Chapter III: Part 3

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:

“The ‘Lollipop!!’ This gorgeous magazine is already before the
public for October. The question of preeminence is forever put to
rest, and hereafter it will be excessively preposterous in the
‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ to make
any farther spasmodic attempts at competition. These journals may
excel the ‘Lollipop’ in outcry, but, in all other points, give us
the ‘Lollipop!’ How this celebrated Magazine can sustain its
evidently tremendous expenses, is past comprehension. To be sure
it has a circulation of precisely half a million, and its
subscription-list has increased seventy-five per cent, within the
last couple of days; but then the sums it disburses, monthly, for
contributions, are scarcely credible; we are cognizant of the
fact, that Mademoiselle Cribalittle received no less than
eighty-seven cents and a half for her late valuable Revolutionary
Tale, entitled ‘The York-Town Katy-Did, and the Bunker-Hill
Katy-Didn’t.’

“The most able papers in the present number, are, of course,
those furnished by the editor, (the eminent Mr. Crab,) but there
are numerous magnificent contributions from such names as Snob,
Mademoiselle Cribalittle, Slyass, Mrs. Fibalittle, Mumblethumb,
Mrs. Squibalittle, and last, though not least, Fatquack. The
world may well be challenged to produce so rich a galaxy of
genius.

“The poem over the signature ‘Snob’ is, we find, attracting
universal commendation, and, we are constrained to say, deserves,
if possible, even more applause than it has received. The
‘Oil-of-Bob’ is the title of this masterpiece of eloquence and
art. One or two of our readers _may_ have a _very_ faint,
although sufficiently disgusting recollection of a poem (?)
similarly entitled, the perpetration of a miserable
penny-a-liner, mendicant, and cut-throat, connected in the
capacity of scullion, we believe, with one of the indecent prints
about the purlieus of the city; we beg them, for God’s sake, not
to confound the compositions. The author of the ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is,
we hear, Thingum Bob, Esq., a gentleman of high genius, and a
scholar. ‘Snob’ is merely a _nom-de-guerre. Sept_. 15—1 _t.”_

I could scarcely restrain my indignation while I perused the
concluding portions of this diatribe. It was clear to me that the
yea-nay manner—not to say the gentleness—the positive forbearance
with which the “Daddy-Long-Legs” spoke of that pig, the editor of
the “Gad-Fly”—it was evident to me, I say, that this gentleness
of speech could proceed from nothing else than a partiality for
the Fly—whom it was clearly the intention of the
“Daddy-Long-Legs” to elevate into reputation at my expense. Any
one, indeed, might perceive, with half an eye, that, had the real
design of the “Daddy” been what it wished to appear, it, (the
“Daddy”) might have expressed itself in terms more direct, more
pungent, and altogether more to the purpose. The words
“penny-a-liner,” “mendicant,” “scullion,” and “cut-throat,” were
epithets so intentionally inexpressive and equivocal, as to be
worse than nothing when applied to the author of the very worst
stanzas ever penned by one of the human race. We all know what is
meant by “damning with faint praise,” and, on the other hand, who
could fail seeing through the covert purpose of the “Daddy”—that
of glorifying with feeble abuse?

What the “Daddy” chose to say of the Fly, however, was no
business of mine. What it said of myself _was_. After the noble
manner in which the “Owl,” the “Toad,” the “Mole,” had expressed
themselves in respect to my ability, it was rather too much to be
coolly spoken of by a thing like the “Daddy-Long-Legs,” as merely
“a gentleman of high genius and a scholar.” Gentleman indeed! I
made up my mind at once, either to get a written apology from the
“Daddy-Long-Legs,” or to call it out.

Full of this purpose, I looked about me to find a friend whom I
could entrust with a message to his Daddyship, and as the editor
of the “Lollipop” had given me marked tokens of regard, I at
length concluded to seek assistance upon the present occasion.

I have never yet been able to account, in a manner satisfactory
to my own understanding, for the _very_ peculiar countenance and
demeanor with which Mr. Crab listened to me, as I unfolded to him
my design. He again went through the scene of the bell-rope and
cudgel, and did not omit the duck. At one period I thought he
really intended to quack. His fit, nevertheless, finally subsided
as before, and he began to act and speak in a rational way. He
declined bearing the cartel, however, and in fact, dissuaded me
from sending it at all; but was candid enough to admit that the
“Daddy-Long-Legs” had been disgracefully in the wrong—more
especially in what related to the epithets “gentleman and
scholar.”

