by Edgar Allan Poe
(1850)
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 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 the 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 drawback 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 Dantes
"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 enacted 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 dispatched 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,' 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 Gooses 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
'off-spring'?- which latter term (if we understand anything
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 unparalled 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 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." 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 line 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
anything 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 on "The Oil-of-Bob." We need say nothing of
their sublimity, or of 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 acknowledge
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. Fly, 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
hinds 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 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"- 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 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. They seemed to me
to be deficient in force. They were not sufficiently prononces
(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
"Lollypop" 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 everything 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 Nouvellette, 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-bye, 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 graceful, 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
pre-eminence is forever put to rest, and hereafter it will be
preposterous in the 'Hum-Drum,' the 'Rowdy-Dow,' or the
'Goosetherumfoodle' to make any further 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. Sep.
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 to 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
scholar." Gentleman indeed! I made up my mind at once either to
get 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 "Daddy"ship,
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."
Toward 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 "Lollypop."
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 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 curry-comb, 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 foolscap 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
upside-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
Clarkes 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 afterward, 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
toward 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 in 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 afterward, 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 Thigum 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 Thigum 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 tete baissee (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.