The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
(c)1998-2002; (c)2002 by Gale. Gale is an imprint of The Gale Group, Inc., a division of Thomson Learning, Inc. Gale and Design and Thomson Learning are trademarks used herein under license.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.
“Myra, little Myra, do you care like that?” he cried. “Then let the friendship go, and be my dear little sweetheart, won’t you? I’m dying of loneliness and the want of somebody to love and to love me—somebody who understands me—and you do, don’t you, Myra, darling?”
She was too happy to answer, but she suffered him to put his arms around her and kiss her soft pale hair—and her brow—and her tremulous mouth—the first kisses of love to him as well as to her. And ah, how sweet!
He laughed happily, lifted out of his gloom by this new, this deliriously sweet dream.
“Do you know, little sweetheart,” he said, in a voice that was bubbling with joy, “I feel that you have cast those devils out of me forever. It was you that I wanted all the time, and did not know it. Some of these days, when I’ve been through college and settled down, we will be married, and wherever our home is, we must always have a porch like this, with a rose on it, and” (kissing her brow) “you must always wear a jessamine in your hair.”
And so the boy-poet and his girl play-mate, very much to their own surprise, parted affianced lovers, and a long vista of sunlit days seemed to beckon The Dreamer.
The session at the University did not begin until the middle of February, so love’s young dream was not to be interrupted too soon. Meantime, its sweetness was only enhanced by thought of the coming separation. The affair had too, the interest of secrecy, for the youthful lovers well knew the storm of opposition that would be raised, in both their homes, if it should be discovered. This need of secrecy made frequent meetings and exchange of vows impossible, but it gave to such as occurred the flavor of stolen sweets and kept the young sinners in a tantalized state which was excruciating and at the same time delightful, and which still further fed the flames and convinced them of the realness and intensity of their passion.
When they did meet, their awed, joyous confessions of mutual love charmed the lonely, romantic boy by their very novelty. In them his fairest dreams were fulfilled. How sweet it was in these rare, stolen moments, to crush the pure young creature, who would be his own some day, against his wildly beating heart—how passing sweet to hear against his ear her whispered, hesitating vows of deep, everlasting love!
In his pretty new room overlooking the terraced garden of the stately mansion which had become his home, Edgar Poe plunged headlong into Byron, and in the mood thus induced, penned many a verse, no worse and not much better than the rhymes of lovelorn youths the world over and time out of mind, to be copied into Myra’s album.
Between the love-making and preparation for college, time took wings. In what seemed an incredibly short space summer and fall were gone, Christmas, with its festivities, was over and the new year—the year 1826—had opened.
Alas, hapless Dreamer! Did the gleam of those eyes cast alway slightly downward, slightly askance—give you no discomfort? Did the fang-like teeth when the thick lips opened to pour forth birthday wishes or streams of uproarious laughter, and the square lines of the jaw, suggest to your ready imagination no hint of cruelty? If you could but have known that what time he laughed and talked with your guests and feasted at your board, with its tasty viands and its cake with lighted candles, and bent his furtive glance upon the beauty of your guileless Virginia—if you could but have known that in his black heart the canker jealousy was gnawing and that, behind the smile he wore as a mask, the brainy man was biding his time!
It was a goodly little company—a coming together of bright wits and (for the most part) of kind hearts, and the talk was crisp, and fresh, and charming.
Supper was served early.
“My wife and her mother have thought that you Penn folk might like to sit down to a Virginia supper,” said the host, as he led Mrs. Graham to the table, and stood for a moment while Virginia designated the seats to be taken. Then still standing, said,
“Every man a priest to his own household, is our Virginia rule, but as we have with us tonight one who before he took up Letters wore the cloth, I’m going to abdicate in his favor. Dr. Griswold will you ask a blessing?”
All heads were bowed while the time-honored little ceremonial was performed, then seats were taken and the repast begun.
Virginia presided over the “tea-things,” while Mrs. Clemm occupied the seat nearest the door opening on the kitchen, that she might slip as unobtrusively as possible out and back again when necessary; but most of the serving was done by the guests themselves, each of whom helped the dish nearest his or her plate, and passed the plates from hand to hand. All of the supper, save the dessert and fresh supplies of hot waffles was on the table. There were oysters and turkey salad and Virginia ham. And there were hot rolls and “batter-bread” (made of Virginia meal with plenty of butter, eggs and milk, and a spoonful of boiled rice stirred in) and there was a “Sally Lunn”—light, brown, and also hot, and plenty of waffles. In the little spaces between the more important dishes there were pickles and preserves—stuffed mangoes and preserved quinces and currant jelly. And in the centre of the table was the beautiful birthday cake frosted by Virginia’s dainty fingers and brilliant with its thirty-three lighted candles.
There was just enough room left for the three slender cut-glass decanters that were relics of Mother Clemm’s better days.
“The decanter before you, Mr. Graham, contains the Madeira; the Canary is before you, Captain Reid, and I have here a beverage with which I am very much in love at present—apple wine—” Edgar Poe said, tapping the stopper of a decanter of cider near his plate.
“I have,” was the reply. “An hour ago. It was here in Richmond all the time and I didn’t know it, and like a poor fool, have been wandering the world over in a vain search for it. The trouble is, I was looking for the wrong thing. I was looking for fame and fortune, thought of which blinded my eyes to something far better—scenes and friendships of lang syne. Jack—” he continued, as—arm in arm—the two friends made their way up the street. “Jack, life is a great schoolmaster, but why does it take so long to drub any sense into these blockheads of ours?”
“Damned if I know,” replied his companion, who was more truthful always than either poetic or philosophic, “but if you mean that you’ve decided to come back to Richmond to live, I’m mighty glad to hear it.”
“That’s what I mean. I came only for a visit and to lecture, but made up my mind on the way from the depot to come for good as soon as I can arrange to do so. I think it was a magnolia tree in bloom—the first I had seen in many a year—that decided me.”
“Well, all of your old friends will be glad to have you back; there’s one in particular that I might mention. Do you remember Elmira Royster? She’s a comely widow now, with a comfortable fortune, and she’s always had a lingering fondness for you. I advise you to hunt her up.”
The Dreamer’s face clouded.
“Women are angels, Jack,” he said. “They are the salt that will save this world, if it is to be saved, and for poor sinners like me there would be simply no hope in either this world or the next but for them; but they will have no more part in my life, save as friends. A true friend of mine, however, I believe Myra is. I saw her during my brief visit here last fall.—Ah, Rob! my boy! Howdy!”
The two friends had turned into Sixth Street and as they drew near the corner of Sixth and Grace, almost ran into Rob Stanard—now a prominent lawyer and one of the leading gentlemen of the town.
“Eddie Poe, as I’m alive!” he exclaimed, with a hearty hand-clasp. “My, my, what a pleasure! I’m on my way home to dinner, boys. Come in, both of you and take pot-luck with us. My wife will be delighted to see you!”
The invitation was accepted as naturally as it was given, and the three mounted together the steps of the beautiful house and were received in the charmingly homelike drawing-room opening from the wide hall, by Rob’s wife, a Kentucky belle who had stepped gracefully into her place as mistress of one of the notable homes in Virginia’s capital. As she gave her jewelled hand to Edgar Poe her handsome black eyes sparkled with pleasure. She was not only sincerely glad to receive the friend of her husband’s boyhood, but keen appreciation of intellectual gifts made her feel that to know him was a distinction. Some of the servants who had known “Marse Eddie” in the old days were still of the household—having come to Robert Stanard as part of his father’s estate—and they were to their intense gratification, pleasantly greeted by the visitor.