The Literary Life of Thingum Bob, Esq

LATE EDITOR OF THE “GOOSETHERUMFOODLE.”

By Himself

I am now growing in years, and—since I understand that

Shakespeare and Mr. Emmons are deceased—it is not impossible that

I may even die. It has occurred to me, therefore, that I may as

well retire from the field of Letters and repose upon my laurels.

But I am ambitious of signalizing my abdication of the literary

sceptre by some important bequest to posterity; and, perhaps, I

cannot do a better thing than just pen for it an account of my

earlier career. My name, indeed, has been so long and so

constantly before the public eye, that I am not only willing to

admit the naturalness of the interest which it has everywhere

excited, but ready to satisfy the extreme curiosity which it has

inspired. In fact, it is no more than the duty of him who

achieves greatness to leave behind him, in his ascent, such

landmarks as may guide others to be great. I propose, therefore,

in the present paper, (which I had some idea of calling

“Memoranda to serve for the Literary History of America,”) to

give a detail of those important, yet feeble and tottering first

steps, by which, at length, I attained the high road to the

pinnacle of human renown.

Of one’s very remote ancestors it is superfluous to say much. My

father, Thomas Bob, Esq., stood for many years at the summit of

his profession, which was that of a merchant-barber, in the city

of Smug. His warehouse was the resort of all the principal people

of the place, and especially of the editorial corps—a body which

inspires all about it with profound veneration and awe. For my

own part, I regarded them as gods, and drank in with avidity the

rich wit and wisdom which continuously flowed from their august

mouths during the process of what is styled “lather.” My first

moment of positive inspiration must be dated from that

ever-memorable epoch, when the brilliant conductor of the

“Gad-Fly,” in the intervals of the important process just

mentioned, recited aloud, before a conclave of our apprentices,

an inimitable poem in honor of the “Only Genuine Oil-of-Bob,” (so

called from its talented inventor, my father,) and for which

effusion the editor of the “Fly” was remunerated with a regal

liberality by the firm of Thomas Bob & company, merchant-barbers.

The genius of the stanzas to the “Oil-of-Bob” first breathed into

me, I say, the divine afflatus. I resolved at once to become a

great man, and to commence by becoming a great poet. That very

evening I fell upon my knees at the feet of my father.

“Father,” I said, “pardon me!—but I have a soul above lather. It

is my firm intention to cut the shop. I would be an editor—I

would be a poet—I would pen stanzas to the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’ Pardon

me and aid me to be great!”

“My dear Thingum,” replied my father, (I had been christened

Thingum after a wealthy relative so surnamed,) “My dear Thingum,”

he said, raising me from my knees by the ears—“Thingum, my boy,

you’re a trump, and take after your father in having a soul. You

have an immense head, too, and it must hold a great many brains.

This I have long seen, and therefore had thoughts of making you a

lawyer. The business, however, has grown ungenteel, and that of a

politician don’t pay. Upon the whole you judge wisely;—the trade

of editor is best:—and if you can be a poet at the same time,—as

most of the editors are, by the by,—why you will kill two birds

with one stone. To encourage you in the beginning of things, I

will allow you a garret; pen, ink, and paper; a rhyming

dictionary; and a copy of the ‘Gad-Fly.’ I suppose you would

scarcely demand any more.”

“I would be an ungrateful villain if I did,” I replied with

enthusiasm. “Your generosity is boundless. I will repay it by

making you the father of a genius.”

Thus ended my conference with the best of men, and immediately

upon its termination, I betook myself with zeal to my poetical

labors; as upon these, chiefly, I founded my hopes of ultimate

elevation to the editorial chair.

