POE’S BIRTHDAY TOASTER

This date marks not only the birthday of American macabre writer and poet Edgar Allan Poe but it also marks the tradition of what was known for many years as the “Poe Toaster.” It was an unofficial nickname given to a mysterious person (or more probably two persons in succession, possibly father and son) who, for over seventy years, paid an annual tribute to Poe by vising his grave in the early morning hours of Poe’s January 19 birthday. The shadowy figure, dressed in black with a wide-brimmed hat and white scarf, would pour himself a glass of cognac and raise a toast to Poe's memory, then vanish into the night, leaving three roses in a distinctive arrangement and the unfinished bottle of cognac. Poe fans gathered every year in hopes of getting a glimpse of the Toaster, who never sought publicity and was rarely seen or photographed.

According to accounts, and notes that accompanied later tributes, the original Toaster began making the original visitations in the 1930s and they continued until his death in 1998. After that, the tradition was passed on – but to who? Some said that it was the original toasters son, others called him a clever imitator. Controversial statements were left in some notes by the post-1998 Toaster and in 2006, attempts were made to detain and identify him. But then in 2009, the visits stopped on the 200th anniversary of Poe’s birth and has not returned since.

Who was this mysterious character? Why did he begin his strange, annual ritual? And will he ever return? Answers to those questions may be as puzzling as some of the mystery stories that were penned by the man who gravesite was honored for seven decades…

Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe, who lived a troubled life and never achieved the fame that he would in death, died under mysterious circumstances on October 7, 1849. The Poe Toaster tradition began in the 1930s. Each year, in the early morning hours of January 19, a black-clad figure, face obscured by a scarf or hood, carrying a silver-tipped cane, entered the Westminster Burying Ground in Baltimore. Poe had been buried in what was the Western Burial Ground at the time of his death, but his body was later moved from the back of the cemetery to a more prominent location near the cemetery gates. The Toaster, however, always visited the stone that marked the original site of Poe’s burial. When he reached the stone, he would raise a cognac toast and place three red roses on the monument in a distinctive configuration, along with the unfinished bottle of cognac. The roses were believed to represent Poe, his wife Virginia, and his mother-in-law, Maria Clemm, all three of whom were originally interred at the site.

On several occasions, the Toaster left a note along with the roses and cognac. Some notes were simple expressions of devotion, such as "Edgar, I haven't forgotten you." In 1993, a cryptic message stated, "The torch will be passed." In 1999, a note announced that the original Toaster had died the previous year and had passed the tradition to "a son." Subsequent eyewitnesses noted that the post-1998 Toaster appeared to be a younger individual.

The identity of the man was an intriguing mystery for years. Many people, including Jeff Jerome, the curator of the nearby Edgar Allan Poe house, did his best to protect the identity of the Toaster. He was quoted as saying that if he had his way, the man’s identity would never be known.  

For some time, rumors persisted that Jerome was the mysterious man in black, so in 1983, he invited 70 people to gather at the graveyard at midnight on January 19. They had a celebration in honor of the author's birthday with a glass of amontillado, a Spanish sherry featured in one of Poe’s horror tales, and readings from the author’s works. At about an hour past midnight, the celebrants were startled to see a man run through the cemetery in a black frock coat. He was fair-haired and carrying a walking stick and quickly disappeared around the cemetery’s east wall. The roses and cognac were found on Poe's grave as usual.

The infrared photograph of the Poe Toaster taken in 1980

Not in an effort to solve the mystery, but merely to enhance it, Jerome allowed a photographer to try and capture the elusive man on film. The photographer was backed by LIFE Magazine and was equipped with rented infrared night-vision photo equipment. A radio signal triggered the camera so that the photographer could remain out of sight. The picture appeared in the July 1990 issue of LIFE and showed the back of a heavyset man kneeling at Poe's grave. His face cannot really be seen and as it was shadowed by his black hat. The Toaster was never photographed again.

The tradition continued after the 1999, but was never the same again. Subsequent notes predicted a win for the Baltimore Ravens in the Super Bowl and, in 2004, was critical of France’s opposition to the war in Iraq. Jeff Jerome suggested that the later notes reflected an unwillingness of the son (or sons) to take the tradition as seriously as had the father. A final note—left sometime between 2005 and 2008—was so dismaying, Jerome said, that he decided to fib and announce that no note had been left. He declined to reveal its contents, other than that it was a hint, in hindsight, that an end to the tradition was imminent.

Meanwhile, a group of onlookers unsuccessfully attempted to intercept the Poe Toaster in 2006, breaking a long-standing tradition in Baltimore to never interfere with the Toaster's entry, tribute ritual, or departure. It was the only time that it ever happened. Then, in 2007, a man came forward who claimed to be the Toaster. The man, 92-year-old named Sam Porpora, claimed that he had started the Poe Toaster tradition. A former historian for Baltimore's Westminster Church, Porpora claimed that he invented the Toaster in the 1960s as a "publicity stunt", to reinvigorate the church and its congregation, and had falsely told a reporter at the time that it had begun in 1949. However, Porpora’s claims turned out to be more fanciful than many of Poe’s stories. Reports of the annual visits dated from well before the 1960s. For example, a 1950 article in the Baltimore Evening Sun mentions "an anonymous citizen who creeps in annually to place an empty bottle (of excellent label) against the gravestone." After the many errors were pointed out in his stories (which changed with each telling), Popora never retracted his claim, but acknowledged that he was not the man who made the annual visits.

In 2009, the Poe Toaster returned to mark the bicentennial of Poe’s birth, but he didn’t leave a note behind. In 2010, he did not return and has not been seen since. Although some believe that another Poe admirer should take up the cause, perhaps it’s best to let it come to an end. The Poe Toaster, it’s said, will return to the master’s grave, “nevermore.”

Nevermore: "The Raven" Appears in Print

“NEVERMORE”

The Story of “The Raven” -- Poe’s Most Famous Work

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —

Only this and nothing more."

In this date, January 29, 1845, Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “The Raven” appeared for the first time in print in the New York Evening Mirror. For many people, this is the most recognizable of Poe’s works and for others (like myself) it’s the only poem that they know very well. The publication of “The Raven” made Poe widely popular during his lifetime, although it never brought him the financial success that he wanted and needed. Soon reprinted, parodied, and illustrated, critical opinion is divided as to the poem's status, but it nevertheless remains one of the most famous poems ever written – largely due to the fact that Poe died mysteriously and tragically just a few years later.

Like far too many other literary lights in American history, Poe realized his greatest fame only after his death.

 Edgar Allan Poe – perhaps America’s Most Haunted Writer

“The Raven” lyrically tells a simple tale. It follows an unnamed narrator on a night in December who sits reading "forgotten lore" as a way to forget the loss of his love, Lenore. (One of the names of lost women that Poe wrote about, echoing his own tragic loss of love during his life) A "rapping at [his] chamber door" reveals nothing, but excites his soul to "burning".  A similar rapping, slightly louder, is heard at his window. When he goes to investigate, a raven steps into his chamber. Paying no attention to the man, the raven perches on a bust of Pallas above the door.

Amused by the raven's comically serious disposition, the man asks that the bird tell him its name. The raven's only answer is "Nevermore". The narrator is surprised that the raven can talk, though at this point it has said nothing further. The narrator remarks to himself that his "friend" the raven will soon fly out of his life, just as "other friends have flown before" along with his previous hopes. As if answering, the raven responds again with "Nevermore". The narrator reasons that the bird learned the word "Nevermore" from some "unhappy master" and that it is the only word it knows.

Even so, the narrator pulls his chair directly in front of the raven, determined to learn more about it. He thinks for a moment in silence, and his mind wanders back to his lost Lenore. He thinks the air grows denser and feels the presence of angels, and wonders if God is sending him a sign that he is to forget Lenore. The bird again replies in the negative, suggesting that he can never be free of his memories. The narrator becomes angry, calling the raven a "thing of evil.” Finally, he asks the raven whether he will be reunited with Lenore in Heaven. When the raven responds with its typical "Nevermore", he is enraged, and, calling it a liar, commands the bird to return to the "Plutonian shore", - but it does not move. Presumably at the time of the poem's recitation by the narrator, the raven "still is sitting" on the bust of Pallas. The narrator's final admission is that his soul is trapped beneath the raven's shadow and shall be lifted "Nevermore".

An illustration of “The Raven” by Gustave Dore, perhaps one of the greatest literary illustrators of the nineteenth century. 

The poem did not have an auspicious start. Poe first brought it to his friend and employer George Rex Graham of Graham's Magazine in Philadelphia. Graham declined the poem, which may not have been in its final version, though he gave Poe $15 as charity.  Poe then sold the poem to The American Review, which paid him $9 for it, and printed "The Raven" in its February 1845 issue under the pseudonym "Quarles", a reference to the English poet Francis Quarles. The poem's first publication with Poe's name was in the Evening Mirror on January 29, 1845, as an "advance copy".  Nathaniel Parker Willis, editor of the Mirror, introduced it as a poem that will “…stick to the memory of everybody who reads it." Following this publication the poem appeared in periodicals across the United States, including the New York Tribune, Broadway Journal, Southern Literary Messenger, Literary Emporium, Saturday Courier and the Richmond Examiner. The immediate success of "The Raven" prompted Wiley and Putnam to publish a collection of Poe's prose called Tales in June 1845; it was his first book in five years. They also published a collection of his poetry called The Raven and Other Poems. The small volume, his first book of poetry in 14 years, was 100 pages and sold for 31 cents. In addition to the title poem, it included some of his now famous works like "The City in the Sea", "The Conqueror Worm", "The Haunted Palace" and eleven others. In the preface, Poe referred to them as "trifles" which had been altered without his permission as they made "the rounds of the press". Even when his work was drawing notice, Poe couldn’t help but sabotage his possible success. As it turned out, though, he needn’t have bothered. Despite the word of mouth that surrounded “The Raven,” Poe was still broke.

Thanks to its wide release, “The Raven” made Poe a household name. Readers began to identify poem with poet, earning Poe the nickname "The Raven".  The poem was soon widely reprinted, imitated, and parodied – all for free. Poe made almost no money from its success. As he later complained, “I have made no money. I am as poor now as ever I was in my life – except in hope, which is by no means bankable".

For the most part, “The Raven” was widely praised. The Pennsylvania Inquirer reprinted it with the heading "A Beautiful Poem".  Elizabeth Barrett wrote to Poe, "Your 'Raven' has produced a sensation, a fit o' horror, here in England. Some of my friends are taken by the fear of it and some by the music. I hear of persons haunted by 'Nevermore'."

Poe's popularity resulted in invitations to recite "The Raven" and to lecture – in public and at private social gatherings. At one literary salon, a guest noted, "to hear [Poe] repeat the Raven ... is an event in one's life." It was recalled by someone who experienced it, "He would turn down the lamps till the room was almost dark, then standing in the center of the apartment he would recite ... in the most melodious of voices ... So marvelous was his power as a reader that the auditors would be afraid to draw breath lest the enchanted spell be broken."

Of course, then as now, anything popular was sure to draw imitators and parodies. Some of the joke versions of the poem included "The Craven" by "Poh!", "The Gazelle", "The Whippoorwill", and "The Turkey". One parody, "The Pole-Cat", caught the attention of Andrew Johnston, a lawyer who sent it on to Abraham Lincoln. Though Lincoln admitted he had "several hearty laughs", he had not, at that point read "The Raven". However, Lincoln eventually read and memorized the poem. It should also be noted that no matter how popular the jokes were, those parody versions have faded into obscurity.

“The Raven” was praised by fellow writers William Gilmore Simms and Margaret Fuller, though it was denounced by William Butler Yeats, who called it "insincere and vulgar ... its execution a rhythmical trick". Transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "I see nothing in it." A critic for the Southern Quarterly Review wrote in July 1848 that the poem was ruined by "a wild and unbridled extravagance" and that minor things like a rapping at the door and a fluttering curtain would only affect "a child who had been frightened to the verge of idiocy by terrible ghost stories.”

