The Home Life of Poe

CHAPTER XX

POE AND MRS. OSGOOD

It was a fortunate day when Mrs. Clemm, hunting about the suburbs of the great city for a cheap place of abode, discovered the little cottage at Fordham, a country railroad station some miles from New York.

It was but an humble place at best, an old cottage of four rooms, in ill-repair; but the rent was low, the situation—on the summit of a rocky knoll—pleasant, affording fine views of the Harlem river; and there was pure air, plenty of outdoor space, and that famous cherry tree, now, in the month of May, in full and fragrant bloom. A few repairs were made, and Mrs. Clemm's vigorous hands, with the assistance of soap and water and whitewash, soon transformed the neglected abode into a miracle of neatness and order. Checked matting hid the worn parlor floor, and the cheap furniture which they had brought with them looked better here than ever it had done in the cramped and stuffy rooms of the city. Outside a neglected rose-bush was trained against the wall, supplying Virginia with roses in its season. Her room was above the parlor, at the head of a narrow staircase; a low-ceiled apartment, with sloping walls and small, square windows; and it was here at a desk or table near his wife's sick bed that most of Poe's writing was now done.

In the preceding winter Virginia's health had apparently greatly improved, and her illness was not of so serious a nature as to confine her entirely to the house or to interfere with the social or literary engagements of her husband, who was, as poet, lecturer, editor and critic, at the zenith of his fame. In this time he had attended the soirees of Miss Lynch and others of the literary class, once or twice accompanied by his wife. At these he made the acquaintance of Mrs. Hewitt, Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes Smith and Mrs. E. F. Ellet, with others of the "starry sisterhood of poetesses," as they were called by some poetaster of the day, with each of whom he in succession formed one of the sentimental platonic friendships to which he was given. All these, however, were destined to yield to the superior attractions of a sister poetess, Mrs. Frances Sergeant Osgood, wife of the artist of that name.

Mrs. Osgood, at this time about thirty-years of age, is described by R. H. Stoddard as "A paragon—not only loved by men, but liked by women as well." Attractive in person, bright, witty and sweet-natured, she won even the splenatic Thomas Dunn English and the stoical Greeley, whose approval of her was as frankly expressed as was his denunciation of the "ugliness, self-conceit and disagreeableness" of her friend, the transcendentalist, Margaret Fuller.

Poe, who had written a very flattering notice of Mrs. Osgood's poems—in return for which she addressed him some lines in the character of Israefel—obtained an introduction and visited her frequently. Also, at his request, she called upon his wife, and friendly relations were soon established between them. To her, after Poe's death, we are indebted for a characteristic picture of the poet and his wife in their home in Amity street; and which, though almost too well known for repetition, I will here give as a specimen of his home life:

"It was in his own simple yet poetical home that the character of Edgar Poe appeared to me in its most beautiful light. Playful, affectionate, witty, alternately docile and wayward as a petted child, for his young, gentle and idolized wife and for all who came, he had, even in the midst of the most harassing literary duties, a kind word, a pleasant smile, a graceful and courteous attention. At his desk, beneath the romantic picture of his loved and lost Lenore'6 patient, assiduous, uncomplaining, tracing in an exquisitely clear chirography and with almost superhuman swiftness the lightning thoughts, the rare and radiant fancies as they flowed through his wonderful brain. For hours I have listened entranced to his strains of almost celestial eloquence.

"I recollect one morning toward the close of his residence in this city, when he seemed unusually gay and light-hearted, Virginia, his sweet wife, had written me a pressing invitation to come to them, and I, who never could resist her affectionate summons, and who enjoyed his society far more in his own home than elsewhere, hastened to Amity street. I found him just completing his series of papers called "The Literati of New York." 'Now,' said he, displaying in laughing triumph several little rolls of narrow paper (he always wrote thus for the press), 'I am going to show you by the difference of length in these the different degrees of estimation in which I hold all you literary people. In each of these one of you is rolled up and fully discussed. Come, Virginia, and help me.' And one by one they unfolded them. At last they came to one which seemed interminable. Virginia laughingly ran to one corner of the room with one end and her husband went to the opposite with the other. 'And whose linked sweetness long drawn out is that?' said I. 'Hear her,' he cried; 'just as if her little vain heart didn't tell her it's herself.'"

