My Dear Willis:—
The paragraph which has been put in circulation respecting my wife’s illness, my own, my poverty etc., is now lying before me; together with the beautiful lines by Mrs. Locke and those by Mrs.—, to which the paragraph has given rise, as well as your kind and manly comments in “The Home Journal.”
The motive of the paragraph I leave to the conscience of him or her who wrote it or suggested it. Since the thing is done, however, and since the concerns of my family are thus pitilessly thrust before the public, I perceive no mode of escape from a public statement of what is true and what erroneous in the report alluded to.
That my wife is ill, then, is true; and you may imagine with what feeling I add that this illness, hopeless from the first, has been heightened and precipitated by her reception, at two different periods, of anonymous letters—one enclosing the paragraph now in question; the other, those published calumnies of Messrs—, for which I yet hope to find redress in a court of justice.
Of the facts, that I myself have been long and dangerously ill, and that my illness has been a well understood thing among my brethren of the press, the best evidence is afforded by the innumerable paragraphs of personal and literary abuse with which I have been latterly assailed. This matter, however, will remedy itself. At the very first blush of my new prosperity, the gentlemen who toadied me in the old, will recollect themselves and toady me again. You, who know me, will comprehend that I speak of these things only as having served, in a measure, to lighten the gloom of unhappiness, by a gentle and not unpleasant sentiment of mingled pity, merriment and contempt.
That, as the inevitable consequence of so long an illness, I have been in want of money, it would be folly in me to deny—but that I have ever materially suffered from privation, beyond the extent of my capacity for suffering, is not altogether true. That I am “without friends” is a gross calumny, which I am sure you never could have believed, and which a thousand noble-hearted men would have good right never to forgive me for permitting to pass unnoticed and undenied. Even in the city of New York I could have no difficulty in naming a hundred persons, to each of whom—when the hour for speaking had arrived—I could and would have applied for aid and with unbounded confidence, and with absolutely no sense of humiliation.
I do not think, my dear Willis, that there is any need of my saying more. I am getting better, and may add—if it be any comfort to my enemies—that I have little fear of getting worse. The truth is, I have a great deal to do; and I have made up my mind not to die till it is done.
Sincerely yours,
EDGAR A. POE.
Rumors of Poe’s destitution, illness, and possible insanity swirled in the New York newspapers in late 1846. Poe here turns to his erstwhile employer to help him refute the charge that he has no friends. The paragraph in question represented Poe and his wife as “dangerously ill” and “so far reduced as to be barely able to obtain the necessaries of life.” The “published calumnies” for which Poe sought (and won) legal satisfaction were promulgated by Thomas Dunn English and Hiram Fuller.
EDGAR ALLAN POE TO MARIE L. SHEW
[January 29, 1847.]
Kindest—dearest friend—
My poor Virginia still lives, although failing fast and now suffering much pain. May God grant her life until she sees you and thanks you once again! Her bosom is full to overflowing—like my own—with a boundless—inexpressible gratitude to you. Lest she may never see you more—she bids me say that she sends you her sweetest kiss of love and will die blessing you. But come—oh come to-morrow! Yes, I will be calm—everything you so nobly wish to see me. My mother sends you, also, her “warmest love and thanks.” She begs me to ask you, if possible, to make arrangements at home so that you may stay with us tomorrow night. I enclose the order to the Postmaster.
Heaven bless you and farewell
EDGAR A POE.
Fordham,
Jan. 29. 47
Mrs. Shew nursed both Poe and Virginia during the worst months of their life together. This note, penned on the eve of Virginia’s death, expresses the gratitude and love of both husband and wife.
EDGAR ALLAN POE TO GEORGE W. EVELETH
New-York—Jan. 4, 1848.
