Chapter 25 (6)

The conversation, in the meantime, was spirited and general. The
ladies, as usual, talked a great deal. I soon found that nearly
all the company were well educated; and my host was a world of
good-humored anecdote in himself. He seemed quite willing to
speak of his position as superintendent of a_Maison de Santé_;
and, indeed, the topic of lunacy was, much to my surprise, a
favorite one with all present. A great many amusing stories were
told, having reference to the _whims_ of the patients.

“We had a fellow here once,” said a fat little gentleman, who sat
at my right,—“a fellow that fancied himself a tea-pot; and by the
way, is it not especially singular how often this particular
crotchet has entered the brain of the lunatic? There is scarcely
an insane asylum in France which cannot supply a human tea-pot.
Our gentleman was a Britannia-ware tea-pot, and was careful to
polish himself every morning with buckskin and whiting.”

“And then,” said a tall man just opposite, “we had here, not long
ago, a person who had taken it into his head that he was a
donkey—which allegorically speaking, you will say, was quite
true. He was a troublesome patient; and we had much ado to keep
him within bounds. For a long time he would eat nothing but
thistles; but of this idea we soon cured him by insisting upon
his eating nothing else. Then he was perpetually kicking out his
heels—so—so—”

“Mr. De Kock! I will thank you to behave yourself!” here
interrupted an old lady, who sat next to the speaker. “Please
keep your feet to yourself! You have spoiled my brocade! Is it
necessary, pray, to illustrate a remark in so practical a style?
Our friend here can surely comprehend you without all this. Upon
my word, you are nearly as great a donkey as the poor unfortunate
imagined himself. Your acting is very natural, as I live.”

“Mille pardons! Ma’m’selle!” replied Monsieur De Kock, thus
addressed—“a thousand pardons! I had no intention of offending.
Ma’m’selle Laplace—Monsieur De Kock will do himself the honor of
taking wine with you.”

Here Monsieur De Kock bowed low, kissed his hand with much
ceremony, and took wine with Ma’m’selle Laplace.

“Allow me, mon ami,” now said Monsieur Maillard, addressing
myself, “allow me to send you a morsel of this veal _à la St.
Menehoult_—you will find it particularly fine.”

At this instant three sturdy waiters had just succeeded in
depositing safely upon the table an enormous dish, or trencher,
containing what I supposed to be the “_monstrum, horrendum,
informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum_.” A closer scrutiny assured
me, however, that it was only a small calf roasted whole, and set
upon its knees, with an apple in its mouth, as is the English
fashion of dressing a hare.

“Thank you, no,” I replied; “to say the truth, I am not
particularly partial to veal _à la St_.—what is it?—for I do not
find that it altogether agrees with me. I will change my plate,
however, and try some of the rabbit.”

There were several side-dishes on the table, containing what
appeared to be the ordinary French rabbit—a very delicious
morceau, which I can recommend.

“Pierre,” cried the host, “change this gentleman’s plate, and
give him a side-piece of this rabbit au-chat.”

“This what?” said I.

“This rabbit _au-chat_.”

“Why, thank you—upon second thoughts, no. I will just help myself
to some of the ham.”

There is no knowing what one eats, thought I to myself, at the
tables of these people of the province. I will have none of their
rabbit _au-chat_—and, for the matter of that, none of their
_cat-au-rabbit_ either.

“And then,” said a cadaverous looking personage, near the foot of
the table, taking up the thread of the conversation where it had
been broken off,—“and then, among other oddities, we had a
patient, once upon a time, who very pertinaciously maintained
himself to be a Cordova cheese, and went about, with a knife in
his hand, soliciting his friends to try a small slice from the
middle of his leg.”

“He was a great fool, beyond doubt,” interposed some one, “but
not to be compared with a certain individual whom we all know,
with the exception of this strange gentleman. I mean the man who
took himself for a bottle of champagne, and always went off with
a pop and a fizz, in this fashion.”

Here the speaker, very rudely, as I thought, put his right thumb
in his left cheek, withdrew it with a sound resembling the
popping of a cork, and then, by a dexterous movement of the
tongue upon the teeth, created a sharp hissing and fizzing, which
lasted for several minutes, in imitation of the frothing of
champagne. This behavior, I saw plainly, was not very pleasing to
Monsieur Maillard; but that gentleman said nothing, and the
conversation was resumed by a very lean little man in a big wig.

“And then there was an ignoramus,” said he, “who mistook himself
for a frog, which, by the way, he resembled in no little degree.
I wish you could have seen him, sir,”—here the speaker addressed
myself—“it would have done your heart good to see the natural
airs that he put on. Sir, if that man was not a frog, I can only
observe that it is a pity he was not. His croak
thus—o-o-o-o-gh—o-o-o-o-gh! was the finest note in the world—B
flat; and when he put his elbows upon the table thus—after taking
a glass or two of wine—and distended his mouth, thus, and rolled
up his eyes, thus, and winked them with excessive rapidity, thus,
why then, sir, I take it upon myself to say, positively, that you
would have been lost in admiration of the genius of the man.”

“I have no doubt of it,” I said.

“And then,” said somebody else, “then there was Petit Gaillard,
who thought himself a pinch of snuff, and was truly distressed
because he could not take himself between his own finger and
thumb.”

“And then there was Jules Desoulières, who was a very singular
genius, indeed, and went mad with the idea that he was a pumpkin.
He persecuted the cook to make him up into pies—a thing which the
cook indignantly refused to do. For my part, I am by no means
sure that a pumpkin pie _à la Desoulières_ would not have been
very capital eating indeed!”

“You astonish me!” said I; and I looked inquisitively at Monsieur
Maillard.

“Ha! ha! ha!” said that gentleman—“he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho!
ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—very good indeed! You must not be astonished,
_mon ami;_ our friend here is a wit—a _drôle_—you must not
understand him to the letter.”

