for I hold no brief for the literary hero-worshiper or the
scholarly collector as a type. I own to a more than passing
interest in the tales of Poe, but my interest does not extend
to the point of ferreting out the exact date upon which Mr.
Poe first decided to raise a moustache, nor would I be un-
duly intrigued by the opportunity to examine several hairs
preserved from that hirsute appendage.
So it was rather the person and personality of Launcelot
Canning himself which caused me to accept his proffered
hospitality. For the man who proposed to become my host
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
1 0 J
might have himself stepped from the pages of a Poe tale. His
speech, as I have endeavored to indicate, was characterized
by a courtly rodomontade so often exemplified in Poe's
heroes—and beyond certainty, his appearance bore out the
resemblance.
Launcelot Canning had the cadaverousness of complex-
ion, the large, liquid, luminous eye, the thin, curved lips,
the delicately modeled nose, finely molded chin, and dark,
web-like hair of a typical Poe protagonist.
It was this phenomenon which prompted my acceptance
and led me to journey to his Maryland estate, which, as I
now perceived, in itself manifested a Poe-etic quality of its
own, intrinsic in the images of the gray sedge, the ghastly
tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows of the
mansion of gloom. All that was lacking was a tarn and a
moat—and as I prepared to enter the dwelling I half-
expected to encounter therein the carved ceilings, the som-
ber tapestries, the ebon floors and the phantasmagoric
armorial trophies so vividly described by the author of Tales
of the Grotesque and Arabesque.
Nor upon entering Launcelot Canning's home was I too
greatly disappointed in my expectations. True to both the
atmospheric quality of the decrepit mansion and to my
own fanciful presentiments, the door was opened in re-
sponse to my knock by a valet who conducted me, in silence,
through dark and intricate passages to the study of his
master.
The room in which I found myself was very large and
lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at
so vast a distance from the black oaken floor as to be alto-
gether inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams of encrim-
soned light made their way through the trellised panes, and
served to render sufficiently distinct the more prominent
objects around; the eye, however, struggled in vain to reach
the remoter angles of the chamber or the recesses of the
vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the
108
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, an-
tique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments
lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the
scene.
Instead they rendered more distinct that peculiar quality
of quasi-recollection; it was as though I found myself once
again, after a protracted absence, in a familiar setting. I
had read, I had imagined, I had dreamed, or I had actually
beheld this setting before.
Upon my entrance, Launcelot Canning arose from a sofa
on which he had been lying at full length, and greeted me
with a vivacious warmth which had much in it, I at first
thought, of an overdone cordiality.
Yet his tone, as he spoke of the object of my visit, of
his earnest desire to see me, and of the solace he expected
me to afford him in a mutual discussion of our interests,
soon alleviated my initial misapprehension.
Launcelot Canning welcomed me with the rapt en-
thusiasm of the born collector—and I came to realize that
he was indeed just that. For the Poe collection he shortly
proposed to unveil before me was actually his birthright.
Initially, he disclosed, the nucleus of the present accu-
mulation had begun with his grandfather, Christopher Can-
ning, a respected merchant of Baltimore. Almost eighty
in his community and as such was partially instrumental in
arranging for the removal of Poe’s body to the southeastern
corner of the Presbyterian Cemetery at Fayette and Green
streets, where a suitable monument might be erected. This
event occurred in the year 1875, and it was a few years
prior to that time that Canning laid the foundation of the
Poe collection.
“Thanks to his zeal,” his grandson informed me, “I am
today the fortunate possessor of a copy of virtually every
existing specimen of Poe’s published works. If you will
step over here”—and he led me to a remote corner of the
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
IO 9
vaulted study, past the dark draperies, to a bookshelf which
rose remotely to the shadowy ceiling—“I shall be pleased
to corroborate that claim. Here is a copy of Al Aaraaf,
Tamerlane and other Poems in the 1829 edition, and here is
the still earlier Tamerlane and other Poems of 1827. The
Boston edition, which, as you doubtless know, is valued
today at fifteen thousand dollars. I can assure you that
Grandfather Canning parted with no such sum in order to
gain possession of this rarity.״
He displayed the volumes with an air of commingled
pride and cupidity which is ofttimes characteristic of the
collector and is by no means to be confused with either
literary snobbery or ordinary greed. Realizing this, I re-
mained patient as he exhibited further treasures—copies
of the Philadelphia Saturday Courier containing early tales,
bound volumes of The Messenger during the period of Poe’s
editorship, Grahams Magazine, editions of the New York
Sun and the New York Mirror boasting, respectively, of
“The Balloon Hoax״ and “The Raven,״ and files of The Gen-
tleman’s Magazine. Ascending a short library ladder, he
handed down to me the Lea and Blanchard edition of Tales
of the Grotesque and Arabesque, the Conchologist’s First
Book, the Putnam Eureka, and, finally, the little paper
booklet, published in 1843 and sold for twelve and a half
cents, entitled The Prose Romances of Edgar A. Poe; an
insignificant trifle containing two tales which is valued by
present-day collectors at fifty thousand dollars.