From this account—the exaggerated phrases of which will be noted—it would appear that a great degree of intimacy existed between Poe and his fair visitor, when he could in his own home—the two tiny rooms in Amity street—write "hour after hour" undisturbed by her presence. Virginia was delighted with her new friend, but Mrs. Clemm, noting these frequent and lengthy visits, regarded her with a suspicious eye. Too well she knew of the platonic friendships of her Eddie; but there appeared something in this affair beyond what was usual, and, in fact, gossip had already begun to link together their names. Mrs. Osgood herself seems to have relied upon Mrs. Poe's frequent invitations and fondness for her society as a shield against meddlesome tongues, but in vain—for not only were the jealous and vigilant eyes of Poe's mother-in-law bent upon her, but those of the "starry sisterhood" as well. There was a flutter and a chatter in the literary dovecote, and at length one of the starry ones—Mrs. Ellet—concluded it to be her bounden duty to inquire into the matter. Calling at Fordham one day, in Poe's absence, she and Mrs. Clemm, who had probably never before met, engaged in a confidential discussion, in the course of which the irate mother-in-law showed the visitor a letter from Mrs. Osgood to Poe (one wonders how she got possession of that letter), the contents of which were so opposed to all the latter's ideas of propriety that it was clear that something would have to be done. Eventually two of the starry ones—of whom one was Margaret Fuller—waited upon Mrs. Osgood, whom they advised to commission them to demand of Poe the return of her letters, which, strangely enough, she did, though probably only as a conciliatory measure. Poe, in his exasperation at this unwarrantable intermeddling, remarked significantly that "Mrs. Ellet had better come and look after her own letters;" upon which she sent to demand them. But he meantime had cut her acquaintance by leaving them at her own door without either written word or message; very much, we may imagine, as Dean Swift strode into Vanessa's presence and threw at her feet her letter to Stella.

This was either in May or early June, shortly after their removal to Fordham. Poe had no idea of allowing this episode to interfere with his visits to Mrs. Osgood, and the gossip continued, until, to avoid further annoyance, she left New York and went to Albany on a visit to her brother-in-law, Dr. Harrington.

On the 12th of June we find Poe writing an affectionate note to his wife, explaining why he stays away from her that night, and concluding with:

"Sleep well, and God grant you a peaceful summer with your devoted

A few days after this, toward the end of June, he was in Albany, making passionate love to Mrs. Osgood. In dismay she left that city and went to Boston, whither he followed her; and again to Lowell and Providence, giving rise to a widespread scandal, which caused the lady infinite trouble and distress. But Mrs. Osgood, brilliant, talented and virtuous, was also kind-hearted to a fault, and where her feelings and sympathies were appealed to, amiably weak. Instead of indignantly and determinately rejecting Poe's impassioned love-making, she says she pitied him, argued with him, appealed to his reason and better feelings, and, in special, reminded him of his sick wife, who lay dying at home and longing for his presence. Finally, she returned to Albany; and Poe, ill at a hotel, wrote urgently to Mrs. Clemm for money to pay his board bill and take him back to Fordham.

CHAPTER XXI

AT FORDHAM

It was at this time, in the summer of 1845, that Poe's sister, Miss Rosalie Poe, went on a visit to her brother, whom she had not seen in ten years. On her return home, and for years thereafter, she was accustomed to speak of this visit; and it was a curious picture which she gave of the life of the poet and his family in the humble little cottage on Fordham Hill.

Poe was away when she arrived—presumably in his insane pursuit of Mrs. Osgood. Miss Poe told of "Aunt Clemm's" distress and anxiety on his account, and of how she "scraped together every penny" and borrowed money from herself to send to Edgar, who, she said, had been taken ill while on a business trip. There were no provisions in the house scarcely, and she herself, both then and at various other times, would purchase supplies from the market and grocers' wagons which passed; for there were no stores at the little country station of Fordham.

Miss Poe told of her brother's arrival at home, and of how she overheard Mrs. Clemm administering to him a severe "scolding." He was so ill that he had to be put to bed by Mrs. Clemm, who sat up with him all night while he "talked out of his head" and begged for morphine. After some days he was better, and walked about the house and sat under the pine trees crowning a rocky knoll within calling distance of the house—ever a constant and favorite retreat of his, affording fine views of the river and neighboring country.

One day, still weak and ill, he sat at his desk and looked over his papers. Mrs. Clemm then took his place, and wrote at his dictation. Aunt Clemm, said Rosalie, could exactly imitate Edgar's writing. On the following day she filled her satchel with some of these papers and went to the city, whence she returned late in the evening, quite after dark, with a hamper of provisions and medicines to Virginia's great delight, who had feared some mishap to her mother and cried accordingly. Miss Poe believed that this hamper was a present from some one, but Aunt Clemm was very reserved toward her in regard to her affairs. She knew, she said, that Mrs. Clemm had never liked her, but Edgar and Virginia were kind.