“And then,” said some other one of the party,—“then there was
Bouffon Le Grand—another extraordinary personage in his way. He
grew deranged through love, and fancied himself possessed of two
heads. One of these he maintained to be the head of Cicero; the
other he imagined a composite one, being Demosthenes’ from the
top of the forehead to the mouth, and Lord Brougham’s from the
mouth to the chin. It is not impossible that he was wrong; but he
would have convinced you of his being in the right; for he was a
man of great eloquence. He had an absolute passion for oratory,
and could not refrain from display. For example, he used to leap
upon the dinner-table thus, and—and—”

Here a friend, at the side of the speaker, put a hand upon his
shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear; upon which he
ceased talking with great suddenness, and sank back within his
chair.

“And then,” said the friend who had whispered, “there was
Boullard, the tee-totum. I call him the tee-totum because, in
fact, he was seized with the droll, but not altogether
irrational, crotchet, that he had been converted into a
tee-totum. You would have roared with laughter to see him spin.
He would turn round upon one heel by the hour, in this
manner—so—”

Here the friend whom he had just interrupted by a whisper,
performed an exactly similar office for himself.

“But then,” cried the old lady, at the top of her voice, “your
Monsieur Boullard was a madman, and a very silly madman at best;
for who, allow me to ask you, ever heard of a human tee-totum?
The thing is absurd. Madame Joyeuse was a more sensible person,
as you know. She had a crotchet, but it was instinct with common
sense, and gave pleasure to all who had the honor of her
acquaintance. She found, upon mature deliberation, that, by some
accident, she had been turned into a chicken-cock; but, as such,
she behaved with propriety. She flapped her wings with prodigious
effect—so—so—so—and, as for her crow, it was delicious!
Cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-de-doo
dooo-do-o-o-o-o-o-o!”

“Madame Joyeuse, I will thank you to behave yourself!” here
interrupted our host, very angrily. “You can either conduct
yourself as a lady should do, or you can quit the table
forthwith—take your choice.”

The lady (whom I was much astonished to hear addressed as Madame
Joyeuse, after the description of Madame Joyeuse she had just
given) blushed up to the eyebrows, and seemed exceedingly abashed
at the reproof. She hung down her head, and said not a syllable
in reply. But another and younger lady resumed the theme. It was
my beautiful girl of the little parlor.

“Oh, Madame Joyeuse was a fool!” she exclaimed, “but there was
really much sound sense, after all, in the opinion of Eugénie
Salsafette. She was a very beautiful and painfully modest young
lady, who thought the ordinary mode of habiliment indecent, and
wished to dress herself, always, by getting outside instead of
inside of her clothes. It is a thing very easily done, after all.
You have only to do so—and then so—so—so—and then so—so—so—and
then so—so—and then—”

“Mon dieu! Ma’m’selle Salsafette!” here cried a dozen voices at
once. “What are you about?—forbear!—that is sufficient!—we see,
very plainly, how it is done!—hold! hold!” and several persons
were already leaping from their seats to withhold Ma’m’selle
Salsafette from putting herself upon a par with the Medicean
Venus, when the point was very effectually and suddenly
accomplished by a series of loud screams, or yells, from some
portion of the main body of the _château_.

My nerves were very much affected, indeed, by these yells; but
the rest of the company I really pitied. I never saw any set of
reasonable people so thoroughly frightened in my life. They all
grew as pale as so many corpses, and, shrinking within their
seats, sat quivering and gibbering with terror, and listening for
a repetition of the sound. It came again—louder and seemingly
nearer—and then a third time very loud, and then a fourth time
with a vigor evidently diminished. At this apparent dying away of
the noise, the spirits of the company were immediately regained,
and all was life and anecdote as before. I now ventured to
inquire the cause of the disturbance.

“A mere _bagatelle_,” said Monsieur Maillard. “We are used to
these things, and care really very little about them. The
lunatics, every now and then, get up a howl in concert; one
starting another, as is sometimes the case with a bevy of dogs at
night. It occasionally happens, however, that the _concerto_
yells are succeeded by a simultaneous effort at breaking loose;
when, of course, some little danger is to be apprehended.”

“And how many have you in charge?”

“At present we have not more than ten, altogether.”

“Principally females, I presume?”

“Oh, no—every one of them men, and stout fellows, too, I can tell
you.”

“Indeed! I have always understood that the majority of lunatics
were of the gentler sex.”

“It is generally so, but not always. Some time ago, there were
about twenty-seven patients here; and, of that number, no less
than eighteen were women; but, lately, matters have changed very
much, as you see.”

“Yes—have changed very much, as you see,” here interrupted the
gentleman who had broken the shins of Ma’m’selle Laplace.

“Yes—have changed very much, as you see!” chimed in the whole
company at once.

“Hold your tongues, every one of you!” said my host, in a great
rage. Whereupon the whole company maintained a dead silence for
nearly a minute. As for one lady, she obeyed Monsieur Maillard to
the letter, and thrusting out her tongue, which was an
excessively long one, held it very resignedly, with both hands,
until the end of the entertainment.

“And this gentlewoman,” said I, to Monsieur Maillard, bending
over and addressing him in a whisper—“this good lady who has just
spoken, and who gives us the cock-a-doodle-de-doo—she, I presume,
is harmless—quite harmless, eh?”

“Harmless!” ejaculated he, in unfeigned surprise, “why—why, what
can you mean?”

“Only slightly touched?” said I, touching my head. “I take it for
granted that she is not particularly not dangerously affected,
eh?”

“_Mon dieu!_ what is it you imagine? This lady, my particular old
friend Madame Joyeuse, is as absolutely sane as myself. She has
her little eccentricities, to be sure—but then, you know, all old
women—all _very_ old women—are more or less eccentric!”

“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure—and then the rest of these
ladies and gentlemen—”

“Are my friends and keepers,” interupted Monsieur Maillard,
drawing himself up with _hauteur_,—“my very good friends and
assistants.”

