The Man Who Called Himself Poe

by Sam Moskowitz

  for I hold no brief for the literary hero-worshiper or the

  scholarly collector as a type. I own to a more than passing

  interest in the tales of Poe, but my interest does not extend

  to the point of ferreting out the exact date upon which Mr.

  Poe first decided to raise a moustache, nor would I be un-

  duly intrigued by the opportunity to examine several hairs

  preserved from that hirsute appendage.

  So it was rather the person and personality of Launcelot

  Canning himself which caused me to accept his proffered

  hospitality. For the man who proposed to become my host

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  1 0 J

  might have himself stepped from the pages of a Poe tale. His

  speech, as I have endeavored to indicate, was characterized

  by a courtly rodomontade so often exemplified in Poe's

  heroes—and beyond certainty, his appearance bore out the

  resemblance.

  Launcelot Canning had the cadaverousness of complex-

  ion, the large, liquid, luminous eye, the thin, curved lips,

  the delicately modeled nose, finely molded chin, and dark,

  web-like hair of a typical Poe protagonist.

  It was this phenomenon which prompted my acceptance

  and led me to journey to his Maryland estate, which, as I

  now perceived, in itself manifested a Poe-etic quality of its

  own, intrinsic in the images of the gray sedge, the ghastly

  tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows of the

  mansion of gloom. All that was lacking was a tarn and a

  moat—and as I prepared to enter the dwelling I half-

  expected to encounter therein the carved ceilings, the som-

  ber tapestries, the ebon floors and the phantasmagoric

  armorial trophies so vividly described by the author of Tales

  of the Grotesque and Arabesque.

  Nor upon entering Launcelot Canning's home was I too

  greatly disappointed in my expectations. True to both the

  atmospheric quality of the decrepit mansion and to my

  own fanciful presentiments, the door was opened in re-

  sponse to my knock by a valet who conducted me, in silence,

  through dark and intricate passages to the study of his

  master.

  The room in which I found myself was very large and

  lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at

  so vast a distance from the black oaken floor as to be alto-

  gether inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams of encrim-

  soned light made their way through the trellised panes, and

  served to render sufficiently distinct the more prominent

  objects around; the eye, however, struggled in vain to reach

  the remoter angles of the chamber or the recesses of the

  vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the

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  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, an-

  tique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments

  lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the

  scene.

  Instead they rendered more distinct that peculiar quality

  of quasi-recollection; it was as though I found myself once

  again, after a protracted absence, in a familiar setting. I

  had read, I had imagined, I had dreamed, or I had actually

  beheld this setting before.

  Upon my entrance, Launcelot Canning arose from a sofa

  on which he had been lying at full length, and greeted me

  with a vivacious warmth which had much in it, I at first

  thought, of an overdone cordiality.

  Yet his tone, as he spoke of the object of my visit, of

  his earnest desire to see me, and of the solace he expected

  me to afford him in a mutual discussion of our interests,

  soon alleviated my initial misapprehension.

  Launcelot Canning welcomed me with the rapt en-

  thusiasm of the born collector—and I came to realize that

  he was indeed just that. For the Poe collection he shortly

  proposed to unveil before me was actually his birthright.

  Initially, he disclosed, the nucleus of the present accu-

  mulation had begun with his grandfather, Christopher Can-

  ning, a respected merchant of Baltimore. Almost eighty

  years ago he had been one of the leading patrons of the arts

  in his community and as such was partially instrumental in

  arranging for the removal of Poe’s body to the southeastern

  corner of the Presbyterian Cemetery at Fayette and Green

  streets, where a suitable monument might be erected. This

  event occurred in the year 1875, and it was a few years

  prior to that time that Canning laid the foundation of the

  Poe collection.

  “Thanks to his zeal,” his grandson informed me, “I am

  today the fortunate possessor of a copy of virtually every

  existing specimen of Poe’s published works. If you will

  step over here”—and he led me to a remote corner of the

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  IO 9

  vaulted study, past the dark draperies, to a bookshelf which

  rose remotely to the shadowy ceiling—“I shall be pleased

  to corroborate that claim. Here is a copy of Al Aaraaf,

  Tamerlane and other Poems in the 1829 edition, and here is

  the still earlier Tamerlane and other Poems of 1827. The

  Boston edition, which, as you doubtless know, is valued

  today at fifteen thousand dollars. I can assure you that

  Grandfather Canning parted with no such sum in order to

  gain possession of this rarity.״

  He displayed the volumes with an air of commingled

  pride and cupidity which is ofttimes characteristic of the

  collector and is by no means to be confused with either

  literary snobbery or ordinary greed. Realizing this, I re-

  mained patient as he exhibited further treasures—copies

  of the Philadelphia Saturday Courier containing early tales,

  bound volumes of The Messenger during the period of Poe’s

  editorship, Grahams Magazine, editions of the New York

  Sun and the New York Mirror boasting, respectively, of

  “The Balloon Hoax״ and “The Raven,״ and files of The Gen-

  tleman’s Magazine. Ascending a short library ladder, he

  handed down to me the Lea and Blanchard edition of Tales

  of the Grotesque and Arabesque, the Conchologist’s First

  Book, the Putnam Eureka, and, finally, the little paper

  booklet, published in 1843 and sold for twelve and a half

  cents, entitled The Prose Romances of Edgar A. Poe; an

  insignificant trifle containing two tales which is valued by

  present-day collectors at fifty thousand dollars.

  Canning informed me of this last fact, and, indeed, kept

  up a running commentary upon each item he presented.

  There was no doubt but that he was a Poe scholar as well

  as a Poe collector, and his words informed tattered speci-

  mens of the Broadway Journal and Godey’s Lady’s Book

  with a singular fascination not necessarily inherent in the

  flimsy sheets or their contents.

  “I owe a great debt to Grandfather Canning’s obsession,”

  he observed, descending the ladder and joining me before

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  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF
POE

  the bookshelves. “It is not altogether a breach of confidence

  to admit that his interest in Poe did reach the point of an

  obsession, and perhaps eventually of an absolute mania.

  The knowledge, alas, is public property, I fear.

  “In the early seventies he built this house, and I am quite

  sure that you have been observant enough to note that it in

  itself is almost a replica of a typical Poe-esque mansion.

  This was his study, and it was here that he was wont to

  pore over the books, the letters, and the numerous memen-

  tos of Poe’s life.

  “W hat prompted a retired merchant to devote himself so

  fanatically to the pursuit of a hobby, I cannot say. Let it

  suffice that he virtually withdrew from the world and from

  all other normal interests. He conducted a voluminous and

  lengthy correspondence with aging men and women who

  had known Poe in their lifetime—made pilgrimages to Ford-

  ham, sent his agents to West Point, to England and Scotland,

  to virtually every locale in which Poe had set foot during

  his lifetime. He acquired letters and souvenirs as gifts, he

  bought them, and—I fear—stole them, if no other means of

  acquisition proved feasible.״

  Launcelot Canning smiled and nodded. “Does all this

  sound strange to you? I confess that once I, too, found it

  almost incredible, a fragment of romance. Now, after years

  spent here, I have lost my own objectivity.״

  “Yes, it is strange,״ I replied. “But are you quite sure

  that there was not some obscure personal reason for your

  grandfather’s interest? Had he met Poe as a boy, or been

  closely associated with one of his friends? Was there, per-

  haps, a distant, undisclosed relationship?”

  At the mention of the last word, Canning started visibly,

  and a tremor of agitation overspread his countenance.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed. “There you voice my own inmost con-

  viction. A relationship—assuredly there must have been one

  —I am morally, instinctively certain that Grandfather Can-

  ning felt or knew himself to be linked to Edgar Poe by ties

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  1 1 1

  of blood. Nothing else could account for his strong initial

  interest, his continuing defense of Poe in the literary con-

  troversies of the day, and his final melancholy lapse into

  a world of delusion and illusion.

  "Yet he never voiced a statement or put an allegation

  upon paper—and I have searched the collection of letters in

  vain for the slightest clue.

  "It is curious that you so promptly divine a suspicion held

  not only by myself but by my father. He was only a child at

  the time of my Grandfather Canning’s death, but the at-

  tendant circumstances left a profound impression upon his

  sensitive nature. Although he was immediately removed

  from this house to the home of his mother’s people in Balti-

  more, he lost no time in returning upon assuming his in-

  heritance in early manhood.

  "Fortunately being in possession of a considerable income,

  he was able to devote his entire lifetime to further research.

  The name of Arthur Canning is still well known in the world

  of literary criticism, but for some reason he preferred to

  pursue his scholarly examination of Poe’s career in privacy.

  I believe this preference was dictated by an inner sensibility;

  that he was endeavoring to unearth some information which

  would prove his father’s, his, and for that matter, my own,

  kinship to Edgar Poe.”

  "You say your father was also a collector?” I prompted.

  "A statement I am prepared to substantiate,” replied my

  host, as he led me to yet another comer of the shadow-

  shrouded study. "But first, if you would accept a glass of

  wrner

  He filled, not glasses, but veritable beakers from a large

  carafe, and we toasted one another in silent appreciation.

  It is perhaps unnecessary for me to observe that the wine

  was a fine old amontillado.

