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Among the Thinkers and Writers of Dixie
By DAVID E. GUYTON.
Edgar Allan Poe.
To those with a predisposition to drink, the mel
ancholy story of the author of “The ‘Raven” peals
ont a wild not of warning; for, while blessed with
the gifts of an angel of light, he might have lived
the life of another Israfel, —cursed with the thirst
of a demon of darkness, he sacrificed his future on
the altars of his lusts. In spite of his weakness for
cards and for wine, his songs, it is true, are the
rarest of his race: yet the heart from which they
echoed knew the pangs of hell on earth; for the
fiercest tides of passion surged forever in his soul.
Edgar Allan Poe, the most original and the most
artistic of all the poets of America, was born of
Southern blood, in the City of Boston, Jan. 19, 1809.
His father, David Poe, a native of Maryland, was
an amateur actor by profession, as was also his
mother, Elizabeth Arnold, the daughter of an Eng
lish actress. At the time of his birth, his parents
were booked for parts in the Federal Street
Theatre, hence the Northern nativity of the South
ern singer was merely a matter of accident.
Deprived of both father and mother at two, the
babe was adopted by Mrs. Jno. Allan, the wife of a
Richmond merchant. In his new-found home, the
child grew up in the midst of opulence and culture.
Proud of his precocity and convinced of his genius,
his kind foster-parents determined to give him the
very best advantages that money could procure.
Taking him to England at the age of six, they
placed him as a pupil in the Manor House School,
Stoke-Newington, and kept him in the classes of
this institution for five consecutive years. Here he
manifested interest and efficiency in Latin, French,
and English, and thereby encouraged his guardians
to prepare him for a course in the classics. Return
ing to America in 1820, they provided him with
private tutors to round out his academic role, and
at the age of seventeen, sent him to Charlottesville
to complete his education in the University of Vir
ginia. For a time, he seems to have worked with a
will; for he made some progress in the literary
branches: but in spite of the fact that not a demerit
was ever set down against him, he soon began to
drink and to gamble and to pile up extravagant
debts, and so thoroughly disappointed his expectant
foster-father that the latter declined to send him
back to school after the Christmas Holidays.
Hopeful, however, of reclaiming him from the
clutches of his evil inclinations, Mr. Allan placed
his ward behind a desk as a clerk in his counting
room ; but deeply provoked at not being allowed to
complete his literary course and likewise regarding
his clerical duties as unworthy of a man of his
mould, young Poe ran aawy from Richmond, and
going to Boston, launched out into letters with his
“Tamerlane and Other Poems.”
Finding his literary income insufficient and thirst
ing for adventure, besides, the penniless free-lance
straightway enlisted as a private in the National
Guards. During the two years that he remained in
the service, he apparently discharged his duties with
fidelity; for before his retirement, he received
promotion to the rank of a sergeant-major.
Returning to Richmond to attend the funeral of
his loyal foster-mother, he became reconciled to his
guardian, who succeeded in securing his discharge
from the army and in having him given an appoint
ment as a cadet in the Military Academy at West
Point. Grateful for this service, the outcast deter
mined to prove himself worthy of the kindness; but
soon growing weary of the drills and the discipline,
he commenced to long after liberty again; and be
ing unable to obtain a dismissal without recourse
to a ruse, he began to neglect his appointed duties,
and finally contrived to have himself court-martial
ed and discharged from the school in disgrace.
Before his expulsion, however, his comrades had
given him a number of subscriptions for another
edition of his poems; and although he had already
placed upon the market two volumes of bis youth
ful verse, he promptly went to work to revise the
other two, and presently issued his third publication,
The Golden Age for August 23, 1906.
giving it the modest title, “Poems.” These lyrics,
like those in his former editions, were worthy of
his facile lyre; but they brought him in little but
kindly commendations, when his need at the moment
was silver and gold.
Again disappointed, yet hopeful still, the unhap
py poet now found a home in Baltimore, in the cot
tage of his aunt, Mrs. Clemm. Her quarters were
poor, and her income was small; but she cheerfully
shared every crust with the bard, and her fair-faced
daughter with the Siren voice soon won his warward
heart. Hitherto, the dreamer seems to have been
somewhat indifferent to the charms of the fair: but
he suddenly found himself deeply in love with his
beautiful cousin Virginia, and he set to work to
prove himself worthy of the wealth of affection
which she lavished upon him.
Finally, in 1833, he had the good fortune to se
cure the one hundred dollar prize offered by the
“Saturday Visitor” for the best short story sub
mitted; and two years later, through the efforts of
his friend, Jno. P. Kennedy, he obtained a place on
the staff of The Southern Literary Messenger of
Richmond. Convinced of his ability, the managers
of the journal soon made him its editor in chief;
and under his direction, it speedily became one of
the foremost magazines of the Nation.
Feeling that his tide of fortune had turned, Poe
now persuaded Mrs. Clemm to consent to his mar
riage with Virginia; and although his cousin was
only fourteen, her mother at length agreed to the
match; so in the spring of 183 G, the golden knot
was tied. For a few glad months, the minstrel
lived a life serene and sweet; and a radiant future
seemed to beckon from the shimmering summits of
hope: but into the Eden of his honey-moon, the ser
pent of his old self crept, kindled his thirst for the
fruit forbidden, and banished him forever from the
fields of Paradise.
