Text: Anonymous, “Edgar Poe's Cottage,” New York Herald (New York, NY), whole no. 17,093, June 10, 1883, p. 10, col. 6

[page 10, column 6, continued:]

EDGAR POE'S COTTAGE.

ITS SALE ON FORECLOSURE YESTERDAY — SOME HOMELY REMINISCENCES.

In the spring of 1846 Edgar Allen Poe, with his invalid wife and his mother-in-law, moved from the noise and bustle of New York life to a small cottage in the quiet village of Fordham. This cottage was sold yesterday under foreclosure for $7,500. The plaintiff, Mr. Nelson Strang, was the purchaser.

The reporter stepped from the “L” road at its terminus in Harlem into a tram car and after a six mile ride through beautiful regions of grass and tempting shade reached the village of cottages and stone fences. A half-mile walk brought him to the cottage. The sides are shingled as is the roof; there is no weather-boarding, All is painted white. Buried among the trees, whose low reaching boughs sweep the roof, It makes a pleasant picture.

The reporter's knock was answered by a small, elderly lady. “I was surprised to hear the place was to be sold,” she said. “I knew that it was heavily mortgaged and that a foreclosure has been deterred several times. Mr. Harry Berrian was the owner. But come, I will show you the rooms.”

Climbing the steep, winding stairs the old lady and her visitor stood in a small attic room. Pointing to a window about sixteen by twenty Mrs. Dockert said, “Poe sat by that window when he wrote the ‘Raven.’”

Leaving the house, the reporter was led through the grounds. The long, rich grass looks very tempting to the old cow which peeps wistfully through the cracks of the barn. The long, untrimmed limbs of the apple trees reach nearly to the ground; the cherry trees have grown as they pleased; the old stone fence has seen better days. To the left, over the tree tops, rise the cupolas of St. John's College; far to the right stands the Home for Incurables. Beyond all stretches the blue background of the Long Island Hills. An occasional church spire adds to the picturesque effect, and the screech of a whistle and a thin column of smoke point out toe route of the iron horse as it dashes across the scene.

Near the house is a Syringa, planted by the poet. It is a tall, straggling bush, in keeping with its surroundings. Bending down a lilac Mrs. Dockert broke a handful of the fragrant flowers, and, giving them to her visitor, sent him away, saying, “You have seen the cottage; you can hear something of its master by calling on Mrs. Cromwell,”

Turning to the right at the first corner and following the shell path is another white cottage, in which Mrs. Cromwell lives.

“What do you want to know about Eddie Poe?” she said; “he's been dead so long I thought he was forgotten. Well, it's mighty curious. You folks think more of him now than you did when he was alive.”

“You know him?” the reporter asked.

“Knew Eddie Poe? Why, I was the first neighbor his folks got acquainted with when they moved out here thirty-seven years ago. Mr. Poe found me himself in the cherry tree and he took his wife, poor woman, and me right over to see his mother-in-law. I used to go over there very often?”

“Did you know much of the family?”

“I knew they were mighty poor — poorer than I ever was or ever expect to be. They lived hard over there, and didn’t have much that was nice. Mr. Poe was a good man — when he wasn’t drinking. He seemed very fond of that poor, sick wife of his. Mrs. Clemm used to watch him mighty I’ve known her to go to New York day to ‘tend to his business just him from going. She knew get in bad company and close, and twice a day to keep him from going. She knew he would get in bad company and go to drinking again. Why, I’ve seen him when three men couldn’t hold him in the bed. But there wasn’t a better man in the world when he was sober. He was very fond of flowers and used to tramp all over the woods to find ‘em. He loved birds, too, and had lots of ‘em singing in his yard. He was the greatest walker I ever saw, and used to go to White Plains — sixteen miles — and back in a day, and many's the night he has wandered over these hills without a coat or a hat.

“When his wife died Mr. Poe took it mighty hard. She was buried up in the old Dutch Cemetery, but they afterward moved her to Baltimore, about five years ago. He used to cry over her grave every day and kept it green with flowers.”

“You have some relics, I believe?

“This is the chair he used to sit in,” said the old lady, rising slowly. “It's just exactly like it was when I got it, except that iron strap on the arm. Somebody broke it and I had it mended. Here is his own Bible, and his clock is up stairs, if you seen want to see it.”

It is an eight day clock, running yet, as it has for thirty-six years. The chair has been in constant use, but has the same cane in back and seat it had when the poet sat in it.

“I bought the chair and clock, continued Mrs. Cromwell, “but Mrs. Clemm gave me the Bible, and I’ll never part with it. I might sell the other things, but if you all are going to think so much of Mr. Poe, I guess I’ll have to think something of him too.”

In the old Bible one passage was found marked — Job, vii., 16 — ”I loathe it; I would not live alway; let me alone, for my days are vanity.”

“Where did you get those flowers?” Mrs. Cromwell asked. “Over at the cottage, I reckon. You all are just alike and go crazy about nothing. I wonder how many more will want to hear about Eddie Poe?”