“What! all of them?” I asked,—“the women and all?”

“Assuredly,” he said,—“we could not do at all without the women;
they are the best lunatic nurses in the world; they have a way of
their own, you know; their bright eyes have a marvellous
effect—something like the fascination of the snake, you know.”

“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure! They behave a little odd,
eh?—they are a little queer, eh?—don’t you think so?”

“Odd!—queer!—why, do you really think so? We are not very
prudish, to be sure, here in the South—do pretty much as we
please—enjoy life, and all that sort of thing, you know—”

“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure.”

“And then, perhaps, this Clos de Vougeot is a little heady, you
know—a little strong—you understand, eh?”

“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure. By the bye, Monsieur, did I
understand you to say that the system you have adopted, in place
of the celebrated soothing system, was one of very rigorous
severity?”

“By no means. Our confinement is necessarily close; but the
treatment—the medical treatment, I mean—is rather agreeable to
the patients than otherwise.”

“And the new system is one of your own invention?”

“Not altogether. Some portions of it are referable to Professor
Tarr, of whom you have, necessarily, heard; and, again, there are
modifications in my plan which I am happy to acknowledge as
belonging of right to the celebrated Fether, with whom, if I
mistake not, you have the honor of an intimate acquaintance.”

“I am quite ashamed to confess,” I replied, “that I have never
even heard the names of either gentleman before.”

“Good heavens!” ejaculated my host, drawing back his chair
abruptly, and uplifting his hands. “I surely do not hear you
aright! You did not intend to say, eh? that you had never heard
either of the learned Doctor Tarr, or of the celebrated Professor
Fether?”

“I am forced to acknowledge my ignorance,” I replied; “but the
truth should be held inviolate above all things. Nevertheless, I
feel humbled to the dust, not to be acquainted with the works of
these, no doubt, extraordinary men. I will seek out their
writings forthwith, and peruse them with deliberate care.
Monsieur Maillard, you have really—I must confess it—you have
really—made me ashamed of myself!”

And this was the fact.

“Say no more, my good young friend,” he said kindly, pressing my
hand,—“join me now in a glass of Sauterne.”

We drank. The company followed our example without stint. They
chatted—they jested—they laughed—they perpetrated a thousand
absurdities—the fiddles shrieked—the drum row-de-dowed—the
trombones bellowed like so many brazen bulls of Phalaris—and the
whole scene, growing gradually worse and worse, as the wines
gained the ascendancy, became at length a sort of pandemonium in
petto. In the meantime, Monsieur Maillard and myself, with some
bottles of Sauterne and Vougeot between us, continued our
conversation at the top of the voice. A word spoken in an
ordinary key stood no more chance of being heard than the voice
of a fish from the bottom of Niagara Falls.

“And, sir,” said I, screaming in his ear, “you mentioned
something before dinner about the danger incurred in the old
system of soothing. How is that?”

“Yes,” he replied, “there was, occasionally, very great danger
indeed. There is no accounting for the caprices of madmen; and,
in my opinion as well as in that of Dr. Tarr and Professor
Fether, it is never safe to permit them to run at large
unattended. A lunatic may be ‘soothed,’ as it is called, for a
time, but, in the end, he is very apt to become obstreperous. His
cunning, too, is proverbial and great. If he has a project in
view, he conceals his design with a marvellous wisdom; and the
dexterity with which he counterfeits sanity, presents, to the
metaphysician, one of the most singular problems in the study of
mind. When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high
time to put him in a straitjacket.”

“But the danger, my dear sir, of which you were speaking, in your
own experience—during your control of this house—have you had
practical reason to think liberty hazardous in the case of a
lunatic?”

“Here?—in my own experience?—why, I may say, yes. For example:—no
very long while ago, a singular circumstance occurred in this
very house. The ‘soothing system,’ you know, was then in
operation, and the patients were at large. They behaved
remarkably well—especially so—any one of sense might have known
that some devilish scheme was brewing from that particular fact,
that the fellows behaved so remarkably well. And, sure enough,
one fine morning the keepers found themselves pinioned hand and
foot, and thrown into the cells, where they were attended, as if
they were the lunatics, by the lunatics themselves, who had
usurped the offices of the keepers.”

“You don’t tell me so! I never heard of any thing so absurd in my
life!”

“Fact—it all came to pass by means of a stupid fellow—a
lunatic—who, by some means, had taken it into his head that he
had invented a better system of government than any ever heard of
before—of lunatic government, I mean. He wished to give his
invention a trial, I suppose, and so he persuaded the rest of the
patients to join him in a conspiracy for the overthrow of the
reigning powers.”

“And he really succeeded?”

“No doubt of it. The keepers and kept were soon made to exchange
places. Not that exactly either—for the madmen had been free, but
the keepers were shut up in cells forthwith, and treated, I am
sorry to say, in a very cavalier manner.”

“But I presume a counter-revolution was soon effected. This
condition of things could not have long existed. The country
people in the neighborhood—visitors coming to see the
establishment—would have given the alarm.”

“There you are out. The head rebel was too cunning for that. He
admitted no visitors at all—with the exception, one day, of a
very stupid-looking young gentleman of whom he had no reason to
be afraid. He let him in to see the place—just by way of
variety,—to have a little fun with him. As soon as he had
gammoned him sufficiently, he let him out, and sent him about his
business.”

“And how long, then, did the madmen reign?”

“Oh, a very long time, indeed—a month certainly—how much longer I
can’t precisely say. In the meantime, the lunatics had a jolly
season of it—that you may swear. They doffed their own shabby
clothes, and made free with the family wardrobe and jewels. The
cellars of the château were well stocked with wine; and these
madmen are just the devils that know how to drink it. They lived
well, I can tell you.”

“And the treatment—what was the particular species of treatment
which the leader of the rebels put into operation?”

