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

Fatquack, and others; but, after the inimitable compositions of the editor himself, we prefer a diamond-like effusion from the pen of a rising poet who writes over the signature ‘Snob’⁠—a nom de guerre which we predict will one day extinguish the radiance of ‘Boz.’ ‘Snob,’ we learn, is a Mr. Thingum Bob, Esq., sole heir of a wealthy merchant of this city, Thomas Bob, Esq., and a near relative of the distinguished Mr. Thingum. The title of Mr. B.’s admirable poem is the ‘Oil-of-Bob’⁠—a somewhat unfortunate name, by the by, as some contemptible vagabond connected with the penny press has already disgusted the town with a great deal of drivel upon the same topic. There will be no danger, however, of confounding the compositions. Sep. 15⁠—1 t.”

The generous approbation of so clear-sighted a journal as the Mole penetrated my soul with delight. The only objection which occurred to me was, that the terms “contemptible vagabond” might have been better written “odious and contemptible wretch, villain and vagabond.” This would have sounded more gracefully, I think. “Diamond-like,” also, was scarcely, it will be admitted, of sufficient intensity to express what the Mole evidently thought of the brilliancy of the “Oil-of-Bob.”

On the same afternoon in which I saw these notices in the Owl, the Toad, and the Mole I happened to meet with a copy of the Daddy-Long-Legs, a periodical proverbial for the extreme extent of its understanding. And it was the Daddy-Long-Legs which spoke thus:

“The Lollipop!! This gorgeous magazine is already before the public for October. The question of preeminence is forever put to rest, and hereafter it will be excessively preposterous in the Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, or the Goosetherumfoodle, to make any farther spasmodic attempts at competition. These journals may excel the Lollipop in outcry, but, in all other points, give us the Lollipop! How this celebrated magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is past comprehension. To be sure it has a circulation of precisely half a million, and its subscription-list has increased seventy-five percent, within the last couple of days; but then the sums it disburses, monthly, for contributions, are scarcely credible; we are cognizant of the fact, that Mademoiselle Cribalittle received no less than eighty-seven cents and a half for her late valuable Revolutionary tale, entitled ‘The York-Town Katy-Did, and the Bunker-Hill Katy-Didn’t.’

“The most able papers in the present number, are, of course, those furnished by the editor (the eminent Mr. Crab), but there are numerous magnificent contributions from such names as Snob, Mademoiselle Cribalittle, Slyass, Mrs. Fibalittle, Mumblethumb, Mrs. Squibalittle, and last, though not least, Fatquack. The world may well be challenged to produce so rich a galaxy of genius.

“The poem over the signature ‘Snob’ is, we find, attracting universal commendation, and, we are constrained to say, deserves, if possible, even more applause than it has received. The ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is the title of this masterpiece of eloquence and art. One or two of our readers may have a very faint, although sufficiently disgusting recollection of a poem (?) similarly entitled, the perpetration of a miserable penny-a-liner, mendicant, and cutthroat, connected in the capacity of scullion, we believe, with one of the indecent prints about the purlieus of the city; we beg them, for God’s sake, not to confound the compositions. The author of the ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is, we hear, Thingum Bob, Esq., a gentleman of high genius, and a scholar. ‘Snob’ is merely a nom-de-guerre. Sep. 15⁠—1 t.”

I could scarcely restrain my indignation while I perused the concluding portions of this diatribe. It was clear to me that the yea-nay manner⁠—not to say the gentleness⁠—the positive forbearance with which the Daddy-Long-Legs spoke of that pig, the editor of the Gad-Fly⁠—it was evident to me, I say, that this gentleness of speech could proceed from nothing else than a partiality for the Fly⁠—whom it was clearly the intention of the Daddy-Long-Legs to elevate into reputation at my expense. Anyone, indeed, might perceive, with half an eye, that, had the real design of the Daddy been what it wished to appear, it (the Daddy) might have expressed itself in terms more direct, more pungent, and altogether more to the purpose. The words “penny-a-liner,” “mendicant,” “scullion,” and “cutthroat,” were epithets so intentionally inexpressive and equivocal, as to be worse than nothing when applied to the author of the very worst stanzas ever penned by one of the human race. We all know what is meant by “damning with faint praise,” and, on the other hand, who could fail seeing through the covert purpose of the Daddy⁠—that of glorifying with feeble abuse?

What the Daddy chose to say of the Fly, however, was no business of mine. What it said of myself was. After the noble manner in which the Owl, the Toad, the Mole, had expressed themselves in respect to my ability, it was rather too much to be coolly spoken of by a thing like the Daddy-Long-Legs, as merely “a gentleman of high genius and a scholar.” Gentleman indeed! I made up my mind at once, either to get a written apology from the Daddy-Long-Legs, or to call it out.

Full of this purpose, I looked about me to find a friend whom I could entrust with a message to his Daddyship, and as the editor of the Lollipop had given me marked tokens of regard, I at length concluded to seek assistance upon the present occasion.

I have never yet been able to account, in a manner satisfactory to my own understanding, for the very peculiar countenance and demeanor with which Mr. Crab listened to me, as I unfolded to him my design. He again went through the scene of the bell-rope and cudgel, and did not omit the duck. At one period I thought he really intended to quack. His fit, nevertheless, finally subsided as before, and he began to act and speak in a rational way. He