Text: Anonymous, “Edgar A. Poe,” Public Ledger (Memphis, TN), vol. III, no. 103, January 4, 1867, p. 4, col. 1

[page 4, column 1:]

EDGAR A. POE.

The Alton Democrat has the following reminiscences of Poe, the poet:

No author was ever more personally unpopular, none took less care of his works, than Jonathan Swift; yet to-day “Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, Gulliver,” is recognized wherever the English language is spoken, as the greatest wit and the mightiest intellect in that bright galaxy which has shed an undying glory upon the reign of Queen Anne.

And, in spite of his wretched, aimless life, and its miserable close, the literary remains of Edgar Allan Poe are beyond the touch and taint of time, and among those things which can never die. The “Elegy in a Country Churchyard” will live as long as “Paradise Lost.” and we are quite sure that “The Raven” will outlast the most of the rhymes written by Mr. Tennyson and Mr. Longfellow.

So little is know [[known]] of Poe, that even the slight addition we are able to make may not be uninteresting to his admirers.

A few years ago, on a visit to Richmond. Virginia, we had an opportunity to gather some of the traditionary gossip regarding him.

John Allan, who adopted and afterward, for some alleged misconduct, discarded Poe, died long since. His family, who still reside there, are not especially friendly to the reputation of the poet, and can scarcely comprehend that they themselves are rescued from obscurity by the fame of the man once driven an outcast from their doors. Joseph Mayo, the venerable Mayor of Richmond, told us that he remembered in his young days it was quite the fashion to attend the theatre and see Elizabeth Arnold, a fair haired, blue-eyed English actress, then a great favorite there. Miss Arnold achieved tome reputation in melodrama and light comedy and always bore a most excellent character.

She was the mother of Poe. His father, a young lawyer of Baltimore, seems to have bequeathed the boy little else beside his name and those roving and dissolute habits which finally accomplished his ruin. At school, Poe was considered a brilliant scholar, but totally unmanageable and not to be depended upon Yet, when Mr. Allan finally dismissed him from his house, public sentiment in the city decidedly sympathised with the youth and thought him the victim of injustice, or at least, of too great severity.

From John R. Thompson, Esq . then editor of the Southern Literary Messenger, we derived some information related to the closing year of Poe's life. Mr. Thompson stated that a message was left at his residence to the effect that a person calling himself Poe, had been for several days in an intoxicated condition, lounging about the bar rooms at Rocketts, a suburb of Richmond. He immediately went to the place, but, after a long search, could only ascertain the fact that a man answering the description had been there und slept on the floor of one of the vile dens in that vicinity, leaving his address, Mr. Thompson returned, and, in the pressure of business, soon forgot the circumstance entirely. A week or two afterward, while sitting in his office, a knock came at th« door und a stranger entered. Dressed in a well-worn but scrupulously clean suit of black, linen somewhat ragged but without a stain; a face pale as marble, lit up by a pair of dark melancholy eyes; his person, as well as his manner, had about it that indescribable something which betokens the gentleman. He announced himself as “Mr. Poe,” and without any illusion to the inquiry which brought him there, immediately began a conversation which resulted in Mr. Thompson insisting that he should become his guest and an inmate of the office. Here Poe remained for more than a year in fact, until his death. His writing seemed to be a reflex of the man. Always quiet and gentlemanly in his demeanor, he never indulged in profane or improper language and had an utter abhorrence of anything like slang.

His powers of conversation were wonderful, and when interested in his subject he would seemingly forget the presence of a listener and pour forth his eloquent theories and criticisms on literature and art like a soliloquy. He asked no questions and needed none.

No one oversaw him smile.

He had the habit of repeating over to himself snatches of poetry. One of his chief favorites was the well known lines from Tennyson's “Princess,” beginning:

Poe used to say that he considered this last verse the finest simile in the language:

In order to guard him as far as possible from temptation, Mr. Thompson gave him a sleeping apartment next his own, but in spite of all precautions he would at intervals escape and seek the cup, which was to him literal madness. A glass set his brain on fire; reproof and entreaty were alike unavailing, and he drank until nature was exhausted and could bear no more. At one of these times he would be found in a saloon standing on a table, a perfect maniac, and repeating to a crowd of and blacklegs portions of “Eureka,” which had not then been published. Yet after a week's debauch he would reappear at his desk without a shadow of dissipation on his face, and with all that refinement of voice and gesture which Mrs. Osgood, the poetess, said made Poe to her the most fascinating of men.

He died in Baltimore, and was buried in a small cemetery attached to the Westminster Presbyterian Church, corner of Fayette and Greene streets.