After Poe’s death, Mr. Graham published an article in which he said that, while he was in Philadelphia, Poe seemed to think only of the happiness and welfare of his family.  There were but two things for which he cared to have money—­to give them comforts and to start a magazine of his own.  He never spent any money on himself.  Everything was intrusted to Mrs. Clemm, who managed all his household affairs.  His love for his wife was a sort of rapturous worship of the spirit of beauty, which he felt was fading before his eyes.  “I have seen him,” says Mr. Graham, “hovering around her when she was ill, with all the fond fear and tender anxiety of a mother for her first-born—­her slightest cough causing him a shudder, a heart chill, that was visible.  I rode out one summer evening with them, and the remembrance of his watchful eyes, eagerly bent upon the slightest change of hue in that loved face, haunts me yet as the memory of a sad strain.  It was this hourly anticipation of her loss which made him a sad and thoughtful man, and lent a mournful melody to his undying song.”

At last he left Philadelphia and returned to New York, where he remained for the rest of his life.  This is the childlike way he writes to his mother-in-law concerning the journey: 

“My Dear Muddy,

“We have just this minute done breakfast, and I now sit down to write you about everything. * * * In the first place, we arrived safe at Walnut St. wharf.  The driver wanted to make me pay a dollar, but I wouldn’t.  Then I had to pay a boy a levy to put the trunks in the baggage car.

“In the meantime I took Sis [Virginia] in the Depot Hotel. * * * We went in the cars to Amboy, * * * and then took the steamboat the rest of the way.  Sissy coughed none at all.  I left her on board the boat. * * * Then I went up Greenwich St. and soon found a boarding house. * * * I made a bargain in a few minutes and then got a hack and went for Sis. * * * When we got to the house we had to wait about half an hour before the room was ready.  The house is old and looks buggy, * * * the cheapest board I ever knew, taking into consideration the central situation and the living.  I wish Kate [Catterina, the cat] could see it—­she would faint.”

They had a little cottage at Fordham, in the country just out of New York.  It was a very humble place, but the scenery about it was beautiful.  Poe himself became ill, and his dear Virginia was dying of consumption.  They were so poor that friends had to help them.  One of these friends wrote: 

“There was no clothing on the bed, which was only straw, but a snow-white counterpane and sheets.  The weather was cold and the sick lady had the dreadful chills that accompany the hectic fever of consumption.  She lay on the bed wrapped in her husband’s great-coat, with a large tortoise-shell cat in her bosom.”

On one Saturday in January, 1847, Virginia died.  Her husband, wrapped in the military cloak that had once covered her, followed the body to the tomb in the family vault of the Valentines, relatives of the family.