m e b y T o m E n dicott, mine old adjutant, w h o had it
of a fello w in his com pany, w h en he w as a C ap tain e,
w h o sw ore that he had w on it at dice from a drunken
villain of T a r ry town, near the city of N e w York, w h o
v o w e d that he had taken it from that M ajor A n d ré
w ho w as h anged because he w as a spy. T h e originali
ow ner w as one of those three drinking, card -p layin g
louts, w h o w h ile idling in the w oods near the p lace
called T a r ry town, did set upon and capture that British
M ajor, taking from him all that he h ad of valu e upon
his person. T h e later story as it comes to m e is to this
effect: that the unfortunate M ajo r A n d ré cried out
bitterly upon bein g bereft of his phiall, and pleaded
w ith his captors that it be returned, they assum ing
it to b e a love token, since the yo u n g M ajor w as v e ry
handsom e and beloved of the ladies. It is further as-
serted, although w ith less authority, that upon the scaf-
fold the poor yo u n g m an did again c ry out for his phiall,
to the great am azem ent of his executioners, w h o had
no w o rd of an y such bottle, it h avin g been w ith held from
them b y this afore-m entioned villain w h o took it from
him. I kn ow not w h a t the virtue of the phiall m a y be,
save that it is of gold and set w ith diam onds in a p retty
design, but that its effect upon those w h o see it is p o w er-
ful and potent, is p ro ved b y the circum stance that tw ice
after I h ad m yself shown it in a pu blic gathering, m y
dw elling w as thereafter entered b y thieves, w h o took
nothing bu t turned things m ightily about in their search.
M a n y times also h ave I been offered m oney for the
phiall, w h ich I have at all times declined. H a v in g no
faith in m agic, but an abiding trust in H im w h o breathed
into m e the breath of life, I h ave foreborne to search out
the truth of the phiall, w h ich is of such an attraction,
how ever, that I h ave likewise foreborne to destroy it. It •
is, in all likelihood, m erely a p retty to y intended to con-
tain a lady's toilet w ater, and about w h ich an undue ex-
citem ent is created.
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
83
To this document was signed the name of the author,
David Poe, and when he had reached it, the grandson of
David Poe turned quickly upon his heel and paced the floor
in uncontrollable agitation. After a time, with burning eyes,
he read the communication for a second time; then, putting
paper and vial into his pocket, hurried forth into the streets.
His head was splitting and his throat was parched and
contracted. He knew, however, what he needed. He needed
liquor—liquor—liquor in large and satisfying draughts.
On a street corner stood a large and flashy gentleman,
with a cold eye and a bland and oily tongue. He saw the
hurrying figure that approached him, and with determined
friendship barred the way. His great hand was extended
after the cordial fashion of his kind.
“Good morning, neighbor,״ he boomed. “John Rafferty,
ward committeeman and captain of this precinct. A great
day after the rain! Have you voted yet, this morning?״
“Not yet,״ laughed the poet wildly, pushing past; “nor
have I drunk yet, this morning, Mr. Rafferty. Don’t stop me,
I implore you, for I am going to get a drink.״
Mr. Rafferty’s shrewd eyelids flickered; his shrewd and
understanding hand fell heartily upon the poet’s shoulder.
“Ha-ha!״ he roared. “Ha״ha־ha! That’s a good one. Drink
first and vote afterward, hey? You’ve certainly got the
right system, brother.”
“Ha-ha!” cried the poet. “It is very amusing, isn’t it? You
see why I am in a hurry. I’m sorry I can’t ask you to join
yy
me.
“No offense, neighbor,” said Mr. Rafferty jovially. “I was
about to have a drink myself. Why not join me?” He seized
the poet’s arm and urged him forward in the direction he
had been following. “You are a man after my own heart,
Mr. Jo—I don’t believe I caught the name, neighbor.”
“I didn’t mention it,” replied the poet, “but it is Poe, not
Joe. I am Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Poe!” cried Mr. Rafferty. “Know the name very well. Very
54
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
well, indeed. Well, Mr. Poe, you’re quite right. A man may
not have time to vote, but he’s always got time to drink.
You look to me like a perfectly good Whig, too. How about
it?״
“Oh, a Whig, of course,״ asserted Poe. “A Whig, a Baptist,
and a somnambulist.״ He laughed sardonically, and reluc-
tantly fell into step beside the implacable stranger. . . .
After all, a drink was what he wanted. “Very good of
you, I’m sure,” he added more courteously. “By all means,
let us have a drink. As for the voting, I’m afraid I can’t join
you in that. The fact is, I don’t vote in this town. It’s rather
a drawback, I understand.”
Mr. Rafferty chuckled. “You’d be surprised!” he said.
