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

length, as the leading article, with the following significant words, prefixed in italics and between brackets:

[We call the attention of our readers to the subjoined admirable stanza on “The Oil of Bob.” We need say nothing of their sublimity, or their pathos:⁠—it is impossible to peruse them without tears. Those who have been nauseated with a sad dose on the same august topic from the goose quill of the editor of the Gad-Fly will do well to compare the two compositions.

P.S.⁠—We are consumed with anxiety to probe the mystery which envelops the evident pseudonym “Snob.” May we hope for a personal interview?]

All this was scarcely more than justice, but it was, I confess, rather more than I had expected:⁠—I acknowledged this, be it observed, to the everlasting disgrace of my country and of mankind. I lost no time, however, in calling upon the editor of the Lollipop, and had the good fortune to find this gentleman at home. He saluted me with an air of profound respect, slightly blended with a fatherly and patronizing admiration, wrought in him, no doubt, by my appearance of extreme youth and inexperience. Begging me to be seated, he entered at once upon the subject of my poem;⁠—but modesty will ever forbid me to repeat the thousand compliments which he lavished upon me. The eulogies of Mr. Crab (such was the editor’s name) were, however, by no means fulsomely indiscriminate. He analyzed my composition with much freedom and great ability⁠—not hesitating to point out a few trivial defects⁠—a circumstance which elevated him highly in my esteem. The Gad-Fly was, of course, brought upon the tapis, and I hope never to be subjected to a criticism so searching, or to rebukes so withering, as were bestowed by Mr. Crab upon that unhappy effusion. I had been accustomed to regard the editor of the Gad-Fly as something superhuman; but Mr. Crab soon disabused me of that idea. He set the literary as well as the personal character of the Fly (so Mr. C. satirically designated the rival editor), in its true light. He, the Fly, was very little better than he should be. He had written infamous things. He was a penny-a-liner, and a buffoon. He was a villain. He had composed a tragedy which set the whole country in a guffaw, and a farce which deluged the universe in tears. Besides all this, he had the impudence to pen what he meant for a lampoon upon himself (Mr. Crab), and the temerity to style him “an ass.” Should I at any time wish to express my opinion of Mr. Fry, the pages of the Lollipop, Mr. Crab assured me, were at my unlimited disposal. In the meantime, as it was very certain that I would be attacked in the Fly for my attempt at composing a rival poem on the “Oil-of-Bob,” he (Mr. Crab) would take it upon himself to attend, pointedly, to my private and personal interests. If I were not made a man of at once, it should not be the fault of himself (Mr. Crab).

Mr. Crab having now paused in his discourse, (the latter portion of which I found it impossible to comprehend), I ventured to suggest something about the remuneration which I had been taught to expect for my poem, by an announcement on the cover of the Lollipop, declaring that it (the Lollipop) “insisted upon being permitted to pay exorbitant prices for all accepted contributions⁠—frequently expending more money for a single brief poem than the whole annual cost of the Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle combined.”

As I mentioned the word “remuneration,” Mr. Crab first opened his eyes, and then his mouth, to quite a remarkable extent; causing his personal appearance to resemble that of a highly-agitated elderly duck in the act of quacking; and in this condition he remained (ever and anon pressing his hands tightly to his forehead, as if in a state of desperate bewilderment) until I had nearly made an end of what I had to say.

Upon my conclusion, he sank back into his seat, as if much overcome, letting his arms fall lifelessly by his side, but keeping his mouth still rigorously open, after the fashion of the duck. While I remained in speechless astonishment at behavior so alarming, he suddenly leaped to his feet and made a rush at the bell-rope; but just as he reached this, he appeared to have altered his intention, whatever it was, for he dived under a table and immediately reappeared with a cudgel. This he was in the act of uplifting (for what purpose I am at a loss to imagine), when, all at once, there came a benign smile over his features, and he sank placidly back in his chair.

“Mr. Bob,” he said (for I had sent up my card before ascending myself), “Mr. Bob, you are a young man, I presume⁠—very?”

I assented; adding that I had not yet concluded my third lustrum.

“Ah!” he replied, “very good! I see how it is⁠—say no more! Touching this matter of compensation, what you observe is very just: in fact it is excessively so. But ah⁠—ah⁠—the first contribution⁠—the first, I say⁠—it is never the magazine custom to pay for⁠—you comprehend, eh? The truth is, we are usually the recipients in such case.” [Mr. Crab smiled blandly as he emphasized the word “recipients.”] “For the most part, we are paid for the insertion of a maiden attempt⁠—especially in verse. In the second place, Mr. Bob, the magazine rule is never to disburse what we term in France the argent comptant⁠—I have no doubt you understand. In a quarter or two after publication of the article⁠—or in a year or two⁠—we make no objection to giving our note at nine months; provided always that we can so arrange our affairs as to be quite certain of a ‘burst up’ in six. I really do hope, Mr. Bob, that you will look upon this explanation as satisfactory.” Here Mr. Crab concluded, and the tears stood in