For your consideration we present a short prose piece by William Henry "Hank" Leonard Poe. It was originally published in the Baltimore North American, November 3rd, 1827 and shamelessly appropriated from Ann Neilson's Materialistic Maiden blog, where this and many other examples of Hank's literary work may be found. Thanks to her for generously posting this.
[ORIGINAL]
Well! I have determined–lightly it may
be–but when there is nothing to live for–nothing that the heart craves
anxiously and devotedly, life is but a kind of prison house from which we would
be freed.
I feel even at this moment a something
of impatience to know what death is–and although I am now writing the very last
words this band will ever trace–yet even the outward show–the trifles of the
world beguile me–
The
ink is not good–I have stirred it–’tis better now, and I have mended my
pen–’tis disagreeable, even if it is our very last letter, to write with a band
pen–a blot!–I must erase it–this when an hour will finish my existence!–an
existence of wretchedness–one of weary, bitter disappointment.
I feel as if hungry, and suddenly a
sumptuous feast before me–surfeiting myself–revelling in my thoughts–indulging
in what I have been afraid to think of–I have but a short hour to live, and the
ticking of the clock before me, seems a laughing spectator of my death–I wish
it had life–it would not then be so gay–nay, it might be a partner of my
melancholy.
Pshaw! this pen–surely my hand must have
trembled when I made it–I have held it up to the light–Heavens’ my hand does
tremble–No! tis only the flickering of the lamp.
It will–at least it may be asked, why I
have done this–they may say I was insane–the body which is earthed cannot feel
their taunts, and the soul cares not.
I have a strange wish even at this
time–it is that some maiden would plant flowers on my grave–which my mortality
would add life to.
When there is no hope–no cheering
prospect to brighten, no land to mark the bewildered seaman’s way–why not try
death?
“And come it slow or come it fast,
It is but death that comes at last.”
It is but death that comes at last.”
There are many who would rather linger
in a life of wretchedness, disappointment–and other causes which blight many a
youthful heart, and make ruin and desolation in the warmest feelings–yes! even
the lip must smile and the eye be gay–although when night brings us to our
couch we unconsciously wish it was for the last time.
Such is man–such is mankind!–I have
still one half hour to live–one half hour!–yet I look around me as if it was
the journey of a day, and not an eternal adieu!–Why should I live? Delighting
in one object, and she
“The fairest flow’r that glittered on a
stem
To wither at my grasp.”
To wither at my grasp.”
No more–the pistol–I have loaded it–the
balls are new–quite bright–they will soon be in my heart–Incomprehensible
death–what art thou?
I have put the pistol to my bosom–it
snapped–I had forgotten to prime it–I must do it–
In the act of doing so it went off, and
I awoke and found myself rolling on the floor, having fallen from my bed in the
agitation of a most strange and singular dream.
W. H. P.
It is no wonder that Hank Poe's close friends used to refer to him simply as "Sunshine".
This and all of Hank's other extant writings were published in 1926:
It is no wonder that Hank Poe's close friends used to refer to him simply as "Sunshine".
This and all of Hank's other extant writings were published in 1926:
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