Poe’s notoriety – and yet lack of financial success – haunted him for the remainder of his life – a life that ended in mystery. On October 3, 1849, Poe was found on the streets of Baltimore delirious, "in great distress, and... in need of immediate assistance", according to the man who found him, Joseph W. Walker.  He was taken to the Washington Medical College, where he died on Sunday, October 7, 1849, at 5:00 in the morning. Poe was never coherent long enough to explain how he came to be in his dire condition, and, oddly, was wearing clothes that were not his own. Poe is said to have repeatedly called out the name "Reynolds" on the night before his death, though it is unclear to whom he was referring. To this day, the actual cause of his death remains unknown.  

Today, 168 years after the publication of the poem, “The Raven” remains a touchstone of American literature and a work that even those without interest in poetry can recite – at least a portion of it anyway. There is no question that it has endured over the years and if asked if the poem will be forgotten…? The raven would undoubtedly reply, “Nevermore.”

The Colt Family Curse

THE COLT FAMILY CURSE

The Winchesters were not the only Gun-makers Haunted by History

On this day, January 4, 1847, American gun-maker Samuel Colt sold his first revolver pistol to the U.S. government. It would be the start of a rocky rise to fortune that would marred by tragedy and death – such tragedy that rumors abound that the family was cursed. Colt’s story is one of American ruthlessness and the creation of an efficient assembly-line production that would make his guns affordable for every American. He never saw the creation of his mass-market guns as leading to a more efficient way for people to kill one another. He also had no qualms at selling his guns to both sides in armed conflicts around the world. Some say that this lack of scruples was what led to a curse that haunted his family almost from the beginning.

Samuel Colt sold his first revolver to the U.S. government on January 4, 1847

In the midst of his rise to power, trouble plagued the family. As Colt’s fortunes rose, he and his wife took on a lavish lifestyle at Armsmear Manor in Hartford, Connecticut. But it came with a price – Colt died prematurely at the age of only 48 from gout, a disease that in those days disproportionately affected rich gluttons, his children died young and death claimed a number of members of the family. In time, many began to doubt that Colt had actually invented the revolving pistol, as he claimed.

Samuel Colt – did the scores of deaths attributed to his guns lead to a family “curse?”

But the most infamous and arguably cursed member of the Colt clan was Samuel’s brother, John C. Colt, a failed businessman and frustrated writer, who was convicted of the brutal murder and mutilation of a business associate named Samuel Adams. The gruesome crime was so heinous that it inspired Edgar Allan Poe to write "The Oblong Box." Colt was tried and sentenced to death but managed to escape the hangman by committing suicide – or did he?

On Sept. 26, 1841, a long box in the cargo hold of a ship called the Kalamazoo was cracked open, letting loose a horrid stench. What was found was a man’s corpse — dismembered, hog-tied and naked but for a blood-soaked shirt. The body was what remained of a printer named Samuel Adams. His murderer, it turned out, was John C. Colt, brother of firearms inventor Samuel Colt. His capture and trial made this murder the crime of the century, inspiring short stories by two legendary authors — “The Oblong Box,” by Edgar Allan Poe, and “Bartleby, The Scrivener,” by Herman Melville.

The authorities discovery the gruesome murder when they opened the crate at the New York docks. The crate was eventually traced back to the building where the murder occurred – and where Colt and Samuel Adams had their offices. 

The dispute between Colt and Adams arose from a disagreement over an accounting book Colt had written. Adams was his printer, and believed that Colt lied about how much he had sold the books for, thereby cheating Adams out of profit. It was eventually determined that the dispute was over a difference of $15.35. Adams went to confront Colt at his office on the corner of Chambers Street and Broadway. According to Colt, after a heated argument, Adams punched him in the face, bloodying his nose, and then slammed him against a wall, choking him with his own cravat. Colt said that he then seized a nearby hammer and struck Adams in the head, almost instantly killing him.

Colt scrambled to clean up the evidence of the crime, soaking up the blood with a towel and then looking for a place to hide the body. A box he found was too small, so he hog-tied Adams’ corpse, propped it on a chair in an upright position, lifted it over his shoulder, and, using all his weight, pushed at it until he had “forced the stiffening corpse to form the shape of the container.” He then had the box shipped to a fictional address.