Having lost his position on the staff of the Mes
senger, he lived for a while in New York, then spent
several years in Philadelphia, and finally returned
to the former city where he passed the remnant of
his shadowed life. In the Quaker Capital, he serv
ed at first on the staff of the Gentleman’s Maga
zine, but later became a contributor to the columns
of Graham’s Monthly. Tn the Dutch Metropolis, he
identified himself with The Evening Mirror and The
Broadway Journal. In both of these cities, he did
fine work as a poet, a critic, and a story-writer; but
his fatal weakness made it impossible for him to
remain in a position for any length of time.
With the publication of his “Raven,” in 1844,
his fame as a lyrist was established forever; and
his future brightened once more: but three years
later, he stood by the grave of his “beautiful Anna
bel Lee;” and from that time forward, he gave
free rein to the fiercest passions of his sin-blighted
soul.
In the autumn of 1849, he returned to the City of
Baltimore to make preparations for a second mar
riage: but chancing to fall into company with a
group of jolly, good fellows, he buried all thoughts
of his "bride, in the depths of the brimming bowl.
Discovered by his friends, he was taken in charge;
but nothing could be done for him. On Sunday,
Oct. 7, 1849, he played his last role in the tragedy
of life, and the curtain fell forever.
In respect to the literary importance of Poe, the
critics of the world are divided: the majority agree,
however, that a few of his poems are superb and
the reviewers of Europe accord to him the premier
ship of American song. Whatever may be true of
the rest of his lays, The Raven and Annabel Lee
are immortal; and The Bells and some half dozen
others are hardly inferior to these.
As a critic, too, he is worthy of renown; for al
though he was often extreme, he rendered his coun
try infinite service in the role of a clever reviewer.
Tn the realm of the romancer, talso, his efforts
were crowned with success. His stories are wierd, it
is true; but they are perfect pieces of art; and many
of the master-novelists since have drawn inspiration
from his matchless tales.
The body of the poet sleeps in peace in the
shadows of the City of Baltimore. For a number
of years, his grave was unmarked; but in 1875, his
dust was hallowed with a slab of stone; and ten
years later, a memorial tablet in his honor was
placed in the New York Museum of Art, bearing
this simple yet sublime inscription: “He was
great in his genius, unhappy in his life, wretched in
his death; but in his fame he is immortal.”
A Great Revival.
By J. C. SOLOMON.
Thursday afternoon July 12th in the beautiful
little city of Royston, I began a Union tent meet
ing and was ably assisted by all the pastors. Sisk
of the Baptist, Maxwell of the Methodist and Pea
body of the Presbyterian Church.
This scribe did all the preaching except on two
occasions when Sisk and Peabody preached most ac
ceptably.
Notwithstanding the numerous attractions and
distractions, such as rain, wind, press association,
pleasure seeking etc; the people crowded into the
tent day and night eager to hear the gospel. Not
infrequently the tent overflowed, and a multitude
would be turned away.
The good people of the town from all denomina
tions had been praying for months and months for
a great revial. The town was cold. There was a
spiritual darkness in the churches, which was an
palling, and the attitude of the scoffer and of the
infidel was pitiable. But the faithful prayed right
on and labored and waited on the saving grace of
God. And showers came—showers of mercies fell
on the town. Hard hearts melted, stubborn wills
were subdued, lost sinners saved ami backsliders
reclaimed.
Mothers wept on their children’s necks; friends
labored with friends; wives cried and sobbed over
their lost husbands. I saw one dear woman throw
herself at her husband’s feet while he sat at the
altar piteously begging him to be reconciled to God.
One poor sinner said he had been fighting against
the Spirit for twenty years, but yielded, thank God,
at last.
One said he was “not willing to be saved”—an
other said “not tonight.” It was his last night.
We left them both on their road to hell. God pity
them. Some had “religion enough”—and so very
vile. More than once I saw great tears standing in
the eyes of a noted infidel—and when I left Roy
ston he grasped my hand cordially and said, “God
bless you.” Will not the thousands of Christians
who read these lines pray for this poor lost soul?
The meeting closed gloriously with a packed tent’
and overflowing on a rainy Sunday night. There
were 14 conversions at this last ni ht’s service,
making nearly GO in all going to the different
churches.
Early next morning at the request of the Baptist
pastor I baptized a goodly number of the converts
going to his church.
All the pastors spoke at this hour most beautifully
thanking God for the sweet fellowship and blessed
results obtaining from the meeting. At the depot
a large crowd gathered to bid this poor dust good
bye. It was a tender and affectionate parting. Not
a few eyes were wet with tears.
The last sounds I heard mid the rumbling of the
wheels as I left that blessed place were the sweet!
inspiring strains, “When the Roll is called up yon
der I’ll be there.” And the last fine sight that
came to view wrs the mighty waving of handker
chiefs.
This ended a truly great revival, in some respects
as fine a one as I ever saw.
P. S. Tee fascinating and brilliant joung editor
of the “Golden Age,” Mr. Will D. Upshaw, dropped
in on us for a little while and greatly charmed a
large audience with a most beautiful and tender
speech.
It is only by labor that thought can be made
healthy, and only by thought that labor can be made
happy; and the two cannot be separated with im
punity.—Ruskin.
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