Canning informed me of this last fact, and, indeed, kept
up a running commentary upon each item he presented.
There was no doubt but that he was a Poe scholar as well
as a Poe collector, and his words informed tattered speci-
mens of the Broadway Journal and Godey’s Lady’s Book
with a singular fascination not necessarily inherent in the
flimsy sheets or their contents.
“I owe a great debt to Grandfather Canning’s obsession,”
he observed, descending the ladder and joining me before
110
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF
POE
the bookshelves. “It is not altogether a breach of confidence
to admit that his interest in Poe did reach the point of an
obsession, and perhaps eventually of an absolute mania.
The knowledge, alas, is public property, I fear.
“In the early seventies he built this house, and I am quite
sure that you have been observant enough to note that it in
itself is almost a replica of a typical Poe-esque mansion.
This was his study, and it was here that he was wont to
pore over the books, the letters, and the numerous memen-
tos of Poe’s life.
“W hat prompted a retired merchant to devote himself so
fanatically to the pursuit of a hobby, I cannot say. Let it
suffice that he virtually withdrew from the world and from
all other normal interests. He conducted a voluminous and
lengthy correspondence with aging men and women who
had known Poe in their lifetime—made pilgrimages to Ford-
ham, sent his agents to West Point, to England and Scotland,
to virtually every locale in which Poe had set foot during
his lifetime. He acquired letters and souvenirs as gifts, he
bought them, and—I fear—stole them, if no other means of
acquisition proved feasible.״
Launcelot Canning smiled and nodded. “Does all this
sound strange to you? I confess that once I, too, found it
almost incredible, a fragment of romance. Now, after years
spent here, I have lost my own objectivity.״
“Yes, it is strange,״ I replied. “But are you quite sure
that there was not some obscure personal reason for your
grandfather’s interest? Had he met Poe as a boy, or been
closely associated with one of his friends? Was there, per-
haps, a distant, undisclosed relationship?”
At the mention of the last word, Canning started visibly,
and a tremor of agitation overspread his countenance.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “There you voice my own inmost con-
viction. A relationship—assuredly there must have been one
—I am morally, instinctively certain that Grandfather Can-
ning felt or knew himself to be linked to Edgar Poe by ties
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
1 1 1
of blood. Nothing else could account for his strong initial
interest, his continuing defense of Poe in the literary con-
troversies of the day, and his final melancholy lapse into
a world of delusion and illusion.
"Yet he never voiced a statement or put an allegation
upon paper—and I have searched the collection of letters in
vain for the slightest clue.
"It is curious that you so promptly divine a suspicion held
not only by myself but by my father. He was only a child at
the time of my Grandfather Canning’s death, but the at-
tendant circumstances left a profound impression upon his
sensitive nature. Although he was immediately removed
from this house to the home of his mother’s people in Balti-
more, he lost no time in returning upon assuming his in-
heritance in early manhood.
"Fortunately being in possession of a considerable income,
he was able to devote his entire lifetime to further research.
The name of Arthur Canning is still well known in the world
of literary criticism, but for some reason he preferred to
pursue his scholarly examination of Poe’s career in privacy.
I believe this preference was dictated by an inner sensibility;
that he was endeavoring to unearth some information which
would prove his father’s, his, and for that matter, my own,
kinship to Edgar Poe.”
"You say your father was also a collector?” I prompted.
"A statement I am prepared to substantiate,” replied my
host, as he led me to yet another comer of the shadow-
shrouded study. "But first, if you would accept a glass of
wrner
He filled, not glasses, but veritable beakers from a large
carafe, and we toasted one another in silent appreciation.
It is perhaps unnecessary for me to observe that the wine
was a fine old amontillado.
"Now, then,” said Launcelot Canning. "My father’s special
province in Poe research consisted of the accumulation and
study of letters.”