In my first attempts at composition I found the stanzas to “The

Oil-of-Bob” rather a draw-back than otherwise. Their splendor

more dazzled than enlightened me. The contemplation of their

excellence tended, naturally, to discourage me by comparison with

my own abortions; so that for a long time I labored in vain. At

length there came into my head one of those exquisitely original

ideas which now and then will permeate the brain of a man of

genius. It was this:—or, rather, thus was it carried into

execution. From the rubbish of an old book-stall, in a very

remote corner of the town, I got together several antique and

altogether unknown or forgotten volumes. The bookseller sold them

to me for a song. From one of these, which purported to be a

translation of one Dante’s “Inferno,” I copied with remarkable

neatness a long passage about a man named Ugolino, who had a

parcel of brats. From another which contained a good many old

plays by some person whose name I forget, I extracted in the same

manner, and with the same care, a great number of lines about

“angels” and “ministers saying grace,” and “goblins damned,” and

more besides of that sort. From a third, which was the

composition of some blind man or other, either a Greek or a

Choctaw—I cannot be at the pains of remembering every trifle

exactly—I took about fifty verses beginning with “Achilles’

wrath,” and “grease,” and something else. From a fourth, which I

recollect was also the work of a blind man, I selected a page or

two all about “hail” and “holy light”; and although a blind man

has no business to write about light, still the verses were

sufficiently good in their way.

Having made fair copies of these poems, I signed every one of

them “Oppodeldoc,” (a fine sonorous name,) and, doing each up

nicely in a separate envelope, I despatched one to each of the

four principal Magazines, with a request for speedy insertion and

prompt pay. The result of this well conceived plan, however, (the

success of which would have saved me much trouble in after life,)

served to convince me that some editors are not to be bamboozled,

and gave the coup-de-grace (as they say in France,) to my

nascent hopes, (as they say in the city of the transcendentals.)

The fact is, that each and every one of the Magazines in

question, gave Mr. “Oppodeldoc” a complete using-up, in the

“Monthly Notices to Correspondents.” The “Hum-Drum” gave him a

dressing after this fashion:

“‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) has sent us a long tirade

concerning a bedlamite whom he styles ‘Ugolino,’ who had a great

many children that should have been all whipped and sent to bed

without their suppers. The whole affair is exceedingly tame—not

to say flat. ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) is entirely devoid

of imagination—and imagination, in our humble opinion, is not

only the soul of Poesy, but also its very heart. ‘Oppodeldoc,’

(whoever he is,) has the audacity to demand of us, for his

twattle, a ‘speedy insertion and prompt pay.’ We neither insert

nor purchase any stuff of the sort. There can be no doubt,

however, that he would meet with a ready sale for all the

balderdash he can scribble, at the office of either the

‘Rowdy-Dow,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’”

All this, it must be acknowledged, was very severe upon

“Oppodeldoc”—but the unkindest cut was putting the word Poesy in

small caps. In those five pre-eminent letters what a world of

bitterness is there not involved!

But “Oppodeldoc” was punished with equal severity in the

“Rowdy-Dow,” which spoke thus:

“We have received a most singular and insolent communication from

a person (whoever he is,) signing himself ‘Oppodeldoc’—thus

desecrating the greatness of the illustrious Roman Emperor so

named. Accompanying the letter of ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,)

we find sundry lines of most disgusting and unmeaning rant about

‘angels and ministers of grace’—rant such as no madman short of a

Nat Lee, or an ‘Oppodeldoc,’ could possibly perpetrate. And for

this trash of trash, we are modestly requested to ‘pay promptly.’

No sir—no! We pay for nothing of that sort. Apply to the

‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’ These

periodicals will undoubtedly accept any literary offal you may

send them—and as undoubtedly promise to pay for it.”

This was bitter indeed upon poor “Oppodeldoc”; but, in this

instance, the weight of the satire falls upon the “Hum-drum,” the

“Lollipop,” and the “Goosetherumfoodle,” who are pungently styled

“periodicals”—in Italics, too—a thing that must have cut them

to the heart.

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

“Some individual, who rejoices in the appellation ‘Oppodeldoc,’

(to what low uses are the names of the illustrious dead too often

applied!) has enclosed us some fifty or sixty verses commencing

after this fashion:

Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful spring

Of woes unnumbered, &c., &c., &c., &c.

“‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) is respectfully informed that

there is not a printer’s devil in our office who is not in the

daily habit of composing better lines. Those of ‘Oppodeldoc’

will not scan. ‘Oppodeldoc’ should learn to count. But why he

should have conceived the idea that we, (of all others, we!)

would disgrace our pages with his ineffable nonsense, is utterly

beyond comprehension. Why, the absurd twattle is scarcely good

enough for the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ the

‘Goosetherumfoodle’—things that are in the practice of publishing

‘Mother Goose’s Melodies’ as original lyrics. And ‘Oppodeldoc’

(whoever he is,) has even the assurance to demand pay for this

drivel. Does ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) know—is he aware that

we could not be paid to insert it?”

As I perused this I felt myself growing gradually smaller and

smaller, and when I came to the point at which the editor sneered

at the poem as “verses” there was little more than an ounce of me

left. As for “Oppodeldoc,” I began to experience compassion for

the poor fellow. But the “Goosetherumfoodle” showed, if possible,

less mercy than the “Lollipop.” It was the “Goosetherumfoodle”

that said:

“A wretched poetaster, who signs himself ‘Oppodeldoc,’ is silly

enough to fancy that we will print and pay for a medley of

incoherent and ungrammatical bombast which he has transmitted to

us, and which commences with the following most intelligible

line:

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

“We say, ‘most intelligible.’ ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,)

will be kind enough to tell us, perhaps, how ‘hail’ can be

‘holy light’ We always regarded it as frozen rain. Will he

inform us, also, how frozen rain can be, at one and the same

time, both ‘holy light,’ (whatever that is,) and an

‘offspring?’—which latter term, (if we understand any thing about

English,) is only employed, with propriety, in reference to small

babies of about six weeks old. But it is preposterous to descant

upon such absurdity—although ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) has

the unparalleled effrontery to suppose that we will not only

‘insert’ his ignorant ravings, but (absolutely) pay for them!

“Now this is fine—it is rich!—and we have half a mind to punish

this young scribbler for his egotism, by really publishing his

effusion, verbatim et literatim, as he has written it. We could

inflict no punishment so severe, and we would inflict it, but

for the boredom which we should cause our readers in so doing.

“Let ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) send any future composition

of like character to the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the

‘Rowdy-Dow,’ They will ‘insert’ it. They ‘insert’ every month

just such stuff. Send it to them. WE are not to be insulted with

impunity.”

This made an end of me; and as for the “Hum-Drum,” the

“Rowdy-Dow,” and the “Lollipop,” I never could comprehend how

they survived it. The putting them in the smallest possible

minion, (that was the rub—thereby insinuating their

lowness—their baseness,) while WE stood looking down upon them in

gigantic capitals!—oh it was too bitter!—it was wormwood—it was

gall. Had I been either of these periodicals I would have spared

no pains to have the “Goosetherumfoodle” prosecuted. It might

have been done under the Act for the “Prevention of Cruelty to

Animals.” As for “Oppodeldoc,” (whoever he was), I had by this

time lost all patience with the fellow, and sympathized with him

no longer. He was a fool, beyond doubt, (whoever he was,) and got

not a kick more than he deserved.

The result of my experiment with the old books, convinced me, in

the first place, that “honesty is the best policy,” and, in the

second, that if I could not write better than Mr. Dante, and the

two blind men, and the rest of the old set, it would, at least,

be a difficult matter to write worse. I took heart, therefore,

and determined to prosecute the “entirely original,” (as they say

on the covers of the magazines,) at whatever cost of study and

pains. I again placed before my eyes, as a model, the brilliant

stanzas on “The Oil-of-Bob” by the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” and

resolved to construct an ode on the same sublime theme, in

rivalry of what had already been done.

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

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

Having carefully looked out, however, all the legitimate rhymes

to “Bob,” I found it impossible to proceed. In this dilemma I had

recourse to paternal aid; and, after some hours of mature

thought, my father and myself thus constructed the poem:

_“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob’

Is all sorts of a job._

“(Signed) Snob.”