Towards the end of this interview with Mr. Crab, who really
appeared to take a paternal interest in my welfare, he suggested
to me that I might turn an honest penny, and, at the same time,
advance my reputation, by occasionally playing Thomas Hawk for
the “Lollipop.”

I begged Mr. Crab to inform me who was Mr. Thomas Hawk, and how
it was expected that I should play him.

Here Mr. Crab again “made great eyes,” (as we say in Germany,)
but at length, recovering himself from a profound attack of
astonishment, he assured me that he employed the words “Thomas
Hawk” to avoid the colloquialism, Tommy, which was low—but that
the true idea was Tommy Hawk—or tomahawk—and that by “playing
tomahawk” he referred to scalping, brow-beating and otherwise
using-up the herd of poor-devil authors.

I assured my patron that, if this was all, I was perfectly
resigned to the task of playing Thomas Hawk. Hereupon Mr. Crab
desired me to use-up the editor of the “Gad-Fly” forthwith, in
the fiercest style within the scope of my ability, and as a
specimen of my powers. This I did, upon the spot, in a review of
the original “Oil-of-Bob,” occupying thirty-six pages of the
“Lollipop.” I found playing Thomas Hawk, indeed, a far less
onerous occupation than poetizing; for I went upon _system_
altogether, and thus it was easy to do the thing thoroughly and
well. My practice was this. I bought auction copies (cheap) of
“Lord Brougham’s Speeches,” “Cobbett’s Complete Works,” the “New
Slang-Syllabus,” the “Whole Art of Snubbing,” “Prentice’s
Billingsgate” (folio edition,) and “Lewis G. Clarke on Tongue.”
These works I cut up thoroughly with a currycomb, and then,
throwing the shreds into a sieve, sifted out carefully all that
might be thought decent, (a mere trifle); reserving the hard
phrases, which I threw into a large tin pepper-castor with
longitudinal holes, so that an entire sentence could get through
without material injury. The mixture was then ready for use. When
called upon to play Thomas Hawk, I anointed a sheet of fools-cap
with the white of a gander’s egg; then, shredding the thing to be
reviewed as I had previously shredded the books,—only with more
care, so as to get every word separate—I threw the latter shreds
in with the former, screwed on the lid of the castor, gave it a
shake, and so dusted out the mixture upon the egged foolscap;
where it stuck. The effect was beautiful to behold. It was
captivating. Indeed, the reviews I brought to pass by this simple
expedient have never been approached, and were the wonder of the
world. At first, through bashfulness—the result of inexperience—I
was a little put out by a certain inconsistency—a certain air of
the _bizarre_, (as we say in France,) worn by the composition as
a whole. All the phrases did not _fit_, (as we say in the
Anglo-Saxon). Many were quite awry. Some, even, were
up-side-down; and there were none of them which were not, in some
measure, injured in regard to effect, by this latter species of
accident, when it occurred—with the exception of Mr. Lewis
Clarke’s paragraphs, which were so vigorous, and altogether
stout, that they seemed not particularly disconcerted by any
extreme of position, but looked equally happy and satisfactory,
whether on their heads, or on their heels.

What became of the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” after the publication
of my criticism on his “Oil-of-Bob,” it is somewhat difficult to
determine. The most reasonable conclusion is, that he wept
himself to death. At all events he disappeared instantaneously
from the face of the earth, and no man has seen even the ghost of
him since.

This matter having been properly accomplished, and the Furies
appeased, I grew at once into high favor with Mr. Crab. He took
me into his confidence, gave me a permanent situation as Thomas
Hawk of the “Lollipop,” and, as for the present, he could afford
me no salary, allowed me to profit, at discretion, by his advice.

“My dear Thingum,” said he to me one day after dinner, “I respect
your abilities and love you as a son. You shall be my heir. When
I die I will bequeath you the ‘Lollipop.’ In the meantime I will
make a man of you—I _will_—provided always that you follow my
counsel. The first thing to do is to get rid of the old bore.”

“Boar?” said I inquiringly—“pig, eh?—_aper?_ (as we say in
Latin)—who?—where?”

