Text: Anonymous, “From our Correspondent,” Democratic Union (Harrisburg, PA), vol. III, no. 30, December 24, 1845, p. 5

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From our Correspondent

PHILADELPHIA, Dec. 22, 1845

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Perhaps you have come across a romance entitled “Facts in M. Valdemar's Case,” by Edgar A. Poe, in which the author of the modern horrific has detailed a series of experiments in animal magnetism upon the body of a deceased friend. I have called this narrative a romance, it is a palpable and direct untruth, excusable perhaps from the consideration that every intelligent person who peruses it would shudder at believing it, and highly censurable because it desecrates the sacred mysteries of death. In a few words the story is told.

M. Valdemar is a gentleman of delicate constitution who gradually falls into a confirmed phthisis. While in this situation and near his approaching end, he consents that his particular friend, Mr. Poe, may perform a series of experiments for the purpose of suspending animation and holding converse with him when dead. Just as the patient is dying Mr. Poe succeeds in throwing him into a magnetic slumber, and effectually consummates this as the last gasp is leaving him, and in a deep unearthly voice he utters the words, “Quick! Quick! I’m dead, Oh! I’m dead.”

In this state the dead man remains for seven months, during which time Mr. Poe frequently converses with him in the presence of two physicians, who are called, I believe, Dr. P., and Dr. L. At the close of this period, Mr. Poe, with a great deal of difficulty and perturbation of spirit removes the magnetic influence, and immediately the body falls away into a liquid mass of loathsome, yellow putrefaction.

Such is the story of Mr. Poe, and it is written with all the semblance and technicality of authenticity. His object may be to throw ridicule upon this revived and exaggerated scientific folly, but if so, it seems to me to be more than objectionable, to do so through the holy mysteries of death and the resurrection. So long as Mr. Poe confines himself to “Ravens croaking,” “Nevermore,” “Gold Bug,” incantations, and cats walled up in brick chambers, I will turn pale with a sincere admiration of his genius, but I think it is in bad taste to violate even the hallowed superstitions of the people.

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