A short biography of Edgar Allan Poe

There are few writers who have been the object of as many dubious assertions as Edgar Allan The bard of Avon may arouse more curiosity and rancor in arguments over whether he was the son of a butcher or a noble, a Catholic or an atheist, a Tory or a Whig. But while the dearth of facts about Shakespeare limits the scope of plausible controversy, Poe left many letters, essays and acquaintances to give an account. And such was the character of the man, and of the temptations held out by the theatricality of his work to those who were left to explain it, that the ground of the biographer is thoroughly pitted with traps into which he may fall through sympathy, antipathy or carelessness.

But some facts are not widely disputed. Poe was born in Boston on January 19, 1809, the middle of three children, to David and Eliza Poe. Eliza Poe was an English immigrant and traveling actress; David Poe, an actor from Baltimore. David Poe left his family and, on December 8, 1811, Eliza Poe died in Richmond, Virginia. Notices had already been published in newspapers of Eliza Poe’s illness and destitution and it was known when her children were orphaned. Henry, the eldest, and Rosalie, the youngest, were taken in by relations. One week after his mother’s death, Edgar Poe was taken in by the Allans.

John Allan was a merchant of Scottish extraction. His wife Francis Allan was a hypochondriac woman who evidently delighted in Edgar and was probably responsible for taking him in. Poe would always remain a foster child of the Allans; he was never legally adopted and Allan was never Poe’s legal name. However, Poe was baptized within two weeks of his arrival at the Allans under the name Edgar Allan Poe, so it can be said that the traditional formation is not without ground.

Poe was given a good education. He was tutored at the age of five. A year later, he went with the Allans to England where John Allan had business to conduct. He was educated there in a school run by women of the name Dubourg, a name that later reappears in the story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” and would seem, when taken together with Poe’s other fictive reiterations from his biography and reading, to signify his good intention that nothing should ever go to waste. Still in England, he then attended Manor House School, run by a Dr. Bransby, whose name reappears in the story “William Wilson” in the description of a school supposed to be loosely based on Manor House. He returned with his family to Richmond when he was 11 years old and continued his education there at several schools.

He was an active, athletic, well-liked child. At an early age, he was set to perform recitals for guests, being stood on a table in lieu of an appropriately-sized dais. When he was 15, he performed the notable feat of swimming six miles against the James River while his schoolmaster followed in a boat. So there is little or nothing to suggest that he was, for most of his youth, noticeably introverted or moody—except the earliest fragment of his poetry, written the same year he swam the James:

Last night, with many cares & toils oppres‘d, Weary, I laid me on a couch to rest—

They are lines indistinguishable in basic character from the opening of “The Raven,” and may be supposed the effect of reading Byron who, together with Walter Scott, was enormously popular in America and must have appealed even more piquantly to a lively and attentive adolescent.

Shortly after Poe turned 16, John Allan inherited a considerable sum from his uncle and the family was soon shifted to a new and more distinguished house, dubbed Moldavia. But Poe did not live there long before he was sent to Charlottesville to study at the University of Virginia.

The brainchild of Thomas Jefferson, the school was the epitome of neoclassicism. The rotunda presided over a wide and lengthy expanse of lawn which was flanked by the residences of the students. (Cabell Hall, which now faces the rotunda opposite the lawn, was not then standing.) The library was generous but not very free of lending, so that it was commonly necessary for a student to take down all his notes in the library itself and, at that, within strictly confined hours. It is possible that this circumstance influenced his later habit of wholesale installation of factual details from whatever references came to hand. It is not known that he ever possessed any substantial library and the only accounts now remembered describe his library as modest.

UVA was a highly unsettled place at that time. In fact, it was still under construction at the time of Poe’s arrival. There were drinking, fights and riots. An idea of conditions there may be gathered from Poe’s letters home to John Allan:

You have heard no doubt of the disturbances in College—Soon after you left here the Grand Jury met and put the Students in a terrible fright—so much so that the lectures were unattended—and those whose names were upon the Sheriff’s list—travelled off into the woods & mountains—taking their beds & provisions along with them—there were about 50 on the list—so you may suppose the College was very well thinn’d . . . Some were reprimanded—some suspended—and one expelled . . . There have been several fights since you were here—One between Turner Dixon, and Blow from Norfolk excited more interest than any I have seen—for a common fight is so trifling an occurrence that no notice is taken of it—Blow got much the advantage in the scuffle—but Dixon posted him in very indecent terms—upon which the whole Norfolk party rose in arms—& nothing was talked of for a week, but Dixon’s charge, & Blow’s explanation—every pillar in the University was white with scratched paper—Dixon made a physical attack upon Arthur Smith one of Blow’s Norfolk friends—and a “very fine fellow”—he struck him with a large stone on one side of his head—whereupon Smith drew a pistol (which are all the fashion here) and had it not miss d’ fire, would have put an end to the controversy. . . .

