Text: Eugene L. Didier, “The Grave of Poe,” The Poe Cult and Other Poe Papers (1909), pp. 180-183


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[page 180:]

THE GRAVE OF POE.*

It was on a cold, dull and dreary day, in the Winter of 1871, while attending the funeral of Mrs. Maria Clemm, the aunt and motherin-law of Edgar A. Poe, that I first saw the nameless grave of that gifted but most unfortunate poet. She died the day before, and her last request was to be buried by the side of her “darling Eddie,” in Westminster churchyard, corner of Fayette and Greene Streets, Baltimore. No stone has ever marked the place of his burial, though, shortly after his death, a marble was prepared, which was accidentally broken in the stonecutter's shop, only a few days before it was to be erected. It bore the following inscription:

“HIC

TANDEM FELICIS

CONDUNTUR RELIQUIAE

EDGARI ALLAN POE.

OBIIT OCT. 7, 1849,

AET 40. [page 181:]

“Hic tandem felicis!” Here at last he is happy!

Can anything be more beautifully pathetic? Here, misguided child of genius, victim of want, of disappointment, and of thy own fiery passions, thou didst find that peace which was denied thee during life!

In my conversations with Mrs. Clemm, she gave me many interesting facts about Poe's personal appearance, his dress, etc. He was five feet eight and a quarter inches high; slightly but elegantly formed; his eyes were dark gray, almond-shaped, with long black lashes; his forehead was broad, massive, and white; his mouth and teeth were beautiful; he wore a long but not heavy mustache; his hair was dark brown, almost black, and curly; his feet and hands small as a woman's. He was very neat — even fastidious — about his dress; was fond of gray clothes; he always wore a turndown collar and black cravat.

His custom was to walk up and down his library when engaged in literary composition. He never sat down to write until he had arranged the plot, the characters, and even the language he was to use. To this may be attributed the extraordinary finish which his compositions display.

The true story of Poe's death has never [page 182:] been correctly told. It is this: In the Summer of 1849, he left New York for Virginia. In Richmond he met Mrs. Elmira Shelton, whom he had known in his youth, renewed his acquaintance, and in a few weeks they were engaged to be married. He wrote to his friends in the North that he should pass the remainder of his life in Virginia, where the happiest days of his youth had been spent. Early in October he set out from Richmond to fulfill a literary engagement in New York, and to prepare for his marriage, which was to take place on the 17th of the month. Arriving in Baltimore, he found that he had missed the Philadelphia train which he expected to take, and would have to wait two or three hours for the next train. He went to a restaurant near the depot to get some refreshments. There he met some of his old West Point friends, who invited him to a champagne supper that night. He accepted the invitation, and went. At first he refused to drink, but at last he was induced to take a glass of champagne. That set him off, and in a few hours he was madly drunk. In this state he wandered off from his friends, was robbed and beaten by ruffians, and left insensible in the street all night. The next morning he was picked up and taken to the Washington Hospital. He was delirious with brain [page 183:] fever. He was well cared for by the physicians of the Hospital, but he was beyond the skill of doctors. He lingered two or three days, and died on Sunday, October 7, 1849. The above was told me by Mrs. Clemm.

Washington Irving sweetly says of the grave: “It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom springs none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and feel not a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of dust that lies mouldering before him!”

Let us, then, forget the errors of Edgar Poe, remembering the lines of Stoddard:

“He lies in dust, and the stone is rolled

Over the sepulchre dim and cold;

He has cancelled all he has done or said.

And gone to the dear and holy dead.

Let us forget the path he trod,

And leave him now to his Maker, God!”

FOOTNOTES

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 180:]

* Appleton's Journal, January 27, 1872. Several statements in this article I have since discovered were incorrect.


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Notes:

None.

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[S:0 - ELDPC, 1909] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Bookshelf - The Poe Cult and Other Poe Papers (Eugene L. Didier) (The Grave of Poe)