To be sure, this composition was of no very great length—but I

“have yet to learn” as they say in the Edinburgh Review, that the

mere extent of a literary work has any thing to do with its

merit. As for the Quarterly cant about “sustained effort,” it is

impossible to see the sense of it. Upon the whole, therefore, I

was satisfied with the success of my maiden attempt, and now the

only question regarded the disposal I should make of it. My

father suggested that I should send it to the “Gad-Fly”—but there

were two reasons which operated to prevent me from so doing. I

dreaded the jealousy of the editor—and I had ascertained that he

did not pay for original contributions. I therefore, after due

deliberation, consigned the article to the more dignified pages

of the “Lollipop,” and awaited the event in anxiety, but with

resignation.

In the very next published number I had the proud satisfaction of

seeing my poem printed at length, as the leading article, with

the following significant words, prefixed in italics and between

brackets:

_We call the attention of our readers to the subjoined admirable

stanza on “The Oil of Bob.” We need say nothing of their

sublimity, or their pathos:—it is impossible to peruse them

without tears. Those who have been nauseated with a sad dose on

the same august topic from the goose quill of the editor of the

“Gad Fly” will do well to compare the two compositions._

P. S.—We are consumed with anxiety to probe the mystery which

envelops the evident pseudonym “Snob.” May we hope for a personal

interview?

All this was scarcely more than justice, but it was, I confess,

rather more than I had expected:—I acknowledged this, be it

observed, to the everlasting disgrace of my country and of

mankind. I lost no time, however, in calling upon the editor of

the “Lollipop,” and had the good fortune to find this gentleman

at home. He saluted me with an air of profound respect, slightly

blended with a fatherly and patronizing admiration, wrought in

him, no doubt, by my appearance of extreme youth and

inexperience. Begging me to be seated, he entered at once upon

the subject of my poem;—but modesty will ever forbid me to repeat

the thousand compliments which he lavished upon me. The eulogies

of Mr. Crab, (such was the editor’s name,) were, however, by no

means fulsomely indiscriminate. He analyzed my composition with

much freedom and great ability—not hesitating to point out a few

trivial defects—a circumstance which elevated him highly in my

esteem. The “Gad-Fly” was, of course, brought upon the tapis,

and I hope never to be subjected to a criticism so searching, or

to rebukes so withering, as were bestowed by Mr. Crab upon that

unhappy effusion. I had been accustomed to regard the editor of

the “Gad-Fly” as something superhuman; but Mr. Crab soon

disabused me of that idea. He set the literary as well as the

personal character of the Fly (so Mr. C. satirically designated

the rival editor,) in its true light. He, the Fly, was very

little better than he should be. He had written infamous things.

He was a penny-a-liner, and a buffoon. He was a villain. He had

composed a tragedy which set the whole country in a guffaw, and a

farce which deluged the universe in tears. Besides all this, he

had the impudence to pen what he meant for a lampoon upon

himself, (Mr. Crab,) and the temerity to style him “an ass.”

Should I at any time wish to express my opinion of Mr. Fry, the

pages of the “Lollipop,” Mr. Crab assured me, were at my

unlimited disposal. In the meantime, as it was very certain that

I would be attacked in the Fly for my attempt at composing a

rival poem on the “Oil-of-Bob,” he (Mr. Crab,) would take it upon

himself to attend, pointedly, to my private and personal

interests. If I were not made a man of at once, it should not be

the fault of himself, (Mr. Crab.)

Mr. Crab having now paused in his discourse, (the latter portion

of which I found it impossible to comprehend,) I ventured to

suggest something about the remuneration which I had been taught

to expect for my poem, by an announcement on the cover of the

“Lollipop,” declaring that it, (the “Lollipop,”) “insisted upon

being permitted to pay exorbitant prices for all accepted

contributions—frequently expending more money for a single brief

poem than the whole annual cost of the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the

‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle’ combined.”

As I mentioned the word “remuneration,” Mr. Crab first opened his

eyes, and then his mouth, to quite a remarkable extent; causing

his personal appearance to resemble that of a highly-agitated

elderly duck in the act of quacking; and in this condition he

remained, (ever and anon pressing his hands tightly to his

forehead, as if in a state of desperate bewilderment) until I had

nearly made an end of what I had to say.

