon what a great boy he had grown--a maturity from having lived in another world--from having had his thoughts expanded by new scenes and quickened by the suggestions of historic association and surroundings. But with his return, England and Stoke-Newington sank into the shadowy past--their spell weakened, for the time being, by the thought-absorbing, heart-filling scenes of which he had now become a part. The years at the Manor House School were as a dream--_this_ was the real thing--_this_ was Home. _Home_--ah, the charm of that word and all it implied! His heart swelled, his eyes grew misty as he said it over and over to himself. The clatter of drays "down town" was like music in his ears, the dusty streets of the residential section were fair to his eyes for old time's sake. How he loved the very pavement under his feet, rough and uneven as it was; how dearly he loved the trees that he had climbed (and would climb again) which stretched their friendly boughs over his head! In a state of happy excitement he rushed about town, visiting his old haunts to see if they were still there, and "the same." "Comrade," his brown spaniel--his favorite of all his pets--had grown old and sober and had quite forgotten him, but his love was soon reawakened. The boys he had played with, too, had almost forgotten him, but his return called him to mind again and put them all in a flutter. A boy who had lived five years on the other side of the ocean and had been to an English boarding school, was not seen in Richmond every day. Mrs. Allan gave him a party to which all of the children in their circle were invited. In anticipation of this, he had purchased in London, out of the abundance of pocket-money with which his doting foster-mother always saw to it he was provided, a number of little gifts to be distributed among the boys at home. These, with the distinction his travels gave him, made him the man of the hour among Richmond children. And how much he had to tell! At Stoke-Newington it was always the boys at home that were the heroes of the stories he spun by the yard for the entertainment of his school-fellows--the literal among whom had come to believe that there was no feat a Virginia boy could not perform. Now that he was in Richmond, the Stoke-Newington boys themselves loomed up as the wonder-workers, and his playmates listened with admiration and with such expression as, "Caesar's ghost!"--"Jiminy!"--"Cracky!" and the like, as he narrated his tales of "Freckles," "Goggles," "the Beau," and the rest. One of his first visits after reaching home was to his old black "Mammy," in the tiny cottage, with its prolific garden-spot, on the outskirts of the town, in which Mr. Allan had installed her and her husband, "Uncle Billy," before leaving Virginia. "Mammy" was expecting him. With one half of her attention upon the white cotton socks she was knitting for her spouse and the other half on the gate of her small garden through which her "chile" would come, she sat in her doorway awaiting him. She was splendidly arrayed in her new purple calico and a big white apron, just from under the iron. Her gayest bandanna "hankercher" covered her tightly "wropped" locks from view and the snowiest of "neckerchers" was crossed over her ample bosom. Her kind, black countenance was soft with thoughts of love. "Uncle Billy," too, was spruced for the occasion. Indeed, he was quite magnificent in a "biled shut," with ruffles, and an old dresscoat of "Marster's." His top-boots were elaborately blacked, and a somewhat battered stove-pipe hat crowned his bushy grey wool. Each of the old folks comfortably smoked a corn-cob pipe. "Mammy" saw her boy coming first. She could hardly believe it was he--he was so tall--but she was up and away, down the path, in a flash. Half-way to the gate that opened on the little back street, she met him and enveloped him at once in her loving arms. "Bless de Lord, O my soul!" she repeated over and over again in a sort of chant, as she held him against her bosom and rocked back and forth on her broad feet, tears of joy rolling down her face. "De probable am returned," announced Uncle Billy, solemnly. "G'long, Billy," she said, contemptuously. "He ain' no _probable_. He jes' Mammy's own li'l' chile, if he _is_ growed so tall!" "I'se only 'peatin' what de Good Book say," replied Uncle Billy, with dignity. Edgar was crying too, and laughing at the same time. "Howdy, Uncle Billy," said he, stretching a hand to the old man as soon as he could extricate himself from Mammy's embrace. "My, my, you do look scrumptious! How's the rheumatiz?" "Now jes' heah dat! Rememberin' uv de ole man's rheumatiz arter all dis time!" exclaimed the delighted Uncle Billy. "'Twus mighty po'ly, thankee, li'l Marster, but de sight o' you done make it better a'ready. I 'clar 'fo' Gracious, if de sight of you wouldn' be good for so' eyes! Socifyin' wid dem wile furren nations ain' hu't you a bit--'deed it ain't!" "How did you expect them to hurt me, Uncle Billy?" asked Edgar, laughing. "I was 'feard dey mought make a _Injun_, or sum'in' out'n you." "G'long, Billy," put in his wife, with increased contempt, "Marse Eddie ain' been socifyin' wid no Injuns--he been socifyin' wid kings an' queens' settin' on dey thrones, wid crowns on dey haids an' spectres in dey han's! Come 'long in de house, Honey, an' set awhile wid Mammy." As they crossed the threshold of the humble abode, Edgar looked around upon its familiar, homely snugness with satisfaction--at the huge, four-post bed, covered with a cheerful "log cabin" quilt made of scraps of calico of every known hue and pattern; at the white-washed walls adorned with pictures cut from old books and magazines; at the "shelf," as Mammy called the mantel-piece, with its lambrequin of scallopped strips of newspaper, and its china vases filled with hundred-leaf roses and pinks; at the spotless bare floor and homemade split-bottomed chairs; at the small, but bright, windows, with their rows of geraniums and verbenas, brilliantly blooming in boxes, tin-cans and broken-nosed tea-pots. Almost all that Mammy could say was, "Lordy, Lordy, Honey, how you has growed!" Or, "Jes' to think of Mammy's baby sech a big boy!" Presently a shadow crossed her face. "Honey," she said, "You gittin' to be sech a man now, you won't have no mo' use fur po' ole Mammy. Dar won't be a thing fur her to do fur sech a big man-chile." "Don't you believe that, for a minute, Mammy," was the quick reply. "I was just wondering if you had forgotten how to make those good ash-cakes." "Now, jes' listen to de chile, makin' game o' his ole Mammy!" she exclaimed. "Livin' so high wid all dem hifalutin' kings an' queens an' sech, an' den comin' back here an' makin' ten' he wouldn' 'spise Mammy's ash-cakes!" "I'm in dead earnest, Mammy. Indeed, indeed and double deed, I am. Kings and queens don't have anything on their tables half as good as one of your ash-cakes, with a glass of cool butter-milk." "Dat so, Honey?" she queried, with wonder. "Den you sho'ly shall have some, right away. Mammy churn dis ve'y mornin', and dars a pitcher of buttermilk coolin' in de spring dis minute. You des' make you'se'f at home an' I'll step in de kitchen an' cook you a ash-cake in a jiffy. Billy, you pick me some nice, big cabbage leaves to bake it in whilst I'm mixin' de dough, an' den go an' git de butter-milk an' a pat o' dat butter I made dis mornin' out'n de spring." Edgar and Uncle Billy followed her into the kitchen where she deftly mixed the corn-meal dough, shaped it in her hands into a thick round cake, which she wrapped in fresh cabbage leaves and put down in the hot ashes on the hearth to bake. Meantime the following conversation between Edgar and the old "Uncle:" "Uncle Billy do you ever see ghosts now-adays?" "To be sho', li'l' Marster, to be sho'. Sees 'em mos' any time. Saw one las' Sunday night." "What was it like, Uncle Billy?" "Like, Honey?--Like ole Mose, dat's what t'wus like. Does you 'member Mose whar useter drive de hotel hack?" "Yes, he's dead isn't he?" "Yes, suh, daid as a do' nail. Dat's de cur'us part on it. He's daid an' was buried las' Sunday ebenin'--buried deep. I know, 'ca'se I wus dar m'se'f. But dat night when I had gone to bed an' wus gittin' off to meh fus' nap, I was woke up on a sudden by de noise uv a gre't stompin' an' trompin' an snortin' in de road. I jump up an' look out de winder, an' I 'clar' 'fo' Gracious if dar warn't Mose, natchel as life, horses an' hack an' all, tearin' by at a break-neck speed. I'se seed many a ghos' an' a ha'nt in meh time, uv _humans_, but dat wus de fus' time I uver heard tell uv a horse or a hack risin' f'um de daid. 'Twus skeery, sho'!" Before Edgar had time for comment upon this remarkable apparition, Mammy set before him the "snack" she had prepared of smoking ash-cake and fresh butter, on her best china plate--the one with the gilt band--and placed at his right hand a goblet and a stone pitcher of cool butter-milk. A luncheon, indeed, fit to be set before royalty, though it is not likely that any of them ever had such an one offered them--poor things! Edgar did full justice to the feast and was warm in his praises of it. Then, before taking his leave, he placed in Mammy's hands a parcel containing gifts from the other side of the water for her and Uncle Billy. There is nothing so dear to the heart of an old-time negro as a present, and as the aged couple opened the package and drew out its treasures, their black faces fairly shone with delight. Mammy could not forbear giving her "chile" a hug of gratitude and freshly springing love, while Uncle Billy heartily declared, "De Lord will sho'ly bless you, li'l' Marster, fur de Good Book do p'intedly say dat He do love one chufful giver." * * * * * To young Edgar's home-keeping playmates, he seemed to be the luckiest boy in the world, and indeed, his brief existence had been up to this time, as fortunate as it appeared to them. Even the beautiful sorrow of his mother's death had filled his life with poetry and brought him sympathy and affection in abundant measure. But bitterness was soon enough to enter his soul. His thoughts from the moment of his return to Richmond, had frequently turned to the white church and churchyard on the hill--and to the grave beside the wall. Thither he was determined to go as soon as he possibly could, but it was too sacred a pilgrimage to be mentioned to anyone--it must be as secret as he could make it; and so he must await an opportunity to slip off when he would be least apt to be missed. He chose a sultry afternoon when Mr. and Mrs. Allan were taking a long drive into the country. He waited until sunset--thinking there would be less probability of meeting anyone in the churchyard after that hour than earlier--and set out, taking with him a cluster of white roses from the summer-house in the garden. It was nearly dusk when he reached the church and climbed the steps that led to the walled graveyard, elevated above the street-level. Never had the spot looked so fair to him. The white spire, piercing the blue sky, seemed almost to touch the slender new moon, with the evening star glimmering by her side. The air was sweet with the breath of roses and honeysuckle, and the graves were deeply, intensely green. Long he lay upon the one by the wall, near the head of which he had placed his white roses--looking up at the silver spire and the silver star and the moon's silver bow--so long that he forgot the passage of time, and when he reached home and went in out of the night to the bright dining-room, blinking his great grey eyes to accustom them to the lamp-light, supper was over. The keen eyes of John Allan looked sternly upon him from under their fierce brows. The boy saw at once that his foster-father was very angry. "Where have you been?" he demanded, harshly. "Nowhere," replied the boy. "What have you been doing all this time?" "Nothing," was the answer. "Nowhere? Nothing? Don't nowhere and nothing me, Sir. Those are the replies--the lying replies--of a boy who has been in mischief. If you had not been where you shouldn't have been, and doing as you shouldn't have done, you would not be ashamed to tell. Now, Sir, tell me at once, where you have been and what you have been doing?" The boy grew pale, but made no reply, and in the eyes fixed on Mr. Allan's face was a provokingly stubborn look. The man's wrath waxed warmer. His voice rose. In a tone of utter exasperation he cried, "Tell me at once, I say, or you shall have the severest flogging you ever had in your life!" The boy grew paler still, and his eyes more stubborn. A scowl settled upon his brow and a look of dogged determination about his mouth, but still he spoke not a word. Mrs. Allan looked from one to the other of these two beings--husband and son--who made her heart's world. The evening was warm and she wore a simple white dress with low neck and short sleeves. Anxiety clouded her lovely face, yet never had she looked more girlishly sweet--more appealing; but the silent plea in her beautiful, troubled eyes was lost on John Allan, much as he loved her. "Tell him, Eddie dear," she implored. "Don't be afraid. Speak up like a man!" Still silence. She walked over to the table where the boy sat before the untouched supper that had been saved for him, and dropped upon one knee beside him. She placed her arm around him and drew him against her gentle bosom--he suffering her, though not returning the caress. "Tell _me_, Eddie, darling--tell Mother," she coaxed. The grey eyes softened, the brow lifted. "There's nothing to tell, Mother," he gently replied. Mr. Allan rose from his chair. "I'll give you five minutes in which to find something to tell," he exclaimed, shaking a trembling finger at the culprit; then stalked out of the room. In his absence his wife fell upon the neck of the pale, frowning child, covering his face and his curly head with kisses, and beseeching him with honeyed endearments, to be a good boy and obey his father. But the little figure seemed to have turned to stone in her arms. In less than the five minutes Mr. Allan was back in the room, trimming a long switch cut from one of the trees in the garden as he came. "Are you ready to tell me the truth?" he demanded. No answer. Still trimming the switch, he approached the boy. Frances Allan trembled. Rising from the child's side, she clasped her husband's arm in both her hands. "Don't, John! Don't, please, John dear. I can't stand it," she breathed. He put her aside, firmly. "Don't be silly, Frances. You are interfering with my duty. Can't you see that I must teach the boy to make you a better return for your kindness than lying to hide his mischief?" "But suppose that he is telling the truth, John, and that he has been doing nothing worse than wandering about the streets? You know the way he has always had of roaming about by himself, at times." "And do you think roaming about the streets at this time of night proper employment for a boy of eleven? Would you have him grow up into a vagabond? A boy dependent upon the bounty of strangers can ill afford to cultivate such idle habits!" The boy's already large and dark pupils dilated and darkened until his eyes looked like black, storm-swept pools. His already white face grew livid. He drew back as if he had been struck and fixed upon his foster-father a gaze in which every spark of affection was, for the moment, dead. He had been humiliated by the threat of a flogging, but the prospect of the hardest stroke his body might receive was as nothing to him now. His sensitive soul had been smitten a blow the smart of which he would carry with him to his last day. "Dependent upon the bounty of strangers,"--_of strangers!_ Up to this time he had been the darling little son of an over-fond mother, and though his foster-father had been at times, stern and unsympathetic with him, no hint had ever before dropped from him to indicate that the child was not as much his own as the sons of other fathers were their own--that he was not as much entitled to the good things of life which were heaped upon him without the asking as an own son would have been. His comforts--his pleasures had been so easily, so plentifully bestowed that the little dreamer had never before awaked to a realization of a difference between his relation with his parents and the relation of other children with theirs. Brought face to face with this hard, cold fact for the first time, and so suddenly, he was for the moment stunned by it. He felt that a flood of deep waters in which he was floundering helplessly was overwhelming him. A deep silence had followed the last words of Mr. Allan, who continued to trim the switch, while his wife, sinking into a chair, bowed her face in her arms, folded upon the table, and began to cry softly. The gentle sounds of her weeping seemed but further to infuriate her husband. "Come with me," he commanded, placing his hand on the shoulder of the child, who unresistingly suffered himself to be pushed along toward his foster-father's room. Frances Allan broke into wild sobbing and placed her fingers against her ears that she might not hear the screams of her pet. But there were no screams. Silently, and with an air of dignity it was marvellous so small a figure could command, the beautiful boy received the blows. When one's soul has been hurt, what matters mere physical pain? When both the strength and the passion of Mr. Allan had been somewhat spent, he ceased laying on blows and asked in a calmed voice, "Are you ready to tell me the truth now?" In one moment of time the child lived over again the beautiful hour at his mother's grave. He saw again the silver spire and the silver half-moon and the silver star--smelled the blended odors of honeysuckle and rose, made sweeter, by the gathering dews, and felt the coolness and freshness of the long green grass that covered the grave. Who knew but that deep down under the sweet grass she had been conscious he was there--had felt his heart beat and heard his loving whispers as of old, and loved him still, and understood, though she would see him nevermore? Share the secret of that holy hour with anyone--of all people, with this wrathful, blind, unsympathizing man who had just confessed himself a stranger to him? Never! A faint smile, full of peace, settled upon his poet's face, but he answered never a word. There was a stir at the door. John Allan looked toward it. His wife stood there drying her eyes. He turned to the boy again. "Go with your mother and get your supper," he commanded. "I don't want it," was the reply. "Well, go to bed then, and tomorrow afternoon you are to spend in your own room, where I hope meditation upon your idle ways may bring you to something like repentance." The boy paused half-way to the door. "Tomorrow is the day I'm going swimming with the boys. You promised that I might go." "Well, I take back the promise, that's all." "Don't you think you've punished him enough for this time, John?" timidly asked his wife. "No boy is ever punished enough until he is conquered," was the reply. "And Edgar is far from that!" Mrs. Allan, with her arm about the little culprit's shoulder went with him to his room. How she wished that he would let her cuddle him in her lap and sing to him and tell him stories and then hear him his prayers at her knee and tuck him in bed as in the old days before he went to boarding-school! Her heart ached for him, though she had no notion of the bitterness, the rebellion, that were rankling in his. As she kissed him goodnight she whispered, "You shall have your swim, in the river, tomorrow, Eddie darling; I'll see that you do." "Don't you ask _him_ to let me do anything," he protested, passionately. "I'm going without asking him. He disowned me for a son, I'll disown him for a father!" He loved her but he was glad when the door closed behind her so that he could think it all out for himself in the dark--the dear dark that he had always loved so well and that was now as balm to his bruised spirit. The worst of it was that he could not disown John Allan as a father. He had to confess to himself with renewed bitterness that he was indeed, and by no fault of his own--a helpless dependent upon the charity of this man who had, in taunting him with the fact, wounded him so grievously. His impulse was to run away--but where could he go? Though his small purse held at that moment a generous amount of spending money for a boy "going on twelve," it would be a mere nothing toward taking him anywhere. It would not afford him shelter and food for a day, and he knew it--it would not take him to the only place where he knew he had kindred--Baltimore. And what if he could get as far as Baltimore, would he care to go there? To assert his independence of the charity of John Allan only to throw himself upon the charity of relatives who had never noticed him--whom he hated because they had never forgiven his father for marrying the angel mother around whose memory his fondest dreams clung? No, he could not disown Mr. Allan--not yet; but the good things of life received from his hands had henceforth lost their flavor and would be like Dead Sea fruit upon his lips. Hitherto, though he knew, of course, that he was not the Allans' own child, he had never once been made to feel that he was any the less entitled to their bounty. They had adopted him of their own free will to fill the empty arms of a woman with a mother's heart who had never been a mother, and that woman had lavished upon him almost more than a mother's love--certainly more than a prudent mother's indulgence. He had been the most spoiled and petted child of his circle, and the bounty had been heaped upon him in a manner that made him feel--child though he was--the joy that the giving brought the giver, and therefore no burden of obligation upon himself in receiving. If Mr. Allan had been strict to a point of harshness with him, at times, Mr. Allan was a born disciplinarian--it seemed natural for him to be stern and unsympathetic and those who knew him best took his stiffness and hardness with many grains of allowance, remembering his upright life and his open-handed charities. He had administered punishment upon the little lad when he was naughty in the years before he went away to school, and the little lad had taken his medicine philosophically like other naughty boys--had cried lustily, then dried his eyes and forgotten all about it in the pleasure which the goodies and petting he always had from his pretty, tender-hearted foster-mother at such times gave him. But _this_ was different. He was a big lad now--very big and old, he felt, far too big to be flogged; quite big enough to visit his mother's grave, if he chose, without having to talk about it. And he had not only been flogged because he would not reveal his sacred, sweet secret, but had had his dependence upon charity thrown up at him! Henceforth, he felt, his life would be a lonely one, for he now knew that he was different from other boys, all of whom (in his acquaintance) had fathers to whose bounty they had a right--the right of sonship. Yes, he was a very big boy (he told himself) and he had not cried when he was flogged, but under the cover of the kindly dark, hot tears of indignation, hurt pride and pity for his own loneliness--his singularity--made all his pillow wet. Comfort came to him from an unexpected source. The door of his room had been closed, but not latched. It was now pushed open by "Comrade," his old spaniel, who made straight for his side, first pushing his nose against his face and then leaping upon the bed and nestling down close to him, with a sigh of satisfaction. The desolate boy welcomed this dumb, affectionate companionship. The feel of the warm, soft body, and the thought of the velvety brown eyes which he could not see in the dark, but knew were fixed upon him with their intense, loving gaze, were soothing to his overwrought nerves. Here was something whose love could be counted upon--something as dependent upon him as he was upon Mr. Allan; yet what a joy he found in the very dependence of this devoted, soft-eyed creature! Never would he taunt Comrade with his dependence upon charity. "No;" he said, his hands deep in the silky coat, "I would not insult a dog as he has insulted me! Never mind, Comrade, old fellow, we'll have our swim in the river tomorrow, and he may flog me again if he likes." * * * * * But he was not flogged the next day. An important business engagement occupied Mr. Allan the whole afternoon, and when he came in late, tired and pre-occupied, he found Edgar fresh and glowing from his exercise in the river, the curls still damp upon his forehead, quietly eating his supper with his mother. _She_ knew, but tender creature that she was, she was prepared to do anything short of fibbing to shield her pet from another out-burst. But John Allan, still absorbed in business cares, hardly looked toward the boy, and asked not a question. CHAPTER VI. The home of the Allans was never quite the same to Edgar Poe after that night. A wall had been raised between him and his foster-father that would never be scaled. He was still indulged in a generous amount of pocket money which he invariably proceeded to get rid of as fast as he could--lavishing it upon the enjoyment of his friends as freely as it had been lavished upon him. He had plenty of pets and toys, went to dancing school, in which his natural love of dancing made him delight, and was given stiff but merry little parties, at which old Cy, the black fiddler played and called the figures, and the little host and his friends conformed to the strict, ceremonious etiquette observed by the children as well as the grown people of the day. For these indulgences Frances Allan was chiefly responsible. The one weak spot in the armor of austerity in which John Allan clothed himself was his love for his wife, and it was often against what he felt to be his better judgment that he acquiesced in her system of child-spoiling. He felt a solemn responsibility toward the boy, and he did his duty by him, as he saw it, faithfully. It was not in the least his fault that he did _not_ see that under the broad white brow and sunny ringlets was a brain in which, like the sky in a dew-drop, a whole world was reflected, with ever changing pageantry, and that the abstracted expression in the boy's eyes that he thought could only mean that he was "hatching mischief," really indicated that the creative faculty in budding genius was awake and at work. For a child Edgar's age to be making trials at writing poetry Mr. Allan regarded as sheer idleness, to be promptly suppressed. Indeed, when he discovered that the boy had been guilty of such foolishness, he emphatically ordered him not to repeat it. To counteract the effects of his wife's spoiling of her adopted son, he felt it his duty to place all manner of restrictions upon his liberty, which the freedom-loving boy, with the connivance of his mother and the negro servants who adored him, disregarded whenever it was possible. Though bathing in the river was (except upon rare occasions) prohibited, Edgar became before summer was over, the most expert swimmer and diver of his years in town, and many an afternoon when Mr. Allan supposed that he was in his room, to which he had been ordered for the purpose of disciplining his will and character, or for punishment, he was far beyond the city's limits roaming the woods, the fields, or the river-banks--joyously, and without a prick of conscience (for all his disobedience) feeding his growing soul upon the beauties of tree, and sky, and cliff, and water-fall. And so, in spite of the melancholy moods in which he was occasionally plunged by the bitterness which had found lodgment in his breast, the summer was upon the whole a happy one to the boy. He was so young and the world was so beautiful! He could not remember always to be unhappy. Edgar Goodfellow, as well as Edgar the Dreamer, revelled in the world of Out-of-Door. To the one all manner of muscular sport and exercise was as the breath of his nostrils; to the other, whose favorite stories were ancient myths and fairy-tales, all natural phenomena possessed vivid personality. He loved to trace pictures in the clouds. In the rustling of corn or the stirring of leaves in the trees, or in the sound of running waters he heard voices which spoke to him of delightsome things, bringing to his full, grey eyes, as he hearkened, a soft, romantic look, and touching his lips and his cheeks with a radiant spirituality. The cottage, on Clay Street, to which the Allans had removed soon after their return from England, was in a quiet part of the town. The window of Edgar's own, quaint little room in the dormer roof, with its shelving walls, gave him a fair view of the sky, and brought him sweet airs wafted across the garden of old-fashioned flowers below. Here, such hours as he spent from choice or by command were not lonely, for, sitting by the little window, many a story or poem was thought out; or buried in some favorite book his thoughts would be borne away as if on wings to a world where imagination was king. * * * * * In the fall he was entered at Mr. Clarke's school. The school-room, with its white-washed walls and the sun pouring in, unrestricted, through the commonplace, big, bare windows, was very different from the great, gloomy Gothic room at old Stoke-Newington--so full of mystery and suggestion--but Edgar found it a pleasant place in which to be upon that cool fresh morning in late September, when he made its acquaintance. He felt full of mental activity and ready to go to work with a will upon his Latin, his French and his mathematics. Since his return from England, in June, he had become acquainted with most of the boys who were to be his school-fellows, and he took at once to the school-master, Professor Clarke, of Trinity College, Dublin--a middle-aged bachelor of Irish birth, an accomplished gentleman and a very human creature, with a big heart, a high ideal of what boys might be and abundant tolerance of what they generally were. If he had a quick temper, he had also a quick wit, and a quick appreciation of talent and sympathy with timorous aspirations. It had been Master Clarke's suggestion that his new pupil, who was known as Edgar Allan, should put his own name upon the school register. Edgar, looking questioningly up into Mr. Allan's face, was glad to read approval there, and with a thrill of pride he wrote upon the book, in the small, clear hand that had become characteristic of him: "Edgar Allan Poe." He was proud of his name and proud of his father, of whom he remembered nothing, but in whose veins, he knew, had run patriot blood, and who had had the independence to risk all for love of the beautiful mother of worshipped memory. It was with straightened shoulders and a high head that he took the seat assigned him at the clumsy desk, in the bare, ugly room of the school in which he was to be known for the first time as _Edgar Poe_. He felt that in coming into his own name he had come into a proud heritage. Mr. Clarke's Irish heart warmed toward him. He divined in the big-browed, big-eyed boy a unique and gifted personality and proceeded with the uttermost tact to do his best toward the cultivation of his talents. The result was that Edgar not only acquitted himself brilliantly in his studies, but progressed well in his verse-making, which though, since Mr. Allan's prohibition, it had been kept secret in his home, was freely acknowledged to teacher and school-fellows. By his class-mates he was deemed a wonder. He was so easily first among them in everything--in the simple athletics with which they were familiar, as well as in studies--and his talent for rhyming and drawing seemed to set him upon a sort of pedestal. In the first blush of triumph these little successes gave him, young Edgar's head was in a fair way to be turned. He saw himself (in fancy) the leader, the popular favorite of the whole school. Indeed, he flattered himself he had leaped at a single bound to this position at the moment, almost, of his entrance. But he soon began to see that he was mistaken. While he was conscious of the unconcealed admiration of most, and the ill-concealed envy of a few of the boys, of his mental and physical abilities, he began, as time went on, to suspect--then to be sure--that for some reason that baffled all his ingenuity to fathom, he was not accorded the position in the school that was the natural reward for superiority of endowment and performance. This place was filled instead by Nat Howard, a boy who, he told himself, he was without the slightest vanity bound to see was distinctly second to him in every way. He noticed that whatever Nat proposed was invariably done, so that he was forced either to follow where he should have led, or be left out of everything. Often when he joined the boys listening with interest to Nat's heavy jokes and talk, a silence would fall upon the company, which in a short while would break up--the boys going off in twos and threes, leaving him to his own society or that of a small minority composed of two or three boys for the most part younger than himself, who in spite of the popular taste for Nat, preferred him and were captivated by his clever accomplishments. That there was some reason why he was thus shut out from personal intimacy by school-mates who acknowledged and admired his powers he felt sure, and he was determined to ferrit it out. In the meantime his heart, always peculiarly responsive to affection, answered with warmth to the devotion of the small coterie who were independent enough to swear fealty to him. He helped them with their lessons, initiated them into the mysteries of boxing and other manly exercises, went swimming and gunning with them, and occasionally delighted them by showing them his poems and the little sketches with which he sometimes illustrated his manuscript, in the making. It must be confessed that there was little in these compositions to set the world afire. They would only be counted remarkable as the work of a school-boy in his early teens, and were practice work--nothing more. They served their purpose, then sank into the oblivion which was their meet destiny. But to Jack Preston, Dick Ambler, Rob Stanard and Rob Sully, and one or two others, they were master-pieces. These boys, as well as Edgar, were giving serious attention to their linen, the care of their hands, and the precise parting of their hair, just then; and a close observer might often have detected them in the act of furtively feeling their upper lips with anxious forefinger in the vain hope of discovering the appearance--if ever so slight--of a downy growth thereupon. For they, as well as he, were making sheep's eyes at those wonderful visions in golden locks and jetty locks, with brown eyes and blue eyes, with fluttering ribbons and snowy pinafores, known as "Miss Jane Mackenzie's girls," who were the inspiration of most of their poet-chum's invocations of the muse. The little hymns in praise of the charms of these girls were generally adorned with pen or pencil sketches of the fair charmers themselves. Poor Miss Jane had a sad time of it. As the accomplished principal of a choice Young Ladies Boarding and Day School, she enjoyed an enviable position in the politest society in town. Parents of young ladies under her care congratulated themselves alike upon her strict rule and her learning, her refinement of manners and conversation and her distinguished appearance. She was tall and stately and in her decorous garb of black silk that could have "stood alone," and an elegant cap of "real" lace with lavender ribbons softening the precise waves of her iron-grey hair, she made a most impressive figure--one that would have inspired with profound respect any male creature living saving that incorrigible non-respecter of persons and personages, especially of lady principals--the Boy. For the "forming" of young ladies, Miss Jane had a positive forte, but the genus boy was an unknown quantity to her, and worse--he was a positive terror. For one of them to invade the sacred precincts of her school, or its grounds, seemed to her maiden soul rank sacrilege; to scale her garden wall after dark for the purpose of attaching a letter to a string let down from a window to receive it, was nothing short of criminal. For one of her girls to receive offerings of candy and original poetry--_love poetry_--from one of these terrible creatures; such an offence was unspeakably shocking. Yet discovery of such offences happened often enough to give her repeated shocks, and to confirm her in her belief in the total depravity, the hopeless wickedness of all boys--especially of John Allan's adopted son. In spite of her vigilance, Edgar Poe found the means to outwit her, and to transmit his effusions, without difficulty, to her fair charges, who with tresses primly parted and braided and meek eyes bent in evident absorption upon their books, were the very pictures of docile obedience, and bore in their outward looks no hint of the guilty consciences that should, by rights, have been destroying their peace. Miss Jane was the sister of Mr. Mackenzie who had adopted little Rosalie Poe. Rosalie was, at Miss Jane's invitation, a pupil in the school, but (ungrateful girl that she was) she became, at the suggestion of her handsome and charming brother Edgar, whom she adored, the willing messenger of Dan Cupid, and furthered much secret and sentimental correspondence between the innocent-seeming girls and the young scamps who admired them. In these fascinating flights into the realms of flirtation, as in other things, Edgar's friends acknowledged his superiority--his romantic personal beauty and his gift for rhyming giving him a decided advantage over them all; but they acknowledged it without jealousy, for there was much of hero worship in their attitude toward him, and they were not only perfectly contented for him to be first in every way but it would have disappointed them for him not to be. The captivating charm of his presence, in his gay moods, made it unalloyed happiness for them to be with him. They were always ready to follow him as far as he led in daring adventure--ready to fetch and carry for him and glowing with pride at the least notice from him. Some boys would have taken advantage of this state of things, but not so Edgar Goodfellow. He, for his part, was always ready to contribute to their pleasure, and fairly sunned himself in the unstinting love and praise of these boys who admired, while but half divining his gifts. Their games had twice the zest when Eddie played with them--he threw himself into the sport with such heartfelt zeal that they were inspired to do their best. Many a ramble in the woods and fields around Richmond he took with them, telling them the most wonderful stories as he went along; but sometimes, quite suddenly, during these outings, Edgar Goodfellow would give place to Edgar the Dreamer and they would wonderingly realize that his thoughts were off to a world where none of them could follow--none of them unless it were Rob Sully, who was himself something of a dreamer, and could draw as well as Edgar. The transformation would be respected. His companions would look at him with something akin to awe in their eyes and tell each other in low tones not to disturb Eddie, he was "making poetry," and confine their chatter to themselves, holding rather aloof from the young poet, who wandered on with the abstracted gaze of one walking in sleep--with them, but not of them. There were other, less frequent, times when his mood was as much respected, when added to the awe there was somewhat of distress in their attitude toward him. At these times he was not only abstracted, but a deep gloom would seem to have settled upon his spirit. Without apparent reason, melancholy claimed him, and though he was still gentle and courteous, they had a nameless sort of fear of him--he was so unlike other boys and it seemed such a strange thing to be unhappy about nothing. It was positively uncanny. At these times they did not even try to be with him. They knew that he could wrestle with what he called his "blue devils" more successfully alone. A restlessness generally accompanied the mood, and he would wander off by himself to the churchyard, the river, or the woods; or spend whole long, golden afternoons shut up in his room, poring over some quaint old tale, or writing furiously upon a composition of his own. When he looked at the boys, he did not seem to see them, but would gaze beyond them--the pupils of his full, soft, grey eyes darkening and dilating as if they were held by some weird vision invisible to all eyes save his own; and indeed the belief was general among his friends that he was endowed with the power of seeing visions. This impression had been made even upon his old "Mammy," when he was a mite of a lad. Many a time, when he turned that abstracted gaze upon her, she had said to him, "What dat you lookin' at now, Honey? You is bawn to see evil sho'!" * * * * * And now a glimpse of Edgar Goodfellow--the normal Edgar, whom his chums saw oftenest and loved best, because they knew him best and understood him best. It was a late Autumn Saturday--one of the Saturdays sent from Heaven for the delight of school-children--bracing, but not cold; and brilliant. Little Robert Sully looked pensively out of the window thinking what a fine day it would be for a country tramp, if only he were like other boys and could take them. But Rob was of frail build and constitution and could never stand much exertion. In his eyes was the expression of settled wistfulness that frequent disappointment will bring to the eyes of a delicate child; in the droop of his mouth there was a touch of bitterness, for he was thinking that not only did his weak body make it impossible for him to keep up with the boys, but that it was no doubt, a relief to the boys to leave him behind--that when he could be with them he was perhaps a drag on their pleasure. No doubt they would make a long day of it, this bright, bracing Saturday, for the persimmons and the fox-grapes were ripe and the chinquapin and chestnut burrs were opening. Tears of self-pity sprang to his eyes, but they were quickly dashed away as he heard his name called and saw his beloved Eddie, flushed and glowing with anticipated pleasure, at the gate. "Come along, Rob," he was calling. "We are going to the Hermitage woods for chinquapins, and you must come too. Uncle Billy is going for a load of pine-tags, and we can ride in his wagon, so it won't tire you." The other boys were waiting at the corner, all at the highest pitch of mirth, for they saw that their idol, Eddie, was in one of his happiest moods, which would mean a morning of unbounded fun to them. And the ride with old Uncle Billy who, with black and shiny face, beaming upon them in an excess of kindliness, hair like a full-blown cotton-boll, and quaint talk, was an unfailing source of delight to them! The Saturday freedom was in their blood. Off and away they went in the jolly, rumbling wagon, past houses and gardens, and fields and into the enchanting, autumn-colored woods, where "Bob Whites" were calling to each other and nuts were dropping in the rustling leaves or waiting to be shaken from their open burrs. As they jolted along, the steady stream of conversation between Edgar and Uncle Billy was as good as a play to the rest of the boys--Edgar, with grave, courteous manner, discoursing of "cunjurs" and "ha'nts" with as real an air of belief as that of the old man himself. CHAPTER VII. The allegiance of his little band of boon companions was all the sweeter to the young poet because he realized more and more fully as the years of his school-days passed that for some reason unknown to himself he was systematically, and plainly with intention, denied intimacy with Nat Howard and his followers--_snubbed_. As has been said, they did not hesitate to acknowledge his success in all sorts of mental and physical trials of skill, but in a formal, impersonal way. There was never the least familiarity in their intercourse with him. This, naturally, produced in him a reserve in his manner toward them that they unreasonably attributed to "airs." Their coldness wounded and chilled the sensitive boy as much as the love of his devoted adherents warmed him. It was not until near the end of his third session in the school that the riddle was, quite suddenly, solved. Edgar Poe was now in his fifteenth year. One perfect May day, when the song of birds, the odors of flowers, the whisper of soft breezes and the languor of mellow sunshine outside of the open school windows were wooing all poetic souls to come out and live, and let musty, dry books go to the deuce, little Rob Sully found it impossible to fix his mind upon his Latin. As for Edgar's mind, it was plain from his expression that it was far afield; but then Edgar had the power of knowing his lessons intuitively, almost. Rob only "got" his by faithful plodding. When their respective classes were called, Edgar recited brilliantly, while Rob seemed like one befuddled and, making a dismal failure, was bidden to stay in and study at recess. A look of utter woe settled upon his thin, pallid face, which lifted as, impelled to look toward Edgar's desk, he caught his friend's eyes fixed upon him with their charming smile. He knew well what the eyes were saying: "Don't worry, Rob, I'll stay in and help you." And stay in the owner of the eyes did, patiently going over and over the lesson with the confused boy until the hard parts were made easy. Finally, when he saw that Rob had mastered it, Edgar walked out into the yard for the few minutes left of recess. The boys were all drawn up in a group a little way from the house and were being harangued by his rival, Nat Howard. His chums, Rob Stanard, Dick Ambler and Jack Preston, were standing together a few feet apart from the rest. Their faces were very red and the haranguing seemed to be addressed directly to them. Edgar stopped where he was, wondering what it was all about, but shy of joining a crowd over which Nat was presiding. The speaker's voice rose to a higher key. "I'll tell you, boys," he was saying, "if you persist in intimacy with this fellow, you needn't expect to be in with me and my crowd." "We don't want you and your crowd," was the response. "He's worth all of you rolled into one." Edgar's heart stood still. "Was Nat Howard talking about _him_?" The voice went on: "I grant you the fellow's smart enough and game enough, but he's not in our class, and I, for one, won't associate with him intimately." "His family's one of the oldest and most honorable in the country," said Robert Stanard. "I've heard my father say so." "Yes, but his father must have been a black sheep to run away with a common actress--" The harangue was brought to an abrupt end. The enraged Edgar had sprung forward and, with a blow in the face, struck Nat Howard down. Nat's friends were lifting him up and wiping the blood from his face and dusting his clothing, while Edgar's own friends gathered around him as if to restrain him from repeating the attack. He shook them off, gazing with contempt upon his limp and half-stunned adversary. "I'll not hit him again until he repeats his offence," he assured the boys, "but I want him and all other cowardly dogs to know what's waiting for them when they insult the memory of my father and mother. Yes! my mother was an actress! God gave her the gifts to make her one and she had the pluck to use them to earn bread for herself and for her children. Yes! she was an actress! She had the lovely face and form, the high intelligence and the poetic soul for the making of a perfect woman or for the interpreter of genius--for the personification of a Juliet, a Rosalind or a Cordelia. Yes! she was an actress! And I'm proud of it as surely as I'm proud she's an angel in Heaven! And I'm proud that my father--the son of a proud family--had the spirit, for her sweet sake, to fly in the face of convention, to count family, fortune and all well lost to become her husband, and to adopt her profession; to learn of her, in order that he might be always at her side to protect her and to live in the light of her presence. If I had choice of all the surnames and of all the lineage in the world, I would still choose the name of Poe, and to be the son of David and Elizabeth Poe, players!" The boys were silent. The school bell was ringing and Edgar Poe, still pale and trembling with passion, turned on his heel and strode, with head up, in the direction of the door. Rob Stanard and Rob Sully walked one on each side of him, while Dick Ambler and Jack Preston and several others among his adherents, followed close. A little way behind the group came the other boys, their still half-dazed leader in their midst. Good Mr. Burke (who had succeeded Mr. Clarke as school-master) guessed as they came in and took their seats that there had been an altercation of some kind, and that his two brag scholars had been prominent in it; but he was wise in his generation and allowed the boys to settle their own differences without asking any questions unless he were appealed to, when his sympathy and interest were found to be theirs to count upon. The afternoon session was unsatisfactory, but the master was in an indulgent mood and apparently did not notice what each boy felt--a confusion and abstraction. There was a palpable sense of relief when the closing hour came. * * * * * At dinner that day Edgar was silent and evidently under a cloud, and scarcely touched his food. Frances Allan looked toward him anxiously and her husband suspiciously. When his lack of appetite was remarked upon, he, truthfully enough, pleaded headache. Mrs. Allan was all sympathy at once. "You study too hard, dear," she said. "You may have a holiday tomorrow if you like, and go and spend the day in the country with Rosalie and the Mackenzies." "No, no," replied the boy. "I'll just stay quiet, in my room, this evening. I'll be all right by tomorrow." "What have you been eating?" demanded John Allan, gruffly. "Nothing, since breakfast, Sir," was the reply. "Headaches are for nervous women. When a healthy boy complains of one, and declines dinner, it generally means that he has been robbing somebody's strawberry patch or up a cherry-tree, stuffing half-ripe fruit," he said in the acid, suspicious tone that the boy knew. It was beyond John Allan's powers to imagine any but physical causes for a boy's ailments. * * * * * Not until the door of his own little bed-room was closed behind him did Edgar Poe even try to collect his thoughts. Then he sat down at his window and looked out over the fragrant garden to the quiet sky, contemplation of which had so often soothed his spirit, and tried to readjust the inner world he lived in, in accordance with the discovery he had just made. A first such readjustment his world had experienced three years before, when Mr. Allan had taunted him with his dependence upon charity. Before that time the world, as he knew it, had held only love and beauty--sorrow, as he had seen it, being but a solemn and poetic form of beauty. The change in such a world made by the discovery that his being an adopted son set him apart in a class different from other boys--a class unlovely and loveless--had been great, had stolen much of the joy from living; but he was very young then, and the joy of mere living and breathing was strong in his blood, and he had gradually become accustomed--hardened, if you will--to the idea of his dependence upon charity. But here was a change far more terrible, and coming at a time when he was old enough to feel it far more keenly. He was indeed, in a class by himself--he was held in contempt because of what his angel mother had been! His holy of holies had been profaned, the sacred fire that warmed his inner life had been spat upon. It seemed he had been from the beginning despised, though he had not dreamed it, for that which he held most dear--of which he was most proud. The little, aristocratic, puffed-up world he lived in would doubtless always despise him; but that was because of its narrowness and ignorance for which he, in turn, would despise it. With the whimsical, half-belief he had always had that the dead remain conscious through their long sleep, he wondered if his beautiful young mother, with the roses on her hair, down under the green earth, was not aware of the love and loyalty of her boy and if her spirit soaring the highest heavens, would not aid him in carrying out the resolution which in the bitterness of his soul, he then and there made--the resolution to bring this mean little, puffed up world to do honor to his name--to her name, of which he was prouder in this hour when others would trample it in the dust than he had ever been before. Young boy though he was, he was conscious of his God-given endowments. He felt that the divine fire of poetic feeling in his breast was an immortal thing. Up to this time, his singing had been as the singing of a wood-bird--an impulse, a necessity to express the thoughts and feelings of his heart. He had never looked far enough ahead to consider whether he should or should not publish his work; but now ambition awoke--full-grown at its birth--and set him afire. From those parents whose memory had been insulted he had received (God willing it) the precious heritage of brilliant intellect. He would put the work of this intellect--his stories and his poems--into books. He would give them to the wide world. He would win recognition for the name of Poe. He drew from within his coat the miniature of his mother--her dying gift. He gazed upon it long and tenderly, and with it still exposed to view brought from his desk the little packet of yellowed letters in their faded blue ribbon. He knew them by heart, but he read them--each one--over again, as carefully as if it had been the first time. They were not many and those not long; but ah, they were sweet!