They made two turns and entered the doorway of a grisly
barroom. Mr. Rafferty was greeted with acclaim. The place
began to fill. . . .
“Well, one more, then,” said the poet, after a few moments
at the bar. “Did you ever hear, Mr. Rafferty, of the four
boxes that govern the world? They are the cartridge box,
the ballot box, the jury box, and the bandbox.”
“Ha־ha־ha,” roared Mr. Rafferty, with appreciation. “That’s
a good one, Mr. Poe. Well, here’s to crime!”
They raised their glasses to each other. . . .
“I must really go, now,” said the poet, an hour later; and
four days afterward, in the hospital whither he had been
taken, he awoke for a moment and said again: “I must go
now, gentlemen; I must really go!”
His physicians were greatly surprised by the remark and
puzzled about it for some time.
Shortly before he died, he raised his head a few inches
from the pillow and asked for his coat, which was brought
to him. The vial had slipped through a torn pocket into the
lining, and when he felt the little mound it made, he smiled
peacefully and for a time was silent.
“You need not fear to tell me the truth,” he whispered,
after a while. “How long have I to live?”
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
85
Two physicians, young but whiskered like pirates, con-
suited together, with little glances at the bed. At length one
of them spoke.
“We are not prepared, Mr. Poe, to say that you are—ah—
not going to—ah—recover,״ he said. “If you have friends,
however, whom you would like to see, we should be happy
to—ah—send for them.״
“FriendsI״ murmured the poet, with a little smile. But he
gave them a name, the first that came into his
head, although
he had not seen the man for years.
A little later, when their attention was otherwise occupied,
he managed to extract the vial from its hiding place and
draw it beneath the covers. With infinite toil and patience,
as his strength decreased, he picked at the withholding wax
about the stopper. . . . A faintness began to overwhelm
him.
In desperation, he brought the vial into view and con-
veyed it to his mouth, gnawing at the stopper with his teeth;
but a nurse rushed forward and snatched it from his grasp.
W ith a terrible cry, he fell back upon his pillow. The physi-
cians came forward quickly.
“W hat is it, doctor?״ asked one of the other, his eyes upon
the vial.
“Hanged if I know,״ answered the physician who had
received it.
They turned their accusing eyes upon the poet, just too
late to receive his explanation.
W HEN IT WAS MOONLIGHT
This short story is unquestionably one of the most ingenious tales
written by any author involving the presence of Edgar Allan Poe.
Intimate knowledge of the life and works of Poe are displayed in
"W hen It W as Moonlight,” which is at once a mystery story and a
tale of supernatural horror. It involves Poe's analytical abilities and
pretends to show the basis of at least three of his most famous tales:
"The Premature Burial,” "The Black Cat,” and "Th e Cask of Amon-
tillado.” The Philadelphia period of Poe's life is dealt with in this story,
and his aunt, Mrs. Maria Poe Clemm, appears as one of the characters.
The author, Manly W ade Wellman, has been a popular figure in
many of the literary areas into which Poe himself had ventured. He
is noted as a writer of science fiction, supernatural horror, mystery,
and historical fiction. Bora in Portuguese West Africa, M anly W ade
Wellman came to the United States when seven. This early back-
ground served as the basis for some of the unusual stories he wrote for
W eird Tales. His first sale of fiction was an interplanetary novelette,
W hen Planets Clashed, appearing in Hugo Gernsback's W onder Stones
Quarterly, Spring 1 9 3 1 . He became a popular and well-known figure
in the science fiction magazines, selling regularly until the end of
World W ar II.
Along with many other science fiction writers, he branched into
writing comic book continuities, then veered into mystery and de-
tective stories, in which fields he won a two-thousand-dollar first
prize for the most original detective story of 19 4 5 from Ellery Q ueens
Mystery Magazine. Ten years later, he would receive the Mystery
Writers of America's Edgar Award for Dead and Gone as the best
fact crime book of 19 5 5 .
He has also turned to historical novels and teen-age books, and the
total number of his works between hard covers must now be ap-
proaching fifty, of which W ho Fears the D evil (Arkham House,
1 9 6 3 ), a collection of folk tales of the mountain people, is especially
noteworthy.
"W hen It W as Moonlight” initially appeared in Unknown, an off-
trail fantasy magazine, in the issue of February 1940. This is the first
time it has ever been reprinted.
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
87
When It Was Moonlight
By Manly Wade Wellman
Let my heart he still a moment, and this mystery ex-
plore.
—The Raven.
His hand, as slim as a white claw, dipped a quillful of ink
and wrote in one corner of the page the date—March 3, 1842.
