What we found was more Poe than we’d expected, including some surprises and a few mysteries—which would have pleased Mr. Poe.

One of the surprises was a short story—“A Succession of Sundays”—about a young man who is refused permission to marry his fiancé until, as her guardian puts it, “three Sundays come together in a week.” (This is eventually accomplished, as you might have figured, with some business with the International Date Line.)

The Post also printed one of Poe early poems, “To Helen.” (“Helen, thy beauty is to me/ Like those Nicean barks of yore…”) When it appeared on May 21, 1831, Poe was so little known that the editors felt obliged to give him an introduction:

We extract the following poetry from a small 18mo [octodecimo, i.e., 4” by 6”—ed.] volume of poems, by Edgar A. Poe, a part of which was published in a former edition. The author is, we believe, a member of the U.S. Corps of Cadets, as the volume is dedicated to that body.

Poe had dedicated his book to the cadets of West Point because many of them had loaned him money to have the book printed. By the time of it appeared, Poe was long gone from the Academy.

There’s also mystery of unsigned pieces that might be the work of Poe. One is a short story entitled “A Dream” from 1831. The Post gives no more identification of the author than the letter “P.”

The narrator of the story tells of his dream, in which he imagined he was a Pharisee who has just helped to crucify Christ.

I turned away, and wandered listlessly on, till I came to the centre of Jerusalem…… A feeling of conscious pride stole over me, as I looked over the broad fields and lofty mountains which surrounded this pride of the eastern world. On my right rose Mount Olivet, covered with shrubbery and vineyards; beyond that, and bounding the skirts of mortal vision, appeared mountains piled on mountains; on the left were the lovely plains of Judea; and I thought it was a bright picture of human existence

A perfect loveliness had thrown itself over animated nature.

But…… I felt a sudden coldness creeping over me. I instinctively turned towards the sun, and saw a hand slowly drawing a mantle of crepe over it……

I heard a muttered groan, as the spirit of darkness spread his pinions over an astonished world.

Unutterable despair now seized me. I could feel the flood of life slowly rolling back to its fountain, as the fearful thought stole over me, that the day of retribution had come…

I saw a light stream from a distant window, and made my way towards it… A widow was preparing the last morsel she could glean, for her dying babe. She had kindled a little fire; and I saw with what utter hopelessness of heart she beheld the flame sink away, like her own dying hopes.

Darkness covered the universe………

It’s a short work complete with unutterable dread, gloom, and a corpse rising from a grave. If Poe didn’t write this, he would have wanted to meet the author who did.

There are also the mysterious “Edgar poems,” which appeared in 1824-25, when Poe was living in Richmond, VA. The Post gives no clue to the poet’s identity other than what happens to be Poe’s first name.

Why  bury thy charms, lovely maid,

So long in a lone rural glen?

Ah! fly from obscurity’ shade,

And shine to advantage again.

How charming the Empress of Night

Appears from a cloud as she breaks,

And rolling so splendidly bright,

All the soul to wild ecstasy wakes……… etc.

[To Miss M. C. S. of Darby]

The use of “Edgar” might be simply the choice of some poet. (Someone with a better ear for poetry will have to tell us if Poe might have any of these pieces.) But there’s another piece of coincidence connected with a poem that begins

I will bend o’er the tomb of the virtuous and brave;

His deeds of the past I will silently number,

And think, while I pensively view his one grave,

How blest is his couch, and how peaceful his slumber…… etc.

Barnaby Rudge and his pet raven, Grip

This “Edgar” poem is entitled “La Fayette At the Tomb of Washington“ and it appeared in 1824, shortly after young Edgar Allan Poe was lieutenant of the youth honor guard that was reviewed by Lafayette when he visited Richmond.

The Post also printed Poe’s 1841 review of a novel by Charles Dickens. “Barnaby Rudge” was then appearing, by installments, in American magazines. In the review, Poe praised Dicken’s ability to convey “horror” and “terror”—literary matters he could appreciate. He was particularly impressed by the character of “Grip,” a talking pet raven that belongs to the title character.

[His] croakings are to be frequently, appropriately, and prophetically heard in the coarse of the narrative and [his] whole character will perform, in regard to that of the [protagonist], much the same part as does, in music, the accompaniment in respect to the air. Each is distinct. Each differs remarkably from the other. Yet between them there is a strong analogical resemblance; and, although each may exist apart, they form together a whole, which would be imperfect, wanting either.

This is clearly the design of Mr. Dickens — although he himself may not at present perceive it. In fact, beautiful as it is, and strikingly original with him, it cannot be questioned that he has been led to it less by artistical knowledge and reflection, than by that intuitive feeling for the forcible and the true, which is the sixth sense of the man of genius.

If Dickens didn’t know what a great literary device he’d stumbled on with his talking raven, Poe could certainly appreciate its potential: just three years later, it became the heart of his most famous poem.

To read “A Dream” and judge for yourself if it’s by Poe, go here.

Undiscovered Poe? Early Works Before ‘The Black Cat’ The Saturday Evening Post

The following article appeared in the August 13, 1831 Post. We believe it may have been written by Edgar Allan Poe and published anonymously. Let us know what you think in the comments.

A DREAM

 

A few evenings since, I laid myself down for my night’s repose. It has been a custom with me, for years past, to peruse a portion of the scriptures before I close my eyes in the slumbers of night. I did so in the present instance. By chance, I fell upon the spot where inspiration has recorded the dying agonies of the God of Nature. Thoughts of these, and the scenes which followed his giving up the ghost, pursued me as I slept.

