Yesterday was the 194th anniversary of the birth of Edgar Allan Poe.

As is fairly well known, Poe died in Baltimore and is buried here, in the churchyard of Westminster Presbyterian Church, which was at the time located on the western edge of the city and is now in the middle of downtown Baltimore, around the corner from the University of Maryland hospital and medical school complex. (The church was abandoned for lack of members over 30 years ago and was bought by the University as a meeting place); they maintain the churchyard, which is open every day and surrounded by a wrought iron fence. Poe's monument is a largish oblong affair a few feet from the entrance to the cemetery, but his actual grave is farther in the back, not visible from the street, and marked by a small headstone with a carving of a raven at the top.

For the 54th consecutive year, a tribute was left on the grave in the middle of the night by an unknown admirer. The tribute is three red roses and a half-full pint bottle of cognac. Nothing at all was known of the donor up to several years ago. Once or twice passersby saw a tall man in a long dark coat (or cloak) near the churchyard in the middle of the night. Several years ago, on the day after the birthday, the local newspaper received an unsigned letter with no return address announcing that the donor had died but had asked his sons to take on the annual observance, which they are doing.

No newspaper or other snoopy type has ever identified the donor, although it would not be difficult to set an ambush on the night before Poe's birthday and catch him or at least get a picture. Nobody local wants to do that, since this little mystery is greatly appreciated. If any furriner from out of town were to try it, he would probably be soundly thrashed and advised to get out of town immediately with his smashed camera. Touches of romance are still welcome in this city; iconoclasts are not.