Upon my conclusion, he sank back into his seat, as if much

overcome, letting his arms fall lifelessly by his side, but

keeping his mouth still rigorously open, after the fashion of the

duck. While I remained in speechless astonishment at behavior so

alarming, he suddenly leaped to his feet and made a rush at the

bell-rope; but just as he reached this, he appeared to have

altered his intention, whatever it was, for he dived under a

table and immediately re-appeared with a cudgel. This he was in

the act of uplifting, (for what purpose I am at a loss to

imagine,) when, all at once, there came a benign smile over his

features, and he sank placidly back in his chair.

“Mr. Bob,” he said, (for I had sent up my card before ascending

myself,) “Mr. Bob, you are a young man, I presume—very?”

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

“Ah!” he replied, “very good! I see how it is—say no more!

Touching this matter of compensation, what you observe is very

just: in fact it is excessively so. But ah—ah—the first

contribution—the first, I say,—it is never the Magazine custom

to pay for—you comprehend, eh? The truth is, we are usually the

recipients in such case.” [Mr. Crab smiled blandly as he

emphasized the word “recipients.”] “For the most part, we are

paid for the insertion of a maiden attempt—especially in verse.

In the second place, Mr. Bob, the Magazine rule is never to

disburse what we term in France the argent comptant—I have no

doubt you understand. In a quarter or two after publication of

the article—or in a year or two—we make no objection to giving

our note at nine months; provided always that we can so arrange

our affairs as to be quite certain of a ‘burst up’ in six. I

really do hope, Mr. Bob, that you will look upon this

explanation as satisfactory.” Here Mr. Crab concluded, and the

tears stood in his eyes.

Grieved to the soul at having been, however innocently, the cause

of pain to so eminent and so sensitive a man, I hastened to

apologize, and to reassure him, by expressing my perfect

coincidence with his views, as well as my entire appreciation of

the delicacy of his position. Having done all this in a neat

speech, I took leave.

One fine morning, very shortly afterwards, “I awoke and found

myself famous.” The extent of my renown will be best estimated by

reference to the editorial opinions of the day. These opinions,

it will be seen, were embodied in critical notices of the number

of the “Lollipop” containing my poem, and are perfectly

satisfactory, conclusive and clear with the exception, perhaps,

of the hieroglyphical marks, “Sep. 15—1 t.” appended to each of

the critiques.

The “Owl,” a journal of profound sagacity, and well known for the

deliberate gravity of its literary decisions—the “Owl,” I say,

spoke as follows:

“‘The Lollipop!’ The October number of this delicious Magazine

surpasses its predecessors, and sets competition at defiance. In

the beauty of its typography and paper—in the number and

excellence of its steel plates—as well as in the literary merit

of its contributions—the ‘Lollipop’ compares with its slow-paced

rivals as Hyperion with a Satyr. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’

and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ excel, it is true, in braggadocio,

but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this

celebrated journal can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses,

is more than we can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation

of 100,000, and its subscription-list has increased one-fourth

during the last month; but, on the other hand, the sums it

disburses constantly for contributions are inconceivable. It is

reported that Mr. Slyass received no less than thirty-seven and a

half cents for his inimitable paper on ‘Pigs.’ With Mr. Crab, as

editor, and with such names upon the list of contributors as Snob

and Slyass, there can be no such word as ‘fail’ for the

Lollipop.’ Go and subscribe. Sep. 15—1 t.”

I must say that I was gratified with this high-toned notice from

a paper so respectable as the “Owl.” The placing my name—that is

to say, my nom de guerre—in priority of station to that of the

great Slyass, was a compliment as happy as I felt it to be

deserved.

My attention was next arrested by these paragraphs in the

“Toad”—a print highly distinguished for its uprightness, and

independence—for its entire freedom from sycophancy and

subservience to the givers of dinners:

“The ‘Lollipop’ for October is out in advance of all its

contemporaries, and infinitely surpasses them, of course, in the

splendor of its embellishments, as well as in the richness of its

literary contents. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the

‘Goosetherumfoodle’ excel, we admit, in braggadocio, but, in all

other points, give us the ‘Lollipop. How this celebrated Magazine

can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we

can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation of 200,000, and

its subscription list has increased one-third during the last

fortnight, but on the other hand, the sums it disburses, monthly,

for contributions, are fearfully great. We learn that Mr.

