Text: Eugene L. Didier, “Poe and Stoddard,” The Poe Cult and Other Poe Papers (1909), pp. 135-139

[page 135:]

The death of Richard Henry Stoddard, on the 12th of May, 1903, removed from the world the last of the literary contemporaries of Edgar A. Poe. Their acquaintance began in the Summer of 1845, when Poe was the editor, owner, and principal contributor to the Broadway Journal. Mr. Stoddard has told the story of his acquaintance with Poe — told it often and well — told it with interesting embellishment, blending fact and fiction in equal portions. The courtesies of journalism are more regarded now than they were twenty-four years ago. I have before me an article from a leading New York newspaper, of May 3, 1885, headed, “Reminiscences of Poe, Poet, Lover, Liar.” By Richard Henry Stoddard. He says: “When I was in the twentieth year of my age, I was under the delusion that I could write poetry. I belonged to the school of Keats, though I was only in the infant class. Something that I had read suggested an Ode to a Grecian Flute, and I wrote one, [page 136:] or tried to, which is not precisely the same thing. I made a fair copy of the effusion, and sent it to the great Mr. Poe, who was then editing the Broadway Journal. It was published in Clinton Hall, not far from where Temple Court is. I waited patiently two or three weeks, at the end of which time, the immortality of print being denied me, I took a day and went down to the office of the Broadway Journal. Mr. Poe was not there, but I obtained his address, and retraced my steps. I found the house in which he lodged. It was on the southerly side of East Broadway, probably in the neighborhood of Clinton Street. I was directed to his rooms, which were on the second floor. He was dressed in black, I remember, and was very courteous to me. The Ode should appear next week. I thanked him, and rising to leave, saw that his wife, who was, also, in black, was lying asleep on a bed — a fragile gentlewoman, whom I pitied, for I felt she had not long to live. I saw her mother at that same time, who was also in black. I bowed to her, and departed. The Ode did not appear next week, but there was a reference to it in the earner devoted to Cor-respondents. The editor doubted the originality of my verse, and declined to publish it unless he could be assured of its authenticity. I [page 137:] was startled, but complimented, for had I not written so well that Poe suspected that I was a literary thief. I was hurt, but I was flattered and bettered, for I was no longer afraid of the poet's criticism. I took another forenoon, a week later, and went again to the office of the Broadway Journal. It was a boiling day in June. The editor was not in his chair, but was expected to return soon. I walked up and down the hot street, and at the end of an hour, returned, and was informed that Mr. Poe was in, and was shown to his room. He was in black, as before, asleep in his chair. The publisher wakened him. ‘What do you want?’ he snapped out. ‘I have come, Mr. Poe, to assure you of the authenticity of the “Ode on a Grecian Flute.”’ He glared at me, and without waiting to hear what I had to say, declared that I was a liar, and consigned me to instant perdition. Then he rose surlily, and threatened to kick me out of the office if I did not get out at once; which I did.”

Mr. Stoddard said, several years ago, that he had made over $700 by writing this anecdote in various shapes, style, length and breadth. The whirligig of time has brought about many changes, and none equal to the change that has taken place in the estimation [page 138:] of Poe. For twenty-five years after his death, the dead lion was kicked by living asses — the dead raven was plucked by living buzzards, and other foul birds. Richard Henry Stoddard was neither an ass nor a buzzard, but he did much to keep Poe from coming to his kingdom. He defended Griswold, while condemning Poe. He declared that “Griswold was not more the enemy of Poe than I was, or am.” That's true. They were both enemies, one as much as the other. Stoddard's dislike of the poet was caused by that threat to kick him out of his office. On that he claims to have made $700, and has associated his name with that of the author of The Raven; had the threat been actually carried out, Stoddard might have made twice as much money, and gained an immortal fame. See what he missed by his precipitous retreat from the sanctum of the irate poet? To be kicked into fame seldom happens to a man. By acting the better part of valor, and running away, Stoddard lost the opportunity of his life.

Walt Whitman told of a very different experience which he had with Poe. He saw him once, when he called at the office of the Broadway Journal, as Stoddard did, to inquire about a piece. He says that Poe was very cordial: “I have a distinct and pleasant remembrance [page 139:] of his looks, voice, manner and matter; he was very kindly and human, but subdued, and perhaps a little agitated.”

Edmund Clarence Stedman, in his admirable essay entitled, “Edgar Allan Poe,” was the first to draw public attention to the fact that the poet never made a dollar except by his pen, and he says, moreover, the duty of self-support was not one to which he had been trained, and he adds, “Imagine Shelley, who made his paper boats of bank notes, Byron and Landor, who had their old estates, forced to write by the column for their weekly board.” Then, remember that Poe was brought up in luxury, and taught to expect a handsome fortune — that when he reached manhood, he was turned adrift without a dollar. Gifted as few are gifted, he made a splendid fight against fate.