APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/authors/poe/lit_life/LIT_LIFE

Text File | 1996-07-21 | 43.2 KB | 783 lines

                           1850
               LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ.
                               by Edgar Allan Poe

             LATE EDITOR OF THE "GOOSETHERUMFOODLE"
                         BY HIMSELF

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

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

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

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

"My dear Thingum," replied 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.



                           THE END