--those tender, quaint love-letters that had passed between his parents in their brief courtship and married life. His father's so manly so strong--like the letters of a soldier. His mother's so modest, so tender. They did not stir his pulses so wildly now as they did upon his first reading of them, when a little lad at old Stoke-Newington--but they were no less beautiful to him now than then. The sentences made him think of the dainty, sweet aroma of pressed roses. He tied the packet up again and kissed letters and picture, as if to seal the promise he was making them, then restored them to their hiding-places. With the bitter knowledge that had come to him, he felt that years had passed over him--that he would never be young again--this boy of fourteen! He raised his deep, pensive eyes once more to the quiet sky and his spirit cried to Heaven to grant him power to accomplish this task he had set himself: to lift the loved name of his parents from the dust where it lay, and to set it high in the temple of fame, wreathed with immortal myrtle. His resolution gave to his poetic face and his slender figure an air of mastery, as though some new, high quality had been born within him. CHAPTER VIII. In the days that followed, Edgar's friends found him unusually silent, yet not morose. Serenity sat on his broad, thoughtful brow and in his great, soft eyes. Nat Howard and his chums gave him the cold shoulder and wore, in his presence, the air of offended dignity which the small-minded are apt to assume when conscious of being in the wrong or of having committed an injury which the victim has received with credit and the offender has not forgiven. It is so much easier to grant pardon for an injury received than for one given! Edgar's own friends were more emphatic in their devotion to him than ever--racking their young brains for ways in which to show their loyalty and frequently looking into his face with the expression of soft adoration and trust one sees in the eyes of a faithful dog. Edgar was touched and gratified, and his sweet, spontaneous smile often rewarded their efforts; but his face would soon become grave again and the boys were aware that the mind of their gifted friend was busy with thoughts in which they had no part. This gave them an impression of distance between them and him. He all of a sudden, seemed to have become remote, as though a chasm, by what power they knew not, had opened between them--making their love for him as "the desire of the moth for the star." They knew that he was more often than ever before working upon his poetical and other compositions, but these were seldom shown, or even mentioned, to them. Each boy in his own way sought to bridge the gulf that separated them from their idol. Robert Sully missed his Latin lesson on purpose in the hope that Eddie would stay in and help him. And Eddie did, but wore that same detached air in which there was no intimacy or comfort. When the lesson was learned Edgar took a slate from the desk before them, rubbed off the problem that was upon it, and quickly wrote down a little poem of several stanzas. He held it out, with a smile, to Rob, telling him that while teaching him his lesson he had been practicing "dividing his mind," and that while one part of his brain had been putting English into Latin the other part had composed the verses on the slate. The dumfounded Rob read the verses aloud, but before he could express his amazement Edgar had taken the slate from him and, with one swipe of the damp spunge, obliterated the rhymes. "Write them on paper for me, please," plead Robert. The brilliant smile of the boy-poet flashed upon him. "Oh, they were not worth keeping," said he, indifferently. "They were merely an exercise." And picking up his books and hat, he walked out of the door, whistling in clear, high, plaintive notes one of the melodies of his favorite Tom Moore. The boy left behind looked after him with a troubled heart and misty eyes. This wonderful friend of his was as kind as ever, yet he seemed changed. It was clear that he had "something on his mind." "Will you go swimming with me this evening, Eddie?" said Dick Ambler one day when school was out. "With all the pleasure in life," was the hearty response. Dick went home to his dinner with a singing heart. If anything could bring Edgar down from the clouds to his own level, surely it would be bathing together. He certainly could not make poetry while diving and swimming, naked, in the racing and tumbling falls of James River. A merry battle with those energetic waters kept a fellow's wits as well as his muscles fully occupied. But even this attempt was a failure. If Edgar made any poetry while in the water he did not mention it; but he was absent-minded and unsociable all the way to the river and back--sky-gazing for curious cloud-forms, listening for bird-notes and hunting wild-flowers, and talking almost none at all. In the water he seemed to wake up, and never dived with more grace, or daring; but no sooner had they started on the way home than he was off with his dreams again. Rob Stanard was more successful in his attempts to interest his friend. In spite of their intimacy at school and on the playground Edgar had up to this time never visited the Stanard home. Rob had enlisted his mother's sympathy in the orphan boy and she had suggested that he should invite Edgar home with him some day. It now occurred to Rob that this would be a good time to do so, and knowing his friend's fondness for dumb animals, he offered his pets as an attraction--asking him to come and see his pigeons and rabbits. His invitation was accepted with alacrity. Edgar had seen Rob's mother, but only at a distance. He knew her reputation as one of the town beauties, but lovely women were not rare in Richmond, and, beauty-worshipper though he was, he had never had any especial curiosity in regard to Mrs. Stanard. He was altogether unprepared for the vision that broke upon him. Instead of going through the house, Rob had piloted him by way of a side gate, directly into the walled garden, sweet and gay with roses, lilies and other flowers of early June. Mrs. Stanard, who took almost as much pleasure in her children's pets as they did, was standing near a clump of arbor-vitae, holding in her hands a "willow-ware" plate from which the pigeons were feeding. She was at this time, though the mother of Edgar's twelve-year-old chum, not thirty years of age, and her pensive beauty was in its fullest flower. Against the sombre background the arbor-vitae made, her slight figure, clad in soft, clinging white, seemed airy and sylphlike. Her dark, curling hair, girlishly bound with a ribbon snood, and her large brown eyes, were in striking contrast to her complexion, which was pale, with the radiant and warm palor of a tea-rose or a pearl. Her features were daintily modelled, and like slender lilies were the hands holding the deep blue plate from which the pigeons--white, grey and bronze, fed--fluttering about her with soft cooings. The picture was so much more like a poet's dream than a reality, that the boy-poet stepped back, with an exclamation of surprise. "It is only my mother," explained Rob. "She'll be glad to see you." The next moment she had perceived the boys, and with quick impulse, set the plate upon the ground and came forward, and before a word of introduction could be spoken, had taken the visitor's hand between both her own fair palms, holding it thus, with gentle, gracious pressure, in a pretty, cordial way she had, while she greeted him. The soft eyes that rested on his face filled with kindness and welcome. "So this is my Rob's friend," she was saying, in a low, musical voice. "Rob's mother is delighted to see you for his sake and for your own too, Edgar, for I greatly admired _your_ gifted mother. I saw her once only, when I was a young girl, but I can never forget her lovely face and sweet, plaintive voice. It was one of the last times she ever acted, and she was ill and pale, but she was exquisitely beautiful and made the most charming Juliet. She interested me more than any actress I have ever seen." Edgar Poe longed to fall down and kiss her feet--to worship her. Her beauty, her gentleness and her gracious words so stirred his soul that he grew faint. Power of speech almost left him, and, vastly to his humiliation, he could with difficulty control his voice to utter a few stumbling words of thanks--he who was usually so ready of speech! If she noticed his confusion she did not appear to do so. Her heart had been touched by all she had heard from her son of the lonely boy, and she had also been interested in accounts of his gifts that had come to her from various sources. The beauty, the poetry, the pensiveness of his face moved her deeply--knowing his history and divining the lack of sympathy one of his bent would probably find in the Allan home, for all its indulgences. She sat on a garden-bench and talked to him for a time, in her gentle, understanding way, and then, not wishing to be a restraint upon the boys, (after placing her husband's fine library at Edgar's disposal, and urging him to come often to see Rob) withdrew into the house. The motherless boy looked after her until she had disappeared, and stared at the door that had closed upon her until he was recalled from his reverie by the voice of his friend, suggesting that they now see the rabbits. Edgar looked at the gentle creatures with unseeing eyes, though he appeared to be listening to the prattle of his companion concerning them. Suddenly, in a voice filled with enthusiasm and with a touch of awe in it, he said: "Rob, your mother is divinely beautiful--and _good_." "Bully," was the nonchalant reply. "The best thing about her is the way she takes up for a fellow when he brings in a bad report or gets into a scrape. Fathers always think it's their sons' fault, you know." Edgar flushed. "_Bully_--" he said to himself, with a shudder. The adjective applied to her seemed blasphemy. Aloud, he said, "She's an angel! She's the one I've always dreamed about." "You dreamed about mother when you had never seen her?" questioned the astonished Rob. "What did you dream?" "Nothing, in the way you mean. I meant she is like my idea of a perfect woman. The kind of woman a man could always be good for, or would gladly die to serve." "Well, I'm not smart enough to think out things like that, Eddie, but Mother certainly is all right. What you say about her sounds nice, and she'd understand it, too. I just bet that you and mother'll be the best sort of cronies when you know each other better. She likes all those queer old books you think so fine, and she knows whole pages of poetry by heart. When you and she get together it will be like two books talking out loud to each other. I won't be able to join in much, but it will be as good as a play to listen." The young poet bent his steps homeward with but one thought, one hope in his heart, and that a consuming one: to look again upon the lovely face, to hear again the voice that had enthralled him, had taken his heart by storm and filled it with a veritable _grande passion_--the rapturous devotion of the virgin heart of an ardent and romantic youth. First love--yet so much more than ordinary love--a pure passion of the soul, in which there was much of worship and nothing of desire. Surely the most pure and holy passion the world has ever known, for in it there was absolutely nothing of self. Like Dante after his first meeting with Beatrice, this Virginia boy-poet had entered upon a _Vita Nuova_--a new life--made all of beauty. What difference did the taunts of schoolmates, the hardness of a foster-father make now? The wounds they made had been gratefully healed by the balm of her beauteous words about his mother. Those old wounds were as nothing--neither they nor anything else had power to harm him now. In the new life that had opened so suddenly before him he would bear a charmed existence. He went to his room before the usual hour that night, for he wanted to be alone with his dreams--with his newest, most beautiful dream. To his room, but not to bed. Life was too beautiful to be wasted in sleep. He lighted his lamp and holding his mother's picture within its circle of light, gazed long and devotedly upon it. Did she know of the great light that had shone out of what seemed a sunless sky upon her boy? Had she, looking out from high Heaven, seen the gracious greeting of the beautiful being who was Madonna and Psyche in one? Had she heard her own cause so sweetly championed, her own name so sweetly cleared of opprobrium? He threw himself upon his lounge and lay with his hands clasped under his curly head, still dreaming--dreaming--dreaming--until day-dreams were merged into real dreams, for he was fast asleep. In his sleep he saw the lady of his dreams in a situation of peril, from which he joyfully rescued her. He awoke with a start. His lamp had burned itself out but a late moon flooded the room with the white light that he loved. A breeze laden with odors caught from the many rose-gardens and the heavier-scented magnolias, now in full bloom, it had come across, stirred the curtain. His nostrils, always sensitive to the odors of flowers, drank it in rapturously. So honey-sweet it was, his senses swam. He arose and looked out upon the incense-breathing blossoms, like phantoms, under the moon. A clock in a distant part of the house was striking twelve. How much more beautiful was the world now--at night's high noon--than at the same hour of the day. All the house, save himself, was asleep. How easy it would be to escape into this lovely night--to walk through this ambrosial air to the house-worshipful in which _she_ doubtless lay, like a closed lily-flower, clasped in sleep. A mocking-bird--the Southland's nightingale--in, some tree or bush not far away, burst into passion-shaken melody that seemed to voice, as no words could, his own emotion. Down the stair he slipped, and out of the door, into the well-nigh intoxicating beauty of the southern summer's night. Indeed, the odors of the dew-drenched flowers--the moonlight--the bird-music, together with his remembrance of his lady's greeting, went to his head like wine. As he strolled along some lines of Shelley's which had long been favorites of his, sang in his brain: "I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And the spirit in my feet Has led me--who knows how?-- To thy chamber-window, sweet! "The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream; The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, Oh, beloved, as thou art! "Oh, lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast. Oh, press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last." The words of the latter half of this serenade were meaningless as applied to his case. To have quoted them--even mentally--in any literal sense, would have seemed to him profanation; yet the whole poem in some way not to be analysed or defined, expressed his mood--and who so brutal as to seek to reduce to common-sense the emotions of a poet-lover, in the springtime of life? At length he was before the closed and shuttered house, standing silent and asleep. Opposite were the grassy slopes of Capitol Square--with the pillared, white Capitol, in its midst, looking, in the moonlight, like a dream of old Greece. _Her_ house! He looked upon its moonlit, ivied walls with adoration. A light still shone from one upper room. Was it _her_ chamber? Was she, too, awake and alive to the beauty of this magic night? His heart beat tumultuously at the thought. Then--Oh, wonder! His knees trembled under him--he grew dizzy and was ready, indeed, to cry, "I die, I faint, I fail!" She crossed the square of light the window made. In her uplifted hand she carried the lamp from which the light shone, and for a moment her slight figure, clad all in white as he had seen her in the garden a few hours before, and softly illuminated, was framed in the ivy-wreathed casement. But for a moment--then disappeared, but the trembling boy-lover and poet seemed to see it still, and gazed and gazed until the light was out and all the house dark. He stumbled back through the moonlight to his home, he crept up the creaking stair again, to his little, dormer-windowed room; but sleep was now, more than ever, impossible. Though the lamp had gone out, a candle stood upon a stand at the head of his bed. He lighted it, and by its ray, wrote, under the spell of the hour, the first utterance in which he, Edgar Poe, ascended from the plane of a maker of "promising" verse, to the realm of the true poet--a poem to the lady of his heart's dream destined (though he little guessed it) to make her name immortal and to send the fame of his youthful passion down the ages as one of the world's historic love-affairs. What was her name? he wondered. He had never heard it, but he would call her Helen--_Helen_, the ancient synonym of womanly beauty, but the loveliest Helen, he believed, that ever set poet-lover piping her praise. And so, "To Helen," were the words he wrote at the top of his page, and underneath the name these lines: "Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore. "On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome. "Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand! The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!" CHAPTER IX. With his meeting with "Helen," a new life, indeed, seemed to have opened for Edgar the Dreamer. Not only had her own interest and sympathy been aroused, but her husband, a learned and accomplished judge of the Supreme Court of Virginia, also received him cordially and became deeply interested in him, and he found in their home what his own had lacked for him, a thoroughly congenial atmosphere. "Helen" Stanard listened kindly to his boyish rhapsodies about his favorite poets, and encouraged him to bring her his own portefolio of verses, which he did, all but the ones addressed to herself--these he kept secret. She read all he brought her carefully, and intelligently criticised them in a way that was a real help to him. As has been said, when Mr. Allan had discovered that his adopted son was a rhymster, he had rebuked him severely for such idle waste of time, and in a vain attempt to clip the wings of Pegasus, threatened him with punishment if he should hear of such folly again. Mrs. Allan, on the contrary, though she was not a bookish woman, had protested against her husband's command--urging that Edgar be encouraged to cultivate his talent. The ability to compose verse seemed to her, in a boy of Edgar's age, little short of miraculous, and, proud of her pet's accomplishment, she heaped indiscriminate praise upon every line that she saw of his writing. The boy, hardly knowing which way to escape, between these two fires that bade fair to work the ruin of his gift, turned eagerly to his new friend. "Helen" gently told him that she believed his talent to be a sacred trust, and that he would be committing sin to bury it--even though by so doing he should be fulfilling the wishes of his foster-father to whom he owed so much. He must, however, not forget his duty to Mr. Allan in regard to this matter, as in other things, but treat his views with all the consideration possible. Above all things, he was never to depart from the truth in talking to him, but to tell him in a straightforward and respectful way that he believed it his duty when poetical thoughts presented themselves to his mind, to set them down, and even to encourage and invite such thoughts. At the same time, she earnestly warned him against being overmuch impressed by the flattering estimates of his work of his friends, especially of his mother, who was far too partial to him, personally, to be a safe judge of his writings. A happier summer than is often given mortals to know, Edgar the Dreamer passed at the feet of the lovely young matron who had become a sort of mother-confessor to him. Happiness which, with a touch of the superstition that was characteristic of him he often told himself was too perfect to last. What was it that made him feel sometimes in looking upon her under the serene sky of that ideal summer that a cloud no bigger than a man's hand threw its shadow upon her? Was it that faint hint of sadness in her dark eyes or the ethereal radiance of her pale complexion that while thrilling him with delight in the exquisite quality of her beauty, filled him with foreboding? * * * * * Ere the frosts of autumn had robbed her garden of its glory, blighting sorrow had fallen upon her tender mother-heart in the death of a darling baby girl. Beneath this blow the health of sweet "Helen," always frail, succumbed, and her home became thenceforth as a living tomb, in which the few who ever saw her again trod softly and spoke in hushed voices. When the earliest roses were in bloom in her garden two years after Edgar Poe first saw her there, she lay in her coffin, and for him, the world seemed to have come to an end. She was laid to rest in the new cemetery on Shockoe Hill, not far from the Allan home. The bier was followed by its black procession of mourners, and no one knew that the heart of a youth who followed too, but at a distance, was breaking. Though husband and children and brother and sister were bowed with grief, he told himself that there was among them no sorrow like unto his sorrow who had not even the right of kinship to mourn for her. Of what business of his (he fancied, out of the bitterness of his soul, the world saying) of what business of his was her death? What business had he to mourn? Again his feet kept time to the old refrain of never, nevermore, that hammered in his brain--a refrain that to the unrealizing ear of the child of three had been sad with a beautiful, rhythmic sadness that was rather pleasurable than otherwise; that to the youth of sixteen was still musical and beautiful, though filled with despair. As at many another time his poetical gift gave him a merciful vent for his pent up feeling, so now it came to his aid, and upon the night of the day when she was laid to rest he poured out his sorrow in "The Paean"--which he was afterwards to revise and rename, "Lenore"-- "An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-- A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young." As during his childhood, and afterwards, he had found a mournful pleasure in visiting the grave of his mother, in the churchyard on the hill; so now he found a blessed solace, in his terrible loneliness, in pilgrimages to the shrine (for as such he held the grave of his saint) in the new cemetery. These pilgrimages he usually made at night--his grief was too sacred a thing to be flaunted in broad daylight. Many a night during the spring and summer found him slipping down the stair, when the house was asleep, and taking his way through the silent city of Slumber to that even more silent city of Death. Oh, that those that lay there not much more still than they who lay asleep in their beds in that other city, might arise like them with the morrow's sun! Often, as he walked along, drinking in the perfumed night air that he loved--the night breeze gratefully lifting the ringlets from his fevered brow--often he thought of that first summer's night when with the sweet words of Shelley's serenade: "I arise from dreams of thee," singing themselves in his heart, he had gone with light feet to worship beneath her window. Ah, the world was young then, for sweet hope was alive! The iron gates of the cemetery were locked, but the wall was not very high. To scale it but added zest to his adventure. He would be a knight unfit for his vigil if he were to let himself be so easily balked. Within the wall the odors of flowers were even heavier, more oppressively sweet than without, and the silence surpassed the silence of the outer city even as the stillness of the sleepers here surpassed the stillness of those yonder. He listened and listened to the silence. Surely if she should speak, even from down under the ground he could hear her across this silence which was as a void--a black and terrible void. His first pilgrimages were by moonlight, but when the moonless nights came he continued his vigils. He would have known the way by that time with his eyes shut. Sometimes he was afraid--horribly afraid. He seemed, in the shadows, to descry weird phantom-shapes, moving stealthily; in the silence to hear ghostly whispers; sometimes he fancied he heard _the silence itself_! But in the very fear that clutched his throat there was a fascination--a lure--that made it impossible to turn back. His sorrow was exquisite; his terror was exquisite; his loneliness was oh, how exquisite! Yet in courting them all, here in the dead of night, prone on her grave, he found the only balm he knew--the only sympathy; for to his fancy the dark and the quiet had always seemed sentient things and he felt that they gave him a sympathy he did not--could not ask of people. * * * * * A breathless night in July found him at the familiar tryst at an earlier hour than was his wont. He lay upon the grass at her feet with his hands clasped under his head and his face turned up to the stars. There was moonlight as well as starlight, and in its silvery radiance his features, always pale, had the frigid whiteness of marble. The wide-open eyes that stared upward to the stars, were larger, darker than in daylight, and more full of brooding; the white brow, with its crown of dark ringlets was whiter and more expansive. In a dormer-windowed cottage overlooking a rose garden, on Clay Street, an erect gentleman in an uncompromising stock and immaculate ruffles, with narrow blue eyes under a beetling brow, and a somewhat hawk-like nose, sharply questioned a fair and graceful lady, with an anxious expression on her flower-face, as to why "that boy" did not come home to his supper. But they were used by now, to the boy's strange, wayward whims, and so did not marvel much. Only--they had not seen him since the feat that had set the town ringing with his name and it seemed to them that it would have been natural for him to come home in the flush of his triumph and tell them about it. Edgar Poe had that day created the sensation of the hour by swimming from the Richmond wharves to Warwick--a distance of six miles--in the midsummer sun. Richmond was a fair and pleasant little city in those days, in spite of the fact that our boy-poet found in it so much to make him melancholy. "The merriest place in America," Thackeray called it some years later, and would probably have said the same of it then had he been there. The blight of Civil War had not touched the cheerful temper of its people; the tenement row had not crowded out grass and flowers. It was more a large village than a town, with gracious homes--not elbowing each other for foundation room, but standing comfortably apart, amid their green lawns, and with wide verandahs overhanging their many-flowered gardens. "After tea," on warm nights, the houses overflowed into these verandahs, and there was much visiting from one to another--much light-hearted talk and happy laughter; the popular theme being whatever happened to be "the news." It was the day of contentment, for wants were moderate and plentifully supplied; the day of satisfaction in wholesome domestic joys; the day of hospitality without grudging; the day when sweetness extracted from little pleasures did not need spicing, for palates were not jaded; the day of the ideal simple life. Upon this night, as on other nights, young girls who were not yet "gone to the springs" floated along the fashionable promenades, in airy muslins, with their cavaliers beside them. Groups of gentlemen and ladies sat on the porches and children played hide-and-seek, chased fire-flies, or sat on the steps and listened to the talk of their elders. And everywhere, in all of the groups, the chief topic was the boy, Edgar Poe, and his wonderful swim. And the boy who had in an afternoon become, for the time being at least, the foremost figure in town, knew it, but did not care. To lie alone on the grass by the grave of his dead divinity and gaze at the far stars, and brood upon his young sorrows--this gave him more satisfaction than to be the central figure of any one of the groups singing his praise; filled him with a romantic despair that to his high-strung soul had a more delicately sweet flavor than positive pleasure. As to the erect gentleman in the high stock and the pretty lady with the tender, anxious face--they had, for the present, no part in his thoughts. It was wrong and ungrateful of him that they should not have, and if he had remembered them he would have known that it was wrong and ungrateful; but he would not have cared. And as for his food--he had supped royally, and without compunction, upon the fruit of an inviting orchard to which he had helped himself, unblushingly, upon his way into town. A reckless mood, born of the restlessness that was in his blood, was upon him. The truth was, that poignant as was his pleasure in dwelling upon his poetical sorrow for the adored "Helen"--his "lost Lenore"--it did not fully satisfy him. His youthful heart was hungry for response to his out-poured sentiment, for the more robust diet of mutual love. In plain English, Edgar Poe wanted, and wanted badly, a sweetheart, though he did not suspect it. * * * * * When, finally, he scaled the cemetery wall and took his way homeward he did not go directly to the dormer-windowed cottage where the erect gentleman and the pretty lady awaited him. Just as he was approaching it he heard Elmira Royster's guitar in the porch opposite, and he crossed the street and entered the Royster's gate. The Roysters and Allans had been neighbors for years and he and Elmira had been "brought up together." At the sound of approaching footsteps the guitar grew suddenly silent and a slight, rather colorless girl in a white dress, with a white flower in her fluffy blonde hair, came from out the shadow of the microphilla rose that embowered the porch and stood in the full light of the moon, giving him greeting. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Eddie," she said. "All of the family but me have gone to a party, and I'm so lonesome! Besides, I, like everybody else in town, want a chance to congratulate you." "Congratulate?" he replied, with a shrug, as he took a seat beside her, under the roses, "Congratulate? In their hearts they all despise me." Then with a smile, "You see the blue devils have the upper hand of me tonight, Myra." "Well, they are fibbing devils if they tell you you are despised. Dick Ambler was over at your house looking for you a little while ago, and he stopped by and told me about your swim. He said he and the other boys that followed you in the boat had never seen anything so exciting in their lives. They were expecting you to give out any minute and so much afraid that if you did you would go under before they could get hold of you. When you won the wager they were so proud and happy that they were almost beside themselves." "Oh, I know Dick and the rest are the best and truest friends a fellow ever had--bless their hearts--but they are the exceptions." "Nonsense! There's not a boy in town tonight who would not give his head to be in your shoes, and" (shyly) "the girls are all wild about you." The hero smiled indulgently. No woman was ever thrown with Edgar Poe, from his birth up, but in some fashion or degree, loved him, and to him all women were angels. He never, as boy or man, entertained a thought or wrote a line of one of them that was not reverent. He admired, in varying degree, all types of feminine loveliness, but Myra, though he liked her, was not the style that he most cared for. He had always thought her too "washed out." The soul that shone through her rather prominent, light-blue eyes was too transparent, too easily read. He found more interesting the richer-hued brunette type, and the complex nature that goes with it; the flashes of starlight, the softness and the warmth, of brown eyes; the mysteries that lie in the shadow of dusky lashes; the variety of rich, warm tones in chestnut and auburn tresses. But Myra was a revelation to him tonight. He had never dreamed that she could look so pretty--_so very pretty_--as she did now in her white dress, with the moonlight filtering through the foliage upon her fair hair and her face (turned full of liking and undisguised admiration upon him) and her lovely arms, bared to the elbow. She had an ethereal, fairy-like appearance that was bewitching, and in his despondent mood, her frank praise was more than sweet. Still his answer was as bitter as ever, "Oh, well, what does it all amount to? They would say the same of any acrobat in a circus whose joints were a bit more limber than those of the rest of his tribe. That does not remove their contempt for me, personally." "I don't feel contempt for you, Eddie," she gently replied--just breathing it. (Myra was really wonderful tonight. He had not known her voice could have so much color in it; and the white flower in her hair--a cape-jessamine, its excessively sweet fragrance told him--gave her pale beauty the touch of romance it had always lacked). The poetic eyes that looked into hers mellowed, the cynical voice softened: "Don't you Myra? Well, you'd better cultivate it. Its the fashion, and it's the only feeling I'm worth." "Eddie," she said earnestly--tenderly, "I want you to promise me that you won't talk that way any more--at least not to _me_--it hurts me." Her hand, on his sleeve, was as fair as a petal from the jessamine flower in her hair. He took it gently in his. "Dear little Myra, little playmate--" he said. "You are my friend, I know, and have been since we were mere babies, in spite of knowing, as you do, what a naughty, idle, disobedient boy I've been, deserving every flogging and scolding I've gotten and utterly unworthy all the good things that have come my way--including your dear friendship." "You are breaking your promise already," she said. "You _shall not_ run yourself down to me. I think you are the nicest boy in town!" There was nothing complex about Myra. Her mind was an open book, and he suddenly found he liked it so--liked it tremendously. Her unveiled avowal of preference for him was most soothing to his restless, dissatisfied mood. "Thank you, Myra," he said tenderly, kissing the flower-petal hand before he laid it down. He had a strong impulse to kiss _her_, but resisted it, with an effort, and abruptly changed the subject. "Did you know that we are going to move?" he asked. "And that I'm going to the University next winter?" "_To move_?" she questioned, aghast. "Where?" "To the Gallego mansion, at Fifth and Main Streets. Mr. Allan has bought it. The dear little mother, who, I'd say, if you'd let me, is so much better to me than I deserve, is full of plans for furnishing it and is going to fit up a beautiful room in it for me. It will be a delightful home for us, and quite grand after our modest cottage, but do you know I'm goose enough to be homesick at the thought of giving up my little den under the roof? Myself and I have had such jolly times together in it!" She had scarcely heard him, except the first words and the stunning facts they contained. There was a minute's silence, then she spoke in a changed, quivering voice. "Then that will be the end of our friendship, I suspect! When you get out of the neighborhood, and are off most of the time at the University, we will doubtless see little more of you." Her clear blue eyes were shining up at him through tears. Her mouth was tremulous as a distressed child's. The appeal met an instant response from the tender-hearted poet. _Both_ the flower-like hands were captured this time, and held fast, in spite of their fluttering. The excessively sweet fragrance of the blossom in her hair was in his nostrils. Her quick, short breaths told him of the tempest in her tender young bosom. "Myra, little Myra, do you care like that?" he cried. "Then let the friendship go, and be my dear little sweetheart, won't you? I'm dying of loneliness and the want of somebody to love and to love me--somebody who understands me--and you do, don't you, Myra, darling?" She was too happy to answer, but she suffered him to put his arms around her and kiss her soft pale hair--and her brow--and her tremulous mouth--the first kisses of love to him as well as to her. And ah, how sweet! He laughed happily, lifted out of his gloom by this new, this deliriously sweet dream. "Do you know, little sweetheart," he said, in a voice that was bubbling with joy, "I feel that you have cast those devils out of me forever. It was you that I wanted all the time, and did not know it. Some of these days, when I've been through college and settled down, we will be married, and wherever our home is, we must always have a porch like this, with a rose on it, and" (kissing her brow) "you must always wear a jessamine in your hair." And so the boy-poet and his girl play-mate, very much to their own surprise, parted affianced lovers, and a long vista of sunlit days seemed to beckon The Dreamer. CHAPTER X. The session at the University did not begin until the middle of February, so love's young dream was not to be interrupted too soon. Meantime, its sweetness was only enhanced by thought of the coming separation. The affair had too, the interest of secrecy, for the youthful lovers well knew the storm of opposition that would be raised, in both their homes, if it should be discovered. This need of secrecy made frequent meetings and exchange of vows impossible, but it gave to such as occurred the flavor of stolen sweets and kept the young sinners in a tantalized state which was excruciating and at the same time delightful, and which still further fed the flames and convinced them of the realness and intensity of their passion. When they did meet, their awed, joyous confessions of mutual love charmed the lonely, romantic boy by their very novelty. In them his fairest dreams were fulfilled. How sweet it was in these rare, stolen moments, to crush the pure young creature, who would be his own some day, against his wildly beating heart--how passing sweet to hear against his ear her whispered, hesitating vows of deep, everlasting love! In his pretty new room overlooking the terraced garden of the stately mansion which had become his home, Edgar Poe plunged headlong into Byron, and in the mood thus induced, penned many a verse, no worse and not much better than the rhymes of lovelorn youths the world over and time out of mind, to be copied into Myra's album. Between the love-making and preparation for college, time took wings. In what seemed an incredibly short space summer and fall were gone, Christmas, with its festivities, was over and the new year--the year 1826--had opened. It was upon St. Valentine's Day that, with a feeling of solemnity worthy of the act, the seventeen year old lover and student wrote the name Edgar Allan Poe, and the date of his birth, upon the matriculation book of the University of Virginia--open for its second session. Upon the day before the beauty and the poetry--_the inspiration_--of the place had burst upon him, and this first impression still held his soul in thrall. Here, in this fair Virginia vale, ringed about with the heaven-kissing hills of the Blue Ridge, the scholastic village conjured by Jefferson's fertile imagination lay before him in the clear, winter sunshine. Its lawns and its gardens were just now white with an unbroken blanket of new-fallen snow; the young trees which had been planted in avenues along the lawns, but which were as yet hardly more than shrubs, glittered with icicles, and above them rose the classic columns of the colonnaded dormitories and professors' houses; while at one end of the oblong square the majestic dome and columns of the Rotunda stood out against the sky. As the entranced Dreamer gazed and gazed, trying to imagine what it must be like by moonlight--what it would be in spring--what (a few years later, when the trees should have grown large enough to arch the walks) in summer--he told himself that surely in this garden-spot of the Old Dominion, bricks and mortar had sprung into immortal bloom, and he found himself quoting a line of his own: "The glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome." Upon his earliest opportunity he sat down and wrote Myra a rhapsody upon it all. Her presence, he felt, and he wrote her, was all needed to make the place a paradise. Under his name upon the matriculation book he had written, with confidence: "Schools of Ancient and Modern Languages." In the school of Ancient Languages were taught (according to the announcement for the year) "Hebrew, rhetoric, belles-lettres ancient history and geography;" in the school of Modern Languages, "French, Spanish, Italian, German, and the English language in its Anglo Saxon form; also modern history and modern geography." A list, one would think, to daunt the courage of a seventeen year old student and make him feel that he had the world on his shoulders. It was quite the contrary with The Dreamer. He felt instead that he had suddenly developed wings. Learning came easy to him. He was already a good French and Latin scholar, and the rest did not frighten him. Not only was he not in the least burdened by thought of the work he was cutting out for himself, but he was elated by a sense of freedom such as he had never known before. Always before, both at home and at school, he had been under surveillance. But now he was to be a partaker of the benefits of Mr. Jefferson's theories of the treatment of students as men and gentlemen--letting their conduct be a matter of _noblesse oblige_. In the youth of seventeen this sudden withdrawal of oversight and regulation produced an exhilaration that was indeed pleasurable. Among the unfrequented hills known as the "Ragged Mountains," not far away, was a wild and romantic region that invited him to fascinating exploration--perhaps adventure. Instead of having to beg permission or to steal off upon the solitary rambles which he loved, to this enchanting country, he could, and did, go when he chose, openly, and with no questions asked or rebukes given. He held up his head with a new confidence at the thought, and took his dreams of ambition and love, whenever he could allow himself time to do so, to the enticing new region (as unlike anything around Richmond as if it were in a different world) adjacent to which, for the time, his lot lay. He did not neglect his classes, however. They were regularly attended and his standing was excellent; so the professors had no cause for making inquiry into the pursuits of his private hours. The library, too, in the beautiful Rotunda, was a new, if different, field for his exploration and one that gave him great delight, for he found there many volumes of quaint and curious lore whose acquaintance he had never before made. * * * * * His imaginary wings were soon enough to be clipped--his exhilaration to drop from him as suddenly as it had come. _He did not hear from Myra!_ He watched eagerly for the mails, and as day after day passed without bringing him a letter, deep dejection claimed him. Finally he wrote to her again--and then again--and again--frantically appealing to her to write to him and assure him of her constancy if she would save his life. Still, no word from her. The truth was that Myra, at home in Richmond, was awaiting each mail-time as feverishly as he. The faint suggestion of rose her cheeks usually wore, had entirely disappeared and deep circles caused by lack of sleep and lost appetite made her light blue eyes appear more prominent than ever before. The ethereal look that had been her chief claim to beauty had become exaggerated into a ghastliness that was not in the least bewitching. She, like Edgar, had pocketed her pride and followed her first letter with others more and more expressive of her tender maiden passion; but her father, who had begun to suspect an affair between her and the players' son a short time before Edgar left for the University, had kept diligent watch for the passage of letters, and had successfully intercepted them. And so the unhappy pair pined and sighed and gloomed, each reckoning the other faithless and believing that life was forever robbed of joy. Edgar Poe had never really loved the girl. He had merely loved the dream to which her tender words and timid caresses gave an adorable reality; but now in his disappointment at not hearing from her he felt that her love and loyalty to him were the only things in the world worth having and persuaded himself that without her there as no incentive to live or to strive. His misery was increased by an over-whelming homesickness, to escape from which, he wandered restlessly about, vainly seeking excitement and forgetfulness. In this mood, he eagerly accepted an invitation to spend the evening from a class-mate whose room in "Rowdy Row" had a reputation for conviviality. His own room, shared by a quiet and steady Richmond boy with whom he had a slight acquaintance at home, was in one of the cloister-like dormitories opening upon the main lawn. While Edgar Poe had been a somewhat wayward and at times a disobedient boy, at home, he had never been a _bad_ boy except when judged by John Allan's standards, and had never been in the least wild. Wines were used upon the table of his foster-father, as upon the tables of other gentlemen whose homes he had visited, and he had always been permitted to drink a small quantity at a time, at dinner, or to sip a little mint-julep from the goblet passed around before breakfast and supposed to be conducive to appetite and healthful digestion; but he had never thought of exceeding this allowance. As to cards, he knew nothing of them save as an innocent, social pastime in which he found pleasure, as in all other games and sports--especially such as required exercise of ingenuity or mental skill. The evening in "Rowdy Row" was therefore a revelation, as well as a diversion to him. As he approached the end of this arcaded row in which his new friend's room was situated his interest received a spur from the sounds of hilarity that greeted him, and his spirits began to rise. In a few moments more he found himself in the midst of a group of exceedingly jolly youths evidently prepared to make a night of it. Several of them were gathered about a huge bowl in which they were mixing a variety of punch which they called "peach-honey." Others were seated around a card table while one of their number entertained the rest with what seemed to be almost magical tricks. These Edgar joined. His interest was immediately aroused and he fixed his eyes with intentness upon the juggler. The tricks were new to him, but he soon amazed the crowd by showing the solution of them all. Finally, the punch was declared to be ready; other packs of cards were produced and the real sport of the evening began. It was Edgar's first experience in drinking with boys and his conscience, not yet hardened to it, kept him in check without worrying him enough to destroy his pleasure. Somewhat of his old exhilaration returned to him at the bare thought, for he felt himself a man, following his own will and yet not disobeying any direct command. In spite of much urging, he only drank one glass of the peach-honey, but thanks to a jovial ancestor of whom he had never heard, but of some of whose sins (in accordance with the ancient law) he bore the marks in his temperament, he was peculiarly susceptible to the influences of strong drink, and as he drained the glass at a gulp, a new freedom seemed to enter his soul. The dejection which had oppressed him dropped from him instantly, and with his great eyes glowing like lamps with new zest in life, he sat down at a card table to be initiated into the mysteries of the fascinating game of _loo_, which had lately become the fashion, and at the same time into his first experience in playing for money. He had beginner's luck--held good hands and won straight through the game. His success, with the effects of the punch, developed his wittiest vein and Edgar Goodfellow assumed complete ascendancy. His new acquaintances were charmed, and encouraged his mood by loud applause and congratulated themselves upon having added to their number such good company. From that night Edgar Poe's new friends, who constituted what was known as the "fast set" at the University, became his boon companions. It was in the card-table, much more than the punch-bowl that the charm for him lay, for the gambling fever had entered his blood with his first winnings, but in the combination of the two he found, for the present, a sure cure for his "blue devils." Alas, Helen! Where was your sweet spirit that it did not hover, as guardian angel, about the head of this wayward child of genius in his hour of sore need, when temptations gathered thick around his pathway and there was no one to steer him into safer waters; no one to restrain his feet from their first blind steps toward that Disaster to which ruinous companionship invited him, with syren voice? True, his staid room-mate, Miles George, raised his voice in warning against the dangerous intimacies he was forming but Miles' view seemed extreme to him. Besides, he found at the University the same caste feeling that had cut him off from familiar intercourse with the leaders among his Richmond schoolmates. It was but natural, therefore, that he should have turned gratefully, to the society where his welcome was sure. Finally words passed between him and Miles, ending in a formal meeting, with seconds on both sides. Their only weapons were their fists, and they shook hands afterward; but the idea of continuing to share the same bed-room was out of the question. Of the vacant rooms to be had, Edgar promptly decided upon Number 13, Rowdy Row, and the second step in a wrong direction quickly followed the first. He was hailed by the rest of the "Row" with delight, and he promptly decided to return their many hospitalities in his new room, which he proceeded to elaborately prepare for their reception. The result was an early and noisy house-warming. The guests were filled with admiration to find the walls of Number 13 decorated in honor of the occasion with charcoal sketches representing scenes from Byron's works done by the clever hand of the new occupant himself. They also found Edgar Goodfellow in the character of host, presiding over his own card-table and his own bowl--a generous one--of peach-honey, in the highest feather and his most captivating mood. CHAPTER XI. Erelong Number 13 was the liveliest and most popular room in the Row, but of the orgies held there the faculty rested in blissful unconsciousness. At class-time young Poe was invariably in his place and invariably the pale, thoughtful, student-like and faultlessly neat and gentle-mannered youth whose intelligent attention and admirable recitations were the joy of his masters. They heard rumors that he was something of a poet and were not surprised, the suggestions of ideality in the formation of his brow and the expression of his eyes hinted at such talent, and so long as he did not let the Muse come between him and his regular work, he should not be discouraged or restrained. Indeed, in spite of the sway of Edgar Goodfellow at this time, Edgar the Dreamer was often present too, and during solitary tramps into the wild fastenesses of the Ragged Mountains, he not only conceived many fancies to be worked into poems, but made mentally, the first draft of a story to win fame. The love of no real woman came to supplant the seemingly faithless Elmira, and though he still carried his mother's miniature with him and gazed often and fondly upon it, the sense of nearness between her spirit and his and the soul satisfaction he had found in this nearness in the past, were gone. The gambling fever that had fired his veins and the nightly potations of peach-honey created an excitement and restlessness that blurred the images his memory held of the angel mother who had dominated his childhood and of the madonna-like mistress who had filled the dreams of his early youth. These holy dreams became for the time being, a reproach to him, for they aroused his conscience to an unpleasant activity which required more frequent recourse to peach-honey to quiet. * * * * * Love was, nevertheless, as necessary to this poet's soul as meat and drink were to his body, and in the No Man's Land, "out of space, out of time," which his fancy created and where it loved to stray, he fashioned for himself the weirdest, strangest lady ever loved by mortal. The name he gave her was "Ligeia." She laid upon him no exactions, chastened him with no rebukes, demanded of him no service save that he should dream--and dream--and dream; for was not she herself formed from "such stuff as dreams are made of?" The music of nature had long possessed a sort of personality for Edgar Poe, and now the voices, the motions, the numberless colors of the world about him took definite shape in his fancy of a wonderous fairy-woman whom he worshipped with an unearthly, poetic passion that was compared to the passion of the normal man to flesh and blood woman as moonlight to sunshine--a passion which was luminous without heat. Dim and elusive as is the very conception of "Ligeia" to the ordinary mind, she was perfectly real to her creator. In the summer-night breeze he heard the music of her voice and felt the delicious coolness of her caress. Tall, swaying trees spoke to him of her height, her majesty and her grace. He perceived the softness and lightness of her footfalls in the passage of evening shadows across a lake or meadow, the perfection of her features in the form and finish of flower petals and the delicate tints of her beauty in the coloring of flowers; the raven hue and sweeping length of of her tresses in the drowning shades of midnight and the entrancing veil of her lashes in deep mysterious woods; and when, in fancy, he looked beneath that veil into her eyes, as unfathomable as the ocean itself, he was struck dumb with reverence and wonder, for they held in keeping all the secrets of the moon and the stars, of dawn and sunset, of green things growing and flowers in bloom, of the butterfly in the crysalis and on the wing, of still waters and of running brooks. To the inner vision of this most unusual youth, "Ligeia"--this myth called into being by the enchantment of his own fancy--not only became as real as if she had been flesh and blood; his pagan soul bowed down before her and she blotted from his mind, for the time, all thought or consciousness of more robust womanhood. She became, in imagination, the sharer of his studies, the wife of his bosom, and he sat at her feet and gladly learned from her the beautiful, strange secrets of this fearfully and wonderfully made world. He was sometimes haunted by another, and a far less agreeable vision. In spite of the absence of restraint under which he lived and the fact that between his dreams, his books and his dissipations there seemed little opportunity left for the still, small voice to make itself heard, there were times when his better self shook off slumber and rose before him like a ghost that, for all his efforts, would not be laid--a ghost like him in all regards save for the sternness of its look and of the voice which accused him in whispers to which all others ears were deaf, but his own intensely, horribly sensitive. It was generally at the very height of excitement in play, when he had just been dealt a hand which he told himself, with exultation, would win him all the money in the pool, or, perhaps at the moment when he raised the glass to his lips, anticipating the delicious exhilaration of the seductive peach-honey, that the unwelcome spectre would, with startling suddenness, appear before his eyes. His face would blanch, his own voice become almost as hoarse as the warning whisper that was in his ear, and with trembling hand he would put down the cards or the cup and refuse to have anything more to do with the evening's sport. His companions at first thought these attacks the result of some physical weakness but finally became accustomed to them and attributed them to his "queerness." * * * * * Thus the youthful poet passed his year at college--dividing his time between his dreams, his classes and his carousals. The session closed in December. The final examinations occupied the early part of the month and when the faculty met upon the 14th., it was found that Edgar Poe had not only stood well in all of his studies, but in two of them--Latin and French--he had taken the highest honors. In spite of this, and of the fact that at no time during the session had he come under the censure of the faculty, a startling revelation was made. Edgar Poe, model student as he seemed to be, whose only fault--if it could be called a fault--as the faculty knew him, had been a tendency toward a romantic dreaminess that had led him upon lonely rambles among the hills rather eccentric in a boy of seventeen; Edgar Poe, the quiet, the gentlemanly, the immaculately neat, the scholarly, the poetic, had been a spendthrift and a reckless gambler. His debts, for a boy of his age, were astounding. No one was more amazed at the sum of them than Edgar himself. He had always had the lordly indifference to money, and the contempt for keeping account of it, that was the natural result of being used to have what seemed to him to be an unlimited supply to draw upon, with the earning of which he had nothing to do. As to hoarding it, he would as soon have thought of hoarding the air he breathed which came to him with no less effort. He was, unfortunately, as heedless of what he owed as what he spent--lavishing it upon his companions as long as it lasted and when his supply of cash was exhausted running up accounts with little thought of a day of reckoning--though of course he fully intended to pay. His mind was, indeed, too much engrossed with the charming creations of his brain to leave him time for brooding upon such sordid matters as the keeping of accounts, or the making of two ends meet. The amount of his indebtedness was now, however, sufficient to give him a shock which thoroughly aroused him, and he was genuinely distressed; for he had no wish to ruthlessly pain his foster-father. The haunting better self not only arose and confronted him, but remained with him, keeping close step with him and upbraiding him and condemning him in the whisper audible to his quick imagination and so terrifying. Still, the thought that Mr. Allan had plenty of money, and that no severe sacrifice would be needful for the payment of his debts relieved his penitence of much of its poignancy. That Mr. Allan would settle these "debts of honor," as he called them, as the fathers and guardians of boys as reckless as himself had done, he had not the slightest doubt. But, as will be seen, he reckoned without Mr. Allan. He wrote Mrs. Allan a dutiful letter, confessing all and expressing his sorrow, and begging to be permitted to repay Mr. Allan for settling his affairs at the University with work as a clerk in the counting house. The letter filled the tender heart of the foster-mother with yearning. The sum frightened her, though she, like the boy, comforted herself with the thought that her husband could pay it without embarrassment. Still, she trembled to think of his wrath. Her chief feeling was one of sympathy for her erring, penitent boy. How natural it was for one of his age to be led away by evil associates! All boys--she supposed--must sow some wild oats, though few, she was confident, showed such a beautifully penitent spirit, and it would be a small matter in future years when he should have become the great and good man she knew he was going to be. How noble it was of him to offer to give up or postpone the completion of the education so dear to his heart and tie himself to a desk in that tiresome counting-house in order to pay his debts--he that was born to shine as a poet. She exulted that he had offered to make such a sacrifice, but he should never make it, never while _she_ had breath in her body to protest! How her heart bled for him in his sorrow over his wrong-doing! How she longed to fold his dear curly head against her breast and tell him that he was quite, quite forgiven! She would reward him for the splendid stand in his classes and at the same time make him forget his troubles on account of the debts by giving him the loveliest imaginable Christmas. Uncle Billy must search the woods for the brightest greens, the prettiest holly; for the house must look its merriest for the home-coming of its young master, covered with honors! There must be mistletoe, too she told herself, her mouth dimpling and a suspicion of a twinkle flashing out from under her dewy lashes. The fatted calf should be killed, her boy should make merry with his friends. The dear letter was kissed and cried over until it took much smoothing on her knee to make it presentable to hand over to her husband for perusal. Her fingers were still busy stroking out the crumples, though her tears were dried, and her thoughts were happily engaged with plans for a Christmas party worthy to celebrate the home-coming of her darling, when Mr. Allan came in to supper. She was brought back to recollection of the confession in the letter and her apprehensions as to how it would be received, with a start, and before timidly handing her husband the open letter, she began preparing him for its contents and excusing the writer. "A letter from Eddie, John, dear. He has stood splendidly in his classes, but asks your forgiveness for having done wrong in his spare time. He is so manly and noble in his confession, John, and in his offer to make reparation!" John Allan's face clouded and hardened instantly. "What is this? Confession? Reparation?