__________
“Without wearing any mask
we are conscious of,
we have a special face
for each friend.”
Oliver Wendell Holmes
__________
Telegraph to the moon?
Congress finally realizes that Samuel Morse (see 1837) is onto something, and sets aside money to build his electro-magnetic telegraph from Washington to Baltimore. (124/346)
Mr. Morse had a model on exhibition at
the Capitol, and the beaux and belles used to hold brief conversations over the
mysterious wire. At last the House considered a bill appropriating twenty-five
thousand dollars, to be expended in a series of experiments with the new
invention.
In the brief debate on the bill, Mr.
Cave Johnson undertook to ridicule the discovery by proposing that one-half of
the proposed appropriation be devoted to experiments in mesmerism, while Mr.
Houghton thought that Millerism (a religious craze then prevalent) should be
included in the benefits of the appropriation…Men of character, men of
erudition, men who, in ordinary affairs, had foresight, were wholly unable to
forecast the future of the telegraph. Other motions disparaging to the
invention were made, such as propositions to appropriate part of the sum to
telegraph the moon.
The
measure passed only 89-83. (Benjamin Perley Poole, Reminiscences; Volume 1, pp. 309-310.)
*
William Miller predicts the end of the world. Thousands believe him and prepare for the end. It doesn’t happen.
Chart explaining his prediction. |
*
“The man who made it safe to murder.”
Junius Brutus Booth is immensely popular in the Washington theater, particularly in his Shakespearean roles. “Booth at this time was more than ever a slave to intoxicating drink, so much so that he would often disappoint his audiences, sometimes wholly failing to appear, yet his popularity remained unabated.” (Benjamin Perley Poole, Reminiscences; Volume 1, p. 281.)
Rufus Choate, a lawyer who went into politics, was a powerful debater.
Wendell Phillips once said of
Mr. Choate that he was “the man who made it safe to murder, and of whose health
thieves asked about before they began to steal.” It may have been that in the
excitement of pleading before a jury he may have occasionally been carried
beyond the depth of logical argument which his judgment approved. But in the
Senate he had no equal as an orator. His elaborate and brilliant speeches were
listened to with earnest attention by the other Senators, who would now be
convulsed with laughter and then flooded with tears. (Benjamin Perley Poole, Reminiscences; Volume 1, pp. 292-293.)
*
“A little drink was poison in his veins.”
Edgar Allan Poe publishes his most famous poem, The Raven. (Who knew an NFL team would someday choose its name based on that poem?)
Halleck provides an outline of Poe’s life, noting that his grandfather, Daniel Poe, also a citizen of Baltimore, was a general in the American Revolution.
An orphan before he was
three years old, Poe was reared by Mr. and Mrs. John Allan of Richmond,
Virginia. We are given a glimpse of the boy at the age of six, standing on a
table, declaiming and drinking wine as a pledge to the health of the guests. If
there was ever a child who ought never to have known the taste of wine, that
child was Edgar Allan Poe. He could not touch one glass of it without losing
moral and physical self-control. In 1815, at the close of the War of 1812,
his foster parents went to England and took him with them. He was given a
school reader and two spelling books with which to amuse himself during the
long sailing voyage across the ocean. He was placed for five years in the Manor
School House, a boarding school, at Stoke Newington, a suburb of London. Here,
he could walk by the very house in which Defoe wrote Robinson Crusoe.
But nothing could make up to Poe the loss of a mother and home training during
those five critical years. The headmaster said that Poe was clever, but spoiled
by “an extravagant amount of pocket money.” The contrast between his school
days and adult life should be noted. We shall never hear of his having too much
money after he became an author.
(Here I should not that my version of Halleck includes the
passages in italics, above, and below, dropping other details, for example,
mention of the Defoe house. I have also made slight edits, for example,
changing “to-day” to “today.”)
In 1820 the boy returned
with the Allans to Richmond, where he prepared for college, and at the age of
seventeen entered the University of Virginia. “Here,” his biographer says, “he
divided his time, after the custom of undergraduates, between the recitation
room, the punch bowl, the card-table, athletic sports, and pedestrianism.” (My
version: here he yielded to the temptation of drinking and gambling, and he lost at the gaming table twenty-five
hundred dollars in a few months.) Although Poe does not seem to have been censured
by the faculty, Mr. Allan was displeased with his record, removed him from
college, and placed him in his counting house. This act and other causes, which
have never been fully ascertained, led Poe to leave Mr. Allan’s home.
Poe then went to Boston,
where, at the age of eighteen, he published a thin volume entitled Tamerlane
and Other Poems. Disappointed at not being able to live by his pen, he
served two years in the army as a common soldier, giving both an assumed name
and age. He finally secured an appointment to West Point after he was slightly
beyond the legal age of entrance. The cadets said in a joking way that Poe had
secured the appointment for his son, but that the father substituted himself
after the boy died. Feeling an insatiable ambition to become an author, Poe
neglected his duties at West Point, and he was, fortunately for literature,
discharged at the age of twenty-two.