From this time Poe wrote industriously, seldom going to town, but sending his mother-in-law instead. Several times Mrs. Clemm gave her niece some "copying" to do, but this was not to her a very gratifying task, and when, on her return home, she was asked what it was about, had not the least idea! She always insisted that Anabel Lee was written at this time, as she repeatedly heard Edgar read it to Mrs. Clemm and also to himself, and recognized it when it was published two years afterward. A curious picture was that which she gave of the poet's reading his manuscript to his mother-in-law while the latter sat beside his desk inking the worn seams of his and her own garments; or of Poe, seated on a "settle" outside the kitchen door, also reading to her some of his "rare and radiant fancies," while she presided over the family laundry. He seems to have been constantly appealing to her sympathy with his writing, but never to Virginia.

According to Miss Poe, Mrs. Clemm was at this time dependent for her own earnings on her sewing and fancy knitting, with pretty knick-knacks, which she disposed of at a certain "notion store." Virginia, too, when well enough, liked this kind of work. They had few visitors, for Mrs. Clemm, too busy for gossip, made a point of discouraging calls from the neighbors, with the exception of two or three families of better class than most of those surrounding them. These latter were a half-rural people, keeping dairies and cultivating market gardens.

Miss Poe spoke of Virginia's cheerfulness. Nothing ever disturbed her. "She was always laughing." She liked to have children about her; and they came every day, bringing their dolls and playthings, with little offerings of fruit and flowers from their home gardens. She taught them to cut out and make their dolls' dresses, and would sometimes be very merry with them. She did not appear to suffer, said Miss Poe—did not lose flesh, and had always a hearty appetite, eating what the others ate, though very fond of nice things, especially candy. Her mother and Edgar petted her like a baby. "Aunt Clemm and Virginia," declared Miss Poe with conviction, "cared for nobody but themselves and Edgar." Virginia was at this time twenty-four years of age.

It was not to be wondered at that, as Miss Poe said, her brother, immediately after his return, remained at home, seldom going into town, but sending his mother to dispose of his manuscripts. It has been said that when he did make his appearance in the city and among his usual business haunts, he found himself everywhere coldly received, in consequence of the notorious episode with Mrs. Osgood, for whom it was known he had left his sick wife. His literary enemies, of whom he had made many by his keen criticisms, made the most of this charge against him, in addition to that of dissipated habits, to which he now gave himself up with a recklessness which he had never before shown.

Poe afterward attempted to defend himself against this reproach and the whole scandal of this season by attributing its excesses to his grief and anxiety on account of his wife, whom, he says, he "loved as man never loved before," a phrase the extravagance of which betrays its insincerity. He describes how through the years of her illness he "loved her more and more dearly and clung to her with the most desperate pertinacity, until he became insane, with intervals of horrible sanity.... During these fits of absolute unconsciousness I drank." And thus he endeavors to explain away his pursuit of Mrs. Osgood!

It cannot but be noted that in all Poe's accounts of himself, and especially of his feelings, is a palpable affectation and exaggeration, with an extravagance of expression bordering on the tragic and melo-dramatic; a style which is exemplified in some of his writings, and may be equally imaginative in both cases.

Mrs. Osgood also, in her "Reminiscences," after Poe's death, sought to clear both him and herself from the scandal of that summer by writing of the affection and confidence existing between himself and his wife—"his idolized Virginia"—as she saw them in their home, and declares her belief that his wife was the only woman whom he had ever really loved. In this we do not feel disposed to question her sincerity. Touching the slander against herself, she wrote to a friend:

"You have proof in Mrs. Poe's letters to me and Poe's to Mrs. Ellet, either of which would fully establish my innocence.... Neither of them, as you know, were persons likely to take much trouble to prove a woman's innocence, and it was only because she felt that I had been cruelly wronged by her mother and Mrs. Ellet that she impulsively rendered me this justice."

Of course, the letter of Mrs. Poe here referred to was written at the suggestion of her husband, but it is curious to observe how frankly and naively Mrs. Osgood—not now writing for the public—expresses her real opinion of Poe and his wife.

Mrs. Osgood goes on to say: "Oh, it is too cruel that I, the only one of all those women who did not seek his acquaintance, should be sought out after his death as the only victim to suffer from the slanders of his mother."