“Your father,” said he.

“Precisely,” I replied,—“pig.”

“You have your fortune to make, Thingum,” resumed Mr. Crab, “and
that governor of yours is a millstone about your neck. We must
cut him at once.” [Here I took out my knife.] “We must cut him,”
continued Mr. Crab, “decidedly and forever. He won’t do—he
_won’t_. Upon second thoughts, you had better kick him, or cane
him, or something of that kind.”

“What do you say,” I suggested modestly, “to my kicking him in
the first instance, caning him afterwards, and winding up by
tweaking his nose?”

Mr. Crab looked at me musingly for some moments, and then
answered:

“I think, Mr. Bob, that what you propose would answer
sufficiently well—indeed remarkably well—that is to say, as far
as it went—but barbers are exceedingly hard to cut, and I think,
upon the whole, that, having performed upon Thomas Bob the
operations you suggest, it would be advisable to blacken, with
your fists, both his eyes, very carefully and thoroughly, to
prevent his ever seeing you again in fashionable promenades.
After doing this, I really do not perceive that you can do any
more. However—it might be just as well to roll him once or twice
in the gutter, and then put him in charge of the police. Any time
the next morning you can call at the watch-house and swear an
assault.”

I was much affected by the kindness of feeling towards me
personally, which was evinced in this excellent advice of Mr.
Crab, and I did not fail to profit by it forthwith. The result
was, that I got rid of the old bore, and began to feel a little
independent and gentleman-like. The want of money, however, was,
for a few weeks, a source of some discomfort; but at length, by
carefully putting to use my two eyes, and observing how matters
went just in front of my nose, I perceived how the thing was to
be brought about. I say “thing”—be it observed—for they tell me
the Latin for it is _rem_. By the way, talking of Latin, can any
one tell me the meaning of _quocunque_—or what is the meaning of
_modo?_

My plan was exceedingly simple. I bought, for a song, a sixteenth
of the “Snapping-Turtle”:—that was all. The thing was _done_, and
I put money in my purse. There were some trivial arrangements
afterwards, to be sure; but these formed no portion of the plan.
They were a consequence—a result. For example, I bought pen, ink,
and paper, and put them into furious activity. Having thus
completed a Magazine article, I gave it, for appellation,
“Fol-Lol, _by the Author of_ ‘The Oil-of-Bob,’” and enveloped it
to the “Goosetherumfoodle.” That journal, however, having
pronounced it “twattle” in the “Monthly Notices to
Correspondents,” I reheaded the paper “‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle,’ by
Thingum Bob, Esq., Author of the Ode on ‘The Oil-of-Bob,’ _and_
Editor of the ‘Snapping-Turtle.’” With this amendment, I
re-enclosed it to the “Goosetherumfoodle,” and, while I awaited a
reply, published daily, in the “Turtle,” six columns of what may
be termed philosophical and analytical investigation of the
literary merits of the “Goosetherumfoodle,” as well as of the
personal character of the editor of the “Goosetherumfoodle.” At
the end of a week the “Goosetherumfoodle” discovered that it had,
by some odd mistake, “confounded a stupid article, headed
‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle’ and composed by some unknown ignoramus, with
a gem of resplendent lustre similarly entitled, the work of
Thingum Bob, Esq., the celebrated author of ‘The Oil-of-Bob.’”
The “Goosetherumfoodle” deeply “regretted this very natural
accident,” and promised, moreover, an insertion of the _genuine_
“Hey-Diddle-Diddle” in the very next number of the Magazine.

The fact is, I _thought_—I _really_ thought—I thought at the
time—I thought _then_—and have no reason for thinking otherwise
_now_—that the “Goosetherumfoodle” _did_ make a mistake. With the
best intentions in the world, I never knew any thing that made as
many singular mistakes as the “Goosetherumfoodle.” From that day
I took a liking to the “Goosetherumfoodle,” and the result was I
soon saw into the very depths of its literary merits, and did not
fail to expatiate upon them, in the “Turtle,” whenever a fitting
opportunity occurred. And it is to be regarded as a very peculiar
coincidence—as one of those positively _remarkable_ coincidences
which set a man to serious thinking—that just such a total
revolution of opinion—just such entire _bouleversement_, (as we
say in French,)—just such thorough _topsiturviness_, (if I may be
permitted to employ a rather forcible term of the Choctaws,) as
happened, _pro_ and _con_, between myself on the one part, and
the “Goosetherumfoodle” on the other, did actually again happen,
in a brief period afterwards, and with precisely similar
circumstances, in the case of myself and the “Rowdy-Dow,” and in
the case of myself and the “Hum-Drum.”