My Dear Sir—
Your last, dated July 26, ends with—“Write will you not”? I have been living ever since in a constant state of intention to write, and finally concluded not to write at all until I could say something definite about The Stylus and other matters. You perceive that I now send you a Prospectus—but before I speak farther on this topic, let me succinctly reply to various points in your letter. 1.—“Hawthorne” is out—how do you like it? 2—“The Rationale of Verse” was found to come down too heavily (as I forewarned you it did) upon some of poor Colton’s personal friends in Frogpondium—the “pundits” you know; so I gave him “a song” for it & took it back. The song was “Ulalume a Ballad” published in the December number of the Am. Rev. I enclose it as copied by the Home Journal (Willis’s paper) with the Editor’s remarks—please let me know how you like “Ulalume”. As for the “Rat. of Verse” I sold it to “Graham” at a round advance on Colton’s price, and in Graham’s hands it is still—but not to remain even there; for I mean to get it back, revise or rewrite it (since “Evangeline” has been published) and deliver it as a lecture when I go South & West on my Magazine expedition. 3—I have been “so still” on account of preparation for the magazine campaign—also have been working at my book—nevertheless I have written some trifles not yet published—some which have been. 4—My health is better—best. I have never been so well. 5—I do not well see how I could have otherwise replied to English. You must know him, (English) before you can well estimate my reply. He is so thorough a “blatherskite” that to have replied to him with dignity would have been the extreme of the ludicrous. The only true plan—not to have replied to him at all—was precluded on account of the nature of some of his accusations—forgery for instance. To such charges, even from the Autocrat of all the Asses—a man is compelled to answer. There he had me. Answer him I must. But how? Believe me there exists no such dilemma as that in which a gentleman is placed when he is forced to reply to a blackguard. If he have any genius then is the time for its display. I confess to you that I rather like that reply of mine in a literary sense—and so do a great many of my friends. It fully answered its purpose beyond a doubt—would to Heaven every work of art did as much! You err in supposing me to have been “peevish” when I wrote the reply:—the peevishness was all “put on” as a part of my argument—of my plan:—so was the “indignation” with which I wound up. How could I be either peev-ish or indignant about a matter so well adapted to further my purposes? Were I able to afford so expensive a luxury as personal and especially as refutable abuse, I would willingly pay any man $2000 per annum, to hammer away at me all the year round. I suppose you know that I sued the Mirror & got a verdict. English eloped. 5—The “common friend” referred to is Mrs Frances S. Osgood, the poetess.—6—I agree with you only in part as regards Miss Fuller. She has some general but no particular critical powers. She belongs to a school of criticism—the Gothean, esthetic, eulogistic. The creed of this school is that, in criticizing an author you must imitate him, ape him, out-Herod Herod. She is grossly dishonest. She abuses Lowell, for example, (the best of our poets, perhaps) on account of a personal quarrel with him. She has omitted all mention of me for the same reason—although, a short time before the issue of her book, she praised me highly in the Tribune. I enclose you her criticism that you may judge for yourself. She praised “Witchcraft” because Mathews (who toadies her) wrote it. In a word, she is an ill-tempered and very inconsistent old maid—avoid her. 7—Nothing was omitted in “Marie Roget” but what I omitted myself:—all that is mystification. The story was originally published in Snow-den’s “Lady’s Companion”. The “naval officer” who committed the murder (or rather the accidental death arising from an attempt at abortion) confessed it; and the whole m
atter is now well understood—but, for the sake of relatives, his is a topic on which I must not speak further. 8—“The Gold Bug” was originally sent to Graham, but he not liking it, I got him to take some critical papers instead, and sent it to The Dollar Newspaper which had offered $100 for the best story. It obtained the premium and made a great noise. 9—The “necessities” were pecuniary ones. I referred to a sneer at my poverty on the part of the Mirror. 10—You say—“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 & underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered partially and I again hoped. At the end of a year the vessel broke again—I went through precisely the same scene. Again in about a year afterward. Then again—again—again & even once again at varying intervals. Each time I felt all the agonies of her death—and at each accession of the disorder I loved her more dearly & clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity. But I am constitutionally sensitive—nervous in a very unusual degree. I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. During these fits of absolute unconsciousness I drank, God only knows how often or how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity to the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had indeed, nearly abandoned all hope of a permanent cure when I found one in the death of my wife. This I can & do endure as becomes a man—it was the horrible never-ending oscillation between hope & despair which I could not longer have endured without the total loss of reason. In the death of what was my life, then, I receive a new but—oh God! how melancholy an existence.
