The Dreamer: A Romantic Rendering of the Life-Story of Edgar Allan PoeStanard, Mary Newton
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The Dreamer: A Romantic Rendering of the Life-Story of Edgar Allan Poe
Stanard, Mary Newton
Poe, Edgar Allan, 1809-1849
And roundabout the cottage on the green hill, with its screen of
blossoming cherry trees and (hardby) its dusky grove of Heaven-kissing
pines, and its views of the river and walk leading to the stone-arched
bridge, the three who lived for each other only had erelong
reconstructed the wonderful dream-valley--the Valley of the Many-Colored
Grass.
And the cottage at Fordham became a Mecca to the "literati of New York,"
even as the cottage at Spring Garden had been a Mecca to the literati of
Philadelphia. Among those who made pilgrimages thither were many of the
"starry sisterhood of poetesses"--chief of whom was the fair Frances
Osgood. Yet in his retirement The Dreamer enjoyed for the first time
since he had left Spring Garden long intervals of relief from company,
and in the pine-wood and on the bridge overlooking the river, he found
what his soul had long hungered for--silence and solitude. Under their
influence he conceived the idea of a new work--a more ambitious work
than anything he had hitherto attempted--a work in the form of a prose
poem upon no less subject than "The Universe," whose deep secrets it was
designed to reveal, with the title "Eureka!"
* * * * *
Ah, Dreamer, could we but call the curtain here!--Could we but leave you
in your cottage on the hill-top, overlooking the river, with the trees
full of blossom and music about it, and the wood inviting your fancy,
where as you pace back and forth with your hands clasped behind you your
great deep eyes are filled with the mellow light that illumines them
when they are turned inward exploring the treasures of your brain--leave
you deep in the high joy of meditation upon God's Universe!
But "the play is the tragedy, 'Man,'" and it is only for the dread
"Conqueror" to give the word, "Curtain down--lights out!"
CHAPTER XXXI.
All too soon the Wolf scratched at the door of the cottage on Fordham
Hill. All too soon the shadow that had so often enveloped the
rose-embowered cottage in Spring Garden--the shadow from the wing of the
Angel of Death--fell upon the cottage among the cherry trees.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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