Thus it was that, by a master-stroke of genius, I at length
consummated my triumphs by “putting money in my purse,” and thus
may be said really and fairly to have commenced that brilliant
and eventful career which rendered me illustrious, and which now
enables me to say, with Chateaubriand, “I have made
history”—“_J’ai fait l’histoire_.”

I have indeed “made history.” From the bright epoch which I now
record, my actions—my works—are the property of mankind. They are
familiar to the world. It is, then, needless for me to detail
how, soaring rapidly, I fell heir to the “Lollipop”—how I merged
this journal in the “Hum-Drum”—how again I made purchase of the
“Rowdy-Dow,” thus combining the three periodicals—how, lastly, I
effected a bargain for the sole remaining rival, and united all
the literature of the country in one magnificent Magazine, known
everywhere as the

“Rowdy-Dow, Lollipop, Hum-Drum,
and
goosetherumfoodle.”

Yes; I have made history. My fame is universal. It extends to the
uttermost ends of the earth. You cannot take up a common
newspaper in which you shall not see some allusion to the
immortal Thingum Bob. It is Mr. Thingum Bob said so, and Mr.
Thingum Bob wrote this, and Mr. Thingum Bob did that. But I am
meek and expire with an humble heart. After all, what is it?—this
indescribable something which men will persist in terming
“genius?” I agree with Buffon—with Hogarth—it is but _diligence_
after all.

Look at _me!_—how I labored—how I toiled—how I wrote! Ye Gods,
did I _not_ write? I knew not the word “ease.” By day I adhered
to my desk, and at night, a pale student, I consumed the midnight
oil. You should have seen me—you _should_. I leaned to the right.
I leaned to the left. I sat forward. I sat backward. I sat upon
end. I sat _tete baissée_, (as they have it in the Kickapoo,)
bowing my head close to the alabaster page. And, through all,
I—_wrote_. Through joy and through sorrow, I—_wrote_. Through
hunger and through thirst, I—_wrote_. Through good report and
through ill report, I—_wrote_. Through sunshine and through
moonshine, I—_wrote. What_ I wrote it is unnecessary to say. The
_style!_—that was the thing. I caught it from
Fatquack—whizz!—fizz!—— and I am giving you a specimen of it now.

HOW TO WRITE A “BLACKWOOD” ARTICLE

“In the name of the Prophet—figs!!”
—_Cry of the Turkish fig-peddler._

I presume everybody has heard of me. My name is the Signora
Psyche Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. Nobody but my enemies
ever calls me Suky Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a
vulgar corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek, and means “the
soul” (that’s me, I’m all soul) and sometimes “a butterfly,”
which latter meaning undoubtedly alludes to my appearance in my
new crimson satin dress, with the sky-blue Arabian mantelet, and
the trimmings of green agraffas, and the seven flounces of
orange-colored auriculas. As for Snobbs—any person who should
look at me would be instantly aware that my name wasn’t Snobbs.
Miss Tabitha Turnip propagated that report through sheer envy.
Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little wretch! But what can we
expect from a turnip? Wonder if she remembers the old adage about
“blood out of a turnip,” &c.? [Mem. put her in mind of it the
first opportunity.] [Mem. again—pull her nose.] Where was I? Ah!
I have been assured that Snobbs is a mere corruption of Zenobia,
and that Zenobia was a queen—(So am I. Dr. Moneypenny always
calls me the Queen of the Hearts)—and that Zenobia, as well as
Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was “a Greek,” and that
consequently I have a right to our patronymic, which is Zenobia
and not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls me
Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia.

