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Chapter XVI
The “Via Dolorosa” and Death 1877-1878
The year 1877 marked the termination of Sarah Whitman's militant activities. Mrs. Paul Wright Davis had died. the previous year, and the woman's suffrage movement had left Mrs. Whitman unsatisfied, with only a faith that eventually women would achieve their rights. The progress of physical science had made deep impressions upon. the theory of Spiritualism, and scientific investigation had shown. that much of the phenomena was fraud. So again Mrs. Whitman was left with only a faith in personal immortality, and not.much credulity as to the verity of many of the spiritual manifestations. And finally her ever increasing interest in Poe had not brought particularly happy results. Over a long period of years she had idealized his memory, and she had apparently convinced herself that she had been the only woman that Poe had ever loved. But often there must have come to her a feeling of painful. suspicion that she had been. deceived when stories began to pour in from the other women of Poe's acquaintance. It would be hard to estimate the pain which these rumors brought — Sarah Whitman's sense of pride was always acute. Yet those biographers whom she had sought to assist seem to have had little regard for her discomfort. They persisted in uncovering the less essential details and the less important inherent qualities of Poe; and too frequently their investigations brought into an unfavorable light “the Providence episode”. Added to all [page 731:] of this embarrassment was the unpleasantness of having to deal with a group of men whose petty jealousies caused them to turn not only against each others but also rather discourteously against the woman who had provided assistance. Perhaps the only one of that group of literary men becoming actively interested in Poe in the seventies whose feelings toward Poe approached Mrs. Whitman's idea of what a Poe biographer's attitude should be was Mallarmé. To the Frenchman. Poe was apparently a lost god — something. to be held in reverence. But Mallarmé was not a biographer! So the year 1877 neared its and without leaving much for Sarah Whitman to rejoice over, and her “via dolorosa” was to be lengthened before the close of December.
Yet in spite of her disappointments and sorrows Mrs. Whitman retained a certain light-heartedness and good humor which had always characterized her. Even in her most serious moments she was quite willing to see the ludicrous in a situation, and she was always pleased.to laugh with those who wished to laugh. William Whitman Bailey, one of Mrs. Whitman's closest friends during her last years, has let some interesting lines concerning her which reveal some of her personal charm and good humor during her later years. He wrote:
During the years of my acquaintance with her, she lived with her sister Miss Anna Power of Benevolent street. I never visited her in her old. Benefit street home to which she often alluded. she used to tell me with glee, and. with some touch of mystery, how once, when she and some friends were holding [page 732:] a séance there, a coal black cat made her appearance. Upon some attempt to catch and fondle it, the weird creature made a dash for the fireplace and disappeared up the chimney. She would go into fits of laughter as she told this story, Sunday evenings were her usual reception time, but I rarely called on Sunday, dreading to meet a number of strangers, of persons whom I knew but slightly. It was evidence of her regard that I was welcome at any time. Mrs. Whitman was a convinced and enthusiastic spiritualist, and her reception, I fancy often took the form of stances. I am myself radically skeptical and have never seen anything in my somewhat long life that seemed to me in any way supernatural. I used to tell her and she could not understand it in me that if departed friends hovered about me, to my knowledge rapping messages on my hard head, I should be scared blue. She on the contrary took utmost comfort in the communications of spirits, Edgar Poe and others, and promised if possible after. death, to reveal herself to me.(1)
William Whitman Bailey had first become acquainted with Mrs. Whitman in 1872 when as a young man he received her congratulations on a poem, “Calypso, a rare orchid of the North”, which William Cullen Bryant had published in the New York Evening Post. He had first heard of Mrs. Whitman in 1857 through his friend Mrs. G. L. Dwight; and, on meeting her many years later when he came to Brown University as a professor of botany, he formed an intimate friendship which lasted until the close of Mrs. Whitman's life. Both he and Mrs. Whitman had interests that were literary as well as botanical, and they often exchanged advice and poetry on both interests. Bailey, having become acquainted with Stoddard in his early years, acted as Mrs. Whitman's messenger when she sent material to that gentleman in 1872. It was some years [page 733:] later that Bailey, recalling his association with Mrs. Whitman, left his recollections concerning lather charming incidents of her personal life during her later years. He continued:
Generally when I called., she herself came to the door, opening its mere crack and thoroughly assuring herself of the identity of her visitor before admitting him! Her sitting room was near to the left of the front door as one entered and there the lights were always turned down. Bits of drapery hung about gave a weird and sombre aspect to the apartment. Mrs. Whitman always wore a veil even indoors, I think, but am not sure: I think it was in this room there hung a large painted portrait of Poe to whom at one time she had been betrothed and for whom her reverence was profound, her other pictures, some of which were given by elitist friends of whom she had many, were very (sic) as to merit, Whether good or not, she exalted all, placing the artist's intentions far above any conceivable execution. Her imagination could transform the poorest cheap chromo into a masterpiece. She had a trick of inverting her lamp shades so that a flood of light would be thrown upon and suffuse some particular painting or print, leaving the rest of the room in darkness. I have known her wildly enthusiastic over a cheap daub she had picked up somewhere and which her fancy glorified. She might, for her frankness was unlimited, own that it was a daub, absolute candor was a feature of her criticism. She would indeed poke good. bzimoured fun at her best friends or most treasured beliefs, meaning no harm and expecting the same treatment of herself. Like Hork, Hood, Lamb Holmes, Parkman, Thackery, she loved a pun, but to have it passable it must be very good or else atrocious. I fear my contributions were of the latter class, but together we had some side splitting experiences. She had an indiscriminating love of music. The concord of unseen sounds was agreeable, however, by whom-so-ever made. I have often known her enthusiastic over a hand organ or a hurdy-gurdy. I once wrote a doggerel which I still retain concerning an organ grinder, whom she is supposed to mistake for a prince in disguise. She was quite capable of creating and then worshipping such a delusion. I have never known any one with so lively a fancy. We were always passing literary squibs between us or perhaps more serious compliments. [page 734:] Some of the personal poems, hers and mine, appeared in the Providence Journal. Thus, I met her one day in spring on Benefit Street at the corner of George. She was walking abstractedly as she was wont to do till I accosted her when she at once brightened up. I had just returned flower laden from the woods. In passing I handed her some sprigs of trailing arbutus. I can see her now as she tripped off with her peeulinr springy, jerky step, quite unique. She always appeared when on the street as if wrapped in meditation. Next day she had acknowledged the gift by a poem in the Journal, I replied the day after likewise in the Journal. Mr. George W. Danielson, himself a Whitman, liked us both and unintentionctily did much to strengthen our friendship, He and I were both descendants of Jacob Whitman who built the Whitman block and named the Turks head corner.
On one occasion it was in the evening at her house, I had been telling her of the rare beauty of the green night moth Allacus luna. She told me squarely that she did not believe that such a creature existed or she would have seen or known of it. As luck would have it in a stroll near old Cat swamp the very next day, I found one, clinging to a low bush, fresh from its cocoon, and brought it to her alive. Her delight was as of a child unbounded. This event I celebrated in another poem to the Journal entitled Psyche.
Mrs. Whitman used generally to receive me in a little three cornered room between her sitting room and kitchen, bedroom or some other mysterious region that I never penetrated.. I only knew that there and always alert was her sister. One evening we were unite excitedly but good hamoredly discussing some literary matter when, backing suddenly, Mrs. Whitman sat down in a huge trunk, usnally employed as a seat, but then unluckily left open. She disappeared utterly from view except for her little twinkling feet, pattering in the air. At the same time volleys of explosive, convulsive laughter arose from seemingly profound depths, while I myself was helpless with fun. Ever afterwards I called her Genissa referring to the then popular story.