“Why, as for that, a madman is not necessarily a fool, as I have
already observed; and it is my honest opinion that his treatment
was a much better treatment than that which it superseded. It was
a very capital system indeed—simple—neat—no trouble at all—in
fact it was delicious—it was—”

Here my host’s observations were cut short by another series of
yells, of the same character as those which had previously
disconcerted us. This time, however, they seemed to proceed from
persons rapidly approaching.

“Gracious heavens!” I ejaculated—“the lunatics have most
undoubtedly broken loose.”

“I very much fear it is so,” replied Monsieur Maillard, now
becoming excessively pale. He had scarcely finished the sentence,
before loud shouts and imprecations were heard beneath the
windows; and, immediately afterward, it became evident that some
persons outside were endeavoring to gain entrance into the room.
The door was beaten with what appeared to be a sledge-hammer, and
the shutters were wrenched and shaken with prodigious violence.

A scene of the most terrible confusion ensued. Monsieur Maillard,
to my excessive astonishment threw himself under the side-board.
I had expected more resolution at his hands. The members of the
orchestra, who, for the last fifteen minutes, had been seemingly
too much intoxicated to do duty, now sprang all at once to their
feet and to their instruments, and, scrambling upon their table,
broke out, with one accord, into, “Yankee Doodle,” which they
performed, if not exactly in tune, at least with an energy
superhuman, during the whole of the uproar.

Meantime, upon the main dining-table, among the bottles and
glasses, leaped the gentleman who, with such difficulty, had been
restrained from leaping there before. As soon as he fairly
settled himself, he commenced an oration, which, no doubt, was a
very capital one, if it could only have been heard. At the same
moment, the man with the teetotum predilection, set himself to
spinning around the apartment, with immense energy, and with arms
outstretched at right angles with his body; so that he had all
the air of a tee-totum in fact, and knocked everybody down that
happened to get in his way. And now, too, hearing an incredible
popping and fizzing of champagne, I discovered at length, that it
proceeded from the person who performed the bottle of that
delicate drink during dinner. And then, again, the frog-man
croaked away as if the salvation of his soul depended upon every
note that he uttered. And, in the midst of all this, the
continuous braying of a donkey arose over all. As for my old
friend, Madame Joyeuse, I really could have wept for the poor
lady, she appeared so terribly perplexed. All she did, however,
was to stand up in a corner, by the fireplace, and sing out
incessantly at the top of her voice, “Cock-a-doodle-de-dooooooh!”

And now came the climax—the catastrophe of the drama. As no
resistance, beyond whooping and yelling and cock-a-doodling, was
offered to the encroachments of the party without, the ten
windows were very speedily, and almost simultaneously, broken in.
But I shall never forget the emotions of wonder and horror with
which I gazed, when, leaping through these windows, and down
among us _pêle-mêle_, fighting, stamping, scratching, and
howling, there rushed a perfect army of what I took to be
chimpanzees, ourang-outangs, or big black baboons of the Cape of
Good Hope.

I received a terrible beating—after which I rolled under a sofa
and lay still. After lying there some fifteen minutes, during
which time I listened with all my ears to what was going on in
the room, I came to same satisfactory _dénouement_ of this
tragedy. Monsieur Maillard, it appeared, in giving me the account
of the lunatic who had excited his fellows to rebellion, had been
merely relating his own exploits. This gentleman had, indeed,
some two or three years before, been the superintendent of the
establishment, but grew crazy himself, and so became a patient.
This fact was unknown to the travelling companion who introduced
me. The keepers, ten in number, having been suddenly overpowered,
were first well tarred, then carefully feathered, and then shut
up in underground cells. They had been so imprisoned for more
than a month, during which period Monsieur Maillard had
generously allowed them not only the tar and feathers (which
constituted his “system”), but some bread and abundance of water.
The latter was pumped on them daily. At length, one escaping
through a sewer, gave freedom to all the rest.

The “soothing system,” with important modifications, has been
resumed at the _château;_ yet I cannot help agreeing with
Monsieur Maillard, that his own “treatment” was a very capital
one of its kind. As he justly observed, it was “simple—neat—and
gave no trouble at all—not the least.”

I have only to add that, although I have searched every library
in Europe for the works of Doctor _Tarr_ and Professor _Fether_,
I have, up to the present day, utterly failed in my endeavors at
procuring an edition.

THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ.

LATE EDITOR OF THE “GOOSETHERUMFOODLE.” By Himself

I am now growing in years, and—since I understand that
Shakespeare and Mr. Emmons are deceased—it is not impossible that
I may even die. It has occurred to me, therefore, that I may as
well retire from the field of Letters and repose upon my laurels.
But I am ambitious of signalizing my abdication of the literary
sceptre by some important bequest to posterity; and, perhaps, I
cannot do a better thing than just pen for it an account of my
earlier career. My name, indeed, has been so long and so
constantly before the public eye, that I am not only willing to
admit the naturalness of the interest which it has everywhere
excited, but ready to satisfy the extreme curiosity which it has
inspired. In fact, it is no more than the duty of him who
achieves greatness to leave behind him, in his ascent, such
landmarks as may guide others to be great. I propose, therefore,
in the present paper, (which I had some idea of calling
“Memoranda to serve for the Literary History of America,”) to
give a detail of those important, yet feeble and tottering first
steps, by which, at length, I attained the high road to the
pinnacle of human renown.

Of one’s very remote ancestors it is superfluous to say much. My
father, Thomas Bob, Esq., stood for many years at the summit of
his profession, which was that of a merchant-barber, in the city
of Smug. His warehouse was the resort of all the principal people
of the place, and especially of the editorial corps—a body which
inspires all about it with profound veneration and awe. For my
own part, I regarded them as gods, and drank in with avidity the
rich wit and wisdom which continuously flowed from their august
mouths during the process of what is styled “lather.” My first
moment of positive inspiration must be dated from that
ever-memorable epoch, when the brilliant conductor of the
“Gad-Fly,” in the intervals of the important process just
mentioned, recited aloud, before a conclave of our apprentices,
an inimitable poem in honor of the “Only Genuine Oil-of-Bob,” (so
called from its talented inventor, my father,) and for which
effusion the editor of the “Fly” was remunerated with a regal
liberality by the firm of Thomas Bob & company, merchant-barbers.

