Text: Anonymous, “Edgar Allan Poe: The Story of His Death as Told by Dr. Moran,” Washington Post (Washington, DC), whole no. 1,391, February 2, 1882, p. 1, col. 8

[page 1, column 8:]

There was a fair audience at the Congregational church last night, to listen to the lecture by Dr. J. J. Moran, of Falls Church, on the life, character. dying declarations and death of Edgar Allan Poe. Dr. Moran introduced by Prof. Elmer R. Reynolds, and in opening his lecture said that his theme covered the earlier and riper years of the poet, but be more especially devoted to his dying hours, when he sat br his bedside and wiped the moisture from his face and sought to soothe his last moments. After giving a brief sketch of Poe's parents he passed rapidly on to the boyhood and youth of the poet and traced his brilliant literary career without any studied effort at effect, drawing a most feeling sketch of the vicissitudes through which he passed, and the deep anguish and gloom that settled upon him after the death of his wife at Fordham. By on overwhelming weight of testimony the lecturer controverted the slander that Poe had composed the “Raven” while laboring under a fit of delirium tremens, and quoted from his letter to Dr. Snodgrass, recently published in the Baltimore American, to show the true nature of the man who had suffered so unjustly at the hands of his biographer. Coming down to the closing days of Poe's life, Dr. Moran gave the true version of his last to Baltimore. He said Poe arrived in that city and went to a hotel, where be completed his arrangements for a trip to Philadelphia. Starting on his journey he reached the Susquehanna river, which it was then necessary to cross by boat. ‘The weather was tempestuous and the water so rough that he decided not to venture on the boat and returned to Baltimore, where he went to A hotel and left his trunk. Later he started for walk about the city, and those who last saw him noticed that he was followed by two or three suspicious characters, who closely dogged his footsteps. As the shades of evening descended upon the city Poe had rambled on until be had reached a dangerous portion of the town, where it was unsafe for a man to loiter alone. Here the men who had been following came up with him and he was forced into a low den, where he was drugged, robbed, stripped of his apparel, and then clothed in the filthy rags of one of the brutes who had assaulted him. From this place he was thrust into the street, and as he staggered along, his brain benumbed by the deadly drug, he fell over an obstacle in his pathway and lay Insensible for hours exposed to the cutting October air, A gentleman passing recognized the face of Poe as he lay prone upon the street, and calling a back he directed that he be conveyed to the Washington Hospital, sending his card to Dr. Moran with the single word written in the corner. Poe was cared for and received energetic medical treatment to counteract the effect of hie depressed condition, During this time Dr. Moran said to him: “How do you feel, Mr. Poe?”

“Miserable.”

“Do you suffer any pain?”

“How long have you been sick?”

“I cannot say.”

“Where have you been stopping?”

“At a hotel on Pratt street, opposite the depot.”

“Have you a trunk or anything you would like sent for?”

“My trunk contains nothing but my papers and manuscripts.”

In the course of this conversation, Dr. Moran says be critically examined the condition of his patient, and could discover nothing whatever to indicate that it was the result of liquor or any intoxicating drink. The speaker said the slander had’ been reiterated that Poe died while under the influence of liquor, and nothing could be further from the fact. Upon his arrival at the hospital, the doctor questioned the hackman who him there, and he declared that Poe was brought not drunk, nor was there the smell of liquor about him when he lifted him into his vehicle. As Poe's last hour approached, Dr. Moran said that he bent over him and asked if he had any word he wished communicated to his friends. Poe raised his fading eyes and answered, “Nevermore.” In a few moments he turned uneasily and moaned, “Oh, God, is there no ransom for the deathless spirit?” Continuing he said: “He who rode the heavens and the universe has His decrees written on the frontlet of every human being.” Then followed murmuring, growing fainter and fainter, then tremor of the limbs, a faint sigh, and the spirit of Edgar Allan Poe had passed the boundary line that divides time from eternity.