This should be the last episode for now where I deal with the writer’s formal education – and I would like to talk about Edgar’s first published work – Tamerlane and Other Poems.

Edgar had undoubtedly run up thousands of dollars in gambling debts at the University of Virginia, but the man who acted as his father, the wealthy John Allan, was quite mean-spirited in his reaction to Edgar’s finances.

According to Julian Symons in his biography of the writer, The Tell Tale Heart, Edgar was later to write to Allan – “The expenses of the institution at the lowest estimate were $350 per annum . . . You sent me therewith $110. Of this $50 were to be paid immediately for board - $60 for attendance upon 2 professors – and even then you did not miss the opportunity of abusing me because I did not attend 3 … then $15 more were to be paid for room furniture. I had, of course, the mortification of running into debt for public property – against the known rules of the institution, and was immediately regarded in the light of a beggar.”

Clearly the relationship between Edgar and John Allan was becoming more and more strained.  He was to write to Allan – “My determination is at length taken – to leave your house and endeaver to find some place in this wide world where I will be treated – not as you have treated me – This is not a hurried determination, but one on which I have been long considered – and having so considered my resolution is unalterable.”

It is not known how the writer somehow managed to get a ship to Boston, the place of his birth, but he arrived there in April.  The simple fact is that we know very little about what the writer did for the next eighteen months. But we do know that he was able to persuade a printer, Calvin Thomas, to produce a copy of a book called Tamerlane and Other Poems.  It is not known whether the writer had money to pay the young printer, or whether the book was printed on credit.  Tamerlane and Other Poems was Edgar’s first published work, and was published in 1827 when the writer was just 18 years old.  It was released by the time that the writer enlisted in the army under a pseudonymn – a subject I will go into more in my next podcast.

Less than 50 copies of Tamerlaine and Other Poems were released. The paper-bound book (actually more of a pamplet at 40 pages) was published anonymously with the tagline “By a Bostonian.”  Even though Edgar had spent most of his life in Richmond, some critics felt that he wanted to distance himself from his life with John Allan, and Boston was, at the time, a literary center. Tamerlane and Other Poems sold few copies, and the collection received no critical attention.  In fact, the book was largely forgotten until a copy was found in the basement of the British Museum in 1876.

The writer introduced the collection with an apologetic notice admitting the low quality of his work. He claimed, however, that the majority of the poems were written between 1820 and 1821, “when the author had not completed his fourteenth year”– probably an exaggeration. The poems, many of which had a theme of youth, were largely inspired by the work of Lord Byron - in fact, the character of the title poem Tamerlane  has a daughter named “Ada,” perhaps named after Byron’s own daughter. And later the Russian writer, Nabokov, who greatly admired Poe, titled the lead character of one his novels, Ada, after the daughter in Tamerlane.

I think one of the most interesting things about Tamerlane and Other Poems (to some people THE most interesting thing) is its status as a rare book.  A brief look at a few other rare pieces of literature helps put this in perspective.

Most experts believe the rarest of all books is the Gutenberg Bible. It was the first book ever printed on the recently invented printing press, and although several hundred copies were originally printed, finding a complete first edition would net you $25-$35 million. Today single pages alone go for $25,000 each.

Other rare books include the first edition of Shakespeare’s collected works from 1623 (that would set you back at least $6 million dollars), and a collection of Leonardo da Vinci’s manuscripts (worth about $100 million.)  Tamerlane and Other Poems is worth as much as $200,000 to the right buyer.  There are certainly rare European manuscripts written years before Edgar was born that are worth more, but a first edition copy of Tamerlane and Other Poems is the most valuable book by an American writer.

I would like to feature four selections from Tamerlane – the first is a brief portion of the much longer title poem.

We grew in age, and love together, Roaming the forest and the wild; My breast her shield in wintry weather, And when the friendly sunshine smil’d And she would mark the op’ning skies, I saw no Heav’n, but in her eyes — Ev’n childhood knows the human heart; For when, in sunshine and in smiles, From all our little cares apart, Laughing at her half silly wiles, I’d throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears, She’d look up in my wilder’d eye — There was no need to speak the rest — No need to quiet her kind fears — She did not ask the reason why.

I think that The Happiest Day, despite its optimistic title, is one of Poe’s darkest poems – almost as though the speaker is enjoying his or her feelings of regret.

THE HAPPIEST DAY

The happiest day — the happiest hour My sear’d and blighted heart hath known, The highest hope of pride, and power, I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween But they have vanish’d long alas! The visions of my youth have been — But let them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee? Another brow may ev’n inherit The venom thou hast pour’d on me — Be still my spirit.

The happiest day — the happiest hour Mine eyes shall see — have ever seen The brightest glance of pride and power I feel — have been:

But were that hope of pride and power Now offer’d, with the pain Ev’n then I felt — that brightest hour I would not live again:

For on its wing wall dark alloy And as it flutter’d — fell An essence — powerful to destroy A soul that knew it well.

One of the most powerful works in Tamerlane and Other Poems is Visit of the Dead – lines that were later revised by the writer as Spirits of the Dead. In this poem, you can almost feel the presence of the dead speaking to the living.

VISIT OF THE DEAD.

Thy soul shall find itself alone — Alone of all on earth — unknown The cause — but none are near to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness — for then The spirits of the dead, who stood In life before thee, are again In death around thee, and their will Shall then o’ershadow thee — be still For the night, tho’ clear, shall frown:

And the stars shall look not down From their thrones, in the dark heav’n; With light like Hope to mortals giv’n, But their red orbs, without beam, To thy withering heart shall seem As a burning, and a fever Which would cling to thee forever. But ’twill leave thee, as each star In the morning light afar Will fly thee — and vanish: — But its thought thou can’st not banish. The breath of God will be still; And the mist upon the hill By that summer breeze unbrok’n Shall charm thee — as a token, And a symbol which shall be Secrecy in thee.

The final poem in this section from Tamerlane and Other Poems is one of the writer’s many works that he simply called To – Many critics feel the poem refers to Sarah Elmira Royster – you may remember Sarah as the writer’s childhood sweetheart. When Edgar returned from the University of Virginia in 1827, he found that her parents had arranged a marriage to a wealthy business man, Alexander Shelton. The story is told that Edgar went to her home in Richmond from the University of Virginia one evening. The wedding having already taken place, a party was in progress at her home when Edgar arrived. Unaware of the marriage, he asked Sarah to dance and was told of what had occurred. It was then he learned that his letters to her and hers to him had been intercepted by her parents. Since Sarah was not actually married until December 6, 1828 and this poem was already printed the year before, it has been suggested that the recollection is slightly in error, and that the party was in celebration of the engagement rather than the wedding itself.  In any case, it is not hard to imagine the writer’s feelings of loss in this poem when thinking about his loss of Sarah.