And now, having replied to all your queries let me refer to The Stylus. I am resolved to be my own publisher. To be controlled is to be ruined. My ambition is great. If I succeed, I put myself (within 2 years) in possession of a fortune & infinitely more. My plan is to go through the South & West & endeavor to interest my friends so as to commence with a list of at least 500 subscribers. With this list I can take the matter into my own hands. There are some few of my friends who have sufficient confidence in me to advance their subscriptions—but at all events succeed I will. Can you or will you help me? I have room to say no more.
Truly Yours—
E A POE.
[Please re-enclose the printed slips when you have done with them. Have you seen the article on “The American Library” in the November No. of Blackwood, and if so, what do you think of it? E. A. Poe.]
This lengthy reply to a young admirer touches on a range of fascinating topics. Poe’s enumeration of points includes two items numbered “5.” Significantly he alludes to plans for The Stylus and to his ongoing irritation with English, “the Autocrat of the Asses,” who continued to satirize Poe in the pages of a weekly newspaper called the John-Donkey. He also clarifies the process by which “The Gold-Bug” was withdrawn from Graham’s for entry in the Dollar Newspaper contest. Most significantly, Poe explains his drinking of the mid-1840s as a reaction to Virginia’s illness, here described (in terms reminiscent of “Ligeia”) as a “horrible never-ending oscillation between hope & despair.”
EDGAR ALLAN POE TO GEORGE W. EVELETH
New-York—Feb. 29—48.
My Dear Sir,
I mean to start for Richmond on the 10th March. Every thing has gone as I wished it, and my final success is certain, or I abandon all claims to the title of Vates. The only contretemps of any moment, lately, has been Willis’s somewhat premature announcement of my project:—but this will only force me into action a little sooner than I had proposed. Let me now answer the points of your last letter.
Colton acted pretty much as all mere men of the world act. I think very little the worse of him for his endeavor to succeed with you at my expense. I always liked him and I believe he liked me. His intellect was o. His “I understand the matter perfectly,” amuses me. Certainly, then, it was the only matter he did understand. “The Rationale of Verse” will appear in “Graham” after all:—I will stop in Phil: to see the proofs. As for Godey, he is a good little man and means as well as he knows how. The editor of the “Weekly Universe” speaks kindly and I find no fault with his representing my habits as “shockingly irregular”. He could not have had the “personal acquaintance” with me of which he writes; but has fallen into a very natural error. The fact is thus:—My habits are rigorously abstemious and I omit nothing of the natural regimen requisite for health:—i.e.—I rise early, eat moderately, drink nothing but water, and take abundant and regular exercise in the open air. But this is my private life—my studious and literary life—and of course escapes the eye of the world. The desire for society comes upon me only when I have become excited by drink. Then only I go—that is, at these times only I have been in the practice of going among my friends: who seldom, or in fact never, having seen me unless excited, take it for granted that I am always so. Those who really know me, know better. In the meantime I shall turn the general error to account. But enough of this: the causes which maddened me to the drinking point are no more, and I am done drinking, forever.—I do not know the “editors & contributors” of the “Weekly Universe” and was not aware of the existence of such a paper. Who are they? or is it a secret? The “most distinguished of American scholars” is Prof. Chas. Anthon, author of the “Classical Dictionary”.