When word got out that Adams had gone missing and that he was last seen entering their building, Colt’s landlord, who had heard much of this activity, alerted the authorities. After a search of Colt’s office uncovered a hatchet and odd splatters on the wall, they hunted down the box on the ship and made their grisly discovery.

Colt was quickly arrested and while he admitted the killing, he claimed self-defense, but the grisly and elaborate nature of the murder caused great doubt among the investigators. During his trial, the prosecution brought Adams’ severed head into the courtroom, where a doctor held it up for the jury to see, then, keeping it in his lap, illustrated how Colt’s hatchet fit a hole in the skull perfectly. It was a macabre but effective method and the jury found Colt guilty of “willful murder.” He was sentenced to hang.

Samuel Colt had done what he could for his brother’s defense, but it was to no avail. Even so, he refused to let him die without a struggle. The case was appealed to every court with jurisdiction in New York. The verdict was upheld. Samuel Colt spread a lot of money around the politically powerful of the city, but the murder was just too well known. No one would chance the outrage that would occur if Colt’s sentence was commuted.

In the days leading up to his scheduled hanging, there were reportedly several attempts to bust him out, including one by a friend who dressed in female clothing so that they could switch, and Colt could then walk out disguised as a woman.

With his last appeal exhausted, Colt was scheduled to die at 4:00 p.m. on November 18, 1842. He requested permission to marry his long-time lover Caroline Henshaw on the last day of his life. The warden gave permission and the bride was accompanied to Colt’s cell by Samuel Colt and Reverend Henry Anthon, who performed the ceremony. Witnesses included Sheriff Monmouth Hart and Justice Merritt, who had presided over Colt’s trial. After exchanging vows, the couple was allowed an hour of privacy. Curiously, when Caroline left the prison, they say, she was smiling. Colt requested solitude for his final hours.

The wedding ceremony of Samuel Colt and Caroline Henshaw took place in the condemned man’s cell at the New York Tombs. 

On execution day, as Colt made his way toward the gallows, the prison rang suddenly with shouts of “Fire!” Bells went off, prisoners screamed and when the hysteria subsided, Colt was found dead in his cell with a knife through his heart. It seemed that Colt had beaten the hangman by committing suicide.

Sheriff Hart, New York’s top law enforcement officer at the time, was on hand for the hanging. But upon receiving word of Colt’s death, he behaved in a curious way. He first sent for the prison doctor to pronounce Cold dead, then hastily convened a coroner’s jury to rule the cause of death as suicide. Less than three hours after the body had been found, it was carried out of the prison, taken the graveyard behind St. Marks Church and buried.

A few days later, Mrs. Caroline Henshaw Colt vanished from New York, never to be seen again. Yet her family never asked the authorities to search for her.

Was the body in the prison cell actually that of John Colt? In his 1874 memoirs, Warden Charles Sutton insisted that it was, and Reverend Anthon also stated that the body was Colt’s. But days later, it was revealed that several prisoners escaped during the fire. Was Colt among them? Rumors spread that Samuel Colt had smuggled in a corpse to place in his brother’s cell in order to help his brother escape.

Sightings and incidents in the years that followed gave credence to the stories that Colt had somehow survived his brush with execution. Even Edgar Allan Poe was part of the mystery. A few years after Colt’s death, the writer – a friend of Colt’s – allegedly received a manuscript from Texas. It was unsigned but Poe recognized the handwriting as John Colt’s. When he took the manuscript to Knickerbocker Magazine editor Lewis Clark, he was shown an identical manuscript. Clark said that he also believed the handwriting was John Colt’s.

In 1852, Colt’s friend Samuel Everett reported meeting John Colt in California’s Santa Clara Valley. Everett claimed that his old friend lived there with his wife, Caroline Henshaw.

And while such stories may be of the dubious nature of those who claimed to meet John Wilkes Booth in the years after the Lincoln assassination – and the killer’s death – they served to keep the mystery of John Colt alive and to maintain the intrigue of the Colt family curse.