I saw thee on the bridal day; When a burning blush came o’er thee, Tho’ Happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee.

And, in thine eye, the kindling light Of young passion free Was all on earth, my chain’d sight Of Loveliness might see.

That blush, I ween, was maiden shame: As such it well may pass: Tho’ its glow hath rais’d a fiercer flame In the breast of him, alas!

Who saw thee on that bridal day, When that deep blush would come o’er thee, — Tho’ Happiness around thee lay; The world all Love before thee.

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In this section, I would like to deal with what I think is one of the most interesting presences on the web dealing with Poe - The Edgar Allan Poe Bicentennial at eapoe200.blogspot.com  The blog has an appropriately black background, a cool countdown timer to Poe’s 200th birthday celebration, and is maintained by John Wright.  Blog entries this month range from Poe Events in Virginia in 2008 to Poe in Comics to Poe’s Tavern at Sullivan Island .  And there were 37 entires in January alone - and it seems like all the entries have great graphics.

I think one of the most outstanding features of the blog is its use of links - not just the occasional reference - but links that can keep Poe aficionados busy for weeks - Clicking on Full List of Links leads you to links for Poe Stories, the Poe Decoder site, Knowing Poe, The Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore, The Poe Museum of Richmond, Edgar Allan Poe National Historical Site of Philadelphia, New Southern Literary Messenger, and my own, Celebrate Edgar Alan Poe.  In the weeks to come, I will be looking at some of these sites in more detail.

But one site from the page that I especially enjoyed is one to Fantastic Horrors - not specifically dealing with Poe - but certainly with writers that have been influenced by America’s Shakespeare. Clicking on   on the left side of the page leads to 10 biographies of such geniuses as Samuel Coleridge, H.P. Lovecraft, and, of course, Edgar Allan Poe.  One of the links on Poe biography leads to a section from Poe’s classic Marginalia.

The excerpt begins:

” There is . . . a class of fancies, of exquisite delicacy, which are not thoughts, and to which, as yet, I have found it absolutely impossible to adapt language. I use the word fancies at random, and merely because I must use some word; but the idea commonly attached to the term is not even remotely applicable to the shadows of shadows in question. They seem to me rather physical than intellectual. They arise in the soul (alas, how rarely!) only at its epochs of most intense tranquillity—when the bodily and mental health are in perfection - and at those mere points of time where the confines of the waking world blend with those of the world of dreams. I am aware of these “fancies” only when I am upon the very brink of sleep, with the consciousness that I am so. I have satisfied myself that this condition exists but for an inappreciable point of time—yet it is crowded with these “shadows of shadows;” and for absolute thought there is demanded time’s endurance.”

Thank you for listening to this episode of celebratepoe, and I appreciate your emails at celebratepoe@gmail.com

Have a great week.

Up to this point, the biography sections of this podcast have dealt with the writer’s background, childhood, and education. The last two podcasts had sections about Edgar at the University of Virginia. But one of the emphasis in this podcast from now on will be Poe – the writer. Until his death in 1849, he created work after work that changed American literature forever.

I was trying to find a way to put this in perspective – and got an email that served as the basis for this section. At celebratepoe@gmail.com a listener wrote: I really enjoy your podcast, and your perspectives. I especially liked the part about Poe and Frank Lloyd Wright – never thought before how these two men were so similar. Will you ever be doing anything like that again in the future?

Well, thank you – I have been reading some interesting books about Frank Lloyd Wright including Fallingwater Rising, The Fellowship, and Ada Louise Huxtable’s Frank Lloyd Wright. And at the same time, I was doing some research about Poe’s life with Edgar Allan Poe, Mournful and Never Ending Remembrance, Midnight Dreary, and The Histrionic Mr. Poe. And it wasn’t too long before I found some more interesting comparisons between Wright and Poe that gives a great deal of insight into the lives of both men so I am going to do this a second time.

While Poe lived a relatively brief 40 years and died before the Civil War, Frank Lloyd Wright was born several years after the Civil War and lived until he was 92. Both men were originals who were frequently misunderstood by their contemporaries, but deeply touched the world. Poe in his use of language and Wright in his buildings both communicated a spiritual connection in their works to something greater than our basic needs.

As prolific as Poe and Wright were in their early careers, both men became famous because of one work – a work that basically caused their careers to take off. In Poe’s case, that work was The Raven – the poem that finally gave him international recognition. While Wright had certainly designed many well received buildings, it was not until Fallingwater that his career really took off. With both men, the last 10 years of their lives were arguably the most prolific.

Central to both the works of Poe and Wright was establishing a tone or mood.

In The Philosophy of Composition written in 1846, Poe wrote

“I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. Keeping originality always in view- for he is false to himself who ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of interest- I say to myself, in the first place, ‘Of the innumerable effects, or impressions, of which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present occasion, select?’”

One of the reasons that Wright was so great was that he did not just design buildings to satisfy man’s basic needs, but evokes an effect or impression that makes you realize you are in the presence of greatness. For example, Wright’s Fallingwater is a work of art that is not only a place to live, but has the ability to touch the intellect, heart, and soul.

Frank Lloyd Wright certainly had his critics, and Poe was impacted negatively by making Rufus Griswold his literary executor – Griswold trashed Poe’s reputation on largely moral grounds, and for many years Griswold’s biased opinions of Poe were blindly accepted by most readers. Both men were larger than life figures with personalities that sometimes threatened to overshadow their accomplishments, but ultimately it was their art that lasted.

The last commonality between the two men I would like to talk about today is the impact of their mothers on the development of their genius.

At first I thought that historically the situations were just too different to see any real similarity. But I realized this week, that was only true if you consider Wright’s strong willed mother Anna and Poe’s mother Elizabeth. The story is told that when Anna was pregnant with Frank, she surrounded her bed with pictures of great buildings. When her son was born, she put those pictures around his crib. She had determined that Frank was destined to become a great architect. She later give him a set of Frobel blocks, and was highly supportive of him until her death. So it can definitely argued that Wright’s mother in the person of Anna Lloyd Jones pushed her son to reach his potential. The problem in comparing Wright and Poe in this area was that Anna Lloyd Jones, who died in her eighties, actively influenced her son while he was an adult. Elizabeth Poe never had that kind of influence because she died at twenty four. Edgar was only two years old. He was taken to raise by the Allans – so Francis Valentine Allan could be considered a mother figure to Edgar although she died in 1828. But I believe Poe found the closest thing he ever had to a family in 1829 – he went to live in Baltimore with his cousin, Virginia, and Maria Clemm – a lady who was highly supportive of Poe all her life. She even acted as an advocate for his works after his death.

The work of Poe’s I would like to read today is his To My Mother - a sonnet from the heart for Maria Clemm. He writes that his mother in law, as the mother of the woman he loved, is dearer to him than his own mother. He alludes to the sadness at not knowing his biological mother. And I believe that in the line “Are thus are dearer to me than the one I knew,” he is referring to Francis Valentine Allan – the mother figure that he would have known. It has been jokingly referred to as the most beautiful poem ever written for a mother in law. Although I originally wanted to have this poem in a later podcast because it Edgar wrote the poem in 1849, I included it here because I think explains the writer’s feelings about the mother figures in his life.

To My Mother

Because I feel that, in the heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of ‘mother’ — Therefore by that sweet name I long have called you — You, who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you, In setting my Virginia’s spirit free. My mother — my own mother — who died early — Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew; By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

From time to time, this podcast will feature works by writers other than Poe – I will like to start with a work by Thomas Gray – Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. It so happens that I am working on this podcast seated on a rock in a Pennsylvania graveyard – so I am getting a lot of influence. I could not find any record of Poe being influenced by Thomas Gray – I looked in several sources, including Arthur Hobson Quinn’s 800 page plus biography of the writer but did not see any specific mention. Thomas Gray was an English poet who really did not write that much, but is famous for this classic poem – but I would be very surprised if Poe was not exposed to the poem especially during his years at Stoke Newington.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

THOMAS GRAY, 1716-1771

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r, Detest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d, Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear: Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, And read their hist’ry in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; Along the cool sequester’d vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, “Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.

“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill, Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

“The next with dirges due in sad array Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav’n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear, He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of His Father and His God.

I think it could be said that Edgar Allan Poe was a man who, to quote from Gray’s elegy “Melancholy mark’d him for her own.”

Thank you for listening to this podcast – and I enjoy reading your emails at celebratepoe@gmail.com In my next episode, I will be talking about Poe’s first published work - Tamerlaine – a book that is the most valuable book ever written by an American. I will be also talking about one of the most interesting additions to the internet regarding the writer.

Let’s jump right into part two of an exploration of the writer’s life at the University of Virginia. The writer did not really declare a major at the university, although it appears that his studies had a great deal to do with languages because of  the fact that he signed up to attend classes in both the School of Ancient Languages and the School of Modern Languages. John Allan had wanted his foster son to attend the School of Mathematics to prepare his foster son for a place at his business.  But Allan did not send enough money for three classes.

Most of Poe’s classmates remembered him as a good student due to his talents for quickly memorizing his lessons in Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, and Italian.  Classes each day ended at 9:30 in the morning, and the students had the rest of the day to themselves. Edgar filled that time with a wide range of pursuits. He spent a good deal of time in the temporary library (the Rotunda wasn’t finished until October of that year). The library records indicate Edgar was an eclectic reader, checking out a history of North America, a biography of George Washington, a volume of Voltaire’s works, and a book on plant biology. Some biographers speculate that Thomas Jefferson, the University’s founder and first president, may have frequented the same room.

In the afternoons, Edgar was reputed to have taken long solitary walks through the nearby hills, a recollection that is supported by his later story, “Tale of the Ragged Mountains.” On other days, he participated in field sports on the Lawn, the grassy area in front of the Rotunda. His fellow students say that he was local champion of the running broad jump with a personal best of 21 feet, 6 inches–or just 20 feet, depending on the teller. Despite his accomplishment, his friends recalled that he took part with a serious, even sad, expression, as if he got no enjoyment from the sport.

During the evenings, he would entertain his friends in his room, often reading the poetry of Byron or from his own tales. One of his stories had a hero named “Gaffy” and a friend of Poe’s felt it was comic in tone – in other words not like the serious and somber stories that Edgar usually wrote.  He said that the hero’s name appeared too many times in the course of the story. Edgar then angrily threw the manuscript into the fire – Edgar did not have the best sense of humor.

Other times Edgar would halt his recitations and pick up a piece of charcoal to draw an illustration on the walls of his room. Several students remember seeing wild drawings on Edgar’s walls and some of them wondered whether he would become an  artist or a poet.

It would be very interesting to strip away the white paint on the walls of his room to reveal the traces of this artwork, and possibly learn more about his imagination.

Like most college students, Edgar experimented with alcohol. Some of his friends felt that he drank to calm his restless and excitable spirit. Other friends felt that he had no real love for the taste, but threw it back in one gulp, an act that most often “used him up” in the sense that he rarely went back for more.  A common belief today is that he did not really drink that much at all, but any drinking was quite obvious because he reacted intensely to alcohol. In any case, it is important to remember that his drinking in no way reflected what Rufus Griswold later wrote about Poe in Griswold’s slanderous, and unfortunately influential biography of the writer.

For example, the university’s librarian, himself a student, reported that he never saw Edgar under the influence of strong drink. This would indicate that any revels were likely limited to his evening entertainments and to his gambling visits in the village.  One look at Edgar’s academic record shows that he his grades were too good for him to be constantly drunk.

During his time at the University of Virginia, it is likely that the writer composed “Tamerlane,” the long poem published a year later in Boston. Although the preface of “Tamerlane” claims the shorter poems were written during the author’s childhood, several biographers feel the maturity of the work indicate that at least some of the poems were composed during the writer’s stay at the university. Edgar was quite serious about writing, as opposed to the many college students who adopt the persona without actually putting anything on paper.

Other aspects of Edgar’s mindset during that time are somewhat harder to pin down. Some of these students said that he might be a delightful companion one moment and then aloof the next; others simply said that it was very difficult to get to know him in the first place. Three of his surviving letters to John Allan (two written during that year and one written five years later) also offer different views of Edgar the student. The first one is thankful for clothes (a uniform coat and striped cloth for pantaloons) and soap from home, while the second expresses fears about the upcoming exams and the fights taking place outside his door. The third adopts a much different tone and reveals how Allan seems to have undermined his foster son’s education from the start by not sending him with enough money to cover his initial expenses.

Many of the students at the school were sons of wealthy plantation owners, dressed extremely well, and had a great deal of spending money. Poe claims that he was viewed as a beggar because of this and was forced into borrowing money from local merchants for goods and services at high interest. Edgar started gambling to try and raise money, but ended up over 2,000 dollars in debt.

At the end of the term, John Allan paid only the debts that he felt were fair, creating a situation where Edgar could not return to Charlottesville without his remaining creditors issuing warrants against him. Plus, Edgar did not relish the prospect of facing the students that he owed money to, so it is understandable that he did not protest very much when John Allan refused to enroll him for the following session.

As a result, the writer’s hopes for a liberal education were lost, but this was not the only disappointment he experienced during that year. Before leaving Richmond, he became engaged to Elmira Royster, whose family lived near the Allan’s. Edgar’s letters to his fiancée went unanswered because they were intercepted by her father. Mr. Royster apparently felt his daughter was too young to be engaged at 16. Later that same year, however, she became engaged to another young man, news that may or may not have reached Edgar in Charlottesville. Some biographers take this interference on the part of Mr. Royster as an indication that he knew Edgar had fallen out of favor with John Allan, thus decreasing the student’s potential as a marriage prospect. We have no way of knowing whether John Allan deliberately under-funded his foster son’s education and then meddled in his love affair with Elmira Royster, but we can be certain that these matters weighed heavily on the young student’s mind while he was away to college, and quite likely affected the theme of loss love in his future writings.

More than likely, Edgar’s time at the university only strengthened his desire to become a man of letters, given his academic success and the popularity he enjoyed with his fellow students. Perhaps the most important impact of Edgar’s university days came from the financial difficulties he encountered there, which were the start of a recurring theme that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Even so, he was able to use that experience to achieve the escape velocity he needed to leave the Allan household and embark on his literary career.  For the first time in his life, he lived in a place where his creative efforts were appreciated.

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Most of the works by the writer in this podcast will be either poetry (the area that was most important to Edgar) or his stories.  But today I would like to read one of his letters from that Poe wrote at the University of Virginia to John Allan.  The letter gives us insight into the writer’s emotional state during this period, as well as conditions at the University of Virginia.

September. 21st 1826

Dear Sir,

The whole college has been put in great consternation by the prospect of an examination–There is to be a general on the first of December, which will occupy the time of the students till the fifteenth–the time for breaking up–It has not yet been determined whether there will be any diplomas, or doctor’s degrees given–but I should hardly think there will be any such thing, as this is only the second year of the institution & in other colleges three and four years are required in order to take a degree–that is, that time is supposed to be necessary–altho [sic] they sometimes confer them before– if the applicants are qualified–

Tho’ [sic] it will hardly be fair to examine those who have only been here one session, with those who have been here two–and some of whom have come from other colleges–still I suppose I shall have to stand my exami- nation with the rest–

I have been studying a great deal in order to be prepared, and dare say I shall come off as well as the rest of them, that is–if I don’t get frightened–Perhaps you will have some business up here about that time, and then you can judge for yourself–

They have nearly finished the Rotunda–The pillars of the Portico are completed and it greatly improves the appearance of the whole–The books are removed into the library–and we have a very fine collection.

We have had a great many fights up here lately– The faculty expelled Wickliffe last night for general bad conduct–but more especially for biting one of the student’s arms with whom he was fighting–I saw the Whole affair–it took place before my door–Wickliffe was much the stronger but not content with that–after getting the other completely in his power, he began to bite–I saw the arm afterwards–and it was really a serious matter–It was bitten from the shoulder to the elbow–and it is likely that pieces of flesh as large as my hand will be obliged to be cut out–He is from Kentucky –the same one that was in suspension when you were up here some time ago–Give my love to Ma and Miss Nancy–I remain,

Yours affectionatly [sic]

Edgar A. Poe

—————————

In my last episode, I first mentioned the Raven Society – a prestigious group at the University of Virginia that is active academically and in the community.

In 1907, then President Alderman and the Board of Visitors charged the Society with the upkeep of Poe’s old room, 13 West Range. In 1924, Professor Edmund S. Campbell, head of the School of Architecture, led efforts to refurnish the room to make it look more like the student rooms of 1826. Then in the 1950s, the room was renovated again to link it even more closely with its former occupant. A. Churchill Young donated Poe’s old bed from the Allan house in Richmond. Today, the room looks much like it did during Poe’s brief stay at the University.

I would like to end this podcast with an email and question from a reader.

I really enjoy your podcast. But I have a question that might sound stupid – is it Edgar ALLAN Poe or Edgar ALLEN Poe – I have seen both ways

I appreciate your email – but in answer to your question – yours is not a stupid question at all.  I say the only stupid question is the question you don’t ask.   You would be surprised at the number of people who spell his name incorrectly as allEN. I have seen allEn in book titles, on videotapes, and on movie posters. And I have seen youtube videos dealing with the writer than obviously take a long time to do, but are marred by spelling the writer’s middle name with an E. There was even a beautiful commemorative engraving of Poe, prepared with special care in 1909, the hundredth anniversary of Poe’s birth, that spelled his middle name with an E. But remember that the middle name of America’s Shakespeare is A l l A n  - That is Allan with TWO As.

From what I understand, Poe did not have a birth certificate, and he was simply born as Edgar Poe.  In fact, neither his father nor grandfather had a middle name, so the lack of a middle name was sort of a family tradition. A curious exception pattern was Poe’s older brother, William Henry Leonard Poe, with not one but two middle names. The name Allan entered the picture when John Allan took Edgar in and served as his foster father.  Although not legally adopted, Edgar became Edgar Allan Poe on January 7, 1812.  As a child he was known as “Edgar Allan” or “Master Allan.”

During his lifetime, Poe showed a preference for signing his name as Edgar A. Poe” or “E. A. Poe.  Some people feel this is because of Poe’s estrangement from John Allen, as though by not using his foster-father’s name, the writer would somehow psychologically distance the writer – but there is no real evidence of this. A few letters carry just the last name, “Poe.” In a few cases, such as the handwritten title page for “Phantasy Pieces,” he did sign his full name of Edgar Allan Poe. When he wrote personal letters, such as those to his mother-in-law Maria Clemm, he usually signed his name as Eddy.

Like so many things about our perceptions of the writer, Rufus Griswold even influenced the way we refer to America’s Shakespeare. After the writer’s death, two volumes of his collected writings were published as The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (edited by R. W. Griswold, 1850). Since that time, it has become almost second nature to refer to the writer as Edgar Allan Poe.

And please email me at celebratepoe@gmail.com

That is celebratepoe (all one word)@gmail.com

Thank you for listening to this episode.

Today I would like to begin a series about Poe’s days at the University of Virginia and end with a reading of his most famous work, The Raven. But first I would like to explore the topic of Poe the genius by comparing him to another great American genius, Frank Lloyd Wright.  At first Mr. Wright and Poe might seem to have little in common but I feel that by examining their similarities, we can learn more about each man individually, as well as the dynamics of genius.

Poe has come to be viewed by many as America’s greatest writer – although fans of Walt Whitman might disagree with you.  Most critics feel that Frank Lloyd Wright is America’s greatest architect – while advocates of Thomas Jefferson’s classical style might differ.  In any case, both Poe and Mr. Wright were definitely American geniuses, and true originals.

Poe attended the University of Virginia, and Mr. Wright attended the University of Wisconsin. While neither man graduated, to say that both men became masters in their respective fields is an understatement.

Both Poe and Mr. Wright created some of their most famous works in the state of Pennsylvania – For example, Poe wrote the horror story, The Tell-Tale Heart, and the first modern detective story, The Murders in the Rue Morgue, in Philadelphia.  Mr. Wright designed some of his most famous structures in the western part of Pennsylvania  - such as Kentuck Nob, as well as Fallingwater, a dramatic cantilevered structure built over a waterfall that has been called the most famous private residence in the world.

Both men experienced a great deal of tragedy in their lives – Poe saw his mother die when he was just a child, his brother die at 39, and the long illness and death of his young wife, Virginia.  Mr. Wright experienced a terrible fire and the murder of his beloved, Mamah at his Taliesin studio. And both men had fathers who deserted the family. While neither man is famous for being a musician, music was very important to both men, and even played a part in how they viewed design – Poe in the structure of his literary works, and Frank Lloyd Wright in the structure of his buildings. Neither Poe or Mr. Wright was tall physically – both were about five eight – but they were creative giants.  I think it is fair to say that both Poe and Mr. Wright were egotists – not always the easiest person in the world to get along with – they knew they were gifted and never really had any doubts about their abilities.

Both men experienced long periods of abject poverty when the public did not seem to be interested in their creative accomplishments.  The products of their genius directly affected many of the things we take for granted today.  If you go to a science fiction movie or read a detective story – you are enjoying two genres invented by Poe.  If you have a carport or a house with an open living plan, you are enjoying two innovations of Frank Lloyd Wright.

I think part of the greatness of the two men lies in the fact that despite seemingly insurmountable odds, they never gave up on their talents, and persisted all their lives in expressing their ideas through creative works that changed the way we see and respond to the world.

Originally I planned to devote just one segment to Poe’s time at the University of Virginia   – but found that would barely scratch the surface.  The education and life experiences that Poe gained at Charlottesville had a great impact on not only his development as a writer, but also the development of American literature. Some of this information is from Scott Peterson, who has written an excellent novel about Poe’s days at the University called “The Collectors.”  I also got a kind email from Matt Nicolson, President of the Raven Society of the University of Virginia, and will be talking about Poe at UVA, as well as the Raven Society during this and the next episode.

In 1820, the Allan family left England and returned to Richmond, Virginia. For a few months, they lived with the family of Mr. Allan’s business partner, Mr. Ellis. Then they lived in a house in Shokoe Hill – Edgar continued his schooling while living at home, and his education showed that he had a real gift for languages. During this time, he developed a crush on Jane Stannard, as discussed in the earlier celebratepoe segment dealing with To Helen.  Edgar developed a small amount of local celebrity in the Richmond area among his peers by swimming almost six miles in the James River upstream across the tide when he was a teenager – a feat I can’t even imagine.

His wealthy uncle from Europe, William Galt, had furnished the resources to keep the family business afloat, and owned their house.  But the Allan’s future changed as a result of the events on morning of March 26, 1825.  William Galt had a cup of tea and two pancakes, and then asked for those around him to help him into an easy chair. They secured him in place, when, in John Allan’s words, “Galt suddenly threw back his hands and head and seemed oppressed.”  In a few minutes, he was dead.

William Galt was said to be the wealthiest man in Virginia and owned real estate, plantations, sawmills, bank stock, and several hundred slaves.  He left $700,000,000 to John Allan, a sum today that would be roughly equal to 10 million dollars.  John Allan bought Moldavia, an elaborate estate that offered views of the James River and state capitol building in Richmond.

In 1826, Edgar Allan Poe continued his education by enrolling in the University of Virginia in Charlottesville about sixty miles from Richmond – a school that was then in its second year.  The founder, Thomas Jefferson, established UVA to be an academic village.  The buildings were classical in design and there was housing for the 177 students – many of them the sons of wealthy plantations owners.

Poe was rather young when he entered college – he turned 17 just three weeks before his arrival, but John Allan’s influence with the school’s administrators cleared the way for his charge’s early admission.

Edgar Allan Poe entered the University of Virginia on February 14, 1826.  Poe was a student in the Schools of Ancient and Modern Languages–Professor Long, for the ancient, and Professor Blaettermann for the modern.  Apparently he did rather well as he continued his classical studies, because at a faculty meeting he was reported by Professor Long as among the nineteen students who “excelled in senior Latin” and by Professor Blaettermann as among the eight who “excelled in senior French.”

Next week I would like to continue a look at Poe’s time at the University of Virginia because the school greatly influenced his personality and writing.

Today Poe’s room at the school, Number 13 on the West Range, is maintained by the Raven Society of the University of Virginia.  A glass door allows literary pilgrims to look inside.  It is amazing to look at the Spartan furnishings and realize Poe would have needed to cut wood for the fireplace.

In February of 1845, Poe was later to publish the most famous poem ever written by an American – The Raven. This is the first of several audio segments that will include explorations into this classic poem.  Today I will simply read the first version of the poem that was published.  There will not be any commentary – I will leave the numerous critical analysis for future additions to this podcast.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “‘Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door – Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore - Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “‘Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door – Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; – This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you ” — here I opened wide the door; —- Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” – Merely this, and nothing more.

Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore – Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;– ‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door – Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door – Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore – Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door – Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered – Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before – On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.” Quoth the raven “Nevermore.”

Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster so when Hope he would adjure Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure – That sad answer, “Never — nevermore.”

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore – What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore; Let me quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! – Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted – On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore – Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!” Quoth the raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil! By that 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.”

“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting – “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the raven “Nevermore.”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore

Poe’s foster father, John Allan, took his family to Scotland and England when Poe was six years old to establish a branch of the business in Europe. While in England, Poe attended Manor School at Stoke Newington. Later it became the setting for his story William Wilson.

By the way, Stoke Newington today is a charming English town near London, and the home of actress Jean Marsh of Upstairs, Downstairs.

While we do not know exactly what William Shakespeare would have studied, we do know that a schoolboy who went through the school system in England would have certainly gotten an excellent education. Scholars believe that Shakespeare would have begun school at six in the morning each day and would have finished at five o’clock. School began at seven and finished at four in the winter because of the dark nights. The point is that he received an excellent classical education, and a high school graduate in England would know far more about Latin and Greek than a high school graduate today.

Shakespeare obviously received a great deal of education during his early years, and much of that time was spent learning the classics and various rhetorical devices.

The same could be said about Poe in England – scholars know that the subjects Poe studied included geography, spelling and the Catechism of the Church of England. Stoke Newington was run by the Reverend John Bransby. There is little doubt that Poe took classes in Latin and even Greek because Bransby had quite a reputation as a classical scholar.

During the next entry of celebratepoe, I will talk about the writer continuing his education at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.

During this entry, I would like to talk about two poems by Poe that were written the writer was very young.

The first is rather short and most Poe scholars believe it is really only a fragment – the contents of the rest of the poem are unknown.

Last night, with many cares & toils oppres’d, Weary, I laid me on a couch to rest.

The second is considerably longer, and scholars believe Poe wrote O Tempora!, O Mores! when he was about sixteen, and some people believe it is thbe earliest of Poe’s writings known to exist.

The poem is actual a satire of a clerk by the name of Pitts who was a clerk in one of the leading fashionable dry goods store of Richmond. Pitts was in love with a youthful belle of the period, who afterwards married a prominent Virginia politician and member of Congress. O, Tempora! O, Mores!” was written chiefly for the ridicule of Pitts in the eyes of certain members of the Virginia Legislature, who were then boarding in the same house with him. Of course, all the people lampooned in the poem are largely forgotten, but the poem remains interesting – largely because it is the earliest known work of America’s Shakespeare.

O, TEMPORA! O, MORES! O, Times! O, Manners! It is my opinion That you are changing sadly your dominion — I mean the reign of manners hath long ceased, For men have none at all, or bad at least; And as for times, altho’ ’tis said by many The “good old times” were far the worst of any, Of which sound doctrine l believe each tittle, Yet still I think these worse than them a little.

I’ve been a thinking — isn’t that the phrase? — I like your Yankee words and Yankee ways — I’ve been a thinking, whether it were best To take things seriously, or all in jest; Whether, with grim Heraclitus of yore, To weep, as he did, till his eyes were sore, Or rather laugh with him, that queer philosopher, Democritus of Thrace, who used to toss over The page of life and grin at the dog-ears, As though he’d say, “Why, who the devil cares?”

This is a question which, oh heaven, withdraw The luckless query from a member’s claw! Instead of two sides, Job [Bob] has nearly eight, Each fit to furnish forth four hours debate. What shall be done? I’ll lay it on the table, And take the matter up when I’m more able, And, in the meantime, to prevent all bother, I’ll neither laugh with one, nor cry with t’other, Nor deal in flatt’ry or aspersions foul, But, taking one by each hand, merely growl.

Ah, growl, say you, my friend, and pray at what? Why, really, sir, I almost had forgot — But, damn it, sir, I deem it a disgrace That things should stare us boldly in the face, And daily strut the street with bows and scrapes, Who would be men by imitating apes. I beg your pardon, reader, for the oath The monkeys make me swear, though something loth; I’m apt to be discursive in my style, But pray be patient; yet a little while Will change me, and as politicians do, I’ll mend my manners and my measures too.

Of all the cities — and I’ve seen no few; For I have travelled, friend, as well as you — I don’t remember one, upon my soul, But take it generally upon the whole, (As members say they like their logick [logic] taken, Because divided, it may chance be shaken) So pat, agreeable and vastly proper As this for a neat, frisky counter-hopper; Here he may revel to his heart’s content, Flounce like a fish in his own element, Toss back his fine curls from their forehead fair, And hop o’er counters with a Vester’s air, Complete at night what he began A.M., And having cheated ladies, dance with them; For, at a ball, what fair one can escape The pretty little hand that sold her tape, Or who so cold, so callous to refuse The youth who cut the ribbon for her shoes!

One of these fish, par excellence the beau — God help me! — it has been my lot to know, At least by sight, for I’m a timid man, And always keep from laughing, if I can; But speak to him, he’ll make you such grimace, Lord! to be grave exceeds the power of face. The hearts of all the ladies are with him, Their bright eyes on his Tom and Jerry brim And dove-tailed coat, obtained at cost; while then Those eyes won’t turn on anything like men.

His very voice is musical delight, His form, once seen, becomes a part of sight; In short, his shirt collar, his look, his tone is The “beau ideal” fancied for Adonis. Philosophers have often held dispute As to the seat of thought in man and brute; For that the power of thought attends the latter My friend, the beau, hath made a settled matter, And spite of all dogmas, current in all ages, One settled fact is better than ten sages.

For he does think, though I am oft in doubt If I can tell exactly what about. Ah, yes! his little foot and ankle trim, ‘Tis there the seat of reason lies in him, A wise philosopher would shake his head, He then, of course, must shake his foot instead. At me, in vengeance, shall that foot be shaken — Another proof of thought, I’m not mistaken — Because to his cat’s eyes I hold a glass, And let him see himself, a proper ass! I think he’ll take this likeness to himself, But if he won’t, he shall, a stupid elf, And, lest the guessing throw the fool in fits, I close the portrait with the name of PITTS.

Edgar Allan Poe was born 199 years ago January 19. I am sure that there are people all over the world who will be remembering his birthday, but I will like to talk briefly about two of the most important events.

On Sunday, January 20, 2008 from 2:00 PM-5:00 PM, the Edgar Allan Poe Museum on 1914 East Main Street in Richmond, Virginia will celebrate the birthday of “America’s Shakespeare” with a grand celebration. Admission to the museum and a dramatic performance in the museum’s Enchanted Garden are free. There is a nominal fee charged for a walking tour of Poe’s Richmond at 2 pm and Shadow’s of Shockoe Ghost tour at 4 pm. There will be cake and punch for all who attend!

And what is billed as the world’s largest Poe Birthday Celebration will be held in Baltimore on Saturday, January 19 and Sunday, January 20, 2008. On Saturday, the doors open at 6PM with the program beginning at 7PM. On Sunday, the doors open at 3:30PM with the program beginning at 4:30PM.

And from their excellent web page -

“For the first time on our stage we present the story That changed the course of literary history by introducing a new literary form…the detective story - The Murders in the Rue Morgue Sarah Helen Whitman, Poe’s former fiancé, makes a rare public appearance where she will discuss her romantic but controversial relationship with Eddie.

Direct from his moldy grave, Edgar Allan Poe will haunt the stage with select recitations and comments.

And please check their web site at poecelebration.tripod.com for more specific information.

You can think of these two celebrations as kickoffs to the big 200th anniversary of the writer’s birth on January 19, 2009. I am sure that I will be writing more about this later.

Thank you and have a great week.

When Edgar Allan Poe was born on January 19, 1809 in Boston, two famous people were born less than a month later on the same day, February 12. Abraham Lincoln was born on February 12 in Kentucky, and Charles Darwin was born the same day in England.  Thomas Jefferson was President of the United States.

As I mentioned in the last episode, Edgar Allan Poe’s parents separated in 1810. Elizabeth Poe took the two sons, Henry Leonard and Edgar. At first Elizabeth, also known as Eliza, continued her career as a well-respected actress and even had a third child, Rosalie.  Unfortunately the delicate Eliza contracted tuberculosis, and rapidly declined in health.  On November 29, 1811, a notice appeared in the Richmond, Virginia Enquirer asking for donations in aid of Eliza.  It went as follows: TO THE HUMANE HEART. On this night, Mrs. Poe, lingering on the bed of disease and surrounded by her children asks your assistance, and asks it perhaps for the last time. Citizens of Richmond visited her and provided nurses and cooks, but Eliza died on December 8, 1811 when Edgar was just two years old.

William Henry Leonard had been living with his grandparents in Baltimore, and continued to live with them after his mother’s death.  Rosalie went to live with the MacKenzies, a family who ran a school in the Richmond area, and Edgar went to live with John and Francis Allan, two theatre patrons from Richmond. Originally from Scotland, John Allan had started a business in Richmond with Charles Ellis called The House of Ellis and Allan. They traded with tobacco and other goods, and apparently the business was quite profitable.  At first John Allan did not want to take in Edgar, but finally gave in to his wife’s wishes – although the Allans never formally adopted Edgar.  Fanny Allan had been orphaned at the age of ten, which was probably one of the reasons she took in Edgar.  We really don’t know a great deal about Edgar’s first years with the Allans and what he thought about being part of a home that was so different from the life of poverty and abandonment that he knew, but when we do know that he went to a Richmond schoolmaster by the name of William Ewing who said that Edgar was charming and liked the school.

I’m sure that the stories of house slaves in the Allan household and the tales told by skippers and sea merchants would have been very influential in the formation of Edgar’s imaginative view of the world. According to the excellent The Poe Decoder web site, “the dead and dying would always have a strong hold over Edgar, as demonstrated by the anecdote that a six-year old Edgar was once ‘seized with terror’ as he passed by a local graveyard, convinced that the spirits of the undead would run after him.” In 1815, when Edgar was six and half years old, his family moved abroad to Scotland and England for five years so that Mr. Allan could expand the business. In a future blog entry, I will go into this important period in Edgar’s development.

Several cities in the United States claim Poe as one of their own. He wrote great works in Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, and each city can certainly make a case as an important place in the writer’s life.  I will certainly talk about his homes a great deal in this podcast.  And it is certainly understandably why a city today would claim such a great writer as Poe as one of their own sons. But the writer considered himself a Richmonder.  He was very much the Southern gentleman in temperament, and spent more time in Richmond than in any other town.  The Allans returned to Richmond after their years in Europe, and Edgar developed a crush on a lady by the name of Jane Stannard, the mother of a childhood friend.

Today I would like to talk about a poem that Poe wrote in 1831 entitled To Helen.  Most critics believe that the poem was written about Jane Stannard, and Poe’s memories of her. It is an extremely concise poem – the writer says a lot in just 15 lines.  And I apologize that the commentary that I am going into is much longer than the poem itself. (Some of the symbols refer to things that really wouldn’t be common knowledge to most of us today.)

Poe often used a different, even idealized name for a lady when writing a poem about her.  And Helen of Troy was esteemed for her beauty. Poe begins the poem by writing “Helen, thy beauty is to me / Like those Nicean barks of yore.”  He compares the beauty of Helen, with small sailing boats (barks) that took travelers home in ancient times. Then he continues the boat imagery by saying that Helen brought him home to the shores of classical Greece and Rome.

The writer sees Helen as the expression of idealized beauty, both physically and spiritually. She has beautiful hair and a classic face, and the speaker sees Helen as very poised and perfect. He uses such words as ‘gently’, ‘perfumed’, ‘hyacinth hair’, ‘classic face’, ‘statuelike’, and ‘brilliant’.  In stanza three, the writer compares Helen (Mrs. Stannard) to Psyche (which means soul.)

Jane Stannard died around the age of thirty-one, and Poe frequently visited her grave in Shockoe Hill Cemetery.

And now To Helen:

————

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o’er a perfum’d sea, The weary wayward 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 beauty of fair Greece, And the grandeur of old Rome.

Lo! in that little window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand! The folded scroll within thy hand — A Psyche from the regions which Are Holy land!

I especially like the words from the last two lines – “regions which are holy land”.  Here I think “holy land” has at least three meanings – an example of how Poe, like the greatest writers, was a master of using expressions that can be read on different levels –

Here holy land could have 1) a religious connotation– with the holy land of the Bible 2) a mythological connotation – referring to Rome or Athens 3) a geographic and emotional connotation– Richmond as the holy land of Poe’s heart

There is an old belief (which is doubtful) in Richmond, Virginia that the town, like Rome, was built on seven hills.  And if you want to start an argument at a party, just ask people WHAT those hills are.    Actually, I think it is really stretching things to say that Richmond was built on seven hills, but kids were taught that Richmond was built in the tradition of Rome up until the 1950s.  I remember I was driving in Richmond when I was younger, and trying to find an address.  I got lost, and asked some firemen in the neighborhood (I thought they would certainly know) where the house was.  An older man told me to turn right at the first hill.  I went back and forth several times and never saw a hill.  I went back to the station, and asked again – to make a long story short, what the older gentlemen considered a “hill,” to me was just a bump in the road.  I am from Staunton in the Shenandoah Valley, where we have MOUNTAINS!

This poem has meant a great deal to many people because so many of us can identify at one time or another with the feelings that Poe touches on in this work. Many people think Alone points to the heartaches of the writer’s childhood, and his feelings of difference.  The poem climaxes with the words “of a demon in my view.”

What is this demon?  Is it spiritual?  Is it alcohol?  And by the way, we do not believe that Edgar A. Poe was an alcoholic – he was far too prolific in his writings.  But he did have an unnatural reaction to alcohol where he would loose control. So alcohol was therefore like a “demon” to him.  Or does “demon” in this poem refer to the cruelty of his foster father John Allan?  Does it refer to the writer’s loneliness and despair? Feelings of regret and pain?  An uneasy feeling of longing that he cannot define?  Like the greatest writers, Poe created works that can be read on so many different levels with multiple meanings.

The original version of Alone (from the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore website)

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 lov’d — I lov’d alone — Then — in my childhood — in the dawn Of a most stormy life — was drawn From ev’ry 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 roll’d In its autumn tint of gold — From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d 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 —

E. A. Poe This blog entry deals with material on my CD Christmas With Edgar Allan Poe – and remember that the Allans, as Episcopalians, went to a church that  would have sung Christmas carols until January 6.

Readers of this blog can get the above CD at a greatly reduced price at:

http://Kunaki.com/Sales.asp?PID=PX00Z72XZ0

It may come as a surprise to many of us today to learn that he played the flute.  The master of dark stories enjoyed playing the flute.   Actually at one time the flute was considered appropriate only for men to play – I know it was thought very unladylike in colonial America for women to play the flute or any wind instrument where there was a danger that they would contort their faces into unladylike positions, and this might negatively affect their marriage prospects.  George Washington even writes about this – and ladies of the period played the harpsichord, harp, and later piano.

Edgar Allan Poe played the flute in duets with his teenage sweetheart Elmira Royster from Richmond, while she played the piano on carols such as God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Unfortunately Elmira’s father did not approve of her relationship with Edgar, and intercepted their letters to each other while Edgar was at the University of Virginia. Elmira marred a Mr. Shelton, and Edgar married his cousin, Virginia Clemm.  Music was always very important to the writer, and he played duets with Virginia Clemm playing the piano. Coventry Carol was especially popular then. One night when Virginia was playing the piano (though some reports say the harp,) she began spitting up blood, and Poe cared for her 5 years until her death.  Until her illness, Poe would play the flute almost every night with Virginia. It is not hard to imagine them playing Silent Night.)

While Edgar and Virginia would have definitely celebrated Christmas influenced by the newly emerging Victorian attitudes, such Victorian era Christmas carols as We Three Kings, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and It Came Upon a Midnight Clear were not published until after Poe’s death.

Thank you for reading this blog entry, and in the near future I intend writing about the writer’s youth, and the poem that he wrote later in his life about his teenage crush.  And I would love to hear from you at celebratepoe@gmail.com

I would like to end blog with the first of many references in this series to the writer’s mysterious death, Years after Virginia’s death, Edgar and Elmira met again.  She was now a widow, and Edgar and Elmira rekindled their romance, and were to be married at St. John’s Church in Richmond. But the writer tragically died in Baltimore a few days before their wedding.

I have a podcast to accompany this blog that ends with a fanciful, but sad version of Auld Lang Syne (a Scottish melody by Robert Burns) In this piece I tried to be accurate to the instruments of the writer’s adult world (flute, piano, and harp), emphasize the melody, but also hint at the tragedy in his life. In addition to Poe seeing his wife die after a long period of illness, he experienced his father deserting the family while Poe was a child, Poe’s mother dying when he was two years old, his only brother dying at 39 from alcoholism, being disinherited by John Allan, and constant poverty.  The fact that the writer triumphed over the many tragedies in his life to become “America’s Shakespeare” is proof of his genius. If Christmas is a time when man can surpass what it is to be ordinary, Edgar Allan Poe unknowingly celebrated the spirit of Christmas every day.  And as we enter a new year with its hopes and opportunities, one cannot help but think that this must have been the way Edgar unconsciously approached each day.  The more I study Edgar Allan Poe, the more I see that not only could he write horror stories better than anyone, but was a writer with a deep hope for a better future.

But before we get into Edgar’s   life, I would like to talk a little about the writer’s family background. And I would like to start with one of the many myths about Edgar Allan Poe’s life – that he watched his mother die in the Richmond Theatre Fire in 1811.

There WAS a terrible fire on the day after Christmas in 1811 - the day of the year when I am writing the script for this podcast.  The fire was an extremely dramatic event in the history of Richmond - 72 people died in the fire, including the governor.   Monumental Episcopal Church was built on top of the ashes, and the bodies of many of those who died are in a crypt beneath the church. Surrounded by buildings of the Medical College of Virginia today, Monumental Episcopal was no longer used as a church after 1865, and is now owned by the Historic Richmond Foundation.

Edgar was like another creative American genius, the architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, in that they both made up facts about their lives to make them seem more interesting – stories that were accepted as true for years.

Edgar’s mother DID perform at the Richmond Theatre before her death, and DID die in Richmond, but not at the fire.  But I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s look at Poe’s background – he was not a person born into luxury, and the poverty he experienced almost all his life influenced his wirings.

Edgar’s grandfather, David Poe, was born in Ireland in the 1740s and died in Baltimore.  David Poe’s wife, Elizabeth was born in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, and also died in Baltimore.

Edgar’s father was David Poe, Jr., born in Baltimore – a man who decided to become an actor when he was young instead of going into law like his family wanted.  David Jr. later left his wife, Elizabeth, and two children, and we really don’t know where he is buried.  Some scholars say that he died in Norfolk, Virginia.

Since we really don’t know that much about David Poe, Jr., it might be informative to look at the life and accomplishments of his wife, Elizabeth Arnold.  A talented actress, she was married to the actor Charles Hopkins from 1802 until his death 3 years later.

Elizabeth was 18 years old and completely on her own. She met David Poe Jr., and they were married in 1806. Apparently David was very handsome, but not that talented. She became more and more popular, while he was ridiculed by the critics. She appeared in such Shakespearean roles as Ophelia from Hamlet, Juliet in Romeo and Juliet, and Cordelia in King Lear, and was considered one of the most promising actresses on the American stage.  David was hissed and criticized for mumbling in his parts.  He appeared in a production of Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 1, and a critic wrote that he “mutilated some of his speeches in a most shameful manner.”

Elizabeth was also an excellent singer, and frequently sang the humorous Nobody Coming to Marry Me – a song with which she became associated.

In my opinion, some aspects of the marriage of Elizabeth and David were a little bit like the plot of the movie A Star Is Born – there’s a version with Janet Gaynor and Frederick March, and a version with Barbra Streisand and Kris Kristofferson. But I think the best version is the 1954 A Star Is Born with Judy Garland and James Mason where Judy Garland sings “the man that got away.”  With Edgar’s parents, it was the same situation– she became more and more respected, and her husband became less and less popular. Like the husband in A Star Is Born, he couldn’t handle his wife’s success, and resorted to alcohol with tragic results.  By the way, James Mason narrates one of the video versions of Poe’s The Tell Tale Heart that I plan to use on a future web site.

David and Elizabeth had two children before he deserted the family – William Henry Leonard, born in 1807, and Edgar, who was born in Boston in January 19, 1809 while Elizabeth was touring in that city.  According to Kenneth Silverman’s Edgar A. Poe Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance. (the source for much of this material) David Poe’s personal property was assessed in 1808 at less than $300 (today it might be said that he had a net worth of $3000 – not that much at all.)  The burdens of poverty, alcoholism, and a family he could not support were too much for him to handle, and Poe’s parents separated in 1810. We are not sure where David went, and his wife took the two children.  In a future blog, I will go into Elizabeth’s illness and death in Richmond.