There is certainly something mysterious and incomprehensible in the manner in which the wild vagaries of the imagination often arrange themselves; but the solution of this belongs to the physiologist rather than the reckless “dreamer.”

It seemed that I was some Pharisee, returning from the scene of death. I had assisted in driving the sharpest nails through the palms of Him who hung on the cross, a spectacle of the bitterest woe that mortality ever felt. I could hear the groan that ran through his soul, as the rough iron grated on the bones when I drove it through. I retired a few steps from the place of execution, and turned around look at my bitterest enemy. The Nazarene was not yet dead: the life lingered in the mantle of clay, as if it shuddered to walk alone through the valley of death. I thought I could see the cold damp that settles on the brow of the dying, now standing in large drops on his. I could see each muscle quiver: — The eye, that began to lose its lustre in the hollow stare of the corpse. I could hear the low gurgle in his throat. — A moment, — and the chain of existence was broken, and a link dropped into eternity.

I turned away, and wandered listlessly on, till I came to the centre of Jerusalem. At a short distance rose the lofty turrets of the temple; its golden roof reflected rays as bright as the source from which they emanated. A feeling of conscious pride stole over me, as I looked over the broad fields and lofty mountains which surrounded this pride of the eastern world. On my right rose Mount Olivet, covered with shrubbery and vineyards; beyond that, and bounding the skirts of mortal vision, appeared mountains piled on mountains; on the left were the lovely plains of Judea; and I thought it was a bright picture of human existence, as I saw the little brook Cedron speeding its way through the meadows, to the distant lake. I could hear the gay song of the beauteous maiden, as he gleaned in the distant harvest-field; and, mingling with the echoes of the mountain, was heard the shrill whistle of the shepherd’s pipe, as he called the wandering lamb to its fold. A perfect loveliness had thrown itself over animated nature.

 But, “a change soon came o’er the spirit of my dream;” I felt a sudden coldness creeping over me. I instinctively turned towards the sun, and saw a hand slowly drawing a mantle of crepe over it. I looked for stars; but each one had ceased to twinkle; for the same hand had enveloped them in the badge of mourning. The silver light of the moon did not dawn on the sluggish waves of the Dead Sea, as they sang the hoarse requiem of the cities of the Plain; but she hid her face, as if shuddering to look on what was doing on the earth. I heard a muttered groan, as the spirit of darkness spread his pinions over an astonished world.

 Unutterable despair now seized me. I could feel the flood of life slowly rolling back to its fountain, as the fearful thought stole over me, that the day of retribution had come.

Suddenly, I stood before the temple. The veil, which had hid its secrets from unhallowed gaze, was now rent. I looked for a moment: the priest was standing by the altar, offering up the expiatory sacrifice. The fire, which was to kindle the mangled limbs of the victim, gleamed for a moment, on the distant walls, and then ’twas lost in utter darkness. He turned around, to rekindle it from the living fire of the candlestick; but that, too, was gone.  —  ‘Twas still as the sepulchre.

I turned, and rushed into the street. The street was vacant. No sound broke the stillness, except the yell of the wild dog, who revelled on the half-burnt corpse in the Valley of Hinnom. I saw a light stream from a distant window, and made my way towards it. I looked in at the open door. A widow was preparing the last morsel she could glean, for her dying babe. She had kindled a little fire; and I saw with what utter hopelessness of heart she beheld the flame sink away, like her own dying hopes.

Darkness covered the universe. Nature mourned, for its parent had died. The earth had enrobed herself in the habiliments of sorrow, and the heavens were clothed in the sables of mourning. I now roamed in restlessness, and heeded not whither I went. At once there appeared a light in the east. A column of light shot athwart the gloom, like the light-shot gleams on the darkness of the midnight of the pit, and illumined the sober murkiness that surrounded me. There was an opening in the vast arch of heaven’s broad expanse. With wondering eyes, I turned towards it.

Far into the wilderness of space, and at a distance that can only be meted by a “line running parallel with eternity,” but still awfully plain and distinct, appeared the same person whom I had clothed with the mock purple of royalty. He was now garmented in the robe of the King of kings. He sat on his throne; but ’twas not one of whiteness. There was mourning in heaven; for, as each angel knelt before him, I saw that the wreath of immortal amaranth which was wont to circle his brow, was changed for one of cypress.

I turned to see whither I had wandered. I had come to the burial ground of the monarch of Israel. I gazed with trembling, as I saw the clods which covered the mouldering bones of some tyrant begin to move. I looked at where the last monarch had been laid, in all the splendour and pageantry of death, and the sculptured monument began to tremble. Soon it was overturned, and from it issued the tenant of the grave. ‘Twas a hideous, unearthly form, such as Dante, in his wildest flights of terrified fancy, ne’er conjured up. I could not move, for terror had tied up volition. It approached me. I saw the grave-worm twining itself amongst the matted locks which in part covered the rotten scull. The bones creaked on each other as they moved on the hinges, for its flesh was gone. I listened to their horrid music, as this parody on poor mortality stalked along. He came up to me; and, as he passed, he breathed the cold damps of the lonely, narrow house directly in my face. The chasm in the heavens closed; and, with a convulsive shudder, I awoke.

 P.                                  August 13, 1831

The Poe Society of Baltimore has an uncorrected version of his tale and scholars’ opinions on the authenticity of this piece. See: http://eapoe.org/works/tales/dreama.htm

“For in that sleep of death…” The Saturday Evening Post