0:00 INTRODUCTION
Welcome to Celebrate Poe - every Monday night at 12:00 Midnight. My name is George Bartley, and this is Episode Sixty Nine - The Black Vampyre.
It seems that there has been so much written about the short story The Black Vampyre - and much of it is confusing, at best.In my research, I found all kinds of commentators writing opinions about what the story is about and going off in all kinds of directions that quite honestly didn’t make that much sense. I mean, this was a story that I knew was important, but I just didn’t know how to talk about it.
00:46 Publication of three influential works on June 23, 1819
So I was really glad to read an article by Katie Bray called “A Climate More Prolific in Society” about The Black Vampyre that seemed to put the story in perspective.
By the way, that is spelled V A M P Y R E not V A M P I R E.
Ms Brary starts by saying that on June 23, 1819 - now this is when Edgar Poe was just 10 - an advertisement appeared in the New-York Evening Post advertising three new books for sale by C. Wiley and Company at No. 3 Wall Street. The first was The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon by Washington Irving, The Vampyre by Lord Byron, and The Black Vampyre - probably by Uriah Derick D’Arcy. All three books were rather cheaply made, but The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon cost three times as much money as the other two titles - largely due to Washington Irving’s reputation. His book went for the princely sum of 75 cents.
In this episode, I want to briefly look at all three books - all three had gothic elements - but were written quite differently.
02:21 The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon
The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon has some of Washington Irving best stories. It does not have “The Legend of Sleepy Hallow” - that story wasn’t published until the following year. But it did contain, the famous story, Rip Van Winkle - and for the next few minutes - I’d like to read the passage where Rip Van Winkle wakes up and finds himself 20 years older - one of the first pieces of literature involving time travel.
MORNING HAS BROKEN MUSIC
03:10 Rip Van Winkle
On waking, he rubbed his eyes. It was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes. ”Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept! here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell
asleep. The strange man with the keg of liquor, the mountain ravine, the wild retreat among the rocks the party at nine-pins the flagon " Oh! thatj
wicked flagon!" thought Rip "what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean,well-oiled piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the .lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that someone had put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, robbed him of his gun. His dog Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. “These mountain beds do not agree with me thought Rip, “and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle.
With some difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel; and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in the air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man s perplexities. What was to be done? The morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want
of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered his rusty firelock, and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.
As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he
found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his grey beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at
him as he passed. The very village was altered : it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors - strange faces at the windows - everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; | doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he
had left but a day before. There stood the Kaatskill mountains - there ran the silver Hudson at a distance - there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been Rip was sorely perplexed " That flagon last night,"
thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly !"
It was with with some difficulty that he found his way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay - the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an
unkind cut indeed. "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me !”
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears - he called loudly for his wife and children - the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn, but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken, and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, " The Union Hotel,by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes - all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling,tone about it, instead drowsy tranquility. He looked in vain for sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke, instead of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean bilious-looking fellow, with his
pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens election members of Congress, liberty Bunker s hill heroes of seventy-six and other words, that was a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyed him from head to foot, with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and drawing him partly aside, inquired, "on which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy
little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "whether he was Federal or Democrat." Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm a-kimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, " what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?"
"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the King, God bless him!"
Here a general shout burst from the by standers "a tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him !"
It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.
" Well who are they? name them."
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, Where s Nicholas Vedder?"
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tomb-stone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that s rotten and gone too."
" Where s Brom Butcher?"
" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say lie was killed at the storming of Stony-Point others say he was drowned in the at the foot of Antony s Nose. I know he never came back
again."
"Where s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"
" He went off to the wars, too; was a great militia general, and is now in Congress."
Rip s heart died away, at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war - Congress - Stony-Point - he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?"
" Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three. " Oh, to be sure! that s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree."
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he went up the mountain; apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name?
" God knows," exclaimed he at his wit s end; " I m not myself I m somebody else - that s me yonder - no that s somebody else, got into my shoes I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they ve changed rny gun, and everything s changed, and I m changed, and I can t tell what s my name, or who I am!"
The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief; at the very suggestion of which, the self-important man with the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely woman passed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush you little fool; the old man won t hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind.
"What is your name, my good woman?" asked he.
“Judith Gardenier."
" And your father s name?"
"Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; it s twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since his dog came home without him, but whether he shot himself, or was carried
away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl."
Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice:
" Where s your mother?"
Oh, she too had died but a short time since: she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedler.
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father!" cried he "Young Rip Van Winkle once - old Rip Van Winkle now Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle!"
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle it is himself. Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these twenty long years ?"
Rip s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night
TRANSITION
20:41 The Vampyre
Now the second book that was advertised that day was The Vampyre. by John Polidori - you may remember John Polidori from the Villa Diodatti. Interesting enough, The Vampyre was published as being written by Lord Byron, and Katie Bray writes that the reality of literary theft was exemplified the novel. And that issue gets more complicated, largely because copyright standards in the United States were far from defined.