The genius of the stanzas to the “Oil-of-Bob” first breathed into
me, I say, the divine _afflatus_. I resolved at once to become a
great man, and to commence by becoming a great poet. That very
evening I fell upon my knees at the feet of my father.

“Father,” I said, “pardon me!—but I have a soul above lather. It
is my firm intention to cut the shop. I would be an editor—I
would be a poet—I would pen stanzas to the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’ Pardon
me and aid me to be great!”

“My dear Thingum,” replied my father, (I had been christened
Thingum after a wealthy relative so surnamed,) “My dear Thingum,”
he said, raising me from my knees by the ears—“Thingum, my boy,
you’re a trump, and take after your father in having a soul. You
have an immense head, too, and it must hold a great many brains.
This I have long seen, and therefore had thoughts of making you a
lawyer. The business, however, has grown ungenteel, and that of a
politician don’t pay. Upon the whole you judge wisely;—the trade
of editor is best:—and if you can be a poet at the same time,—as
most of the editors are, by the by,—why you will kill two birds
with one stone. To encourage you in the beginning of things, I
will allow you a garret; pen, ink, and paper; a rhyming
dictionary; and a copy of the ‘Gad-Fly.’ I suppose you would
scarcely demand any more.”

“I would be an ungrateful villain if I did,” I replied with
enthusiasm. “Your generosity is boundless. I will repay it by
making you the father of a genius.”

Thus ended my conference with the best of men, and immediately
upon its termination, I betook myself with zeal to my poetical
labors; as upon these, chiefly, I founded my hopes of ultimate
elevation to the editorial chair.

In my first attempts at composition I found the stanzas to “The
Oil-of-Bob” rather a draw-back than otherwise. Their splendor
more dazzled than enlightened me. The contemplation of their
excellence tended, naturally, to discourage me by comparison with
my own abortions; so that for a long time I labored in vain. At
length there came into my head one of those exquisitely original
ideas which now and then _will_ permeate the brain of a man of
genius. It was this:—or, rather, thus was it carried into
execution. From the rubbish of an old book-stall, in a very
remote corner of the town, I got together several antique and
altogether unknown or forgotten volumes. The bookseller sold them
to me for a song. From one of these, which purported to be a
translation of one Dante’s “Inferno,” I copied with remarkable
neatness a long passage about a man named Ugolino, who had a
parcel of brats. From another which contained a good many old
plays by some person whose name I forget, I extracted in the same
manner, and with the same care, a great number of lines about
“angels” and “ministers saying grace,” and “goblins damned,” and
more besides of that sort. From a third, which was the
composition of some blind man or other, either a Greek or a
Choctaw—I cannot be at the pains of remembering every trifle
exactly—I took about fifty verses beginning with “Achilles’
wrath,” and “grease,” and something else. From a fourth, which I
recollect was also the work of a blind man, I selected a page or
two all about “hail” and “holy light”; and although a blind man
has no business to write about light, still the verses were
sufficiently good in their way.

Having made fair copies of these poems, I signed every one of
them “Oppodeldoc,” (a fine sonorous name,) and, doing each up
nicely in a separate envelope, I despatched one to each of the
four principal Magazines, with a request for speedy insertion and
prompt pay. The result of this well conceived plan, however, (the
success of which would have saved me much trouble in after life,)
served to convince me that some editors are not to be bamboozled,
and gave the _coup-de-grace_ (as they say in France,) to my
nascent hopes, (as they say in the city of the transcendentals.)

The fact is, that each and every one of the Magazines in
question, gave Mr. “Oppodeldoc” a complete using-up, in the
“Monthly Notices to Correspondents.” The “Hum-Drum” gave him a
dressing after this fashion:

“‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) has sent us a long _tirade_
concerning a bedlamite whom he styles ‘Ugolino,’ who had a great
many children that should have been all whipped and sent to bed
without their suppers. The whole affair is exceedingly tame—not
to say _flat_. ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) is entirely devoid
of imagination—and imagination, in our humble opinion, is not
only the soul of Poesy, but also its very heart. ‘Oppodeldoc,’
(whoever he is,) has the audacity to demand of us, for his
twattle, a ‘speedy insertion and prompt pay.’ We neither insert
nor purchase any stuff of the sort. There can be no doubt,
however, that he would meet with a ready sale for all the
balderdash he can scribble, at the office of either the
‘Rowdy-Dow,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’”

All this, it must be acknowledged, was very severe upon
“Oppodeldoc”—but the unkindest cut was putting the word Poesy in
small caps. In those five pre-eminent letters what a world of
bitterness is there not involved!

But “Oppodeldoc” was punished with equal severity in the
“Rowdy-Dow,” which spoke thus:

“We have received a most singular and insolent communication from
a person (whoever he is,) signing himself ‘Oppodeldoc’—thus
desecrating the greatness of the illustrious Roman Emperor so
named. Accompanying the letter of ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,)
we find sundry lines of most disgusting and unmeaning rant about
‘angels and ministers of grace’—rant such as no madman short of a
Nat Lee, or an ‘Oppodeldoc,’ could possibly perpetrate. And for
this trash of trash, we are modestly requested to ‘pay promptly.’
No sir—no! We pay for nothing of _that_ sort. Apply to the
‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’ These
_periodicals_ will undoubtedly accept any literary offal you may
send them—and as undoubtedly _promise_ to pay for it.”

