The Dreamer: A Romantic Rendering of the Life-Story of Edgar Allan PoeStanard, Mary Newton
General
The Dreamer: A Romantic Rendering of the Life-Story of Edgar Allan Poe
Stanard, Mary Newton
Poe, Edgar Allan, 1809-1849
It was generally at the very height of excitement in play, when he had
just been dealt a hand which he told himself, with exultation, would win
him all the money in the pool, or, perhaps at the moment when he raised
the glass to his lips, anticipating the delicious exhilaration of the
seductive peach-honey, that the unwelcome spectre would, with startling
suddenness, appear before his eyes. His face would blanch, his own voice
become almost as hoarse as the warning whisper that was in his ear, and
with trembling hand he would put down the cards or the cup and refuse to
have anything more to do with the evening's sport.
His companions at first thought these attacks the result of some
physical weakness but finally became accustomed to them and attributed
them to his "queerness."
* * * * *
Thus the youthful poet passed his year at college--dividing his time
between his dreams, his classes and his carousals. The session closed in
December. The final examinations occupied the early part of the month
and when the faculty met upon the 14th., it was found that Edgar Poe
had not only stood well in all of his studies, but in two of them--Latin
and French--he had taken the highest honors.
In spite of this, and of the fact that at no time during the session had
he come under the censure of the faculty, a startling revelation was
made. Edgar Poe, model student as he seemed to be, whose only fault--if
it could be called a fault--as the faculty knew him, had been a tendency
toward a romantic dreaminess that had led him upon lonely rambles among
the hills rather eccentric in a boy of seventeen; Edgar Poe, the quiet,
the gentlemanly, the immaculately neat, the scholarly, the poetic, had
been a spendthrift and a reckless gambler. His debts, for a boy of his
age, were astounding. No one was more amazed at the sum of them than
Edgar himself. He had always had the lordly indifference to money, and
the contempt for keeping account of it, that was the natural result of
being used to have what seemed to him to be an unlimited supply to draw
upon, with the earning of which he had nothing to do. As to hoarding it,
he would as soon have thought of hoarding the air he breathed which came
to him with no less effort. He was, unfortunately, as heedless of what
he owed as what he spent--lavishing it upon his companions as long as it
lasted and when his supply of cash was exhausted running up accounts
with little thought of a day of reckoning--though of course he fully
intended to pay.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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