Ever since I could write my name, I have been troubled with a disease
which is spreading alarmingly in this our day and generation—I mean
_Cacoethes Scribendi_; and the best antidote I have ever been able to
discover for it, I received lately from the “Literary Messenger”—the
rejection of my articles. At that time I imagined myself perfectly
cured; but, unlike some other diseases, this can be had more than
once, and the man who could invent some vaccinating process to prevent
it, would deserve more gratitude from the present generation than the
discoverer of vaccination against small pox.
I remember distinctly my first attempt at poetry. I was quietly
resting under the shade of a stately elm, one bright summer day,
turning over the leaves of a favorite author, and listening to the
merry carols of a mock-bird that had perched on a thorn just before
me. There was a beautiful lawn gently declining from the knoll where I
lay, to the river's edge, green with luxuriant long grass,
interspersed with the simple lily of the valley. There seemed to be a
general thanksgiving of nature, and every thing tended to inspire my
juvenile muse. After sundry bitings of the nails, and scratchings of
the head,[1] I succeeded in pencilling on a blank leaf of the “Lady of
the Lake,” lines “To a Mocking Bird.” No sooner had the fever of
composition resolved itself into three stanzas, than the mock-bird,
the green elms and humming waters, lost all their enchantment, and I
hurried home to copy my verses and send them to the printing-office. I
selected the whitest sheet of gilt-edged paper I had, made a fine nib
to my pen, and soon finished a neat copy, which was forthwith
deposited in the office of a respectable hebdomadal. Publication day
came, and so did the carrier. Of all ugly boys, I used to think that
carrier was the ugliest; but when he handed me the paper that I
doubted not contained the first effort of unfledged genius, I thought
he had the finest face and most waggish look I had ever seen—and in
good truth, I never was so glad to see the fellow in my life.
Wonderful metamorphosis! thought I, eagerly snatching the paper from
him. But judge, oh! gentle reader, of my surprise and mortification,
at not finding my cherished little poem either in the poet's corner,
or even among the advertisements. The phiz of the carrier changed to
its accustomed ugliness as if by magic, and, as he passed out of the
door, he cast on {436} me a sardonic leer, grin'd “a ghastly smile,”
and “left me alone in my glory.” I had too much philosophy, however,
to remain long in a passion, or to suffer myself to be unhappy for
such a trifle. I contented myself, therefore, as well as I could, and
determined never to write another line until my first effort saw the
light. How fortunate for you, kind reader, and perhaps for me, had my
young muse then been nip'd in her incipient budding. But that first
effort did see the light the next week, and ‘Solomon in all his glory’
was not so happy as I. You who have written and published, can have
some idea of the sensations produced by the success of a first essay.
Those who never have, cannot imagine the pleasure, the fluttering of
heart, the gratified ambition, and the flattered vanity of him thus
first dignified with print. Since then I have been rejected, but never
so mortified as when my first poem did not appear when expected. And
since then I have written, published, been republished and quoted,
which is surely glory enough for one man, but have never been so happy
as when my maiden effort first appeared among the blacksmiths' and
tailors' advertisements of a village newspaper.
[Footnote 1: Be careful, when invention fails,
To scratch your head, and bite your nails.—_Swift_.]