Weekday nights those I oftenest met there were Misses Baxter, Arnold, the artist, and Mr, Albert Whitin of Whitinsville, with whom I often talk of [page 735:] her. She once sent for me to meet Mr. Rose the elocutionist, knowing how much I liked good reading and dramatic interpretation. We had a rare evening in her large parlor, Rose repeating some fine things with great power as it seemed to me. I cannot recall what they were. Possibly one was Napoleon at St. Helena of which Mrs. Whitman was very fond. Sometimes I accompanied. her to certain studios; notable those of Baxter, Bannester and Leavett. I think these were always red letter occasions to her. The very life of the artist appealed to her. She certainly loved Bohemians, even if they lived as did she from hand to mouth. It was certainly wonderful and pitiful to know upon how little she and Miss Power could exist. They kept no cook or maid and ate like the gods, when there was no food, not always nectar and ambrosia, and when they felt like it. Mrs. Whitman had an inordinate love of candy, some days I think existed upon it alone. Her affection for her sister; so long afflicted, was most tender and pathetic and to as always recalled the relation of Charles and Mary Lamb. This was her invitation to me to meet Mr. Rose, on October 24, 1872.
“If the woodman will drop in at 39 Benevolent Street next Thursday evening, he will meet another woodman who passes his winters in Florida in a log hut five miles from his next door neighbor. This woodman whose name is Rose (Wild Rose), is moreover a devout reader and fervent admirer of W. W. B.'s works and has a large collection of his flora in a hortus seccus or extract book of his winter readings. Come.”
Though I seldom saw Miss Power, I remember her joining us once, in the long room and almost immediately and with extreme rapidity giving the names of all of the monarchs of England from before Alfred to Victoria. She expressed her feelings freely concerning some of them, not always eulogistically. I remember one evening referring to some young companion of mine as a modest fellow. At once Miss Power raged saying she would not believe it of him or of any other self respecting man. Mrs. W. herself used to say she wanted a man to take all the credit that was his. She did not believe in anonymous writings.
Mrs. Whitman's great admiration for the spectacular caused fires to have great attraction for [page 736:] her. She loved to go as near as possible to them or to see them from some commanding position. I remember two occasions when I took her to see fires. Once we went to the wharves. of South Water St. to look at a great conflagration opposite I think on Custom. House St. and again to Prospect Terrace to witness another fire near the Post office. She would utter exclamations of delight as a wild flame whirled sparks high in the air or great puffs of tawny smoke assmed geni like forms or dimensions.(1)
Mrs. Whitman was now a little old woman of seventy-four — but never would she admit age. That bit of feminine vanity which had been a natural heritage remained with her as the years passed, and she continually strove to destroy those tell-tale vestiges of the years. The light must now be lower, and there must be more veils. Yet her vanity does not impress one as strange when it is recalled that for years she had received the homage of both men and. women, and much of this homage was due to her personal charm. More than one man had sought her hand, and often she had been admired. by men much younger than she. O’Connor, Ingram, Mallarmé — these men had praised her for herself as well as for her relation with the immortal Poe; and the Frenchman, after the fashion of his nation, had built a little shrine about her and praised the beauty of her photograph. No! She did not mind the passing of years, but she had no intention of being referred to as an old woman. In 1877 she received a letter from her North Carolina cousin, John S. Long — the first news she had had from him since the war. Long spoke of Mrs. Whitman's charm in 1853 when he had come with his [page 737:] bride to Providence. But he added that time had passed and that they were both growing old. He longed to see her again, but not as an old woman! He wished to see her as she was in the far back sunny past, a queen of poetry and song, beautiful in her talents and graces, and winsome to all. He must therefore wait to see her in “the glorious land”.(1)
Mrs. Whitman was pleased with the flattery of Long, but not with his suggestion in regard to her age. She seized a nen aril scratched out the painful lines.
John Long had been fond of Anna, referring to her as “that dear little abolition, woman's right cousin of ours; that told me while going town to the depot that she would not have me for a husband no-how.” And he continued:
“How I delight to think of her too.
