n o ted for his literary criticism under th e p e n n am e o f Janus W eath e
cock, w h o e n d e d his life in T asm ania w h ere h e w as sen ten ced
p en a l servitud e for forgery.
Manuscript Found in a Drawer
By Charles Norman
As usual, after dinner in Thornton’s house, we talke
about his hobby, a mild word for what amounted to an 01
session. Also, I knew him too well not to guess that 1:
had found another treasure, and I waited for him to displa
it. Thornton was a collector. First editions were all vei
well, he would say—when you couldn’t get hold of tl:
original manuscripts. He was that kind of collector. No
1 4 0
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
from the table beside him—we were having coffee in his
library—he took a blue leather slipcase and extracted several
pieces of paper.
"Read this,״ he said; "it won’t take long.״
I found myself holding five sheets of notepaper with an
unfamiliar watermark, all of them closely written over in
an old-fashioned copperplate hand as clear as print. There
was a lamp behind my chair; I leaned back and began to
read, noticing, as I did so, that Thornton was watching
me intently.
"My name is Roger Desforth, of Richmond, Virginia [the
little manuscript, for such it was, began]. It is my hope
that this account of my last day on earth will fall into the
hands of the American minister, or other countryman of
mine. As I am a bachelor, and without near kin, it is my
wish that the proceeds from my goods and other posses-
sions—including those on this side of the Atlantic, if they
prove salvageable—should go to Edgar Allan Poe, Esquire,
residing at present in my native city, as a slight token of my
esteem. I have already instructed my banker, in a separate
communication, that the money I have left on deposit with
him likewise should go to Mr. Poe. I am happy in the
thought that I may be of some use to him in the further-
ance of his career. Even at this moment I can recall how his
large, luminous eyes flashed as he talked to me about his
approaching marriage and the prospects which he had both
as a writer and editor, for he had in mind a periodical of
his own. He was planning a trip north, to put his affairs
in order, with a stopover, if I recall correctly, in Baltimore.
"I had once or twice submitted a few trifles to him—in
his capacity as editor—which he professed to admire; but
in spite of such encouragement it was soon clear to me, at
least, that my true bent did not lie in the direction of author-
ship. His interest in my effusions—which were, I know,
greatly influenced by his own wonderful style—sprang
from their bizarre settings. So it is for his perusal that I
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
14
set down my last story, conscious it is of a kind he himse'
excelled in. Little did I dream that I would ever find myse’
an actor in one of them; but such is the case. As I do nc
know how much time is vouchsafed me—for time is rur
ning out—l will perforce be brief.
“I have been all my life a restless wanderer, forever i
quest of the antiquities which were my passion as we
as my livelihood and, I dare say, I was a good enough of
server and reporter. But that was all. I ceased to write fc
publication, and our acquaintance came to an end. I wer
abroad, then returned to Richmond; and it was there that
saw him again, in the autumn of this year. He was now er
gaged, to a widow whom he had known in his youth as
learned from him, and who happened to be related to som
distant cousins of mine. How he found time from his round
of social calls, in her company, to give me the benefit c
his advice concerning my next Continental tour, I cannc
say. I learned, however, for the first time, that he had sper
some years in Europe himself, in many out-of-the-way place
as well as its famous capitals; and, indeed, I might hav
known, even before he told me this, that his foreign tale
were assuredly the work of an observer on the spot.
“Thus, it is due to him that I am here; although, e
course, I hold him entirely blameless for the dénouemen
For it was from him that I heard about this city of ui
touched treasures, to which he directed my steps. I was a
ears; and, so great was my excitement, generated by h:
inimitable descriptions, that I hurried here at once. I quickl
found an apartment, much of it bare, which I deemed forti
nate; for after a first survey I foresaw that I would need a
the room possible for acquisitions. W hat I—and he—coul
not foresee was how my sojourn here would end.
“I had spent the afternoon, as usual, in the shops (
dealers, and had come, as night was falling, to the foot (
that narrow and crooked street upon whose summit Ú
medieval cathedral, long unused and partly in ruins, ove
1 4 2
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
looked the quarter. I had seen much to covet. One purchase
I had made—a Spanish dagger whose scabbard was orna-
mented with jewels and whose blade flashed brighter than
any stone. In my mind I saw it resting, amid its own glitters,
on a cabinet which is a little carved masterpiece—smooth,
glowing, and monumentally solid—which stands beside me
as I write and in which I plan to deposit this record.
“Despite this anticipated pleasure, the proper display of
my purchase, which is the true reward of all acquisitions,
I was still reluctant to return to my lodgings; and thus it
was that without deliberation, I began the steep ascent,
pausing from time to time to regard the massive pile above
me—the nimble, obscene gargoyles leering with round evil
eyes of stone, the rectangular shadows on the slopes of roof,
the broken buttresses beneath. I arrived at the entrance.
A momentary feeling of caution —or was it presentiment P—
made me hesitate. It passed. But it was with an ever in-
creasing sense of my aloneness that I pushed back a
sepultural door, and found myself, when my eyes had be-
come accustomed to the gloom, within a vast hollow op-
pressive with emptiness.
“I looked up. The rose-red glow faded from the splinters
of stained glass; darkness, sudden and deep, was massed
outside; and, just as suddenly, I was confounded by utter
darkness within. I felt, on the instant, an imperative need
to be out of the place. Groping my way back to the door,
I grasped the latch—and found myself unable to open it!
Terror seized me. But this, too, passed. I grew calm. I had
spent many a night, in my wanderings, in stranger lodgings
than this one—if, indeed, the ruined cathedral was to prove
my lodging for the night; besides, I told myself, I had upon
me a curio of inestimable value —the Spanish dagger.
“At that moment I perceived, at the far end of the na
ve,
a light that wavered, advancing toward me. It was a torch.
My first feeling was one of immense relief and gratitude;
but my second, and that which I perm itted to guide me,
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
143
was one of caution. After all, I thought, I am alone, a for-
eigner, in a deserted building, in a deserted quarter of a
half-forgotten city crumbling into ruin. I crouched low.
“Slowly, in the wavering torchlight, a procession loomed.
In a swirl of shadows I saw the robes that denoted a secret
order. And now, in the center of that robed band, I made
out a solitary figure whose eyes, peering wildly to left and
right, held terror and anguish—the expression of one who
had betrayed— who was being punished! The procession
passed me. The patter of sandals on stone ceased.
“Surely, I thought, I must be dreaming; or is it some fan-
tastic revel that I have read about and now am recollecting?
But the pounding of my heart, my painful breathing, the
rigor which had seized my limbs, all told me it was real.
“A bell began to toll, and startled bats swooped with
crackling wings. I looked at the band. In the fight of the
torch I saw where the wall gaped. It was a vertical cavity—
an upright coffin of stone! I had one last glimpse of a terri-
fied face; and then, swiftly, efficiently, the wall was sealed!
The band formed itself once more, and started back
whence it had come, preceded by the torchbearer.
“An uncontrollable urge to flee from this place of doom
and death—to flee at once— at all costs— seized me. As the
last robed figure shuffled past, I rose, and stepped cautiously,
followed on tiptoe. Where the altar had been was an open-
ing, and in that opening a flight of stairs. All descended in
single file, and I followed. I had gone down eight or nine
steps when I heard a dull thud overhead and felt a gust of
air go by. Someone was behind me— someone whose hand
had closed the trap door! I drew the dagger from its sheath
and waited. But no one came. I then groped my way along
a damp and narrow passage, fervently praying that it would
lead to an exit under the stars. The naked dagger stayed in
my hand.
“In this manner I went along for perhaps five minutes,
when I became aware of a freshness in the atmosphere. It
1 4 4
THE M AN W H0 CALLED HIMSELF POE
was the freshness of night, of the open air! Suddenly I was
no longer in the subterranean passageway, but in a dark
street of steep stone stairs in the quarter near my lodgings.
There was no sign of the robed band. The torch had
been snuffed out like a candle. I fled home, pursued by
terror.
“It is now almost midnight, and I am alone—that is to say,
I had supposed myself alone—in my apartment. I am
writing by the light of a lamp in my favorite room, which
is filled with the treasures I have gathered. There are five
other rooms, most of them mere repositories for crated
pieces. Although it is October, and the night is chilly, I feel
oppressed to suffocation.
“A few moments after my arrival I placed the dagger in
its jeweled scabbard on my prized cabinet. Feeling the
need of a cigar, I made my way to the study in which I
keep my smoking paraphernalia, scooped up a handful of
thin Havanas, and returned to this room.
“I am not given to hallucinations. My death will sub-
stantiate the assertion I am going to make. When I returned,
the dagger was gone! The jeweled scabbard lies where I
placed it—but it is empty of its blade!
“I have just looked about me, but have seen nothing—
only the smoke from my cigar drifting past the lamp to the
curtained window.
“The curtain is stirring.
“Midnight, October 7, 1849.”
Such was the ending of the extraordinary document
which had found its way into Thornton’s collection. I
looked up and handed it over, unable to say a word. It was
Thornton who broke the silence.
“Poor Poe!” he exclaimed. “Do you realize the signifi-
cance of the date?” He was holding out the last sheet of
Desforth’s manuscript. I must have looked blank, for he
went on: “Why, October 7, 1849—that was the day Poe
died.”