As I said before, everybody has heard of me. I am that very
Signora Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding
secretary to the “Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total,
Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical,
Association, To, Civilize, Humanity.” Dr. Moneypenny made the
title for us, and says he chose it because it sounded big like an
empty rum-puncheon. (A vulgar man that sometimes—but he’s deep.)
We all sign the initials of the society after our names, in the
fashion of the R. S. A., Royal Society of Arts—the S. D. U. K.,
Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, &c, &c. Dr.
Moneypenny says that S. stands for stale, and that D. U. K.
spells duck, (but it don’t,) that S. D. U. K. stands for Stale
Duck and not for Lord Brougham’s society—but then Dr. Moneypenny
is such a queer man that I am never sure when he is telling me
the truth. At any rate we always add to our names the initials P.
R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H.—that is to say,
Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles,
Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association,
To, Civilize, Humanity—one letter for each word, which is a
decided improvement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will have
it that our initials give our true character—but for my life I
can’t see what he means.

Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the strenuous
exertions of the association to get itself into notice, it met
with no very great success until I joined it. The truth is, the
members indulged in too flippant a tone of discussion. The papers
read every Saturday evening were characterized less by depth than
buffoonery. They were all whipped syllabub. There was no
investigation of first causes, first principles. There was no
investigation of any thing at all. There was no attention paid to
that great point, the “fitness of things.” In short there was no
fine writing like this. It was all low—very! No profundity, no
reading, no metaphysics—nothing which the learned call
spirituality, and which the unlearned choose to stigmatize as
cant. [Dr. M. says I ought to spell “cant” with a capital K—but I
know better.]

When I joined the society it was my endeavor to introduce a
better style of thinking and writing, and all the world knows how
well I have succeeded. We get up as good papers now in the P. R.
E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H. as any to be found even in
Blackwood. I say, Blackwood, because I have been assured that the
finest writing, upon every subject, is to be discovered in the
pages of that justly celebrated Magazine. We now take it for our
model upon all themes, and are getting into rapid notice
accordingly. And, after all, it’s not so very difficult a matter
to compose an article of the genuine Blackwood stamp, if one only
goes properly about it. Of course I don’t speak of the political
articles. Everybody knows how they are managed, since Dr.
Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair of
tailor’s-shears, and three apprentices who stand by him for
orders. One hands him the “Times,” another the “Examiner” and a
third a “Culley’s New Compendium of Slang-Whang.” Mr. B. merely
cuts out and intersperses. It is soon done—nothing but
“Examiner,” “Slang-Whang,” and “Times”—then “Times,”
“Slang-Whang,” and “Examiner”—and then “Times,” “Examiner,” and
“Slang-Whang.”

But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its miscellaneous
articles; and the best of these come under the head of what Dr.
Moneypenny calls the bizarreries (whatever that may mean) and
what everybody else calls the intensities. This is a species of
writing which I have long known how to appreciate, although it is
only since my late visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed by the
society) that I have been made aware of the exact method of
composition. This method is very simple, but not so much so as
the politics. Upon my calling at Mr. B.‘s, and making known to
him the wishes of the society, he received me with great
civility, took me into his study, and gave me a clear explanation
of the whole process.

“My dear madam,” said he, evidently struck with my majestic
appearance, for I had on the crimson satin, with the green
agraffas, and orange-colored auriclas. “My dear madam,” said he,
“sit down. The matter stands thus: In the first place your writer
of intensities must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with
a very blunt nib. And, mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!” he
continued, after a pause, with the most expressive energy and
solemnity of manner, “mark me!—that pen—must—never be mended!
Herein, madam, lies the secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume
upon myself to say, that no individual, of however great genius
ever wrote with a good pen—understand me,—a good article. You may
take, it for granted, that when manuscript can be read it is
never worth reading. This is a leading principle in our faith, to
which if you cannot readily assent, our conference is at an end.”

He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the
conference, I assented to a proposition so very obvious, and one,
too, of whose truth I had all along been sufficiently aware. He
seemed pleased, and went on with his instructions.