From this it would appear that after Poe's death the old scandal was revived, and by Mrs. Clemm herself. About this time she was having frequent interviews with Dr. Griswold in regard to Poe's papers, which she had handed over to him for use in the Memoirs upon which he was engaged. Naturally, Mrs. Clemm, who seems never to have forgiven Mrs. Osgood for the troubles of that unfortunate first summer at Fordham, would express herself freely to Griswold, who was a warm friend and admirer of Mrs. Osgood. Was it on account of such utterances that Griswold wrote to Mrs. Whitman:

"Be very careful what you say to Mrs. Clemm. She is not your friend or anybody's friend, and has no element of goodness or kindness in her nature, but whose heart is full of wickedness and malice."

Mrs. Osgood was a lovely and estimable woman, and if she did allow her admiration of Poe and her warm-hearted sympathy with one of a kindred poetic nature to impulsively carry her beyond the bounds of a strictly platonic friendship, it was in all innocence on her part, and did not lose her the good opinion of those who knew her. The blame was all for Poe and the feeling against him intense.

Undoubtedly the impression which she made on Poe was something beyond what he ordinarily experienced toward women. In my own acquaintance with him he several times spoke of her, and always with a sort of grave and reverential tenderness—as one may speak of the dead, or as he might have spoken of the lost friend of his boyhood, Mrs. Stanard. Although, as Mrs. Osgood says, Poe and herself never met in the few remaining years of their lives, yet several of his poems, without any real attempt at disguise, express his remembrance of her. It was to her that the lines "To F–" were addressed, after their parting:

In "A Dream" he thus again alludes to her:

About the same time he wrote the lines, "To My Mother," the only one of his poems in which he alluded to his wife, concluding with the couplet:

It will be observed that the sentimental things, in both prose and verse, which Poe has written concerning his love for his wife—and they are but two or three at most—were written immediately after his affair with Mrs. Osgood and the universal charge against him that he had deserted a dying wife for her sake. It is impossible that at this remote period of time it could be understood how seriously—from all contemporaneous accounts—Poe's reputation was affected by this unfortunate episode; especially at the North, where it was best known.

When Miss Poe left Fordham, in July, she carried with her a letter from Mrs. Clemm to Mr. John Mackenzie, soliciting pecuniary aid for Edgar on plea of his wretched health. Mr. Mackenzie was at this time married and with a family of his own, but he never lost his interest in his old friend or ceased to assist him so far as was in his power.

CHAPTER XXII

THE SHADOW AT THE DOOR

During the winter and succeeding summer matters did not improve at the cottage. Poe, with health completely shattered and spirits horribly depressed, remained at home with his sick wife for the most part, only occasionally arousing himself to write. A lady, who was at this time a little girl and one of Virginia's visitors, afterward told a reporter of how she would sometimes see Mr. Poe writing at his table in the upstairs room, and how as each sheet was finished he would paste it on to the last one, until it was long enough to reach across the floor. Then she would venture to roll it up for him in a neat cylinder, taking care not to disturb him. Sometimes, when he was not employed, he would tell the children blood-curdling stories of ghouls and goblins, when his eyes would light up in a wonderful manner. "I lost my heart to those beautiful eyes," she said.

Mrs. Clemm continued to make the rounds of the editors' offices with these manuscripts, but met with little success. Poe's mind was not at its brightest. He was not in a writing mood; and, as has been since observed, he was reduced to the expedient of rewriting and altering certain smaller articles and offering them to the more obscure papers and journals. Mrs. Clemm, in the midst of her manifold duties, could do but little with her sewing in the way of support for the family. So her furniture went, piece by piece, the furniture which Miss Poe had so often described—the parlor box-lounge upon which she slept; the dining-table, which stood in the midst of the room, ready for the meal which was so seldom placed upon it; the large engraving above the mantelpiece, and the collection of sea-shells—all disappeared, until the once cosey little apartment presented a bare and poverty-stricken appearance. Mrs. Gove, one of the literary women of the day, described it as being furnished with only a checked matting, a small corner-stand, a hanging-shelf of books and four chairs.

Years afterward, when strangers would visit the cottage at Fordham, they would hear from the neighbors pathetic accounts of the family during this summer of 1846.

"We knew that they were poor," said one, "but they tried to keep it to themselves. Many a time I have wanted to send them things from my garden, but was afraid to do so."

One old dame said to a New York reporter: "I've known when they were out of provisions, for then Mrs. Clemm, who always seemed cheerful, would come out with a basket and a shining case-knife and go 'round digging greens (dandelions). Once I said to her, says I, 'Greens may be took too frequent.' 'Oh, no,' says she, smiling, 'they cool the blood, and Eddie likes them.'"

Thus poor Mrs. Clemm, with her assumed cheerfulness, would seek to produce the impression that their dinner of wild herbs was a matter of choice instead of necessity.