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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[[.]] [page 211:]
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 and 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 [page 212:]
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 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 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 [page 213:]
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:
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"'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:
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"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') [[sic]]
— 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."
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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. [page 214:]
Scarcely less savage was the
"Lollipop," which
thus discoursed:
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"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.
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"[[']]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?" |
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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:
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"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 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 [page 215:] 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." |
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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 line I had no material
difficulty.
It ran thus:
| "To
pen an Ode upon the "Oil-of-Bob."
[[sic]] |
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: [page 216:]
"To pen an Ode upon the "Oil-of-Bob"
[[sic]]
Is all sorts of a job.
(Signed.)
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SNOB.[["]]
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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:
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[We
call the
attention of our readers to the subjoined admirable stanzas 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?]
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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 [page 217:] 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; [page 218:] 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. [page 219:]
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:
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"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."
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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 [page 220:] "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 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.'
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"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."
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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 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 [page 221:] editorials.
The "Mole" spoke of the "Lollipop" as follows:
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"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 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-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."
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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:
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"The 'Lollipop'!!
This gorgeous
Magazine is
already before the public
for October. The question of pre-eminence is forever put to rest, and [page 222:] 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-Did'nt.'
"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."
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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," [page 223:] 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 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."
[page 224:]
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 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 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 egg'd foolscap [[fools-cap]]; 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 [page 225:] 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.] [page
226:] "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 [page 227:] 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" — "I'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 [page
229:] 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. |
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