I offer this Book of Truths

In 1848, Poe published the book that he thought would serve as his major posthumous legacy. He was ultimately wrong, but Eureka still interests both scholars and mainstream Poe fans. In his introduction, Poe addressed his audience:

To the few who love me and whom I love — 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 — I offer this Book of Truths, not in its character of Truth-Teller, but for the Beauty that abounds in its Truth; constituting it true. To these I present the composition as an Art-Product alone: let us say as a Romance; or, if I be not urging too lofty a claim, as a Poem.

2009 has brought Poe back to the forefront of the American consciousness, and even internationally. Poe fervor was roaring in January and again in October. Ultimately, did the Poeists broaden our understanding of Poe, or did it merely re-hash the "usual" narrow stuff in his oeuvre? I don't know and I don't think any of us can predict Poe's longevity.

In the end, the Poe Calendar and the Poe Calendar Blog were my 200th birthday presents to Poe. In case you're interested, I totaled 202 posts for his 200th birthday (in varying qualities, I admit). In 2009, I visited Baltimore, Philadelphia, Boston, New York (and ultimately canceled a Richmond trip) on his behalf. I have given lectures, presented papers, screened films, published articles, assisted in a library exhibit, and tried to draw more and more people to Poe. Was I successful? I don't know. I always say it this way: I don't do any of this stuff for me. I do it for him.

Thank you, Edgar, for being a part of who I am. I can't help but believe your introduction to Eureka was written for people like me. And thank you, anyone out there reading these little bits of Poe enthusiasm. Hopefully, you'll follow me over to my new blog.

Though I'm not continuing this blog in 2010, I will leave it up intact as a resource to others. The site is easily searchable, especially using the categories for each post (a list of them is in the sidebar). Anyone with questions is welcome to contact me.

THE END.

A Christmas wedding... almost

Edgar Allan Poe and Sarah Helen Whitman had planned a Christmas wedding on December 25, 1848. Whitman (no relation to Walt, though the two corresponded frequently) was an accomplished and well-known poet from Providence, Rhode Island. A widow, she was six years older than Poe. She was also an ancillary member of the Transcendentalists, a friend of Margaret Fuller, and an admitted disciple of Ralph Waldo Emerson — all of which Poe did not much care for.

Nevertheless, Poe and Whitman hit it off rather well (even despite a possible suicide attempt while Poe was wooing a married woman) and he proposed to her in a cemetery. Whitman, however, was relatively wealthy and her family was concerned Poe was trying to marry her for her money. Undaunted, the couple signed an agreement waiving their rights to inheritance. To further show his commitment, Poe also promised Whitman he would give up drinking — which he almost certainly did.

Poe arrived in Providence on December 20 and, that evening, gave a lecture on poetry at the Franklin Lyceum. Whitman was in the front row and when Poe recited Edward Coote Pinkney's "A Health," he seemed to be directing it right at her ("I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone"). Impressed, she agreed to an immediate marriage. Poe called for Reverend Nathan Bourne Crocker, minister of St. John's Episcopal Church. Poe wrote to Maria Clemm (then in New York): "We shall be married on Monday."

A couple days before the wedding, however, Whitman was sitting in a library when an anonymous note was passed to her. According to the note, Poe had broken his promise to stay sober. Though Poe tried to tell her she had been "misinformed," Whitman called off the wedding and Poe immediately left Providence. They never saw each other again. Their marriage was so close to happening, however, that the couple was congratulated in newspapers throughout the country.

Poe did not stay upset for very long. Soon, he lined up another engagement to a different woman.

After Poe's death, Whitman got Rufus Griswold to confess he had written Poe's libelous obituary. She later published a book defending Poe.

Return good for evil

Psychoanalytic critics often suggest that Poe was obsessed with sick, dying women — that he was personally attracted only to women who were closely aligned with death (rather than it being a literary theory for how to draw in the largest audience with the most poetical topic in the world). Others say that Poe was a pedophile, looking particularly at his relationship with his wife Virginia (I've said this before, I'll say it again: she did grow up) or, at the very least, that he was only attracted to women younger than him.

These critics and analysts conveniently ignore Poe's engagement to Sarah Helen Power, the widowed Mrs. Whitman. She was an accomplished woman and published poet who was exactly six years older than Poe — to the day — and, being quite healthy, outlived him by nearly thirty years.

The couple became engaged after Poe's proposal in a cemetery in December 1848, but there were several compromises for this to happen. One major one was that Poe promised to stop drinking (a promise he seems to have kept, despite meddling from an anonymous interloper). More importantly, however, was Whitman's financial compromise. She was, after all, quite wealthy.

Whitman's family (particularly her mother Mrs. Anna Power) opposed her relationship with Poe, by then a well-known but financially-struggling writer. They assumed he was only interested in the family’s wealth. To assuage them, she signed over her claim to the estate in a contract dated December 15, 1848. She informed Poe the same day, and he added his own signature a week later. He asked Whitman to "Keep up heart — for all will go well. My mother [i.e. Maria Clemm] sends her dearest love and says she will return good for evil & treat you much better than your mother has treated me." That settled, the wedding date was soon chosen. As we all know, however, the wedding never took place.

Unmarried, Whitman never had to give up on her family's wealth (nor did she give up on Poe, who she staunchly defended). When she died in 1878, she gave a substantial portion of her savings to charity, including a fund for "Colored People" and the Rhode Island Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

*The image above is a portrait of Sarah Helen Whitman by Cephas Giovanni Thompson, now in the collection of the Providence Athenaeum.

Ultima Thule

On November 9, 1848, Sarah Helen Whitman convinced Edgar Poe to have his daguerreotype taken in Providence, Rhode Island. It was a few days after Poe's alleged suicide attempt. Whether a true attempt at killing himself or not, Poe was quite ill that day. This image, which has become one of the most iconic images of any American writer (though at least one of Walt Whitman could compete for it) has been many things to many people. It has been used as evidence of Poe's depression, his poverty, his physical idiosyncrasy, or even proof of what killed him (i.e. carbon monoxide).

To Whitman, it was a "sombre & tragic portrait.” She nicknamed it the "Ultima Thule" portrait, in a letter to John Ingram almost exactly 26 years later (the letter was dated November 13, 1874). This image of Poe, at the furthest habitable region of the world, now only exists in copies; the original has disappeared. He died 11 months after he sat for it.

I leave no further commentary; the image is simply too important.

The fever called "Living"

In late 1848, Poe was struggling between two women. One was single and available but, most unfortunately, a Transcendentalist. The other was flirtatious but very married (with children). One was a poet in Providence, Rhode Island, but Sarah Helen Whitman had doubts that Poe was on the right track and urged him to take a temperance pledge (he would take another pledge a year later). The other was a non-literary woman from Lowell, Massachusetts, who promised Poe she'd visit him at his deathbed. Poe wanted to take Nancy Richmond up on that promise.

Making his way from Lowell to Providence, Poe stopped in Boston. On November 5, 1848, he said, he attempted to bring himself near enough to death that Nancy Richmond would have to come see him. So, he procured two ounces of laudanum, an opiate commonly used as a painkiller. He wrote a letter to Nancy, "in which I opened my whole heart to you... whom I so madly, so distractedly love." In the letter, he reminded her of her promise to see him on his deathbed, and wrote where he would be. On his way to the Post Office, he swallowed half his laudanum — an attempt at suicide which he hoped would put him on his deathbed. However, Poe took enough laudanum that he was unable to deliver the letter that would have called for Nancy Richmond to see him. It was not enough to kill him, and Poe wrote how he his stomach had rejected the drug (he vomited). The event is Poe's only documented drug use for either medical or recreational purpose.

He returned to Providence, told Sarah Helen Whitman he was ill, then made his way home to New York. Whitman later described the incident that Poe had "taken something at a druggists" something which he thought would make him feel better. Instead, she said, it "bewildered him." She does not allude to Poe being near death. On November 9, she took him to have his portrait taken.

What really happened in Boston on November 5, 1848? Did Poe really take laudanum and, if so, was it enough to cause his death? Was this really a suicide attempt? Is it really so simple to categorize? The letter, in which Poe poured his soul to Nancy (whom he called "Annie"), the one which he was about to deliver when he took the laudanum, does not exist. Biographers like to say, often without irony or question, that Poe tried to kill himself that day. More likely, Poe was over-dramatizing the whole event and trying to get attention (many "suicide attempts" today are equally an attempt at getting attention). Nevertheless, the incident inspired one of his most powerful poems. Allegedly written to Nancy Richmond, it is addressed in his nickname to her.

"For Annie"

Thank Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated-the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:-
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst:—

Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed—
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.

Poe's proposal in a cemetery

Before I get back to Poe's engagement to Sarah Elmira Royster Shelton, let's go back to exactly one year earlier. It is believed that on September 23, 1848, Poe proposed to the poet Sarah Helen Whitman in Providence, Rhode Island at the Swan Point Cemetery.

The romance between Poe and Whitman, who shared the same January 19 birthday (though she was six years older), was a strange one. She was fairly intellectual but had an alleged heart condition which she treated by inhaling from an ether-soaked handkerchief. More strange, however, was her affiliation with Transcendentalists, including the "busybody" Margaret Fuller. She also had a friendship with, of all people, Elizabeth F. Ellet. Poe was understating things when he wrote, "My heart is heavy, Helen, for I see that your friends are not my own."

Poe had called at Whitman's home in Providence (still standing) on September 21. Over the next couple days, she introduced him to friends and took him to the Providence Athenaeum. He gave her some of his books and revealed he was the author of the poem "Ulalume." On September 23, they visited the cemetery. Whitman later recalled:

He endeavored... to persuade me that my influence and my presence would have power to lift his life out of the torpor of despair which had weighed upon him, and give an inspiration to his genius, of which he had as yet given no token. Notwithstanding the eloquence with which he urged upon me his wishes and his hopes, I knew too well that I could not exercise over him the power which he ascribed to me.*

Poe gave up for a time and had to leave Providence. He would later resume his efforts to impress Whitman, even going so far as taking a pledge of temperance. They eventually were engaged but the December wedding was canceled when rumors were spread about Poe. Nevertheless, years later, Sarah Helen Whitman became one of Poe's strongest advocates after his death.

*The quote comes from a letter, written 25 years later, from Whitman to Richard Henry Stoddard, the self-appointed heir to the literary legacy of Rufus Wilmot Griswold. Think what you will.

Mrs. Shelton is widowed

Alexander Barrett Shelton died of pneumonia at the age of 37 on July 12, 1844 in Richmond, Virginia. He left behind his widow, Sarah Elmira Shelton, and two children — as well as an estate valued at $100,000 (in 1844 dollars, equal to about $2.2 million today). He made his fortune in the transportation industry as the co-owner of a substantial boat route along the James River.

Poe met the widow when she was still Sarah Elmira Royster. At age 15/16, Poe and Elmira (as he called her) spent much of their free time together in Richmond, becoming childhood sweethearts. In 1825, the couple seems to have gotten secretly engaged right before Poe entered the University of Virginia. While at school, Poe sent several letters to his beloved and got more and more anxious when she never responded to any of them. In reality, her father had intercepted the letters and destroyed them before they could be read. Elmira thought Poe had forgotten her and, in 1827, she married Alexander Shelton instead.

The loss of Poe's first relationship inspired several fictionalizations. Baltimore author Lamber A. Wilmer wrote a dramatic poem called Merlin on the relationship. Poe's older brother William Henry Leonard Poe (who seems to have made off with all the middle names while his two younger siblings received none) also fictionalized the romance in a short story called "The Pirate." Poe himself seems to express his emotions in his poems "The Happiest Day" and "Song." The latter seems to make a direct reference to Elmira's marriage to Alexander Shelton; the poem begins: "I saw thee on thy bridal day."

Years later, in 1848, Poe and Elmira met in Richmond again. By then, both were widows (Poe lost his wife Virginia three years after the death of Mr. Shelton). They seem to have almost instantly rekindled their relationship and Poe proposed marriage (again). Elmira carefully considered this; according to Shelton's will, re-marrying would strip her of one-third of her $100,000 inheritance. Her children also clearly did not approve, just as her father had not approved decades earlier. Yet, she clearly was drawn to Poe...

What happens next is a bit unclear. But, that is a discussion for a later date, perhaps a day in September?

A Poe Valentine's Day

As you spread love, chocolate, and flowers this February 14, keep in mind that Poe got into the spirit of Valentine's Day himself. Here are a few examples:

-An acrostic poem written by Poe's wife Virginia, February 14, 1846

Ever with thee I wish to roam —
Dearest my life is thine.
Give me a cottage for my home
And a rich old cypress vine,
Removed from the world with its sin and care
And the tattling of many tongues.
Love alone shall guide us when we are there —
Love shall heal my weakened lungs;
And Oh, the tranquil hours we'll spend,
Never wishing that others may see!
Perfect ease we'll enjoy, without thinking to lend
Ourselves to the world and its glee —
Ever peaceful and blissful we'll be.

(These are the only surviving words written by Virginia. If it's not enough of a tearjerker, check out this musical rendition by an acquaintance of mine.)

Knowing that his wife was dying, Poe kept up flirtations with other women. The same day Virginia presented the above poem, Poe wrote this to Frances Osgood:

-A Valentine February 14, 1846

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure
Divine- a talisman- an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-
The words- the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet's, too,
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-
Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

This next one was written to Marie Louise Shew, a woman who had served as a volunteer nurse as Virginia was dying. It is likely meant platonically.

-To M. L. S.--, dated February 14, 1847

Of all who hail thy presence as the morning-
Of all to whom thine absence is the night-
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun- of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope- for life- ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth- in Virtue- in Humanity-
Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes-
Of all who owe thee most- whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship- oh, remember
The truest- the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him-
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.

Poe was surprised in 1848 when he heard that a poem was dedicated to him at a Valentine's party that year. The author, Sarah Helen Whitman, was very, very close to becoming Poe's second wife. Here is the Valentine poem she wrote for him:

-The Raven, February 14, 1848

Raven, from the dim dominions
On the Night's Plutonian shore,
Oft I hear thy dusky pinions
Wave and flutter round my door—
See the shadow of thy pinions
Float along the moon-lit floor;

Often, from the oak-woods glooming
Round some dim ancestral tower,
In the lurid distance looming—
Some high solitary tower—
I can hear thy storm-cry booming
Through the lonely midnight hour.

When the moon is at the zenith,
Thou dost haunt the moated hall,
Where the marish flower greeneth
O'er the waters, like a pall—
Where the House of Usher leaneth,
Darkly nodding to its fall:

There I see thee, dimly gliding—
See thy black plumes waving slow—
In its hollow casements hiding,
When their shadow yawns below,
To the sullen tarn confiding
The dark secrets of their woe:—

See thee, when the stars are burning
In their cressets, silver clear—
When Ligeia's spirit yearning
For the earth-life, wanders near—
When Morella's soul returning,
Weirdly whispers "I am here."

Once, within a realm enchanted,
On a far isle of the seas,
By unearthly visions haunted,
By unearthly melodies,
Where the evening sunlight slanted
Golden through the garden trees—

Where the dreamy moonlight dozes,
Where the early violets dwell,
Listening to the silver closes
Of a lyric loved too well,
Suddenly, among the roses,
Like a cloud, thy shadow fell.

Once, where Ulalume lies sleeping,
Hard by Auber's haunted mere,
With the ghouls a vigil keeping,
On that night of all the year,
Came thy souding pinions, sweeping
Through the leafless woods of Weir!

Oft, with Proserpine I wander
On the Night's Plutonian shore,
Hoping, fearing, while I ponder
On thy loved and lost Lenore—
On the demon doubts that sunder
Soul from soul forevermore;

Trusting, though with sorrow laden,
That when life's dark dream is o'er,
By whatever name the maiden
Lives within thy mystic lore,
Eiros, in that distant Aidenn,
Shall his Charmion meet once more.