This was bitter indeed upon poor “Oppodeldoc”; but, in this
instance, the weight of the satire falls upon the “Hum-drum,” the
“Lollipop,” and the “Goosetherumfoodle,” who are pungently styled
“_periodicals_”—in Italics, too—a thing that must have cut them
to the heart.

Scarcely less savage was the “Lollipop,” which thus discoursed:

“Some _individual_, who rejoices in the appellation ‘Oppodeldoc,’
(to what low uses are the names of the illustrious dead too often
applied!) has enclosed us some fifty or sixty _verses_ commencing
after this fashion:

Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful spring
Of woes unnumbered, &c., &c., &c., &c.

“‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) is respectfully informed that
there is not a printer’s devil in our office who is not in the
daily habit of composing better _lines_. Those of ‘Oppodeldoc’
will not _scan_. ‘Oppodeldoc’ should learn to _count_. But why he
should have conceived the idea that _we_, (of all others, _we!_)
would disgrace our pages with his ineffable nonsense, is utterly
beyond comprehension. Why, the absurd twattle is scarcely good
enough for the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ the
‘Goosetherumfoodle’—things that are in the practice of publishing
‘Mother Goose’s Melodies’ as original lyrics. And ‘Oppodeldoc’
(whoever he is,) has even the assurance to demand _pay_ for this
drivel. Does ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) know—is he aware that
we could not be paid to insert it?”

As I perused this I felt myself growing gradually smaller and
smaller, and when I came to the point at which the editor sneered
at the poem as “verses” there was little more than an ounce of me
left. As for “Oppodeldoc,” I began to experience _compassion_ for
the poor fellow. But the “Goosetherumfoodle” showed, if possible,
less mercy than the “Lollipop.” It was the “Goosetherumfoodle”
that said:

“A wretched poetaster, who signs himself ‘Oppodeldoc,’ is silly
enough to fancy that _we_ will print and _pay for_ a medley of
incoherent and ungrammatical bombast which he has transmitted to
us, and which commences with the following most _intelligible_
line:

‘Hail, Holy Light! Offspring of Heaven, first born.’

“We say, ‘most _intelligible_.’ ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,)
will be kind enough to tell us, perhaps, how ‘_hail_’ can be
‘_holy light_’ We always regarded it as _frozen rain_. Will he
inform us, also, how frozen rain can be, at one and the same
time, both ‘holy light,’ (whatever that is,) and an
‘offspring?’—which latter term, (if we understand any thing about
English,) is only employed, with propriety, in reference to small
babies of about six weeks old. But it is preposterous to descant
upon such absurdity—although ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) has
the unparalleled effrontery to suppose that we will not only
‘insert’ his ignorant ravings, but (absolutely) _pay for them!_

“Now this is fine—it is rich!—and we have half a mind to punish
this young scribbler for his egotism, by really publishing his
effusion, _verbatim et literatim_, as he has written it. We could
inflict no punishment so severe, and we _would_ inflict it, but
for the boredom which we should cause our readers in so doing.

“Let ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) send any future _composition_
of like character to the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the
‘Rowdy-Dow,’ _They_ will ‘insert’ it. _They_ ‘insert’ every month
just such stuff. Send it to them. WE are not to be insulted with
impunity.”

This made an end of me; and as for the “Hum-Drum,” the
“Rowdy-Dow,” and the “Lollipop,” I never could comprehend how
they survived it. The putting _them_ in the smallest possible
_minion_, (that was the rub—thereby insinuating their
lowness—their baseness,) while WE stood looking down upon them in
gigantic capitals!—oh it was _too_ bitter!—it was wormwood—it was
gall. Had I been either of these periodicals I would have spared
no pains to have the “Goosetherumfoodle” prosecuted. It might
have been done under the Act for the “Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals.” As for “Oppodeldoc,” (whoever he was), I had by this
time lost all patience with the fellow, and sympathized with him
no longer. He was a fool, beyond doubt, (whoever he was,) and got
not a kick more than he deserved.

The result of my experiment with the old books, convinced me, in
the first place, that “honesty is the best policy,” and, in the
second, that if I could not write better than Mr. Dante, and the
two blind men, and the rest of the old set, it would, at least,
be a difficult matter to write worse. I took heart, therefore,
and determined to prosecute the “entirely original,” (as they say
on the covers of the magazines,) at whatever cost of study and
pains. I again placed before my eyes, as a model, the brilliant
stanzas on “The Oil-of-Bob” by the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” and
resolved to construct an ode on the same sublime theme, in
rivalry of what had already been done.

With my first verse I had no material difficulty. It ran thus:

“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’”

Having carefully looked out, however, all the legitimate rhymes
to “Bob,” I found it impossible to proceed. In this dilemma I had
recourse to paternal aid; and, after some hours of mature
thought, my father and myself thus constructed the poem:

_“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob’
Is all sorts of a job._
“(Signed) Snob.”

To be sure, this composition was of no very great length—but I
“have yet to learn” as they say in the Edinburgh Review, that the
mere extent of a literary work has any thing to do with its
merit. As for the Quarterly cant about “sustained effort,” it is
impossible to see the sense of it. Upon the whole, therefore, I
was satisfied with the success of my maiden attempt, and now the
only question regarded the disposal I should make of it. My
father suggested that I should send it to the “Gad-Fly”—but there
were two reasons which operated to prevent me from so doing. I
dreaded the jealousy of the editor—and I had ascertained that he
did not pay for original contributions. I therefore, after due
deliberation, consigned the article to the more dignified pages
of the “Lollipop,” and awaited the event in anxiety, but with
resignation.

In the very next published number I had the proud satisfaction of
seeing my poem printed at length, as the leading article, with
the following significant words, prefixed in italics and between
brackets:

_We call the attention of our readers to the subjoined admirable
stanza on “The Oil of Bob.” We need say nothing of their
sublimity, or their pathos:—it is impossible to peruse them
without tears. Those who have been nauseated with a sad dose on
the same august topic from the goose quill of the editor of the
“Gad Fly” will do well to compare the two compositions._

P. S.—We are consumed with anxiety to probe the mystery which
envelops the evident pseudonym “Snob.” May we hope for a personal
interview?

