Short Fiction Edgar Allan Poe (books for men to read .txt) 📖

the justice to say, however, that when he made up his mind finally to settle in that town, it was under the impression that no newspaper, and consequently no editor, existed in that particular section of the country. In establishing The Teapot he expected to have the field all to himself. I feel confident he never would have dreamed of taking up his residence in Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis had he been aware that, in Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, there lived a gentleman named John Smith (if I rightly remember), who for many years had there quietly grown fat in editing and publishing the Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis Gazette. It was solely, therefore, on account of having been misinformed, that Mr. Bullet-head found himself in Alex⁠—suppose we call it Nopolis, “for short”⁠—but, as he did find himself there, he determined to keep up his character for obst⁠—for firmness, and remain. So remain he did; and he did more; he unpacked his press, type, etc., etc., rented an office exactly opposite to that of the Gazette, and, on the third morning after his arrival, issued the first number of The Alexan⁠—that is to say, of The Nopolis Teapot:⁠—as nearly as I can recollect, this was the name of the new paper.

The leading article, I must admit, was brilliant⁠—not to say severe. It was especially bitter about things in general⁠—and as for the editor of The Gazette, he was torn all to pieces in particular. Some of Bullet-head’s remarks were really so fiery that I have always, since that time, been forced to look upon John Smith, who is still alive, in the light of a salamander. I cannot pretend to give all the Teapot’s paragraphs verbatim, but one of them runs thus:

“Oh, yes!⁠—Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! The editor over the way is a genius⁠—O, my! Oh, goodness, gracious!⁠—what is this world coming to? Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!”

A philippic at once so caustic and so classical, alighted like a bombshell among the hitherto peaceful citizens of Nopolis. Groups of excited individuals gathered at the corners of the streets. Everyone awaited, with heartfelt anxiety, the reply of the dignified Smith. Next morning it appeared as follows:

“We quote from The Teapot of yesterday the subjoined paragraph: ‘Oh, yes! Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! Oh, my! Oh, goodness! Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!’ Why, the fellow is all O! That accounts for his reasoning in a circle, and explains why there is neither beginning nor end to him, nor to anything he says. We really do not believe the vagabond can write a word that hasn’t an O in it. Wonder if this O-ing is a habit of his? By the by, he came away from Down-East in a great hurry. Wonder if he O’s as much there as he does here? ‘O! it is pitiful.’ ”

The indignation of Mr. Bullet-head at these scandalous insinuations, I shall not attempt to describe. On the eel-skinning principle, however, he did not seem to be so much incensed at the attack upon his integrity as one might have imagined. It was the sneer at his style that drove him to desperation. What!⁠—he Touch-and-go Bullet-head!⁠—not able to write a word without an O in it! He would soon let the jackanapes see that he was mistaken. Yes! he would let him see how much he was mistaken, the puppy! He, Touch-and-go Bullet-head, of Frogpondium, would let Mr. John Smith perceive that he, Bullet-head, could indite, if it so pleased him, a whole paragraph⁠—aye! a whole article⁠—in which that contemptible vowel should not once⁠—not even once⁠—make its appearance. But no;⁠—that would be yielding a point to the said John Smith. He, Bullet-head, would make no alteration in his style, to suit the caprices of any Mr. Smith in Christendom. Perish so vile a thought! The O forever; He would persist in the O. He would be as O-wy as O-wy could be.

Burning with the chivalry of this determination, the great Touch-and-go, in the next Teapot, came out merely with this simple but resolute paragraph, in reference to this unhappy affair:

“The editor of the Teapot has the honor of advising the editor of the Gazette that he (the Teapot) will take an opportunity in tomorrow morning’s paper, of convincing him (the Gazette) that he (the Teapot) both can and will be his own master, as regards style;⁠—he (the Teapot) intending to show him (the Gazette) the supreme, and indeed the withering contempt with which the criticism of him (the Gazette) inspires the independent bosom of him (the Teapot) by composing for the especial gratification (?) of him (the Gazette) a leading article, of some extent, in which the beautiful vowel⁠—the emblem of Eternity⁠—yet so offensive to the hyper-exquisite delicacy of him (the Gazette) shall most certainly not be avoided by his (the Gazette’s) most obedient, humble servant, the Teapot. ‘So much for Buckingham!’ ”

In fulfilment of the awful threat thus darkly intimated rather than decidedly enunciated, the great Bullet-head, turning a deaf ear to all entreaties for “copy,” and simply requesting his foreman to “go to the d⁠⸺⁠l,” when he (the foreman) assured him (the Teapot!) that it was high time to “go to press”: turning a deaf ear to everything, I say, the great Bullet-head sat up until daybreak, consuming the midnight oil, and absorbed in the composition of the really unparalleled paragraph, which follows:⁠—

“So ho, John! how now? Told you so, you know. Don’t crow, another time, before you’re out of the woods! Does your mother know you’re out? Oh, no, no!⁠—so go home at once, now, John, to your odious old woods of Concord! Go home to your woods, old owl⁠—go! You won’t! Oh, poh, poh, John, don’t do so! You’ve got to go, you know! So go at once, and don’t go slow, for nobody owns you here, you know! Oh! John, John, if you don’t go you’re