Then:
THE PREMATURE BURIAL
By Edgar A. Toe
He hated his middle name, the name of his miserly and
spiteful stepfather. For a moment he considered crossing out
even the initial; then he told himself that he was only wool-
gathering, putting off the drudgery of writing. And write he
must, or starve—the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper was
clamoring for the story he had promised. Well, today he had
heard a tag of gossip—his mother-in-law had it from a
neighbor—that revived in his mind a subject always fas-
cinating.
He began rapidly to write, in a fine copperplate hand:
There are certain themes of which the interest is all-
absorbing, but which are entirely too horrible for the
purposes of legitimate fiction—
This would really be an essay, not a tale, and he could do it
justice. Often he thought of the whole world as a vast fat
cemetery, close-set with tombs in which not all the occu-
pants were at rest—too many struggled unavailingly against
their smothering shrouds, their locked and weighted coffin
88
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
lids. W hat were his own literary labors, he mused, but a
struggle against being shut down and throttled by a society
as heavy and grim and senseless as clods heaped by a sexton’s
spade?
He paused, and went to the slate mantelshelf for a candle.
His kerosene lamp had long ago been pawned, and it was
dark for midaftemoon, even in March. Elsewhere in the
house his mother-in-law swept busily, and in the room next
to his sounded the quiet breathing of his invalid wife. Poor
Virginia slept, and for the moment knew no pain. Re-
turning with his light, he dipped more ink and contin-
ued down the sheet:
most terrific of these extremes w h ich has ever fallen to
the lot of m ere m ortality. T h a t it has frequently, v e ry
frequently, fallen w ill scarcely be denied—
Again his dark imagination savored the tale he had heard
that day. It had happened here in Philadelphia, in this very
quarter, less than a month ago. A widower had gone, after
weeks of mourning, to his wife’s tomb, with flowers. Stooping
to place them on the marble slab, he had heard noise be-
neath. At once joyful and aghast, he fetched men and crow-
bars, and recovered the body, all untouched by decay. At
home that night, the woman returned to consciousness.
So said the gossip, perhaps exaggerated, perhaps not. And
the house was only six blocks away from Spring Garden
Street, where he sat.
Poe fetched out his notebooks and began to marshal bits
of narrative for his composition—a gloomy tale of resurrec-
tion in Baltimore, another from France, a genuinely creepy
citation from the Chirurgical Journal of Leipzig; a sworn
case of revival, by electrical impulses, of a dead man in
London. Then he added an experience of his own, roman-
tically embellished, a dream adventure of his boyhood in
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
89
Virginia. Just as he thought to make an end, he had a new
inspiration.
Why not learn more about that reputed Philadelphia
burial and the one who rose from seeming death? It would
point up his piece, give it a timely local climax, ensure ac-
ceptance—he could hardly risk a rejection. Too,
it would
satisfy his own curiosity. Laying down the pen, Poe got up.
From a peg he took his wide black hat, his old military cloak
that he had worn since his ill-fated cadet days at West
Point. Huddling it round his slim little body, he opened the
front door and went out.
March had come in like a lion and, lionlike, roared and
rampaged over Philadelphia. Dry, cold dust blew up into
Poe’s full gray eyes, and he hardened his mouth under the
gay dark moustache. His shins felt goosefleshy; his striped
trousers were unseasonably thin and his shoes badly needed
mending. Which way lay his journey?
He remembered the name of the street, and something
about a ruined garden. Eventually he came to the place, or
w hat must be the place—the garden was certainly ruined,
full of dry, hardy weeds that still stood in great ragged
clumps after the hard winter. Poe forced open the creaky
gate, went up the rough-flagged path to the stoop. He saw a
bronzed nameplate—'“Gauber,” it said. Yes, that was the
name he had heard. He swung the knocker loudly, and
thought he caught a whisper of movement inside. But the
door did not open.
“Nobody lives there, Mr. Poe,״ said someone from the
street. It was a grocery boy, with a heavy basket on his
arm. Poe left the doorstep. He knew the lad; indeed, he
owed the grocer eleven dollars.
“Are you sure?״ Poe prompted.
“Well״—and the boy shifted the weight of his burden—“if
anybody lived here, they’d buy from our shop, wouldn’t
they? And I’d deliver, wouldn’t I? But I’ve had this job for
six months, and never set foot inside that door.”
9 0
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
Poe thanked him and walked down the street, but did
not take the turn that would lead home. Instead he sought
the shop of one Pemberton, a printer and a friend, to pass
the time of day and ask for a loan.
Pemberton could not lend even one dollar—times were
hard—but he offered a drink of Monongahela whisky, which
Poe forced himself to refuse; then a supper of crackers,
cheese, and garlic sausage, which Poe thankfully shared. At
home, unless his mother-in-law had begged or borrowed
from the neighbors, would be only bread and molasses. It
was past sundown when the writer shook hands with Pern-