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 not