Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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. 7