‘Oppodeldoc,’
      (whoever he is,) has the audacity to demand of us, for his
      twattle, a ‘speedy insertion and prompt pay.’ We neither insert
      nor purchase any stuff of the sort. There can be no doubt,
      however, that he would meet with a ready sale for all the
      balderdash he can scribble, at the office of either the
      ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’”

      All this, it must be acknowledged, was very severe upon
      “Oppodeldoc”—but the unkindest cut was putting the word Poesy in
      small caps. In those five pre-eminent letters what a world of
      bitterness is there not involved! But “Oppodeldoc” was punished with equal severity in the
      “Rowdy-Dow,” which spoke thus:

      “We have received a most singular and insolent communication from
      a person (whoever he is,) signing himself ‘Oppodeldoc’—thus
      desecrating the greatness of the illustrious Roman Emperor so
      named. Accompanying the letter of ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,)
      we find sundry lines of most disgusting and unmeaning rant about
      ‘angels and ministers of grace’—rant such as no madman short of a
      Nat Lee, or an ‘Oppodeldoc,’ could possibly perpetrate. And for
      this trash of trash, we are modestly requested to ‘pay promptly.’
      No sir—no! We pay for nothing of _that_ sort. Apply to the
      ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’ These
      _periodicals_ will undoubtedly accept any literary offal you may
      send them—and as undoubtedly _promise_ to pay for it.”

      This was bitter indeed upon poor “Oppodeldoc”; but, in this
      instance, the weight of the satire falls upon the “Hum-drum,” the
      “Lollipop,” and the “Goosetherumfoodle,” who are pungently styled
      “_periodicals_”—in Italics, too—a thing that must have cut them
      to the heart. Scarcely less savage was the “Lollipop,” which thus discoursed:

      “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, &c., &c., &c., &c.

      “‘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 any thing 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.