112
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
Opening a series of large trays or drawers beneath the
bookshelves, he drew out file after file of glassined folios,
and for the space of the next half-hour I examined Edgar
Poe’s correspondence—letters to Henry Herring, to Dr.
Snodgrass, Sarah Shelton, James P. Moss, Elizabeth Poe—
missives to Mrs. Rockwood, Helen Whitman, Anne Lynch,
John Pendleton Kennedy—notes to Mrs. Richmond, to John
Allan, to Annie, to his brother, Henry—a profusion of docu-
ments, a veritable epistolary cornucopia.
During the course of my perusal my host took occasion
to refill our beakers with wine, and the heady draught began
to take effect—for we had not eaten, and I own I gave no
thought to food, so absorbed was I in the yellowed pages
illumining Poe’s past.
Here was wit, erudition, literary criticism; here were the
muddled, maudlin outpourings of a mind gone in drink and
despair; here was the draft of a projected story, the frag-
ments of a poem; here was a pitiful cry for deliverance and
a paean to living beauty; here was a dignified response to a
dunning letter and an editorial pronunciamento to an ad-
mirer; here was love, hate, pride, anger, celestial serenity,
abject penitence, authority, wonder, resolution, indecision,
joy, and soul-sickening melancholia.
Here was the gifted elocutionist, the stammering drunk-
ard, the adoring husband, the frantic lover, the proud editor,
the indigent pauper, the grandiose dreamer, the shabby
realist, the scientific inquirer, the gullible metaphysician,
the dependent stepson, the free and untrammeled spirit,
the hack, the poet, the enigma that was Edgar Allan Poe.
Again the beakers were filled and emptied.
I drank deeply with my lips, and with my eyes more
deeply still.
For the first time the true enthusiasm of Launcelot Can-
ning was communicated to my own sensibilities—I divined
the eternal fascination found in a consideration of Poe the
writer and Poe the man; he who wrote Tragedy, lived
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
I I 3
Tragedy, was Tragedy; he who penned Mystery, lived and
died in Mystery, and who today looms on the literary scene
as Mystery incarnate.
And Mystery Poe remained, despite Arthur Canning’s
careful study of the letters. “My father learned nothing,”
my host confided, “even though he assembled, as you see
here, a collection to delight the heart of a Mabbott or a
Quinn. So his search ranged further. By this time I was old
enough to share both his interest and his inquiries. Come,”
and he led me to an ornate chest which rested beneath the
windows against the west wall of the study.
Kneeling, he unlocked th
e repository, and then drew
forth, in rapid and marvelous succession, a series of objects
each of which boasted of intimate connection with Poe’s
life.
There were souvenirs of his youth and his schooling
abroad—a book he had used during his sojourn at West
Point—mementos of his days as a theatrical critic in the form
of playbills, a pen used during his editorial period, a fan
once owned by his girl-wife, Virginia, a brooch of Mrs.
Clemm’s; a profusion of objects including such diverse ar-
tides as a cravat-stock and—curiously enough—Poe’s bat-
tered and tarnished flute.
Again we drank, and I own the wine was potent. Can-
ning’s countenance remained cadaverously wan—but, more-
over, there was a species of mad hilarity in his eye—an
evident restrained hysteria in his whole demeanor. At
length, from the scattered heap of curiosa, I happened to
draw forth and examine a little box of no remarkable charac-
ter, whereupon I was constrained to inquire its history and
what part it had played in the life of Poe.
“In the life of Poe?” A visible tremor convulsed the fea-
tures of my host, then rapidly passed in transformation to a
grimace, a rictus of amusement. “This little box—and you
will note how, by some fateful design or contrived coinci-
dence it bears a resemblance to the box he himself con
1 1 4
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
ceived of and described in his tale “Berenice”—this little
box is concerned with his death, rather than his life. It is,
in fact, the selfsame box my grandfather Christopher Can-
ning clutched to his bosom when they found him down
there.”
Again the tremor, again the grimace. “But stay, I have
not yet told you of the details. Perhaps you would be in-
terested in seeing the spot where Christopher Canning was
stricken; I have already told you of his madness, but I did no
more than hint at the character of his delusions. You have
been patient with me, and more than patient. Your under-
standing shall be rewarded, for I perceive you can be fully
entrusted with the facts.”
W hat further revelations Canning was prepared to make
I could not say, but his manner was such as to inspire a
vague disquiet and trepidation in my breast.