All this was scarcely more than justice, but it was, I confess,
rather more than I had expected:—I acknowledged this, be it
observed, to the everlasting disgrace of my country and of
mankind. I lost no time, however, in calling upon the editor of
the “Lollipop,” and had the good fortune to find this gentleman
at home. He saluted me with an air of profound respect, slightly
blended with a fatherly and patronizing admiration, wrought in
him, no doubt, by my appearance of extreme youth and
inexperience. Begging me to be seated, he entered at once upon
the subject of my poem;—but modesty will ever forbid me to repeat
the thousand compliments which he lavished upon me. The eulogies
of Mr. Crab, (such was the editor’s name,) were, however, by no
means fulsomely indiscriminate. He analyzed my composition with
much freedom and great ability—not hesitating to point out a few
trivial defects—a circumstance which elevated him highly in my
esteem. The “Gad-Fly” was, of course, brought upon the _tapis_,
and I hope never to be subjected to a criticism so searching, or
to rebukes so withering, as were bestowed by Mr. Crab upon that
unhappy effusion. I had been accustomed to regard the editor of
the “Gad-Fly” as something superhuman; but Mr. Crab soon
disabused me of that idea. He set the literary as well as the
personal character of the Fly (so Mr. C. satirically designated
the rival editor,) in its true light. He, the Fly, was very
little better than he should be. He had written infamous things.
He was a penny-a-liner, and a buffoon. He was a villain. He had
composed a tragedy which set the whole country in a guffaw, and a
farce which deluged the universe in tears. Besides all this, he
had the impudence to pen what he meant for a lampoon upon
himself, (Mr. Crab,) and the temerity to style him “an ass.”
Should I at any time wish to express my opinion of Mr. Fry, the
pages of the “Lollipop,” Mr. Crab assured me, were at my
unlimited disposal. In the meantime, as it was very certain that
I would be attacked in the Fly for my attempt at composing a
rival poem on the “Oil-of-Bob,” he (Mr. Crab,) would take it upon
himself to attend, pointedly, to my private and personal
interests. If I were not made a man of at once, it should not be
the fault of himself, (Mr. Crab.)

Mr. Crab having now paused in his discourse, (the latter portion
of which I found it impossible to comprehend,) I ventured to
suggest something about the remuneration which I had been taught
to expect for my poem, by an announcement on the cover of the
“Lollipop,” declaring that it, (the “Lollipop,”) “insisted upon
being permitted to pay exorbitant prices for all accepted
contributions—frequently expending more money for a single brief
poem than the whole annual cost of the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the
‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle’ combined.”

As I mentioned the word “remuneration,” Mr. Crab first opened his
eyes, and then his mouth, to quite a remarkable extent; causing
his personal appearance to resemble that of a highly-agitated
elderly duck in the act of quacking; and in this condition he
remained, (ever and anon pressing his hands tightly to his
forehead, as if in a state of desperate bewilderment) until I had
nearly made an end of what I had to say.

Upon my conclusion, he sank back into his seat, as if much
overcome, letting his arms fall lifelessly by his side, but
keeping his mouth still rigorously open, after the fashion of the
duck. While I remained in speechless astonishment at behavior so
alarming, he suddenly leaped to his feet and made a rush at the
bell-rope; but just as he reached this, he appeared to have
altered his intention, whatever it was, for he dived under a
table and immediately re-appeared with a cudgel. This he was in
the act of uplifting, (for what purpose I am at a loss to
imagine,) when, all at once, there came a benign smile over his
features, and he sank placidly back in his chair.

“Mr. Bob,” he said, (for I had sent up my card before ascending
myself,) “Mr. Bob, you are a young man, I presume—_very?_”

I assented; adding that I had not yet concluded my third lustrum.

“Ah!” he replied, “very good! I see how it is—say no more!
Touching this matter of compensation, what you observe is very
just: in fact it is excessively so. But ah—ah—the _first_
contribution—the _first_, I say,—it is never the Magazine custom
to pay for—you comprehend, eh? The truth is, we are usually the
_recipients_ in such case.” [Mr. Crab smiled blandly as he
emphasized the word “recipients.”] “For the most part, we are
_paid_ for the insertion of a maiden attempt—especially in verse.
In the second place, Mr. Bob, the Magazine rule is never to
disburse what we term in France the _argent comptant_—I have no
doubt you understand. In a quarter or two after publication of
the article—or in a year or two—we make no objection to giving
our note at nine months; provided always that we can so arrange
our affairs as to be quite certain of a ‘burst up’ in six. I
really _do_ hope, Mr. Bob, that you will look upon this
explanation as satisfactory.” Here Mr. Crab concluded, and the
tears stood in his eyes.

Grieved to the soul at having been, however innocently, the cause
of pain to so eminent and so sensitive a man, I hastened to
apologize, and to reassure him, by expressing my perfect
coincidence with his views, as well as my entire appreciation of
the delicacy of his position. Having done all this in a neat
speech, I took leave.

One fine morning, very shortly afterwards, “I awoke and found
myself famous.” The extent of my renown will be best estimated by
reference to the editorial opinions of the day. These opinions,
it will be seen, were embodied in critical notices of the number
of the “Lollipop” containing my poem, and are perfectly
satisfactory, conclusive and clear with the exception, perhaps,
of the hieroglyphical marks, “_Sep_. 15—1 t.” appended to each of
the critiques.