What a nice little messenger and nectar carrier for the Gods she would make — so swift-footed, polite, and fun loving. The fact is I became so much attached to her, and her witty sayings sparkled so freely and harmlessly that I feel myself bound, each night that I count my beads, to say an Ave Maria for her.”(2)
But John Long had perhaps not seen much of poor Anna. Until the close of her life, she was a trial. Sometimes if she did not wish. for Mrs. Whitman to open her doors to visitors, then they were not opened; and again she had a way of sitting concealed in a closet and listening to all that was being said. As the years passed, she grew more and more erratic and restless; and at times [page 738:] it was feared that she might ccerdt acts of physical violence. ohe had actually become dangerous. Mrs. Whitman continually feared that her own death would leave this poor feeble sister stranded in a world where she would be unable to care for herself. And though Mrs. Whitman's estate proved to be munificent on her death, it was ever her fear that Anna would be left alive, alone, and penniless. Consequently she indulged in a frugality in her houserld affairs that was touching.(1)
The autumn of 1877 was a hard one for Anna. She had failed rapidly in health, and it became apparent to Mrs. Whitman that Anna could not live much longer. These were sad. days. A Mr. Henry Wilson composed a musical setting for Mrs. Whitman's “A Still Day in Autumn”, and this music was a comfort to her as she sat and watched Anna's life fade away.(2) She thought on those autumn days in the past when she wandered with Anna
“Through the woodlands hoary,
In the soft gloom of an autumnal day,
When Summer gathers up her robes of glory
And, like a dream of beauty, glides away.”
On December 6, 1877, Anna Power died.(3) So once more Sarah Whitman went to the old North Burial Ground where she and Anna used to wander and where those weird cherubim gazed from the tombs of her forefathers. Her sorrow was great; but she experienced some relief, for now Anna was beyond all care, No longer need she fear that this feeble sister would be left alone on this earth to care for herself. And no longer did she need to bother [page 739:] about her own material wants. Selling most of her household goods at auction, she left the house on Benevolent Street where she had moved on the death of her mother, and now moved into the home of her friend Mrs. Albert Dailey, there to spend the remainder of her life.(1) In January, 1878, she wrote Ingram:
“I have had from my dear Rose a letter that cheered and blessed me. Tell her this when you write. I am for the present in the beautiful home of the Dailey's which she knows well, doubtless, with all my household goods around me, saving such as fell under the auctioneer's hammer. The walls of my rooms are hung with mirrors old and new and with pictures of the same diverse epochs of history. I am sitting before a cheerful wood fire in an upper room looking out on fields and meadows and pleasant gardens. Apollo — My Apollo stands on a pedestal at the door of entrance in the upper hall — my Venus of Milo adorns the lower hall and my Bronze Censer from the palace of the Emperor of Pekin breathes myrrh and sandalwood from its Dragon's mouth, whenever the company in the parlor below wishes to be ‘droused in the Orient's dusky thought’.”(2)
Myrrh and sandalwood bought fancies. A great deal of her life had been lived in fancy. All of her life she had loved the imaginative. She liked the “Arabian Eights% and of all of her poetry she perhaps loved best “The Three Fairy Ballads”. But now she lived in her memory, and her memory was rich. She recalled those old days when there was the odor of myrrh and sandalwood in Providence — those days when white-sailed ships came in from the sea and unloaded their wares on. Cheapside. She thought back on those early times in Boston when she had lived on Fort Hill with her romantic but improvident [page 740:] young husband. The past all came before her again in her old age.(1)
With memories of the past there always came memories of Poe. She kept a portrait of Poe in her room, and, looking at it, one wrote her lines beginning:
“After long years I raised the folds concealing
That face, magnetic as the morning's beam:
While slumbering memory thrilled at its revealing,
Like Memnon wakening from his Marble dream.”(2)
Ingram opened a correspondence with her in January, 1878. He sent some enclosures, and in reconciliation she replied on the 16th:
“If your words in some of those letters of the past, to me, eventful year, caused me profound pain at the time, the via dolorosa which I have of late been called to tread has effaced all minor sorrows, and regrets, I remember only the happiness I felt in your earlier sympathy and friendship.”(3)
Ingram's reply on March 2 showed some confidence that now their quarrel was healed.
“My dear Friend,” he wrote. “For such I again venture to address you now — as I hope our clouds have disappeared. Your great sorrow I heard of through our dear mutual friend of Paris, but not, of course, until I had sent off my enclosure. Since last we exchanged penned thoughts across the ocean so much of sad and glad things have happened. You have parted for awhile with almost the other half of your life. I — I have had my trial. A dear little nephew — whom I looked to as the future representative of our ill-omened and helpless family — has been placed in the bosom of Mother earth — ‘other friends have flown before.’ ”(4)
They thus found again a sympathy in sorrow, and Sarah Whitman no doubt felt that she could again place some trust in Ingram. She wrote in March that she had [page 741:] much to say to him and much to ask him for she was preparing at intervals of leisure something to leave to those who loved her after her “de-materialization”. She had been suffering for a month now, and she feared that soon she must die.(1)
Charlotte Dailey sat often by Mrs. Whitman's side and made hasty notes of what she said as she recalled the facts of her past life. She was to prepare a sketch of Mrs. Whitman's life which might be used in a second edition of Mrs. Whitman's poems that was to be published after her death.(2) The publication of the poems was to be under the supervision of Mr. C. Fiske Harris and Mr. William F. Channing; but Mrs. Whitman asked that W. D. Connor be consulted, for she had considered him her closest and most intimate friend since the death of Poe.(3)
In March there was another request for assistance in regard to Poe. Edgar M. Levan in asking for material wrote:
“What I Intend is to put conflicting statements of facts relating to his life, and divergent views as to the merits of his writings, an juxtaposition for the purpose of showing what a Medley of contradiction they make up. It will be curious reading I assure you.”(4)
But such an article no doubt failed to appeal to Mrs. Whitman, and she gave little assistance.
April came and with it all the old longing to wander through the by-paths of Providence and to enjoy again the Springs but now she was forbidden to do so by [page 742:] pain. “It is a pity that I cannot enjoy it, now that I am free”, she was heard to murmur as she looked out on the re-awakening of the natural world.(1) Her eye for nature was acute, and this acuteness had not diminished since those days when she wandered with Margaret Fuller and Ellery Channing, looking for the great lesson which nature had to offer. It was said by one of her friends that “not a tint of the sky, the meadow, the river, the rood escaped. her; no flower was too small to be seen by her, and all her glances, like those of Thoreau, were discoveries.”(2)
With the return of Spring and the longing to wander, there came thoughts of Anna and sad recollections of this eccentric sister who, though a sorrow and a care, was nevertheless a companion. Thinking of Anna, she now penned the last lines of poetry which she in known to have written.
IN MEMORIAM.
How many Aprils have I roamed beside three
O’er the brown hills where now alone tread?
And though far realms of wonder now divide thee
From our dim world, I cannot deem thee dead.
I held thee in my arms while life was failing, —
Close in ray arms and watched thy fluttering breath,
Till the red sunset in the west was paling
And twilight veiled the awful calm of death.
In that white calm I saw then and forever
The grandeur of thy spirit and its power;
E’en as its mortal vestment seemed to sever,
I saw the immortal bursting into flower.
That soul so soft in its isolation,
So strong in weakness resolute in pain;
So self-reliant in its reprobation
Of servile arts and customs iron reign; [page 743:]
Mid alien crowds alone, with now to know thee,
With nothing let behind thee to regret,
Save one sad heart that love is sweet debt doth owe thee,
One lonely heart that never can forget.(1)
Mrs. Whitman's last prose article came in the following month. The subject was “The Unpublished Correspondence of Edgar Allan Poe.” The object of her attack was John H. Ingram. In February Ingram had told her of a paper he had just written on the “Unknown Correspondence of Edgar Poe” which he felt would “startle the literary world”.(2) Mrs. Whitman had evidently ignored the article until she saw it in the May issue of Appleton's Journal. She was indignant. After she had forgiven Ingram this last time and allowed the breach to heal, he had published this paper — an article in which he now only excluded her from a place among those women whom Poe had really loved, but in which, against Mrs. Whitman's own repeated warnings, he had accepted the testimony of Mrs. Shew in regard to certain correspondence that left question as to its authenticity. Mrs. Whitman was now old and tired and sick, but she could still fight — and fight she would. Her first thought was to publish a supplementary essay on Poe and Ingram in which she would give in facsimile some of those private opinions which Ingram had offered to her concerning his “fair friends and correspondents”. Such “fire brands” thrown into the camp of his allies would “turn him to cinders”. Some of these ladies would find his private opinions of them more than interesting, and the world [page 744:] would not accept so readily Ingram's published judgment as to their trustworthiness. But cooling in her wrath, Mrs. Whitman relented. The game was not “worth the candle”.(1) She simply satisfied herself with a short article which was published in the Journal on May 4, 1878.
