Text: Kate Stephens, “Genius Recognized,” Topeka State Journal (Topeka, KS), September 6, 1902, p. 13, cols. 2-4

[page 13, column 2, continued:]

The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe, edited by James A. Harrison of the University, of Virginia. The Virginia Edition, in Seventeen Volumes. Thomas Y. Crowell New York.

Every one of us with a love of simple justice rejoices to see wrongs righted; — in this human nature of ours that is one of the divine sparks of light. Therefore every one interested in the history of American letters will have joy in the present Poe revival, of which this Virginia Edition is the completest and most thorough-going expression. The wrongs to Edgar Allan Poe have now so many years been enduring!

And yet in all Poe's wretched- life he had the faith that the world would come to him; the faith that his genius would some day receive recognition and appreciation. That faith has now become realized.

But Poe is dead, poor fellow! dead these three and fifty years in October. Not only in his life, but after his death he was maligned — traduced — defamed — vilified — for thy clear understanding, lied about. Ye powers! how he was lied about. The very people to, whom one would naturally look for his defense, his friends so-called, his biographer, were his worst detractors. Nothing in all literature of which we have any record can surpass — nay, nothing can equal — the misrepresentation and flat untruth of the Griswold biography, Poe's accredited life. Naturally the world got its knowledge of the author of the melancholy, supra-sensual tales, the poet of the weird, musical, mystical poems, the reviewer who really had ideas about books, and real taste in literature, and the capacity to express himself in clear, fine English — naturally the world got its knowledge of the author from the representations of the false biographer and the false-faced (possibly jealous-hearted) friends.

It is doubtless the false things said and done against this one of our greatest men of letters that has led to the Poe revival in this country, led to this beautiful edition, led to the endeavor to gain a just appreciation and estimate of the author in this land of his birth. In France Poe's influence founded a new school in letters. — however much the school may have departed from the native sanity and artistic height of its first and ideal worker. In France Poe is esteemed our greatest man of letters. The estimate in England, and Germany and Italy falls but little short of this. But in America, the literary betterment of which Poe held so close to his heart vast lies about the author's [column 3:] excesses (which had small existence beyond the smearing mouths or pens that reported them) have led to a nurse-mouther attitude towards the man Poe, and consequently towards the author Poe. There was supposed a lack of moral element in Poe, that he did not know the difference between meum and tuum, that he was a wretched drunkard, and that he was unfit for association. We have but to read the letters to and from Poe in this volume XVII and also the letters concerning Poe, to see how unfair was such an estimate and condemnation.

Poe did wild things: he acted rashly. a habit the being has when he is hungry — hungry for bread. Poe was hungry often, hungry for bread. It is a habit human beings have when they see those dependent upon them suffering because of a lack of the side of the wife he adored and saw her necessities of life. Poe sat by the bed dying with not enough food to nourish her, and not enough covering to keep her warm.

What must have been the anguish of that high-wrought, sensitive soul!

During those December and January days his dear Virginia was wasting with consumption she lay under a sheet and counterpane, over which was spread Poe's military cloak. The warmth of a tortoise shell cat they nestled on her chest eased her cough. Thank heaven for tortoise shell cat.

A or two before the end came a ‘hey New York woman sent the dying wife delicacies. If you would see gratitude swelling a till its pain falls in words, read heart, letter to the woman giver, ‘The military cloak was Poe's protection from winter wind when he walked behind Virginia's coffin to the graveyard; transferred, after she had passed beyond its need, from her bed to his shoulders.

And Poe sang:

In all literature there is nothing pathetic; nothing more dignified, self-respecting, justly proud, than Poe at the death of his wife. The tale sounds like romance from the old world, from the times of Kit Marlowe or Richard Lovelace, or the Grub street targets of Pope's darts. It hardly seems possible that it could all have happened in our free America, where we are constantly saying every man has a chance, countless chances — that such misery and destitution could have come to a man of the marvelous ability, magnificent art conceptions and charming personality of Poe.

