It appeared in a lengthy review of a production of King Lear, mounted at Baltimore’s renowned Front Street Theatre in the fall of 1807. After paying glowing tribute to my mother’s “heart-wrenching portrayal” of the martyred Cordelia, the article made note of the various local luminaries who had been present for the opening-night performance. “The audience, which filled every available seat in the splendid auditorium, comprised some of Baltimore’s most eminent citizens,” the reviewer had written. “Among those in attendance, who greeted Miss Poe at the conclusion of the play with a thunderous ovation, were Chief Justice Stephenson Archer of the Court of Appeals; Mr. Septimus J. Claypoole, proprietor of the Baltimore Daily Advertiser; Dr. and Mrs. Jared Parkhurst; Mr. and Mrs. Junius Macready; Mrs. Josiah Nicodemus, widow of the renowed ship’s captain; and Mr. Samuel Ogden Asher.”

Here, indeed, was proof of the strange, if not portentous, connection that I had been struck by while lying in bed! I say “portentous,” for the juxtaposition, within this decades-old theatrical review, of the Poe family name with those of the Ashers and Macreadys struck me as a veritable portent of the events now unfolding.

For several minutes, I sat motionless at the table, attempting to envision that long-ago evening when my mother’s thrilling portrayal of Lear’s doomed, saintly daughter brought the city’s most jaded audience to its feet in a wild display of clamorous approbation. Gradually, however, an enormous lethargy—akin to the inertia that invariably follows the delirious excitement of an opium-dream—began to steal over me. My eyelids felt as heavy as lead, and from the bottommost depths of my being there issued a resounding yawn.

Locking away the relics of my mother’s tragically abbreviated life, I restored the casket-shaped box to its place. So intense was the fatigue that had settled upon me that the simple prospect of rising from my seat, crossing the room, and returning to bed seemed unutterably dreary. Extinguishing the oil lamp, I folded my arms upon the tabletop, rested my drooping head upon them, and fell into a profound and instantaneous sleep.

I cannot say what roused me, beyond a dim but gnawing awareness—operating even in my unconscious state—that the morning had dawned. I awoke from an unsettling dream in which a small but undaunted figure struggled to save a maiden from the clutches of a vile king. Leaping from my chair, I crossed rapidly to the window, and drew back the curtains. Though a thick blanket of clouds continued to darken the sky, it was clear that the day was already several hours old. Returning to my bedchamber, I quickly performed my matinal ablutions, threw on my clothes, and hurried out to the kitchen.

I entered the little room to find my aunt in the act of laying out a breakfast of buttered and toasted bread, sorghum molasses, and tea.