--Give me the letter!" But she held it away from him. "It seems he has gotten into a card-playing set who have led him away further than he realized. Oh, don't look like that, John! He is so young, and you know how evil association can influence the best of boys!" But the storm gathered fast and faster on John Allan's face. "Card-playing? Do you mean the boy has been gambling? Give me the letter." She could withhold it no longer, but as he sat down to read it she threw herself upon an ottoman at his feet and clasping his knees hid her face against them, crying, "Oh, John, have pity, have pity!" But even as she sobbed out the words, she felt their futility. She knew that there was no pity to be expected from the owner of that face of stone, that eye of steel. As he read, his rage became too great for the relief of an outburst. A still, but icy calm settled upon him. For some minutes he spoke no word and seemed unconscious of the tender creature so appealing in her loveliness and in the humility of her attitude, beseeching at his knee. The truth was, that much as he loved her, his contempt for what he called her "weakness" for the son of her adoption, but added to his harshness in judging the boy. Presently he arose, impatiently pushing her away from him as he did so, saying; "Pack my bag and order an early breakfast. I'm going to take the morning stage for the University." It was a difficult evening for the little foster-mother. In the stately, octagon-shaped dining-room soft lamplight was cheerily reflected by gleaming mahogany and bright silver and china, upon which was served the most toothsome of suppers; but the meal was almost untouched and the mere pretense of eating was carried through in silence and gloom. In the drawing-room, afterward, the firelight leaped saucily against shining andirons and fender, bringing forgetfulness of the frosty night outside, while the carved wood-work and the great mirrors and soft-hued paintings, in their gilded frames, on the walls, and the deep carpets on the floors spoke of comfort. But the beautiful room was a mockery, for the promised comfort, was not there--only futile luxury. Upon that bright hearth was warmth for the body, but none for the spirit, for before it sat the master and mistress--the presiding geniuses of the house--upon whose oneness the structure of the _home_ must stand, or without it fall into ruin; there they sat, wrapped in moods so out of sympathy and tune that speech was as impossible between them as if they had been of different tongues, and each unknown to the other. Meantime, Edgar Poe was spending his last hours at the University in the dust and ashes of self-condemnation and regretful retrospection No farewell orgie celebrated his leave-taking. Only one of his friends was invited to his room that night and he no denizen of "Rowdy Row," but the quiet, irreproachable librarian. To this gentle guest The Dreamer confided his past sins and his penitence, while he laid upon the glowing coals the year's accumulation of exercise books, and the like, which had served their purpose and were finished and done with, and watched the devouring flames leap from the little funeral pyre they made into the chimney. More than anything he had ever done in his life, he told his companion, he regretted the making of the gambling debts for which Mr. Allan would have to advance the money to pay. But, as has been said, he reckoned without Mr. Allan, who settled all other obligations, but utterly ignored the so-called "debts of honor." "Debts of honor?" he queried with contempt. "Debts of _dishonor_, I consider them." And that was his last word upon the subject. CHAPTER XII. The late January night was bitterly cold, and clear as crystal. There was a metallic glitter about the round moon, shining down from a cloudless, blue sky--too bright to show a star--upon the black and bare trees and shrubbery in the terraced garden of the Allan homestead. Edgar Poe looked from his casement upon the splendor of the beautiful, but frigid and unsympathetic night. Bitterness was in his heart contending with a fierce joy. At last it had come--the breach with Mr. Allan--and he was going away! He knew not where, but he was going, going into the wide world to seek fame and fortune. He had much to regret. He loved Richmond--loved it for the joy and pain he had felt in it; for the dreams he had dreamed in it. He loved it exceedingly for the two dear graves, one in the churchyard on the hill and one in the new cemetery, that held his beloved dead. Yes, he was sorry to leave this _home_-city, if not of his birth, at least of his childhood and early youth, and his soul was still shaken by the scene with his foster-parents through which he had just passed. But in spite of all, his heart--rejoicing in the nearness of the freedom for which he had so fiercely longed, sang, and stilled his sorrow. But a few weeks had passed since his return from the University. A few weeks? They seemed to him years, and each one had left a feeling of increased age upon his spirit. The home-coming had not been altogether unhappy--humiliating as it was. In spite of the black looks of his foster-father, the little mother (bless her!) had welcomed him with out-stretched arms and eyes beaming with undimmed love. Never had she been more tenderly sweet and dear. She had given the most beautiful Christmas party, with all his best friends invited, and everything just as she knew he would like it. Her husband had frowningly consented to this, but her tears and entreaties were all of no avail to win his consent for the boy's return to college. Vainly had she plead his talents which she believed should be cultivated, and the injustice (since they had voluntarily assumed the responsibility of rearing him) of cutting short his education at such an early age. John Allan was adamant. And so, after the holidays, he had taken his place in the counting-house of "Ellis and Allan." Distasteful as the new work was to the young poet, he was determined to stick to it, and would probably have done so, but the strict surveillance he soon realized he was under (as if he could not be trusted!) and the manner of Mr. Allan who rarely spoke to him except when it was absolutely necessary, and seemed to regard him as a hopeless criminal, would have been unbearable to a far less proud and sensitive nature than Edgar Poe's. Both at the office and at home, Mr. Allan's narrow, steel-colored eyes seemed to keep constant watch, under their beetling brows, for faults or blunders; and it seemed to the driven boy that no matter what he did or said, he should have done or said just the reverse. He felt constantly that a storm was brewing which must sooner or later, certainly break, and that night it had burst forth with all the fury of the tempest which has been a long time gathering. He hardly knew what had brought it on, or how it had begun. Its violence was so great as to almost stun him until at length, without being more than half conscious of the significance of his own words he had asked if it would not be better for him to go away and earn his own living; and then came his foster-father's startlingly ready consent, with the warning that if he did go he must look for no further aid from him. His heart ached for the pretty, tender little mother. How soft the arms that had clung about his neck, the lips that had pressed his hot brow! How piteous her dear tears! They had almost robbed him of his resolution, but he had succeeded in steeling himself against this weakness. He had folded her close in his arms and kissed her, and vowed that, come what might, he could never forget her or cease to love her, and that he should always think of her as his mother and himself as her child. Then he had put her gently from him for, for all his vows, she was inseparably bound up in the old life from which he was breaking away--his life as John Allan's adopted son--she could have no real place in his future. Yet the tie that bound him to her was the strongest in his life and could not be severed without keen pain. In the world into which he was going to fight the battle of life (he told himself) memory of her would be one of his inspirations. But where was that battle to be fought, and with what weapons? He had been brought up as a rich man's son, and with the expectation of being a rich man's heir. He had been trained to no money-making work, physical or mental; and now he was to fare forth into the great world where there was not a familiar face, even, to earn his bread! What could he do that would bring him the price of a loaf?-- Did the question appal him? Not in the least. He had youth, he had health, he had hope, he had his beloved talent and the secret training he had given himself toward its cultivation. His "heart-strings were a lute"--he felt it, and with an optimism rare for him he also felt that he had but to strike upon that lute and the world must needs stop and listen. What he did not have was experience and knowledge of the world. Little did he dream how small a part of the busy hive would turn aside to hear his music or how little poetry had to do with the earning of daily bread. His trunk was standing open, half packed, though his destination was still undecided; and among the first things that had gone into it was a box containing a number of small rolls of neat manuscript. As he thought of them his heart warmed and his eyes grew soft. "The world's mine oyster, and with my good pen I'll open it," he joyously paraphrased. But toward what part of the world should he turn his face--to what market take his precious wares? That was the all-important question! How much his fortune might depend upon his decision! As he stood at the window, he stared into the brilliancy and the shadows of the icy, unresponsive night--seeking a sign. But the cold splendor of the cloudless sky and glittering moon and the inscrutible shadows in the garden below where the leafless trees and bushes cast monster shapes upon the frozen ground, alike mocked him. Presently there was the first hint of softness in the night. It came like a sigh of tender pity across the stillness and he bent his head to listen. It was the voice of the faintest of breezes blowing up from the south and passing his window. He threw wide his arms to empty space as if to embrace some invisible form. "Ligeia, Ligeia, my beautiful one," he breathed, invoking his dream-lady, "Be my counsellor and guide! Let thy sweet voice whisper whither I must go!" But the voice was silent and all the night was still again. He turned from the window and threw himself into his arm-chair, letting his eyes rove about the room as though he would seek a sign from its walls. Suddenly he sat erect, his dilated pupils fixed upon a point above the chimney-piece--upon a small picture. It was a little water-color sketch done by the hand of his versatile mother, and found among her belongings after her death. Like her miniature and her letters, the picture had followed him through his life and had always adorned the walls of his room. Often and over he had studied it until he knew by heart every stroke of the brush that entered into its composition. Yet he stared at it now as if he had never seen it before. Finally he took it down from its place on the chimney and held it in his hands, gazing upon it in deep abstraction. Underneath the picture was written its title: "Boston Harbor--Morning," and upon its back, "For my little boy, Edgar, who must love Boston, the place of his birth, and where his mother found her best and most sympathetic friends." The picture gave him the sign! With rising excitement he decided that it must be accepted. To Boston, of course, he would go. Boston, the place of his birth and where his angel mother had found her "best, most sympathetic friends." He would get away as early the next morning as possible, he told himself. He would waste no time in goodbyes, for, he remembered with some bitterness, there were few to say goodbye to. The boys were all off at college again, now that the holidays were over, and as for Myra, she had quickly consoled herself and was already a wife! He had addressed some reproachful verses to her as a bride; then dismissed her from his thoughts. He arose and placed the picture carefully in the trunk with the rest of his treasures and then went to bed to fall into the easy slumber of one whose mind is well made up. * * * * * A few days later Edgar Poe had looked with delight and ineffable emotion upon the real Boston Harbor, with its rocky little islets and its varied shipping and its busy wharves, and--for him--its suggestions of one in Heaven. CHAPTER XIII. Upon his arrival in Boston, our errant knight, before setting out upon his quest for the Fame and Fortune to whose service he was sworn, spent some hours in wandering about the old town, with mind open to the quickening influences of historic association and eye to the irregular, picturesque beauty about him. It was one of those rare days that come sometimes in the month of February when, though according to the callendar it should be cold, there is a warmth in the sunshine that seems borrowed from Spring. Tired out by his tramp, young Edgar at length sat down upon a bench in the Common, under an elm, great of girth and wide-spreading. The sunshine fell pleasantly upon him, through the bare branches. Roundabout were other splendid, but now bare elms and he sat gazing upward into their sturdy brown branches and dreamily picturing to himself the beauty of these goodly trees clothed in the green vesture of summer. Suddenly, by a whimsical sequence of suggestion, the pleasure he felt in the sunshine of February as it reached him under the tree in Boston Common, vividly called to mind the refreshing coolness of the shade of the elms, in full leaf, as he, a little lad of six, had walked the streets of old Stoke-Newington for the first time. There was little relation between that first and this present parting with the Allans, yet in his mind they became inseparably connected. He recalled his happiness in his first essays at composition, made at the Manor School, and told himself that, though he did not know it at the time, that was the first step toward his life work. He was now, here in Boston, the city of his birth, about to take the second; for the hour had arrived when his work would be given to the world! Across his knees he held the box containing his precious manuscripts. He arose from the bench and turning toward the lower end of the Common, walked, with brisk, hopeful step down town, in the direction of a well-known publishing house whose location he had already ascertained. Edgar Poe had known sorrow, real and imaginary; he was now to have his first meeting with Disappointment, bitter and grim. Of all the persons who had ever seen his work, every one had been warm in its praise--everyone saving John Allan only. Some had been positively glowing. True, they had not been publishers, yet among them there had been gentlemen and ladies of taste and culture. But here was a different matter. Here was a personage with whom he had not reckoned, but who was the door, as it were, through which his work must pass into the world. He was unmistakably a personage. His bearing, though modest, spoke of power. His dress, though unobtrusive, was in the perfect taste which only the prosperous can achieve and maintain. His features were cast in the mold of the well-bred. He was past middle age and his naturally fine countenance was beautiful with the ennobling lines which time leaves upon the face of the seeker after truth. He was courteous--most Bostonians and many publishers are. He was sympathetic. He was undoubtedly intellectual, but the eyes that regarded through big, gold-rimmed spectacles, the romantic beauty, the prominent brow and the distinguished air of the sweet-voiced youth before him, wore a not only thoughtful, but something more--a distinctly shrewd and practical expression. In them was no awe of the bare mention of "original poetry." He took the little rolls of manuscript into his strong, and at the same time smooth and well-shapen hands, and drew them out to their full length with the manner of one who handled as good every day. He cast his eyes rapidly down the sheets--_too_ rapidly, it seemed to the poet--with a not unkind, yet critical air, while the sensitive youth before him turned red and white, hot and cold, by turns, and learned something of the horrors of the Inquisition. It was really but a very short space, but to the boy who seemed suspended between a life and a death sentence, it was an age. Finally, he experienced something like a drowning sensation while he heard a voice that barely penetrated the flood of deep waters that was rolling over his head, saying words that were intended to be kind about the work showing promise, in spite of an absence of marketable value. "Marketable value?" Heavens! Was he back in John Allan's counting house? What could the man mean? It was as literature, not as merchandize that he wanted his poetry to be judged! In his dismay, he stammered something of the sort, only to be told that when his poetry was made into a book it would become merchandize and it mattered not how good, as poetry--it might be, the publisher could do nothing with it unless as merchandize it would probably be valuable too. Then--he had been politely bowed out, with his package still under his arm! During the few minutes he had spent in the publisher's office the sky had become overcast and a biting east wind had blown up from the river; but the change in the outside world was as nothing to that within him. He had not known how large a part of himself was his dream of becoming a poet. It now seemed to him that it was all of him--had from the beginning of his life been all of him. Since those old days at Stoke-Newington, he had been building--building--building--this castle in the air; now, at one fell blow, the whole fabric was laid in ruin! Weakness seized his limbs and deep dejection his spirits. His life might as well come to an end for there was nothing left for him to live for. How indeed, was he to live when the only work he knew how to do had "no marketable value?" The money with which Mrs. Allan supplied him, before he left home--"to give him a start"--would soon be exhausted. What if he should not be able to make more? Though he was in the city of his birth, he found himself an absolute stranger. If any of those who had been sympathetic friends to his mother were left, he had no idea who or where they were. He went back to the lodgings he had engaged to a night of bitter, sleepless tossing. But with the new day, youth and hope asserted themselves. He decided that he would not accept as final the verdict of any one publisher, though that one stood at the head of the list. With others, however, it was just the same; and another night of even greater wretchedness followed. Upon his third day in Boston (he felt that he had been there a year!) he wandered aimlessly about, spirit broken, ambition gone. Finally, in Washington Street, he discovered, upon a small door, a modest sign bearing the legend: "Calvin F.S. Thomas. Printer." With freshly springing hope, he entered the little shop and was received by a pale, soft-eyed, sunken-chested and somewhat threadbare youth of about his own age, who in reply to his inquiry, announced himself as "Mr. Thomas." Between these two boys, as they stood looking frankly into each other's eyes, that mysterious thing which we call sympathy, which like the wind "bloweth where it listeth and no man knoweth whence it cometh or whither it goeth," sprang instantly into being. The one found himself without his usual diffidence declaring himself a poet in search of a publisher, and the other was at once alert with interest. Calvin Thomas had but just--timorously, for he was poor as well as young--set up his little shop, hoping to build up a trade as a printer. To be a publisher had not entered into his wildest imaginings--much less a publisher for a poet! But he was, like his visitor, a dreamer, and like him ambitious. Why should he not be a publisher as well as a printer? The poet had not his manuscripts with him, but offered to recite some extracts, which he did, with glowing voice and gesture--explaining figures of speech and allusions as he went along. Edgar Poe sat easily upon a high stool in the little shop. His dress was handsome and, as always, exquisite in its neatness and taste. His whole appearance and bearing were marked by an "air" which deeply impressed the young printer who had promptly fallen under the spell of his personal charm. He had laid his hat upon the desk, baring the glossy brown ringlets that clustered about his large, pale brow. His clear-cut features were mobile and eager; his dark grey eyes full of life. His voice had a wonderful musical quality, becoming passionate when, as at present, his feeling was deeply aroused. His poetry, recited thus, gained much of distinction. Its crudities would have been lost, to a great extent, even upon a critic. But Thomas was no critic. He was simply a dreamy, half-educated youth with a mind open to the beautiful and the romantic. The flights of the poet's fancy did not seem to him obscure or too fantastic. They admitted him to a magic world in which he sat spell-bound until silence brought him back to his tiny bare shop which seemed suddenly to have been glorified. "It is wonderful--_wonderful_!" he breathed. He began to picture himself as not only sharing the wealth, but the fame which the publication of these gems was bound to bring. But he had to explain that he was poor, and that he could not bring out the poems without financial aid. The money which had been given Edgar to set out in the world with, was already dwindling, but he managed to subscribe a sum which Thomas declared would be sufficient, with the little he himself could add, for the printing of a modest edition, in a very modest garb. CHAPTER XIV. In the Allan mansion, in Richmond, there was a stillness that was oppressive. No young foot-falls sounded upon the stair; no boyish laughter rang out in rooms or hall. There were handsome and formal dinners occasionally, when some elderly, distinguished stranger was entertained, but there were no more merry dancing parties, with old Cy playing the fiddle and calling the figures. Frances Allan, fair and graceful still, though looking somewhat out of health and "broken," as her friends remarked to one another, trod softly about the stately rooms with no song on her lip, no gladness in her step. Her husband was grown suddenly prematurely old and his speech was less frequent and harsher than before. He was more immersed in business than ever and was prospering mightily, but the fact seemed to bring him no satisfaction. Even the old servants had lost much of their mirth. Their black faces were grown solemn and their tread heavy. They looked with awe upon their mistress when, as frequently happened, they saw her quietly enter "Marse Eddie's" room and close the door behind her. In that room and there alone, the fair, gentle, woful creature gave free reign to the grief of her stricken mother-heart. The room was kept just as her boy had left it, for she constantly hoped against hope that he would return. Hers was the aching, pent-up grief of a mother whose child is dead, yet she is denied the solace of mourning. Here was the bed which had pillowed his dear, sunny ringlets. Here were his favorite chair--his desk--his books. In a little trunk against the wall were his toys with some of the pretty clothes made with her own fingers, in which it had been her pride to dress him when he was a wee laddie. How she loved to finger and fondle them! Fifteen years she had been his mother--now this was all she had! Somewhere in the same world with her he was living, was walking about, talking, eating, sleeping; yet he was dead to her! Oh, if she could only know that he was happy, that he was well, that he lacked nothing in the way of creature comfort; if she could know where he was, picture him at work or in his leisure hours, it would not be so hard to bear. But she knew nothing--nothing--save that he had gone to Boston. One letter she had had from him there--such a dear one!--she knew it by heart. In it he had called her "Mother" and assured her of his constant love and thought of her. He had arrived safely, he said, and would soon be busy making his living. Boston was a fine city and full of interest to him. When his ship came in he was going to have her come on and pay him a visit there. He would write again when he had anything worth telling. Days had passed--weeks--and no word had come. Had he failed to obtain employment? Had he gone further--to New York, perhaps, or Philadelphia? She did not know. Oh, if she could but _know_! Was he ill? Fear clutched her heart and made her faint. The suspense was terrible, and she had no one to go to for sympathy--no one. She dared not mention her anxiety to her husband; it made him furious. He could not stand the sound of Eddie's name, even--her darling, beautiful Eddie! Her arms felt so empty they ached. Winter was passing. The garden that Eddie loved so dearly was coming to life. The crocuses for which he always watched with so much interest were come and gone. The jonquils were in bloom and the first sweet hyacinths, blue as turquoises, she had gathered and put in his room. It cheered her to see them there. Somehow, they made the room look more "ready" than usual--as if he might come home that day. He did not come, but something else did. A letter with the Boston post-mark she had so longed to see, and a small, flat package addressed to her in his dear hand. She broke the seal of the letter first--she was so hungry for the sight of the familiar, "Mother dear," and to know how he fared. It was a short letter, but, ah, the blessed relief of knowing he was well and happy! And _prospering_--prospering famously--for he told her he was sending her the first copy off the press of his book of poems! It was a _very little_ book, he said, but it was a beginning. He felt within him that he would have much bigger and better things to show her erelong. For the present, he was hard at work making ready for a revised and enlarged edition of his book, if one should be called for. There was a jubilant note in the letter that delighted her and communicated itself to her own spirits. She eagerly tore the wrappings from the package, and pressed the contents against her lips and her heart. It was but a slender volume, cheaply printed and bound, but it was her boy's first published work and a wonderful thing in her eyes. She already saw him rich and famous--saw him come home to her crowned with honor and success--_vindicated_. She turned the pages of the book. He had written upon the fly-leaf some precious words of presentation to her. She kissed them rapturously and passed on to the title-page: "Tamerlane and Other Poems. By a Bostonian. Boston: Calvin F.S. Thomas, Printer." She was still gloating over her treasure when the brass knocker on the front door was sounded, and a minute later Myra Royster--now Mrs. Shelton--was announced. Taking the book with her, she tripped downstairs, singing as she went, and burst in upon Myra as she sat in state in the drawing-room, in all her bridal finery. Myra noticed as she kissed her, her glowing cheeks and shining eyes. "How well you are looking today, Mrs. Allan," she exclaimed. "It is happiness, dear. I've just had such a delightful letter from Eddie, and this darling little book. It is his poems, Myra!" Myra was all interest. "To think of knowing a real live author!" she exclaimed. "I was sure Eddie would be famous some day, but had no idea it would come so soon." "Don't you wish you had waited for him?" teased Mrs. Allan, laughing happily. They chatted over the wonderful news until nearly dinner-time, and after they had parted Mrs. Allan sat at the window watching for her husband to come home that she might impart it to him at the earliest moment possible. But when at last he appeared she put off the great moment until after dinner, and then when he was comfortably smoking a fragrant cigar she approached him timidly and placed the letter and the book in his lap without a word. "What's all this?" he questioned sharply. She made no reply, but hovered about his chair, too excited to trust herself to speak. He picked up the letter and read it with a deepening frown, then opened the book and ran his eyes hurriedly down one or two of its pages. At length he spoke: "So this is the way he's wasting his time and, I dare say, his money too. Will the boy ever amount to anything, I wonder?" The happiness in Frances Allan's face gave place to quick distress. "Oh, John," she cried, "Don't you think it amounts to anything for a boy of eighteen to have written and published a book of poetry?" "Poetry? This stuff is bosh--utter bosh!" For the first time in her life, there was defiance in her gentle face. Her clinging air was discarded. She raised her head and with flashing eyes and rising color, faced him. "You think that, because you cannot understand or appreciate it," she retorted, with spirit. "Neither do I understand it, but I can see that it is wonderful poetry. If he can do this at eighteen I have no doubt he will make himself and us famous before many years are past!" Her husband's only reply was an astonished and piercing stare which she met without flinching, then turned and swept from the room, leaving him with a feeling of surprise to see that she was so tall. Her self assertion was but momentary. As she ascended the stair and entered Eddie's room, all the elasticity was gone from her step, all the brightness from her cheeks and eyes and, still clasping her boy's letter and book to her heart, she threw herself upon his bed and burst into a passion of tears. * * * * * Meantime, the elms on Boston Common were clothed with tender April green and under foot sweet, soft grass was springing. In this inspiring cathedral walked Edgar Poe, his pale face and deep eyes, passionate with the worship of beauty that filled his soul, lifted to the greening arches above him, his sensitive ears entranced with the bird-music that fluted through the cool aisles. His mind was teeming with new poems in the making and with visions of what he should do if his book should sell. But it did not sell. The leading magazines acknowledged its receipt in their review columns, but with the merest mention, which was exceedingly disconcerting. It was discussed (but with disappointment) for a week by his friends at home and at the University, to whom he sent copies. Then was forgotten. And now its author was, for the first time within his recollection, beginning to feel the pinch of poverty. His money was almost gone and he saw no immediate hope of getting more. He moved to the cheapest boarding house he could find but he did not mind that so much as the prospect that faced him of soon beginning to present a shabby appearance in public. His shoes were already showing wear, and he found that to keep his linen as immaculate as he had always been accustomed to have it cost money and he actually had to economize in the quantity of clothing he had laundered. This to his proud and fastidious nature was humiliating in the extreme. He and Calvin Thomas held frequent colloquies as to ways and means of giving his book wider circulation. He visited the offices of the several newspapers of the town in the hope of getting work in the line of journalism--reporting, reviewing, story-writing, anything in the way of the only business or profession for which he felt that he had any aptitude or preparation; but without success. At length the sign of "Calvin F.S. Thomas, Printer" had suddenly disappeared from the little shop in Washington Street, and a dismal "To Let," was in its place. At about the same time Mrs. Blanks lost the handsome, quiet young gentleman, who had evidently seen better days, from her unpretentious lodging house, and the walks under the elms in Boston Common were no longer trodden by The Dreamer from Virginia. CHAPTER XV. Where was Edgar Poe?-- Twice since he shook the dust of Richmond joyfully from his feet, fair Springtide had visited the terraced garden of the Allan home. Twice the green had come forth, first like a misty veil, then like a mantle enveloping its trees and its shrubs, its arbors and trellises; twice the procession of flowers, led by the crocuses in their petticoats of purple and yellow, had tripped from underground; twice the homing birds had built in the myrtles and among the snowy pear and cherry blossoms and filled all the place with music. Twice, too, in this garden, the pageant of spring and summer and sunset-hued autumn had passed, the birds had flown away again and winter snows had covered all with their whiteness and their silence. And still the garden's true-lover, the poet, The Dreamer, was a wanderer, where?-- Oh, beautiful "Ligeia," was it not your voice that now and again whispered in the tree-tops and among the flowers? Could you not--did you not, bring news of the wanderer? If she did, there was no human being to whom her language was intelligible, and the trees and the flowers keep their secrets well. Within the homestead there was little change save a deepening of the quietness that had fallen upon it. In the master of the house there was no visible difference. There are some men who seen from year to year seem as unchanging as the sphinx. It is only after a long period that any difference in them can be detected and then they suddenly appear broken and aged. The fair lady of the manor was as fair as ever, but with the pale, tremulous fairness of a late star in the grey dawn of a new day in which it will have no part. Her bloom, her roundness, her gaiety--all these were gone. She spent more time than ever in the room which, waiting for its roving tenant, became more and more like a death chamber. The silence there was not now broken by her sobs even, for it was with dry-eyed grief that she watched and waited for her boy, these days--watched and waited and prayed. Ah, how she prayed for him, body and soul! Prayed that wherever he might be, he might be kept from harm and strengthened to resist temptation. Was it her agonized petitions that kept him to the straight and narrow path of duty during those two years amid uncongenial surroundings and hard conditions? Who knows? Yet the chair and the desk and the books and the vases of fresh flowers on the mantel, and the fire-wood resting on the shining andirons ready for a match, and the reading lamp with trimmed wick and bright chimney on the table, and the canopied white bed still waited, in vain, his coming. Many months had passed since the name of Eddie had been spoken between husband and wife, but though she held her peace, like Mary of old, like Mary too, she pondered many things in her heart. He, loving her well, but having no aptitude for divining woman's ways, indulged in secret satisfaction, for he took her silence to mean that she was coming to her senses, and regarding the boy as he did. That she no longer importuned him to enquire into Edgar's whereabouts with the intention of inviting him home was a source of especial relief to him. Then, upon a day two years after she had triumphantly placed Eddie's book and letter in his hands, it was his turn to bring her a letter. "You see the bad penny has turned up again," he remarked, dryly. She looked questioningly at the folded sheet. Its post-mark was Fortress Monroe and the hand-writing was not familiar to her. "What is it?" she asked. "A letter from Dr. Archer. He's surgeon at the fort, you know. Read it. It is about Edgar." With shaking hands and a blanched face she spread open the sheet. A nameless dread possessed her. A letter about Eddie--not from him--and from a surgeon! For a moment darkness seemed to descend upon her and she could not make out the characters before her. She pressed her hand upon her heart. In sudden alarm, her husband rushed to a celaret nearby and brought out a decanter of wine. Pouring a glass he pressed it to her lips. "Eddie," she gasped, as soon as she could speak. "Is he well?" In spite of John Allan's anxiety, he was irritated, and showed it. "Pshaw, Frances!" he exclaimed. "I hoped you had forgotten the boy. Yes, he's well, and, I'm glad to say, in a place where he is made to behave." She calmed herself with an effort and began to read the letter. The story it told had a smack of romance. Dr. Archer had (he wrote) been called to the hospital in the fort to see a private soldier by the name of Edgar A. Perry, who was down with fever. The patient spoke but little but the Doctor was struck with his marked refinement of look and manner, and there was something familiar to him about the prominent brow and full grey eyes, though the name was strange to him. His attention was aroused and he could not rid himself of the impression that he had seen the young man before. He mentioned the fact to some of the officers and found at once that his patient was a subject of deep interest to them. They felt sure (they told him) that he had a story. His polished manners and bright and cultivated conversation seemed to them incongruous with the duties of a private soldier, and they laughingly said that they suspected they were entertaining an angel unawares. Yet his duties were performed with the utmost faithfulness and efficiency. He had never been heard to speak of himself or his past in a way which would throw any light upon his history, and his reserve was of the kind which was bound to be respected. Dr. Archer had grown (he wrote) more and more interested in his patient as he became better acquainted with him, and being convinced that the young man had for some reason, gotten out of his proper sphere, he determined to try and help him back to it. By the time the young soldier was convalescent the Doctor had won his confidence and obtained from him the confession that the name of Perry was an assumed one, and that he was none other than Mr. Allan's adopted son, Edgar Poe, whom Dr. Archer had not seen since he was a small boy. The discovery of his identity had greatly increased the good Doctor's interest and he and the officers of the fort were of the opinion that as young Poe had made a model soldier (having been promoted to the rank of sergeant-major, for good conduct) the best thing that could be done for him was to secure his discharge and get him an appointment to West Point. This, Mr. Allan could bring about, he thought, through men of influence whose friendship the Doctor knew he enjoyed. Edgar had enlisted for five years. He had confessed that at the time he had been almost upon the point of starvation and had turned to the army when every effort to find other means of livelihood had failed. The Doctor and other officers thought that it would be a great sacrifice to leave a young gentleman of Edgar's abilities to three more years of such uncongenial life. He was quite recovered and in accordance with a promise made the Doctor, was writing to Mr. Allan at that moment. "Did Eddie's letter come too?" Mrs. Allan asked, as she finished the one in her hand. Without a word, her husband handed it over to her. In it Edgar expressed much contrition for the trouble which his larger experience in life told him he had cost his foster-father, and asked his forgiveness. He also asked that Mr. Allan would follow the suggestion of Dr. Archer, and apply for a discharge from the army for him, and an appointment to West Point. He had not written his "Mother" in the past because he had unfortunately nothing to tell which he believed could give her any pleasure, but he sent her his undying love. Frances Allan looked through wet lashes into her husband's face, but her eyes were shining through the tears. "Oh, John," she said breathlessly, "You will have him to come and make us a little visit before he goes to West Point, won't you?" "I'll have nothing to do with him!" was the emphatic reply. "He seems to be getting along very well where he is. Let him stick it out!" Feeling how vain her pleadings would be, yet not willing to give up hope, she wept, she prayed, she hung upon John Allan's neck. She brought every argument that starved motherhood could conceive to bear upon him. To think that Eddie was in Virginia--just down at Old Point! The cup of joy was too near her lips to let it pass without a mighty effort. But finally she gave up and shrank within herself, drooping like the palest of lilies. Then came a day when a stillness such as it had never known before hung over the Allan home. The garden was at its fairest. The halls and the drawing-rooms, with their rich furnishings and works of art were as beautiful as ever; but there was not even a bereaved mother, with an expression on her face like that of Mary at the foot of the cross, to tread the lonely floors. The luxurious rooms were quite, quite empty--all save one--an upper chamber, where upon a stately carved and canopied bed lay all that was mortal of Frances Allan, like a lily indeed, when pitiless storm has laid it low! The learned doctors who had attended her had given long Latin names to her malady. In their books there was mention of no such ailment as heartbreak, and so happily, the desolate man left to preside in lonely state, over the goodly roof-tree which her presence had filled and made sweet and satisfying, was spared a suspicion even, of the real cause of her untimely end. His one consuming desire for the present was that all things should be done just as she would wish, and so--all minor bitternesses drowned in the one overwhelming bitterness of his loss--he scribbled a few hurried lines to Edgar Poe acquainting him with the sad news and telling him to apply for a leave and come "home" at once. But the mails and travel were slow in those days, and when the young soldier reached Richmond the last, sad rites were over, and for the third time in his brief career the grave had closed over a beautiful woman who had loved him and upon whose personality had been based in part, that ideal of woman as goddess or angel before which his spirit throughout his life, with all its vicissitudes, bowed down. As the lumbering old stage crawled along the road toward Richmond, he lived over again the years spent in the sunshine of her presence. Her death was a profound shock to him. How strange that one so fair, so merry, so bubbling with _life_ should cease to be! Would it always be his fate, he wondered, to love where untimely death was lying in wait? Upon the night when he reached "home" and every night till, his furlough over, he returned to his post of duty at Fortress Monroe, he lay in his old room with his old household gods--his books in their shelves, his pictures on the walls, his desk and deep arm-chair, and other objects made dear by daily use in their accustomed places, and "the lamplight gloating o'er," around him. He was touched at the sweet, familiar look of it all and at the thoughtfulness of himself of which he saw signs everywhere. Could it be that he had been two years an exile from these homelike comforts or had it been only one of his dreams? In spite of the void her absence made, it was good to be back--good after his wanderings to come into his own again. In the hush and loneliness of those few days under the same roof, the grief-stricken man and youth, their pride broken by their common sorrow, came nearer together than they ever had been before. It seemed that the gentle spirit of her whom each had loved hovered about them, binding them to each other by invisible, but sacred, cords. John Allan spoke to the players' son in tones that were almost fatherly and with quick response, the tender-hearted youth became again the Edgar of the days before reminders of his dependence upon charity had opened his eyes to the difference between a real and an adopted father. Under this reconciling influence, the youth poured out expressions of penitence for the past and made resolutions for the future and Mr. Allan promised to apply for the desired appointment to West Point, but added that thereafter, he should consider himself relieved of all responsibility concerning Edgar. This blunt and ungracious assurance strained the bond between the adopted father and son; the promised letter of application to the Secretary of War, ruthlessly shattered it. That his indulgencies during his year at the University of Virginia, so freely and earnestly repented, should have been exposed in the letter seemed to the boy unnecessary and cruel, but the man who had been fifteen years his father, the husband of her over whom the grave had but just closed and who had always loved him--Edgar--as an own and only son, had seen fit to add to the declaration, "He left me in consequence of some gambling debts at the University," a disclaimer of even a sentimental interest in him! "Frankly, Sir," the letter said, "I do declare that Edgar Poe is no relation to me whatever; that I have many in whom I have taken an active interest in order to promote theirs, with no other feeling than that every man is my care, if he be in distress." Edgar Poe duly presented the letter, but the bitterness which during his brief visit home had been put to sleep, raised its head and robbed him of all pleasure in his anticipated change and of much of the incentive to put forth his best effort in it. He felt that the result of this ungracious letter must be to blot the new leaf which he had so ardently desired to turn with shadows of his past which no effort of his own could entirely obliterate. For the soreness of finding himself disowned as Mr. Allan's son--this time publicly, in a manner--he found somewhat of balm in the letter of cordial praise addressed to the Honorable Secretary of War in his behalf, by the father of his old friend, Jack Preston. Mr. Preston described him as a young gentleman of genius who had already gained reputation for talents and attainments at the University of Virginia, and added, "I would not write this recommendation if I did not believe he would remunerate the Government at some future day by his services and talents, for whatever may be done for him." Happily for the, at times, morbidly, sensitive youth, he had soon forgotten the sting caused by the letter in a return to the dreams which he regarded as not only the chief joy but the chief business of his life; for though he was preparing himself for the profession of a soldier, he had never for a moment, forsworn the Muse of Poetry. For a whole year before being transferred to Fortress Monroe he had been stationed at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor. There his wonderful dream-lady, "Ligeia," had seemed especially near to him, and often, when the day's work was done and he recognized her voice in the music of the waves or felt her kiss in the soft, southern air, blown across spicey islets, he would up and away with her across the world, on the moon's silver track; or on nights when no moon came up out of the sea, would wander with her through the star-sown sky. There was one fair star that invited his fancy with peculiar insistence. It seemed to beckon to him with the flashes of its beams. He questioned "Ligeia" of it and she told him that it was none other than Al Aaraaf, the great star discovered by Tycho Brahe, which after suddenly appearing and shining for a few nights with a brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter, disappeared never to be seen again; never except by him--The Dreamer--to whom it was given not only to gaze upon it from the far earth, but, with her as his guide, to visit it and to explore its fairy landscape where the spirits of lost sculptures enjoyed immortality. The result of this flight of fancy to a magical world was the poem, "Al Aaraaf." He spent the interim between his honorable discharge from the army and his entrance at West Point in a happy visit to Baltimore, where he made the acquaintance of his father's kindred and succeeded in publishing the new poem, with a revised edition of the old ones. For the first time, his work appeared under his own signature: "Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems. By Edgar A. Poe." The new poem was unintelligible to the critics--but what of that? he asked himself. One of his optimistic moods was upon him. He despised the critics for their lack of perception and as he held the slim volume in his hands and gazed upon that, to him, wondrous title-page, his countenance shone as though it had caught the reflection of the magic star itself. What mattered all the wounds, all the woes of his past life? He had entered into a land where dreams came true! For the first time, too, his work received recognition as poetry, in the literary world. It was but a nod, yet it was a beginning; and it pleased him to think that this first nod of greeting as a poet came to him from Boston, where his mother had found "her best, most sympathetic friends." Before publishing his new book he had sent some extracts from it to Mr. John Neal, Editor of the _Yankee and Boston Literary Gazette_, who promptly gave them a place in his paper, with some kind words commending them to lovers of "genuine poetry." "He is entirely a stranger to me," wrote the Boston editor, of the twenty-year-old poet, "but with all his faults, if the remainder of Al Aaraaf and Tamerlane are as good as the body of the extracts here given, he will deserve to stand high--very high--in the estimation of the shining brotherhood." In a burst of gratitude the happy poet wrote to Mr. Neal his thanks for these "very first words of encouragement," he had received. "I am young," he confided to this earliest friend in the charmed world of letters, "I am young--not yet twenty--_am_ a poet if deep worship of all beauty can make me one--and wish to be so in the common meaning of the word." CHAPTER XVI. Upon a dark and drizzling November night of the year 1830, four cadets of West Point Academy sat around a cosy open fire in Room 28, South Barracks, spinning yarns for each other's amusement. One of them--the one with the always handsome and scholarly, at times soft and romantic, but tonight, dare-devil face, was easily recognizable as Edgar the Goodfellow, frequently appearing in the quite opposite character of Edgar the Dreamer, and commonly known as Edgar Poe. His fellow cadets had dubbed him, "the Bard." Two of this young man's companions were his room-mates in Number 28, "Old P," and "Gibs," and the third was a visitor from North Barracks. Taps had sounded sometime since, and the Barracks were supposed to be wrapt in slumber, but for these young men the evening had just begun. Several hours had elapsed since supper and it is a well-known fact that there is never a time or a season when a college boy is not ready to eat. Someone suggested that politeness demanded they should entertain their guest with a fowl and a bottle of brandy from Benny Haven's shop, and proposed that they should draw straws to determine which of the three hosts should fetch the necessary supplies. They had no money, but the accommodating "Bard" agreed to sacrifice his blanket in the cause of hospitality; and armed with that and several pounds of tallow candles, "Gibs," upon whom the lot had fallen, set forth to run the blockade to Benny's. This was a risky business, for the vigilance of Lieutenant Joseph Locke, one of the instructors in tactics who was also a sort of supervisor of the morals and conduct of cadets, was hard to elude. As one of the Bard's own effusions ran, "John Locke was a very great name; Joe Locke was a greater, in short, The former was well known to Fame, The latter well known to Report." The best that Benny would give, in addition to the bottle, for the blanket and candles, was an old gander, whose stentorian and tell-tale voice he obligingly hushed by chopping off its head. Under cover of the darkness and the storm, "Gibs" succeeded in safely returning to the Barracks but not until his hands and his shirt were reeking with the gander's gore. "The Bard," who was anxiously awaiting the result of the foraging expedition ventured outside to meet him. When he beheld the prize, he exclaimed, in a whisper, "Good for you! But you look like a murderer caught red-handed." His own words, almost before they left his lips, suggested to him an idea for a mammoth hoax--the best they had tried yet, he told himself. He hastily, and in whispers, unfolded it to "Gibs," whom he found all sympathy, then returned alone, to his friends in Number 28, reporting that he had seen nothing of their messenger, and expressing fear that he had met with an accident. All began to watch the door with anxiety. After some minutes it burst open and "Gibs," who had carefully laid the gander down outside, staggered into the room, appearing to be very drunk and brandishing a knife, which he had rubbed against the fowl's bleeding neck. "Old P." and the visitor from North Barracks, too frightened for words, sat as though rooted to their chairs, while "the Bard" sprang to his feet and in a horror-stricken voice, exclaimed, "Heavens, Gibs! What has happened?" "Joe Locke--Joe Locke--" gasped "Gibs." "Well, what of Joe Locke? Speak man!" "He won't report me any more. I've killed him!" "Pshaw!" exclaimed "the Bard," in disgust. "This is another of your practical jokes, and you know it." "I thought you would say that, so I cut off his head and brought it along. Here it is!" With that he quickly opened the door and picked up the gander and, whirling it around his head, dashed it violently at the one candle which was thus knocked over and extinguished, leaving the room in darkness but for a few smouldering embers on the hearth, and with the gruesome addition to the company of what two of those present believed to be the severed head of Lieutenant Locke. The visitor with one bound was out of the room through the window, and made good his escape to his own quarters in North Barracks, where he spread the astounding news that "Gibs" had murdered Joe Locke; it was certainly so, for his head was then in Number 28, South Barracks. "Old P." nearly frozen with fright, did not move from his place, and it was with some difficulty that "the Bard" and "Gibs" brought him back to a normal condition and induced him to assist in preparing the fowl which had played the part of Joe Locke's head, in the little comedy, for the belated feast--which was merrily partaken of, but without the guest of honor. * * * * * Edgar Poe had entered West Point in July, but hardly had its doors closed behind him when his optimism gave place to wretchedness and he began to feel that his appointment was a mistake. He had taken a fine stand in his classes, but he recognized at once a state of things most unpleasant for him for which he had not been prepared. As in his schooldays in Richmond and at the University, a number of the boys had withheld their intimacy from him on account of caste feeling, so now at West Point he found history repeating itself, but with a difference. In Richmond and at the University it had been as the child of the stage and as a dependent upon charity, that the line was drawn against him. With the aristocratic cadets, it was because of his promotion from the ranks. Yet the very experience which brought their contempt upon him gave him a sense of superiority that made their manner toward him the harder to bear, and drilling with green boys after having been two years a soldier, he found most irksome. While the snubbing to which he was subjected was general enough to make his situation extremely unpleasant, however, it was by no means unanimous. "Gibs" and "Old P." his convivial room-mates in Number 28, took him to their hearts at once, and he really liked them when he was in the mood for companions of their type, but they wore cruelly upon his nerves when the divine fire within him was burning. So indeed would any room-mates, for at home always, and most of the time at the University, one of his chief comforts had been his own room where he could shut out all the world and be alone with his dreams. There was, at West Point, nothing like a repetition of his course at the University. The trouble which his attack of gambling fever had gotten him into had proved a severe but wholesome lesson, and he had let cards alone at once and forever. In his ignorance of his own family history, he did not know that for one of his blood, the only safety lay in total abstinence from the cup that cheers, but the intense and instantaneous excitement he found a single glass of wine produced in his brain--an excitement amounting almost to madness--was in itself a warning to him, and kept him strictly within the bounds of moderation. There were times, however, when with a chicken and a bottle of brandy, purchased secretly from old Benny, and smuggled, at great hazard, into the room, Edgar Goodfellow could, with zest join his rolicking room-mates in making merry, and in spite of his strict adherence to the single glass, generally out-do them at their own games. But there was no place in that room for Edgar the Dreamer; and between the spirit-dulling routine and discipline of classes and drills with youths for the most part younger than himself and inferior in mentality and cultivation, but who bore themselves as his superiors, and the impossibility of an hour of solitude, the lovely "Ligeia" became unreal and remote. He could no longer catch the sounds of her voice, or feel her presence near. His muse, too, had become shy and difficult and when she deigned to visit him at all, it was generally in the quite new character of jester in cap and bells, under whose influence he dashed off humorous and satirical squibs at the expense of the professors and students, of which the lines on Lieutenant Locke are a specimen. These he recited for the benefit of the little parties that gathered in Number 28, by whom they were regarded as master-pieces of wit and were circulated through the school. But he took no real pleasure in this perversion of his poetical gift, and feeling his soul cramped and cabined by the uncongeniality of his surroundings, he soon became convinced that West Point was not the place for him, and that he should leave it as soon as possible. He wrote Mr. Allan of his dissatisfaction--begging his assistance in securing a discharge. At no time would this request have been granted but it came at the most inopportune moment imaginable. Some time before, certain ladies in Richmond who professed "to know the signs," had given out the interesting news that Mr. Allan was "taking notice." True it was that though such a thing had seemed impossible, his stocks were higher and more precisely folded than ever, his broadcloth was of a finer texture, his knee-buckles shone with a brighter lustre, but the most marked change in him was a certain springiness of gait altogether new to his silk-stockinged calves, and almost youthful, and a pleased expression of the hitherto stern eyes and mouth which made his usually solemn vizage look as if it might break out into smiles at any moment. The signs, the ladies said, dated from the arrival of at "Powhatan," the country seat of the Mayo family, just below Richmond, of a fair guest--Miss Louisa Patterson, of Philadelphia. This lady was no longer young, according to the severe standards of that time of early marriages and correspondingly early "old-maidenhood," but so much the better, as she was therefore of suitable age for the elderly though spruce and prosperous widower. She was, withal, a decidedly personable woman with the elegant manners and conversation of the inner circles of the exclusive, stately society in which she had been nurtured--just the woman, the fair prophetesses said, to rule over John Allan (for everybody knew that a man who ruled his first wife was invariably ruled by his second) and to preside with distinction and taste over his drawing-room and his board. She was as suitable, in fact for the wife of ripe age as the flower-like Frances had been for the wife of youth. So Richmond gave its unqualified approval. Nothing could have been more out of harmony with the sound of the "mellow wedding bells" pealing for this happy pair, than a reminder of the first wife of the bridegroom in the shape of a letter from Edgar Poe. When Poe had entered West Point his foster-father had drawn a long breath of relief. He believed that the idle youth with whom his dead wife had been so strangely infatuated was off his hands for good and all. When the letter came to jar upon his new dream of love he was irritated, and in his brief mention of the matter to his bride it was very apparent, and left upon her mind the impression that Frances Allan must have been a weak and silly creature indeed, to have fancied an idle, ungrateful boy who spent his time drinking, gambling and scribbling ridiculous poetry. _And the son of an actress!_ It would have been impossible for such a low character and herself to have remained under the same roof for a day, she was sure, and she told her husband so--imparting to her tone somewhat of the pity she felt to think of his having been yoked for years to such a morally frail specimen of womanhood as she conceived the first Mrs. Allan to have been. So Mr. Allan's letter of refusal to help Edgar escape the life that was growing more and more irksome to him was as decided as it was brief. But Edgar was unshaken in his resolve to get away as soon as possible. In the meantime, finding no outlet for his restless creative faculty that would not remain inactive though there was no opportunity for its satisfaction, he gave himself over by turns, to deepest dejection and wildest hilarity. Finally, as no other relief was at hand, he decided to force his discharge by deliberate and systematic neglect of the rules. The plan succeeded so well that before the session was out he was expelled from the Academy for disobedience of orders and failure to attend roll-calls, classes and guard-duty. CHAPTER XVII. Happily, the restraints of the Academy and his environment there, instead of crushing out young Edgar's impulse to dream and to put his dreams into writing (as a longer period of the same restraints and conditions might have done) had but quickened and strengthened these very impulses, and he had now but one wish, one aspiration in regard to his newly acquired freedom, and that was to dedicate it to the art of literature which had become more and more his passion and his mistress, and which since he had given up all idea of the army, he was resolved to make his sole profession. His first step toward this end was to arrange, before leaving New York, for a new edition of his already published work, adding some hitherto unpublished poems which even in the unsympathetic atmosphere of Number 28 South Barracks had been undergoing a refining process in the seething crucible of his brain. The money for this venture dropped into his lap, as it were, for when the new friends in whom he had confided passed the word around that "the Bard" was going to get out a book of poetry, the cadets (in anticipation of a collection of ditties cleverly hitting off the peculiarities and characteristics of the professors) to a man, subscribed in advance--at seventy-five cents per copy. In appreciation of their recognition of his genius, and little guessing what manner of book they expected it to be, "the Bard" gratefully dedicated the new volume "To the United States Corps of Cadets." Happy it was for him that he was not present to hear those he had thus honored set up their throats in unanimous expressions of disgust when--the dedication leaf turned--they were confronted by a reprint of "Tamerlane" and "Al Aaraaf," with the shorter poems, "To Helen," "A Pæan," "Israfel," "Fairy-Land," and other "rubbish," as they promptly pronounced the entire contents of the book. "Listen, fellows!" said one of the disgusted lot, with the open volume in his hand. "'In Heaven a spirit doth dwell Whose heartstrings are a lute. None sing so wildly well As the angel, Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell) Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute.'" As he finished this opening stanza of what posterity has ranked as one of the most exquisite lyrics in the English tongue, but which was received by the audience of cadets with guffaws of derision, the reader closed the book with a snap, and dashed it across the room and into the open fire. "Did you ever hear crazier rubbish?" he asked, with contempt. "Highway robbery, I call it, to send us such stuff for our good, hard cash!" "The joke's on us this time, and no doubt about it," said the also chagrinned, but more philosophically inclined "Gibs." "The Bard means well, though, and no doubt he thinks the stuff is poetry." "Old P." solemnly tapped his forehead with his forefinger. "Something wrong here," he remarked, ominously, "I suspected it all along." The business of getting his book published dispatched, the poet's thoughts turned lovingly toward Richmond which he still called "home," and carpet-bag in hand and a package of copies of his book which he intended as presents to his old chums under his arm, he set out upon the journey thither. The streets of New York had been cold and bleak but he told himself as he journeyed, that April days at home were quite different. The grass would be already green upon the hillsides, many of the trees in leaf, and the dear spring flowers in bloom. He pictured the ample comforts of the Allan homestead, and of his own room in it, with its familiar furnishings. Of course he had no idea of looking to Mr. Allan for support--his pen must give him that now--but during the visit which he was going to make "at home" it would be pleasant to sleep once more in that room with all of its associations, though many of these were with the blunders of a blinded youth. As he thought of Mr. Allan and his last meeting with him, his heart softened. He would try and keep their intercourse upon the friendly basis upon which his last sad visit home had placed it; would as far as possible, put himself in his foster-father's place and see things as he saw them. How desolate the widowed man had seemed in the big, empty house during those chill, sorrow-stricken, February days! No wonder he had sought escape from his desolation in another marriage--his loneliness without the lovely little mother must have been unbearable. What was the new wife like, he wondered? Was she like the lady of the manor he remembered? Could there be another such gentle, tender, flower-like woman on earth? In his unworldly, unpractical dreamer's soul it did not occur to him for one moment that her existence might make him any less Mr. Allan's adopted son, or even that, with all the rooms in the big house at her disposal, she might have taken a fancy to rearrange the one which, from the time the house became Mr. Allan's property, had been "Eddie's room," and which had so long stood ready for his occupancy--dedicated as it was to his own belongings. * * * * * At last he was on the sacred soil! How fair and comfortable the old homestead looked in its setting of greening lawn and flowering garden, with the pleasant sunshine of the April afternoon over all! How cheerful--how ample--how homelike! He ran up the steps of the commodious front porch and was on the point of opening the door when some impulse he could not define made him pause and, instead of turning the knob, announce himself with a rap upon the shining brass knocker. One of the old family servants whom he had known and loved from his infancy, and with whom he had always been a pet, opened the door, and with beaming face and eager voice greeted him with the enthusiastic hospitality of his kind--lifting up his voice and his hands in praise to God that he was once more in this world permitted to look upon the face of "Marse Eddie." The whilom young master of the house was equally, if less picturesquely, warm in his expressions of pleasure at seeing the old man again, and gave him his carpet-bag with instructions to take it to his room and to tell Mrs. Allan that he was there. The venerable darkey's face fell. The "new Mistis" had "changed the house around some," he explained, apologetically, and "Marse's Eddie's" things had been moved to one of the servants' rooms, but "Marse Eddie's" old room was a guest chamber, and he "reckoned" that would be the place to take the bag. The visitor's whole manner changed at once--_froze_. The flush of pleasure died out of his face and left it pale, cold and stern. A fierce and unreasonable rage possessed him. _She had dismantled the room that his little mother had arranged for him and sent his things to a servant's room!_ Was this insult intentional, he wondered? To his mind, his "little Mother" was so entirely the presiding genius of the place--he could not realize the right of anyone, not even a "new mistis," to come in and "change the house around." Cut to the quick, he directed the old butler to leave the bag where it was and to let Mrs. Allan know that he was in the drawing-room. No announcement could have given that lady greater surprise. She regarded Edgar's leaving West Point after her husband's letter, as direct disobedience, and his presenting himself at her door as the height of impertinence. Something of this was in the frigid dignity with which she received him--standing, and drawn up to the full height of her imposing figure. She had never been within speaking distance of anyone drunk to the point of intoxication, but, somehow, she had received an impression that this was pretty generally the case with the young man now before her, and when he began somewhat incoherently (in his foolish rage) to ask her confirmation of the old servant's statement that his room had been dismantled, she was convinced that it was his condition at the moment. Turning, with the grand air for which she was noted, to the hoary butler who stood in the doorway between drawing-room and hall, respectfully awaiting orders as to "Marse Eddie's" bag, she said, "Put this drunken man out of the house!" The aged slave stood aghast. Between the stately new mistress whom it was his duty to serve, and the beloved young master whose home-coming had warmed his old heart, what should he do? He stood in silence, his lined black face filled with sadness, his chin in his hand, his eyes bent in sorrow and shame upon the floor. What should he do?-- Fortunately, the new mistress did not see his indecision as she swept from the room, and "Marse Eddie" quickly relieved him of the embarrassing dilemma by picking up the carpet-bag and passing out of the door, closing it behind him. It was all a mistake--a miserable mistake; but one of those mistakes in understanding between blind, prejudiced human beings by which hearts are broken, souls lost. At the foot of the steps Edgar Poe paused and looked back at the massive closed door. _Never_--_nevermore_, it seem to say to him.--_Never_--_nevermore_! While he had been inside the house one of those sudden changes in the face of nature of which his superstitious soul always made note, had taken place. A shower from a passing cloud had filled the depressions in the uneven pavement, where before only sunshine lay, with little pools of water, and had left the trees "weeping," as he fancifully described them to himself. He walked along the wet streets for a few steps, by the side of the wall that enclosed house and grounds. Then he paused again and looked over into the dripping garden while he held consultation with himself as to what he should do next. As he looked the breath of drenched violets greeted his nostrels. He noticed that the lilacs were coming into blossom. The fruit trees already stood like brides veiled in their fresh bloom. The tulip and hyacinth and daffodil beds were gay with color. How their newly washed faces shone in the sunshine, just then bursting through the clouds! Near him, just inside the wall, was a bed of lily-of-the-valley. He was seized with an almost irresistible desire to go down upon his knees by it and search among the glistening green leaves to see if the lilies were in bloom. But the garden-gate, like the house door, was closed upon him and seemed to repeat the fateful word--Nevermore. Whither should he turn his steps? To Mr. Allan's office?--Never! His intention had been to submit himself to Mr. Allan as far as his self-respect would let him. To consult him in regard to the literary career he felt himself committed to now that (as he recalled with satisfaction) the bridges between him and any other profession were burnt behind him. His own plan, upon which he was resolved to ask Mr. Allan's opinion, would be to seek a position in the line of journalism which would give him a living while he was waiting for his more ambitious work to find buyers. But since the interview with Mrs. Allan he realized the folly of this dream. Then, whither should he go?--To the chums of his boyhood?--Rob Stanard, Dick Ambler, Rob Sully, Jack Preston, where were they?--Good, dear friends they had been, but it seemed so long since they had played together! What should they find to say to each other now? They were busy with their various avocations and interests--what room in their hearts and homes could there be for a wanderer like himself? At the age of one and twenty, at the springtime of his life, as of the year--he felt himself to be as friendless, as much a stranger in the city which he called home, as Rip Van Winkle after his long sleep had felt in his. The only spots toward which he could turn with any confidence for sympathy were those two quiet cities within this city where lay his loved and lovely dead--"The doubly dead in that they died so young." "How different my life would be if they had lived!" he murmured to the flowers. Yet how fair was this world in which he had no place--even to a mere looker-on. How fair was this mansion, in its setting of April green and bloom, which had once owned him as its young--its future master. Above it Hope stretched her shining wings, but the hope was not for him. For him the closed door and the closed gate said only, "no more--nevermore." But whither should he go?--whither? As he turned from the garden and walked slowly, aimlessly, down the street, his great grey eyes fixed ponderingly upon the breaking clouds, a rainbow--bright symbol of promise--spanned the heavens. His eyes widened, his lips parted at the wonder and the beauty and the suddenness of it. Whither should he go? Behold an answer meet for a poet! Whither?--Whither?--The dark eyes in the pale cameo face turned skyward--the eyes of him who had declared himself to be a deep worshipper of all beauty grew more dreamy. Whither, indeed, but to the end of the rainbow! By what "path obscure and lonely," the quest would lead him he knew not, but he would follow it to the bitter end, for there, perchance, he would find if not the traditional pot of gold, at least a wreath of laurel. As he wandered down the street, his eyes still upon the bow, his dream was suddenly interrupted by the hearty voice of one of his boyhood's friends, and his sister Rosalie's adopted brother, Jack Mackenzie. "Hello, Edgar!" he cried. "Did you drop from the clouds? Evidently, for I see your head is still in them." He returned the greeting with joy. How good it was to feel the hand-clasp of friendship and welcome! He had always liked Jack--for the moment he loved him. "And where are you bound--you and your bag?" asked Jack. "Not to Mr. Allan's, for you are going in the wrong direction." "No," replied The Dreamer, with a whimsical smile. "I was going there, but I found the door shut, so I changed my mind, and had just decided to make the end of the rainbow my destination." Jack's spontaneous laugh rang out. "The same old Edgar!" he said. "Well I won't interfere with your journey except to defer it a bit. You are going home with me, to 'Duncan Lodge,' now--at least to supper and spend the night; and to stay as much longer as pleases you. Rose and the rest will be delighted to see you." CHAPTER XVIII. Where was Edgar Poe? Again the question was being asked. In many quarters and with varying degrees of interest it was repeated. But it still remained unanswered. In Richmond it was asked by the chums of his youth as they sat under their comfortable vines and fig-trees, or stopped each other on a corner for a few moments' social chat, or--catching some one of the rumors that were afloat concerning the gifted companion of their golden days--looked up from their desks in office or counting-house to ask each other the question. Their faces were keen with interest for their admiration and affection for The Dreamer had been sincere; yet it was not strong enough after the lapse of years to make any one of them lay down work and go forth to seek a solution of the mystery. Such an errand not one of them felt to be his business. A quixotic errand it would indeed have been considered and one which, if half the rumors were true, might have necessitated a journey to the ends of the earth, to prove but a fool's errand after all. The oft-repeated question was one with which John Allan little concerned himself. A robust son and heir had come in his late middle age to fill all his thoughts with new interest and plans for the present and the future. The patter of little feet of his own child on the stairs and halls of his home, drowned the ghostly memories of other and less welcome footfalls that had once echoed there. He too, had heard rumors of the adventures and the misadventures of Edgar Poe, but he did not consider it his business, as it was certainly not his pleasure, to investigate them. In Baltimore too, the question was asked by the kinsfolk whose acquaintance Edgar had made during his visit there. But they had never held themselves in the least responsible for this eccentric son of their brother David, the actor--the black sheep of the family. Surely it was none of _their_ business to follow him upon any chase his foolish fancy might lead him. But still, when the rumors that were rife reached their ears, it was with no small degree of curiosity that they asked each other the question: Where was Edgar Poe?--What had become of him?--Had he, as some believed, met death upon the high seas or in a foreign land?--Was he the real hero of stories of adventure which floated across the ocean from Russia--from France--from Greece? He had certainly contemplated going abroad--the Superintendent of West Point Academy had had a letter from him sometime after he left there, declaring his intention of seeking an appointment in the Polish army. Had he gone, or was he, as some would have it, going in and out among them, there in Baltimore, but unknown and unrecognized--his identity hidden under assumed name and ingenious disguise? Who could tell? The wonder of it was not in the existence of the unanswered question--of the mystery--but that the question could remain unanswered--the mystery remain unsolved--and no attempt be made to lift the veil. That a young man, a gentleman, of prominent connections, of handsome features and distinguished bearing and address, of rare mental gifts and cultivation, and of magnetic personality, could disappear from the face of the earth--could, almost before the very eyes of his fellows, step from the glare of the world in which he moved into the abyss of absolute obscurity or impenetrable mystery, and create no stir--that no one should deem it his or her business to seek or to find an answer to the question, a reading of the riddle. Not until two years after Edgar Poe had turned his back upon the closed door of the Allan mansion, in Richmond, and stepped, as it seemed from the edge of a world in which he was not wanted into the unknown, did such an one arise. And that one was, as an especially good friend of Edgar Poe's was most likely to be--a woman. Between this woman:--Mrs. Maria Poe Clemm--a widow of middle age, and The Dreamer, there existed the close blood-tie of aunt and nephew, for she was the own sister of his father, David Poe. More than that--there existed, though they had never seen each other, a soul kinship rare between persons of the same blood, and which (for all they had never seen each other) she, with the woman's unerring instinct that sometimes seems akin to inspiration, divined. She too was something of a dreamer, with an ear for the voices of Nature and a mind open to the influences of its beauty, but with a goodly ballast of strong common sense. She was but a young girl when her handsome and idolized brother David scandalized the family by marrying an actress and himself taking to the stage. But she had seen the bewitching "Miss Arnold" at the theatre in Baltimore--had, with fascinated eyes, followed her twinkling feet through the mazy dance, had listened with charmed ears to her exquisite voice, had sat spell-bound under her acting. To her childish mind, the stage had become a fairy-land and Miss Arnold its presiding genius. That brother David should love and marry her seemed like something out of a fairy book. _She_ did not blame brother David; she secretly entirely approved of him. In her later years the death of the husband of her own youth who had been romantically, passionately loved, had left her penniless but not disillusioned; with her own living to get and a little daughter with a face like a Luca Della Robbia chorister, and a voice that went with the face, but who had the requirements of other flesh and blood children, to be provided for. This child was the sunshine of the lonely widow's life, yet she only in part filled the great mother's heart of her. Nature had made her to be the mother of a son as well as a daughter, then mockingly, it would seem, denied her. But in her dreams she worshipped the son she had never borne, and deep in her heart was stored, like unshed tears, the love she would have lavished upon him had her whole mission in life been fulfilled. She had heard little of her brother David's son Edgar, but that little had always interested her. She was living away from Baltimore during his visit there just before he entered West Point, and so she did not meet him; but upon the death of her husband, soon afterward, she had returned to the home of her girlhood, and established herself in modest, but respectable quarters, to earn a livelihood for the little Virginia and herself by the use of her skillful needle. It was soon afterward that with a concern which no one but herself had felt, she learned of the mystery surrounding the whereabouts of her nephew. She yearned over the wanderer and longed to mother him, as, somehow, she knew he needed to be mothered. She kept near her a copy of his last little book of poems which she had read again and again. In the earlier ones she saw a loose handful of jewels in the rough, yet she recognized the sparkle which distinguishes the genuine from the false. In the later ones she perceived gems "of purest ray serene," polished and strung and ready to be passed on from generation to generation--priceless heir-looms. She was a tall woman, and deep-bosomed, with large but clear-cut and strong features, and handsome, deepset gray eyes which habitually wore the expression of one who has loved much and sorrowed much. She had been called stately before her proud spirit had bowed itself in submission to the chastenings of grief--since when she had borne the seal of meekness. But there was a distinction about her that neither grief nor poverty could destroy. She was so unmistakably the gentle-woman. In the simple, but dainty white cap, with its floating strings, which modestly covered her dark waving hair, the plain black dress and prim collar fastened with its mourning pin, she made a reposeful picture of the old-fashioned conception of "a widow indeed." Her hands were not her least striking feature. They were large, but perfectly modelled, and they were deft, capable, full of character and feeling. In their touch there was a wonderfully soothing quality. In winter they always possessed just the pleasantest degree of warmth; in summer just the most grateful degree of coolness. No one ever received a greeting from them without being impressed with the friendliness, the sympathy of their clasp. As she bent her fine, deeply-lined face over them, and the work they held, while the little Virginia sat nursing a doll at her feet, she often stitched into the garments that they fashioned yearnings, thoughts, questionings of the youth--her brother's child--whose picture, as she had conceived him from descriptions she had heard, she carried in her heart. She knew too well the weakness that was his inheritance and she knew too, what perils were in waiting to ensnare the feet of untried youth--poor, homeless and without the restraining influences of friends and kindred--whatever their inheritance might be. Sometimes she felt that the yearning was almost more than she could bear, and that she must arise and go forth and seek this straying sheep of the fold of Poe. But alas, she was but a woman, without money and without a clue upon which to begin to work save such as wild, improbable and contradictory rumors afforded. That was, after all, what she most needed--a clue. If she could only find a clue, poor as she was, she would follow it to the ends of the earth! Upon a summer's day two years after Edgar's disappearance, and when she had almost given up hope, the clue came. It was placed in her hand by her cousin, and Edgar's, Neilson Poe, who had no faith in its value but passed it on to her as it had come to him--"for what it was worth," as he expressed it. It was a strange story that Mrs. Clemm's cousin Neilson told her, and which had been told him, he said, by an acquaintance of his from Richmond who had known Edgar Poe in his boyhood. It seems that this Richmond man had during a visit to Baltimore gone to a brickyard to arrange for the shipment home of bricks for a new house he was building. As he sat in the office talking to the manager of the yard, a line of men bearing freshly molded bricks to the kiln passed the open window. There was something about the appearance of one of the laborers that struck the Richmond man as familiar and he turned quickly to the manager and asked the name of the man, pointing him out. The name given him was a strange one to him and he dismissed the matter from his thoughts and returned to his business talk. Upon his way to his hotel, however, the appearance of the brick-carrier, and the impression that somewhere, he had seen him before, returned to his mind and it came upon him in a flash, first that the likeness was to Edgar Poe, and then the conviction that the man was none other than Poe himself, though emaciated and aged to a degree that, with his shabby dress and unshaven chin, made him scarcely recognizable. Though he had been but a casual acquaintance of Edgar's, he was deeply touched at seeing him so evidently in distress, and returned to the brickyard early the next morning for the purpose of speaking to him and of helping him back into the sphere in which he belonged and from which he had so long disappeared. But the man he sought was not there and no one knew where his lodgings were. He was a recent employe of the yard, they said, and so gloomy and unsociable that he had made no friends. He was capable of a great amount of work, which he performed faithfully, but kept to himself and had little to say to anybody. Upon the day before he had looked ill and had stopped work before the day was over. He was evidently suffering from exhaustion, but had declared that he needed nothing, and after sitting down to rest upon a pile of bricks for a while, had gone off to his home--wherever that might be--as usual, alone. * * * * * This story Neilson Poe set down as highly sensational. He did not believe, he said with a laugh, that his cousin, when found, would be doing anything half so energetic or useful as carrying bricks--he would have more hope of him if he could believe it. The laborer's real, or fancied, likeness to Edgar was but a case of chance resemblance, that was all. But that was not enough for Maria Clemm. She folded her sewing and laid it away with an air of finality which plainly said that she had found other and more pressing work to do. The sewing must wait a more convenient season. Then she went out into the streets sweltering in the summer heat, and turned her face toward that obscure quarter of the town where human beings who could not afford to rest or to dine might at least secure a corner in which to "lodge" and the right, if not the appetite, to "eat," for an infinitesimal sum; for it was in this quarter that strange as it might, seem, her instinct told her her search must be made--in this quarter that Edgar Poe, the rich merchant's pampered foster-child, Edgar Poe, the poet, the scholar, the exquisite in dress, in taste and in manners, would be found. When she did find him the mystery that had surrounded him was stripped of the last shred of its romance. In a room compared to which the little chamber back of the shop of Mrs. Fipps, the milliner, in which his mother had drawn her last breath, and in which Frances Allan had found and fallen in love with him, was luxurious, he lay upon a bed of straw thrown into a dark corner, tossing with fever and in his delirium, literally "babbling of green fields." The kind-hearted, but ignorant and uncleanly slattern who sought with "lodgings to let" to keep the souls of herself and family in their bodies, gave him as much attention as the demands of a numerous brood of little slatterns and a drunken husband would permit, and sighed with real sorrow as she admitted that the "poor gentleman" was in a very bad way. It was her opinion he had seen better days she confided to the three other lodgers who were just then renting the three straw beds in the three other corners of the same dark, squalid and evil-smelling room. He was "so soft-spoken and elegant-like, if he _was_ poor as a church mouse. Pity he had no folks nor nobody to keer nothin' about 'im." It was not at once that Mrs. Clemm found him. She had sought him diligently in what would to-day be known as the slum districts of the city, descending the scale of respectability lower and lower until she thought she had reached the bottom, but without success. Then, upon the fourth or fifth day of her search, late in the afternoon, when the little Virginia was watching anxiously from the sitting-room window for "Muddie's" return, a wagon stopped before her door and out of it and into the house was borne a stretcher upon which lay an apparently dying man--ghastly, unshaven, and muttering broken unintelligible sentences. Keeping pace with the wagon as it crept along the street, might have been seen the stately, sad-eyed Widow Clemm. When the wagon stopped, she stopped, and directed the careful lifting of the stretcher from it. Then she turned and opened the door of her small house and led the way to her neat bed-chamber where, upon her own immaculate bed, the sick man was gently laid--henceforth, as long as need be, a cot in the sitting-room would be good enough for her. The little Virginia, her soft eyes filled with wonder, had followed her mother upon tip-toe. "Who is it, Muddie?" she questioned in an awed whisper. The anxiety in the widow's face gave place to a look of exaltation which fairly transfigured her. Her deep eyes shone with the hoarded love for the son so long denied her. She gathered her little daughter to her breast and kissed her tenderly. "It is your brother, darling," she gently said. "God has given me a son!" Well she knew that he was not yet entirely her own--that she would have to wrestle fiercely with Death for his possession. But she had made up her mind that she would win the battle. "Death _shall_ not have him," she passionately told herself. But the next moment, overwhelmed with a realization of human helplessness, she was upon her knees at his bedside, crying: "Oh, God, do not let him die! I have but just found him! Spare him to me now, if but a little while!" CHAPTER XIX. For many days the sick man lay with eyes closed in uneasy sleep or open, but unseeing, and with body writhing and tongue loosed but incoherent, showing that these half-waking hours, as well as the sleeping ones, were "horror haunted." Finally the most terrible of dreams visited him. The circumstances of his life had caused him from his infancy to dwell much upon the subject of death. He had oftentimes taken a gruesome pleasure in trying to imagine all the sensations of the grim passage into the "Valley of the Shadow"--even to the closing of the coffin-lid and the descent into the grave. Now, in his fever-dream, the dreadful details and sensations imagined in health came to him, but with tenfold vividness. At the point when in the blackness and suffocation of conscious burial horror had reached its extremest limit and the sufferer was upon the verge of real death from sheer terror, relief came. He seemed to feel himself freed from the closeness, the maddening fight for breath, of the coffin, and gently, surely, borne upward out of the abyss ... upward ... upward ... into air--light--life! For a long while he lay quite still, too exhausted to move hand or foot--to raise his eyelids even; but content--more--happy, perfectly happy, in the glorious consciousness of being able just to lie still and breathe the sweet air of day. Presently, as he began to feel rested, the great grey eyes opened. For the first time since the conqueror, Fever, had overthrown him and bound him to the uneasy bed of straw, they were clear as the sky after a storm--swept clean of every cob-web cloud; but their lucid depths were filled with surprise, for they opened upon a cool, light, homelike chamber. The walls around him were white, but were relieved here and there by restful prints in narrow black frames. The four-post bed upon which he lay was canopied and the large, bright windows were curtained with snowiest dimity, but the draperies of both were drawn and he could look out at the trees and the sky now roseate with the hues of evening. In a set of shelves that nearly reached the ceiling stood row on row of friendly looking books. Upon a high mahogany chest of drawers, with its polished brass trimmings and little swinging looking-glass, stood a white and gold porcelain vase filled with asters--purple, white and pink--while before it, in a deep arm-chair, a little girl of ten or eleven years, with a face like a Luca della Robbia chorister, or like one of the children of sunny Italy that served for old Luca's model, was curled up, stroking a large white cat which lay purring in her lap. Upon the child the wondering eyes of the sick man lingered longest and to her they returned when their survey of the rest of the room was done. Suddenly, impelled by the steadiness of his gaze, she lifted her own dark, soft eyes and let them rest for a moment upon his. She started--then was up and across the floor in a flash, carrying the cat upon her shoulder. "Muddie, Muddie," she cried from the door, "The new Buddie is awake!" Then, still carrying her pet, she walked, to his bedside and gazed earnestly and unabashed into the "new Buddie's" face. Her eyes had the velvety softness of pansy petals and as they looked into the eyes of the sick man recalled to his clearing mind the expression of mixed love and questioning in the eyes of his spaniel, "Comrade," the faithful friend of his boyhood. At length he spoke. "Who is 'Muddie'?" "She's my mother, and you are my new brother that has come to live with us always." A radiant smile illumined the pale and haggard face. "Thank Heaven for that!" he said. "And who brought me up out of the grave?" The child was spared the necessity of puzzling over this startling question. _Surely it was no other than she_, he thought--she who at this moment appeared at the open door--the tall figure of a woman or angel who in the next moment was kneeling beside him with a heaven of protecting love in her face. _She it was, no other!_ Through all of his dreams he had been dimly conscious of her--saving him from death and despair. Now for the first time, in the light of life, and in his new consciousness he saw her plainly. * * * * * Edgar Poe's convalescence was slow but it was steady, and even in his weakness he felt a peace and happiness such as he had rarely tasted. This frugal but restful home in which he found himself, with the ministrations of "Muddie" and "Sissy," as he playfully called his aunt and the little cousin who had adopted him as her "Buddie," were to him, after his struggle with hunger, fever and death, like a safe harbor to a storm-tossed sailor. The little Virginia claimed him as her own from the beginning. As long as he was weak enough to need to be waited upon her small feet and hands never wearied in his service but as he grew better, it was he who served her. There never were such stories as he could tell, such games as he could play, and he took her cat to his heart with gratifying promptness. When they walked out together the world seemed turned into a fairyland as with her hand held fast in his he told her wonderful secrets about the clouds, the trees, the flowers, the birds and even about the stones under her feet. It was fascinating to her too, to lie and listen to him read and talk with "Muddie." She was not wise enough to understand much that they said, but at night, when she had been tucked into bed, he would sit under the lamp and read aloud from one of the books in the shelves, or from the long strips of paper upon which he wrote and wrote; and though she did not understand the words, she delighted to listen, for his voice made the sweetest lullaby music. With the return of health and strength, energy and the impulse for life's battle began to return to Edgar Poe, and with them a new incentive. He began to awaken to the fact that "Muddie" and "Sissy" were poor and that his presence in their home was making them poorer--that the struggle to support this modest establishment was a severe one, and that he must arise and add what he could to the earnings of the deft needle. The three little editions of his poems had brought him no money--he had begun to despair of their ever bringing him any. He had sometime since turned his attention to prose but the manuscripts of such stories as he had offered the publishers had come back to him with unflattering promptness. He began now, however, with fresh heart to write and to arrange a number of those that seemed to him to be his best, for a book, to which he proposed to give the title, "Tales of the Folio Club." But the new tide of hope was soon at a low ebb. The editors and publishers would have none of his work. When the repeated return to him of the stories, poems and essays he sent out had begun to make him lose faith in their merit and to question his own right to live since the world had no use for the only commodity he was capable of producing, "Muddie" came in one evening with an unusually bright, eager look in her eyes and a copy of _The Saturday Visitor_ (a weekly paper published in Baltimore) in her hand. "Here's your chance, Eddie," she said. In big capitals upon the first page of the paper was an announcement to the effect that the _Visitor_ would give two prizes--one of one hundred dollars for the best short story, and one of fifty dollars for the best poem submitted to it anonymously. Three well-known gentlemen of the city would act as judges, and the names of the successful contestants would be published upon the twelfth of October. With trembling hands the discouraged young applicant for place as an author made a neat parcel of six of his "Tales of the Folio Club" and a recently written poem, "The Coliseum," and left them, that very night, at the door of the office of _The Saturday Visitor_. How eagerly he and "Muddie" and "Sissy" awaited the fateful twelfth! The hours and the days dragged by on leaden wings. But the twelfth came at last. It found Edgar Poe at the office of the _Visitor_ an hour before time for the paper to be issued, but at length he held the scarcely dry sheet in his hand and there, with his name at the end, was the story that had taken the prize--"The MS. Found in a Bottle." More!--In the following wonderful--most wonderful words, it seemed to him--the judges declared their decision: "Among the prose articles were many of various and distinguished merit, but the singular force and beauty of those sent by the author of 'Tales of the Folio Club' leave us no room for hesitation in that department. We have awarded the premium to a tale entitled, 'The MS. Found in a Bottle.' It would hardly be doing justice to the writer of this collection to say that the tale we have chosen is the best of the six offered by him. We cannot refrain from saying that the author owes it to his own reputation as well as to the gratification of the community to publish the entire volume. These tales are eminently distinguished by a wild, vigorous and poetical imagination, a rich style, a fertile invention and varied, curious learning. (Signed) "JOHN P. KENNEDY, J.H.B. LATROBE, JAMES H. MILLER, _Committee._" Here was the fulfilment of hope long deferred! Here was a brimming cup of joy which the widowed aunt and little cousin who had taken him in and made him a son and brother could share with him! It seemed almost too good to be true, yet there it was in plain black and white with the signatures of the three gentlemen whose opinion everyone would respect, at the end. What wealth that hundred dollars--the first earnings of his pen--seemed. What comforts for the modest home it would buy! This was no mere nod of recognition from the literary world, but a cordial hand-clasp, drawing him safely within that magic, but hitherto frowning portal. He felt as if he were walking on air as he hurried home to tell "Muddie" and "Sissy" of his and their good fortune. And how proud "Muddie" was of her boy! How lovingly little "Sissy" hung on his neck and gave him kisses of congratulation--though but little realizing the significance of his success. And how he, in turn, beamed upon them! The grey eyes had lost all of their melancholy and seemed suddenly to have become wells of sunshine. In imagination he pictured these loved ones raised forever from want, for he told himself that he would not only sell for a goodly price all the rest of the "Tales of the Folio Club," but under the happy influence of his success he would write many more and far better stories still, to be promptly exchanged for gold. Bright and early Monday morning he made ready (with "Muddie's" aid) for a round of visits to the members of the committee, to thank them for their kind words. His clothes, hat, boots and gloves were all somewhat worse for wear and his old coat hung loosely upon his shoulders--wasted as they still were by the effects of his long illness; but he whistled while he brushed and "Muddie" darned and carefully inked the worn seams, and finally it was with a feeling that he was quite presentable that he kissed his hands to his two good angels and ran gaily down the steps. Hope gave him a debonair mien that belied his shabby-genteel apparel. A quarter of an hour later Mr. John Kennedy, prominent lawyer and the author of that pleasant book "Swallow Barn," then newly published and the talk of the town, answered a knock upon his office door with a quick, "Come in!" At the same time he raised his eyes and confronted those of the young author whom he had been instrumental in raising from the "verge of despair." The face of the older man was one of combined strength and amiability. Evidences of talent were there, but combined with common sense. There was benevolence in the expansive brow and kindliness and humor as well as character, about the lines of the nose and the wide, full-lipped mouth, and the eyes diffused a light which was not only bright but genial, and which robbed them of keenness as they rested upon the pathetic and at the same time distinguished figure before him. What the kindly eyes took in a glance was that the pale and haggard young stranger with the big brow and eyes and the clear-cut features, the military carriage and the shabby, but neat, frock coat buttoned to the throat where it met the fashionable black stock, and with the modest and exquisite manners, was a gentleman and a scholar--but poor, probably even hungry. They kindled with added interest when the visitor introduced himself as Edgar Poe--the author of "Tales of the Folio Club." The strong, pleasant face and the cordial hand that grasped his own, then placed a chair for him, invited the young author's confidence--a confidence that always responded promptly to kindness--and he had soon poured into the attentive ear of John Kennedy not only profuse thanks for the encouraging words in the _Visitor_ but his whole history. Deeply touched by the young man's refined and intellectual beauty--partially obscured as it was by the unmistakable marks of illness and want--by his frank, confiding manners, by the evidences in thought and expression of gifts of a high order, and by the moving story he told, Mr. Kennedy's heart went out to him and he sent him on his way to pay his respects to the other members of the committee, rejoicing in offers of friendship and hospitality and promises of aid in securing publishers for his writings. Edgar Poe had been loved of women, he had been adored by small boys, he had received many material benefits from his foster father, he had been kindly treated by his teachers, but he was now for the first time taken by the hand spiritually as well as physically, by a _man_, a man of mental and moral force and of position in the world; a man, moreover, who with rare divination appreciated, out of his own strength, the weaknesses and the needs as well as the gifts and graces of his new acquaintance, and who took his dreams and ambitions seriously. The sane, wholesome companionship which The Dreamer found in him and at his hospitable fireside acted like a tonic upon his spirits and improvement in his health both of mind and body were rapid. Though warning him against being over much elated at his success, and an expectation of growing suddenly either rich or famous, Mr. Kennedy was as good as his word in regard to helping him find a market for his work. A proud moment it was when the young author received a note from his patron inviting him to dine with Mr. Wilmer, the editor of _The Saturday Visitor_ which had given him the prize, and some other gentlemen of the profession of journalism. But his pleasure was followed by quick mortification. _What should he wear?_ Still holding the open note in his hand, he looked down ruefully at his clothes--his only ones. For all their brushing and darning they were unmistakably shabby--utterly unfit to grace a dinner-party. Nearly all of the hundred dollars which had seemed such a fortune had already been spent to pay bills incurred during his illness and to buy provisions for the bare little home which had sheltered him in his need and which had become so dear to his heart. No, he could not go to the dinner, but what excuse could he make that would seem to Mr. Kennedy sufficient to warrant him in not only declining his hospitality but putting from him the chance of meeting the editor of the _Visitor_ under such auspices? At length he decided that in this case absolute frankness was his only course. "My dear Mr. Kennedy," he wrote, "Your invitation to dinner has wounded me to the quick. I cannot come for reasons of the most humiliating nature--my personal appearance. You may imagine my mortification in making this disclosure to you, but it is necessary." As he was about, in bitterness of soul, to add his signature a sudden thought caused him to pause, pen poised in air. A thought?