Text: Edgar Allan Poe (?), Literary, Broadway Journal (New York), October 25, 1845, vol. 2, no. 16, p. ???, col. ?

[page 248, column 2, continued:]

Editorial Miscellany.

WITH THIS NUMBER, it will be seen, that we assume the sole control (proprietary as well as editorial) of the “Broadway Journal.” May we hope for the support of our friends?

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WE HAVE been quizzing the Bostonians, and one or two of the more stupid of their editors and editresses have taken it in high dudgeon. We will attend to them all in good time.

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WE MAKE room, with much pleasure, for the following explanation:

To the Editor of the Broadway Journal:

SIR — A copy of your Journal dated October 4th, was handed me this evening, containing some observations respecting alterations made in the song of Ben Bolt, to which some music was adapted by J. P. Webster. The facts were as follows. The song was in a New-Haven paper, and came into my hands as an envelope. It was without signature or reference of any kind, to the author. I was pleased with the poetry, and gave it to Mr. Webster, as he said he would compose some music for it. Before he had completed it, he lost the copy, and asked if I could give him another from memory. The words published were written down by two or three persons, as no one remembered the whole. As Mr. W. did not know the author's name, he could not of course give it. But from what I know of him, I am certain that no thoughts of claiming the authorship ever crossed his mind; and what may so appear in the publication, is the result of carelessness.

Having been (though indirectly) the cause of the censure cast upon Mr. Webster, I felt bound to make this statement, which I doubt not you will have the justice to publish. I am ready to give satisfactory reference, if you require it.

Respectfully yours, E. S.

Derby, Conn., October 11, 1845. [page 249:]

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TO CORRESPONDENTS. — A great pressure of business has prevented us from paying attention to several communications of value, and from cherished friends. All shall hear from us next week, or the week after.

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“THE following beautiful conception,” says a city paper, “is one of Samuel Lover's”:

the end of the road.

And there, whence there's never returning,

When we travel, as travel we must,

May the gates be all free for our journey.

And the tears of our friends lay the dust.

This “beautiful conception” we had been hitherto mistaking for a most pitiable conceit.