  "Now, then,” said Launcelot Canning. "My father’s special

  province in Poe research consisted of the accumulation and

  study of letters.”

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  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  Opening a series of large trays or drawers beneath the

  bookshelves, he drew out file after file of glassined folios,

  and for the space of the next half-hour I examined Edgar

  Poe’s correspondence—letters to Henry Herring, to Dr.

  Snodgrass, Sarah Shelton, James P. Moss, Elizabeth Poe—

  missives to Mrs. Rockwood, Helen Whitman, Anne Lynch,

  John Pendleton Kennedy—notes to Mrs. Richmond, to John

  Allan, to Annie, to his brother, Henry—a profusion of docu-

  ments, a veritable epistolary cornucopia.

  During the course of my perusal my host took occasion

  to refill our beakers with wine, and the heady draught began

  to take effect—for we had not eaten, and I own I gave no

  thought to food, so absorbed was I in the yellowed pages

  illumining Poe’s past.

  Here was wit, erudition, literary criticism; here were the

  muddled, maudlin outpourings of a mind gone in drink and

  despair; here was the draft of a projected story, the frag-

  ments of a poem; here was a pitiful cry for deliverance and

  a paean to living beauty; here was a dignified response to a

  dunning letter and an editorial pronunciamento to an ad-

  mirer; here was love, hate, pride, anger, celestial serenity,

  abject penitence, authority, wonder, resolution, indecision,

  joy, and soul-sickening melancholia.

  Here was the gifted elocutionist, the stammering drunk-

  ard, the adoring husband, the frantic lover, the proud editor,

  the indigent pauper, the grandiose dreamer, the shabby

  realist, the scientific inquirer, the gullible metaphysician,

  the dependent stepson, the free and untrammeled spirit,

  the hack, the poet, the enigma that was Edgar Allan Poe.

  Again the beakers were filled and emptied.

  I drank deeply with my lips, and with my eyes more

  deeply still.

  For the first time the true enthusiasm of Launcelot Can-

  ning was communicated to my own sensibilities—I divined

  the eternal fascination found in a consideration of Poe the

  writer and Poe the man; he who wrote Tragedy, lived

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  I I 3

  Tragedy, was Tragedy; he who penned Mystery, lived and

  died in Mystery, and who today looms on the literary scene

  as Mystery incarnate.

  And Mystery Poe remained, despite Arthur Canning’s

  careful study of the letters. “My father learned nothing,”

  my host confided, “even though he assembled, as you see

  here, a collection to delight the heart of a Mabbott or a

  Quinn. So his search ranged further. By this time I was old

  enough to share both his interest and his inquiries. Come,”

  and he led me to an ornate chest which rested beneath the

  windows against the west wall of the study.

  Kneeling, he unlocked th
e repository, and then drew

  forth, in rapid and marvelous succession, a series of objects

  each of which boasted of intimate connection with Poe’s

  life.

  There were souvenirs of his youth and his schooling

  abroad—a book he had used during his sojourn at West

  Point—mementos of his days as a theatrical critic in the form

  of playbills, a pen used during his editorial period, a fan

  once owned by his girl-wife, Virginia, a brooch of Mrs.

  Clemm’s; a profusion of objects including such diverse ar-

  tides as a cravat-stock and—curiously enough—Poe’s bat-

  tered and tarnished flute.

  Again we drank, and I own the wine was potent. Can-

  ning’s countenance remained cadaverously wan—but, more-

  over, there was a species of mad hilarity in his eye—an

  evident restrained hysteria in his whole demeanor. At

  length, from the scattered heap of curiosa, I happened to

  draw forth and examine a little box of no remarkable charac-

  ter, whereupon I was constrained to inquire its history and

  what part it had played in the life of Poe.

  “In the life of Poe?” A visible tremor convulsed the fea-

  tures of my host, then rapidly passed in transformation to a

  grimace, a rictus of amusement. “This little box—and you

  will note how, by some fateful design or contrived coinci-

  dence it bears a resemblance to the box he himself con­

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  THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  ceived of and described in his tale “Berenice”—this little

  box is concerned with his death, rather than his life. It is,

  in fact, the selfsame box my grandfather Christopher Can-

  ning clutched to his bosom when they found him down

  there.”

  Again the tremor, again the grimace. “But stay, I have

  not yet told you of the details. Perhaps you would be in-

  terested in seeing the spot where Christopher Canning was

  stricken; I have already told you of his madness, but I did no

  more than hint at the character of his delusions. You have

  been patient with me, and more than patient. Your under-

  standing shall be rewarded, for I perceive you can be fully

  entrusted with the facts.”

  W hat further revelations Canning was prepared to make

  I could not say, but his manner was such as to inspire a

  vague disquiet and trepidation in my breast.