And now to “cast your lines in pleasant places.”
Having fairly mastered the gamut of poetical composition, you will be open to a few hints as to the publication of your effusions. It is often suggested that the opinion of a friend should be consulted at the outset as to their value. Of course you may do so, but, as friends go nowadays, you must be prepared to ignore his verdict. It is now you will discover that even the judgment of your dearest and most intellectual friend is not alone untrustworthy, but really below contempt, and that what he styles his candour is nothing less than brutality. I have known the greatest coolnesses ascribable to this cause, and the noblest offspring of the muse consigned to oblivion in weak deference to a friendly opinion. On the other hand, it is often of great value to read aloud your longest epics to some one who is in any way indebted to you and cannot well resent it.
Where the poet’s corners of so many papers await you, the choice of a medium to convey your burning thoughts to the world will be easily made. You will scarcely be liable, I hope, to the confusion of mind of a friend of mine who, in mistake, sent his “Ode to Death” to the editor of a comic paper, and found it accepted as eminently suitable.
You should write your poem carefully on superfine paper with as little blotting, scratching, and bad spelling as you can manage.
To smooth the way to insertion, you might also write a conciliatory note to the editor, somewhat in this vein:—
“Respected Sir,—It is with much diffidence that a young poet of seventeen (no mention of the wife and five children) begs to send you his first attempt to woo the Muses (it may be your eighty-first, but no matter). Hoping the same may be deemed worthy of insertion in the widely-read columns of your admirable journal, with whose opinions I have the great pleasure of being in thorough accord (you may have never read a line of it before), I have the honour to be, respected sir, your obedient, humble servant,
“Homer.
“P.S.—If inserted, kindly affix my full name as A. B.; if not, my nom-de-plume, ‘Homer.’
“N.B.—If inserted send me twenty copies of your valuable paper.—Homer.”
It will be vain to attempt to describe your feelings from the time you post that letter until you know the result of your venture. Your reason is unhinged; you cannot rest or sleep. You hang about that newspaper office for hours before the expected edition is out of the press. At last it appears. Trembling with eagerness you seize the coveted issue, and disregarding the “Double Murder and Suicide in——,” the “Collapse of the Bank of——,” the “Outbreak of War between France and Germany,” you dash to the poet’s corner and search with dazed eyes for your fate.