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Date With A Spider
(The Lost Story of Edgar Allan Poe)
In April of 1826, while enrolled in his first and only year at the University of Virginia, Poe confided in his teacher, Professor Blaetterman, about his dire financial circumstances. Poe had been borrowing money from fellow students and friends, and had even tried to win more money through failed gambling.
Poe went on to say that he was now deeply in debt but wanted desperately to stay in school to pursue a formal education in literature. He told Blaetterman he wanted to be a writer and a poet, but that his guardian, John Allen, was pressuring him to have a military career instead, where he could at least earn a decent wage and establish some social prominence.
In one instance, a pair of heavy set gangster types showed up at John Allen’s door, looking for money. They were insisting that if Poe couldn’t pay off the gambling debts he owed them, then Poe’s unofficial adoptive father would have to, or else!
John Allen, furious over Poe’s gambling and excessive borrowing, told Poe in no uncertain terms that he would prefer it if he would leave the University of Virginia, and consider studying at West Point where he could receive military training and lots of discipline.
This put a lot of pressure on Poe, who became desperate to jump start his writing career so he might earn some money, and thereby escape both his debts, and the dominating wishes of John Allen. But up to that point, Poe’s writings had produced no interest from any potential publishers.
Blaetterman, sympathetic towards Poe’s predicament, introduced Poe to a literary agent for a prominent British magazine, who just happened to be visiting Virginia at the time. The British Magazine, which was launched as the “European Magazine, and London Review” in January 1782, was now merely entitled, by 1826, as “The European Magazine.”
The agent, willing to do a personal favour for his good friend, Blaetterman, informed Poe that they were thinking of publishing a horror short in their next issue and that he would be willing to look at any suitable short horror story Poe had laying around, provided he could have it within two days, which was the time of the agent’s departure back to England.
Poe was awash in brilliant ideas and half-finished manuscripts, but nothing readily completed at hand. But he excitedly agreed to both write and bring him a story within the two day period.
Poe, pressed for time, quickly wrote “Date With A Spider” all at one sitting, mindful of the two things the agent had told him. First, there were rumors of big changes coming to the magazine. They were trying to cater to all age groups, and thought a short horror tale might stimulate interest from the young teenage crowd. The story was to be written for kids ages 12 to 16. As such, Poe was under pressure to ‘dumb down’ his vocabulary while still bringing out a sense of the macabre, grotesqueness, and sensationalism. That being the case, Poe readily abandoned his usual verbosity, sense of grandeur, and gratuitous literary finesse.
Secondly, the story was to be for a British audience, and so the agent expressed the magazine’s need for the story to at least appear to have British characters and at least five or so British expressions. This explains Poe’s use of such British slang as “blimey,” and “collywobbles,” words Poe no doubt learned in the five years he had spent in Britain, from 1815 to 1820.
When Poe did hand in the story to the agent, in April of 1826, Poe received an astonishing twenty dollars for his trouble, which at the time was no small sum. Not only was the agent pleased with Poe’s work, but it enabled the agent to cement his friendship with his dear friend, Professor Blaetterman.
After an approximate three week journey back over the Atlantic, the agent enthusiastically submitted Poe’s torrid tale to the editor. However, as luck, or rather bad luck would have it, the story was never published by European Magazine. Although accepted by the magazine’s grateful editor, and slated to be published in the fall of 1826, the final magazine produced by the publisher was June of 1826. From here on in, the European Magazine was absorbed into the “Monthly Magazine.” Ironically, the new combined ‘Monthly Magazine’ felt the story, although suspenseful and scary, lacked academic polish.
Ironically, the new amalgamated mag no longer wanted a story for children aged 12 to 16. They now wanted something for the adult crowd, particularly university grads.
Had Poe simply of written it in his usual verbose style, it undoubtedly would have been published. Howbeit, as already stated, the agent had coerced him into strongly suppressing his sophisticated prose.
The end result was that a sulking agent, miffed over having not been reimbursed the twenty he had given to Poe, felt pressured to do something with Poe’s submission, hopeful that publishing it somewhere might give Poe some recognition.
The agent submitted the story for free to an upstart local London horror magazine, rumored to have been called, “Witches and Warlocks.” (It is not certain if this is the true name of the short lived mag.)
The story, “Date With a Spider,” was published in that magazine in October of 1826. The magazine failed to receive any money producing ads, and instead slid into bankruptcy, after only one month of operating. Then it merely permanently folded, almost as soon as it had begun.
It is thought that no more than fifty copies of the failed mag were ever sold. And of those, no copies are known to have survived today.
“Date With a Spider” is considered, by the few that were able to have read it, to be one of the scariest stories they have ever read. And yet, Poe never thought enough of the story to rewrite it in his usual style, and have it officially published along with his other works. One assumes that since it was only published by the bankrupt upstart, and never published by the much more successful major magazine, that Poe felt it a lost cause, and focused on far more polished works.
But there is, fortunately, a remaining copy of “Date With a Spider,” in its original form.
This original story is the long lost story by Edgar Allan Poe, written at just one sitting, for the young teen crowd, a departure from his usual stylistic prose, and long before he had any recognition or prominence.
The story is available for free, upon request...
added by Milah
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Trailer for the musical about Edgar Allan Poe's life. From live-musical.com.
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trailer
musical
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short film
posted by Milah
There are some qualities- some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a two-fold Silence- sea and shore-
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!
posted by Milah
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been- a most familiar bird-
Taught me my alphabet to say-
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child- with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings-
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away- forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.
posted by Milah
Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
[Logic and common usage so commanding]
In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
[Called anything, its meaning is the same]
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."
posted by Milah
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin molders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!

O, lady bright! can it be right-
This window open to the night?
The...
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posted by Milah
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
posted by Milah
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere -
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir -
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through and alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul -
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll -
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes...
continue reading...
posted by Milah
     I dwelt alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

Ah, less- less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
curl.

Now Doubt- now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
posted by Milah
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old -
This knight so bold -
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow -
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be -
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied -
"If you seek for Eldorado!"
posted by Milah
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you-
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother–my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
posted by Milah
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
posted by Milah
Thank Heaven! the crisis-
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last-
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length-
But no matter!-I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead-
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:-ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness-the nausea-
The pitiless pain-
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened...
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