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 Todd, 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.”
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 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 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 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?”
“Tour 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 gentle
man-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 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 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 tête baissée (as they have it in the Kickapoo), bowing my head close to the alabaster page. And, through all, I—wrote. Through joy and through sorrow, I—wrote. Through hunger and through thirst, I—wrote. Through good report and through ill report, I—wrote. Through sunshine and through moonshine, I—wrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary to say. The style!—that was the thing. I caught it from Fatquack—whizz!—fizz!—and I am giving you a specimen of it now.
HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE
“In the name of the Prophet—figs!!”
—Cry of Turkish fig-peddler.
I presume everybody has heard of me. My name is the Signora Psyche Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. Nobody but my enemies ever calls me Suky Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a vulgar corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek, and means “the soul” (that’s me, I’m all soul) and sometimes “a butterfly,” which latter meaning undoubtedly alludes to my appearance in my new crimson satin dress, with the sky-blue Arabian mantelet, and the trimmings of green agraffas, and the seven flounces of orange-colored auriculas. As for Snobbs—any person who should look at me would be instantly aware that my name wasn’t Snobbs. Miss Tabitha Turnip propagated that report through sheer envy. Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little wretch! But what can we expect from a turnip? Wonder if she remembers the old adage about “blood out of a turnip,” etc.? [Mem: put her in mind of it the first opportunity.] [Mem again—pull her nose.] Where was I? Ah! I have been assured that Snobbs is a mere corruption of Zenobia, and that Zenobia was a queen—(So am I. Dr. Moneypenny always calls me the Queen of Hearts)—and that Zenobia, as well as Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was “a Greek,” and that consequently I have a right to our patronymic, which is Zenobia, and not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls me Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia.
As I said before, everybody has heard of me. I am that very Signora Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding secretary to the “Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association, To, Civilize, Humanity.” Dr. Moneypenny made the title for us, and says he chose it because it sounded big like an empty rum-puncheon. (A vulgar man that sometimes—but he’s deep.) We all sign the initials of the society after our names, in the fashion of the R. S. A., Royal Society of Arts—the S. D. U. K., Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, etc., etc. Dr. Moneypenny says that S stands for stale, and that D. U. K. spells duck, (but it don’t) and that S. D. U. K. stands for Stale Duck, and not for Lord Brougham’s society—but then Dr. Moneypenny is such a queer man that I am never sure when he is telling me the truth. At any rate we aways add to our names the initials P. R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H.—that is to say, Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association, To, Civilize, Humanity—one letter for each word, which is a decided improvement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will have it that our initials give our true character—but for my life I can’t see what he means.
Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the strenuous exertions of the association to get itself into notice, it met with no very great success until I joined it. The truth is, the members indulged in too flippant a tone of discussion. The papers read every Saturday evening were characterized less by depth than
buffoonery. They were all whipped syllabub. There was no investigation of first causes, first principles. There was no investigation of anything at all. There was no attention paid to that great point, the “fitness of things.” In short there was no fine writing like this. It was all low—very! No profundity, no reading, no metaphysics—nothing which the learned call spirituality, and which the unlearned choose to stigmatize as cant. [Dr. M. says I ought to spell “cant” with a capital K—but I know better.]
When I joined the society it was my endeavor to introduce a better style of thinking and writing, and all the world knows how well I have succeeded. We get up as good papers now in the P. R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H. as any to be found even in Blackwood. I say, Blackwood, because I have been assured that the finest writing, Upon every subject, is to be discovered in the pages of that justly celebrated Magazine. We now take it for our model upon all themes, and are getting into rapid notice accordingly. And, after all, it’s not so very difficult a matter to compose an article of the genuine Blackwood stamp, if one only goes properly about it. Of course I don’t speak of the political articles. Everybody knows how they are managed, since Dr. Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair of tailor’s-shears, and three apprentices who stand by him for orders. One hands him the Times, another the Examiner and a third a “Gulley’s New Compendium of Slang-Whang.” Mr. B. merely cuts out and intersperses. It is soon done—nothing but Examiner, “Slang-Whang,” and Times—then Times, “Slang-Whang,” and Examiner—and then Times, Examiner, and “Slang-Whang.”
But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its miscellaneous articles; and the best of these come under the head of what Dr. Moneypenny calls the bizarreries (whatever that may mean) and what everybody else calls the intensities. This is a species of writing which I have long known how to appreciate, although it is only since my late visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed by the society) that I have been made aware of the exact method of composition. This method is very simple, but not so much so as the politics. Upon my calling at Mr. B’s, and making known to him the wishes of the society, he received me with great civility, took me into his study, and gave me a clear explanation of the whole process.
Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe Page 50