--A temptation would perhaps be a better word. It bade him consider carefully before throwing away his chance. Who knew, who could tell, it questioned, how much might depend upon this meeting? His fortune might be made by it! Almost certainly it would lead to the sale of some more of his stories to the _Visitor_. Mr. Kennedy believed that it would have this result--for this purpose he had arranged it. After taking so much pains for his benefit he would undoubtedly be disappointed--seriously disappointed--if his plan should fail. Mr. Kennedy had been so kind, so generous--doubtless he would gladly advance him a sum sufficient to make himself presentable for the dinner--to be paid by the first check received as a result of the meeting. A very modest sum would do. He might manage it, he thought, with twenty dollars. Finally, he drew his unfinished note before him again and added to what he had written, "If you will be my friend so far as to loan me twenty dollars, I will be with you tomorrow--otherwise it will be impossible, and I must submit to my fate. Sincerely yours, "E.A. POE." CHAPTER XX. The dinner went off charmingly. In addition to several journalists, Mr. Latrobe and Mr. Miller who, with Mr. Kennedy, had formed the committee that awarded the prize to Edgar Poe, were there and the meeting between the young guest of honor and his patrons engendered a spirit of _bon-homie_ that was palpable to all. Under its spell The Dreamer's spirits rose. Yet he was quiet, listening with deep attention to the conversation of his elders, but having little to say, until the repast was half over, when he responded to the evident desire of his host to draw him out. The conversation had turned upon a favorite theme of his--the power of words. He threw himself into it with zest, and with brilliant play of expression animating his splendid eyes and pale features, and the graceful, unrestrained gestures of one thoroughly at ease and entirely unconscious of self, he held the table spell-bound with a flow of sparkling talk in which his own exquisite choice of words delighted his hearers no less than the originality and beauty of his thought. In the young editor of _The Saturday Visitor_ he promptly found a second friend among men of letters. Mr. Wilmer, already prejudiced in his favor by the success of the "MS. Found in a Bottle," and its cordial reception by the public, and by Mr. Kennedy's warm words of recommendation, yielded at once to the witchery of the poetic eyes, the courtly manners and the charmed tongue, and not only befriended him by inviting and accepting his writings for publication, but gave him, as time went on, what proved to be a stimulant to good work as well as one of his greatest pleasures--the intimate companionship of a man of congenial tastes and near his own age. * * * * * The winter that followed was one of the happiest of The Dreamer's life--a lull in a tempest, a dream of peace within a dream of storm and stress. He was soon able to return the twenty dollars to Mr. Kennedy. The newspapers kept him busy and while the returns were--so far--small, he was hopeful. He felt that he had made a beginning, and that the future promised well. His work was praised and he became something of a lion--the doors of many a proud Baltimore home opening graciously to his touch. He cared little for general society, however. His greatest pleasure he found in his evenings with the Kennedys (for Mrs. Kennedy had taken him in as promptly as her husband) or in a canter far into the country on the saddle horse which Mr. Kennedy, noting his pallor and thinking that out-door exercise would be of benefit to him, kindly placed at his disposal, or in walks in the fields and lanes beyond the city with his new chum Wilmer. Many a fine afternoon saw these two cronies, often accompanied by the sprite, Virginia, with her airy movements and vivid beauty, rambling in the suburbs, and beyond, with heads close in intimate communion of thought and fancy. What he enjoyed most of all was the time spent at his desk, in the shelter of the new-found haven of rest, with the happy "Muddie" and "Sissy" nearby. This little family circle was unique. There was an unmistakably oak-like element in the nature of the widow which was apparent to some degree even in her outward appearance, in the stateliness and dignity of her figure and carriage--an element of sturdiness and self-reliance which made it her pleasure to be clung to, looked up to, leaned upon. The character of her new-found son was, on the contrary, vine-like. He was constantly reaching out tendrils of craving for love, for appreciation, for understanding. More--for advice, for guidance. Such tendrils seeking a foot-hold, make a strong appeal to every womanly woman. She sees in them a call to her nobility of soul, to the mother that is a part of her spiritual nature--a call that gives her pleasant good-angel sensations, that soften her heart and flatter her self-esteem. To the Widow Clemm, with her self-reliance and her highly developed maternal instinct, the appeal was irresistible and between her and The Dreamer the ivy and oak relation was promptly established, while in the little Virginia he found a heartsease blossom to be loved and sheltered by both--the loveliest of heartsease blossoms whose beauty, whose purity and innocence and the stored sweets of whose nature were all for him. The three lived, indeed, for each other only, in a dream-valley apart from and invisible to, the rest of the world, for their dreams of which it was constructed made it theirs and theirs alone. Their dreams piled beautiful mountains around the valley through which peace flowed as a gentle river, while love and contentment and innocent pleasures were as flowers besprinkling the grass and speaking to their hearts of the love and the glory of God, and the fancies with which they beguiled the time were as tall, fantastic trees, moved by soft zephyrs. And because of the bright flowers ever springing in the green turf that carpeted the valley, they named it the _Valley of the Many-Colored Grass_. And to the three the dream-valley, with its peace and its beauty and its sweet seclusion, was the real world, while all the wilderness outside of it, where other men dwelt was the unreal. * * * * * One happy effect of these peaceful days upon The Dreamer was that there was in them no temptation to excess--no restless craving for excitement. The Bohemian--the Edgar Goodfellow--side of him found, it is true, an outlet, but a harmless one. He found it in the genial atmosphere of the Widow Meagher's modest eating-house where he and his new crony, Wilmer, passed many a jolly hour. The widow, an elderly, portly dame, with a kind Irish heart and keen Irish wit, had the power of diffusing a wonderful cheerfulness around her. Her shop was clean, if plain, her oysters were savory, if cheap. Like all women, she petted Edgar Poe, and hearing from Wilmer that he was a poet, she at once gave him the name by which the West Point boys had called him, and to all of the frequenters of her shop he was known as "the Bard." Her shop had not only an oyster counter, but a bar and a room for cards and smoking but these had little attraction for Poe at this period of his career--much to the widow's dissatisfaction, for she wished "the Bard" to be merry, and did not like to see him neglect what she honestly and unblushingly believed to be the really good things of life. But though to her pressing invitations, "Bard take a hand," "Bard take a nip," he was generally deaf, he was more accomodating when, after getting off an unusually clever bit of pleasantry (putting her customers into an uproar of laughter) she would turn to him with, "Bard put it in poethry." And put it "in poethry" he did--to the increased hilarity of the crowd. * * * * * The month of February brought an interruption to the smooth and pleasant course of The Dreamer's life. A long time had passed since he had heard anything of his friends down in Virginia, and it was therefore with quick interest that he broke the seal of a letter bearing the Richmond post-mark and addressed to him in the unforgotten hand of his early admirer, Rob Sully. Dear old Rob, the sight of the familiar hand-writing alone warmed The Dreamer's heart and brought the soft, melting expression to his eyes! The object of the letter was to tell him that Mr. Allan was extremely ill--dying, some thought, though the end might not be immediate. Rob was taking it upon himself to write because he felt that Eddie ought to know. Mr. Allan had lately been heard to speak kindly of Eddie, he had been told, and it had occurred to him that Eddie might like to come on and have a word of forgiveness from him before he died. As "Eddie" read, the pleasure the first sight of the letter had given him turned to sudden, sharp pain. Mr. Allan and--_death_! He had never thought of associating the two. Under the influence of the shock his heart became all tenderness and regret. He hurriedly packed his carpet-bag, kissed Mrs. Clemm and Virginia goodbye, and set out post-haste for Richmond and the homestead on Main and Fifth Streets. He did not stop to lift the brass knocker this time. The forlorn details of his last visit, his lack of right to cross that threshold uninvited--what mattered such considerations now? They were, indeed, forgotten. Everything was forgotten--everything save that the man who had stood in the position of father to him was dying--dying without a word of pardon to him, the most wayward (he felt at that moment of severe contrition)--_the most wayward_ of prodigal sons. Everything was forgotten save that he was having a race with death--a race for a father's blessing! He flung wide the massive front door and hastened through the spacious hall, up the stair and into the room where the ill man sat in an arm-chair. On the threshold he paused for a moment. Mr. Allan saw and recognized him, and at once the misunderstanding of the actions of his adopted son for which he seemed to have a gift, asserted itself, construing the visit as an unpardonable liberty. The only motive Mr. Allan could imagine which could have prompted Edgar Poe to force himself, as it seemed to him, into his presence at this time was a mercenary one, and burning with indignation, his eyes gleaming with something like their old fire, he half raised himself from the chair. "How dare you?" he screamed in the grating tones of angry old age. Then, grasping the cane at his side in trembling fingers and raising it with threatening gesture, he ordered his visitor to leave the room at once. Edgar Poe stood aghast for a moment, then fled down the stair and out of the door and turning his back for the last time upon the house whose young master he had been, with the word "Nevermore" ringing like a knell in his ears, made his way again to the abode of love and peace in Baltimore, which held his whole heart and which had become his home. A few weeks later Mr. Allan died, leaving the whole of his fortune to his second wife and her children. * * * * * It now became more important than ever for Edgar Poe to earn a living. In spite of the fact that Mr. Allan was known to have lost all regard for him, his friends had always believed that he would be remembered in the will. They believed that John Allan's rigid, sometimes even strained, idea of justice would cause him to provide for the boy for whom he had voluntarily, albeit against his own judgment, made himself responsible. The fact that the boy had turned out to be, in Mr. Allan's opinion, "trifling," that he refused to engage in any "useful" work and that at five and twenty years of age he had not established himself in any "paying business" would, those who knew Mr. Allan best believed, be with him but another reason for ensuring against want his first wife's spoiled darling who was evidently incapable of taking care of himself and therefore (so they believed he would argue) so much the more his care. Possibly The Dreamer may have taken this view himself. However that may be, the opening of the will silenced all conjecture, and as has been said, made the need of his making his work produce money more pressing than ever. His friend Wilmer did his best for him--publishing his stories in _The Saturday Visitor_ from time to time and paying him as well as he was able. But Wilmer and his paper were poor themselves. _The Visitor_ was only a small weekly, with a modest subscription list. It had little to pay, however good the "copy" and that little and Mother Clemm's earnings put together barely kept the wolf from the door. When the frequent and welcome summons to the bountiful board of the Kennedys came the young poet blushed for shame in the pleasure he could not help feeling in anticipation of the chance to satisfy his chastened appetite, and he often found himself fearing that the hunger with which he ate the good things which these kind friends placed upon his plate would betray the necessary frugality of the dear "Muddie's" house-keeping, which was one of the sacred secrets of the sweet home. Sometimes his pride would make him go so far as to decline delicious morsels in the hope of correcting such an impression, if it should exist. He racked his brain to find a means of making his work bring him more money. Upon Mr. Kennedy's advice, he sent his "Tales of the Folio Club" to the Philadelphia publishing house of "Carey and Lea." After several weeks of anxious waiting he received a letter accepting the collection for publication but frankly admitting that his receiving any profit from the sale of the book was an exceedingly doubtful matter. They suggested, however, that they be permitted to sell some of the tales to publishers of the then popular "annuals," reserving the right to reprint them in the book. To this the author gladly consented and received with a joy that was pathetic the sum of fifteen dollars from "The Souvenir," which had purchased one of the tales at a dollar a printed page. He and Wilmer put their heads together in dreams of literary work by which a man could live. One of these dreams took form in the prospectus of a purely literary journal of the highest class which was to be in its criticisms and editorial opinions "fearless, independent and sternly just." But the scheme required capital and never got beyond the glowing prospectus. In spite of the small sums that came to him as veritable God-sends from the sale of his stories and from odd jobs on the _Visitor_ and other journals, Edgar Poe was poor--miserably poor. And just as he had begun to flatter himself that he did not mind, that he would bear it with the nonchalance of the true philosopher he believed he had become, it assumed the shape of horror unspeakable to him. Not for himself, if there were only himself to think of, he felt assured, he could laugh poverty--want even--to scorn; but that his little Virginia should feel the pinch was damnable! Two years had made marked changes in Virginia. She was losing the formless plumpness of childhood and growing rapidly into a slight and graceful maiden--a "rare and radiant maiden," with the tender light of womanhood beginning to dawn in her velvet eyes and to sweeten the curves of her lips. A maiden lovelier by far than the child had been but with the same divine purity and innocence that had always been hers--that were his, for her beauty, her purity and innocence and the stored sweets of her nature were still for him alone and for him alone too, was her sweet companionship--her comradeship--of which he never wearied. Under his guidance her mind had unfolded like a flower. She was beginning to speak fluently in French and in Italian. How he loved the musical southern accents on her tongue! And she was developing an exquisite singing voice. Her voice was her crowning grace--her voice was his delight of delights! As he gazed into the shadows that lay under her long black lashes and listened to her voice, with its hint of hidden springs of passion, his pulses stirred at the thought that this lovely flower of dawning womanhood was his little Virginia, and his own heart ached to think that any desire of hers should ever be denied. In his desperation he thought of teaching and applied for a position in a school, but without success. But relief was at hand. While the Dreamer and his friend the editor of _The Saturday Visitor_ had been building literary air-castles in Baltimore, a journal destined to take something approaching such a stand as their ideal was actually founded, in Richmond, under the title of _The Southern Literary Messenger_. Its owner and publisher, Mr. Thomas W. White, was no dreamer, but a practical printer and an enterprising man of business. Early in this year--the year 1835--Mr. White wrote to Mr. Kennedy, requesting a contribution from his pen for the new magazine, and, as was to be expected, Mr. Kennedy, with his wonted thoughtfulness of his literary protegé, wrote back commending to Mr. White's notice the work of "a remarkable young man by the name of Edgar Poe." At Mr. Kennedy's suggestion Edgar bundled off some of the "Tales of the Folio Club" for Mr. White's inspection, with the result that in the March number of the _Messenger_ the weird story "Berenice," appeared. It and its author became at once the talk of the hour, and when the history of "The Adventures of Hans Phaal" came out in the June number it found the reading public ready and waiting to fall upon and devour it. Other stories and articles followed in quick succession and the pungent critiques and reviews of the new pen were looked for and read with as great interest as the tales. In a glow over the prosperity which the popularity of the new writer was bringing his magazine, Mr. White wrote to him offering him the position of assistant editor, with a salary of five hundred and twenty dollars a year, to begin with. Of course the offer was to be accepted! The salary, small as it was, seemed to The Dreamer in comparison to the diminutive and irregular sums he had been accustomed to receive, almost like wealth. But its acceptance would mean, for the present, anyhow, separation--a break in the small home circle where had been, with all of its deprivations, so much of joy--a dissolving of the magical Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. Not for a moment, he vowed to Mother Clemm and Virginia, was this separation to be looked upon as permanent. Just so soon as he should be able to provide a home for them in Richmond he would have them with him again, and there they would reconstruct their dream-valley. But for the present--. The present, in spite of the new prosperity, was unbearable! In vain the Mother with the patience born of her superior years and experience, assured them that time had wings, and that the days of absence would be quickly past. To the youthful poet and the little maid who lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by him a month--a week--a day apart, seemed an eternity. In the midst of their woe at the prospect a miracle happened--a miracle and a discovery. It fell upon a serene summer's afternoon when the two children--they were both that at heart--wandered along a sweet, shady lane leading from the outskirts of town into the country. It was to be their last walk together for who knew, who could tell how long? The poet's great grey eyes wore their deepest melancholy and the little maid's soft brown ones too, were full of trouble, for had not their love turned to pain? They spoke little, for the love and the pain were alike too deep for words, but the heart of each was filled with broodings and musings upon the love it bore the other and upon the agony of parting. How could he leave her? the poet asked himself. His cherished comrade whose beauty, whose purity and innocence, the stored sweets of whose nature were for him alone? Into his life of loneliness, of lovelessness, of despair--a life from which everyone who had really cared for him had been snatched by untimely death and shut away from him forever in an early grave--a life where there had been not only sorrow, but bitterness--where there had been pain and want and homelessness and desolate wanderings and longings for the unattainable--where there had been misunderstanding and distrust and temptation and defeat--into such a life this wee bit of maidenhood--this true heartsease--had crept and blossomed, filling heart and life with beauty and hope and love--with blessed healing. How could he leave her? To others she seemed wrapped in timid reserve. He only had the key to the fair realm of her unfolding mind. How could he bear to leave her for even a little while? How barren his life would be without her! How shorn of all beauty and grace! And what would her life be without him, to whom had been offered up all her beauty and the stored sweets of her nature? Who would guard her from other eyes, that as her beauty and charm came to their full bloom might look covetously upon her? For the first time (and the bare suggestion seemed profanation) it occured to him that a day might come when, as this slip of maidenhood walked forth in her surpassing beauty and her precious innocence and purity the eyes of a man might make note of her loveliness, her altogether desirableness--might rest upon her with hopes of possession--and he not there to kill him upon the spot. What if in his absence another's hand should be stretched to pluck his heartsease blossom--that left unguarded, unprotected by him, another should snatch it, in its beauty, its purity and innocence, to his bosom? The thought was hell! Faint and trembling, he gazed down upon her as they strolled along, compelling her soft eyes to meet his anguished ones. His face was white and strained with his misery. She was pale and trembling, too, and there was dew on the sweeping lashes, and as she lifted them and looked into his face she trembled more. He looked upon her, tenderly marvelling to see in her at once the loveliest of children and of women--a woman with her first grief! There was heart-break in his voice, for himself and for her, as he murmured (brokenly) words of love and of comfort in her ear, and in her voice as she, brokenly, answered him. The sun was setting--a pageant in which they both were wont to take exquisite delight--but they could not look at the glowing heavens for the heaven of love and of beautiful sorrow that each found in the eyes of the other. Suddenly, they knew! The knowledge burst upon them like an illumining flood. How or whence it came they could not tell, nor did they question--but they knew that the love they bore each other was no brother and sister love, but that what time they had been calling each other "Buddie," and "Sissy," there had been growing--growing in their hearts the red, red rose of romance--the love betwixt man and maid of which poets tell--knew that in that sweet, that sad, that wondrous eventide the rose had burst into glorious flower. They trembled in the presence of this sweetest miracle. The beauty and solemnity of it well nigh deprived them of the power of speech. A divine silence fell upon them and they slowly, softly took their way homeward through the gathering dusk, hand in hand--but with few words--to tell the Mother. To the widow their disclosure came as a shock. At first she thought the silly pair must be joking--then that they were mad. Finally she realized their earnestness and their happiness and saw that the situation was serious and must be dealt with with the utmost tact. Still, she could hardly believe what she saw and heard. Was it possible that the demure girl talking to her so seriously of love and marriage was her little Virginia--her baby? And that these two should have thought of such a thing! Cousins!--Brother and sister, almost!--And with such disparity in ages--thirteen and six-and-twenty! She had lived long enough, however, to know that love is governed by no rules or regulations and besides, she had kept through all the changes and chances of her checkered life, a belief in true love as fresh as a girl's. This was too sacred a thing to be carelessly handled--only, it was not what she would have chosen.... Yet--was it not? A new thought came to her--a revelation--inspiration--what you will, and sunk her in deep revery. Why was this not what she would have chosen? Why not a union between her children--her all? Her own days were fast running out. She could not live and make a home for them always--then, what would become of them? She would die happy, when her time came, if she could see them in their own home, bound by the most sacred, the most indissoluble of ties--bound together until death should part them! She fell asleep with a heart full of thankfulness to God for his mercies. A quite different view of the matter was taken by other members of the Poe connection in Baltimore--particularly the men, who positively refused to regard the love affair as anything more than sentimental nonsense--"moonshine"--they called it, which would be as fleeting as it was foolish. Their cousin, Judge Neilson Poe, who had made a pet of Virginia, was especially active in his opposition and brought every argument he could think of to bear upon the young lovers and upon Mrs. Clemm in his endeavor to induce them to break the engagement; but he only succeeded in sending Virginia flying with frightened face to "Buddie's" arms, vowing (as, much to Cousin Neilson's disgust, she hung upon his neck) that she would never give him up, while "Buddie," holding her close, assured her, in the story-book language that they both loved, that "all the king's horses and all the king's men" would not be strong enough to take her from him. CHAPTER XXI. Midsummer found Edgar Poe in Richmond and regularly at work upon his new duties in the office of _The Southern Literary Messenger_. He felt that if he had not actually reached the end of the rainbow, it was at least in sight and it rested upon the place of all others most gratifying to him--the dear city of his boyhood whose esteem he so ardently desired. Most soothing to his pride, he found it, after his several ignominious retreats, to return in triumph, a successful author, called to a place of acknowledged distinction, for all its meagre income. The playmates of his youth--now substantial citizens of the little capital--called promptly upon him at his boarding-house. They were glad to have him back and they showed it; glad of his success and glad and proud to find their early faith in his powers justified, their early astuteness proven. All Richmond, indeed, received him with open arms and if there were some few persons who could not forget his wild-oats at the University and his seeming ingratitude to Mr. Allan, who they declared had been the kindest and most indulgent of fathers to him, and who did not invite him to their homes or accept invitations to parties given in his honor, they were the losers--he had friends and to spare. Yet he was not happy. The ivy had been torn from the oak and there was no sweet heartsease blossom to make glad his road--to made daily--hourly--offerings to him and him alone of the beauty, physical and spiritual, that his soul worshipped--of beauty and of unquestioning love and sympathy and approbation. In other words, The Dreamer was sick, miserably sick, with the disease of longing; longing for the modest home and the invigorating presence of the Mother; longing that was exquisite pain for the sight, the sound, the touch, the daily companionship of the child who without losing one whit of the purity, the innocence, the charm of childhood, had so suddenly, so sweetly become a woman--a woman embodying all of his dreams--a woman who lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by him. Life, no matter what else it might give, life without the soft glance of her eye, the sweet sound of her voice, the pure touch of her hand within his hand, her lips upon his lips, was become an empty, aching void. After two years of the sheltered fireside in Baltimore whose seclusion had made the dream of the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass possible, the boarding-house with its hideous clatter, its gossip and its commonplaceness was the merest make-shift of a home. It was stifling. How was a dreamer to breathe in a boarding-house? He was even homesick for the purr and the comfortable airs of the old white cat! Whenever he could he turned his back upon the boarding-house and tried to forget it, but the clatter and the gossip seemed to follow him, their din lingering in his ears as he paced the streets in a fever of disgust and longing. For the first time since Edgar Poe had opened his eyes upon the tasteful homelikeness of the widow Clemm's chamber and the tender, dark eyes of Virginia searching his face with soft wonder, the old restlessness and dissatisfaction with life and the whole scheme of things were upon him--the blue devils which he believed had been exorcised forever had him in their clutches. Whither should he fly from their harrassments? By what road should he escape? At the answer--the only answer vouchsafed him--he stood aghast. "No, no!" he cried within him, "Not that--not that!" Seeking to deafen his ears to a voice that at once charmed and terrified him, for it was the voice of a demon which possessed the allurements of an angel--a demon he reckoned he had long ago fast bound in chains from which it would never have the strength to arise. It was the voice that dwelt in the cup--the single cup--so innocent seeming, so really innocent for many, yet so ruinous for him; for, with all its promises of cheer and comfort it led--and he knew it--to disaster. Bitterly he fought to drown the sounds of the voice, but the more he deafened his ears the more insistent, the clearer, the more alluring its tones became. And it followed him everywhere. At every board where he was a guest the brimming cup stood beside his plate, at every turn of the street he was buttonholed by some friend old or new, with the invitation to join him in the "cup of kindness." At every evening party he found himself surrounded by bevies of charming young Hebes, who, as innocent as angels of any intention of doing him a wrong, implored him to propose them a toast. How could he refuse them? Especially when acquiescence meant escape from this horrible, horrible soul-sickness, this weight that was bearing his spirits down--crushing them. Therein lay the tempter's power. Not in appetite--he was no swine to swill for love of the draught. When he did yield he drained the cup scarce tasting its contents. But ah, the freedom from the sickness that tortured him, the weight that oppressed him! And ah, the exhilaration, physical and mental, the delightful exhilaration which put melancholy to flight, loosed his tongue and started the machinery of his brain--which robbed the past of regret and made the present and the future rosy! It was in the promise of this exhilaration that the seductiveness of the dreaded tones lay. Even his kindly old physician, diagnosing the pallor of his cheeks and melancholy in his eyes as "a touch of malaria," added a note of insistence to the voice, as he prescribed that panacea of the day, "a mint julep before breakfast." Yet he still sternly and stoutly turned a deaf ear to the voice of the charmer, while dejection drew him deeper and deeper into its depths until one day he found he could not write. His pen seemed suddenly to have lost its power. He sat at his desk in the office of the _Messenger_ with paper before him, with pens and ink at hand, but his brain refused to produce an idea, and for such vague half-thoughts as came to him, he could find no words to give expression. He was seized upon by terror. Had his gift of the gods deserted him? Better death than life without his gift! Without it the very ground under his feet seemed uncertain and unsafe! Then he fell. Driven to the wall, as it seemed to him, he took the only road he saw that led, or seemed to lead, to deliverance. He yielded his will to the voice of the tempter, he tasted the freedom, the exhilaration, the wild joy that his imagination had pictured--drank deep of it! And then he paid the price he had known all along he would have to pay, though in the hour of his severest temptation the knowledge had not had power to make him strong. Neither, in that hour, had he been able to foresee how hard the price would be. That shadowy, yet very real other self, his avenging conscience, in whose approval he had so long happily rested, arose in its wrath and rebuked him as he had never been rebuked before. It scourged him. It held up before him his bright prospects, his lately acquired and enviable social position, assuring him as it held them up, of their insecurity. It pointed with warning finger to the end of the rainbow and the road leading to it seemed to have suddenly grown ten times longer and rougher than before. Finally it held up the images of his two good angels, "Muddie," with her heart of oak, and her tender, sorrow-stricken face, and Virginia, whose soft eyes were a heaven of trustful love--whose beauty, whose purity and innocence, the stored sweets of whose nature were for him alone, and to whom he was as faultless, as supreme as the sun in heaven. It was too much. The dejection into which his "blue devils" had cast him was as nothing to the remorse that overwhelmed him now. On his knees before Heaven he confessed that his last estate was worse than his first, and cried aloud for forgiveness for the past and strength for the future. In this mood he sat down to write to Mr. Kennedy (who had been absent upon a summer vacation when he left Baltimore) a letter of acknowledgment for his benefactions--for whatever The Dreamer was, it is very certain that he was _not_ ungrateful. The date he placed at the top of his page was "September 11, 1835." "I received a letter yesterday," he wrote, "which tells me you are back in town. I hasten therefore, to write you and express by letter what I have always found it impossible to express orally--my deep sense of gratitude for your frequent and effectual assistance and kindness. "Through your influence Mr. White has been induced to employ me in assisting him with the editorial duties of his Magazine--at a salary of $520 per annum." He had not intended to mention his troubles to Mr. Kennedy, but with each word he wrote the impulse to unburden himself which he always felt when talking to this kind, sympathetic man, grew stronger and he found his pen almost automatically taking an unexpected turn. It was out of the abundance of his anguished heart that he added: "The situation is agreeable to me for many reasons--but alas! it appears that nothing can now give me pleasure--or the slightest gratification. Excuse me, my Dear Sir, if in this letter you find much incoherency. My feelings at this moment are pitiable indeed. You will believe me when I say that I am still miserable in spite of the great improvement in my circumstances; for a man who is writing for effect does not write thus. My heart is open before you--if it be worth reading, read it. I am wretched and know not why. Console me--for you can. Convince me that it is worth one's while to live. Persuade me to do what is right. You will not fail to see that I am suffering from a depression of spirits which will ruin me if it be long continued. Write me then, and quickly. Urge me to do what is right. Your words will have more weight with me than the words of others--for you were my friend when no one else was." Some men of more goodness than wisdom might have read this letter with impatience--perhaps disgust, and tossed it into the waste basket, not deeming it worth an answer, or pigeon-holed it to be answered in a more convenient season--which would probably never have arrived. It is easy to imagine the contempt with which John Allan would have perused it. Not so John Kennedy. Busy lawyer and successful man of letters and of the world though he was, he had gone out of his way to stretch a hand to the gifted starveling he had discovered struggling for a foothold on the bottommost rung of the ladder of literary fame, and had not only helped him up the ladder but had drawn him, in his weakness and his strength, into the circle of his friendship, and now he had no idea of letting him go. Mr. Kennedy was a great lawyer with a great tenderness for human nature, born of a great knowledge of it. He did not expect young men--even talented ones--to be faultless or to be fountains of sound sense, or even always to be strong of will. When he received Edgar Poe's wail he had just returned to his office after a long vacation and found himself over head and ears in work; but he responded at once. If it had seemed to him a foolish letter he did not say so. If it had shocked or disappointed him, he did not say so. He wrote in the kindly tolerant and understanding tone he always took with his protegé a letter wholesome and bracing as a breath from the salt sea. "My dear Poe," he began, in his simple familiar way, "I am sorry to see you in such plight as your letter shows you in. It is strange that just at the time when everybody is praising you and when Fortune has begun to smile upon your hitherto wretched circumstances you should be invaded by these villainous blue devils. It belongs however, to your age and temper to be thus buffeted--but be assured it only wants a little resolution to master the adversary forever. Rise early, live generously, and make cheerful acquaintances and I have no doubt you will send these misgivings of the heart all to the Devil. You will doubtless do well henceforth in literature and add to your comforts as well as your reputation which it gives me great pleasure to tell you is everywhere rising in popular esteem." This and more he wrote, in kind, encouraging vein, and closed his letter with a friendly invitation: "Write to me frequently, and believe me very truly "Yours, "JOHN P. KENNEDY." The same post that brought Mr. Kennedy's letter brought The Dreamer other mail from Baltimore--brought him letters from both Virginia and Mother Clemm. They had an especial reason for writing, each said. They had news for him--news which was most disturbing to them and they feared it would be to him. Disturbing indeed, was the news the letters brought. It drove him into a rage and aroused him into action which made him forget all of his late troubles. Their Cousin Neilson and his wife, they wrote him, had not ceased to bring every argument they could think of to bear upon Virginia to induce her to break her engagement and had finally proposed that they should take her into their home, treat her as an own daughter or young sister, providing for her all things needful and desirable for a young girl of her station, until her eighteenth birthday, after which if she and Edgar had not changed their minds, they could be married. He dashed off and posted answers to the letters at once, making violent protest against a scheme that seemed to him positively iniquitous and pleading with "Muddie" to keep Virginia for him. But writing was not enough. He determined to answer in person. A day or two later Virginia and her mother were in the act of discussing his letters, which had just come, when the sitting-room door quietly opened, and there stood the man who was all the world to them! Virginia, with a scream of delight, was in his arms in a flash and began telling him, breathlessly, what a fright she had been in for fear "Cousin Neilson" would take her away and she would never see him again. With a rising tide of tenderness for her and rage against their cousin, he kissed the trouble from her eyes. "Don't be afraid, sweetheart," he murmured, "He shall never take you from me. I have come back to marry you!" "To marry her?" exclaimed Mrs. Clemm. "At once, do you mean?" "At once! Today or tomorrow--for I must be getting back to Richmond as soon as possible. Don't you see, Muddie, that this is just a plot of Neilson's to separate us? He never cared for me--he loves Virginia and is determined I shall not have her. But we'll outwit him! We'll be married at once. We'll have to keep it secret at first--until I am able to provide a home for my little wife and our dear mother in Richmond, but I will go away with peace of mind and leave her in peace of mind, for once she is mine only death can come between us. We will keep it secret dear," he added, with his lips on the dusky hair of the little maid who was still held fast in his arms. "We will keep it secret, but if Neilson Poe becomes troublesome you will only have to show him your marriage certificate." Virginia joyfully agreed to this plan, while the widow, finding opposition useless, finally consented too--and the impetuous lover was off post-haste for a license. It was a unique little wedding which took place next day in Christ Church, when a beautiful, dreamy looking youth, with intellectual brow and classic profile and a beautiful, dreamy-looking maid, half his age, plighted their troth. The only attendant was Mother Clemm in her habitual plain black dress and widow's cap, with floating cap-strings, sheer and snowy white. No music, no flowers, no witnesses even, save the widowed mother and the aged sexton who was bound over to strict secrecy. But in the dim, still, empty church the beautiful words of the old, old rite seemed to this strange pair of lovers to take on new solemnity as they fell from the lips of the white robed priest and sank deep into their young hearts, filling and thrilling them with fresh hope and faith and love and high resolve. CHAPTER XXII. In the following spring Edgar Poe and Virginia Clemm were, strange as it may seem, principals in another wedding. The months intervening between the two ceremonies had been teeming with interest to them both--filled with work and with happiness just short of that perfect satisfaction--that completeness--that unattainable which it is part of being a mortal with an immortal mind and soul to be continually striving after, and missing, and will be until the half-light of this world is merged into the light ineffable of the one to come. The Dreamer had returned from his brief visit to Baltimore a new man. The blue devils were gone. The heart and mind which they had made their dwelling-place were swept clean of every vestige of them and were filled to overflowing with a sweet and rare presence--the presence of her who lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by him; for he felt that her spirit was with him at every moment of the day, though her fair body was other whither. The consciousness of the secret he carried in his heart flooded his nature with sunshine. Because of it he carried his head more proudly--wore a new dignity which his friends attributed entirely to the success of his work upon the magazine. He was filled with peace and good will to all the world. He was happy and wanted everybody else to be happy--it was apparent in himself and in his work. In his dreamy moods his fancy spread a broader, a stronger wing, and soared with new daring to heights unexplored before. When Edgar Goodfellow was in the ascendency he threw himself with unwonted zest into the pleasures that were "like poppies spread" in the way of the successful author and editor--the literary lion of the town. He had always been an enthusiastic and graceful dancer and now nothing else seemed to give him so natural a vent for the happiness that was beating in his veins. His feet seemed like his pen, to be inspired. He felt that he could dance till Doomsday and all the prettiest, most bewitching girls let him see how pleased they were to have him for a partner. In the brief, glowing rests between the dances he rewarded them with charming talk, and verses in praise of their loveliness which seemed to fall without the slightest effort from his tongue into their pretty, delighted ears or from his pencil into their albums. There was at least one fair damsel--a slight, willowy creature with violet eyes and flaxen ringlets, who treasured the graceful lines he dedicated to her with a feeling warmer than friendship. She was pretty Eliza White, the daughter of his employer, the owner of the _Southern Literary Messenger_. She was herself a lover of poetry and romance, and a dreamer of dreams, all of which had erelong merged into one sweet dream so secret, so sacred that she scarce dared own it to her own inner self, and its central figure was her father's handsome assistant editor, who rested in blissful ignorance of the havoc he was making in her maiden heart, engrossed as he was in his own secret--his own romance. New energy, new zest, new life seemed to have entered his blood. He had endless capacity for work as well as for pleasure and could write all day and dance half the night and then lie awake star-gazing the other half and rise ready and eager for the day's work in the morning. Such a tonic--such a stimulant did his love for his faraway bride and his consciousness of her love for him prove. He was happy--very, very happy, but he desired to be happier still. The simple, beautiful words of the old, old rite uttered in the dim, empty church had woven an invisible bond between him and the maiden whom he loved to call in his heart his wife though the time when he could claim her before the world was not yet. The miracle that this bond wrought in him was a revelation to him. Was the priest a wizard? Did the words of the ancient rite possess any intrinsic power of enchantment undreamed of by the uninitiated? He had not believed it possible for mortal to love more wholly--more madly than he had loved the little Virginia before that sacred ceremony, but after it he knew there were heights of love of which he had not hitherto had a glimpse. Just the right to say to his heart "She is my own--my wife--" made her tenfold more precious than she had ever been before, but it also made the separation tenfold harder to bear--made it beyond his power to bear! The Valley of the Many-Colored Grass had been dissolved--the spell that had brought it into being broken, by the separation, and he longed with a longing that was as hunger and thirst to reconstruct this magical world in which he and his Virginia dwelt apart with her who was mother to them both, in Richmond. And so, poor as he was, he arranged to bring Virginia and Mother Clemm to Richmond and establish them in a boarding house where he could see them often and wait with better grace the still happier day of making his marriage public. The day came more speedily than they had let themselves hope. The popularity of the _Messenger_ and the fame of its assistant editor had grown with leaps and bounds. The new year brought the welcome gift of promotion to full editorship, with an increase of salary. With the opening spring began plans for the divulging of the great secret--for public acknowledgment of the marriage. But how was it to be done?--That was the question! Edgar Poe knew too well the disapproval with which the world regarded secret marriages--with which he himself regarded them, ordinarily. His sense of refinement of fitness, of the sacredness of the marriage tie, revolted from the very idea. In what fashion then, could he and his little bride proclaim their secret that would not do violence to their own taste or set a buzz of gossip going? That the horrid lips of gossip should so much as breathe the name of his Virginia--that Mrs. Grundy should dare shrug her decorous shoulders, if ever so slightly, at mention of that sacred name--. The bare suggestion was intolerable! At last a solution offered itself to his mind. Not for an instant did he regret the sacred ceremony in Christ Church, Baltimore. Not for worlds would he have cut short for one moment of time the duration of the beautiful spiritual marriage when he had been able to say to himself: "She whose presence fills my heart and my life--whose spirit I can feel near me at my work, in my hours of recreation and in my dreams, is my wife." But of this exquisite, this inexpressibly dear union the world was in utter ignorance. It was known only to the Mother, the priest and the aged sexton. To these witnesses always, as to themselves, their marriage would date from the moment when the blessing was invoked above their bowed heads in Christ Church, but to the world--why not let it date from the day in which they would claim each other before the world, in Richmond? The thing was most simple! A second ceremony in the presence of a few friends--a brief announcement in next day's paper--and their life would be begun with the dignity, the prestige, of public marriage. * * * * * The sixteenth of May was the day chosen for the event which was more like a wedding in Arcady than in latter-day society. As at the secret ceremony, the customary preparations for a wedding were conspicuously absent; yet was not the whole town gala with sunshine and verdure and May-bloom and bird-song? Edgar Poe looked every inch a bridegroom as, with his girl-wife upon his arm, he stepped forth from Mrs. Yarrington's boarding-house, opposite the green slopes of Capitol Square. A bridegroom indeed!--plainly, but perfectly apparelled--handsome, proud, fearless--his great eyes luminous with solemn joy. 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. 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. But he found a much more interesting way of exercising his power of analysis. In the April number of _Graham's_ he tried it upon a story--"The Murders in the Rue Morgue"--which set all the world buzzing, and drew the interested attention of France upon him. In the next number, while the "Murders" were still the talk of the hour, he made an excursion into the world of _pseudo_-science the result of which was his thrilling "Descent into the Maelstrom;" but later in the same month he returned to his experiments in analysis--publishing in _The Saturday Evening Post_ an _advance_ review of Charles Dickens' story "Barnaby Rudge," which was just beginning to come out in serial form. In the review he predicted, correctly, the whole development and conclusion of the story. It brought him a letter from Dickens, expressing astonishment, owning that the plot was correct, and enquiring if Edgar Poe had "dealings with the devil." Soon followed the "Colloquy of Monos and Una," in which in the exquisite prose poetry of which The Dreamer was a consummate master, his imagination sought to pierce the veil between this world and the next--to lay bare the secrets of the soul's passage into the "Valley of the Shadow." Whatever else Edgar Poe wrote, he continued to pour out through the editorial columns of _Graham's Magazine_ a steady stream of criticism of current books. While entertaining or amusing the public as far as power to do so in him lay, he did not for a moment permit anything to come between him and the duties of his post as Defender of Purity of Style in American Letters. He was unsparing in the use of his pruning hook upon the work of his contemporaries and the height of art to which by his fearless, candid and, at times, cruel criticism, he sought to bring others, he exacted of himself. In spite of the amount of work he produced, each sentence that dropped from his pen in this time of his maturity--his ripeness--was the perfection of clear and polished English. But the evidences of this conscientiousness in his own work did not make the little authors one whit less sore under his lash. Privately they writhed and they squirmed--publicly they denounced. All save one--an ex-preacher, Dr. Rufus Griswold--himself a critic of ability, who would like to have been, like The Dreamer, a poet as well as a critic. When Edgar Poe praised the prose writings of Dr. Griswold, but said he was "no poet," Dr. Griswold like the other little authors writhed and squirmed secretly--very secretly--but openly he smiled and in smooth, easy words professed friendship for Mr. Poe--and bided his time. As for Poe himself, he had by close and devoted study of the rules which govern poetic and prose composition--rules which he evolved for himself by analysis of the work of the masters--so added to his own natural gifts of imagination and power of expression, so perfected his taste, that crude writing was disgusting to his literary palate. He had made Literature his intellectual mistress, and from the day he had declared his allegiance to her he had served her faithfully--passionately--and he could brook no flagging service in others. Both his growing power of analysis and his highly developed artistic feeling were brought into full play in this review work. Under his guidance the writings of his contemporaries, whether they were the little authors or the giants such as, in England, Tennyson (who was a prime favorite with him), Macauley, Dickens, Elizabeth Barrett, or in America, Longfellow, Lowell, Hawthorne, Irving, Emerson, stood forth illumined--the weak spots laid bare, the strong points gleaming bright. He unfalteringly declared his admiration of Hawthorne (then almost unknown) in which the future so fully justified him. The tales of Hawthorne, he declared, belonged to "the highest region of Art--an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty order." Even the work of the little authors was indebted to him for many a good word, but the little authors hated him and returned the brilliant sallies his pungent pen directed toward their writings with vollies of mud aimed at his private character. No matter what his subject, however, Edgar Poe always wrote with power--with intensity. He seemed by turns to dip his pen into fire, into gall, into vitriol--at times into his own heart's blood. Of the last named type was the story "Eleonora," which appeared, not in _Graham's_, but in _The Gift_ for the new year, and wherein was set forth in phrases like strung jewels the story of the "Valley of the Many-Colored Grass." The whole fabric of this loveliest of his conceptions is like a web wrought in some fairy loom of bright strands of silk of every hue, and studded with fairest gems. In it is no hint of the gruesome, or the sombre--even though the Angel of Death is there. It is all pure beauty--a perfect flower from the fruitful tree of his genius at the height of its power. All of Edgar Poe's work gains much by being read aloud, for the eye alone cannot fully grasp the music that is in his prose as well as his verse. "Eleonora" was read aloud in every city and hamlet of the United States, and at firesides far from the beaten paths--the traveled roads--that led to the cities; for it was written when every word from the pen of Edgar Poe was looked for, waited for, with eager impatience, and when _Graham's Magazine_ had been made in one little year, by his writing, and the writing of others whom he had induced to contribute to its pages, to lead the thought of the day in America. And the success of The Dreamer made him a lion in the "City of Brotherly Love" as it had made him a lion in Richmond. The doors of the most exclusive--the most cultivated--homes of that fastidious city stood open to welcome him. The loveliest women, whether the grey ladies of the "Society of Friends" or the brightly plumaged birds of the gayer world, smiled their sweetest upon him. As he walked along the streets passers-by would whisper to one another, "There goes Mr. Poe. Did you notice his eyes? They say he has the most expressive eyes in Philadelphia." * * * * * Throughout this year of almost dazzling triumph the little cottage with its rose-hooded porch, in Spring Garden, had been a veritable snug harbor to The Dreamer. In winter when the deep, spotless snow lay round about it, in spring when the violets and hyacinths came back to the garden-spot and the singing birds to the trees that overhung it, in summer when the climbing green rose was heavy with bloom and in autumn when the wind whistled around it, but there was a bright blaze upon the hearth inside, his heart turned joyously many times a day, and his feet at eventide, when his work at the office in the city was over, toward this sacred haven. And Edgar the Dreamer was happy. He should have been rich and would have been but for the meagre returns from literary work in his time. Men were then supposed to write for fame, and very little money was deemed sufficient reward for the best work. The poverty of authors was proverbial and to starve cheerfully was supposed to be part of being one. Still, with his post as editor of _Graham's_ and the frequency with which his signature was seen in other magazines, he was making a living. The howl of the wolf or his sickening scratching at the door were no more heard, and in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass the three dreamers laughed together, and in the streets of the "City of Brotherly Love" Edgar Goodfellow whistled a gay air, or arm in arm with some boon companion of the "Press gang" threaded his way in and out among of the human stream, with a smile on his lips and the light of gladness in living in his eyes. And why should he not be happy? he asked himself. He had the snuggest little home in the world and, in it, the loveliest little wife in the world and the dearest mother in the world. He was upon the top of the wave of prosperity. His fame was growing--had already reached France, where "The Murders" were still being talked about. Why should he not be happy? His devils had ceased to plague him this long while. The blues--he was becoming a stranger to them. The Imp--he had not had a single glimpse of him during the year. He was temperate--ah, therein lay man's safety and happiness! By strict abstinence his capacity for enjoyment was exalted--purified. He would let the cup forever alone--upon that he was resolved! This was not always easy. Sometimes it had been exceedingly hard and there had been a fierce battle between himself and the call that was in his blood--the thirst, not for the stuff itself, but for its effects, for the excitement, the exhilaration; but he had won every time and he felt stronger for the battle and for the victory--the victory of will. "Man doth not yield himself to the angels or to death utterly" (he quoted) "save only through the weakness of his feeble will." Upon continued resistence--continued victory--he was resolved, and in the resolution he was happy. Best of all, Virginia was happy, and "Muddie"--dear, patient "Muddie!" The two women chatted like magpies over their sewing or house-work, or as they watered the flowers. They, like himself, had made friends. Neighbors dropped in to chat with them or to borrow a pattern, or to hear Virginia sing. And they had had a long visit from the violet-eyed Eliza White. What a pleasure it had been to have the sweet, fair creature with them! (He little guessed how tremulously happy the little Eliza had been to bask for a time in his presence--just to be near the great man--and meanwhile guard all the more diligently the secret that filled her white soul and kept her, for all her beauty and charm, and her many suitors, a spinster). Eliza had brought them a great budget of Richmond news. It had been like a breath of spring to hear it. She talked and they listened and they all laughed together from pure joy. How Virginia's laugh had rippled out upon the air--it filled all the cottage with music! It was mid-January, and he sat gazing into the rose-colored heart of the open coal fire going over it all--the whole brilliant, full year. "Sissy," he said suddenly, "Do you remember the birthday parties I used to tell you about--that I had given me when I was a boy living with the Allans?" "Yes, indeed! and the cake with candles on it and all your best friends to wish you many happy returns." "Well, you know the nineteenth will be my birthday, and I want to have a party and a cake with candles and all our best friends here to wish you and me many happy returns of the happiest birthday we have spent together. I only wish old Cy were here to play for us to dance! I'd give something pretty to have him and his fiddle here, just to see what these sober-sided Penn folk would think of them. My, wouldn't they make a sensation in the 'City of Brotherly Love!'" He began whistling as clearly and correctly as a piccolo the air of a recently published waltz. After a few bars he sprang to his feet and--still whistling--quickly shoved the table and chairs to the wall, clearing the middle of the floor. The tune stopped long enough for him to say, "Come, Sweetheart, you must dance this with me. My feet refuse to be still tonight!"