22:14 The Giaor
In fact - and I will try to make this simple - back in 1813 when In 1813, when Poe was just a toddler, Lord Byron wrote his epic poem The Giaour.
Remember - this was a poem, not a story. And the story of The Vampire has a Byron-like character as the lead by the name of Lord Ruthven. It is said that this character was the first portrayal of a vampire as a debauched aristocrat and was fashioned after Lord Byron himself. In many ways, this became the model for future male vampires. In the poem by Byron, he used the traditional folkloric conception of the male vampire as a being damned to suck the blood and destroying the life of its victims. And that makes it even creepier. I’d like to read 12 lines of The Giaor to show you what I mean.
But first, on earth as vampire sent,
Thy corpse shall from its tomb be rent:
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse:
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
23:13 Introduction to The Vampyre
I’ll just read a few paragraphs from the introduction to The Vampyre - again a story actually written by John Polidori, but falsely credited to Lord Byron.
Katie Bray points out that this was an example of the wealthy getting credit for someone else’s hard work - sort of a literary example of slavery.
THE superstition upon which this tale is founded is very general in the East. Among the Arabians it appears to be common: it did not, however, extend itself to the Greeks until after the establishment of Christianity; and it has only assumed its present form since the
division of the Latin and Greek churches; at which time, the idea becoming prevalent, that a Latin body could not corrupt if buried in their territory, it gradually increased, and formed the subject of many wonderful stories, of the dead rising from their graves, and feeding upon the blood of the young and beautiful. In theWest it spread, with some slight variation, all over Hungary, Poland, Austria, and Lorraine, where the belief existed, that vampyres nightly imbibed a certain portion of the blood of their victims, who became emaciated, lost their strength, and speedily died of consumptions; whilst these human blood-suckers fattened--and their veins became distended to such a state of repletion, as to cause the blood to flow from all the passages of their bodies, and even from the very pores of their skins.
In the London Journal, of March, 1732, is a curious, and, of course, credible account of a particular case of vampyrism, which is stated to have occurred in Hungary. It appears, that upon an examination of the commander-in-chief and magistrates of the place, they positively and unanimously affirmed, that, about five years before, a certain Arnold Paul, had been heard to say, that, on the frontiers of the Turkish Servia, he had been tormented by a vampyre, but had found a way to rid himself of the evil, by eating some of the earth out of the vampyre's grave, and rubbing himself with his blood. This precaution, however, did not prevent him from becoming a vampyre himself; for, about twenty or thirty days after his death and burial, many persons complained of having been tormented by him, and a deposition was made, that four
persons had been deprived of life by his attacks. To prevent further mischief, the inhabitants took up the body, and found it (as is supposed to be usual in cases of vampyrism) fresh, and entirely free from corruption, and emitting at the mouth, nose, and ears, pure and florid blood. Proof having been thus obtained, they resorted to the accustomed remedy. A stake was driven entirely through the heart and body of Arnold Paul, at which he is reported to have cried out as dreadfully as if he had been alive.
This done, they cut off his head, burned his body, and threw the ashes into his grave. The same measures were adopted with the corpses of those persons who had previously died from vampyrism, lest they should, in their turn, become agents upon others who survived them.
27:10 Introduction to The Black Vampyre
This brings me to the third of the group of literary works published by C. Wiley and Company on June 23, 1819 - The Black Vampyre. Now, unlike the other two publications, I decided not to do much reading from The Black Vampyre in this podcast episode because the story is so complex. And the story has a lot of archaic words that we just don’t use any more - so I think a better way to look at The Black Vampyre is tell its overall story - rather ahead of its time for period in which it was written.
The full title of the short story is The Black Vampyre, and was supposedly written under the name of Uriah Derick D’Arcy - although some later editions have attributed the story to other writers. The Black Vampire is not only considered the first black vampire story, but the first comedic vampire story, the first vampire story by an American author, and perhaps the first anti-slavery short story of any kind. The story is set against the conditions that set into motion the Revolution in Haiti - an area which has certainly been in the news lately. As you will soon realize, The Black Vampyre is full of all kinds of improbable plot changes and twists - strange over the top situations that allow it to come across as humorous while also
subversive
28:48 Story of The Black Vampyre
Now The Black Vampyre begins with Mr. Anthony Gibbons recalling his family history. He first relates his memories about his ancestors leaving Africa on a French ship and arriving in Haiti - where they are sold into slavery. They all die shortly after being sold - except for one small boy who is sold to Mr. Personne. Mr. Personne kills the boy and throws the body into the ocean, but the body washes ashore and rises in the moonlight. Mr. Personne tries to kill the boy again, but this time decides to use a different method and burns the boy in a pyre. Instead, the boy tosses Mr. Personne into the fire, resulting in Mr. Personne becoming badly scarred.
Mr. Personne regains consciousness in his own bed, and he is wrapped in bandages. He calls out for his wife, Euphemia, and his infant son. She informs him that his young son has died. When he hears this, Mr. Personne also dies. Euphemia marries two more times- first to a Mr. Marquand and then to a Mr. Dubois. While mourning the death of Mr. Dubois - remember Mr. Dubois was her third husbnad - she is approached by a Moorish Prince character, who is led in hand by Zembo, a European boy. Euphemia falls in love with the Prince - who she thinks is very charming - and she quickly marries him.
Their wedding is held at midnight - somehow that seems totally appropriate for the story - and being the romantic character he is, the Prince takes Euphemia to her family graveyard. Then the Prince and Zembo proceed to dig up her son's grave. The Prince uses the blood from her son's heart to fill a golden goblet, and forces Euphemia to drink her son’s blood. The Prince tells Euphemia that she is not allowed to tell anyone what happened in the graveyard. Euphemia faints, and she wakes up in her first husband's grave. She then comes to the realization that she has become a vampire.
Then, the Prince raises all three of her past husbands from the dead because - why not? Her second husband and third husband now duel, which somehow ends with Zembo and the Prince driving a stake into the hearts of the two men. The Prince then assures Euphemia not to worry - that her second and third husbands cannot be resurrected again. It turns out that the Prince is the boy who Mr. Personne tried to kill, but the Prince forgives Mr. Personne for attempting to murder him. And the Prince presents Zembo to Mr. Personne as his dead son.
With instructions from the Prince to journey to Europe, The group stops at a cave where there is a vampyre ball taking place. Inside the cave, there are countless armed slaves listening to the various Vampyre monarchs. The monarchs believe that the immortals existed before the mortals and that all the various immortals should rally and take up arms in the name of emancipation. It is also revealed that the only way to get rid of a vampyre is by using a stake or giving them a cure. However, before any action can be taken, the group is attacked by soldiers, and everyone is killed, except for Mr. Personne and Euphemia.
Both Mr. Personne and Euphemia take the cure and become human again. As a side effect, Mr. Personne ends up sixteen years younger than his wife. Euphemia is revealed to be pregnant with the Prince's son.
During the conclusion of the story, Mr. Anthony Gibbons is revealed to be the lineal descendant of the Prince's son. Gibbons is also revealed to have bowel troubles, which he fears could be his cravings as a vampyre.
34:30 Significance of The Black Vampyre
OK, so the story is sometimes forced and hard to keep straight, but I think that unreal quality is what allows the author - even if it is in the form of a metaphor - to write about such subjects as racial insurrection, and the powerful comparison of the vampire to slavery - sucking the life out of innocent victims in order to sustain the vampire’s wants and needs.
In conclusion, many nineteenth-century writers wrote about monstrous creatures and the undead. Perhaps the most famous of these monstrous creatures this podcast has delved into so far has been Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein - a book we believe Edgar Allan Poe read. Later this podcast will examine Poe’s unique works about the undead, and how he has become identified with the supernatural.
35:29 Sources
Sources for this episode include Sources include: A Climate More Prolific in Society by Katie Bray, Rip Van Winkle from The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon by Washington Irving, The Vampyre by Lord Byron, and The Black Vampyre - attributed to Uriah Derick D’Arcy. Why not visit my podcast web site at celebratepoe.buzzsprout.com - click on the episode you want to learn more about to see its show notes and a transcript.
36:17 Future Episodes
Before Celebrate Poe delves into Edgar Poe’s education in England, I want to continue looking at such influences on his writing as vampires and werewolves. I am finding that the subject of vampires, for example, is far deeper than I ever imagined. So I have episodes planned on what is generally agreed to be the first lesbian vampire, the ruler who impaled the heads of 20,000 of his enemies on spikes, and of course - Dracula.
In the next episode, I want to focus in on Bram Stoker’s life, and read one of his stories - not one of the Dracula works, but one a story that deals with a kitten, and his mother - a story which actually shows the author’s love of animals, but also his ability to create suspense and write about torture - and be warned - the story I have planned is not for the faint of heart.
There are many subjects involved in trying to understand Edgar Allan Poe, and his complex works, but I feel that a solid understanding of his greatness rests on mainly two aspects - his creativity - and by creativity, I am including his inspirations and imagination. And I believe the second main reason for his greatness is his use of language - his understanding of words and how to use them - especially in producing an effect.
The ghost of Edgar Poe will return for a look at his education in England, and this podcast will even have the ghost of the great William Shakespeare discussing classical rhetoric. After all, many scholars believe that Mr. Poe and Mr. Shakespeare - even though they were separated by 300 years - basically studied the same material.
I am finding some exciting stuff regarding the information that Poe and Shakespeare learned - especially in the form of classical rhetoric - to become two of the world’s greatest writers.
Discussing classical rhetoric might seem a bit dry when you first look at it, but I have a feeling that you will find it fascinating, and understand Shakspeare and Edgar Poe in an exciting new way.
Thank you for listening to Celebrate Poe - a deep dive into the life, times, and works of America’s Shakespeare - Edgar Allan Poe.
Thank you for listening to Celebrate Poe.
38:55 Outro