Mumblethumb received no less than fifty cents for his late

‘Monody in a Mud-Puddle.’

“Among the original contributors to the present number we notice,

(besides the eminent editor, Mr. Crab,) such men as Snob, Slyass,

and Mumblethumb. Apart from the editorial matter, the most

valuable paper, nevertheless, is, we think, a poetical gem by

Snob, on the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—but our readers must not suppose from

the title of this incomparable bijou, that it bears any

similitude to some balderdash on the same subject by a certain

contemptible individual whose name is unmentionable to ears

polite. The present poem ‘On the Oil-of-Bob,’ has excited

universal anxiety and curiosity in respect to the owner of the

evident pseudonym, ‘Snob’—a curiosity which, happily, we have it

in our power to satisfy. ‘Snob’ is the nom de plume of Mr.

Thingum Bob, of this city,—a relative of the great Mr. Thingum,

(after whom he is named,) and otherwise connected with the most

illustrious families of the State. His father, Thomas Bob, Esq.,

is an opulent merchant in Smug. Sep. 15—1 t.”

This generous approbation touched me to the heart—the more

especially as it emanated from a source so avowedly—so

proverbially pure as the “Toad.” The word “balderdash,” as

applied to the “Oil-of-Bob” of the Fly, I considered singularly

pungent and appropriate. The words “gem” and “bijou,” however,

used in reference to my composition, struck me as being, in some

degree, feeble, and seemed to me to be deficient in force. They

were not sufficiently prononcés, (as we have it in France).

I had hardly finished reading the “Toad,” when a friend placed in

my hands a copy of the “Mole,” a daily, enjoying high reputation

for the keenness of its perception about matters in general, and

for the open, honest, above-ground style of its editorials. The

“Mole” spoke of the “Lollipop” as follows:

“We have just received the ‘Lollipop’ for October, and must say

that never before have we perused any single number of any

periodical which afforded us a felicity so supreme. We speak

advisedly. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow’ and the

‘Goosetherumfoodle’ must look well to their laurels. These

prints, no doubt, surpass every thing in loudness of pretension,

but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this

celebrated Magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous

expenses, is more than we can comprehend. To be sure, it has a

circulation of 300,000 and its subscription-list has increased

one-half within the last week, but then the sum it disburses,

monthly, for contributions, is astoundingly enormous. We have it

upon good authority, that Mr. Fatquack received no less than

sixty-two cents and a half for his late domestic nouvelette, the

‘Dish-Clout.’

“The contributors to the number before us are Mr. Crab, (the

eminent editor,) Snob, Mumblethumb, Fatquack, and others; but,

after the inimitable compositions of the editor himself, we

prefer a diamond-like effusion from the pen of a rising poet who

writes over the signature ‘Snob’—a nom de guerre which we predict

will one day extinguish the radiance of ‘Boz.’ ‘Snob,’ we learn,

is a Mr. Thingum Bob, Esq., sole heir of a wealthy merchant of

this city, Thomas Bob, Esq., and a near relative of the

distinguished Mr. Thingum. The title of Mr. B.‘s admirable poem

is the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—a somewhat unfortunate name, by-the-by, as

some contemptible vagabond connected with the penny press has

already disgusted the town with a great deal of drivel upon the

same topic. There will be no danger, however, of confounding the

compositions. Sep. 15—1 t.”

The generous approbation of so clear-sighted a journal as the

“Mole” penetrated my soul with delight. The only objection which

occurred to me was, that the terms “contemptible vagabond” might

have been better written “odious and contemptible _wretch,

villain and_ vagabond.” This would have sounded more gracefully,

I think. “Diamond-like,” also, was scarcely, it will be admitted,

of sufficient intensity to express what the “Mole” evidently

thought of the brilliancy of the “Oil-of-Bob.”

On the same afternoon in which I saw these notices in the “Owl,”

the “Toad,” and the “Mole” I happened to meet with a copy of the

“Daddy-Long-Legs,” a periodical proverbial for the extreme extent

of its understanding. And it was the “Daddy-Long-Legs” which

spoke thus:

“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.