--then was taken up again. The beautiful girl was in his arms in an instant and while "Muddie," in her seat by the window, lifted her deep eyes from the work in her ever-busy hands and let them rest with a smile of indulgent bliss upon her "children," they glided round and round the room to the time of the fascinating new dance. At length they stopped, breathless and rosy, and the poet, with elaborate ceremony, handed his fair partner to a chair and began fanning her with "Muddie's" turkey-tail fan. He was in a glow of warmth and pleasure. His wonderful eyes shone like lamps. His pale cheeks were tinged with faint pink. While fanning Virginia with one hand he gently mopped the pleasant moisture from his brow with the other. Virginia's eyes shot sunshine. Her laughter bubbled up like a well-spring of pure joy. "What would people say if they could see the great Mr. Poe--the grand, gloomy and peculiar Mr. Poe--the author of 'Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque,' who's supposed to be continually 'dropping from his Condor wings invisible woe?'" said she, as soon as she could speak. The idea was so vastly amusing to her that she laughed until the shining eyes were filled with dew. "If they could know half the pleasure I got out of that they wouldn't say anything," he replied. "They would be dumb with envy. I suppose it's my mother in me, but I just _must_ dance sometimes. And this waltz! In spite of all the prudes say against it, it is the divinest thing in the way of motion that ever was invented. It's exercise fit for the gods!" He drew her to him and kissed her eyes and her cheeks and her lips. "It was heavenly--heavenly, Sis," said he, "And I don't suppose even the prudes could object to a man's waltzing with his own wife. I wonder will we ever dance to old Cy's fiddle again?" CHAPTER XXVI. It was a very modest party, but a merry one. The ground was covered with the unsullied whiteness of new-fallen snow and the coming of most of the guests was heralded by the tintinnabulation of the little silver bells so charming to the ear of the host. The Grahams were among the first to be welcomed out of the frosty night into the glow of lamp and candle and firelight, by the cordial hand and voice of Edgar Goodfellow. Mr. Graham was in tune to most heartily take part in the commemoration of the birthday of the man who was making _Graham's Magazine_ the success of the publishing world in America. His kindling blue eyes had never been kinder, his smile never more bland. Mr. Alexander, founder of _The Saturday Evening Post_ which so gladly published and paid for everything that Edgar Poe would spare it from _Graham's_ was the next, and close following him, Mr. Cottrell Clarke, first editor of the _Post_, and his charming wife. Captain and Mrs. Mayne Reid, who were among the most admiring and affectionate friends of the Poe trio were also there, and other congenial spirits. They came in twos and threes, their laughter as light and clear as the tinkle of their sleigh-bells. And Rufus Griswold was there. The Dreamer with his deep reverence for intellectual ability had a sincere admiration for Dr. Griswold--though he did say he was "no poet." He desired the approval--the friendship--of this brainy man and was proud and happy to have him of his party. Coming in after the rest of the company had assembled, the brainy man's big frame, topped by his big head, with his prominent brow and piercing eyes, his straight, thick nose, his large full-lipped close-set mouth, his square jaw with the fringe of beard sharply outlining it, produced a decided effect. He seemed to fill up a surprisingly large portion of the room. Instinctively, the gentleman who had occupied the largest and heaviest chair vacated it and invited him to be seated in it--which he did, instinctively. He was a young man--under thirty--but looked much older. His face was a strange one. It could not have been called ugly. By some, indeed, it was considered handsome. It was strong, but it was strange. There was an indefinable something unpleasant, something to awaken distrust--fear--about it. Across the dome of the brow ran, horizontally, a series of wavy furrows that produced, in place of the benevolent air the lofty brow might have given, a sinister expression. The eyes beneath the wrinkled brow were piercing and spoke of the fire of active mentality, but they were always downcast and turned slightly askance, so that few people caught the full force of their gleam, and there was sternness and coldness, as well as will, in the prominent chin and jaw. He came late, but he was a little more cordial in his expressions of pleasure in coming than any of those before him. His bows to Virginia and Mrs. Clemm were more profound--his estimation of Virginia's beauty he made at once apparent in the intense, admiring gaze he bestowed upon her. His words of congratulation and good will for his host were more extravagant than those of any of the others and were uttered in a voice as smooth--as fluent--as oil; while he rubbed his large, fleshy hands together in a manner betokening cordiality. When his host spoke, he turned his ear toward him (though his eyes glanced aside and downward) with an air of marked attention, and agreed emphatically with his views or laughed uproariously at his pleasantries. Yet at Rufus Griswold's heart jealousy was gnawing. Heaven had endowed him with mind to recognize genius, yet had denied him its possession. He that would have worn the laurel himself, was born to be but the trumpeter of others' victories. He, like Edgar Poe, had an open eye and ear for beauty--for harmony. He could feel the divine fire of inspiration in the creations of master minds--yet he could not himself create. He was a brilliant critic, but (as has been said) his ambition was to be, like Poe, also a poet. His quick intuition had divined the genius of Poe at their first meeting. He knew in a flash, that the neat, slender, polished gentleman, with the cameo face, the large brow and the luminous eyes, and with the deep-toned, vibrant voice, was one of the few he had ever met of whom he could say with assurance, "There goes a genius--" and of those few the topmost. Poe's writing, especially his poetry, enthralled him. To have been able to come before the world as the author of such work he would have sold his soul. And this man who had caught him in a net woven of mingled fascination, and envy, and hate, had, oh, bitter!--while generously applauding him as a critic and reviewer--as a compiler and preserver of other men's work--had added, "But--but--he is no poet." He had received the stab without an apparent flinch. He had even laughed and declared that Mr. Poe was right. That he himself knew he was no poet--he did not aspire to be a real one, but only dropped into verse now and then by way of pastime. The lie had slipped easily from his tongue, but his eyes drooped ever so little more than usual as it did so, their shifty gleam glanced ever so little more sidewise. And though he came late to the birthday feast, his words of friendship were emphatic and the laugh that told of his pleasure in being there was loud and frequent. And he smiled and rubbed his hands together--and bided his time. And Edgar Poe was pleased--immensely pleased--on his gala night, with the complimentary manner and the complimentary words of this welcome guest--of this big, brainy man whose good opinion he so much desired. Alas, hapless Dreamer! Did the gleam of those eyes cast alway slightly downward, slightly askance--give you no discomfort? Did the fang-like teeth when the thick lips opened to pour forth birthday wishes or streams of uproarious laughter, and the square lines of the jaw, suggest to your ready imagination no hint of cruelty? If you could but have known that what time he laughed and talked with your guests and feasted at your board, with its tasty viands and its cake with lighted candles, and bent his furtive glance upon the beauty of your guileless Virginia--if you could but have known that in his black heart the canker jealousy was gnawing and that, behind the smile he wore as a mask, the brainy man was biding his time! It was a goodly little company--a coming together of bright wits and (for the most part) of kind hearts, and the talk was crisp, and fresh, and charming. Supper was served early. "My wife and her mother have thought that you Penn folk might like to sit down to a Virginia supper," said the host, as he led Mrs. Graham to the table, and stood for a moment while Virginia designated the seats to be taken. Then still standing, said, "Every man a priest to his own household, is our Virginia rule, but as we have with us tonight one who before he took up Letters wore the cloth, I'm going to abdicate in his favor. Dr. Griswold will you ask a blessing?" All heads were bowed while the time-honored little ceremonial was performed, then seats were taken and the repast begun. Virginia presided over the "tea-things," while Mrs. Clemm occupied the seat nearest the door opening on the kitchen, that she might slip as unobtrusively as possible out and back again when necessary; but most of the serving was done by the guests themselves, each of whom helped the dish nearest his or her plate, and passed the plates from hand to hand. All of the supper, save the dessert and fresh supplies of hot waffles was on the table. There were oysters and turkey salad and Virginia ham. And there were hot rolls and "batter-bread" (made of Virginia meal with plenty of butter, eggs and milk, and a spoonful of boiled rice stirred in) and there was a "Sally Lunn"--light, brown, and also hot, and plenty of waffles. In the little spaces between the more important dishes there were pickles and preserves--stuffed mangoes and preserved quinces and currant jelly. And in the centre of the table was the beautiful birthday cake frosted by Virginia's dainty fingers and brilliant with its thirty-three lighted candles. There was just enough room left for the three slender cut-glass decanters that were relics of Mother Clemm's better days. "The decanter before you, Mr. Graham, contains the Madeira; the Canary is before you, Captain Reid, and I have here a beverage with which I am very much in love at present--_apple wine_--" Edgar Poe said, tapping the stopper of a decanter of cider near his plate. All understood. He had served the cider that he might join with them in their pledges of friendship and good will without breaking through the rule of abstemiousness in which he was finding so much benefit. The toasts were clever as well as complimentary, and the table-talk light and sparkling. Finally both Mrs. Clemm and Virginia arose to clear the table for the dessert. "You see, my friends, we keep no maid or butler," said the host, "but I'm sure you will all agree with me in feeling that we would not exchange our two Hebes for any, and they take serving you as a privilege." The cake was cut and served with calves-foot jelly--quivering and ruby red--and velvety _blanc mange_. After supper Virginia's harp was brought out of its corner and she sang to them. With adorable sweetness and simplicity she gave each one's favorite song as it was asked for--filling all the cottage with her pure sweet tones accompanied by the bell-like, rippling notes of the harp. The company sat entranced--all eyes upon the lovely girl from whose throat poured the streams of melody. She seemed but a child; for all she had been married six years she had but just passed out of her "teens" and might easily have been taken for a girl of fifteen. Her hair, it is true, was "tucked up," but the innocence in the upturned, velvet eyes, the soft, childish outlines of the face, the dimpled hands and arms against the harp's glided strings, the simple little frock of white dimity, all combined to give her a "babyfied" look which was most appealing, and which her title of "Mrs. Poe" seemed rather to accentuate than otherwise. Rufus Griswold's furtive eye rested balefully upon her. And this exquisite being too, belonged to that man--as if the gods had not already given him enough! From a far corner of the room her husband gazed upon her, and bathed his senses in contemplation of her beauty while his soul soared with her song. Mother Clemm noiselessly passing near him to snuff a candle on the table upon which his elbow, propping his head, rested, paused for a moment and laid a caressing hand upon his hair. He impulsively drew her down to a seat beside him. "Oh, Muddie, Muddie, look at her--look at her!" he whispered. "There is no one anywhere so beautiful as my little wife! And no voice like hers outside of Heaven!... Ah--" What was the matter? Was his Virginia ill? Even as he spoke her voice broke upon the middle of a note--then stopped. One hand clutched the harp, the other flew to her throat from which came only an inarticulate sound like a struggle for utterance. Terror was in the innocent eyes and the deathly white, baby face. For a tense moment the little company of birthday guests sat rooted to their places with horror, then rushed in a mass toward the singer, but her husband was there first--his face like marble. His arms were around her but with a repetition of that inarticulate, gurgling sound she fell limp against his breast in a swoon. From the sweet lips where so lately only melody had been a tiny stream of blood oozed and trickled down and stained her pretty white dress. "Back!--All of you!" commanded the low, clear voice of Edgar Poe, as with the dear burden still in his arms he sank gently to the floor and propping her head in his lap, disposed her limbs in comfortable, and her dress in orderly manner. "Back--don't crowd! A doctor!" One of the guests from nearby, who knew the neighborhood, had already slipped from the door and gone to fetch the nearest doctor. The others sat and listened for his step in breathless stillness. Edgar Poe bent his marble face above the prostrate form of his wife, calling to her in endearing whispers while, with his handkerchief he wiped from her lips the oozing, crimson stream. His teeth chattered. Once before he had seen such a stream. It was long ago--long ago, but he remembered it well. He was back--a little boy, a mere baby--in the small, dark room behind Mrs. Fipps' millinery shop, in Richmond, and a stream like this came from the lips of his mother who lay so still, so white, upon the bed. And his mother had been dying. He had seen her thus--he would see her nevermore!... Would the doctor never come?-- * * * * * Many days the Angel of Death spread his wings over the cottage in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. Their shadow cast a great stillness upon the cottage. Outside was a white, silent world. Snow had fallen--snow on snow--until it lay deep, deep upon the garden-spot and deep in the streets outside. There was no wind and the ice-sheathed trees that were as sentinels round about the cottage stood still. They seemed to listen and to wait. Inside, in the bed-chamber upstairs, under the shelving walls of the low Dutch roof, The Dreamer's heartsease blossom lay broken and wan upon the white bed. It was a very white little blossom and the dark eyes seemed darker, larger than ever before as they looked out from the pale face. But they had never seemed so soft and a smile like an angel's played now and again about her lips. Beside her, with his lips pressed upon the tiny white hand which he held in both his own was the bowed figure of a man--of a poet and a lover who like the ice-sheathed trees seemed to listen and to wait--of a man whose countenance from being pale was become ghastly, whose eyes from being luminous were wild with a "divine despair." At the foot of the bed sat a silver-haired woman with saintlike face uplifted in resignation and aspiration. For once the busy hands were idle and were clasped in her lap. She too, listened and waited, as she had listened and waited for days. Oh Love! Oh Life! Are these the happy trio who lived for each other only in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass? The silence was only broken when the lips of the invalid moved to murmur some loving words or to babble of the flowers in the Valley. She was in no pain but she was very tired. She was not unhappy, for the two whom she loved and who loved her were with her and though she was tired she soon would rest--in Heaven. When she spoke of going the man's heart stood still with terror. He held the hand closer and pressed his lips more fiercely upon it. He would not let her go, he vowed. There was no power in Heaven or hell to whom he would yield her. But she sweetly plead that he would not try to detain her--that he would learn to bear the idea of her leaving him which now gave her no unhappiness but for one thought--the thought that after a season he might, in the love of some other maiden, forget the sweet life he had lived with her in the Valley, and that because of his forgetting, it would not be given to him to join her at last, in the land where she would be waiting for him--the land of Rest. At her words, he flung himself upon his knees beside her bed and offered up a vow to herself and to Heaven that he would never bind himself in marriage to any other daughter of earth, or in any way prove himself forgetful of her memory and her love, and to make the vow the stronger, he invoked a curse upon his head if he should ever prove false to his promise. And as she listened her soft eyes grew brighter and she, in turn, made a vow to him that even after her departure she would watch over him in spirit and if it were permitted her, would return to him visibly in the watches of the night, but if that were beyond her power, would at least give him frequent indications of her presence--sighing upon him in the evening winds or filling the air which he breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels. And she sighed as if a deadly burden had been lifted from her breast, and trembled and wept and vowed that her bed of death had been made easy by his vow. * * * * * But it was not to be the bed of death. Little by little the shadow lifted from over the cottage--the shadow of the wings of the Angel of Death--and sunshine fell where the shadow had been, and a soft zephyr made music, that was like the music of the voice of "Ligeia," in the trees which dropped their sheath of ice. And the snow disappeared from the streets and from the garden-spot which was all green underneath, and by the time the crocuses were up health and happiness reigned once more in the cottage. But it was a happiness with a difference. A happiness which for all it was so sweet, was tinctured with the bitter of remorse. During the illness of his beloved wife, Edgar Poe had lived over and over again through the horror of her death and burial with all of the details with which the circumstances of his life had so early made him familiar--and had tasted the desolation for him which must follow. While his soul had been overwhelmed with this supreme sorrow his mind had been unusually clear and alert. He had been alive to the slightest change in her condition. Anticipating her every whim, he had nursed her with the tenderness the untiring devotion, of a mother with her babe. Through all his grief he was quiet, self-possessed, efficient. But with the first glimmer of hope, his head reeled. His reason which had stood the shock of despair, or seemed to stand it, gave way before the return of happiness. A wild delirium possessed him. Joy drove him mad, and already drunk with joy--mad with it--he flung prudence, philosophy, resolutions to the wind and drank wine--and drank--and drank. When--where--how much--he did not know; but at last merciful illness overtook him and stopped him in his wild career. With his convalescence his right mind returned to him; but he felt as he did when he awoke to consciousness in Mother Clemm's bed-chamber in Baltimore--that he had been down into the grave and back again. Only--then there was no remorse--no fiercely accusing conscience to make him wish from his soul that he might have remained in the abyss. * * * * * In dressing-gown and slippers he sat--weak and tremulous--in an arm-chair drawn close to the open fire in the cottage sitting-room. About him hovered his two angels, anticipating his every need, pausing at his side now and again to bestow a delicate caress. Virginia was more beautiful since her illness. Her face and figure had lost their plumpness and with it their childish curves--but a something exalted and ethereal had taken their place. Her eyes were softer, more wistful than ever. Through her fair, transparent skin glowed the faintest, most exquisite bloom. Her harp was mute. Her singing voice was gone. But the deep, low tones of her speaking voice, full of restrained feeling, could only be compared by her husband to the melodious voice of the dream-woman, "Ligeia." They recalled to him the impression that the voice of the priest as he read the funeral rite over his dead mother had made upon his infant mind--the impression of _spoken_ music. His Virginia could no longer sing, but every word that fell from her lips was music. As she and her tall, nun-like mother quietly stepped about the rooms ministering to his comfort, lifting the work of preparing the simple meals, mending the fire, and keeping the rooms bright into a sacred rite by the grace, the care, the dignity with which it was performed, no word, no look escaped either save of tenderness, patience, and boundless love. All the reproaches came from within his own breast--from that inner self that boldly tearing the veil from his deeds filled him with loathing of himself. The years, his troubles, and his illness, had wrought a great change in him--outwardly. The dark ringlets that framed his face were still untouched with rime, and the dark grey eyes were as vivid, as ever-varying in expression as before, but the large brow wore a furrow and over it and the clear-cut features and the emaciated cheeks was a settled pallor. The face was still very beautiful, but in repose it was melancholy and about the mouth there was a touch of bitterness. The illumining smile still flashed out at times, and filled all his countenance with sweetness and light--but it was rarer than formerly. He had many reasons for being happy--for being thankful. The genius with which he was conscious he was endowed in larger measure than others of his generation was being recognized. He had fame--growing fame--and money enough for his needs. He had what was as necessary to his soul as meat was to his body--the love of a woman who understood him in all his moods and who was beautiful enough in mind and in body and pure enough in spirit for him to worship as well as to love--to satisfy his soul as well as his senses. And this woman, at the very moment when he thought himself about to lose her forever, had been given back to him--given back clothed upon with a finer a more exquisite beauty than she had possessed before. He had indeed found the end of the rainbow, but what did it amount to? He was dissatisfied--not with what life was giving him, but with what he was doing with his life. At the moment when his cup was fairly overflowing with happiness and he should have been strongest, he had suffered himself to be led away by the Imp of the Perverse, and had spoiled all. Nothing he had ever been made to taste he told himself, was so unbearably bitter as this dissatisfaction--this disgust with self. * * * * * Yet when again the tiny crimson stream stained the sweet lips of his Virginia, and again the Angel of Death spread a dread wing for a season over the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, all his knowledge of the bitterness--the loathing--of remorse was not sufficient to make him strong for the struggle with grief and despair. Again the reason of Edgar Poe gave way before the strain, and again he fell. CHAPTER XXVII. A day when the porch was rose-embowered once more and the garden-spot a riot of color and the birds singing in the trees round about, found Mr. Graham seated at Edgar Poe's desk in the office of _Graham's Magazine_. The door behind him opened, and he raised his head from his writing and quickly glanced over his shoulder. The look of inquiry in his blue eyes instantly kindled into one of welcome. "Come in! Come in! Dr. Griswold," he exclaimed. "I am more than glad to see you! We are overwhelmed with work just now and perhaps we'll induce you to lend a hand." The visitor came forward with outstretched hand, stooping and bowing his huge bulk as he came in a manner that to a less artless mind than Mr. Graham's might have suggested a touch of the obsequious. His furtive but watchful eye had already marked the fact that it was at Mr. Poe's desk--not his own--that Mr. Graham sat--which was as he had anticipated. "Mr. Poe laid up again?" he queried. "Yes; he seems to be having quite an obstinate attack this time." The visitor sadly shook his head. "Ah?--poor fellow, poor fellow!" "Do you think his condition serious?" asked Mr. Graham, with anxiety. Dr. Griswold cast a glance of the furtive eye over his shoulder and around the room; then stooped nearer Mr. Graham. "Didn't you know?" he questioned, in a lowered tone. "Only that the failure of his wife's health has been a sad blow to him and that after each of her attacks he has had a break-down. Is there anything more?" Dr. Griswold stooped nearer still and brought his voice to a yet lower key. "Whiskey"--he whispered. Mr. Graham drew back and the candid brows went up. "Ah--ah" he exclaimed. Then fell silent and serious. "Did you never suspect it?" asked his companion. "Never. I used to hear rumors when he was with Billy Burton, but I never saw any indications that they were true, and didn't believe them. How could I? Think of the work the man turns out--its quantity, its quality! He is at once the most brilliant and the most industrious man it has been my good fortune to meet--and withal the most perfect gentleman--exquisite in his manners and habits, and the soul of honor. Did you ever know a man addicted to drink to be so immaculately neat as he always is? Or so refined in manners and speech? Or so exact in his dealings? There is no one to whom I would more readily advance money, or with greater assurance that it will be faithfully repaid in his best, most painstaking work--to the last penny!" Dr. Griswold's face took on a look of deep concern. "The more's the pity--the more's the pity!" said he. "A good man gone wrong!" Then with a hesitating, somewhat diffident air. "You say that you need help which I might, perhaps, give?" Mr. Graham was the energetic business man once more. Dr. Griswold's visit was most opportune, he said, for while he had on hand a good deal of "copy" for the next number of the magazine--furnished by Mr. Poe before his illness--there were one or two important reviews that must be written and Dr. Griswold would be the very man to write them, if he would. As Rufus Griswold seated himself at Edgar Poe's desk a look that was almost diabolic came into his face. The temporary substitution was but a step, he told himself, to permanent succession. As editor of the magazine which under Poe's management had come to dominate thought in America, he could speak to an audience such as he had not had before. _He_ could make or mar literary reputations and he could bring the public to recognize him as a poet! It so chanced that upon that very day the editor of _Graham's Magazine_ found himself sufficiently recovered from his illness to go out for the first time. As he fared forth, gaunt and tremulous, the midsummer beauty of out-of-doors effected him curiously. It seemed strange to him that the rose on the porch should be so gay, that the sunshine should lie so golden upon the houses and in the streets of Spring Garden--that birds should be singing and the whole world going happily on when his heart held such black despair. As he went on, however, the fresh sweet air gave him a sense of physical well-being that buoyed his spirits in spite of the bitterness of his thoughts. He was going to work again, and he was glad of it--but he made no resolutions for the future. In the past when he had fallen and had braced himself up again, he had sworn to himself that he would be strong thereafter--that he would never, never yield to the temptation to touch wine again. But he had not been strong. And now he looked the deplorable truth straight in the face. He hoped with all his soul that he would not fall again. He would give everything he possessed to ensure himself from yielding to the temptation to taste the wild exhilaration--the freedom--the forgetfulness--to say to the cup "Nevermore"--to ensure himself from having to pay the price of his yielding in the agony of remorse that was a descent into hell. But he would deceive himself with no lying pledges. He hoped--he longed to be strong; but he could not swear that he would be--he did not know whether he would be or not. The temptation was not upon him now--he loathed the very thought of it now; but the temptation would most certainly return sooner or later. He hoped from the bottom of his soul that he would resist it, but he feared--nay, in his secret heart he believed--that he would yield. And because he believed it he loathed himself. As he drew near the office he thought of Mr. Graham,--how kind he was--how trustful. He wondered if Mr. Graham knew the cause of his illnesses and if not how long it would before he would know it; and if the attacks were repeated how long he would be able to hold the place that had shown him the end of the rainbow? How bitter it would be to some day find, added to all the other disastrous results of his weakness of will--to find another in the editorial chair of _Graham's_. Just at this point in his soliliquy he reached his destination. He mounted the steps leading to the office of _Graham's Magazine_ and opened the door--quietly. For a moment the two men in the office--each deep in his own work--were unaware of his presence, and he stood staring upon their backs as they sat at their desks. Mr. Graham was in his accustomed seat and in his--The Dreamer's--the giant frame of the man whose big brain he admired--though he was "no poet,"--the frame of Rufus Griswold! Horror clutched his heart. Mr. Graham evidently knew, and knowing had supplied his place without deeming him worth the trouble of notifying, even. Had supplied it, moreover, with the one man who he himself believed would fill it with credit. The readers would be satisfied. He would not be missed. He turned and stumbled blindly down the stairs. Mr. Graham heard him, and hurrying to the door, recognized and followed him--trying to explain and to persuade him to return. But he was too much excited to listen. His reason prompted him to listen, but the Imp of the Perverse laughed reason to scorn. Seeing disaster ahead he rushed headlong to embrace it. He understood--he understood, he reiterated. There was nothing to explain. Mr. Graham had secured Dr. Griswold's services. Mr. Graham had done well. No, not for any inducement would he consider returning. He was gone! He was in the street--a wanderer! A beggar, he told himself! * * * * * He wandered aimlessly about for an hour, then foot-sore--exhausted in mind and body--he turned his face wearily in the direction of Spring Garden, with its rose-embowered cottage sheltering exquisite beauty--unalterable love--unfailing forgiveness--_heartsease_. He must go home and tell "Muddie" and "Sissy" that he was a ruined man! Oh, if they would only give him his desert for once! If they would only punish him as he felt he should be punished. But they would not! They could not--for they were angels. They were more--they were loving women filled with that to which his mind and his soul bowed down and worshipped as reverently as they worshipped God in Heaven--woman's love, with its tenderness, its purity, and its unwavering steadfastness. They would suffer--that horrible fear, the fear of the Wolf at the door which they had not known in their beloved Spring Garden and since he had been with _Graham's_ would again rob them of peace. They would bear it with meek endurance, but they would not be able to hide it from him. He would see it in the wistful eyes of Virginia and in the patient eyes of "Muddie." But they would utter no reproach. They would soothe him with winning endearments and bid him be of good cheer and would make a gallant fight to show him that they were perfectly happy. * * * * * During the year and a half of Edgar Poe's connection with _Graham's Magazine_ he had raised the number of subscribers from five thousand to thirty-seven thousand. His salary, like that he had received from _The Messenger_, had been a mere pittance for such service as he gave, but also, like what he received from _The Messenger_ it had been a regular income--a dependence. With the addition of the little checks paid him for brilliant work in other periodicals, it had amply served, as has been said, to keep the Wolf from the door. In order to make as much without a regular salary it would be necessary for him to sell a great many articles and that they should be promptly paid for. And so he wrote, and wrote, and wrote, while "Muddie" took the little rolls of manuscript around and around seeking a market for them. Her stately figure and saintlike face became familiar at the doors of all the editors and publishers in Philadelphia. It was a weary business but her strength and courage seemed never to flag. Sometimes she succeeded in selling a story or a poem promptly and receiving prompt pay. Then there was joy in the rose-embowered cottage. Sometimes after placing an article payment was put off time and time again until hope deferred made sick the hearts of all three dwellers in the cottage. Oftentimes they were miserably poor--sometimes they were upon the verge of despair--yet through all there was an undercurrent of happiness that nothing could destroy--they had each other and even at the worst they still dreamed the dream of the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, even though the heartsease blossom drooped and drooped. Virginia's attacks continued to come at intervals, and each time the shadow hung more persistently and with deeper gloom over the cottage. It would be lifted at length, but not until the husband and mother had suffered again all the agonies of parting--not until what they believed to be the last goodbyes had been said and the imagination, running ahead of the actual, had gone through each separate detail of death and burial. The Dreamer's thoughts dwelt constantly upon these scenes and details until finally the "dirges of his hope one melancholy burden bore--of Never--Nevermore." Under the influence of the state of mind that was thus induced, a new poem began to take shape in his brain--a poem of the death of a young and beautiful woman and the despair and grief of the lover left to mourn her in loneliness. As it wrote itself in his mind the word that had thrilled and charmed and frightened him at the bedside of his mother and to whose time his feet had so often marched, as to a measure--the mournful, mellifluous word, Nevermore--became its refrain. The composition of his new poem became an obsession with him. His brain busied itself with its perfection automatically. Not only as he sat at his desk, pen in hand; frequently it happened that at these times the divine fire refused to kindle--though he blew and blew. But at other times, without effort on his part, the spark was struck, the flames flashed forth and ran through his thoughts like wild-fire. When he was helping Virginia to water the flowers in the garden; when he walked the streets with dreaming eyes raised skyward, studying the clouds; when he sat with Virginia and the Mother under the evening lamp or with feet on the fender gazed into the heart of the red embers, or when he lay in his bed in the quiet and dark--wherever he was, whatever he did, the phrases and the rhythm of the new poem were filtering through his sub-consciousness, being polished and made perfect. Indeed the poem in the making cast a spell upon him and he passed his days and his nights as though in a trance. Virginia and Mother Clemm knew that he was in the throes of creation, and they respected his brown-study mood--stepping softly and talking little; but often by a silent pressure of his hand or a light kiss upon his brow, saying that they understood. They were happy, for they knew the state of mind that enveloped him to be one of profound happiness to him--though the brooding look that was often in his grey eyes told them that the visions he was seeing had to do with sorrow. They waited patiently, feeling certain that in due course would be laid before them a work in prose or verse, presenting in jewel-like word and phrase, scenes in some strange, fascinating country which it would charm them to explore. At last it was done! He told them while they sat at the evening meal. "I have something to read to you two critics after supper," he said. "A poem upon which I have been working. I don't know whether it is of any account or not." The two gentle critics were all interest. Virginia was breathless with enthusiasm and could hardly wait to finish her supper. "I knew you were doing something great," she exclaimed. "I _know_ it is great! Nothing you have ever done has wrapped you up so completely. You've been in a beautiful trance for weeks and Muddie and I have been almost afraid to breathe for fear of waking you up too soon." As soon as supper was over he brought out one of the familiar narrow rolls of manuscript and smilingly drew it out for them to see its length--giving Virginia one end to hold while he held the other. She read aloud, in pondering tone, the two words that appeared at the top: "The Raven."-- Then, as she let go the end she held, the manuscript coiled up as if it had been a spring, and the poet rolled it closely in his hands and with his eyes upon the fire, began, not to read, but slowly to recite. His voice filled the room with deep, sonorous melody, saving which there was no sound. When the last words, "And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted--nevermore!" had been said, there was a moment of tense silence. Then Virginia cast herself into his arms in a passion of tears. "Oh, Eddie," she sobbed, "it is beautiful--beautiful! But so sad! I feel as I were the 'lost Lenore' and you the poor lover; but when I leave you you must not break your heart like that. You and Muddie will have each other and soon you will come after me and we will all be happy together again--in Heaven!" No word passed the lips of the mother. Her silvered head was bowed in grief and prayer. She too saw in "Lenore" her darling child, and she felt in anticipation the loneliness and sorrow of her own heart. She spoke no word, but from her saintly eyes two large bright tears rolled down her patient cheeks upon the folded hands in her lap. And thus "The Raven" was heard for the first time. Soon afterward it was recited again. Edgar Poe carried it himself to Mr. Graham and offered it for the magazine. Mr. Graham promised to examine it and give him an answer next day. That night he read it over several times, but for the life of him he could not make up his mind about it. Its weirdness, its music, its despair, affected him greatly. But Mr. Graham was a business man and he doubted whether, from a business point of view, the poem was of value. Would people like it? Would it _take_? He would consult Griswold about it--Griswold was a man of safe judgment regarding such matters. Dr. Griswold was indeed, a man of literary judgment and of taste. The beauty of the poem startled him. It would bring to the genius of Edgar Poe (he said to himself)--the poetic genius--acknowledgment such as it had never had before. It was _too good_ a poem to be published. He had bided his time and the hour of his revenge was come. He would have given his right hand to have been able to publish such a poem over his own signature--but the world must not know that Poe could write such an one! The candid eyes of Mr. Graham as he awaited his opinion were upon his face. His own eyes wore their most furtive look--cast down and sidelong. His tone was depressed and full of pity as he said, "Poor Poe! It is too bad that when he must be in need he cannot, or does not, write something saleable. Of course you could not set such stuff as this before the readers of _Graham's_!" For once Mr. Graham was disposed to question his opinion. "I don't know about that," he said. "The poem has a certain power, it seems to me. It might repel--it might fascinate. I should like to buy it just to give the poor fellow a little lift. The lovely eyes of that fragile wife of his haunt me." It was finally decided to let Mr. Poe read the poem to the office force, and take the vote upon it. They were all drawn up in a semi-circle, even the small office boy, who sat with solemn eyes and mouth open and who felt the importance of being called upon to sit in judgment upon a "piece of poetry." Edgar Poe stood opposite them and for the second time recited his new poem--then withdrew while the vote was taken. Dr. Griswold was the first to cast his vote and at once emphatically pronounced his "No!" The rest agreed with him that the poem was "too queer," but as a solace for the poet's disappointment some one passed around a hat and the next day a hamper of delicacies was sent to Mrs. Poe, with the "compliments of the staff at _Grahams_." Albeit "The Raven" was rejected by Graham's Magazine and others, enough of Edgar Poe's work was bought and published to keep his name and fame before the public--just enough (poorly paid as it was) to keep the souls of himself and his wife and his "more than mother," within their bodies. And though Mr. Graham would none of "The Raven," he paid its author fifty-two dollars for a new story--"The Gold Bug." This sum seemed a small fortune to The Dreamer at the time, but he was to do better than that with his story. _The Dollar Magazine_ of New York offered a prize of one hundred dollars for the best short story submitted to it. Poe had nothing by him but some critical essays, but remembering his early success in Baltimore with "The MS. Found in a Bottle," he was anxious to try. So he hastened with the critiques to _Graham's_ and offered them in place of the story. Mr. Graham agreed to the exchange and "The Gold Bug" was promptly dispatched to New York, where it was awarded the prize. When it was published in _The Dollar Magazine_ it made a great noise in the world and a red-letter day in the life of Edgar Poe. * * * * * The hundred dollars brought indeed, a season of comfort and cheer in the midst of the hardest times the cottage in Spring Garden had known. But the last penny was finally spent. Winter came on--the winter of 1843. It was a severe winter to the cottage. The bow of promise that had spanned it seemed to have withdrawn to such a vast height above it that its outlines were indistinct--its colors well nigh faded out. The reading public still trumpeted the praise of Edgar the Dreamer--his friends still believed in him--from many quarters their letters and the letters of the great ones of the day fluttered to the cottage. And not only letters came, but the _literati_ of the day in person--glad to sit at Edgar Poe's feet, their hearts glowing with the eloquence of his speech and aching as they recognized in the lovely eyes of the girl-wife "the light that beckons to the tomb." But there were other visitors that winter, and less welcome ones. Though the master of the cottage wrote and wrote, filling the New York and Philadelphia papers and magazines with a stream of translations, sketches, stories and critiques, for which he was sometimes paid and sometimes not, the aggregate sum he received was pitifully small and the Wolf scratched at the door and the gaunt features of Cold and Want became familiar to the dwellers in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. In desperation the driven poet turned this way and that in a wild effort to provide the necessities of life for himself and those who were dearer to him than self--occasionally appearing upon the lecture platform, and finally attempting, but without success, to secure government office in Washington. And oftener and oftener, and for longer each time the Shadow rested upon the cottage--making the Valley dark and drear and dimming the colors of the grass and the flowers--the dread shadow of the wing of the Angel of Death. Even at such times The Dreamer made a manful struggle to coin his brains into gold--to bring to the cottage the comforts, the conveniences, the delicacies that the precious invalid should have had. An exceedingly appealing little invalid, she lay upon her bed in the upper chamber whose shelving ceiling almost touched her head; and sometimes "Muddie" and "Eddie" fanned her and sometimes they chafed her hands and her feet and placed her pet, "Catalina," grown now to a large, comfortable cat, in her arms, that the warmth of the soft body and thick fur might comfort her shuddering frame. And oftentimes as she lay there "Eddie" sat at a table nearby and wrote upon the long strips of paper which he rolled into the neat little rolls which he or "Muddie" took around to the editors. And sometimes the editors were glad to have them, and to pay little checks for them, and sometimes not. The truth was, that though the fame of Edgar Poe was well established, there was an undercurrent of opposition to him, that kept the price of his work down. The little authors--venomous with spite and jealousy--the little authors, chief among whom was Rufus Griswold of the furtive eye and deprecating voice, were sending forth little whispers defaming his character, exaggerating his weakness and damning his work with faint praise, or emphatic abuse. A day came when Edgar Poe realized that he must move on--that the "City of Brotherly Love" had had enough of him--that to remain must mean starvation. What removal would mean he did not know. That might mean starvation too, but, as least, he did not know it. It was hard to leave the rose-embowered cottage. It was April and about Spring Garden and the cottage the old old miracle of the renewal of life was begun. The birds were nesting and the earliest flowers were in bloom. It was bitter to leave it--but, there was no money for the rent. His fame had been greatest in New York, of late. The New York papers had been the most hospitable to his work. It was bitter to leave Spring Garden, but perhaps somewhere about New York they would find another rose-embowered cottage. Virginia was unusually well for the present and the prospect of a change carried with it a possibility of prosperity. Who could tell what good fortune they might fall upon in New York? Edgar Goodfellow had suddenly made his appearance for the first time in many moons. _A change_ was the thing they all needed, he told himself. In change there was hope! He placed Mother Clemm and "Catalina" temporarily with some friends of the "City of Brotherly Love" who had invited them, and accompanied by his Virginia who was looking less wan than for long past, fared forth, in the highest spirits, to seek, for the second time a home in New York. CHAPTER XXVIII. New York once more! They went by rail to Amboy and the remaining forty miles by steamboat. Certain cities, like certain persons, are witches; they have power to cast a spell. New York is one of them. Edgar and Virginia Poe had known hard times in New York--the bitterness of hard times in a city large enough for each man to mind his own business and leave his neighbors to mind theirs. Yet as the boat slowed down and neared the wharf, and--past the shipping--they descried the houses and spires of town looming, ghostlike, through the enveloping mist of the soft, grey April day, it was with a thrill that these two standing hand in hand--like children--upon the deck, clasped each other's fingers with closer pressure and whispered, "New York once more!" It was their first little journey in the world just together, just they two, and much as they loved the dear mother--their kind earthly Providence, as they laughingly called her--there was something very sweet about it. It was almost like a wedding journey. The star of hope which never deserted them for long, no matter what their disappointments and griefs might be, shone bright above their horizon--their beautiful faces reflected its light. By it the lines of care and bitterness seemed suddenly to have been smoothed out of Edgar's face, and under its influence Virginia's merry laugh rippled out upon the moist air, causing the eyes of her fellow-travellers to turn admiringly her way many times. Her husband hovered tenderly near her, drawing her shawl with solicitous hand closer about her shoulders and standing upon the windward side of her to protect her from the damp and keen breeze. He noted with delight the fresh color of her cheeks--the life and color in her eyes. "Do you know, Sweetheart," he said, "You have not coughed once since we left Philadelphia! The change is doing you good already." Both were blythe as birds. As the boat tied up at the wharf a gentle shower set in, but it did not effect their spirits. He left her on board with some ladies whose acquaintance she had made during the journey, while he fared forth in the rain in quest of a boarding-house. As he stepped ashore he met a man selling second-hand umbrellas. He bought quite a substantial one for sixty-two cents and went on his way rejoicing in the lucky meeting and the good bargain. In Greenwich Street he found what he sought--a genteel-looking house with "Boarders wanted," upon a card in the window. Another good bargain was made, and hailing a passing "hack" he hastened back to the boat for Virginia and her trunk and soon they were rattling over the cobblestones. "Why this is quite a mansion," exclaimed the little wife, as she peered out at the house before which the carriage stopped--for while the gentility of the establishment was of the proverbial "shabby" variety, the brown-stone porch and pillars gave it an air of unmistakable dignity. Not long after their arrival the supper-bell rang, and they found themselves responding with alacrity. When they took the seats assigned them and their hungry eyes took in the feast spread before them, they squeezed each other's hands under the table--these romantic young lovers and dreamers. They had been happy in spite of frugality. Many a time while hunger gnawed they had kissed each other and vowed they wanted nothing (high Heaven pardoning the gallant lie!) Yet now, the traveller's appetite making their palates keen--the travellers weariness in their limbs--they were seized upon by an unblushing joy at finding themselves seated at an ample board with a kindly landlady at the head pouring tea--strong and hot--whose aroma was as the breath of roses in their nostrels, while her portly and beaming spouse, at the foot, with blustering hospitality pressed the bounty of the table upon them. A bounteous table indeed, this decidedly cheap and somewhat shabby boarding-house spread, and to their eager appetites everything seemed delicious. There were wheat bread and rye bread, butter and cheese, cold country ham and cold spring veal--generous slices of both, piled up like little mountains--and tea-cakes in like abundance. They feasted daintily--exquisitely, as they did everything, but they feasted heartily for the first time in months. After supper they went to their room--a spacious and comfortably, though plainly, furnished one, with a bright fire burning in a jolly little stove. Their spirits knew no bounds. "What would Catalina say to this solid comfort, Sis?" queried Eddie. "I think she would faint for joy." For answer Virginia smiled upon him through a mist of tears. "Why Virginia--my Heart--" he cried in amazement. "What is it?" "Only that it is too beautiful!" she managed to say. "And to think that Muddie and Catalina are not here to share it with us!" "Just as soon as I can scrape together enough money to pay for Muddie's board and travelling expenses we will have them with us," he assured her. She dried her eyes and perched upon his knee while he went through his pockets and bringing out all the money he had, counted it into her palm. "Four dollars and a half," he said. "Not much, but we are fortunate to have that. And with such fine living as we get here so cheap it will go quite a long way. Let me see--the price of board and lodging is only three and a half a week for both of us. Seven dollars would pay our way for a fortnight--and in a fortnight's time there's no telling what may turn up! Some editor might buy 'The Raven,' or money due me for work already sold might come in. If I could only contrive to raise this sum to seven dollars we could rest easy for at least a fortnight." "I'll tell you how," said Virginia. "You have acquaintances here--hunt up some of them and borrow three dollars. Then you would have enough to pay two weeks board ahead and fifty cents over for pocket money." "Wise little head!" exclaimed he, tapping her brow, "The very idea!" And forthwith all care as to ways and means was thrown from both their minds, and they gave themselves up to an evening of enjoyment of the comforts of their brown-stone mansion. While Virginia was resting her husband went out for a little shopping to be done with part of the fifty cents they had allowed themselves for spending money. First he exchanged a few cents for a tin pan to be filled with water and placed on top of the stove, for the comfort of Virginia who had been oppressed by the dry heat. Then a few cents more went for two buttons his coat lacked, a skein of thread to sew them on with, and a skein of silk with which Virginia would mend a rent in his trousers made by too close contact with a nail on deck of the steamboat. Next day was a bright, beautiful, spring Sunday. The sky and budding trees had the newly-washed aspect often seen after a season of rain. The sound of church-bells was on the air; the streets were filled with people in their best clothes, and the new boarders in Greenwich Street, fortified with a breakfast of ham and eggs and coffee, jubilantly joined that stream of humanity which flowed toward the point above which Trinity Church spire pierced the clear sky. * * * * * On Monday, Edgar Poe was taken with what he called a "writing fit." For several days (during which Edgar Goodfellow remained in the ascendency) the fit remained on him, and he wrote incessantly--only pausing long enough, now and then, to read the result to Virginia. "This will earn us the money to bring Muddie and Catalina to New York," he said with confidence. At last the manuscript was finished and no sooner was the ink dry upon the paper than he took it to _The Sun_, which promptly bought and paid for it, and upon the next Sunday, April 13, printed it not as a story, but as news. "Astounding News by Express, _via_ Norfolk!" (The headlines said). "The Atlantic crossed in Three Days." Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason's Flying Machines!!! "Arrival at Sullivan's Island, near Charleston, S.C., of Mr. Mason, Mr. Robert Holland, Mr. Henson, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, and four others, in the Steering Balloon, 'Victoria,' after a passage of seventy-five hours from Land to Land! Full Particulars of the Voyage!" Strange as it may seem, the "astounding news" was received by the people of New York for fact. There was a rush for copies of the _Sun_ which announced with truth that it was the only paper in possession of the "news," and not until denial came from Charleston, several days later, was it suspected that the "news" was all a hoax and that Edgar Goodfellow was simply having a little fun at the expense of the public. The story did, indeed, earn money with which to bring "Muddie" and "Catalina" to New York. It did more--it brought the editors to Greenwich Street looking for manuscript. They begged for stories as clever and as sensational as "The Balloon Hoax," but in vain. Edgar Goodfellow had vanished and in his place was Edgar the Dreamer who only had to tell of, "A wild, weird clime that lieth sublime Out of Space--out of Time, * * * * * Where the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past,-- Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by,-- White-robed forms of friends long given In agony to the Earth and Heaven." It was in vain that the editors besought him to try something else in the vein of "The Balloon Hoax," assuring him that that was what his readers were expecting of him, after his recent "hit"--that was what they would be willing to pay him for--pay him well. Was it the Imp of the Perverse that caused him to positively decline, and to persist that "Dreamland" was all he had to offer just then? It was Mr. Graham who finally accepted this quaint and beautiful poem, and who published it--in the June number of _Graham's Magazine_. * * * * * In October following the return of the Poes to New York--October of the year 1844--Mr. Nathaniel P. Willis who was then editor of _The Evening Mirror_, and had been editor of _The Dollar Magazine_, when it awarded the prize of a hundred dollars to "The Gold Bug," was seated at his desk in the "Mirror" office, when in response to his "Come in," a stranger appeared in his doorway--a woman--a lady in the best sense of a word almost become obsolete. A _gentlewoman_ describes her best of all. She was a gentlewoman, then, past middle age, yet beautiful with the high type of beauty that only ripe years, beautifully lived, can bring--the beauty that compensates for the fading of the rose on cheek and lip, the dimming of the light in the eyes, for the frost on the brow--the beauty of patience, of tenderness, of faith unquenchable by fire or flood of adversity. A history was written on the face--a history in which there was plainly much of tragedy. Yet not one bitter line was there. It was a face, withal, which could only have belonged to a mother, and might well have belonged to the mother, Niobe. In figure she was tall and stately, with a gentle dignity. Her dress was simple to plainness, and might have been called shabby had it been less beautifully neat. It was of unrelieved black, and she wore a conventional widow's bonnet, with floating white strings. The reader needs no introduction to this stranger to Mr. Willis, who in a gentle, well-bred voice, with a certain mournful cadence in it, announced herself as "Mrs. Clemm--the mother-in-law of Mr. Poe." No connection with a famous author was needed to inspire Mr. Willis with respect for his visitor. She seemed to him to be an "angel upon earth," and it was with an air approaching reverence that he handed her to the most comfortable chair the office afforded. Her errand was quickly made known. Edgar Poe was ill and not able to come out himself. His wife was an invalid, and so it devolved upon her to seek employment for him. In spite of his fame, she said, and of his industry, his manuscripts brought him so little money that he was in need of the necessities of life. Regular work with a regular income, however small, she felt to be his only hope of being able to rise above want. Mr. Willis was distressed and promptly offered all he could. It was not much, but it was better than nothing--it was the place of assistant editor of his paper. For months following, the figure of Edgar Poe was a familiar one in the office of the _Evening Mirror_. Neither in his character of Edgar the Dreamer nor that of Edgar Goodfellow was he especially known there, but simply as a modest, industrious sub-editor, doing the work of a mechanical paragraphist as quietly, as unobtrusively, as a machine. With rarely a smile and rarely a word, he stood from morning till night at his desk in a corner of the editorial room--pale, still and beautiful as a statue, punctual and efficient and the embodiment of courtesy always. And quietly and unobtrusively his personality made itself felt. Mr. Willis came to love him for his innate charm and for his faithfulness to duty. * * * * * But the desk of a sub-editor could not long hold a genius like Edgar Poe. He bore its drudgery without complaint, but when an opening that seemed to invite his ambition, as well as to promise better pay came, he hailed it with enthusiasm. In March of the next year he formed a partnership with two New York journalists, as editors and managers of _The Broadway Journal_. A few months later saw him sole proprietor as well as editor, and for a short, bright period his old dream of a magazine of his own, in which he could write as he pleased, came true. Its realization seemed to inspire him with new energy. How many heads, how many right hands had the man--his readers asked each other--that he could turn out such a mass of work of such high order? His own and many other of the magazines of the day were filled with reviews and criticisms that made him the terror of other writers, and with stories and poems that made him the marvel of readers everywhere. His works were translated into the tongues of France, Germany and Spain, and his fame grew in all of those countries. Yet the most that he could afford in the way of a home was up two flights of stairs--two rooms in the third story of a dingy old house in East Broadway. Mother Clemm and Virginia kept them bright and spotless and "Catalina" dosing on the hearth gave a final touch of comfort, and they were far above the noise and dust of the streets, with windows opening upon a goodly view of the sky. They had a front and a back room, so that the beauties of the dawn and the noontide--of sunset and moonrise--were all theirs. And the Wolf came not near the door, and the three whose natures were like to the natures of the oak, the vine and the heartsease, and who lived for each other only, dreamed again the dream of the wonderful valley--the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. CHAPTER XXIX. Up, up the stairs, two steps at a time, sprang The Dreamer, one white January day, and burst in upon Mother Clemm who was preparing dinner, and Virginia who was mending his coat. He was in a great glee. He caught "Muddie" in his arms where she stood with her hands deep in a tray of dough, and kissed her, then stooped over Virginia and kissed _her_, and dropped into her lap a crisp ten dollar bank note. She gave a little scream of delight. "Where did you get it?" she cried? "From Willis. I've sold him 'The Raven.' He's vastly taken with it and not only paid me the ten, in advance, but will give the poem an editorial puff in the _Mirror_ of the nineteenth. He showed me a rough draft. He will say that it is 'the most effective example of fugitive poetry ever published in this country,' and predict that it will 'stick in the memory of everybody who reads it!'" "And it will! It will!" cried Virginia. "Especially that 'Nevermore.' I've done everything in time to it since the first night you read it to us." "I've done everything in time to it since I was three years old," murmured her husband. He drew the miniature from the inside pocket of his coat where he had carried it, close against his heart, throughout his life, and gazed long upon it. In his grey eyes was the tender, brooding expression which the picture always called forth. "Ever since I heard that word for the first time from the lips of my old nurse when she took me in to see my mother robed for the grave, my feet and my thoughts have kept time to it; and generally when my steps and my face have been set toward hope and happiness it has risen before me like a wall, blocking my way." Virginia arose from her chair letting her work and the bank note fall unheeded from her lap, and went to him. Gently taking the miniature from his hands she restored it to its place in his pocket and then with a hand on each of his shoulders lifted her eyes to his. "Buddie," she said, calling him by the old pet name of their earliest days, "You frighten me sometimes. The miniature is beautiful but it makes you so sad. And when you talk that way about 'The Raven,' I feel as if I could hear your tears dropping on my coffin-lid!" Then, with a sudden change of mood, her laugh rang out, and she pressed her lips upon his. "I'll have you know," she said, "I'm not dead yet, and you will not have to journey to any 'distant Aidenn' to 'clasp' me." "No, thank God!" he breathed, crushing her to him. * * * * * It was upon January 29, 1845, that "The Raven" appeared, with Willis's introductory puff. In spite of Dr. Griswold and the staff of _Graham's Magazine_, it created an instant furor. It was published and republished upon both sides of the Atlantic. To quote a contemporary writer, everybody was "raven-mad" about it, except a few "waspish foes" who would do its author "more good than harm." It brought to the two bright rooms up the two flights of stairs visitors by the score, eager to congratulate the poet, to make the acquaintance of his interesting wife and mother and to assure all three of their welcome to homes approached by brown-stone steps. And it brought letters by the score--some from the other side of the Atlantic. Among these was one from Miss Elizabeth Barrett, soon to become the wife of Mr. Robert Browning. "Your 'Raven' has produced a sensation here in England," she wrote. "Some of my friends are taken by the fear of it, and some by its music. I hear of persons haunted by the 'Nevermore,' and one of my friends who has the misfortune of possessing a bust of Pallas never can bear to look at it in the twilight. Mr. Browning is much struck by the rhythm of the poem. "Then there is that tale of yours, 'The Case of M. Valdemar,' throwing us all into a 'most admired disorder,' and dreadful doubts as to whether 'it can be true,' as children say of ghost stories. The certain thing in the tale in question is the power of the writer and the faculty he has of making horrible improbabilities seem near and familiar." Of all the letters from far and near, this was the one that gave The Dreamer most pleasure, and as for Virginia and the Mother, they read it until they knew it by heart. When, some months later, his new book, "The Raven and Other Poems," came out, its dedication was, "To the noblest of her sex--Miss Elizabeth Barrett, of England." * * * * * And there was joy in the two rooms up two flights of stairs where Edgar Poe sat at his desk reeling off his narrow little strips of manuscript by the yard. His work filled _The Broadway Journal_ and overflowed into many other periodicals. While he created stories and poems, he gave more attention than ever to the duties of his cherished post as Defender of Purity of Style for American Letters, and the fame to which he had risen giving him new authority, he made or marred the reputation of many a literary aspirant. Exposition of plagiarism became a hobby with him, and his attacks upon Longfellow upon this ground, brought on a controversy between him and the gentle poet which reached such a heat that it was dubbed "The Longfellow War." All attempts of friends and fellow journalists to make him more moderate in his criticisms were in vain; they seemed indeed, but to excite the Imp of the Perverse, under whose influence he became more merciless than ever. An admirer of this virtue carried to such an extreme that it became a serious fault, as it was assuredly a grievous mistake, humorously characterized him in a parody upon "The Raven," containing the following stanza: "Neither rank nor station heeding, with his foes around him bleeding, Sternly, singly and alone, his course he kept upon that floor; While the countless foes attacking, neither strength nor valor lacking, On his goodly armor hacking, wrought no change his visage o'er, As with high and honest aim he still his falchion proudly bore, Resisting error evermore." Many of the "waspish foes" thus made turned their stings upon his private character, against which there was already a secret poison working--the poison that fell from the tongue, and the pen of Rufus Griswold. He had the ear of numbers of Edgar Poe's friends in the literary world, and what time The Dreamer dreamed his dreams in utter ignorance of the unfriendliness toward him of the big man whose big brain he admired, the big man watched for his chance to insert the poison. It was invariably hidden in a coating of sugar. Poe was a wonderful genius, he would declare, his imagination--his style--they were marvellous! Marvelous! His _head_ was all right, but--. The "but" always came in a lowered tone, full of commiseration, "_but_--his _heart_!--Allowance should, of course, be made for his innate lack of principle--he should not be held _too_ responsible. His habits--well known to everyone of course!" No--they were not even suspected, many of his listeners replied. Might not Dr. Griswold be mistaken? they asked. Was it possible that an habitual drunkard could turn out such a mass of brilliant and artistic work? And consider the exquisite neatness of his manuscript! Peradventure the listener persisted in believing his informant mistaken--peradventure he at once accepted the damaging statements; but in every case the poison had been administered, and was at work. * * * * * There was just one class among the writers of the day sacred from the attacks of Edgar Poe's pen. Before almost everything else The Dreamer was chivalrous. The "starry sisterhood of poetesses" and authoresses, therefore, escaped his criticisms. One of his contemporaries said of him that he sometimes mistook his vial of prussic acid for his ink-pot. In writing of authors of the gentle sex, his ink-pot became a pot of honey. Several of these literary ladies living in New York had their salons, where they received, upon regular days, their brothers and sisters of the pen, and at which The Dreamer became a familiar figure. "I meet Mr. Poe very often at the receptions," gossiped one of the fair poetesses in a letter to a friend in the country. "He is the observed of all observers. His stories are thought wonderful and to hear him repeat 'The Raven' is an event in one's life. People seem to think there is something uncanny about him, and the strangest stories are told and what is more, _believed_, about his mesmeric experiences--at the mention of which he always smiles. His smile is captivating! Everybody wants to know him, but only a few people seem to get well acquainted with him." Chief among the salons of New York was that of Miss Anne Charlotte Lynch--who was afterward Mrs. Botta. An entré to her home was the most-to-be-desired social achievement New York could offer, for it meant not only to know the very charming lady herself, but to meet her friends; and she had drawn around her a circle made up of the persons and personages--men and women--best worth knowing. She became one of The Dreamer's most intimate friends, and always made him and his wife welcome at her "evenings." It was not long after "The Raven" had set the town marching to the word "nevermore," that he made his first visit there--a visit which long stood out clear in the memories of all present. In the cavernous chimney a huge grate full of glowing coals threw a ruddy warmth into Miss Lynch's spacious drawing-room. Waxen tapers in silver and in crystal candelabra, and in sconces, filled the apartment with a blaze of soft light, lit up the sparkling eyes and bright, intellectual faces of the assembled company, and showed to advantage the jewels and laces of the ladies and the broadcloth of the gentlemen. Miss Lynch stood at one end of the room between the richly curtained windows and immediately in front of a narrow, gold-framed mirror which reached from the frescoed ceiling to the floor and reflected her gracious figure to advantage. She was listening with interested attention to Mr. Gillespie, the noted mathematician, whose talk was worth hearing in spite of the fact that he stammered badly. His subject tonight happened to be the versatility of "Mr. P-P-Poe." "He might have been an eminent m-m-mathematician if he had not elected to be an eminent p-p-poet," he was saying. To her right Mr. Willis's daughter, Imogen, was flirting with a tall, lanky young man with sentimental eyes, a drooping moustache and thick, straight, longish hair, whose lately published ballad, "Oh, Don't You Remember Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?" was all the rage. To her left the Minerva-like Miss Margaret Fuller whose critical papers in the _New York Tribune_ were being widely read and discussed, was amiably quarreling with Mr. Horace Greely, and upon a sofa not far away Mr. William Gilmore Simms, the novelist and poet, was gently disagreeing with Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes Smith in her contention for Woman's Rights. At the opposite end of the room a lovely woman in a Chippendale chair was the central figure of a group of ladies and gentlemen each of whom hung upon her least word with an interest amounting to affection. She was a woman who looked like a girl, for thirty years had been kind to her. Glossy brown hair parted in the middle and brushed smoothly down in loops that nearly covered her ears framed an oval face, with delicate, clear-cut features, pale complexion and eyes as brown and melting as a gazelle's. She was none other than Mrs. Frances Osgood, the author, or authoress, as she would have styled herself, of "The Poetry of Flowers"--so much admired by her contemporaries--whose husband, Mr. S.S. Osgood, the well known artist, had won her heart while painting her portrait. Conspicuous in the group of literary lights surrounding her was Dr. Griswold in whose furtive glance, had she been less free from guile, she might have read an admiration fiercer than that of friendship or even of platonic love, and to whose fires she had unwittingly added fuel by expressing admiration for his poems--Mr. Poe's opinion to the contrary. Mr. Locke, author of "The Moon Hoax," was of the group; and the Reverend Ralph Hoyt, who was a poet as well as a preacher; and Mr. Hart, the sculptor; and James Russell Lowell, who happened to be in town for a few days; and Mr. Willis and his new wife; and Mrs. Embury whose volume of verse, "Love's Token Flowers," was just out and being warmly praised; and George P. Morris, Willis's partner in the _Mirror_, whose "Woodman, Spare that Tree!" and "We were Boys Together," had (touching a human chord) made him popular. The beloved physician, Dr. Francis, seemed to be everywhere at once, as he moved about from group to group with a kindly word for everybody--the candle-light falling softly upon his flowing silver locks and his beaming, ruddy countenance. Suddenly, there was a slight stir in the room--a cessation of talk--a turning toward one point. "There is Mr. P-P-Poe now," said Mr. Gillespie to Miss Lynch, and followed her as, with out-stretched hand and cordial smile, she hastened toward the door where stood the trim, erect, black-clad figure of Edgar Poe, with his prominent brow and his big dreamy eyes, and his wife, pale as a snow-drop after her many illnesses, and as lovely as one, and still looking like a child, upon his arm. Instant pleasure and welcome were written upon every face present save one, and even that quickly assumed a smile as its owner came forward bowing and stooping in an excess of courtesy. The pair became immediately the centre of attraction. Everybody wanted to have a word with them. It made Virginia thoroughly happy to see "Eddie" appreciated, and she chatted blythely and freshly with all--her spontaneous laugh bearing testimony to her enjoyment--while The Dreamer yielded himself with his wonted modesty and grace to the hour--answering questions as to whether he _really did_ believe in ghosts and whether the experiments in mesmerism in his story, "The Case of M. Valdemar" had _any_ foundation in fact, with his captivating but enigmatic smile, and a little Frenchified shrug of the shoulders. It would have seemed at first that he had diverted attention from the fair author of "The Poetry of Flowers" to himself, but erelong--no one knew just how it came to pass--Edgar Poe was sitting upon an ottoman drawn close to the Chippendale chair, and the two lions were deep in earnest and intimate conversation upon which no one else dared intrude. The furtive eye of Rufus Griswold marked well the evident attraction between these two beautiful and gifted beings--_poets_--and something like murder awoke in his heart. The tete-a-tete was interrupted by Miss Lynch, who declared that she voiced the wish of all present in requesting that Mr. Poe would recite "The Raven." All the candles save enough to make (with the fire's glow) a dim twilight, were put out, and the poet took his stand at one end of the long room. A hush fell upon the company and in a quiet, clear, musical voice, he began the familiar words. There was scarcely a gesture--just the motionless figure, the pale, classic face, which was dim in the half-light, and the deep, rich voice. Miss Lynch was the first to break the silence following the final "Nevermore." Moving toward him with her easy, distinguished step, she thanked him in a few low-spoken words. Mrs. Osgood, rising gracefully from her chair, followed her example, with Dr. Griswold at her heels, and in a few moments more the whole room was in an awed and subdued hum. The girl-wife came in for her share of the lionizing. Her appearance was in marked contrast to that of the richly apparelled women about her. The simplest dress was the only kind within her reach--for which she may have consoled herself with the thought that it was the kind that most adorned her. She wore tonight a little frock made by her own fingers, of some crimson woolen stuff, without a vestige of ornament save a bit of lace, yellow with age, at the throat. Her hair was parted above the placid brow, looped over her ears and twisted in a loose knot at the back of her head, in the prevailing fashion for a young matron; which with her youthful face, gave her a most quaint and charming appearance. Her husband's coat had seen long service, but it was neatly brushed and darned, and the ability to wear threadbare clothing with distinction was not the least of Edgar Poe's talents. Beside his worn, but cared-for apparel, costly dress often seemed tawdry. * * * * * Out from the warmth and the light and the perfume and the luxury and the praise of the beautiful drawing-room with its distinguished assemblage,--out into the streets of New York--into the bleakness and the darkness of the winter's night--stepped Edgar Poe and his wife. Virginia was wrapped against the cold in a Paisley shawl that had been one of Mother Clemm's bridal presents, while Edgar wore the military cape he had at West Point and which, except in times of unusual prosperity, had served him as a great-coat ever since. Through the dimly-lit streets, slippery with ice, and wind-swept, they made their way to the two rooms up two flights of stairs, where the Widow Clemm mended the fire with a few coals at a time and sewed by a single candle, as she waited for them--the lion of the most distinguished circle in America and his beautiful wife! Back from a world of dreams created by a company of dreamers to the reality of an empty larder and a low fuel pile and a dun from the landlord from whom they rented the two rooms. "The Raven" had brought its author laurels in abundance, but only ten dollars in money. Editors were clamoring for his work and he was supplying it as fast as one brain and one right hand could; and some of them were sending their little checks promptly in return and some were promising little checks some day; but _The Broadway Journal_ had failed for lack of capital. It was the old story. He had no regular income and the irregularly appearing little checks only provided a from-hand-to-mouth sort of living for the three. Yet they had their dreams. Landlords might turn them out of house and home but they were powerless to deprive them of their dreams. Mother Clemm's one candle was burning low--its light and that of the dying fire barely relieved the room from darkness and did not prevent the rays of the newly arisen full moon from coming through the lattice and pouring a heap of silver upon the bare floor. "Look Muddie! Look Sissy!" cried the poet. "If we lived in a blaze of light, like your rich folk, we should have to go out of doors to see the moon. Who says there are not compensations in this life?" CHAPTER XXX. But it was not always possible to take a hopeful view. Continued poverty which oftentimes reached the degree of positive want, anxiety for Virginia's health and inability to provide for her the remedies and comforts he felt might preserve her life, were enough to arouse Edgar Poe's blue devils, and they did. Why detail the harassments of the rest of that winter, during which The Dreamer led a strange double life--a life in the public eye of distinction, prosperity, popularity, but in private, a hunted life--a life of constant dread of the wrath of a too long indulgent landlord or grocer--a flitting from one cheap lodgement to another. One gleam of genuine sunshine brightened the dreary days. The acquaintance with Frances Osgood begun at Miss Lynch's salon soon ripened into close friendship. She found her way up the two flights of stairs and Edgar and Virginia and the Mother received her with as ready courtesy and welcome as though the two rooms that looked on the sky had been a palace. Her intimacy became so complete--her understanding of, and sympathy with, the three who lived for each other only so perfect that it was almost as if she had been admitted to the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. Upon her The Dreamer bestowed in abundant measure that poetic love which the normal heart is no more capable of feeling than the normal mind is capable of producing his poetry. A love which was like his landscapes, not of this world or of the earth earthy--a love of the mind, the imagination, the poetic faculty. A love whose desire was not to possess, but to kneel to. In his rhapsodies over the phantasmal women his genius created or the real ones whose charm he felt, it was never of flesh and blood beauty--of blooming cheek or rounded form--that he sang, but of the expression of the eye, the tones of the voice, the graces and gifts of the spirit and the intellect. In return for this love he asked only sympathy--sympathy such as he drew from the sky and the forest and the rock-bound lake and the winds of heaven--mood sympathy. It was a love quite beyond the imagination of Rufus Griswold to conceive of, even. His furtive eye was on the watch, his jealous heart was filled with foul surmises and he added a new poison to the old, with which he was working, drop by drop, upon the good name of Edgar Poe. Meantime the poet, harassed by troubles of divers kinds but innocent of the new poison as he had been of the old, welcomed the intimacy of this congenial woman friend as balm to his tried spirit; and delved away at his work. Upon his desk one morning, were piled a number of the small rolls of narrow manuscript with which the reader is familiar. These were a series of critical sketches entitled "The Literati of New York," by which he hoped to keep the pot boiling some days. Virginia was listening for a step on the stair, for she had written Mrs. Osgood a note that morning, begging her to come to them, and she knew that she would respond. The door opened and the slight, graceful figure and delicate face with the gentle eyes, she looked for, appeared. "What are all these?" asked the visitor, when she had embraced Virginia warmly and when the poet had, after bowing over her hand, which he lightly touched with his lips, led her to a chair. Her eyes were fixed upon the pile of manuscripts. "One of them is yourself, Madam," replied the poet. "Myself?" she questioned, in amazement. He bowed, gravely. "Yourself--as one of the Literati of New York. In each one of these one of you is rolled up and discussed. I will show you by the difference in their length the varying degrees of estimation in which I hold you literary folk. Come Virginia, and help me!" The fair visitor smiled as they drew out to the full length roll after roll of the manuscript--letting them fly together again as if they had been spiral springs. The largest they saved for the last. The poet lifted it from its place and gave an end to his wife and like two merry, laughing children they ran to opposite corners, stretching the manuscript diagonally across the entire space between. "And whose 'linked sweetness long drawn out' is that?" asked the visitor. "Hear her!" cried Edgar Goodfellow who was in the ascendent for the first time in many a long day. "Hear her! Just as if her vain little heart didn't tell her it's herself!" But the moment of playfulness was a rarity, and all the more enjoyed for that. The papers came out in due course, serially, and created a new sensation and brought their little reward, but they also plunged their author into a succession of unsavory quarrels. As each one appeared, it was looked for with eagerness and read with intense interest by the public, but frequently with as intense anger by the subject. Perhaps the most caustic of all the critiques was the one upon the work of Mr. Thomas Dunn English, whom Poe contemptuously dubbed, "Thomas Done Brown." Mr. English bitterly retorted with an attack upon his critic's private character. A fierce controversy followed in which English became so abusive that Poe sued and recovered two hundred and twenty-five dollars damages--which goes to prove that even an ill wind can blow good. Long after the papers had been published the scene of playful idleness, with all its holiday charm, when Edgar Poe drew out the strips of manuscript in which were rolled up "The Literati of New York" remained in Mrs. Osgood's memory, and in his own. To him it was indeed a gleam of brightness amid a throng of "earnest woes," a season of calm in a "tumultous sea." But, as been said, why dwell upon the details of that bleak, despairing winter? Spring brought a change which makes a more pleasant picture. * * * * * Ever since they had left Philadelphia the Poes had clung, in memory, to the rose-embowered cottage in Spring Garden. There, they told each other, they had a home to their minds. It was the dear "Muddie," their ever faithful earthly Providence to whom they were already so deeply indebted, who discovered in the suburb of Fordham, a tiny cottage which had much of the charm of which they dreamed--even to the infinitesimal price for which it could be rented. It was only a story and a half high, but there was a commodious and cheerful room down stairs, with four windows, and from the narrow hallway a quaint little winding stair led to an attic which though its roof was low and sloping contained a room large enough to serve the double purpose of bed-chamber and study. There was a pleasant porch across the front of the cottage which would make an ideal summer sitting-room and study, when the half-starved rose-bush upon it should have been nursed and trained to screen it from the sun. The cottage stood upon a green hill, half-buried in cherry trees--just then in full bloom and filled with bird-song. Nearby was a grove of pines and a short walk away was the Harlem River, with its picturesque, high, stone bridge. It was an abode fit to be in Paradise, Edgar told Virginia and the Mother, and within a few days they and their few small possessions--including Catalina--were as well established there as if they had never known any other home. The moving in recalled the earliest days of their life at Spring Garden. Again "Muddie" was busy, not with soap and water only, but with the whitewash brush. Again their hearts were blythe with the pleasing sense of change--of the opening up of a new vista of there was no knowing what happiness--just as children welcome any change for the change itself, always expecting to find pleasant surprises upon a new and untried road. But there was a difference in themselves since the moving into the Spring Garden Cottage, which had been so gradual that they were scarcely conscious of it. The years since then lay heavily upon them. They showed plainly in the deepened lines in Mother Clemm's face, in the deepened anxiety in her Mater Dolorosa eyes, in the frost upon the locks that peeped from under her immaculate widow's cap. They showed in the fragile figure of Virginia--once so full of sweet curves;--in the ethereal look that had come into the once rounded cheeks and full pouting lips, in the transparency of her skin and in the sweet eyes that when not filled with the merry laughter that had through thick and thin filled her dwelling place with sunshine and music, had a faraway expression in them, as if they were looking into another world. They showed most of all in The Dreamer himself. To him these years had been years of fierce battle; battle, not for wealth, but for bread; battle not so much for selfish ambition as for his country, and in a high sense--for he had fought valiantly to win a place for America in the world of letters; battle with himself--with the devils that sought mastery over his spirit--the devil of excitement and exhilaration that lay in the bottom of the cup, the devil of blessed forgetfulness, accompanied by magical dreams that dwelt in the heart of the poppy, the devil of melancholy and gloom to whom he felt a certain charm in yielding himself, the devil of restlessness and dissatisfaction with whatsoever lay within his grasp--a dog-and-shadow sort of desire to drop the prize in hand in a chase after that of his vision,--the impish devil of the perverse. At times he had been victorious, at other times there had been defeat. But always the warfare had been fierce and the scars remained to tell the story. They remained in the emaciation and the deep lines of his still beautiful face; remained in the drooping curves of the mouth; remained above all in the ineffable sadness of the large, deep, luminous eyes. Yet that sweet spring day when the three were moving into Fordham cottage, the years that had wrought upon them thus were as they had not been. Their little possessions had dwindled pitifully. Virginia's golden harp that had been the glory of the sitting-room was gone to pay a debt. One by one others of their household gods had provided bread. But the spurt of prosperity the damages recovered in the "Thomas Done Brown" suit brought, made possible a new checked matting for the sitting-room floor and so bright and clean did it look that they felt it almost furnished the room of itself. It would mean much to them in saving the dear Mother the most laborious feature of her labor. It was a more difficult matter than formerly for her to get down upon her knees to scrub the floor and it had become impossible for the frail Virginia to help her in such work; yet as long as the floor was bare she had kept it as spotless and nearly as white as new fallen snow. When the matting had been laid, Eddie took her beautiful worn hands in his and kissed first one and then the other. "No more scrubbing of the sitting-room floor, dear hands," he playfully said. In addition to the matting there were in the way of furnishings only a few chairs, some book-shelves, a picture or two, vases for flowers, some sea-shells, and, of course, Edgar's desk. Above the desk hung the pencil-sketch of "Helen" from which somehow, he was always able to draw inspiration. Sometimes the wings of his imagination would droop, his pen would halt. In desperation he would look up at the picture.--Could it be (he would ask himself) that her spirit had come to dwell in this representation of her which he had made from memory? Her eyes seemed to look at him through the eyes in the picture--the past came back to him as it sometimes did when the mingled scent of magnolias and roses on the summer night air placed him back beneath her window. From this portrait of the lovely dead upon the wall, from the miniature of the lovely dead that he carried always next his heart, and from the lovely being who walked, in life, by his side, but toward whose bosom death had this long time pointed a warning finger, came all his inspiration in the new, as in each of the old homes. Upstairs, close under the sloping roof, was the bare bed-room, barer than the one below--for there was no checked matting upon the floor, and there were only such pieces of furniture as were an absolute necessity; but against a small window in the end of the room leaned a great cherry-tree. The windows were open and the faint fragrance of the blossoms floated in with the song and gossip of the nesting birds. Edgar and Virginia laughed together like happy children and told each other that they would "play" that their room under the roof was a nest in the tree--which was so much more poetical than living in an attic. And roundabout the cottage on the green hill, with its screen of blossoming cherry trees and (hardby) its dusky grove of Heaven-kissing pines, and its views of the river and walk leading to the stone-arched bridge, the three who lived for each other only had erelong reconstructed the wonderful dream-valley--the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. And the cottage at Fordham became a Mecca to the "literati of New York," even as the cottage at Spring Garden had been a Mecca to the literati of Philadelphia. Among those who made pilgrimages thither were many of the "starry sisterhood of poetesses"--chief of whom was the fair Frances Osgood. Yet in his retirement The Dreamer enjoyed for the first time since he had left Spring Garden long intervals of relief from company, and in the pine-wood and on the bridge overlooking the river, he found what his soul had long hungered for--silence and solitude. Under their influence he conceived the idea of a new work--a more ambitious work than anything he had hitherto attempted--a work in the form of a prose poem upon no less subject than "The Universe," whose deep secrets it was designed to reveal, with the title "Eureka!" * * * * * Ah, Dreamer, could we but call the curtain here!--Could we but leave you in your cottage on the hill-top, overlooking the river, with the trees full of blossom and music about it, and the wood inviting your fancy, where as you pace back and forth with your hands clasped behind you your great deep eyes are filled with the mellow light that illumines them when they are turned inward exploring the treasures of your brain--leave you deep in the high joy of meditation upon God's Universe! But "the play is the tragedy, 'Man,'" and it is only for the dread "Conqueror" to give the word, "Curtain down--lights out!" CHAPTER XXXI. All too soon the Wolf scratched at the door of the cottage on Fordham Hill. All too soon the shadow that had so often enveloped the rose-embowered cottage in Spring Garden--the shadow from the wing of the Angel of Death--fell upon the cottage among the cherry trees. The Dreamer sat before his desk under the picture of "Helen," for hours and hours, or when Virginia was too ill to be up, at a little table beside her bed in the chamber which was like a nest in a tree. In fair weather and foul the stately figure and sorrowful eyes of Mother Clemm were to be seen upon the streets of New York as she went about offering the narrow rolls of manuscript for sale as fast as they were finished, or trying to collect the little, over-due checks from those already sold and published. Yet, with all they could do, had it not been for the generous gifts of friends the three must needs have succumbed to cold and hunger. And all the time the poison that fell from Rufus Griswold's tongue was at work. Even the visits of the angels of mercy who ministered to him and his invalid wife in this their darkest hour were made, by the working of this poison, to appear as things of evil. How was one of the furtive eye and the black heart of a Rufus Griswold to understand love of woman of which reverence was a chief ingredient? These ministering angels--Mrs. Osgood, Mrs. Gove, Mrs. Marie Louise Shew, and others whose love for the racked and broken Dreamer and for herself Virginia so perfectly understood--Virginia the guileless, with her sense for spiritual things and her warm, responsive heart--brought to the cottage not only encouragement and sympathy, but medicines and delicacies which were offered in such manner that even one of Edgar Poe's sensitive pride could accept them without shame. Summer passed, and autumn, and winter drew on--filling the dwellers in Fordham cottage with fear of they knew not what miseries. There had been ups and downs; there had been happiness and woe; there had been times of strength and times of weakness--of weakness when The Dreamer, unable to hold out in the desperate battle of life as he knew it; hungry, cold and heartbroken at the sight of his wife with that faraway look in her eyes, had fallen--had sought and found forgetfulness only to know a horrible awakening that was despair and that was oftentimes accompanied by illness. Now, there was added to every thing else the knowledge that she--his wife--his heartsease flower, and the Mother, in spite of all his striving for them, were objects of charity. When some of his friends, in the kindness of their hearts, published in one of the papers an appeal to the admirers of Edgar Poe's work for aid for him and his family in their distress, he came out in a proud denial of their need for aid. The need was great enough, God knows!--but the pitiful exposure was more painful than the pangs of cold and hunger. * * * * * At last the day drew near of whose approach all who had visited the cottage knew but of which they had schooled themselves not to think. January 1847 was waning. For many days the ground had not been seen. The branches of the cherry trees gleamed--not with flowers, but with icicles--as they leaned against the windows of the bed-chamber under the roof. Sometimes as the winter blast stirred them, they knocked against the panes with a sound the knuckles of a skeleton might have made. There was not the slightest suggestion of the soft-voiced "Ligeia" in that harsh, horrible sound. Upon the bed the girl-wife lay well nigh as still and as white as the snow outside. Now and again she coughed--a weak, ghostly sort of cough. Over her wasted body, in addition to the thin bed-clothing, lay her husband's old military cape. Against her breast nestled Catalina, purring contentedly while she kept the heart of her mistress warm a little longer. Near the foot of her bed the Mother sat--a more perfect picture than ever of the Mater Dolorosa--chafing the tiny cold feet; at the head her husband bent over her and chafed her hands. About the room, but not near enough to intrude upon the sacred grief of the stricken mother and husband, sat several of the good women whose friendship had been the mainstay of the three. Through the window, gaining brilliance from the ice-laden branches outside, fell the rays of the setting sun, glorifying the room and the bed. Scarce a word was spoken, but upon the request of the dying girl for music one of the visitors began to sing in low, tremulous tones, the beautiful old hymn, "Jerusalem the Golden." To the man, bowed beneath his woe as it had been a physical weight, the words came as a knell, and a blacker despair than ever settled upon his wild eyes and haggard face. To his dying wife they were a promise--the smile upon her lip and the look of wonder in her eyes showed that she was already beholding the glories of which the old hymn told. And so wandered her spirit out of the cold and the want and the gloom that had darkened and chilled the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, into the regions of "bliss beyond compare." But her husband, left behind, was as the man in his own story, "Silence," who sat upon a rock--the gray and ghastly rock of "Desolation." "With his brow lofty with thought and his eyes wild with care and the fables of sorrow and weariness and disgust with mankind written in furrows upon his cheek," he sat upon the lonely grey rock and leaned his head upon his hand and looked out upon the desolation. She was no more--no more!--the maiden who lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by him;--his wife--in all the storm and stress of his troubled life his true heartsease! Out of the desolation he perceived a thing that was formless, that was invisible--but that was appalling--_silence_. Silence that made him shrink and quake--he that had loved, had longed for silence! Silence would crush him now. And solitude!--how often he had craved it! He had solitude a plenty now. Like a hunted animal, he looked about for a refuge from the Silence and the Solitude that gave him chase, but he knew that however fast he might flee they would be hard on his heels. How white she was--and how still! Nevermore to hear the sounds of her low sweet voice, nevermore to hear her merry laughter, nevermore her light foot-step that--like her voice and her laugh--was music to his ears! Nevermore!--for she was wrapped in the Silence--the last great silence of all. Nevermore would she sit beside him as he worked, or plant flowers about the door, or lay her hand in his and explore with him the wonderful dream-valley; nevermore lay her sweet lips upon his or raise the snow-white lids from her eyes and shine on him from under their long, jetty fringes. Henceforth a Solitude as vast as the Silence would be his portion. Their sweet friend Marie Louise Shew robed her for the tomb and over the snow they bore her to rest in a vault in the village churchyard. Then, for many weeks Edgar Poe lay in the bed-chamber under the roof, desperately ill--for the most part unconscious. The mother bereaved of her child had no time to give herself over to mourning, for as she had wrestled with death for the possession of a son when he was first given into her keeping, even more fiercely did she wrestle now that he must be son and daughter too. The kind friends who had made Virginia's last days comfortable aided her in the battle, and finally the victory was won,--pale, shaken, wraith-like, the personification of woe made beautiful--The Dreamer came forth into the air of heaven once more, and as spring opened was to be seen, as of old, walking among the pines or beside the river. And ever and anon his clear-cut, chastened features and his great, solemn eyes were turned skyward--especially at night when the heavens were sown with stars; for from some one of those bright worlds, peradventure, would she whose absence made the Solitude and the Silence be looking down upon him. And as he gazed and dreamed, high thoughts took form in his brain--thoughts of the "Material and Spiritual Universe; its Essence, its Origin, its Creation, its Present Condition and its Destiny,"--thoughts to be made into a book dedicated to "Those who feel rather than to those who think--to the dreamers and those who put faith in dreams as in the only realities"--thoughts for his projected work, "Eureka!" Out of the Silence and the Solitude came the development and completion of this strange prose poem. Like an uneasy spirit he wandered, night and day, up and down the river bank, in the wood or in the churchyard that held the tomb of his Virginia. Meanwhile the Mother still kept the cottage bright. She asked no questions when he went forth, night or day, or when he came in, night or day; but her heart bled for him and sometimes when he would throw himself into a deep chair and sit by the hour, seemingly staring at nothing, but really (she knew by the harassed and brooding look in the great, deep eyes) "dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before," she would steal gently to his side and with her long, slim, expressive fingers stroke the large brow until natural sleep brought respite from painful memories. Her ministrations were grateful to him, yet he was barely conscious of her presence. Not even for her, and far less for any other human being, did he feel kinship at this time. His vision, when not turned within, looked far beyond human companionship to the wonders of the universe--the stars and the mountains and the forests and the rivers; but his only real companion was his own stricken heart. Many times he said to his heart in the prophetic words of his fantastic creation, "Morella," "Thy days henceforth shall be days of sorrow--that sorrow which is the most lasting of impressions as the cypress is the most enduring of trees. For the hours of thy happiness are over, and joy is not gathered twice in a lifetime as the roses of Paestum twice in a year." Yet as the back is fitted to the burden and the wind tempered to the shorn lamb, so again, as in his early griefs, the sorrow of The Dreamer was not all pain, there was an element of beauty--of poetry--in it that made it possible to be endured. Out of the depths of the Solitude and the Silence he said to his soul, "It is a happiness to wonder--it is a happiness to dream." And more than ever before in his life his whole existence had become a dream--the realities being mere shadows. To dream, to wonder, to work; to work, to wonder, to dream--thus were the hours, the hours of sorrow, spent. The hours of which the poet lost all count, for between his dreams and his work so intensely full were the hours of vivid mental living that each day was as a lifetime in itself. And as he wandered under the pines or along the river, wrapped in his dreams and wondering thoughts of heaven and earth, or leaned from the window of the chamber under the low sloping roof--the chamber that had been the chamber of death--and looked beyond the embowering cherry trees upon the sky; or at dead of night sat under his lamp pondering over his books--always, everywhere, he listened--listened for the voice and the foot-falls of Virginia as he had listened in his earlier days for the voice and the footfalls of the mythical "Ligeia." For had she not promised that she would watch over him in spirit and, if possible, give him frequent indications of her presence--sighing upon him in the evening winds or filling the air which he breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels? And her promises were faithfully kept, for often as he listened he heard the sounds of the swinging of the censers of the angels, and streams of a holy perfume floated about him, and when his heart beat heavily the winds that bathed his brow came to him laden with soft sighs, and indistinct murmurs filled the night air. * * * * * And so the green spring and the flowery summer passed, and autumn drew on. Then came a day of days--a soft October day when merely to exist was to be happy and to hope. And new life, like some sweet, rejuvenating cordial seemed to enter and course through the veins of The Dreamer and for the first time since the Silence and the Solitude had enveloped the cottage he laughed as he flung wide the windows of the chamber that had been the chamber of death, to let in the day. And as he looked forth he said, again quoting the words of his "Morella," "The winds lie still in heaven. There is a dim moisture over all the earth and a warm glow upon the waters, and upon the forest a rainbow--a bow of promise--from the firmament has surely fallen. It is not a day for sorrow but for joy, for it is a day out of Aidenn itself, and I feel that ere it has passed I shall hold sweeter, more real communion with her that is in Aidenn than ever before." He went forth and wandered through the radiance of that perfect day hours on hours, and as he paced the solemn aisles of the pine wood, or strolled along the river walk which was veiled in a golden haze and carpeted thick with the yellow and crimson and brown leaves of October, he heard, clearly, the sound of the swinging of the censers of the angels, as his senses were bathed in the holy perfume, and the zephyrs that blew about his brow were laden with audible sweet murmurs. As evening fell a pleasant languor possessed his limbs--a wholesome weariness from his long wanderings--and he lay down upon a bank littered with fallen leaves and slept. And as he slept in the fading light, the spirit of Virginia approached him more nearly--more tangibly--than ever before; and finally, when the red sun had sunk into the river, and when the afterglow in the sky and the rainbow that lay upon the forest were alike blotted out by the shadows of night, and the moon--a lustrous blur through the haze--wandered uncertainly up the sky, she drew nearer and nearer, and pressed a fluttering kiss--such a kiss as a butterfly might bestow upon a flower--upon his lips; then, sighing, drew away. The sleeper awoke with a start--a start of heavenly bliss followed by instant pain--for as he peered into the night he saw that he was alone--with the Silence and the Solitude. The winds lay still in heaven and bore him no whisper or sigh. The perfume from the censers of the angels still filled the air, but he was conscious of a great void--a pain unbearable. The kiss had awakened a thousand thronging memories; the kiss had robbed of their charm the elusive perfume, and the ghostly whisper of fluttering garments, and the shadowy foot-falls, and the faint, faraway sighs. Henceforth these would cease to satisfy. The kiss had made him know the want of his heart for love and companionship, such as the living Virginia had given him. He listened and listened, but the winds lay still in heaven, and he was alone with the Silence--the dread Silence--and the heart-hunger, and the despair. Then he arose from his bed of withered and sere leaves and as one distraught, wandered through the shadows of the misty, weird night. In the wood and by the waters he wandered, while the night wore on and the moon held its way--still a lustrous blur in the heavens. On, on he wandered, seeking peace for his soul and finding none, till the moon was out and the stars fainted in the twilight of the approaching day, when lo, above the end of the path through the wood, the morning star--"Astarte's bediamonded crescent"--arose upon his vision! And as he gazed with wonder and delight upon the beautiful star, hope was born anew in his heart, for he said, "It is the Star of Love!" He that had always looked for signs in the skies, had he not found one? What could it mean, this rising of the Star of Love upon the hour of his bitterest need but a sign of hope, of peace? Vainly did his soul upbraid him and warn him not to trust the beacon--to fly from its alluring light and cast aside its spell. All deaf to the warning, he eagerly followed the star which promised renewal of hope and love and relief from the Solitude and the Silence--the desolation that the kiss had made so real and intolerable. But alas, as he wandered on and on, his eyes upon the star, his feet following blindly, without marking the path into which they had turned, his progress was suddenly checked. Through the misty twilight of the approaching dawn there loomed an obstacle to his steps. It was with horror unspeakable that he recognized the vault in which lay, in her last sleep, his loved Virginia.... "Then his heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crispéd and sere,-- As the leaves that were withering and sere!" The Star of Love was fading in the eastern sky and through the ghostly dawn he turned and fled aghast to the cottage among the cherry trees. * * * * * Mother Clemm who had lain waiting and watching for him all night arose from her uneasy couch when she heard the latch of the gate lifted, and opened the door. He came in and walked past her like a wraith. His eyes were wild, his face was bloodless and haggard, his hair damp and disordered. The Mother's eyes were filled with dumb pain. He suffered her to take his hand in hers and to gaze into his eyes with pity and even raised the hand that held his own to his lips, as though to reassure her; but he spake no word--made no attempt at explanation--and she asked no questions. For a moment he remained beside her, then straight to his desk he walked and began arranging writing materials before him, while she disappeared into the kitchen and started a blaze under a pot of coffee that stood upon the little stove. He wrote rapidly--furiously--without pausing for thought or for the fastidious choice of words that was apt to make him halt frequently in the act of composition, and the words that he wrote were the wild words--wild, but beautiful and moving as an echo from Israfel's own lute--of the poem, "Ulalume:" "The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crispéd and sere,-- The leaves they were withering and sere,-- It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year." * * * * * After that eventful night a change came over him that sat upon the Rock of Desolation. The Solitude and the Silence still enfolded him, but the Star of Love had arisen in his firmament, ushering in a new day and new hope to his soul. And he no longer trembled as he sat upon the rock, but with new energy he worked and with exceeding patience he waited. And as he worked interest in life returned to him, and ambition returned. One day he copied "Ulalume" upon a long, narrow slip of paper and rolled it into one of the tight little rolls that all the editors knew and Mother Clemm made a pilgrimage to the city especially on account of it. First she tried it at _The Union Magazine_, which promptly rejected it. It was too "queer" the editor said. But _The American Review_ agreed to take it and to print it without signature--for this poem must be published anonymously, if at all, the poet insisted. It soon afterward appeared and Mr. Willis copied it into the next number of _The Home Journal_ with complimentary editorial comment. The result was a new sensation--the reader everywhere declared himself to be brought under a magic spell by the words of this remarkable poem--though he frankly owned that he did not in the least understand them; which was as Edgar Poe intended. * * * * * Even the old dream of founding a magazine returned and possessed him as it had so often possessed him before. It was in the interest of the magazine, which he still proposed to name _The Stylus_, that he determined to give his new work, "Eureka!" as a lecture, in various places. He did give it once--in New York--coming out of his seclusion for the first time, upon a frosty February night. The rhapsody, delivered in his low but musical and dramatic tones, thrilled his audience, but it was a small audience, and when soon afterward, the work was published by the _Putnams_ it was a small number of copies that was sold. And again Edgar Poe was desperately poor. Yet he had seen the Star of Love--"Astarte's bediamonded crescent"--usher in a new morning; and he waited and worked in hope. CHAPTER XXXII. Autumn with its enchanted October night, and winter filled with work and spent in deep seclusion at Fordham, and spring with its revival of plans for _The Stylus_, and the appearance of "Eureka!" as a book, and its author's return to the world as a lecturer, slipped by. About midsummer The Dreamer lay a night in the old town of Providence. It was a warm night and the window of his room was open--letting in a flood of light from the full moon. He leaned from the window which looked upon a plot of flowers whose many odors rising, enveloped him in incense sweet as the incense from the censers of the angels when the spirit of his Virginia was near. But it was not of Virginia that the fragrance told him tonight. Something about the blended odors, combined with the sensuous warmth of the night and the light of the moon, transported him suddenly, magically, back through the years to his boyhood and to the little room in the Allan cottage on Clay Street, hanging, like this room, over a space of flowers--the night following the day when he had first seen Rob Stanard's mother. Back, back into the long dead past he wandered! The broken and jaded Edgar Poe was dreaming again the dream of the fresh, enthusiastic boy, Edgar Poe. How every incident of that day and night stood out in his memory! He could feel again the wonder that he felt when he saw the beautiful "Helen" standing against the arbor-vitæ in the garden; could see her graceful approach to meet and greet him--the lonely orphan boy--could hear her gracious words in praise of his mother while she held his hand in both her own. As he lived it all over again, with the silver moonlight enfolding him and the breath of the flowers filling his nostrils, a clock somewhere in the house struck the night's noon hour. He started--even so it had been that other night in the long past. He half believed that if he should go forth into this night as he had gone into that he should see once more the lady of his dream, with the lamp in her hand, framed in the ivy-wreathed window, and seeing, worship as he had worshipped then. Scarce knowing what he did, he arose and hurrying down the stair was in the street. The streets were strange to him but there was a pleasant sense of adventure in wandering through them--he knew not whither--and the sweet airs of the flowers were everywhere. Suddenly he stopped. While all the town slept there was one beside himself, who kept vigil. Clad all in white, she half reclined upon a violet bank in an old garden where the moon fell on the upturned faces of a thousand roses and on her own, "upturned,--alas, in sorrow!" Faint with the beauty and the poetry of the scene he leaned upon the gate of the "enchanted garden Where no wind dared to stir unless on tiptoe." He dared not speak or give any sign of his presence, but he gazed and gazed until to his entranced eyes it seemed that "The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths-- The happy flowers and the repining trees-- Were seen no more." All was lost to his vision-- "Save only the divine light in those eyes-- Save but the soul in those uplifted eyes." * * * * * He continued to gaze until the moon disappeared behind a bank of cloud and he watched the white-robed figure glide away like "a ghost amid the entombing trees." Yet still (it seemed to him) the eyes remained. They lighted his lonely footsteps home that night and he told himself that they would light him henceforth, through the years. Nearly a year had passed since that October night when the Star of Love ushering in a new morning had prophesied to him of new hope--nearly a year through which he had waited patiently, but not in vain. The time had evidently come for the prophecy to be fulfilled and Fate had led him to this town and the spot in this town where she that was to be (he was convinced) the hope, the guide, the savior, of his "lonesome latter years" awaited him. Who was she?-- So spirit-like, so ethereal, she seemed, as robed in white and veiled in silvery moon-beams she sat among the slumbering roses, and as she was gathered into the shadows of the entombing trees, that she might almost have been the "Lady Ligeia." Yet he knew that she was not. The "Lady Ligeia" had been but the creation of his own brain. Very fair she had been to his dreaming vision, very sweet her companionship had been to his imagination--sufficient for all the needs of his being in his youthful days when sorrow was but a beautiful sentiment, when "terror was not fright, but a tremulous delight" but how was such an one as she to bind up the broken heart of a man? It was the _human_ element in the eyes of her that sat among the roses that enchained him. Ethereal--spirit-like--as she was, the eyes upturned in sorrow were the eyes of no spirit, but of a woman; from them looked a human soul with the capacity and the experience to offer sympathy meet for human needs--the needs even, of a broken-hearted man. How dark the woe!--how sublime the hope!--how intense the pride!--how daring the ambition!--how deep, how fathomless the capacity for love!--that looked (as from a window) from those eyes upturned in sorrow, in the moonlight while all the town slept! Who was she?--this lady of sorrows. And by what sweet name was she known to the citizens of this old town?--Surely Fate that had brought her to the bank of violets beneath the moon--Fate that had led him to her garden gate, would in Fate's own time reveal! * * * * * As Helen Whitman flitted as noiselessly as the ghost she seemed to be up the dark stairway to her chamber, and without closing the casement that admitted the moonlight and the garden's odors, lay down upon her canopied bed, she trembled. What was it that she had been aware of in the garden?--that presence--that consciousness of communion between her spirit and his upon whom all her thoughts had dwelt of late? Herself a poet, from her earliest knowledge of the work of Edgar Poe she had seemed to feel a kinship between her mind and his such as she had known in regard to no other. She had followed his career step by step, and out of the many sorrows of her own life had been born deep sympathy for him. Since his last, greatest blow, she had more than ever mourned with him in spirit, for she too was widowed--she too had sat upon the Rock of Desolation and knew the Silence and the Solitude. She and The Dreamer had at least one mental trait in common--a tendency toward spiritualism--a more than half belief in the communion of the spirits of the dead with those of the living and of those of the living with each other. What had led her into the moonlit garden when all the world slept? She knew not. She only knew that she had felt an impelling influence--a call to her spirit--to come out among the slumbering roses. She had not questioned nor sought to define it. She had heard it, and she had obeyed. And then the presence!-- She had never seen Edgar Poe, yet she felt that he had been there in the spirit, if not in the flesh--she had felt his eyes upon her eyes and she had half expected him to step from the shadows around her and to say, "I, upon whom your thoughts have dwelt--I, who am the comrade and the complement of your inner life--I, whose spirit called to you ere you came into the garden--I am here." * * * * * It was almost immediately upon The Dreamer's return to Fordham, and when he was still under the spell of the night at Providence, that the identity of the lady of the garden was revealed to him, in a manner seemingly accidental, but which he felt to be but another manifestation of the divinity that shapes our ends. Some casual words concerning the appearance and character of Mrs. Whitman, spoken by a casual visitor, lifted the curtain. So the lady of the garden was Helen Whitman! whose poetry had impressed him favorably and whose acquaintance he had desired. Helen Whitman--_Helen_! As he repeated the name his heart stood still,--even in her name he heard the voice of Fate. _Helen_--the name of the good angel of his boyhood! Were his dreams of "Morella" and of "Ligeia" to come true? Was he to know in reality the miracle he had imagined and written of in these two phantasies?--the reincarnation of personal identity? Was he in this second Helen, in this second garden, to find again the worshipped Helen of his boyhood? He turned to the lines he had written so long ago, in Richmond, when he had gone forth into the midsummer moonlight, even as he had gone forth in Providence, and had worshipped under a window, even as he had worshipped at a garden gate. He read the first two stanzas through. As he read he gave himself up to an overwhelming sense of fatality. Could anything be more fitting--more descriptive? The end of the days of miracles was not yet--this _was_ his "Helen of a thousand dreams!" His impulse was to seek an introduction at once, but this seemed too tamely conventional. Besides--he was in the hands of Fate--he dared not stir. Fate, having so clearly manifested itself, would find a way. His correspondence was always heavy. Letters, clippings from papers and so forth, came to him by every post from friends and from enemies, with and without signatures. Yet from all the mass, he knew at once that the "Valentine," unsigned as it was, was from her. By way of acknowledgment, he turned down a page of a copy of "The Raven and Other Poems" at the lines, "To Helen," and mailed it to her. He waited in anxious suspense for a reply, but the lady was coy. Days passed and still no answer. The desire for communication with her became irresistible and taking pen and paper he wrote at the top of the page, even as long ago he had written, the words, "To Helen," and underneath wrote a new poem especially for this new Helen in which he described the vision of her in the garden (but placing it in the far past) and his feelings as he gazed upon her: "I saw thee once--once only--years ago; I must not say _how_ many--but not many. * * * * * Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining; while the moon Fell on the upturned faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturned,--alas in sorrow! Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight-- Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) That bade me pause before that garden-gate To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!--oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) Save only thee and me!" ... The paper trembled in the hands--tiny and spirit-like--of Helen Whitman. Her soul answered emphatically, "It _is_ Fate!" So he had been there in the flesh--near her--in the shadows of that mystic night! The presence was no creation of an overwrought imagination. It was Fate. Tremulously she penned her answer to his appeal, but was it Fate again, which caused the letter to miscarry? It reached him finally, in Richmond--_Richmond_, of all places!--whither he had gone to deliver to audiences of his old friends, his lecture upon "The Poetic Principle," in the interest of the establishment of his magazine, _The Stylus_. What could have been more fitting than that the gracious words of "Helen of a thousand dreams" should come to him in Richmond? * * * * * Not many days later and he was under her own roof in Providence. He waited in the dimness of her curtained drawing-room, ear strained for the first sound of her footstep. Noiselessly as a sunbeam or a shadow she entered the room, her gauzy white draperies floating about her slight figure as she came, while his great eyes drank in with reverent joy each detail of her ethereal loveliness--her face, the same he had seen in the garden, pale as a pearl and as softly radiant, and framed in clustering dark ringlets which escaped in profusion from the confinement of a lacy widow's cap--the tremulous mouth--the eyes, mysterious and unearthly, from which the soul looked out. For one moment she paused in the doorway, her hand pressed upon her wildly beating heart--then, with hesitating step advanced to meet him. Her words of greeting were few, and so low and faltering as to be quite unintelligible, but the tones of her voice fell on his ear like strangely familiar music. The man spoke no word. As her eyes rested for one brief moment upon his, then fell before the intensity of his gaze, he was conscious of spiritual influences beyond the reach of reason. In a tremulous ecstacy he bent and pressed his lips upon the hand that lay within his own and it was with difficulty that he restrained himself from falling upon his knees before her in actual worship. Three evenings of "all heavenly delight" he spent in her companionship--sometimes in the seclusion and dusk of her quiet drawing-room, sometimes walking among the roses in her garden, or among the mossy tombs in the town cemetery--their sympathetic natures finding expression in such conversation as poets delight in. Under the intoxicating spell of her presence all other dreams passed, for the time, into nothingness and he passionately cried, "Helen, I love now--_now_--for the first and only time!" Yet he was poor, and the weaknesses which had caused him to fall in the past might cause him to fall in the future. How could he plead for a return of his love? His very self-abasement made his plea more strong. Still, she did not yield too suddenly. True, she too, was under the spell, but she resisted it. As he found his voice, and his eloquence filled the room a restlessness possessed her. Now she sat quite still by his side, now rose and wandered about the apartment--now stood with her hand resting upon the back of his chair while his nearness thrilled her. There were objections, she told him--she was older than he. "Has the soul age, Helen?" he answered her. "Can immortality regard time? Can that which began never and shall never end consider a few wretched years of its incarnate life? Do you not perceive that it is my diviner nature--my spiritual being, that burns and pants to commingle with your own?" She urged her frail health as an objection. For that he would love--worship her--the more, he said. He plead for her pity upon his loneliness--his sorrows--and swore that he would comfort and soothe her in hers, through life, and when death should come, joyfully go down with her into the night of the grave. Finally he appealed to her ambition. "Was I right, Helen, in my first impression of you?--in the impression that you are ambitious? If so, and if you will have faith in me, I can and will satisfy your wildest desires. Would it not be glorious to establish in America, the sole unquestionable aristocracy--that of the intellect--to secure its supremacy--to lead and control it?" Still the _yes_ that so often seemed trembling upon her lips was not spoken. She received his almost daily letters and his frequent visits, listened to his rapturous love-making--trembling, blushing, letting him see that she was under the spell, that she loved him. Indeed she could not have helped his seeing it had she wished; but when he spoke of marriage she hesitated--tantalizing him to the point of madness, almost. What was it that held her back?--She too, believed that it was the hand of Fate that had brought them together--that they were pre-ordained to cheer each other's latter years, to establish that intellectual aristocracy of which he dreamed. Yet she shrank from taking the step. When his great solemn eyes were upon her, his beautiful face pale and haggard with excess of feeling, turned toward her, his eloquent words of love in her ears, she sat as one entranced--bewitched; yet she would not give the word he longed for--the word of willingness to embark with him upon the sea of life. _Fear_ checked her. Such an uncharted sea it seemed to her--she dared not say him yea! The truth was the poison was working--the Griswold poison. The wildest rumors came to her ears of the worse than follies of her lover. She knew that they were at least, overdrawn--possibly altogether false--yet they frightened her. "Do you know Helen Whitman?" wrote one of The Dreamer's enemies to Dr. Griswold. "Of course you have heard it rumored that she is to marry Poe. Well, she has seemed to me a good girl and--you know what Poe is. Has Mrs. Whitman no friend in your knowledge that can faithfully explain Poe to her?" But Rufus Griswold had already "explained Poe" to those whom he knew would take pains to pass the explanation on to "Helen"--had dropped the poison where he reckoned it would work with the greatest speed and effect. The explanation, with the usual indirectness of a Griswold, was sugared with a compliment. "Poe has great intellectual power," he said with emphasis, "_great_ intellectual power, but," he added, with a sidelong glance of the furtive eye and a confidential drop in the voice, "but--he has no principle--no moral sense." The poison reached the destination for which it was intended--the ears of Helen Whitman--in due course, and it terrified her as had none of the rumors she had heard before. Still her lover floundered in the dark--baffled--wondering--not able to make her out. Why did she tantalize him--torture him, thus?--keeping him dangling between Heaven and hell?--he asked himself, and he asked her, over and over again. He became more and more convinced that there was a reason,--what was it? Finally she gave it to him in its baldness and its brutality, just as it had come to her--wrote it to him in a letter. It brought him a rude awakening from his dream of bliss. That such a charge should be brought against him at all was bitter enough, but that it could be repeated to him by "Helen" seemed unbelievable. "You do not love me," he sadly wrote in reply, "or you would not have written these terrible words." Then he swore a great oath: "By the God who reigns in Heaven, I swear to you that my soul is incapable of dishonor--that with the exception of occasional follies and excesses which I bitterly lament, but to which I have been driven by intolerable sorrow, I can call to mind no act of my life which would bring a blush to my cheek--or to yours." He followed the letter with a visit--again throwing himself at her feet and thrilling her with his eloquence and with the magic of his personality. She gave him a half promise and said she would write to him in Lowell, where he had engaged to deliver a lecture. In this town was a roof-tree which was a haven of rest to The Dreamer. Beneath it dwelt his friend and confidant, "Annie" Richmond--his soul's sweet "sister," as he loved to call her. And there he waited with a chastened joy, for he felt assured that the long wished for _yes_ was about to be said, yet dared not give himself over prematurely, to the ecstacy that would soon be his. In the pleasant, friendly family circle of the Richmonds, he sat during those chill November evenings, seeing pictures in the glowing fire, as he held sweet "Annie's" sympathetic hand in his, while the only sound that broke the silence was the ticking of the grandfather's clock in a shadowy corner. Thus quietly, patiently, he waited. * * * * * But in Providence the Griswold poison was at work. All the friends and relatives of "Helen" were possessed of full vials of it--which they industriously poured into her ears. Against it the recollection of the night in the garden and her belief that Fate had ordained her union with the poet, had no avail. The letter that she sent her lover was more non-committal--colder--than any he had received from her before, yet there was still enough of indecision in it to keep him tantalized. In a state of mind well nigh distraction, he bade "Annie" and her cheerful fireside farewell and set his face toward Providence; but he went in a dream--the demon Despair, possessing him. Unstrung, unmanned, almost bereft of reason, his old dissatisfaction with himself and the world overtook him--a longing to be out of it all, for forgetfulness, for peace, yea, even the peace of the grave,--why not? A passionate longing--a homesickness--for the sure, the steadfast, the unvariable love of his beautiful Virginia consumed him. Oh, if he could but lie down and sleep and forget until one sweet day he should wake in the land where she awaited him, and where they would construct anew, and for eternity, the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass! He listened.... For the first time since the Star of Love had ushered in a new day in his life, he heard the swinging of the censers of the angels--he inhaled the incense--he heard the voice of Virginia in the sighing wind. She seemed to call to him. "I am coming, Heartsease!" he whispered as he quaffed the potion that he reckoned would bear him to her. * * * * * But it was not to be. When he awaked, weak and ill, but sane, he found himself with friends. Calmness and strength returned and with them, horror at the deed he had so nearly committed, and deep contrition. With all haste he again presented himself at the door of "Helen," beseeching her to marry him at once and save him, as he believed she only could, from himself. And the consequences of her indecision making her more alarmed for him than she had formerly been for herself, she agreed to an engagement, though not to immediate marriage. He returned to Fordham and to faithful Mother Clemm a wreck of his former self, but engaged to be married! Yet he was not happy--a new horror possessed him. As in the night when the Star of Love first rose upon his vigil it had stopped over the door of "a legended tomb," so now again was his pathway closed. Turn which way he would, the tomb of Virginia seemed to frown upon him. He remembered his promise to her that upon no other daughter of earth would he look with the eyes of love. Vainly did he seek to justify himself to his own heart for breaking the promise. No one could ever supplant her, or fill the void in his life her death had made, he told himself--this new love was something different, and in no way disturbed her memory. But the tomb still stood in his way. "I am calm and tranquil," he wrote "Helen," "and but for a strange shadow of coming evil which haunts me I should be happy. That I am not supremely happy, even when I feel your dear love at my heart, terrifies me." Later he wrote, "You say that all depends on my own firmness. If this be so all is safe. Henceforward I am strong. But all does not depend, dear Helen, upon my firmness--all depends upon the sincerity of your love." * * * * * A month later the skies of Providence shone brightly upon him. He returned there, was received by Mrs. Whitman as her affianced lover, delivered his brilliant lecture upon "The Poetic Principle" to a great throng of enthusiastic hearers, and won a promise from his lady to marry him at once and return with him to Fordham. He scribbled a line to Mother Clemm notifying her to be ready to receive him and his bride and went so far as to engage the services of a clergyman, and to sign a marriage contract, in which Mrs. Whitman's property was made over to her mother. But--just at this point a note was slipped into the hand of "Helen," informing her that her lover had been seen drinking wine in the hotel. When he called at her house soon afterward she received him surrounded by her family and though there were no signs of the wine, said "no" to him, emphatically--for the first time. He plead, but she remained firm--receiving his passionate words of remonstrance with sorrowful silence, while her mother, impatient at his persistence, showed him the door. He prayed that she would at least speak one word to him in farewell. "What can I say?" she questioned. "Say that you love me, Helen." "I love you!" With these words in his ears he was gone. As he passed out of the gate and out of her life he saw, or fancied he saw, through the veiled window, a white figure beckoning to him, but his steps were sternly set toward the opposite direction--his whole being crying within him, "Nevermore--nevermore!" She had stretched out her spiritlike hands, but to draw them back again, in the fashion that fascinated and at the same time maddened him, once too often. The wave of romantic feeling which had borne him along since his vision of her in the garden suddenly subsided, leaving him disillusioned--cold. The reaction was so violent that instead of the magnetic attraction she had had for him he felt himself positively repelled by the thought of her unearthly beauty--her mysterious eyes. He went straight to the depot and took the train just leaving, which would bear him back to the cottage among the cherry trees. Mother Clemm, expecting him to bring home a bride, had spent the day putting an extra touch of brightness upon the simple but already spotless, home. A cheerful fire was in the grate; branches of holly, cedar and such other such bits of beauty as the woods afforded were everywhere about the house, and the Mother herself, in the snowiest of caps with the sheerest of floating strings and a gallant look of welcome upon her sorrowful face, stood at the window and watched for the coming of the son that Heaven had given her, and the woman who was to take the place of the daughter that Heaven had taken away from her. Her oak-like nature had quailed at the thought--but it had withstood many a blast, it could weather one more, and after all, if "Eddie" were happy--. * * * * * In the far distance a figure emerged out of the gathering dusk--a man. Could it be Eddie?--Alone? Yes! It surely was he! The carriage of the head--the military cloak--the walk--were unmistakable. But he was alone!--She grew weak in the knees.--The shock of joy more nearly unnerved her than had the pain. She had braced herself to bear the pain. She recovered her composure and hastened to the door just in time to be folded into the arms of the figure in the cloak. "Helen?"--she queried. "Is dead--to me," he answered, with his arms still about her. "We will have nothing more to say of her except this: Muddie, I have been in a dream from which, thank God, I am now awake. In the darkness of my loneliness--of my misery, of which you alone have the slightest conception, I saw a light which I fancied would lead me to the love for which my soul is starving--to the sympathy which is sweeter even than love to the broken heart of a man. I followed it. I was deceived. It was no real light, but a mere will o' the wisp bred in the dank tarn of despair." He released her to hang up the cloak in the little entrance hall, then taking her hand, which he raised to his lips, drew her into the sitting room. "Ah, but it is good to be at home again!" he exclaimed. His whole manner changed; a mighty weight seemed to roll from his shoulders as he stretched his legs before the fire. His old merry laugh--the laugh of Edgar Goodfellow--rang out as he told "Muddie" of the success of his lecture, in Providence,--of the great audience and the applause. "Muddie," he cried, "my dream of _The Stylus_ will come true yet! A few more such audiences and the money will be in sight! And let me add, I am done with literary women--henceforth literature herself shall be my sole mistress. I am more than ever convinced that the profession of letters is the only one fit for a man of brain. There is little money in it, of course, but I'd rather be a poor-devil author earning a bare living than a king. Beyond a living, what does a man of brain want with money anyhow?--Muddie, did it ever strike you that all that is really valuable to a man of talent--especially to a poet--is absolutely unpurchasable?--Love, fame, the dominion of intellect, the consciousness of power, the thrilling sense of beauty, the free air of Heaven, exercise of body and mind with the physical and moral health that these bring;--these, and such as these are really all a poet cares about. Then why should he mind what the world calls poverty?" "Why indeed?" echoed happy "Muddie." It was so delightful to have her son back at home, and in this hopeful, contented frame, she would have agreed with him in almost any statement he chose to make. He gave her loving messages from "Annie" and told her in the bright, humorous way which was characteristic of Edgar Goodfellow, of many pleasant little incidents of his journey. One of the nights to look back upon and to gloat over in memory was this night by the fireside at Fordham cottage with the Mother--a night of calm and content under the home-roof after tempestuous wandering. A quiet, sweet Christmas they spent together--he reading, writing or talking over plans for new work, while she sat by with her sewing and Catalina dozed on the hearth. Part of every day (wrapped in the old cape) he walked in the pine wood or beside the ice-bound river, and for the first time since the feverish dream of new love had come to him he was able to visit the tomb of Virginia and to dwell with happiness, and with a clear conscience, upon her memory. During these days of serenity a ballad suggested by thoughts of her and his life with her in the lovely Valley of the Many-Colored Grass took form in his mind. It was no dirge-like song of the "dank tarn of Auber," but a song of a fair "kingdom by the sea" and in contrast to the sombre "Ulalume" he gave to the maiden in the new poem the pleasant sounding name of "Annabel Lee." Out of these days too, came "the Bells" and the exquisite sonnet to his "more than Mother." One flash of the false light that had lured him reached The Dreamer at Fordham. He held a letter addressed to him in the familiar handwriting of Helen Whitman long in his hand without opening it. This flame was burned out, he told himself--why rake its cold ashes? Yet he felt that nothing that she could say would have power to disturb his new peace. Still the Mother, though she kept her own counsel, trembled for herself and for him as she was aware (without looking up from her sewing) that he had broken the seal. Some minutes of tense stillness passed--then, "Shall I read you her letter?" he asked. "As you will." "Then I will!--It is in verse and the place from which she dates it is, "Our Island of Dreams," which she explains in a sub-heading is "By the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn" --a line which she has borrowed from Keats. This is what she writes: "Tell him I lingered alone on the shore, Where we parted, in sorrow, to meet nevermore; The night-wind blew cold on my desolate heart But colder those wild words of doom, 'Ye must part!' "O'er the dark, heaving waters, I sent forth a cry; Save the wail of those waters there came no reply. I longed, like a bird, o'er the billows to flee, From our lone island home and the moan of the sea: "Away,--far away--from the wild ocean shore, Where the waves ever murmur, 'No more, nevermore,' Where I wake, in the wild noon of midnight, to hear The lone song of the surges, so mournful and drear. "Where the clouds that now veil from us heaven's fair light, Their soft, silver lining turn forth on the night; When time shall the vapors of falsehood dispel He shall know if I loved him; but never how well." Silence followed the reading of the poem-letter. Finally the mother asked, "Will you go back?" He placed the letter upon the top of a pile in the same handwriting, tied them together with a bit of ribbon and laid them in a small drawer of his desk. Then, rising, he leaned over the back of "Muddie's" chair and lightly touching her seamed forehead with his lips replied, "Quoth the raven, nevermore!" Then took up a garland of evergreen which he had been making when the Mother came in with the mail, and set out in the direction of the churchyard with its "legended tomb." CHAPTER XXXIII. Back in Richmond!--The Richmond he loved best--Richmond full of sunshine and flowers and the sweet southern social life out of doors, in gardens and porches; Richmond in summertime! In spite of the changes his observant eye marked as he rattled over the cobblestones toward the "Swan Tavern," on Broad and Ninth Streets, he almost felt that he was back in boyhood. It was just such a day, just this time of year, that--as a lad of eleven--he had seen Richmond first after his five years absence in England. How good it was to be back upon the sacred soil! How sweet the air was, and how beautiful were the roses! When before, had he seen a magnolia tree in bloom?--with its dense shade, its dark green shining foliage, and its snow-white blossoms. Was there anything in the world so sweet as its odor, combined with that of the roses and the other flowers that filled the gardens? It was worth coming all the way from New York just to see and to smell them. He caught glimpses of one or two familiar figures as he drove along. How impatient he was to see his old friends--everybody--white and colored, old and young, masculine and feminine. He could hardly wait to get to the tavern, remove the dust of travel and sally forth upon the round of visits he intended to make. His spirits went up--and up, and finally it was Edgar Goodfellow in the flesh who stepped jauntily from the door of "Swan Tavern," arrayed for hot-weather calling. In spite of the summer temperature, he looked the personification of coolness and comfort. The taste of prosperity his lectures had brought him was evident in his modest but spruce apparel. He had discarded the habitual black cloth for a coat and trousers of white linen (exquisitely laundered by Mother Clemm's capable and loving hands) which he wore with a black velvet vest for which he had also to thank the Mother and her skilled needle. A broad-brimmed Panama hat shaded his pale features and the grey eyes, which glowed with happiness. As with proudly carried head and quick, easy gait, he bore westward up Broad Street, no single person passed him that did not turn to look with admiration upon the handsome, distinguished stranger, and to mentally ask "Who is he?" It so happened that Jack Mackenzie was the first acquaintance he met. "Edgar," he said, as their hands joined in affectionate grasp, "Do you remember once, years ago, I met you in the street and you said you were going to look for the end of the rainbow? Well, you look as if you had found it!" "I have," was the reply. "An hour ago. It was here in Richmond all the time and I didn't know it, and like a poor fool, have been wandering the world over in a vain search for it. The trouble is, I was looking for the wrong thing. I was looking for fame and fortune, thought of which blinded my eyes to something far better--scenes and friendships of _lang syne_. Jack--" he continued, as--arm in arm--the two friends made their way up the street. "Jack, life is a great schoolmaster, but why does it take so long to drub any sense into these blockheads of ours?" "Damned if I know," replied his companion, who was more truthful always than either poetic or philosophic, "but if you mean that you've decided to come back to Richmond to live, I'm mighty glad to hear it." "That's what I mean. I came only for a visit and to lecture, but made up my mind on the way from the depot to come for good as soon as I can arrange to do so. I think it was a magnolia tree in bloom--the first I had seen in many a year--that decided me." "Well, all of your old friends will be glad to have you back; there's one in particular that I might mention. Do you remember Elmira Royster? She's a comely widow now, with a comfortable fortune, and she's always had a lingering fondness for you. I advise you to hunt her up." The Dreamer's face clouded. "Women are angels, Jack," he said. "They are the salt that will save this world, if it is to be saved, and for poor sinners like me there would be simply no hope in either this world or the next but for them; but they will have no more part in my life, save as friends. A true friend of mine, however, I believe Myra is. I saw her during my brief visit here last fall.--Ah, Rob! my boy! Howdy!" The two friends had turned into Sixth Street and as they drew near the corner of Sixth and Grace, almost ran into Rob Stanard--now a prominent lawyer and one of the leading gentlemen of the town. "Eddie Poe, as I'm alive!" he exclaimed, with a hearty hand-clasp. "My, my, what a pleasure! I'm on my way home to dinner, boys. Come in, both of you and take pot-luck with us. My wife will be delighted to see you!" The invitation was accepted as naturally as it was given, and the three mounted together the steps of the beautiful house and were received in the charmingly homelike drawing-room opening from the wide hall, by Rob's wife, a Kentucky belle who had stepped gracefully into her place as mistress of one of the notable homes in Virginia's capital. As she gave her jewelled hand to Edgar Poe her handsome black eyes sparkled with pleasure. She was not only sincerely glad to receive the friend of her husband's boyhood, but keen appreciation of intellectual gifts made her feel that to know him was a distinction. Some of the servants who had known "Marse Eddie" in the old days were still of the household--having come to Robert Stanard as part of his father's estate--and they were to their intense gratification, pleasantly greeted by the visitor. That evening--and many subsequent evenings--The Dreamer spent at "Duncan Lodge" with the Mackenzies and their friends. A series of sunlit days followed--days of lingering in Rob Sully's studio or in the familiar office of _The Southern Literary Messenger_ where the editor, Mr. John R. Thompson--himself a poet--gave him a warm welcome always, and gladly accepted and published in _The Messenger_ anything the famous former editor would let him have; days of wandering in the woods or by the tumbling river he had loved as a lad; days of searching out old haunts and making new ones. And everywhere he found welcome. Delightful little parties were given in his honor, when in return for the courtesies paid him he charmed the company by reciting "The Raven" as he alone could recite it. His lectures upon "The Poetic Principle" and "The Philosophy of Composition," and his readings in the assembly rooms of the Exchange Hotel, drew the elite of the city, who sat spellbound while he, erect and still and pale as a statue, filled their ears with the music of his voice, and their souls with wonder at the brilliancy of his thought and words. Subscriptions to _The Stylus_ poured in. At last, this dream of his life seemed an assured fact. One door--one only in all the town did not swing wide to receive him. The closed portal of the mansion of which he had been the proud young master, still said to him "Nevermore"--and he always had a creepy sensation when he passed it, which even the sight of the flower-garden he had loved, in fullest bloom, did not overcome. The golden days ran into golden weeks and the weeks into months, and still Edgar Poe was making holiday in Richmond--the first holiday he had had since, as a youth of seventeen he had quarrelled with John Allan and gone forth to the battle of life. In the long, long battle since then there had been more of joy than they knew who looking on had seen the toil and the defeat and the despair, but from whose eyes the exaltation he had felt in the act of creation or in the contemplation of the works of nature, and the happiness he found in his frugal home, were hidden. But, as has been said, there had been no holiday, until now when he had come back to Richmond an older and a sadder and a more experienced Edgar Poe--an Edgar Poe upon whom the Silence and the Solitude had fallen and had left shaken--broken. Yet that personal identity upon the mystery of which he liked to ponder--the unquenchable, immortal _ego_ was there; and it was, for all the outward and inward changes, the same Edgar Poe, with his two natures--Dreamer and Goodfellow--alternately dominating him, who had come back to find the real end of the rainbow in revisiting old scenes, renewing old friendships, awakening old memories--and had paused to make holiday. Even in these golden days there were occasional falls, for the cup of kindness was everywhere and in his blood was the same old strain which made madness for him in the single glass--the single drop, almost; and in spite of all the great schoolmaster, Life, had taught him, there was in his will the same old element of weakness. Had it been otherwise he had not been Edgar Poe. At times, too, the blue devils raised their heads. Had it been otherwise he had not been Edgar Poe. But on the whole the holiday was a bright dream of Paradise regained at a time when more than ever before his feet had seemed to march only to the cadence of the old, sad word, Nevermore. Two sacred pilgrimages he made early in this holiday--to the two shrines of his romantic boyhood--to Shockoe Cemetery, where he not only visited "Helen's" tomb, but laid a wreath upon the grave of Frances Allan--his little foster mother, and to the churchyard on the hill. The white steeple still slept serenely in the blue atmosphere above the church and, as of yore, the bell called in deep, sweet tones to prayer. But how the churchyard had filled since he saw it last! Graves, graves everywhere. It was appalling! He stepped between the graves, old and new, stooping to read the inscriptions upon the slabs. So many that he remembered as merry boys and girls and hale men and women still in their prime--could they really be dead?--gone forever from the scenes which had known them and of which they seemed an integral part? Oh, mystery of mysteries, how was it possible?--Yet here were their names plainly written upon the marbles! The church builded by men's hands, the trees planted by men's hands, the monuments fashioned by men's hands remained, but the living, breathing men, where were they? Could it be that God's highest creation was a more perishable thing than the lifeless work of its own hand? His spirit cried out within him against such a thought. No, it could not be! Gone from earth, or holden from mortal vision they assuredly were--departed--but dead? No! Finally he came to the grave beside the wall. No marble tomb told the passer-by that there lay the body of Elizabeth Poe. Yet, what matter?--Was her sleep the less peaceful? Was her tired spirit the less free?--If in its flight it should visit this spot where it had laid the burden of the body down, surely it would find, for all there was no carven stone to mark it, a most sweet spot. The greenest of grass, and clover with blossoms white and red, waved over it--the summer breeze rippling through them with pleasant sound,--and the tall trees hung a green canopy between it and the midday sun. As he laid his offering of roses among the clover blooms and turned to go away the bell in the steeple began to toll. How the past came back!--He stood with uncovered and bowed head and counted the strokes. Suddenly, there was a sound of horses tramping in the street below the wall. Then through the gate and down the walk it came--the solemn procession. He waited until the last of the mourners had passed into the church, then followed, and as the bell stopped tolling and the organ began to play the familiar, moving chant, he passed in and took a seat near the door. Whose funeral service he was attending he knew not--but he was back in childhood, and it was beautiful to him to hear once more, in this very church, the words of spoken music and the old familiar hymns he had heard that day when his infant heart had been filled with a beautiful sorrow that was not pain. More than one pair of eyes turned to see the owner of the fine tenor voice that joined in the singing of the hymns, and resting for a moment upon the dark, uplifted eyes of Edgar Poe, caught a glimpse of something not of this earth. As he left the church and churchyard, he noted many changes in its immediate neighborhood but the only one upon which his eye lingered was a smug brick house of commodious proportions and genteel aspect. A pleasant green yard afforded space for a few trees and flowers. A dignified and prosperous, but not in the least romantic house it was. A house with no rambling wings giving opportunities for winding passageways and odd nooks and corners; no unexpected closets where skeletons might be in hiding, or dusky stairways to creak in the dead of night, or upon which, even by day, one was almost certain he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure flying before him as he groped his way up or down them. A house with no mysteries--just the house in which one might have expected to find Elmira Royster who, as the Widow Shelton, the prudent housewife and good manager of a prosperous estate, was simply the frank, clear-eyed girl he had known, grown older. He would call upon Elmira sometime, but not now little son, so that she could only use the income, was duly signed and sealed. The wedding ring was bought. With visions of a new start in life, of which there were many happy years in store for him (why not?--He was only forty!) The Dreamer set out on his way back to Fordham to settle up his affairs and bring Mother Clemm to Richmond to witness his marriage and to take up her abode with him and his bride, in the brick house on the hill. He had been upon a holiday, but he carried with him a goodly sum of money realized from his lectures, and a long list of subscribers to _The Stylus_. Surely, Fortune had never shown him a more smiling face! * * * * * Baltimore!-- Why did his way lie through Baltimore? Baltimore, with its memories of Virginia--Baltimore where he had come up out of the grave to the heaven of her love, and where had been first constructed the most beautiful of all his dreams--the dream of the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, in which he and she and the Mother had lived for each other only! In Baltimore again he found his way stopped by the vision of "a legended tomb." It was paralyzing! He could go no further upon his journey, but lingered in Baltimore, wandering the streets like one bereft. The words--the prophetic words--of his own poem "To One in Paradise," haunted him: "A voice from out the future cries, 'On! on!' But o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast!" And again, the words of his "Bridal Ballad"--more prophetic still: "Would to God I could awaken! For I dream I know not how; And my soul is sorely shaken Lest an evil step be taken,-- Lest the dead who is forsaken May not be happy now." And that merciless other self, his accusing Conscience, arose, and with whisper louder and more terrible than ever before, upbraided him--reminding him of the vow he had made his wife upon her bed of death. Alas, the vow!--that solemn, sacred vow! How could he have so utterly forgotten it? How plainly he could see her lying upon the snowy pillow--her face not much less white--her trustful eyes on his eyes as he knelt by her side and swore that he would never bind himself in marriage to another--invoking from Heaven a terrible curse upon his soul if he should ever prove traitorous to his oath. Alas, where had been his will that he had so soon forgotten his vow? How he despised himself for his weakness--he that had boasted in the words of old Joseph Glanvil, until he had almost made them his own words: "'Man doth not yield himself to the angels nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his will.'" * * * * * Hours on hours he wandered the streets of the city whose every paving stone seemed to speak to him of his Virginia--the city where he had walked with her--where he had first spoken of love to her and heard her sweet confession--where, in the holy church, the beautiful words of the old, old rite had made them one. All day he wandered, and all night--driven, cruelly driven--by the upbraiding whisper in his ear, while before him still he saw her white face with the soft eyes looking out--it seemed to him in reproach. Finally the longing which had come upon him in Providence--the longing for the peace of the grave and reunion, in death, with Virginia, was strong upon him again--pressed him hard--mastered him. It was sometime in the early morning that he swallowed the draught--the draught that would free his spirit, that would enable him to lay down the burden of his body and to fly from the steps that dogged _his_ steps--from the voice that whispered upbraidings. He would lay his body down by the side of her body in the "legended tomb" while his spirit would fly to join her spirit in that far Aidenn where they would be happy together forever. As he fell asleep he murmured (again quoting himself): "And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee." When he opened his wondering eyes upon the white walls of the hospital he was feeble and weak in his limbs as an infant, but his brain was unclouded. Gentle hands ministered to him and a woman's voice read him spirit-soothing words from the Gospel of St. John. But the draught had done its work. He lingered some days and then, on Sunday morning, the seventh day of October of the year 1849, his spirit took its flight. His last words were a prayer: "Lord, have mercy on my poor soul!" Many were the friends who rose up to comfort the stricken mother and who hastened to bring rosemary to the poet's grave. But there was one whom he had believed to be his friend--a big man whose big brain he had admired--in whose furtive eye was an unholy glee, about whose thick lips played a smile which slightly revealed his fang-like teeth. To him was entrusted the part of literary executor--it had been The Dreamer's own request. In his power it would lie to give to the world his own account of this man who had said he was no poet and had distanced him in the race for a woman's favor. The day was at hand when Rufus Griswold would have his full revenge upon the fair fame of Edgar the Dreamer. * * * * * "Out--out are the lights--out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm; And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, 'Man,' And its hero the Conqueror Worm." * * * * * Transcriber's note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected.