Part 24 (1/2)

When Edgar Poe praised the prose writings of Dr. Griswold, but said he was ”no poet,” Dr. Griswold like the other little authors writhed and squirmed secretly--very secretly--but openly he smiled and in smooth, easy words professed friends.h.i.+p for Mr. Poe--and bided his time.

As for Poe himself, he had by close and devoted study of the rules which govern poetic and prose composition--rules which he evolved for himself by a.n.a.lysis of the work of the masters--so added to his own natural gifts of imagination and power of expression, so perfected his taste, that crude writing was disgusting to his literary palate. He had made Literature his intellectual mistress, and from the day he had declared his allegiance to her he had served her faithfully--pa.s.sionately--and he could brook no flagging service in others.

Both his growing power of a.n.a.lysis and his highly developed artistic feeling were brought into full play in this review work. Under his guidance the writings of his contemporaries, whether they were the little authors or the giants such as, in England, Tennyson (who was a prime favorite with him), Macauley, d.i.c.kens, Elizabeth Barrett, or in America, Longfellow, Lowell, Hawthorne, Irving, Emerson, stood forth illumined--the weak spots laid bare, the strong points gleaming bright.

He unfalteringly declared his admiration of Hawthorne (then almost unknown) in which the future so fully justified him. The tales of Hawthorne, he declared, belonged to ”the highest region of Art--an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty order.”

Even the work of the little authors was indebted to him for many a good word, but the little authors hated him and returned the brilliant sallies his pungent pen directed toward their writings with vollies of mud aimed at his private character.

No matter what his subject, however, Edgar Poe always wrote with power--with intensity. He seemed by turns to dip his pen into fire, into gall, into vitriol--at times into his own heart's blood.

Of the last named type was the story ”Eleonora,” which appeared, not in _Graham's_, but in _The Gift_ for the new year, and wherein was set forth in phrases like strung jewels the story of the ”Valley of the Many-Colored Gra.s.s.” The whole fabric of this loveliest of his conceptions is like a web wrought in some fairy loom of bright strands of silk of every hue, and studded with fairest gems. In it is no hint of the gruesome, or the sombre--even though the Angel of Death is there. It is all pure beauty--a perfect flower from the fruitful tree of his genius at the height of its power.

All of Edgar Poe's work gains much by being read aloud, for the eye alone cannot fully grasp the music that is in his prose as well as his verse. ”Eleonora” was read aloud in every city and hamlet of the United States, and at firesides far from the beaten paths--the traveled roads--that led to the cities; for it was written when every word from the pen of Edgar Poe was looked for, waited for, with eager impatience, and when _Graham's Magazine_ had been made in one little year, by his writing, and the writing of others whom he had induced to contribute to its pages, to lead the thought of the day in America.

And the success of The Dreamer made him a lion in the ”City of Brotherly Love” as it had made him a lion in Richmond. The doors of the most exclusive--the most cultivated--homes of that fastidious city stood open to welcome him. The loveliest women, whether the grey ladies of the ”Society of Friends” or the brightly plumaged birds of the gayer world, smiled their sweetest upon him. As he walked along the streets pa.s.sers-by would whisper to one another,

”There goes Mr. Poe. Did you notice his eyes? They say he has the most expressive eyes in Philadelphia.”

Throughout this year of almost dazzling triumph the little cottage with its rose-hooded porch, in Spring Garden, had been a veritable snug harbor to The Dreamer. In winter when the deep, spotless snow lay round about it, in spring when the violets and hyacinths came back to the garden-spot and the singing birds to the trees that overhung it, in summer when the climbing green rose was heavy with bloom and in autumn when the wind whistled around it, but there was a bright blaze upon the hearth inside, his heart turned joyously many times a day, and his feet at eventide, when his work at the office in the city was over, toward this sacred haven.

And Edgar the Dreamer was happy. He should have been rich and would have been but for the meagre returns from literary work in his time. Men were then supposed to write for fame, and very little money was deemed sufficient reward for the best work. The poverty of authors was proverbial and to starve cheerfully was supposed to be part of being one.

Still, with his post as editor of _Graham's_ and the frequency with which his signature was seen in other magazines, he was making a living.

The howl of the wolf or his sickening scratching at the door were no more heard, and in the Valley of the Many-Colored Gra.s.s the three dreamers laughed together, and in the streets of the ”City of Brotherly Love” Edgar Goodfellow whistled a gay air, or arm in arm with some boon companion of the ”Press gang” threaded his way in and out among of the human stream, with a smile on his lips and the light of gladness in living in his eyes.

And why should he not be happy? he asked himself. He had the snuggest little home in the world and, in it, the loveliest little wife in the world and the dearest mother in the world. He was upon the top of the wave of prosperity. His fame was growing--had already reached France, where ”The Murders” were still being talked about. Why should he not be happy? His devils had ceased to plague him this long while. The blues--he was becoming a stranger to them. The Imp--he had not had a single glimpse of him during the year. He was temperate--ah, therein lay man's safety and happiness! By strict abstinence his capacity for enjoyment was exalted--purified. He would let the cup forever alone--upon that he was resolved!

This was not always easy. Sometimes it had been exceedingly hard and there had been a fierce battle between himself and the call that was in his blood--the thirst, not for the stuff itself, but for its effects, for the excitement, the exhilaration; but he had won every time and he felt stronger for the battle and for the victory--the victory of will.

”Man doth not yield himself to the angels or to death utterly” (he quoted) ”save only through the weakness of his feeble will.” Upon continued resistence--continued victory--he was resolved, and in the resolution he was happy.

Best of all, Virginia was happy, and ”Muddie”--dear, patient ”Muddie!”

The two women chatted like magpies over their sewing or house-work, or as they watered the flowers. They, like himself, had made friends.

Neighbors dropped in to chat with them or to borrow a pattern, or to hear Virginia sing. And they had had a long visit from the violet-eyed Eliza White. What a pleasure it had been to have the sweet, fair creature with them! (He little guessed how tremulously happy the little Eliza had been to bask for a time in his presence--just to be near the great man--and meanwhile guard all the more diligently the secret that filled her white soul and kept her, for all her beauty and charm, and her many suitors, a spinster).

Eliza had brought them a great budget of Richmond news. It had been like a breath of spring to hear it. She talked and they listened and they all laughed together from pure joy. How Virginia's laugh had rippled out upon the air--it filled all the cottage with music!

It was mid-January, and he sat gazing into the rose-colored heart of the open coal fire going over it all--the whole brilliant, full year.

”Sissy,” he said suddenly, ”Do you remember the birthday parties I used to tell you about--that I had given me when I was a boy living with the Allans?”

”Yes, indeed! and the cake with candles on it and all your best friends to wish you many happy returns.”

”Well, you know the nineteenth will be my birthday, and I want to have a party and a cake with candles and all our best friends here to wish you and me many happy returns of the happiest birthday we have spent together. I only wish old Cy were here to play for us to dance! I'd give something pretty to have him and his fiddle here, just to see what these sober-sided Penn folk would think of them. My, wouldn't they make a sensation in the 'City of Brotherly Love!'” He began whistling as clearly and correctly as a piccolo the air of a recently published waltz. After a few bars he sprang to his feet and--still whistling--quickly shoved the table and chairs to the wall, clearing the middle of the floor. The tune stopped long enough for him to say,

”Come, Sweetheart, you must dance this with me. My feet refuse to be still tonight!”--then was taken up again.