“Why,” you are asking, “Why did he not write and earn money in his legitimate vocation?” He did write. His voted mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm, carried his writings from publishing house to publishing house. But often it was with no result save weariness to herself and disappointment to the patient worker at home. He could get little or nothing for what he wrote. His ideas and ideal were beyond his day and generation.

And now? Every scrap of Poe's writing is sought after, treasured, annotated, admired; and as to the veritable page upon which Poe's hand rested — I do not know exact market prices. but I know I lately, had in my hand some four or five business letters of Poe for which enough had been paid by the present owner to have bought the little [column 4:] Fordham cottage where the dear Virginia died, and to have kept her in luxuries all through her illness to have kept her possibly from the illness. Adverse fate, as well as death, loves a a shining mark; or “as certain also of your own poets have said” —

But it is only many years after his death, and after Virginia's death, that fate is smiling upon poor Poe.

The editor of this Virginia edition, Mr. James A. Harrison, has done his work with the ardor associated with personal sympathy, and the strong love of abstract justice which generations have ascribed to the Virginia gentleman. He is a professor In the University of Virginia, the university at which Poe for several years received academic instruction, and is therefore a natural custodian of the Poe tradition. Regarding Poe he has let no opportunity pass to set out the falsity of the old tales and quote many evidences for the new view. He has searched even most remote quarters, and with infinite pains brought data from family papers of California, Maine, Georgia, Massachusetts and elsewhere, and also from old magazine and newspaper files, Understanding this background we shall the more readily appreciate the chivalrous defense, the spirit, and the burning rhetoric of his Biography of Poe, which is Vol. I of this edition.

Volumes II to VI contain the ghostly and enticing tales of Poe of which we all have vivid memory. And with what art these tales are told! It is mainly through their writing that Poe has won from those who love to dub, however unjustly, the title of “the first decadent.” Textual notes have been added by Mr. R. A. Stewart, and an estimate by Mr. Hamilton Mabie of Poe's place in American literature. It is in these tales especially that one appreciates the convenient form of this edition — the books just large enough to slip easily into a man's pocket or a woman's handbag.

From volumes VIII to XVI we have criticisms and reviews, essays and the starry prose poem Eureka. Most of these Poe contributed to periodicals current in his day. Here again the indefatigable zeal of Professor Harrison is manifest, for he presents to the reader a very considerable amount of matter, the substance of nearly two volumes, think, which has never before been identified as Poe's. A part of this matter was gained curiously enough through Poe's marginal confessions in pencil in volumes he gave Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman.

In reading Poe's literary estimates one is struck by their values, their prophetic discrimination — how time (which is after all the great valuer, the great appraiser) has accredited his appreciation or condemnation. It is evidence of his true literary feeling. Lowell he hailed as the most promising writer of his day. To Longfellow he takes the very exception that time is now taking, and with whose work up to Poe's death, time will still continue to take. In that day, as in the present, the press teemed with books of so little merit that they lasted but till their night of no advertisement. But most of interest in these criticisms is the exhibition of Poe's theory of poetry, the theory which he strove to embody in his musical, haunting verse.

To review this life and work of Poe with any measure of adequateness one should have leisurely time, and space far beyond these many pages. Merely this running account of the author's substance, and its presentation in this Virginia Edition is now permitted, with a glance at the pathetic figure of the man.

But no reference to Poe should be made without some mention of the great stout heart and protective soul who shielded and guarded him in some of his bitterest experiences, who with her own hands kept his house spotless and home-like, whose faith in his genius never swerved when she peddled his productions from house to house and met unvarying refusals I mean Mrs. Clemm, his It was she who made possible the artist Poe. Witnesses say she was unattractive in appearance, mannish; possibly she was strident from hard manual work. But listen to the way she seemed to Poe:

And how did Poe appear to Mrs. Clemm? In the anguish of the news of his death she wrote her best friend: “Annie, my Eddy is dead. Annie! pray for me, your desolate friend. My senses will leave me. .... Never, Oh, never, will I see those dear lovely eyes. I feel desolate, so wretched, a friendless and alone.” What a picture! a companion piece to Poe and his military cloak floowing Virginia's coffin that snowy January day.

KATE STEPHENS.