Text: Henry Austin, “Edgar Allan Poe,” the Peterson Magazine (Philadelphia, PA), ns. vol. 7, no. 3, March 1897, pp. 221-236

[page 221, unnumbered:]

WHAT sadder, stranger story in the annals of literature than the life of Poe?

Nothing even that he wrote himself seems quite so weird and so overshadowed with sorrow.

Hardship, however, is the natural lot, the expectable destiny, of true pioneers and no man has a clearer title to be accounted a pioneer of American literature than this “child of poor players,” whose mother was an English actress of high personal character and considerable skill in her vocation, and whose father was a convivial Baltimore lawyer of rather distinguished Irish ancestry, who went on the stage when he married, as his family felt, “beneath him.”

Before presenting in chronological order the events of Poe's external life, one is tempted to indulge in a few random reflections on “the mystery of the person” — thanks to Carlyle for this apt phrase! — and the profound mysterious influence, which as man and writer Poe exhibited, apparently without much effort, during his meteoric career on earth and since [column 2:] then in universal literature with no sign of surcease, but on the contrary with a calm and solid growth which proves that he is, what he deemed himself, one of the Immortals, one of the rare, the stellar names “that were not born to die.”

Probably no modern poet, save perhaps Byron who recklessly invited animadversion, and possibly Shelley, who naturally earned it by the novelty of the doctrines he announced and illustrated in his conduct, has been attacked, while living and afterward, with so much persistent personal venom, as Edgar Allan Poe; and yet, on the other hand, no modern poet, certainly no American, has been so intensely admired, so passionately loved.

A study of Poe, the person, first as diabolized by his enemies; then as transfigured and enhaloed by such friends as Nathaniel P. Willis and such lovers as Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman; then as etched by the somewhat cold, unsympathetic, narrow-experienced, but entirely just-intentioned mind of his latest, most pains-taking [page 222:] taking biographer, Professor George E. Woodberry of Columbia College, emphasizes the curiousness of the psychical problem presented by the first cursory glance at Poe's personality.

And a similar difference of opinion shows itself in regard to his personal appearance. Judge William Burwell who knew him at the University of Virginia used to speak of him as “a little runt of a man” with raven-black hair, eyes of so dark a blue that at times they looked black, one being noticeably larger than its fellow and features, as a whole, of a type decidedly Irish, reflecting even in boyhood all the egotism, irritability and ready pugnacity which the Teuton or the Saxon attributes to the Celt. Against this memory Epes Sargent who knew Poe pretty well in his latter years described him as of slightly more than medium height and carrying [column 2:] himself with such military uprightness (possibly learned at West Point where he appears to have learned little else) as to seem taller. According to Sargent, Poe's hair was brown or dark chestnut, rememberable for its wavy profuseness, his eyes great, gray, solemn things with a peculiar softness and a faraway look and his complexion very pale.

The same describer who used to see Poe, when sober and when otherwise, declared that his polish of manner and sweetness of expression in term and tone were delightful in themselves, apart from the brilliant remarks which, when in talking mood, he scattered lavishly; not hoarding them up for his writings, as many authors do; and still at times, — the alcoholic times, — this man of mystery with pallid [page 223:] face and soft, seraphic eyes exhibited an easy ownership of the fiercest and finest flow of profanity ever known in Newspaper Row.

Yet, though his capacity for cursing was astounding, there was never, according to Sargent and others, an unclean word or an unchaste allusion, even, in any of Poe's pyrotechnics of the pit. One remembers like testimony in regard to Grant's lapses from sobriety. He was never known to utter an obscene word and never even a profane one. In fact, General Grant, drunk or sober, was about the finest gentleman, with the cleanest mind and the kindest heart, our civilization has produced. [column 2:]

As to Poe's height the confliction of testimony is very curious. It has been stated by one who claimed to have measurements of his dead body that he was exactly five feet, ten inches. Mr. Woodberry gives five feet eight as taken from the records of his military service at Boston. All observers, however, agree that he was exquisitely proportioned and very athletic, whether tall or short and the handsomeness of his face exceeded even Byron's. It was more than handsomeness; it was rare, impressive, imperial beauty. Here is a stanza about him by his lover, Mrs. Whitman: [page 224:]

“Once more I saw the brow's translucent pallor;

++ The dark hair floating o’er it like a plume;

The sweet, imperious month whose haughty valor

++ Defied all portents of impending doom.”

Thus finding in biographies and in talks with men who knew him face to face continual contradictions concerning even his appearance as well as his character, one might almost fancy that this most famous American, whose works are known in nearly every language that pretends to have a literature, was the original Jekyll and Hyde, two gentlemen at once.

And this fancy brings the suggestion of the likelihood that the idea of Jekyll and Hyde was amplified by Stevenson, the English romancer of our day with the most enduring style, from Poe's tale of “William Wilson.” Stevenson, indeed, honestly admitted his general debt to Poe; a fact which detracts nothing from his essential richness of mind. There is a vast difference between the quality of intellect which imbibes inspiration not only from the same founts of nature as its artistic forerunners but also from their works directly, and that imitative species of mind, so naively confessed by Mr. Howells in his “Literary Passions,” which deliberately seeks to copy one manner after another, and which always remains an imitator, never getting at life directly and never able, therefore, despite much cleverness, honest industry and high purpose, to evolve anything in literature that shall be vital and permanently precious.

This thought leads up to a brief contemplation of Poe's vital mark on modern literature. Poe's impress abounds everywhere in poetry and in prose. In France, the first foreign country to appreciate Poe thoroughly, he was brought into notice in an odd way that tallies with the general curiousness of his career. One newspaper sued another for stealing its “original” story. It came out in evidence that the rival feuilletonists had [column 2:] plagiarized almost verbatim a story composed by an obscure American journalist, one Mr. Poe, or Mystery Poe, as a friend punningly called him.

Since that time Poe has become a classic in France, and French authors have borrowed from him with the openness that characterized the Latin poets in their dealings with Greek predecessors, taking without acknowledgment from the works of Poe plot, situation, style and even character outlines, though most of the characters in Poe's writings are so shadowy one would hardly suppose they could afford much temptation to elaboration.

For example, what is Edmond About's novelette, “The Man with the Broken Ear,” but an inflation of the satiric squib, “Some Words with a Mummy,” with a thin veneer of amatory sentiment over the theme; and what is Jules Verne's “Round the World in Eighty Days” but a capital elaboration of Poe's “Three Sundays in a Week?” Clearly this rather trivial tale by the master magician — one of his pot-boilers — gives the pivotal idea of Verne's work, and the same semmi-scientific ratiocinative style which Poe introduced in his Adventure of Hans Phall and other fantasies has been seized and exceeded upon by Verne in this and other “yarns” that have had much vogue abroad and here in translation.

Then again a leading French dramatist, Victorien Sardou, in a play which has been popular in this country under the title “A Scrap of Paper,” appears to have built up the character of the naturalist which Gilbert used to play so charmingly from Poe's tale, “The Gold Bug”; or “Gold Beetle,” as it was printed in England, the word bug in that cultured country being a taboo or bugaboo to ears polite. In Sardou's play, as in the story, the naturalist finds a rare beetle and picks up a piece of stray paper for the purpose of wrapping it up. In another scene the method of hiding and finding the letter is clearly taken from [page 225:] Poe's detective story, “The Purloined Letter,” and the character of the Baron — how Wallack used to play it! — as well as the general setting of his chamber recalls a scene and a character mistily outlined, in Poe's brief sketch, called “The Assignation.” The number of natural children which [Poe's “Mystery of Marie Roget” and “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” have had is veritably enormous and to be responsible for so much of Gaboriau, Baudelaire, Gautier, Conan Doyle, Fergus Hume, etc., etc., is at once almost a fame and an infamy. Here, too, in America nearly every young literary aspirant fancies he can do that sort of thing or other deeds Poesque of higher mark [column 2:] and come pretty near the master; but literature is an art in which “pretty near” does not count very much.

Poe was born in Boston, January 19, 1809, the second child of David Poe, Jr., whose father, a distinguished Revolutionary soldier, had established the family name as one of honor in Maryland, where the Poes to this day are held in high respect. David Poe, Jr., married in 1805 Mrs. Elizabeth Arnold Hopkins, a widow who had been reared on the stage, her mother, an excellent English actress, having emigrated to this country in her daughter's youth. The mother of Edgar Allan Poe was the leading actress at the old Federal Street Theatre [page 226:] and besides the affectionate admiration which her acting evoked she was esteemed in Boston for her social graces and her domestic virtues. The father of Poe as well as can be learned, though attached to his wife, was inclined to convivial excesses which even in those days, when there was much hard drinking among members of that now sedate profession, impaired his chances of histrionic preferment, and finally devolved the burden of the family support on his wife. Where and when Poe's father died has not yet been ascertained. It has been stated — on somewhat doubtful authority, being clearly a matter of mere hearsay and misty memory — that during [column 2:] the year preceding the future great poet's birth his father was constantly immersed in liquor.

Scientific probabilities favor this dreadful view, since the periodicity and violence of Poe's intoxications — even brandied peaches innocently eaten at a party after a year's total abstinence being enough to set him off on a prolonged bout — point to the charitable conclusion that Poe was a victim of heredity whom no cultivation of the will-power and no kindly environment could ever have completely insured against occasional falls by the wayside. That Poe himself was aware of this, though he never blamed anybody but himself, is quite [page 227:] clear. “There is no disease like alcohol,” he pathetically exclaims in one of his tales.

His mother, after giving birth to a third child, Rosalie, in Richmond, never rallied and on December 8, 1811, died, leaving her three children to the charity of the world. William was taken in by his kindred in Baltimore; Rosalie was adopted by a Mrs. MacKenzie, and Edgar by a Mrs. Allan in Richmond, who was childless. This good woman's husband, John Allan, Scotch by birth, was a rich and cultured tobacco merchant, somewhat cold in affection, it is thought, but certainly just and generous in his bringing up of the peculiar creature confided by chance to his care.

The boy was highly educated and may be said to have started life with all the environments in his favor. He even had unusual luxuries, — a pony, dogs and slaves at his command. In 1815 the Allans went to England and Edgar Allan Poe was put to boarding school at Stoke Newington, near London. This was not exile by any means, for every Sunday he went home to the Allans who lived near, and in vacation they used to take him traveling with them over England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland.

Here he learned to speak French and became familiar with Latin. In 1820 the Allans returned to Richmond and Poe became the leading scholar in a school kept by an Irish graduate of Trinity College, Dublin. At fifteen he became Lieutenant of the Richmond Junior Volunteers and in the State archives of Virginia are letters from him in this capacity, written as members of military [column 2:] duty, to the Governor and Council.

Besides ranking high in his lessons, he was a leader in the playground, an all-round athlete and remarkable as a swimmer, it being of record that he swam from Richmond to Warwick, about five and a half miles, the tide changing at the time, and two boats attending him in case he should be seized with cramp or overcome by fatigue. This boyish feat has few parallels.

Yet, though brave, generous, courteous and successful, he was not popular with his mates, owing in part to a certain pridefulness of temper and possibly in part to caste-feeling which held aloof to some extent the Boston boy born of poor players and living on a rich man's charity. None was intimate with him as a boy except a lady much older than himself whom he idolized and whose grave he used to haunt nightly in moonlight and in rain. None, perhaps, was ever really intimate with this man all his life, except [page 228:] occasionally some refined woman whose heart went out in sympathy to him, through some instinct of the hopeless fatality tracking his life to its final sordid lair, and making a mockery of his beauty, his genius, his glory.

After studying another vear under private tutors, he entered the University of Virginia February 14, 1826. Up to this point Poe's record was without stain. Here in a year he made a mark of distinction in Latin, Greek, Spanish, Italian and French; also, strange to say, in mathematics, and there is testimony to his evincing almost genius in this line which is not generally believed to be in harmony with the poetic or imaginative faculty.

But at the University heredity began to show itself in ugly ways. He drank and he gambled. Judge Burwell intimated that it was believed by some that he cheated, but this is a suspicion which may befall any man who plays cards for money, and, as Poe, at the end of his first year, left the University owing twenty-five hundred dollars’ worth of gambling debts, this aspersion of his character can hardly be deemed to have any foundation.

The statement that he lost caste with the more aristocratic students by his devotion to cards or the bottle is equally absurd. In those days gentlemen and their sons drank and played much harder than we do. Even statesmen like Webster and Clay could be found, at a later period of American civilization, gambling [column 2:] and imbibing in season and out of season. Mr. Allan does not . appear to have been; disturbed by the boy's drinking, but he would not pay Edgar's ‘debts of. honor.” Instead he made Poe a clerk in his counting room, planning to convert the youth into a merchant.

There is a touch of grotesque absurdity about this kindly meant plan which the boy, doubtless, deemed more than a touch — a heavy stroke of degradation; for he had already given promise of unusual literary ability and Mr. Allan had hitherto shown a proud appreciation of his adopted son's talents. Add to this the fact that Poe's first sweetheart, Miss Sally Royster, had married, and one can readily understand that Richmond was no longer exactly a pleasant place for a sensitive young fellow in disgrace by reason of first offenses.

Poe took flight and next came to light in Boston where as Edgar A. Perry he enlisted in the army, giving his age as twenty-two. This may have been a lie, but it appears from other things that Poe was not certain about the vear of his birth. According to this record he had gray eyes, brown hair, a fair complexion and five feet eight inches of height. He was first stationed at Fort Independence in Boston Harbor and was later transferred to Fort Moultrie at Charleston, S. C., and later to Fortress Monroe, Va. His record as a private soldier was first-rate, and January 1, 1829, he was “promoted for merit” to the post [page 229:] of Sergeant-Major. He was liked by his comrades and he gained the goodwill of his officers.

Mrs. Allan, now on her deathbed, learning where he was, desired his presence. Leave of absence was granted, but Poe did not reach Richmond till after Mrs. Allan's death. A reconciliation with her husband ensued and influence was exerted to secure Poe's discharge from the army in order that he might enter West Point and have a first-rate military training.

During the service at Fort Independence Poe made his initial appeal to the public as a poet with a little book, “Tamerlane and Other Poems. By a Bostonian,” now worth more than its weight in gold as a curiosity; $1,250 having been paid for a copy recently. It had no sale in 1827.

While in Baltimore, presumably visiting kinsfolk, during the year 1829 and waiting for his appointment at West Point, Poe published another book, “Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems,” which likewise fell flat. They were very crude as a whole; yet, unlike the early work of most great poets, they did contain some lines of imaginative suggestion and melodic richness. On July 1, 1830, he entered West Point where he gained repute on account of his “wonderful aptitude in mathematics,” his consumption of brandy, and his reckless neglect of duty. He was dismissed in March, 1831.

His benefactor, Mr. Allan, now seems to have dropped him socially, though it is believed that up to his death in 1834 he continued to give Poe a small monetary allowance. Poe now settled in Baltimore and tried to be a [column 2:] teacher. His equipment for this calling was exceptionally fine, but he failed. During this period he began to live with his father's widowed sister, Mrs. Clemm, who had a lovely daughter, Virginia, thirteen years younger than her handsome and fascinating cousin, Edgar.

Poe's record during this year, 1831, was fairly good. He was drunk but once and he got into but one quarrel. He cowhided the uncle of a girl to whom he was paying court, a somewhat eccentric method of advancing a suit. His time, however, was not wasted, for he composed a goodly number of strange stories in a style of rare force and finish for a man of not vet twenty-five. Whether he tried to sell these is doubtful, but when a paper called The Saturday Visitor [[Visiter]], offered [page 230:] a $100 prize for the best short story, and $50 for the best poem, Poe submitted these altogether under the general title “Tales of the Folio Club,” and also a blank verse poem, “The Coliseum.”

The judges gave him the story prize for his brief tale “The MS. Found in a Bottle” and would have given him the poem prize, had they not felt that the other competitors and their friends would believe them guilty of favoritism. They, however, signed a statement highly commending all the tales Poe had submitted, and declaring that they ought to be published because of their unique excellence. And one of these appreciative gentlemen, John P. Kennedy, became a warm friend and frequent helper of Poe, persuading Carey & Lee, Philadelphia publishers, to undertake the publication of the work by this unknown writer and even to advance a few dollars, almost unheard of generosity or confidence on the part of publishers in that era. [column 2:]

Thus, albeit face to face with absolute poverty, for Mr. Allan died soon after and left Poe nothing in his will, Poe was once again well started and in the career for which he was best fitted. Not long after this the kind Kennedy induced T. W. White, owner of the Southern Literary Messenger, published at Richmond, to employ Poe as associate editor at a salary of ten dollars per week, pay which at that time should be reckoned equivalent to about double now.

White also paid his editor — how different in this from some millionaire magazine owners of to-day whom the public knows and justly despises! — for his extra work in the way of stories and reviews, and thus Poe found himself earning a fairly good living and able to marry his cousin, which he did privately and then publicly on May 16, 1836, he being in his twenty-sixth year and she in her thirteenth. More than this, the poet turned editor found himself quite soon a marked success, In his hands the Messenger, [page 232:] which had a circulation when he joined it of about five hundred, grew to Over 5,000 in a year, and his fame as a brilliant writer and an honest, though severe, critic grew side by side with his reputation as a practical, successful editor.

He was only twenty-five and he had won the first fight with poverty more quickly and more easily than most men. A glorious future seemed to his friends unrolling before him. But the demon who lay in ambush [column 2:] came out and took him by the throat, just when the sky looked fairest. White was compelled to sever personal and professional relations with his editor, and so Poe left Richmond to “settle” in New York. The exact date of this migration is uncertain, but it was probably in the spring of 1837. Poe and his wife, Virginia, were soon followed by his aunt and mother-in-law, Mrs.

Clemm, who to eke out subsistence for the family began to take boarders. One of these, William Gowans, bears witness that during the eight months of his boarding with the Poes the poet was always courteous, considerate of others, quiet and sober. In 1838 Harper's published Poe's “Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym” which had the honor to be instantly pirated in England.

The poet in New York did not gain at first any sure footing. He became a mere hack writer for booksellers, magazines and annuals, and in 1839 he went to Philadelphia to accept the associate editorship of the Gentleman's Magazine owned by Burton, the famous comedian. The salary was $10 a week. In the following year Lea & Blanchard brought out his “Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque,” with more fame than profit for the author as the result.

Poe and Burton, Tragedy and Comedy, did not agree and neither do their accounts as to the cause of their severance. Burton charged Poe with drunken neglect of editorial duties and with delaying the issue of the [page 233:] magazine. The printer, Alexander, denies that Poe was ever to blame for this and Poe solemnly asserted his absolute abstinence from drink during the entire Burton episode and for two years following. When he left Burton, he projected a magazine of his own and this plan, this hope, he cherished vainly well-nigh to the very end of his life.

A man named Graham presently bought Burton's magazine and on February 20, 1841, had the good judgment to install Poe as editor. Again the man of genius, Pegasus in harness, proved himself a master of the practical. Graham's Magazine, as it was now called, had a circulation of 5,000. Ina year Poe had raised it to 50,000, then an amazing large figure in circulation, probably the largest in the country of any periodical, not excepting the daily press. In this magazine Poe's “Murders in the Rue Morgue” made its first appearance, and with this story Poe became the literary father of the modern detective novel.

Poe left Graham's service on April 1, 1842, but there was no open breach, for he continued to contribute to the journal. His next move was an attempt to secure through his friends a custom-house clerkship. This failed, some pothouse politician probably needing the place. Poe's long period of abstinence now burst in a prolonged “spree” at Washington and after this he won another prize of $100 with his “Gold Bug” published in the Dollar Newspaper.

In 1842 it is worthy of note that he became acquainted with Charles Dickens, then visiting this country, Dickens's admiration and keen interest having been excited by Poe's foretelling clearly from its initial chapters the plot of Dickens's novel, “Barnaby Rudge.” During the autumn of 1843 Poe delivered a lecture in Philadelphia on “The Poets and Poetry of America.” In this field, too, he was a shining success, though not monetarily a large one. He had a fine [column 2:] presence, complete command of his theme, an earnest manner and a voice various and sweet in tone.

His Philadelphian days, roughly reckoned from 1838 to 1844, were his most prosperous and serene ones, if the terms, prosperity and serenity, can be used even by way of comparison in writing about this man's life. Part of this time the Poes lived in a little rose-covered cottage on the outskirts of the city, and his wife, who was a fine musician, had her piano and harp, and those infrequent visitors who entered Poe's home carried away memories fragrant with beauty. Poe was devoted to his wife and was idolized by his mother-in-law. He cannot have been a very bad man.

Moving again to New York in the spring of 1844, his “Balloon Hoax” was published in the Sun April 13 of that year. Poe became, after a few months of “free lancing,” equivalent too often to “free lunching,” assistant editor on Willis's Mirror or, in the curious grammar twice employed by Professor Woodberry who really knows better than to write such a phrase, he “was given a place” there.

While with Willis, whose fopperies and whose verses are fast sinking into just oblivion, but whose unfailing goodness to Poe will save his name from Lethe, Poe gave to the world the poem which made him the most famous of literary Americans. “The Raven,” sold to the American Whig Review for ten dollars, it has been said, was published by anticipation, with credit to the February number of that magazine, in the Mirror of January 29, 1845.

Poe had already earned fame and a living as a prose writer of strange power. Now at one bound, for the poem was copied and commended everywhere, he became the most widely famous of living poets.

Indeed, there is no exaggeration in saying that “The Raven,” now translated into a dozen or more languages, is the most widely known and most popular poem ever written, and for [page 234:] reasons resident in human nature the permanence of its charm is assured. Commentators cannot. electrocute it. Elocutionists cannot commonize its unique and commanding beauty, though they generally spoil the spell of its haunting music.

Lowell, his brother-poet, wrote now a. highly appreciative sketch of Poe's life in Graham's Magazine and Poe's “Tales,” upbuoyed by the fame of “The Raven,” began to be known in London. In this year, too, Wiley & Putnam issued another collection of the stories and of the poems which were highly noticed everywhere. Poe then lectured in New York and entranced his audience.

Next he took a third interest in the Broadway Journal, quarreled with his partners, bought the whole with a note endorsed by Horace Greeley, which Greeley had to pay finally, and on January 3, 1846, gave up the publication. The following spring he established himself in the Fordham cottage of three small rooms. His health was broken. He had no money. His wife was dying by inches. Friends found her lying without blankets, covered with her husband's ragged overcoat. Sixty dollars were gathered by subscription and the pressing needs of the family relieved.

On January 30, 1847, his wife died. Poe had been failing physically all through the preceding year and his illness continued. Money was again raised for him through the kindness of Willis, and a dear friend, Mrs. Shew, for over a year took almost constant care of him, with the devoted mother-in-law. [column 2:] Most of his days and nights were spent at and about Fordham, wandering, brooding, doing little work, wrestling with sorrow and the conscious mind diseased, the demon of a thirst accurst.

Then, suddenly, he returned to the world with his old project of starting a magazine which never advanced beyond the prospectus stage, and to obtain funds for this purpose he lectured in New York, on “The Cosmogony of the Universe,” February 3, 1848. His audience of only sixty were held spellbound for two hours and a half by his eloquence, which even Griswold, his lifelong enemy, declared was at times “supramortal.” This lecture was highly praised by the press and an amplification of it can be found in his “Eureka,” which was published by Putnam.

In the early part of this year it is believed Poe composed “The Bells,” a poem almost as famous as “The Raven,” and in June, Mrs. Shew broke off her intimacy with him, probably because she found that her influence no longer sufficed to keep him from drink. From now on to the end it is doubtful whether poor Poe had one entirely sane day. The accounts of his conduct and his letters indicate that his fits of alcoholic stimulation and his occasional recourses to opium were not the causes of his ruin, but the effects of a congenital malady which had grown with his growth, had strengthened with his strength and had now mastered the man. If he had not died of delirium tremens, he must surely have committed suicide. There was no logical scientific escape. [page 235:]

Were it not for the cruel pathos of it all, the story of his last year would be grotesquely amusing, for he was making love to three women almost at once, or as fast as he could cover the distance between them. He proposed marriage in two cases and the other was a married woman for whom his affection appears to have been the tenderest and most real of his mad vagaries. He was accepted and then rejected by Mrs. Whitman in Providence, and then he consoled himself with the sympathy of “Annie” to whom he wrote a beautiful poem of that title. This lady lived near Lowell in Massachusetts. What her husband thought of her interest in Poe is not known. Perhaps he was equally fascinated by the strange personality of this unfortunate man of genius. [column 2:]

Then Poe fled to Richmond and made love to his first sweetheart, “now the rich Widow — Shelton. He bought the wedding ring and after his death she took upon her fresh weeds. He began apparently to regain his health and spent the summer of 1849 living at the Madison Tavern and visiting old friends, who received him cordially. He made tremendous efforts to abstain, but twice he fell and had fits of delirium tremens. His doctor warned him that another attack would probably finish him. He wept and swore it should never happen again.

Sober for several months, he made preparations for his marriage and started north to bring the faithful Mrs. Clemm, his mother-in-law, to Richmond that the ceremony might be [page 236:] sanctioned and honored by her presence. He left Richmond by boat for Baltimore, September 30 or October 1, 1849, sober and cheerful, too, so his friends attest.

What occurred after this can never be clearly known. Some say that he left Baltimore on a train for Philadelphia, apparently sober, but was in the wrong car and returned from Havre de Grace in a peculiar stupor, not alcoholic, but resembling the effect of some drug, possibly in an epileptic fit, for some have ably maintained that Poe was a cerebral epileptic all his life.

Another version makes him meet some old military friends, dine heavily and wine madly with them and then wander out to be captured by some industrious politicians who kept him charged with liquor and used him as a repeater at the election booths on Wednesday, October 3. On the day before this he called on his friend, Dr. Brooks, possibly for treatment, but the Doctor was out and the next afternoon [column 2:] Poe was recognized at a ginmill which was appropriately used as a voting place and here he asked for Dr. Snodgrass. This doctor was at once called and Poe was removed to the Washington Hospital.

On Sunday, Oct. 7, 1849, the strangest man of genius of whom the world has any records gave up the ghost, just as the dawn arose, beautiful as one of his poems. He was buried the following day by his kinsfolk.

Only five persons, counting the minister, attended his body to the grave and for a long time no stone marked his last — his only, resting-place. There is now, in that city famous for fine monuments, a simple thing of the kind, hardly worthy of the name, over his dust.

Such, very briefly told, is the story of Poe's life. To do aught like justice to his position as an artist in living words and to his influence on literature would need an article as long again as this.

Henry Austin.