there?” cries out the valiant Carr. A sharp sword-thrust
from behind. He turns, recognizes the man he loves, and
conscious that it is the result of some cruel mistake, quickly
exclaims: “Don’t! don’tl I am Albert Pike Carr.”
But the recognition and words are too late. The moon had
risen, but her tardy light was a mockery.
Years of remorse and constant wandering. The dissolute
companion returns once again to his native place. By a curi-
ous coincidence he falls upon a dell, almost inaccessible,
far up into the heart of the Ragged Mountains—The Valley
of Unrest. He reaches the spot in the midst of a frightful
storm, and he does not again leave the place. But with the
skill and cunning of a madman he brings his life to a close
by poison, or like means, on that 14th day of September,
1836—the deathday of Aaron Burr—another curious coinci-
dence or strange fatality. Which?
It is not more than passing strange that a man run mad
by the thought of a crime committed, double in its nature,
should determine to end his Hfe in some one particular
5 0
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIM SELF POE
spot and in some one particular way. Any clever madman
might have brought about a death and a burial just as
unique in its character. This signifies nothing. Yet it does
seem strange indeed to find him in that one particular spot
above all others—The Valley of Unrest. Amd stranger still,
that he should have so strongly desired what is actually the
case, and that which had been predicted by Edgar Allan
Poe—a nameless grave. That he should chance to die on the
same day, perhaps the very same hour, with Aaron Burr,
who was the cause of his lifelong remorse—the cold-blooded
instigator of his crime—is, in truth, a remarkable element in
this tangle of human destinies. Unnatural and most improb-
able sounds the entire story. If true, it is—of course by acci-
dent—the perfect fulfillment of a most peculiar prediction.
If not true—only the garrulous mutterings of old age—then
it is a curious, close-woven line of unaccountable things.
But it is the plain and simple truth, this story as told by
Gasper Conrad, the honest mountaineer.
Now this much I know to be a fact and beyond all doubt:
There is in the Ragged Mountains of Virginia a certain
lonely dell which does contain the grave of some man whose
name is unknown. The mountaineers thereabout know by
tradition the presence of that grave; consequently no power
on earth can induce any one of them to enter that dell.
And they know—also by tradition—the story of Old Shaggy,
but not of his death and the strange manner thereof.
I also know it to be a fact, because told to me by Poe
himself, that he constantly frequented that dell in the Rag-
ged Mountains. I know that it was there that he guided us
into a safe retreat from the pursuit of the county sheriff,
and it was there I heard the story of the nameless grave,
and it was there I heard him slowly, distinctly repeat those
fines,
“ Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave” —
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIM SELF POE
5 1
not once only, but twice; at the opening and at the close
of his mysterious prophetic tale. This—both the story and
the lines—must have been heard by Gasper Conrad. How
else could he have caught the oft-repeated refrain?
That Edgar Allan Poe must surely have meant this lonely
dell when he wrote The Valley of Unrest, needs no proof.
Read the Poem. It makes most excellent answer to any
denial, no m atter how idle or how earnest it may chance
to be.
After reading those words in the old letter of that dead
Beauty-Wit, I determined to go back into The Valley of
Unrest, find Gasper Conrad, and question him more closely.
Now, one Bishop keeps a little grocery and notion-store
near the University Post-office, and there I had occasion to
stop on my way out to the mountains and overheard this
conversation, which made my intention useless: “So you say
old Gasper Conrad is dead, do you?" I heard some one
exclaim, and then add, “When did he die?״
“Night ,fore last,״ answered a gruff, rough-looking fellow.
He was evidently one of the Ragged Mountain people.
There was a long, rusty piece of limp crape hanging on his
left arm. It bore signs of frequent use.
A man idling near the door, leaning against an empty
box, whittling a stick, said in a lazy, drawling tone, “Is that
the same old fellow was all the time acting curious-like, and
talking about graves and lilies, or some kind of flowers
growing somewhere up there on the mountains?״
“The very same un,” shortly answered the mountaineer,
and then he strode out of the store and out of sight, with his
heavy, stupid face turned toward his humble home.
“He was the old man’s nevy, he was,״ said a melancholy
bystander.
Dr. McKennie, who keeps the University Bookstore* es-
tablished during my time by his excellent father, told me
* The University Bookstore is now in other hands. But Dr. West is still
living. His address—University of Virginia, Albemarle Co., Va.
5 2
׳THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
that he had for many years known and respected this
rather remarkable mountaineer, Gasper Conrad. To use the
words of the good Doctor: “He was honest, quiet, sensible;
but to me a continual surprise. He had cultivated not only
a taste, but an actual thirst for reading, and of a certain kind
—always books of travel and adventure.״
Filled with a desire to give a glimpse of Edgar Allan Poe,
his inner life, while a student at the Virginia University, I
have unreservedly written that which has gone before. I
do not know into whose hands it may fall. I do not know if
the great world will ever hear the burden of my song. Yet
it was on my heart to write, and I have written. I have added
something—if only a little something—to the much which
has been said and written about this my Mysterious Human
Fantasy. That much I have done, and something else. I
have shown the curious juxtaposition of circumstances
bringing about the complete fulfillment of a prediction
made in a moment of midnight revel in the heart of the
Ragged Mountains and by Edgar Allan Poe. It has about it
at least the coloring, the strong coloring of a perfected
prophecy.
Now the talk of the night is finished, and the night has
gone. Again, far down the turn of the road I hear the musi-
cal ring of jingling sleigh-bells which hours ago rang up the
memory of that Mysterious Human Fantasy, like unto the
Witch of Endor bringing back a dead Samuel to a living
and troubled Saul. Again, I hear the gladsome sound of
merry voices—that same gay party which I heard so early
i
n the night, returning now, at the break of another winter
day, from the county dance.
They are gone.
Again, I lean out of the square hole under the deep, slant-
ing eaves.
The cold gray lights creep into my den of Old Oddities.
They chill my heart.
The sun will shine to-day.
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
ש
But will it bring brightness and warmth into my life?
Again, and from out of the cold, misty depths of the ear
dawn rises before me that Mysterious Human Fantasy.
It floats away with the dark humors of the night.
It teaches the first rising wind of this new-born day
whisper,
“ Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave.”
M Y ADVENTURE WITH EDGAR A LLA N POE
Julian Hawthorne was the son of the great American writer Nathaniel
Hawthorne. As early as 18 7 4 he had succeeded in placing novels
with the book publishers and both novels and short story collections
appeared regularly until well into the twentieth century. Like his
father, Julian loved to work with the terrors of the psychological and
the accouterments of science. It may accurately be said that most of
his material fell within those fields.
It can also be said that his inspiration derived not only from his
father, but from Edgar Allan Poe. “ M y Adventure with Edgar Allan
Poe” is a fantasy that deals with the question: W hat might Poe have
written had his life been uneventful, average, and “ normal” ? Julian
Hawthorne’s weakness was never that he lacked imagination but that
his style was ordinary and that, as he grew older, he did not modernize
it to acclimate to changing modes. Yet this story, which appeared in
Lippincotfs Monthly Magazine for August 18 9 1 , when Julian Haw-
thorne was forty-five years old, is not only polished, but reveals a
high degree of sophistication. It will strike students of Poe’s life with
considerable force and cogency.
Julian Hawthorne died at the age of eighty-eight in 19 34 . As he
grew older his imagination became more unrestrained, though his
style became increasingly Victorian. The Cosmic Courtship, A n Inter-
Planetary Romance, a three-part novel begun in the November 24,
1 9 1 7 , All-Story W eekly, takes place in the year 2 0 0 1 when a method
of transferring disembodied intelligences to the planet Saturn has been
conceived. The novel becomes a morality story with echoes of The
Scarlet Letter, as the hero apparently sees his beloved voluntarily give
herself to the sexual advances of a man from another world. A series
of stories narrated by Martha Klemm, believed to be the reincarna-
tion of a Salem woman hanged for witchcraft, started with “ Absolute
E vil” in the April 1 3 , 1 9 1 8 , All-Story W eekly and culminated with a
five-part novel, Sarah W as Judith, beginning in the M ay 1, 19 20 , is-
sue, telling of the spirit of a dead daughter that takes possession of
her mother’s body. Each of the stories combined the supernatural
with scenes suggestive of passion and lust on the part of one of the
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
5 5
woman characters concerned, but the style belonged to another age
and another manner.
Yet at least one short story of the supernatural written by Julian
Hawthorne is a true masterpiece in the genre and unjustly neglected.
That story is “The Delusion of Ralph Penwyn” (Cosmopolitan Mag-
azine, February 19 0 9 ), one of the most exquisitely polished tales
ever to appear on the theme of mortal man unknowingly courting the
gray lady of death.
Julian Hawthorne, true to the spirit of Poe all of his life, great
exploiter of reincarnation and the theme of “ possession,״ was cer-
tainly qualified to bring Poe back to life, as he has admirably done
in this tale.
My Adventure with Edgar Allan Poe
By Julian Hawthorne
There is in Philadelphia a small restaurant, known to a
limited circle, and situated in a narrow street off one of the
busiest thoroughfares. The house is kept by a German
widow of respectable aspect and unimpeachable character,
who establishes relations of personal amity with her guests.
On entering, you find yourself in a barroom, where beer
and cheap German wines can be drunk, in the American
fashion, standing; beyond, there is an inner room, furnished
with three tables, one large enough to seat twenty persons,
the other two much smaller. The attendants are a couple of
German youths, occasionally assisted by the widow herself.
At noon, a table dhôte is served in this inner room, gar-
nished with a rough but palatable red wine at twenty-five
cents a pint. Most of the patrons of this dinner are German
tradesmen, who are extremely sociable among themselves,
and, after the wine or the beer has circulated a few times,
not a little loquacious and noisy also. Their conversation,
so far as I can report it, is upon topics of social and political
science, interspersed with illustrations, occasionally humor-
ous, sometimes sentimental, from real life. In addition to
this regular contingent (who sit at the large table), I am
5 6
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
in the habit of meeting there two or three journalists and
gether over the vegetable soup, the cheese sandwiches, and
the rough red wine.
The other day I had it in mind to take my lunch there, but
I was delayed by a series of accidents, and did not arrive
until more than an hour after the appointed time. As I
entered the barroom, the widow greeted me with a smile
and a shake of the head. “Are the gentlemen gone, then?״
I asked.
“Schon lãngstr she replied. “But I save some soup for
you. Treten Sie nur hinein! Sie werden wohl alles bequem
ftnden!”
In accordance with her invitation, I stepped inside, and
found everything comfortable. The room was empty, except
for the presence of one gentleman, who was seated at the
farther of the two small tables, with his back to the wall,
and his face toward me. He had a cup of coffee and a cheese
sandwich in front of him, and held in his right hand a book,
in which he seemed to be a good deal interested. As I took
my seat at the small table opposite his, I could not help
noticing that the volume) which was of a tasteful, dull-
green hue) bore on its left-hand cover, in gold lettering,
the legend Letters to Dead Authors.
As Mr. Andrew Lang’s spirituelle little work is a favorite
of my own, I was naturally led to regard its reader with
favorable attention. He was a man of slight build, with
sloping and rather narrow shoulders; but his head was large,
and of magnificent proportions: I know not that I have
ever beheld a forehead promising such intellectual power.
His hair was black, wavy, and rather long; his eyes were
black, deeply set under level and finely sculptured brows.
The nose was rather large; the mouth, sensitive and deli-
cate, was decorated with a short moustache. But for the
moustache, I should have taken him to be either an actor
or a clergyman: his black broadcloth coat, buttoned up
,THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
5 7
nearly to the chin, gave him a somewhat clerical air. Look-
ing at him with more consideration, however, I was slow to
believe that a face like his had ever gazed across the cush-
ions of a pulpit. It was too poetical, too strange, too shy:
it was the face of a man prone to dark musings and incom-
municable thoughts—of a man who might passionately crave
human sympathy, but was either too proud, or too separate
in nature, to ask it or to win it. A transparent shadow
seemed to rest upon the pale, reserved, handsome counte-
nance; but, though transparent, it removed him from ordi-
nary human approach. And yet, methought, a beautiful and
emotional woman, or a broad-minded, genial friend, might
overcome his reticence, and discover, behind it, a passionate
and wayward impulse to reveal even more than man
commonly reveals to his fellow.
I suppose the gentleman must have felt my look; for he
suddenly raised his eyes from his book and fixed them upon
me. I was embarrassed at having been detected in a dis-
courtesy; but the next moment the conviction came over
me that I had somewhere seen him before. Yes, I recognized
every lineament of his face, and even his figure, attire, and
bearing. Where could I have met him? Was it at the thea-
ter? Was it at some public dinner? Had I traveled with him
in a railway-train? Wherever it was, it was no mere passing
glimpse that I had had of him; I was minutely familiar with
those features; I recalled distinctly the marked difference
between the two sides of the face—the right side being much
stronger and more regular than the left, and the mouth hav-
ing a perceptible 'Tift״ at the left corner, producing some-
what the effect of a sneer. Certainly I knew this man, and, on
the impulse of the moment, I bowed to him slightly.
He returned the courtesy, but said, in a low and pleas-
antly modulated voice, "Pardon me, sir; I believe you have
the advantage of me.״