I presume you have seen some newspaper notices of my late lecture on the Universe. You could have gleaned, however, no idea of what the lecture was, from what the papers said it was. All praised it—as far as I have yet seen—and all absurdly misrepresented it. The only report of it which approaches the truth, is the one I enclose—from the “Express”—written by E. A. Hopkins—a gentleman of much scientific acquirement—son of Bishop Hopkins of Vermont—but he conveys only my general idea, and his digest is full of inaccuracies. I enclose also a slip from the “Courier & Enquirer”:—please return them. To eke out a chance of your understanding what I really did say, I add a loose summary of my propositions & results:
The General Proposition is this:—Because Nothing was, therefore All Things are.
1. —An inspection of the universality of Gravitation—i.e., of the fact that each particle tends, not to any one common point, but to every other particle—suggests perfect totality, or absolute unity, as the source of the phaenomenon.
2. —Gravity is but the mode in which is manifested the tendency of all things to return into their original unity; is but the reaction of the first Divine Act.
3. —The law regulating the return—i.e., the law of Gravitation—is but a necessary result of the necessary & sole possible mode of equable irradiation of matter through space:—this equable irradiation is necessary as a basis for the Nebular Theory of Laplace.
4. —The Universe of Stars (contradistinguished from the Universe of Space) is limited.
5. —Mind is cognizant of Matter only through its two properties, attraction and repulsion: therefore Matter is only attraction & repulsion: a finally consolidated globe of globes, being but one particle, would be without attraction, i.e., gravitation; the existence of such a globe presupposes the expulsion of the separative ether which we know to exist between the particles as at present diffused:—thus the final globe would be matter without attraction & repulsion:—but these are matter:—then the final globe would be matter without matter:—i.e., no matter at all:—it must disappear. Thus Unity is Nothingness.
6. Matter, springing from Unity, sprang from Nothingness:—i.e., was created.
7. All will return to Nothingness, in returning to Unity.
Read these items after the Report. As to the Lecture, I am very quiet about it—but, if you have ever dealt with such topics, you will recognize the novelty & moment of my views. What I have propounded will (in good time) revolutionize the world of Physical & Metaphysical Science. I say this calmly—but I say it.
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I shall not go till I hear from you.
Truly Yours,
E A POE
By the bye, lest you infer that my views, in detail, are the same with those advanced in the Nebular Hypothesis, I venture to offer a few addenda, the substance of which was penned, though never printed, several years ago, under the head of—A Prediction. . . .
How will that do for a postscript?
This letter reveals Poe’s utter preoccupation with the cosmological theories eventually published as Eureka. Poe labors to refute more accusations of insobriety but curiously refuses to disagree with the editors of the Weekly Universe, who have described his habits as “shockingly irregular.” The lengthy post-script, condensed here, appears in Mabbott’s edition of Tales (volume 3, pages 1320-22) as “A Prediction,” and elaborates a theory of the origins of the solar system.
EDGAR ALLAN POE TO SARAH HELEN WHITMAN
[Fordham] Sunday Night—Oct. 1—48.
I have pressed your letter again and again to my lips, sweetest Helen—bathing it in tears of joy, or of a “divine despair”. But I—who so lately, in your presence, vaunted the “power of words”—of what avail are mere words to me now? Could I believe in the efficiency of prayers to the God of Heaven, I would indeed kneel—humbly kneel—at this the most earnest epoch of my life—kneel in entreaty for words—but for words that should disclose to you—that might enable me to lay bare to you my whole heart. All thoughts—all passions seem now merged in that one consuming desire—the mere wish to make you comprehend—to make you see that for which there is no human voice—the unutterable fervor of my love for you:—for so well do I know your poet-nature, oh Helen, Helen! that I feel sure if you could but look down now into the depths of my soul with your pure spiritual eyes you could not refuse to speak to me what, alas! you still resolutely have unspoken—you would love me if only for the greatness of my love. Is it not something in this cold, dreary world, to be loved?— Oh, if I could but burn into your spirit the deep—the true meaning which I attach to those three syllables underlined!—but, alas: the effort is all in vain and “I live and die unheard”.
The Portable Edgar Allan Poe Page 57