Baltimore, Maryland
The morning doth break grey and melancholy over our fair city, and I confess that my spirits are weighed down by a most perplexing incident which occurred during my constitutional through Westminster Burying Ground yestereve. Having heard tell of the recent interment of that celebrated, though troubled, poet Mr. Edgar Allan Poe, I resolved to pay my respects at his humble resting place.
Upon arriving at the hallowed grounds situated at West Fayette and North Greene Streets, I made my way with solemn purpose toward the rear portion of the cemetery, where I was informed the unfortunate gentleman had been laid to rest but two days prior. The afternoon was chill, with autumn’s breath stirring the fallen leaves about the weathered headstones of those who have gone before us.
As I approached what appeared to be a freshly disturbed plot of earth, marked only by a crude wooden marker bearing the number “80”, a most singular sound reached my ears—the faint but unmistakable tinkling of a small bell. Initially, I presumed this to be merely the wind stirring some memorial token left by a mourner, yet as I drew nearer, the sound became more distinct and rhythmical, as though actuated by some deliberate force.
Upon closer inspection, I discovered a modest brass bell affixed to a post driven into the earth at the head of the grave, connected by a length of stout twine that disappeared beneath the soil. The bell continued its intermittent chiming, causing me no small degree of consternation. Having some knowledge of the modern innovations employed by undertakers to prevent the horror of premature burial—those dreadful “safety coffins” equipped with bells and speaking tubes—I initially wondered if such precautions had been taken for Mr. Poe’s interment.
Yet upon further reflection, I recalled the hastily arranged and economical nature of the poet’s funeral service, conducted with such unseemly brevity that it lasted scarce three minutes. It seemed most unlikely that such elaborate safeguards would have been employed for one buried in so humble a fashion, in naught but a cheap unlined mahogany coffin.
The rational mind, being ever inclined toward practical explanation, led me to conclude that some small creature—perhaps a rat or other vermin—had taken up residence within the coffin and was inadvertently tugging upon the string in its movements about the confined space. Such occurrences, whilst distasteful to contemplate, are not uncommon in burial grounds where the earth has been imperfectly sealed.
Deeming it unseemly that the poet’s final rest should be disturbed by such persistent noise, and believing it my Christian duty to remedy this disagreeable situation, I withdrew my pocket knife and severed the cord with a single, decisive cut. The bell fell silent immediately, and an air of proper solemnity descended once more upon the cemetery.
I confess, however, that as I departed the grounds, a most curious sensation overcame me—as though unseen eyes were following my retreat. The autumn wind seemed to carry with it an almost human sigh, though I am certain this was merely the product of an imagination stimulated by the melancholy atmosphere of the place and the knowledge of the tragedies which have lately befallen our community.
Mr. Poe, that master of the macabre, now rests in blessed silence, free from the earthly torments that so plagued his literary endeavors. I pray that his troubled spirit has found the peace in death that eluded him in life, and that my small act of tidiness has contributed to the dignity of his eternal repose.
The incident, though minor, has left me with a profound sense of the fragility of mortal existence and the solemn responsibility we bear toward those who have departed this vale of tears. I shall remember this day as a reminder of the thin veil that separates the living from the dead, and the respect due to both.
Josiah Whitmore, Esq.