Short Fiction, Edgar Allan Poe [best autobiographies to read TXT] 📗

“Some individual, who rejoices in the appellation ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (to what low uses are the names of the illustrious dead too often applied!) has enclosed us some fifty or sixty verses commencing after this fashion:

Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful spring
Of woes unnumbered, etc., etc., etc., etc.

“ ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) is respectfully informed that there is not a printer’s devil in our office who is not in the daily habit of composing better lines. Those of ‘Oppodeldoc’ will not scan. ‘Oppodeldoc’ should learn to count. But why he should have conceived the idea that we, (of all others, we!) would disgrace our pages with his ineffable nonsense, is utterly beyond comprehension. Why, the absurd twattle is scarcely good enough for the Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, the Goosetherumfoodle⁠—things that are in the practice of publishing ‘Mother Goose’s Melodies’ as original lyrics. And ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) has even the assurance to demand pay for this drivel. Does ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) know⁠—is he aware that we could not be paid to insert it?”

As I perused this I felt myself growing gradually smaller and smaller, and when I came to the point at which the editor sneered at the poem as “verses” there was little more than an ounce of me left. As for “Oppodeldoc,” I began to experience compassion for the poor fellow. But the Goosetherumfoodle showed, if possible, less mercy than the Lollipop. It was the Goosetherumfoodle that said:

“A wretched poetaster, who signs himself ‘Oppodeldoc,’ is silly enough to fancy that we will print and pay for a medley of incoherent and ungrammatical bombast which he has transmitted to us, and which commences with the following most intelligible line:

‘Hail, Holy Light! Offspring of Heaven, first born.’

“We say, ‘most intelligible.’ ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) will be kind enough to tell us, perhaps, how ‘hail’ can be ‘holy light’ We always regarded it as frozen rain. Will he inform us, also, how frozen rain can be, at one and the same time, both ‘holy light,’ (whatever that is) and an ‘offspring?’⁠—which latter term (if we understand anything about English) is only employed, with propriety, in reference to small babies of about six weeks old. But it is preposterous to descant upon such absurdity⁠—although ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) has the unparalleled effrontery to suppose that we will not only ‘insert’ his ignorant ravings, but (absolutely) pay for them!

“Now this is fine⁠—it is rich!⁠—and we have half a mind to punish this young scribbler for his egotism, by really publishing his effusion, verbatim et literatim, as he has written it. We could inflict no punishment so severe, and we would inflict it, but for the boredom which we should cause our readers in so doing.

“Let ‘Oppodeldoc’ (whoever he is) send any future composition of like character to the Hum-Drum, the Lollipop, or the Rowdy-Dow, They will ‘insert’ it. They ‘insert’ every month just such stuff. Send it to them. We are not to be insulted with impunity.”

This made an end of me; and as for the Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Lollipop, I never could comprehend how they survived it. The putting them in the smallest possible minion, (that was the rub⁠—thereby insinuating their lowness⁠—their baseness,) while we stood looking down upon them in gigantic capitals!⁠—oh it was too bitter!⁠—it was wormwood⁠—it was gall. Had I been either of these periodicals I would have spared no pains to have the Goosetherumfoodle prosecuted. It might have been done under the Act for the “Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.” As for Oppodeldoc (whoever he was) I had by this time lost all patience with the fellow, and sympathized with him no longer. He was a fool, beyond doubt, (whoever he was,) and got not a kick more than he deserved.

The result of my experiment with the old books, convinced me, in the first place, that “honesty is the best policy,” and, in the second, that if I could not write better than Mr. Dante, and the two blind men, and the rest of the old set, it would, at least, be a difficult matter to write worse. I took heart, therefore, and determined to prosecute the “entirely original” (as they say on the covers of the magazines), at whatever cost of study and pains. I again placed before my eyes, as a model, the brilliant stanzas on “The Oil-of-Bob” by the editor of the Gad-Fly, and resolved to construct an ode on the same sublime theme, in rivalry of what had already been done.

With my first verse I had no material difficulty. It ran thus:

“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’ ”

Having carefully looked out, however, all the legitimate rhymes to “Bob,” I found it impossible to proceed. In this dilemma I had recourse to paternal aid; and, after some hours of mature thought, my father and myself thus constructed the poem:

“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob’
Is all sorts of a job.

To be sure, this composition was of no very great length⁠—but I “have yet to learn” as they say in the Edinburgh Review, that the mere extent of a literary work has anything to do with its merit. As for the Quarterly cant about “sustained effort,” it is impossible to see the sense of it. Upon the whole, therefore, I was satisfied with the success of my maiden attempt, and now the only question regarded the disposal I should make of it. My father suggested that I should send it to the Gad-Fly⁠—but there were two reasons which operated to prevent me from so doing. I dreaded the jealousy of the editor⁠—and I had ascertained that he did not pay for original contributions. I therefore, after due deliberation, consigned the article to the more dignified pages of the Lollipop, and awaited the event in anxiety, but with resignation.

In the very next published number I had the proud satisfaction of seeing my poem printed at