Page 14 of 172 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. - Complete Poetical Works

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. During these

fits of absolute unconsciousness, I drank--God only knows how often or

how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity to

the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had, indeed, nearly

abandoned all hope of a permanent cure, when I found one in the

_death_ of my wife. This I can and do endure as becomes a man. It was

the horrible never-ending oscillation between hope and despair which I

could _not_ longer have endured, without total loss of reason."

The poet at this period was residing in a small but elegant little home, superintended by his ever-faithful guardian, his wife's mother--his own aunt, Mrs. Clemm, the lady whom he so gratefully addressed in after years in the well-known sonnet, as "more than mother unto me." But a change came o'er the spirit of his dream! His severance from 'Graham's', owing to we know not what causes, took place, and his fragile schemes of happiness faded as fast as the sunset. His means melted away, and he became unfitted by mental trouble and ill-health to earn more. The terrible straits to which he and his unfortunate beloved ones were reduced may be comprehended after perusal of these words from Mr. A. B. Harris's reminiscences.

Referring to the poet's residence in Spring Gardens, Philadelphia, this writer says:

"It was during their stay there that Mrs. Poe, while singing one

evening, ruptured a blood-vessel, and after that she suffered a

hundred deaths. She could not bear the slightest exposure, and needed

the utmost care; and all those conveniences as to apartment and

surroundings which are so important in the case of an invalid were

almost matters of life and death to her. And yet the room where she

lay for weeks, hardly able to breathe, except as she was fanned, was a

little narrow place, with the ceiling so low over the narrow bed that

her head almost touched it. But no one dared to speak, Mr. Poe was so

sensitive and irritable; 'quick as steel and flint,' said one who knew

him in those days. And he would not allow a word about the danger of

her dying: the mention of it drove him wild."

Is it to be wondered at, should it not indeed be forgiven him, if, impelled by the anxieties and privations at home, the unfortunate poet, driven to the brink of madness, plunged still deeper into the Slough of Despond? Unable to provide for the pressing necessities of his beloved wife, the distracted man

"would steal out of the house at night, and go off and wander about

the street for hours, proud, heartsick, despairing, not knowing which

way to turn, or what to do, while Mrs. Clemm would endure the anxiety

at home as long as she could, and then start off in search of him."

		Laughter is the shortest distance between two people. Victor Borge

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