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
145
Of course I knew the date; but I let Thornton rattle on.
'I n Baltimore,״ he emphasized. "After being found drunk
and insensible—and broke—in the street. He had made
only a few hundred dollars from all his writing, and died
penniless at the age of forty.״
"What if he had not gone to Baltimore?״ I could not help
asking.
"Ah!״ Thornton exclaimed, struck with the thought. "He
would have married Mrs. Shelton, and written a great deal
more, and died rich. Desforth had plenty of money to leave.
to Mrs. Shelton.״
"What about Desforth?״ I inquired eagerly. "And how
did you get hold of his manuscript?״
Thornton shrugged.
"A dealer in Richmond wrote me about it,״ he said. "You
see, Mrs. Shelton and the others died before the things from
Europe came. So, all this time—about a hundred years—
Roger Desforth’s possessions reposed in a warehouse. They
were finally auctioned off—all but that piece, in which
the manuscript was found.״
He was pointing to a magnificent cabinet which—I real-
ized with a start—I had not seen there before. As I gazed at
it in fascination not unmixed with a feeling of premonitory
horror, I heard him say: "That reminds me—there is still
another memento.״ He opened a drawer in the cabinet and
held up for my inspection a little dagger in a jeweled
scabbard.
"After all,” he remarked, "Desforth had paid for it; so it,
too, was shipped across—after the police took it from his
back.”
THE DARK BROTHERHOOD
O f all th e m odern writers o f th e strange and th e terrible, n o n e seem
m ore akin in their w ritin g and in certain a sp ects o f their lives to
E d g a r A llan P oe than d oes th e late H ow ard P hillips L ovecraft. P o e
w as L o v ecra ft’s first lo v e, and certain o f his early tales sh am elessly
e v id e n c e im itation, n one m ore o b v io u sly than “T h e O utsid er,” a title
n o w alm ost sym b olic o f th e life o f its author.
T o P oe w as p aid th e L ovecraftian com p lim en t: “P en etratin g to
ev ery festerin g horror in th e g a ily p a in ted m ock ery ca lled ex isten ce,
and in th e solem n m asq u erad e c a lle d h u m an th o u g h t and fe e lin g ,
th at vision had p o w er to project itse lf in b lack ly m a g ica l crystallisa-
tions and transm utations: till there b lo o m ed in th e sterile A m erica o f
the thirties and th e forties such a m oon -n ou rish ed garden o f gorgeous
p oi
son fu n g i as n ot e v e n th e n eth er slopes o f Saturn m igh t b o a st.”
“T h e D ark B rotherhood” is actu ally w ritten b y A u g u st W . D er-
leth from a fragm en t o f a story id ea w h ich H . P. L o v ecra ft o b ta in ed
from a dream and n o ted b efore it w h isk ed a w a y from m em ory. E dgar
A llan P o e ’s role in this story q u ite e v id e n tly d erives from D e r le th ’s
p o em “P rovid en ce: T w o G en tlem en M e e t at M id n ig h t,” in w h ich the
sh ade o f P o e is conjured from an old P rovid en ce graveyard w h ere
o n ce P o e w alk ed . T h e p o em is in clu d ed elsew h e re in this volu m e.
“T h e D ark B rotherhood” is th e title story o f a book e d ited and
p u b lish ed b y A u gu st W . D erleth u nd er th e im print o f Arkham H o u se,
co m p o sed o f L o v ecra ft m arginalia, com m en tary, and b ibliograp h y.
P rob ably no m an alive has d o n e m ore to rescu e and p reserve in hard
covers th e b e st tales in th e supernatural tradition w ritten to d a y than
has A u g u st W . D erleth . In 1969, A u gu st D er leth w ill h a v e sp en t
thirty years op eratin g Arkham H o u se as a h ob b y. E x c e p t for him ,
m an y fine stories and e v e n a fe w o u tstan d in g authors w o u ld h a v e
b e e n d o o m ed to p u lp ob livion .
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
147
The Dark Brotherhood
By H . P. Lovecraft and August W. Derleth
It is probable that the facts in regard to the mysteri-
ous destruction by fire of an abandoned house on a knoll
along the shore of the Seekonk in a little-habited dis-
trict between the Washington and Red Bridges will
never be entirely known. The police have been beset by
the usual number of cranks, purporting to offer informa-
tion about the matter, none more insistent than Arthur
Phillips, the descendant of an old East Side family, long
resident on Angell Street, a somewhat confused but ear-
nest young man who prepared an account of certain
events he alleges led to the fire. Though the police have
interviewed all persons concerned and mentioned in Mr.
Phillips’ account, no corroboration—save for a statement
from a librarian at the Athenaeum, attesting only to the
fact that Mr. Phillips did once meet Miss Rose Dexter