The Unpublished Correspondence of Edgar Allan Poe.
Moore was blamed for burning the biographical memoranda confided to “ht’n by Byron for publication. Some of Poe's later memorialists may perhaps be blamed for no burning material confided to them for publication by Poe's nearest and dearest friends.
It will be remembered that in the March number of Scribner's Monthly for 1878, Mrs. Susan T. A. Weiss gave to the public her recollections of the “Last Days of Edgar Allan Poe”, including the “true story” of his intentional rupture of an engagement with Mrs. Elmira Shelton, nee Royster.
In the “Unpublished Correspondence” presented in the May number of Appleton's Journal, all this is reversed. The other side of the shield is now presented. Mrs. Shelton, after having been importuned on the subject for twenty-nine years, has at last spoken. We have the story, which Mr. Ingram assures us he was “graciously permitted to publish,” in the lady's own words. It is direct and to the point. She was not engaged to Mr. Poe; but there was an understanding between them.” (sic) Her version of the story is a very matter-of-fact, discreet, straight-forward story, not very romantic, but very credible, and so realistic in some of its details, that Balzac himself might have written it.
Mr. Ingram enthusiastically calls it “the story of Poe's first and last love, as romantic and interesting as was ever penned by poet.”
This first and last love, however, does not seem to have precluded other romantic episodes whose epistolary records have also been confided to him, whether with a gracious permission for their publication does not appear.
The first letter in the series, Number one, purports to be a copy of “perhaps the only letter [page 745:] ever written by Poe to his wife,” a soneuhat startling assumption, intended “perhaps”, to discourage future autograph hunters from wasting their time in fruitless research. Then follow the letters addressed to Mrs. Shew, a lady of generous impulses and great personal attraction, who at the period of Mrs. Poe's last illness is said to have been presiding over a private medical and water-cure establishment in upper Broadway. In November, 1850, she was married to Dr. Roland S. Houghton.
In the absence of all testimony as to the verbal authenticity of the letters presented under this howling, it is due to the literary reputation of the poet to whom they are ascribed to make certain statements omitted by their compiler.
In the spring of 1875, copies of some of these letters were submitted to me by Mr. Ingram. The first note, dated January 28, 1847, was claimed to be from a note in Poe's handwriting; the others were avowedly from copies of Poe's letters sent him by the same lady. Admitting their value as a record of facts, I frankly told him that from certain peculiarities of style and phraseology, so unlike the nervous rhythmical and emphatic style of Poe, I could not readily accept them as literal transcripts from the originals, and that however interesting in their details, they ought not to be presented to the public as verbatim copies of autograph letters.
In his reply, Mr. Ingram repeatedly and earnestly assured me that he entirely concurred with my opinion, and that I might rest assured that he would publish nothing until it had been carefully revised and “recast.”
Whether the letters “To Annie” were subjected to this process does not appear, but one can hardly imagine Poe to have said, “You are the only being in the whole world whom I have loved at the same time with truth and with purity.”
It is true that in Lowell as elsewhere the disturbing elements which had always developed themselves among the friends who could best appreciate his genius and the charm of his society, soon began to manifest themselves. Mutual misrepresentations and recriminations, attended by rash and compromising statements, seem to have followed, until driven to desperation he may have permitted himself to say [page 746:] unmanly things of those whom he believed to have injured him.
As an offset to the confused and contradictory impression which these letters must inevitably leave on the mind of the reader we would refer those interested in the subject to the “recollections” of a lady known as the “sister”, so often spoken of in the letters “to Annie.”
They will be found in the seventh chapter of Gill's Life of Poe, under the head of “Suggestive Recollections”. The delineation of Poe as seen by this lady in his earlier visits to Lowell, is so delicately, truthfully and tenderly treated, that all who best knew him will recognize the exquisite fidelity of the portrait.
Whether as Mr. Ingram claims, the “unpublished correspondence as a whole, will throw new lights on some of the dark and troubled phases of Poe's strange and sorrowful history, may be doubted. Observant and critical readers cannot fail to perceive that some of the new lights are cross-lights, tending to obliterate the outlines, obscure the colors and destroy what artists call the “values” of his illuminated record. To those who can read between the lines the letters undoubtedly supply some missing links, fix some suggestive and very significant dates, and furnish a clue to some important facts yet unrevealed.
If we as must concede — since so many of the wayward poet's friends and “vindicators” will have it so — that Poe was like Hamlet, “very proud, revengeful, ambitious,” we are not yet prepared to believe he was deliberately treacherous and perfidious.
One thing is certain; if Boileau's celebrated axiom is to be received as valid, Le style c’est l’homme même, a man's style is the man himself, we do not always in these letters find. the man in the style.
A specimen of the avidity with which the most preposterous charges against Poe are received and circulated, appeared recently in the N. Y. Evening Post. A contributor affirming that one of oe s intimate friends assured bin that. Poe insisted that he saw no reason why a man should not kill an objectional person for his own convenience, while he was convinced that the maker of a false rhyme ought to be hanged for the offence! And this was put [page 747:] forth in a prominent journal as an evidence of Poe's moral obliquity! As well might Dr. Johnson have been denounced as a hardened reprobate, devoid of all moral sense, then, on being, told that Boswell was preparing a life of him for posthumous publication, he exclaimed: “Sir, if I thought that Bozzy was preparing to write my life, should be tempted to anticipate him by taking his.”
S. H. W.(1)
These were Sarah Whitman's last published words concerning Edgar Poe. She had done what she could to clear his name, and to show the world that his love for her had not been feigned. One wonders if she still recalled that night in the White Mountains many years before when the disembodied Poe, through the media ship of Sarah Gould, begged her to pray for him. She is said to have felt herself to be in communication with Poe, even in her very last years. There can be little doubt that this feeling had much to do with her prolonged vindication of his name.
But there was not much time for Poe now. She must think of her own personal affairs. An attack of pneumonic fever in the early spring had left her exhausted, and now more than. ever she felt that premonition of death. John Long wrote of the death of his son Jimmy, begging that she promise to see him when she reached the other shore; and she no doubt promised.(2) But she was also interested in what should be done with her own personal effects after her departume. She was, for her day, a comparatively wealthy woman, and she wished to leave her [page 748:] money for certain definite purposes. First, she desired to have a republication in more complete form of her own poems. Having arranged with the executor for this task, she set aside the money necessary for having it done. Then there was the colored orphan's asylum, and also the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. These were organizations which had won her sympathy, and she arranged for a generous gift to be left for each. And finally, to several of her closest friends she wished to leave sums of varying amounts.(1)
She was surrounded. by her friends now, Mrs. Dailey had not only taken her into her home as a member of her own household, but she had exerted all efforts to make her happy. Charlotte Dailey was with her constantly and listened attentively to her requests as well as her reminiscences. Rose Peckham — “the prickly Rose” — who had always been such an enigma to Ingram, was back from Paris, and made frequent calls.(2) Rose had sketched both Ingram and Mallarmé, and she had brought to Mrs. Whitman a much coveted photograph of the great Sarah Bernhardt in order that Mrs. Whitman might see the resemblance between herself and the immortal actress. Even at seventy-five she was pleased with this flattery.(3) Friends called and left flowers, bripfring her great love for them. But perhaps the closest of all those friends now were Mrs. Albert Dailey and Mrs. Ruth Burleigh.