HIS GREAT STRUGGLE. Soon
after leaving West Point, Poe went to his kindred in Baltimore. In a garret in
that southern city, he first discovered his power in writing prose tales. In
1833 his story, MS. Found in a Bottle, won a prize of one hundred
dollars offered by a Baltimore paper. In 1834 Mr. Allan died without mentioning
Poe in his will; and in spite of his utmost literary efforts, Poe had to borrow
money to keep from starving.
After struggling for four
years in Baltimore, he went to Richmond and became editor of the Southern
Literary Messenger. He worked very hard in this position, sometimes
contributing to a single number as much as forty pages of matter, mostly
editorials and criticisms of books. In Baltimore he had tested his power of
writing short stories, but in Richmond his work laid the foundation of his
reputation as a literary critic. While here, he married his cousin, Virginia
Clemm, but even his affection for her did not enable him to withstand the
conviviality of the place. A little drink was poison in his veins, unfitting
him for work. Perhaps it was irregular habits that caused him to lose the
profitable editorship of the Messenger soon after he married.
Let us remember, however, that his mother-in-law was charitable enough not to
unveil his weakness. “At home,” she said, “he was as simple and affectionate as
a child.”
The principal part of the
rest of his life was passed in Philadelphia and New York, where he served as
editor of various periodicals and wrote stories and poems. In the former city,
he wrote most of the tales for which he is today famous. With the publication
of his poem, The Raven, in New York in 1845, he reached the summit
of his fame. In that year he wrote to a friend, “The Raven has had
a great ‘run’ – but I wrote it for the express purpose of running – just as I
did The Gold Bug, you know. The bird beat the bug, though, all
hollow.” And yet, in spite of his fame, he said in the same year, “I have made
no money. I am as poor now as ever I was in my life.”
The truth was that it would
then have been difficult for the most successful author to live even in the
North without a salaried position, and conditions were worse in the South. Like
Hawthorne, Poe tried to get a position in a customhouse, but failed.
He moved to an inexpensive
cottage in Fordham, a short distance from New York City, where he, his wife,
and mother-in-law found themselves in 1846 in absolute want of food and warmth.
The saddest scene in which any great American author figured was witnessed in
that cottage in “the bleak December,” when his wife, Virginia, lay dying in the
bitter cold. Because there was insufficient bed clothing to keep her warm, Poe
gave her his coat and placed the family cat upon her to add its warmth.
Her death made him almost
completely irresponsible. The stunning effect of the blow may be seen in the
wandering lines of Ulalume (1847). The end came to him in
Baltimore in 1849, the same year in which he wrote the beautiful dirge of Annabel
Lee for his dead wife. He was only forty when he died. This greatest
literary genius of the South was buried in Baltimore in a grave that remained
unmarked for twenty-six years.
In anticipation of his end,
he had written the lines:
“And
oh! of all tortures,—
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the napthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst.”
*
We add here, the lines from one of his other famous poems, written in memory of his wife. She was only 13 years old in 1836, when they married, and 24 when she died.
Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year
ago,
In a
kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived
whom you may know
By the
name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived
with no other thought
Than to
love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a
child,
In this
kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love
that was more than love—
I and my
Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd
seraphs of Heaven
Coveted
her and me.
And this was the reason
that, long ago,
In this
kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud,
chilling
My
beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn
kinsmen came
And bore
her away from me,
To shut her up in a
sepulchre
In this
kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so
happy in Heaven,
Went
envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason
(as all men know,
In this
kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of
the cloud by night,
Chilling
and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was
stronger by far than the love
Of those
who were older than we—
Of many
far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in
Heaven above
Nor the
demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul
from the soul
Of the
beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams,
without bringing me dreams
Of the
beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise,
but I feel the bright eyes
Of the
beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide,
I lie down by the side
Of my
darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her
sepulchre there by the sea—
In her
tomb by the sounding sea.
*
Ruth Finley notes that Sarah Hale had been a patron of Poe, and he had been paid well, he felt, for his submissions to Godey’s.
A tribute to the poet ends with these four lines:
So worn and tempest-riven!
Be all his faults forgiven!
Calm be his rest in heaven,
Whose soul was love!
Hale had recognized his
“gentleness of heart,” Finley writes. “To appear in Godey’s Lady’s Book
was to be ‘made,’” said one editor in 1928. (113/252)
*
The
horde of office-seekers which bedeviled President Tyler reminded Benjamin
Perley Poore of a saying of John Randolph, when told that the patronage of the
federal government was overrated. “‘I know,’ said the sarcastic Virginian,
‘that it may be overrated; I know that we cannot give to those who apply office
equal to their expectations; and I also know that with one bone I can call five
hundred dogs.’” (Poole, Reminiscences;
Volume 1, 355)
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