The “Owl,” a journal of profound sagacity, and well known for the
deliberate gravity of its literary decisions—the “Owl,” I say,
spoke as follows:

“‘The Lollipop!’ The October number of this delicious Magazine
surpasses its predecessors, and sets competition at defiance. In
the beauty of its typography and paper—in the number and
excellence of its steel plates—as well as in the literary merit
of its contributions—the ‘Lollipop’ compares with its slow-paced
rivals as Hyperion with a Satyr. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’
and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ excel, it is true, in braggadocio,
but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this
celebrated journal can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses,
is more than we can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation
of 100,000, and its subscription-list has increased one-fourth
during the last month; but, on the other hand, the sums it
disburses constantly for contributions are inconceivable. It is
reported that Mr. Slyass received no less than thirty-seven and a
half cents for his inimitable paper on ‘Pigs.’ With Mr. Crab, as
editor, and with such names upon the list of contributors as Snob
and Slyass, there can be no such word as ‘fail’ for the
Lollipop.’ Go and subscribe. _Sep_. 15—1 _t.”_

I must say that I was gratified with this high-toned notice from
a paper so respectable as the “Owl.” The placing my name—that is
to say, my _nom de guerre_—in priority of station to that of the
great Slyass, was a compliment as happy as I felt it to be
deserved.

My attention was next arrested by these paragraphs in the
“Toad”—a print highly distinguished for its uprightness, and
independence—for its entire freedom from sycophancy and
subservience to the givers of dinners:

“The ‘Lollipop’ for October is out in advance of all its
contemporaries, and infinitely surpasses them, of course, in the
splendor of its embellishments, as well as in the richness of its
literary contents. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the
‘Goosetherumfoodle’ excel, we admit, in braggadocio, but, in all
other points, give us the ‘Lollipop. How this celebrated Magazine
can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we
can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation of 200,000, and
its subscription list has increased one-third during the last
fortnight, but on the other hand, the sums it disburses, monthly,
for contributions, are fearfully great. We learn that Mr.
Mumblethumb received no less than fifty cents for his late
‘Monody in a Mud-Puddle.’

“Among the original contributors to the present number we notice,
(besides the eminent editor, Mr. Crab,) such men as Snob, Slyass,
and Mumblethumb. Apart from the editorial matter, the most
valuable paper, nevertheless, is, we think, a poetical gem by
Snob, on the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—but our readers must not suppose from
the title of this incomparable _bijou_, that it bears any
similitude to some balderdash on the same subject by a certain
contemptible individual whose name is unmentionable to ears
polite. The present poem ‘On the Oil-of-Bob,’ has excited
universal anxiety and curiosity in respect to the owner of the
evident pseudonym, ‘Snob’—a curiosity which, happily, we have it
in our power to satisfy. ‘Snob’ is the nom de plume of Mr.
Thingum Bob, of this city,—a relative of the great Mr. Thingum,
(after whom he is named,) and otherwise connected with the most
illustrious families of the State. His father, Thomas Bob, Esq.,
is an opulent merchant in Smug. _Sep_. 15—1 _t.”_

This generous approbation touched me to the heart—the more
especially as it emanated from a source so avowedly—so
proverbially pure as the “Toad.” The word “balderdash,” as
applied to the “Oil-of-Bob” of the Fly, I considered singularly
pungent and appropriate. The words “gem” and “_bijou_,” however,
used in reference to my composition, struck me as being, in some
degree, feeble, and seemed to me to be deficient in force. They
were not sufficiently _prononcés_, (as we have it in France).

I had hardly finished reading the “Toad,” when a friend placed in
my hands a copy of the “Mole,” a daily, enjoying high reputation
for the keenness of its perception about matters in general, and
for the open, honest, above-ground style of its editorials. The
“Mole” spoke of the “Lollipop” as follows:

“We have just received the ‘Lollipop’ for October, and must say
that never before have we perused any single number of any
periodical which afforded us a felicity so supreme. We speak
advisedly. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow’ and the
‘Goosetherumfoodle’ must look well to their laurels. These
prints, no doubt, surpass every thing in loudness of pretension,
but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this
celebrated Magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous
expenses, is more than we can comprehend. To be sure, it has a
circulation of 300,000 and its subscription-list has increased
one-half within the last week, but then the sum it disburses,
monthly, for contributions, is astoundingly enormous. We have it
upon good authority, that Mr. Fatquack received no less than
sixty-two cents and a half for his late domestic nouvelette, the
‘Dish-Clout.’

“The contributors to the number before us are Mr. Crab, (the
eminent editor,) Snob, Mumblethumb, Fatquack, and others; but,
after the inimitable compositions of the editor himself, we
prefer a diamond-like effusion from the pen of a rising poet who
writes over the signature ‘Snob’—a nom de guerre which we predict
will one day extinguish the radiance of ‘Boz.’ ‘Snob,’ we learn,
is a Mr. Thingum Bob, Esq., sole heir of a wealthy merchant of
this city, Thomas Bob, Esq., and a near relative of the
distinguished Mr. Thingum. The title of Mr. B.‘s admirable poem
is the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—a somewhat unfortunate name, by-the-by, as
some contemptible vagabond connected with the penny press has
already disgusted the town with a great deal of drivel upon the
same topic. There will be no danger, however, of confounding the
compositions. Sep. 15—1 t.”

The generous approbation of so clear-sighted a journal as the
“Mole” penetrated my soul with delight. The only objection which
occurred to me was, that the terms “contemptible vagabond” might
have been better written “_odious and_ contemptible _wretch,
villain and_ vagabond.” This would have sounded more gracefully,
I think. “Diamond-like,” also, was scarcely, it will be admitted,
of sufficient intensity to express what the “Mole” evidently
_thought_ of the brilliancy of the “Oil-of-Bob.”

On the same afternoon in which I saw these notices in the “Owl,”
the “Toad,” and the “Mole” I happened to meet with a copy of the
“Daddy-Long-Legs,” a periodical proverbial for the extreme extent
of its understanding. And it was the “Daddy-Long-Legs” which
spoke thus: