Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe

by Edgar Allan Poe

  “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 line 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.

  (Signed) SNOB.”

  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 any thing 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 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 stanzas on “The Oil-of-Bob.” We need say nothing of their sublimity, or of 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. Fly, 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 sides, 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 re-appeared 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 his eyes.

  Grieved to the soul at having been, however innocently, the cause of pain to so eminent and so sensitive a man, I hastened to apologize, and to reassure him, by expressing my perfect coincidence with his views, as well as my entire appreciation of the delicacy of his position. Having done all this in a neat speech, I took leave.

  One fine morning, very shortly afterward, “I awoke and found myself famous.” The extent of my renown will be best estimated by reference to the editorial opinions of the day. These opinions, it will be seen, were embodied in critical notices of the number of the Lollipop containing my poem, and are perfectly satisfactory, conclusive, and clear with the exception, perhaps, of the hieroglyphical marks, “Sep. 15—1 t,” appended to each of the critiques.

  The Owl, a journal of profound sagacity, and well known for the deliberate gravity of its literary decisions—the Owl, I say, spoke as follows:

  “The Lollipop! The October number of this delicious magazine surpasses its predecessors, and sets competition at defiance. In the beauty of its typography and paper—in the number and excellence of its steel plates—as well as in the literary merit of its contributions—the Lollipop compares with its slow-paced rivals as Hyperion with Satyr. The Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle, excel, it is true, in braggadocio, but in all other points, give us the Lollipop! How this celebrated journal can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation of 100,000, and its subscription list has increased one fourth during the last month; but, on the other hand, the sums it disburses constantly for contributions are inconceivable. It is reported that Mr. Slyass received no less than thirty-seven and a half cents for his inimitable paper on ‘Pigs.’ With Mr. CRAB, as editor, and with such names upon the list of contributors as SNOB and Slyass, there can be no such word as ‘fail’ for the Lollipop. Go and subscribe. Sep. 15—1 t.”

  I must say that I was gratified with this high-toned notice from a paper so respectable as the Owl. The placing my name—that is to say, my nom de guerre—in priority of station to that of the great Slyass, was a compliment as happy as I felt it to be deserved.

  My attention was next arrested by these paragraphs in the Toad—a print highly distinguished for its uprightness and independence—from its entire freedom from sycophancy and subservience to the givers of dinners:

  “The Lollipop for October is out in advance of all its contemporaries, and infinitely surpasses them, of course, in the splendor of its embellishments, as well as in the richness of its contents. The Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle excel, we admit, in braggadocio, but, in all other points, give us the Lollipop. How this celebrated magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses is more than we can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation of 200,000, and its subscription list has increased one third during the last fortnight, but, on the other hand, the sums it disburses, monthly, for contributions, are fearfully great. We learn that Mr. Mumblethumb received no less than fifty cents for his late ‘Monody in a Mud-Puddle.’

  “Among the original contributors to the present number we notice (besides the eminent editor, Mr. CRAB), such men as SNOB, Slyass, and Mumblethumb. Apart from the editorial matter, the most valuable paper, nevertheless, is, we think, a poetical gem by Snob, on the ‘Oil-of-Bob,’—but our readers must not suppose from the title of this incomparable bijou, that it bears any similitude to some balderdash on the same subject by a certain contemptible individual whose name is unmentionable to ears polite. The present poem ‘On the Oil-of-Bob,’ has excited universal anxiety and curiosity in respect to the owner of the evident pseudonym, ‘Snob,’—a curiosity which, happily, we have it in our power to satisfy. ‘Snob’ is the nom de plume of Mr. Thingum Bob, of this city,—a relative of the great Mr. Thingum (after whom he is named), and otherwise connected with the most illustrious families of the State. His father, Thomas Bob, Esq., is an opulent merchant in Smug. Sep. 15—1 t.”

  This generous approbation touched me to the heart—the more especially as it emanated from a source so avowedly—so proverbially pure as the Toad. The word “balderdash,” as applied to the “Oil-of-Bob” of the Fly, I considered singularly pungent and appropriate. The words “gem” and “bijou,” however, used in reference to my composition, struck me as being, in some degree, feeble. They seemed to me to be deficient in force. They were not sufficiently prononcés (as we have it in France).

  I had hardly finished reading the Toad, when a friend placed in my hands a copy of the Mole, a daily, enjoying high reputation for the keenness of its perception about matters in general, and for the open, honest, above-ground style of its editorials. The Mole spoke of the Lollipop as follows:

  “We have just received the Lollipop for October, and must say that never before have we perused any single number of any periodical which afforded us a felicity so supreme. We speak advisedly. The Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle must look well to their laurels. These prints, no doubt, surpass every thing in loudness of pretension, but, in all other points, give us the Lollipop! How this celebrated magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we can comprehend. To be sure, it has a circulation of 300,000; and its subscription list has increased one half within the last week, but then the sum it disburses, monthly, for contributions, is astonishingly enormous. We have it upon good authority that Mr. Fatquack received no less than sixty-two cents and a half for his late domestic nouvelette, the ‘Dish-Clout.’

  “The contributors to the number before us are Mr. CRAB (the eminent editor), SNOB, Mumblethumb, 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 pre-eminence 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 further 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 tremendo
us expenses, is past comprehension. To be sure it has a circulation of precisely half a million, and its subscription list has increased seventy-five per cent, 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 cut-throat, 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.”