It was a bleak, chilly, rainy evening in March of 1827. A young man strolled along the wet cobblestone streets, making his way quickly to the home of John Allen. A black house servant answered the front door.  Jubal recognized the young man.

     “Why, Mr. Edgar, you're not expected home until tomorrow.  Your father will be very upset to see you here so late.”

     The tall lean young man in dark frock-coat smiled.  “That's all right, Jubal.  I'll see my father and settle the matter.”

     The young man was the adopted son of Mr. John Allen, whose family was wealthy and ran an importing business.  Edgar Allan made his way upstairs and was greeted at the top by his step-mother, who embraced and kissed him warmly.

     When Allen entered, his face turned serious and angered at the sight of his step-son Edgar.

     “Well, I see you have shamed me and your mother, and now you're an embarrassment to this family.  What have you to say about your selfish behavior?”

     Edgar had been expelled from the University of Virginia.

     “I'm truly sorry, sir, for failing and allowing myself to indulge in gambling, and for your having to pay all those debts to me.   I do promise to make good, and to find some way to make money to repay your kindness.”

     “Enough!  You couldn't earn a penny on your own; you are worthless.  I can no longer sustain your faults or keep you under this roof.”

     Mrs. Allen pleaded, “Edgar needs your support.  He's good in so many ways.  Please don't turn him out.”

     But the argument went on.  Later Mrs. Allen summoned Edgar to sit awhile and talk.

     “Let me see your poetry.  Your letters show and state your great desire to become a writer or poet.  Is that true?”

     He happily showed her his poetic works.  She read them with joy and interest.

     “Edgar, I'd hope to find some journal or paper publishing them some day.”

     He confronted his step-father later in an outburst of frustration.  He was going to call himself Edgar Allan Poe, taking back his real name given to him at birth by his natural parents.

     In rage, John Allen slapped his face and ordered him out of his sight.

     “That's the final insult.  I never want to see or hear of you again!”

     Poe left.  He walked about in Richmond, carefully glancing around at the upstart pride of men and women of aristocratic taste and the false quaintness of the times.  Elegant carriages passed by.  Poe dissolved himself from this southern culture and headed north, finally arriving in Boston.

     This town had its own aristocratic flare, but Poe felt more at ease and fitted into the renowned literary circle of quaint friendships he made with authors and critics of the time.

     He had a difficult time trying to find a respectable position.  Finally he enlisted in the army, where he climbed to the rank of sergeant-major, then was broken down again due to a lack of discipline and heavy gambling debts.  He tried drinking and found the effects to be nightmarish.  He was discharged quickly.

     He continued writing criticism and poems, finding a place for them in well-known journals and magazines.  He made little money and found friendships hard to come by since he owed so much.  He visited the opium dens of Baltimore's Oriental section along the waterfront. He lived in a shabby room.  Then he returned to Richmond and found a job on the Southern Literary Messenger.  His fame soon grew in southern literary and social circles.  But he longed to return to Baltimore.

     The call of the city brought him to Philadelphia in 1838. He found positions on several magazines and sold more of his tales and elegant poetry.  He and his editor Howard Burton had heated arguments over how Burton's journal should be handled and what material it needed most.  Finally they let him go.  He ventured next on a trip to New York City.

     In New York he was welcomed as a new source of literary comment.  He was coaxed into drinking and landed himself in jail after several brawls which he won.  Cohorts from the famed literary circle bailed him out.  He sold a few more poems and stories to the Broadway Journal and New York Chronicle, then returned to Philadelphia, where he was unable to secure any good position.  However, he returned to New York and with considerable energy earned more money than he ever had before.  He was taking full advantage of his literary acquaintanceship and his writing was at its best.  This state of affairs lasted for quite some time, but the Raven of which he spoke was still pursuing him.  He was apparently unable to accommodate himself to success.  Always there were the dark origins he spoke of in his tales, and his thoughts were frequently preoccupied with death.  People noticed, too, the excessive morbid concerns in his tales, and he was always a little to one side of these literary soirees.

     However, his fame was at its peak.  He was surprised to receive an award, lecturing at a literary banquet in Richmond.  He talked over old times with everyone and sent money to dependents.  Heading home, for no reason whatever he got off at Baltimore on a damp foggy night.  A few days later he was found delirious, muttering, out of his head.  He collapsed and was taken to a nearby hospital, where he died.

     The genius of midnight was no more.