On page 217 of the second volume of the life of Edgar Allan Poe, Mr. J. H. Ingram quotes the following extract from one of his letters:――“Have you seen ‘The Moral for Authors’ a new Satire by J. E. Tuel? Who, in the name of Heaven, _is_ J. E. Tuel? The book is miserably stupid! He has a long parody of the ‘Raven’――in fact, nearly the whole thing seems to be aimed at me. If you have not seen it and wish to see it I will send it.” Poe was well within the mark when he stigmatised “The Moral for Authors” as a miserably stupid production. It was published in 1849 by Stringer and Townsend of New York, and consisted of forty-eight pages of rhyme almost entirely destitute of reason. On one page, it is true, the author vainly attempts a feeble parody of Lord Macaulay’s style, and there is, of course, the parody of the “Raven.” As Poe, himself, has alluded to this, students of his life and works may probably wish to refer to it, which they would have great difficulty in doing as copies of the pamphlet are now exceedingly scarce. I therefore reprint the parody in full, from a copy kindly lent me by Mr. J. H. Ingram. It is dated from the―― _PLUTONIAN SHORE_, _Raven Creek, In the Year of Poetry_ _Before the Dismal Ages_, _A.D._ 18―――― “Once upon a midnight dreary, as I ponder’d weak and weary Over many a weary volume of recent published lore―― While I nodded o’er ‘_The Sleeper_,[7]’ suddenly I heard a creeper, As of some one peering deeper-deeper in my chamber door; ’Tis some author new, I mutter’d, or some other midnight bore; Only this and nothing more!” “Oh! distinctly I that volume do remember in its solemn And sleepy double column as it fell upon the floor―― Eagerly I wished to borrow from ‘COOPER’S LAST’ of sorrow, Or my own dark books of horror――horror for having more! A sure cure for the blues, which were darkly creeping o’er My ‘_Dream_,’ and nothing more.” “And the bleak and dread re-over turning of each volume cover Chill’d me――filled me with fantastic poems, never penned before, So that, to still the rushing of my thoughts towards the head-in, I said, “tis an author sure, entreating entrance through the key-hole door; A waylaid child of Poetry on a midnight ‘bust,’ or more, Or else some other bore.’” “Presently my pen grew fiery,――hesitating an inquiry, ‘Sir,’ said I (or Madman!), ‘truly your late visit I deplore; For the fact is, I’m inditing a piece of murky writing, And so unseeming you came lighting, lighting on my chamber door, Which was never done before’――here he bolted in the door, And sat down upon the floor.”