THE MYSTERY OF FATE.
One evening--it was Sunday, the 2d of October--Dr. John Carter was
seated alone in his office when Poe entered, having just paid a farewell
visit to Mrs. Shelton before leaving in the morning for New York. He
remarked to Dr. Carter that he would probably stop for one day in
Baltimore, and perhaps also in Philadelphia, on business; would like to
remain longer, but had written to Mrs. Clemm to expect him at Fordham
some time this week. He would be back in Richmond in about a fortnight.
While talking, he took up a handsome malacca sword-cane belonging to Dr.
Carter and absently played with it. He looked grave and preoccupied;
several times inquired the hour, and at length rising suddenly, remarked
that he would step over to Saddler's restaurant and get supper. He took
the cane with him, Dr. Carter understanding from this circumstance and
his not taking leave, that he would presently return on his way to the
_Swan_, where he had left his baggage. He did not, however, reappear;
and on the next morning Dr. Carter inquired about him at Saddler's. The
proprietor said that Poe and two friends had remained to a late hour,
talking and drinking moderately, and had then left together to go aboard
the boat, which would start at four o'clock for Baltimore. He said that
Poe, when he left, was in good spirits and quite sober; though this last
may be doubted, since he not only forgot to return Dr. Carter's cane but
to send for his own baggage at the Swan Some persons have insisted that
Poe must have been drugged by these men, who were strangers to Mr.
Saddler, and there was even a sensational story published in a Northern
magazine to the effect that Poe had been followed to Baltimore by two of
Mrs. Shelton's brothers, and there, after having certain letters taken
from him, beaten so severely that he was found dying in an obscure
alley. This story was first started by Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes Smith in one
of the New York journals, though it does not appear from what source she
derived her information. No denial was made or notice taken of it by
Mrs. Shelton's friends, and the story gradually died out.
For over forty years the mystery of the tragic death of the poet
remained a mystery, strangely and persistently defying all attempts at
elucidation. But within the last few years there has appeared in a St.
Louis paper a communication which professes to give a truthful account
of the circumstances connected with the poet's death, and which wears
such an appearance of probability that it is at least worth considering.
This letter, which is addressed to the editor of the paper, is from a
certain Dr. Snodgrass, who represents himself to have been for many
years a resident of Dakota. He says that on the evening of October 2,
1849, being in Baltimore, he stepped into a plain but respectable
eating-house or restaurant kept by an Irish widow, where, to his
surprise, he met with Poe, whom he had once been accustomed to meet
here, but had not seen for some years. After taking some refreshment,
they left the place together, but had not proceeded far when they were
seized upon by two men, who hurried them off to some place where they
were, with several others, kept close prisoners through the night and
following day, though otherwise well treated. It was the eve of a great
municipal election, and the city was wild with excitement. Next evening
the kidnappers, having drugged their captives, hurried them to the
polls, where they, in a half-conscious condition, were made to vote over
and over again. The doctor, it appears, was only partially affected, but
Poe succumbed utterly, and at length one of the men said, "What is the
use of dragging around a dead man?" With that, they called a hack, put
Poe within it, and ordered the driver to take him to the Washington
Hospital.
Dr. Snodgrass says positively: "I myself saw Poe thrust into the hack,
heard the order given, and saw the vehicle drive off with its
unconscious burden."
Thus--if this account may be relied upon--ended the strange, sad tragedy
of the poet's life; none stranger, none sadder, in all the annals of
modern literature.
Dr. Snodgrass intimates that his reason for so long a delay in making
this story known was his unwillingness to have his own part in the
affair exposed, and with the notoriety which its connection with the
poet would render unavoidable. But now, he says, in his old age, and
having outlived all who knew him at the time, this consideration is of
little worth to him. If the story be not true, we cannot see why it
should have been invented. At least, it cannot, at the present day, be
disproved, and it certainly appears to be the most probable and natural
explanation of the poet's death that has been given. It agrees also with
Dr. Moran's account of Poe's condition when he was received at the
hospital, and with the latter's earnest assurance that he himself was
not responsible for that condition, and also with his requesting that
Dr. Snodgrass be sent for. The kidnappers had probably exchanged his
garments for others as a means of disguise, intending to restore them
eventually. They at least did not take from him the handsome malacca
cane which was in his grasp when he reached the hospital; and which
which would tend to prove that he was not then altogether unconscious.