Four months later, Poe wrote again, with news to the effect that the school had not substantially changed:

We have had a great many fights up here lately—The faculty expelled Wickliffe last night for general bad conduct—but more especially for biting one of the student’s arms with whom he was fighting—I saw the whole affair—it took place before my door—Wickliffe was much the strongest but not content with that—after getting the other completely in his power, he began to bite—I saw the arm afterwards—and it was really a serious matter—It was bitten from the shoulder to the elbow—and it is likely that pieces of flesh as large as my hand will be obliged to be cut out—He is from Kentucky—the same one that was in suspension when you were up here some time ago—Give my love to Ma and Miss Nancy. . . .

What passed between this letter, of September 1826, and March of 1827 is not entirely clear. The general opinion is that Poe was sent to university with insufficient funds to cover his tuition, books and board, and that he attempted to cover the shortfall by gambling at cards. However it may have been, he accumulated debts of $2,000, returned to Richmond in December 1826 and on March 18th had a serious argument with John Allan over the debts. How serious it was may perhaps be judged from the letter Poe wrote the following day:

Again, I have heard you say (when you little thought I was listening and therefore must have said it in earnest) that you had no affection for me— You have moreover ordered me to quit your house, and are continually upbraiding me with eating the bread of Idleness, when you yourself were the only person to remedy the evil by placing me to some business— You take delight in exposing me before those whom you think likely to advance my interest in this world— You suffer me to be subjected to the whims & caprice, not only of your white family, but the complete authority of the blacks—these grievances I could not submit to; and I am gone[.]

Notwithstanding these lines, Poe must have thought that Allan could have been softened by a sense of guilt or responsibility, because he closed the letter with a request for money:

. . . as I am in the greatest necessity—If you fail to comply with my request—I tremble for the consequence.

Leaving Virginia, Poe did two things. He traveled to Boston where he published his first work, Tamerlane and Other Poems. It was self-published and saw small circulation but signaled his determination to be a writer. Then, no doubt from want of money, he enlisted in the Army and later that year arrived at Fort Moultrie on Sullivan’s Island in Charleston, South Carolina. In keeping with the economy of memory and fictional image (repeated with respect to UVA’s nearby Ragged Mountains in a story of the same name), the island reappears in the story “The Gold Bug.”

Over the next two years, Poe was promoted to Sergeant-Major. But back in Richmond, Francis Allan was dying. He obtained leave and arrived the day after her burial in Shockoe Hill Cemetery. Six weeks later, he obtained the substitute necessary for release from his Army enlistment and applied for officer training at West Point. During the interval between the two, he went to Baltimore and published his second volume of poetry Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Other Poems.

To narrate Poe’s career from here out is to describe an almost unceasing movement between places and employments—between editorships of magazines and cities, from Baltimore to Philadelphia to New York. Less than a year after entering West Point, he decided that he wanted to leave and managed to get kicked out by refusing to attend classes or church services. Then he went to New York and there published his Poems, while during the same year he published his first five short stories in the Philadelphia Saturday Courier.

Of these, only “Metzengerstein” gives an intimation of the works by which he is best remembered. A Byronic tale of decadence and the supernatural, it foreshadows several distinctive traits. Like "The Fall of the House of Usher,” “Metzengerstein” gives the reader a character heir to an ancient estate. And as in "The Fall of the House Usher," the scion ends a long and mysterious struggle with his dissolution and the dissolution of his house:

One instant, and the clattering of hoofs resounded sharply and shrilly above the roaring of the flames and the shrieking of the winds—another, and, clearing at a single plunge the gate-way and the moat, the steed bounded far up the tottering staircases of the palace, and, with its rider, disappeared amid the whirlwind of chaotic fire.

The other four pieces were humorous and satirical, a fact not to be overlooked since this was a strain of his writing that would always endure and give a certain curious brightness of color to his horror stories. It is also worth noting that these five stories were submitted for a story contest and that, although they were published, they did not win.

Poe was now 22 years old. He had tasted life at University and in the military. He had already lived, if only for short times, on two continents and in several cities of America; he had self-published his poetry three times without finding success. His natural parents were dead along with his foster mother, and his foster father had little use for him. So he was beginning his independent life in irregularity and uncertainty.

It was perhaps the stress of this uncertainty that led him to take refuge in the house of Maria Clemm, where he lived with her, his grandmother, his brother Henry Poe, and Maria Clemm’s children Henry and Virginia. It was a poor house and Poe wrote letters, many of them ignored, asking money of John Allan. At the same time, he unsuccessfully sought work as an editor or teacher. He wrote, of course, producing among others his best early story, “Ms. Found in a Bottle,” which won a 50 dollar prize in the Baltimore Saturday Visiter.