Death was at hand, and she knew it; but now that [page 749:] she faced it, she felt no fear. It was an adventure which she looked to rather eagerly. There was more discovered country to look for; there was proof to be had for her speculations. Death would relieve her of the intense pain which she now suffered; it could relieve her of the worries and cares, the slander, and the jealousies of the world. Still there was something more she wanted to say to Ingram, but it was too late now. She could not write. Rose Peckham called and they talked at length of Ingram; and she gave her strict injunctions to come again as soon as she heard from Mr. Ingram. There was something she must say to him, and Rose could write it.(1) Ruth Burleigh came for a last visit; and when she went away weeping, Mrs. Whitman addressed to her a farewell note:
“Dearest Ruth,
I can't go away without saying goodbye to you once more my, poor darling. Your sweet face smiling on me arough your tears is all the time before me. One more goodbye and keep up a good heart and remember that all is for the best. Wear this for the sake of one who loves you almost better than anybody else in the world.”(2)
Ingram's expected letter to Rose Peckham arrived on Tuesday, June 25, 1878. On the following day Mrs. Whitman begged to see Rose, and sent a message asking that she come at once. Miss Peckham rushed to her, carrying Ingrahm's note — but it was too late. Sarah Whitman was dying. She had lapsed into unconsciousness. The next day she had gone.(3) [page 750:]
For many long years Mrs. Whitman had looked for death, and now it had come. But she was prepared — prepared even to the point of having arranged her funeral rites. This was to be her last “Saturday” with her friends; and just as she had set the stage for those previous meetings, lowering the lights and pulling the shades, so she now had laid the plans for this final gathering of her friends. But this time not many were invited.not even Rose Peckham or her own kinsman — and she had desired that there be no formal announcement of her funeral until after her burial. She had asked William Whitman Bailey to be one of her pall-bearers; and she had also requested both amiss Anna C. Gary. and the Hon, Thomas Davis to speak. There was to be no vulgar profusion of flowers, and she herself was to be dressed in the white drapery and veils which it had long been. her custom to wear. As nearly as possible her wishes were respected.
Miss Garlin, a Spiritualist, spoke of Mrs. Whitman a poet, as a woman, and as a Spiritualist. Then the Hon. Mr. Davis, husband of the deceased Paulina Wright Davis, told in a trembling voice of Mrs. Whitman's place among her friends as a leader in the feminist movement and in Spiritualism. Miss Garlin next read from Mrs. Whitman's poems a selection which the Spiritualists had published in l853 — “To the Angel of Death.”
The last mortal remains of Sarah Whitman lay in a white covered casket that bore a single wreath of [page 751:] leaves room which sprang a few heads of ripened wheat. If she had now discovered those doctrines of Spiritualism to be possible, her disembodied soul must have hovered about and listened lovingly to the tribute of her friends. And reflecting on the mortality of personality, one likes to picture a little display of spirit vanity on her part when the Hon. Mr. Davis, years ago a suitor for her hard, now remarked concerning her eternal youth, and others pictured her as “lying beautiful as a bride in death, her brown hair scarcely touched with gray.”
The grave of Sarah Whitman in the Old North Burial Ground was completely lined with branches of laurel and evergreen, and someone remarked that it was appropriate that this grave should be “the first in Providence thus simply and beautifully embowered with emblems of immortality.”(1)
Rose Peckham, pained because she had not been sent word of Mrs. Whitman's funeral, wrote Ingram on July 3:
“The first I knew of Mrs. Whitman's funeral was from Mr. Thomas Davis who called to see us and told us about it after it was all over — I could not help feeling hurt — that no word was sent me — as I am sure Mrs. W. had very few friends nearer or dearer to her than I was. I thought I should see some notice in the Journal, but it seems she requested it should not be printed till after her burial. It seems as if I was fated to be deprived of all pertaining to a last look or word.”(2)
She later added:
“There has been much complaint of the manner in which her funeral was ordered. Even her funeral was received [page 752:] no word. I am not entirely surprised, when I reflect; how apart friendship was for her, from any sect or society — that word did not reach me as it passed around among the spiritualists — and radicals — I saw her alone almost always — and no one but ourselves knew how intimate we were.”(1)
How appropriate were the circumstances of Sarah Whitman's funeral! Word of her death reached only the Spiritualists and the radicals. “Break every bond” had once been her motto. Even in death she had snapped. her fingers at convention. She would be an individual to the last.
Two days after her funeral, the Providence Journal carried an announcement of her decease, and many of her friends and kinsmen knew now for the first time that Sarah Whitman was dead.
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Notes:
None.
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[S:0 - JGV40, 1940] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Bookshelf - Sarah Helen Whitman, Seeress of Providence (Varner)