“It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you
to any article, or set of articles, in the way of model or study,
yet perhaps I may as well call your attention to a few cases. Let
me see. There was ‘The Dead Alive,’ a capital thing!—the record
of a gentleman’s sensations when entombed before the breath was
out of his body—full of tastes, terror, sentiment, metaphysics,
and erudition. You would have sworn that the writer had been born
and brought up in a coffin. Then we had the ‘Confessions of an
Opium-eater’—fine, very fine!—glorious imagination—deep
philosophy acute speculation—plenty of fire and fury, and a good
spicing of the decidedly unintelligible. That was a nice bit of
flummery, and went down the throats of the people delightfully.
They would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper—but not so. It
was composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of Hollands
and water, ‘hot, without sugar.’” [This I could scarcely have
believed had it been anybody but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of
it.] “Then there was ‘The Involuntary Experimentalist,’ all about
a gentleman who got baked in an oven, and came out alive and
well, although certainly done to a turn. And then there was ‘The
Diary of a Late Physician,’ where the merit lay in good rant, and
indifferent Greek—both of them taking things with the public. And
then there was ‘The Man in the Bell,’ a paper by-the-by, Miss
Zenobia, which I cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention.
It is the history of a young person who goes to sleep under the
clapper of a church bell, and is awakened by its tolling for a
funeral. The sound drives him mad, and, accordingly, pulling out
his tablets, he gives a record of his sensations. Sensations are
the great things after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung,
be sure and make a note of your sensations—they will be worth to
you ten guineas a sheet. If you wish to write forcibly, Miss
Zenobia, pay minute attention to the sensations.”

“That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood,” said I.

“Good!” he replied. “I see you are a pupil after my own heart.
But I must put you au fait to the details necessary in composing
what may be denominated a genuine Blackwood article of the
sensation stamp—the kind which you will understand me to say I
consider the best for all purposes.

“The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape
as no one ever got into before. The oven, for instance,—that was
a good hit. But if you have no oven or big bell, at hand, and if
you cannot conveniently tumble out of a balloon, or be swallowed
up in an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney, you will
have to be contented with simply imagining some similar
misadventure. I should prefer, however, that you have the actual
fact to bear you out. Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an
experimental knowledge of the matter in hand. ‘Truth is strange,’
you know, ‘stranger than fiction’—besides being more to the
purpose.”

Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would
go and hang myself forthwith.

“Good!” he replied, “do so;—although hanging is somewhat
hacknied. Perhaps you might do better. Take a dose of Brandreth’s
pills, and then give us your sensations. However, my instructions
will apply equally well to any variety of misadventure, and in
your way home you may easily get knocked in the head, or run over
by an omnibus, or bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a gutter.
But to proceed.

“Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the
tone, or manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic,
the tone enthusiastic, the tone natural—all commonplace enough.
But then there is the tone laconic, or curt, which has lately
come much into use. It consists in short sentences. Somehow thus:
Can’t be too brief. Can’t be too snappish. Always a full stop.
And never a paragraph.

“Then there is the tone elevated, diffusive, and interjectional.
Some of our best novelists patronize this tone. The words must be
all in a whirl, like a humming-top, and make a noise very
similar, which answers remarkably well instead of meaning. This
is the best of all possible styles where the writer is in too
great a hurry to think.

“The tone metaphysical is also a good one. If you know any big
words this is your chance for them. Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic
schools—of Archytas, Gorgias, and Alcmaeon. Say something about
objectivity and subjectivity. Be sure and abuse a man named
Locke. Turn up your nose at things in general, and when you let
slip any thing a little too absurd, you need not be at the
trouble of scratching it out, but just add a footnote and say
that you are indebted for the above profound observation to the
‘Kritik der reinem Vernunft,’ or to the ‘Metaphysithe
Anfongsgrunde der Noturwissenchaft.’ This would look erudite
and—and—and frank.

“There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall
mention only two more—the tone transcendental and the tone
heterogeneous. In the former the merit consists in seeing into
the nature of affairs a very great deal farther than anybody
else. This second sight is very efficient when properly managed.
A little reading of the ‘Dial’ will carry you a great way.
Eschew, in this case, big words; get them as small as possible,
and write them upside down. Look over Channing’s poems and quote
what he says about a ‘fat little man with a delusive show of
Can.’ Put in something about the Supernal Oneness. Don’t say a
syllable about the Infernal Twoness. Above all, study innuendo.
Hint everything—assert nothing. If you feel inclined to say
‘bread and butter,’ do not by any means say it outright. You may
say any thing and every thing approaching to ‘bread and butter.’
You may hint at buck-wheat cake, or you may even go so far as to
insinuate oat-meal porridge, but if bread and butter be your real
meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any account to
say ‘bread and butter!’”

I assured him that I should never say it again as long as I
lived. He kissed me and continued: