Text: Eugene L. Didier, “The Poe Mania,” The Poe Cult and Other Poe Papers (1909), pp. 203-206

[page 203:]

The irony of fate was never more strikingly displayed than in the case of Edgar A. Poe. A life of sorrow and suffering, a wretched death, and a splendid posthumous fame — such was the malevolent destiny of America's greatest genius. The first editions of those extraordinary tales and marvelous poems, for which Poe received a beggarly compensation, are now fought for by wealthy collectors. In 1827 the first edition of Poe's Poems was printed in Boston — printed, but not published, “for private reasons.” I strongly suspect that “the private reasons” why the first edition of Poe's Poems was not published was because the poet had not the money to pay for the printing. That little book of forty pages in the course of time became one of the rarest books in the world. As it is one of the curiosities of literature, it will be interesting to many readers to have its title page in full. I have copied it, as follows: [page 204:]

An autograph dealer, not renowned for paying extravagant prices for what he buys, offered $500 for the original manuscript of the Raven. The pecuniary value placed upon it by the present owner is $10,000.

One of the most enthusiastic admirers of Poe is John H. Ingram, of London. He spent several years and some money in collecting everything bearing upon his favorite subject — books, portraits, letters, magazine articles, etc. He had agents in several cities of the United States picking up material of every description. He not only collected portraits of Poe, but of every person in any way associated with him. For instance, he wanted a portrait of Thomas Jefferson, not because he was the author of the Declaration of Independence and President of the United States, but because he was the Founder of the University of Virginia, where Poe was educated; he wanted a likeness of Lafayette, not because he was a hero and a patriot, but because he was a friend [page 205:] of the poet's grandfather, Gen. Poe of the American Revolution; he wanted a portrait of Margaret J. Preston, not because she was a gifted poetess, but because her husband was a schoolmate of Poe in Richmond; he wanted a portrait of George W. Childs, not because he was a famous American editor, but because he contributed largely toward the Poe monument which was erected in Baltimore in November, 1875; he wanted a portrait of John Tyler, not because he was a President of the United States, but because his son, Robert Tyler, was one of Poe's early friends, and so on. These things show what a wonderful hold Poe has upon those afflicted with the Poe mania. The literature of the world scarcely offers anything to compare with it. Byron, Milton, Tennyson, Keats, Shelley, and other famous poets do not possess the same interest.

A file of the Broadway Journal, of which Poe was the editor, will sell for a sum that would have supported the little family at Fordham in comfort for a year. It was in the cottage there that the poet's wife died in unspeakable wretchedness in the Winter of 1847, a calamity which, as the distracted husband wrote at the time, so overwhelmed him as to deprive him for several weeks of all power of [page 206:] thought or action. It was at this cottage that he wrote the Bells, Annabel Lee, and the wonderful prose poem, Eureka.

Old magazines in which Poe's poems and tales originally appeared are eagerly sought for by Poe enthusiasts. I have known odd volumes of Southern Literary Messenger to bring as high as $5.00 a volume simply because Poe was once its editor. For the same reason Graham's Magazine brings an extravagant price; it would have little value except for Poe's association with it, although at one time it had a circulation of 40,000 a month — an enormous circulation sixty years ago.

This extraordinary Poe mania began about thirty years ago, and has continued with ever-increasing violence ever since. It is confined, generally, to one sex, but extends to all classes and conditions of men — lawyers, editors, authors, professors, men of leisure, etc. The beginner never knows where he will end. In fact, he ends only with his money, or his life. The most patient wife must have her temper ruffled when she sees her house littered up with a miscellaneous collection of stuff, neither useful nor ornamental, purchased at an outlay which, if expended on furniture and decorations, would have made her home the House Beautiful.