This cane was, at Dr. Carter's request, returned to him by Mrs. Clemm,
to whom Dr. Moran sent it. His baggage, left at the Swan, was sent by
Mr. Mackenzie to Mrs. Clemm, disproving the story that it had been
stolen from him in Baltimore.
In addition to the above, we find another and very similar account,
apparently by the same Dr. Snodgrass, in the "_San Francisco Chronicle_
of August 31," the date of the year not appearing on the clipping from
which I make the following extracts:
"You say that Poe did not die from the effects of deliberate
dissipation?" asked the _Chronicle_ reporter.
"That is just what I do mean; and I say further that he died from the
effects of deliberate murder."
The author of this assertion was a well-known member of this city's
advanced and inveterate Bohemia; a gentleman who has long since retired
from the active pursuits of his profession and spends his old age in
dreamy meditation, frequenting one of the popular resorts of the craft,
but mingling little in their society. When joining in their
conversation, it is generally to correct some errors from his
inexhaustible mine of reminiscences, and on these occasions his words
are few and precise.
"Then you knew something of the poet, Doctor?"
"I was his intimate associate for years. Much that biographers have said
of him is false, especially regarding his death. Poe was not an habitual
drunkard, but he was a steady drinker when his means admitted of it.
His habitual resort when in Baltimore was the Widow Meagher's place, on
the city front, inexpensive, but respectable, having an oyster and
liquor stand, and corresponding in some respects with the coffee shops
of San Francisco. Here I frequently met him."
"But about his death?"
"The mystery of the poet's death had remained a mystery for more than
forty years when there appeared in a Texas paper an article from the pen
of the editor, in which he gave a letter from a Dr. Snodgrass professing
to reveal the truth of the matter.
"About the time that this article was published there appeared one in
the San Francisco _Chronicle_ by a reporter of that paper, telling of an
interview which he had with this same Dr. Snodgrass, of whom he says:
'He was a well-known literary Bohemian of this city who long ago gave up
his profession and is spending his old age in a state of dreamy
existence from which he is seldom aroused except to correct some error
concerning people and things of past times, of which he possesses a mine
of reminiscences.'"
The Doctor, denying that Poe had died from dissipation, gave an account
of the manner of his death as he knew it, corresponding in all
particulars with that given by him to the Texas editor. In conclusion,
he said:
"Poe did not die of dissipation. I say that he was deliberately
murdered. He died of laudanum or some other drug forced upon him by his
kidnappers. When one said, 'What is the use of carrying around a dying
man?' they put him in a cab and sent him to the hospital. I was there
and saw it myself."
"Poe had been shifting about between Baltimore, Philadelphia and New
York for some years. Once he had been away for several months in
Richmond, and one evening turned up at the widow's. I was there when he
came in. Then it was drinks all round, and at length we were real jolly.
It was the eve of an election, and we started up town. There were four
of us, and we had not gone half a dozen squares when we were nabbed by
policemen, who were looking up voters to "coop." It was the practice in
those days to seize people, whether drunk or sober, and keep them locked
up until the polls were opened and then march them to every precinct in
control of the party having the coop. This coop was in the rear of an
engine-house on Calvert street. It was part of the plan to stupefy the
prisoners with drugged liquor. Next day we were voted at thirty
different places, it being as much as one's life was worth to rebel. Poe
was so badly drugged that he had to be carried on two or three rounds,
and then the gang said it was no use trying any longer to vote a dead
man and must get rid of him. And with that they shoved him into a cab
and sent him away."
"Then he died from dissipation, after all?"
"Nothing of the kind. He died from the effects of laudanum or some other
poison forced on him in the coop. He was in a dying condition when being
voted twenty or thirty times. The story told by Griswold and others of
his being picked up in the street is a lie. I saw him thrust into the
cab myself."
And Mrs. Clemm?
When she received Poe's letter bidding her to expect him at Fordham that
week, she hastened thither to set her house in order for his reception.
Day after day she watched and waited, but he did not come. And at
length, when the week had passed, she one evening sat alone in the
little cottage around which and through the naked branches of the cherry
tree the October wind was sighing, and in anguish of spirit wrote to
"Annie":
"Eddie is dead--_dead_."