During these years, John Allan died. It was said that Poe made one last visit to see Allan before the end and that his foster father threatened him with a cane from his deathbed. But there is no doubt that Poe was disinherited while portions of the wealthy estate were left to Allan’s illegitimate children.

In August, 1835, Poe went to Richmond to seek an editorial position at the Southern Literary Messenger, published by T.W. White. While he was there, he received a letter from Maria Clemm asking his advice: His cousin, Neilson Poe, was offering to provide for Virginia—which would separate her from Poe. This was unpleasant news to him and his reply of August 29 read in part:

I am blinded with tears while writing this letter—I have no wish to live another hour. Amid sorrow, and the deepest anxiety your letter reached—and you well know how little I am able to bear up under the pressure of grief. My bitterest enemy would pity me could he now read my heart. My last my last my only hold on life is cruelly torn away—I have no desire to live and will not. But let my duty be done. I love, you know I love Virginia passionately devotedly. I cannot express in words the fervent devotion I feel towards my dear little cousin—my own darling. But what can [I] say? Oh think for me for I am incapable of thinking. Al[l of my] thoughts are occupied with the supposition that both you & she will prefer to go with N. [Neilson] Poe. I do sincerely believe that your comforts will for the present be secured—I cannot speak as regards your peace—your happiness. You have both tender hearts—and you will always have the reflection that my agony is more than I can bear—that you have driven me to the grave—for love like mine can never be gotten over. It is useless to disguise the truth that when Virginia goes with N. P. that I shall never behold her again—that is absolutely sure. Pity me, my dear Aunty, pity me. I have no one now to fly to. I am among strangers, and my wretchedness is more than I can bear. It is useless to expect advice from me—what can I say? . . . I had procured a sweet little house in a retired situation on Church Hill—newly done up and with a large garden and [ever]y convenience—at only $5 month. I have been dreaming every day & night since of the rapture I should feel in [havin]g my only friends—all I love on Earth with me there, [and] the pride I would take in making you both comfor[table] & in calling her my wife. But the dream is over [Oh G]od have mercy on me. What have I to live for? Among strangers with not one soul to love me. . . . For Virginia, My love, my own sweetest Sissy, my darling little wifey, think well before you break the heart of your Cousin, Eddy. I open this letter to enclose the 5$—I have just received another letter from you announcing the rect. of mine. My heart bleeds for you. Dearest Aunty consider my happiness while you are thinking about your own. I am saving all I can. The only money I have yet spent is 50 cts for washing—I have 2.25 left. I will shortly send you more. . . .

Virginia did not go with Neilson Poe, and in May of the next year she and Edgar were married.

The family (gradually reduced to the trio of Edgar, Maria and Virginia) continued to move and Poe continued to change editorial positions and schemes for success. He also continued to write. Over the next seven years, he wrote many of his best stories—“Ligeia,” “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “William Wilson,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Descent into the Maelström,” “The Masque of the Red Death,” “The Pit and the Pendulum,” and “The Tell-Tale Heart.”

In January 1847, Virginia died. In her absence, he evidently felt a great lack and a need to replace her presence with that of a new wife. He courted several women, traveling back and forth across the country between Sarah Helen Whitman, Elmira Royster and Annie Richmond. In a poem, he wrote “Helen, my Helen” and in a letter he wrote, “Annie, my Annie.” It is not easy to be sure whether he was confused, hypocritical or insane.

But he was determ

ined to get married to someone and was still trying to arrange the affair in his last days. Of these, there are several confused accounts. He left Richmond in late September—and Arthur Hobson Quinn gives the 27th as probable. Nothing else is known with certainty but that on October 3rd Dr. Joseph Walker of Baltimore wrote the following letter to Poe’s acquaintance Dr. J.E. Snodgrass:

Dear Sir,— There is a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan’s 4th ward polls, who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe, and who appears in great distress, & he says he is acuainted with you, and I assure you, he is need of immediate assistance.

Four days later, Poe was dead. The cause remains matter for speculation and the accounts of his last days in the hospital are nearly as confused, contradictory and unreliable as his travels immediately preceding them.

His life and death alike are fruitful fields for speculation. But all we have of Poe with any certainty is his work. The words attributed to him after his death were not altogether his own but manipulations of Poe’s executor, Rufus Griswold. There are those who suggest that even the body that lies in Poe’s grave is not his but another’s put in by mistake or to cover the theft of the true one. There is nothing that needs to be said of these things. The work survives and gives its own account.

From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ’round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.