Upon the succession of a proprietor so young, with a character so

well known, to a fortune so unparalleled, little speculation was

afloat in regard to his probable course of conduct. And, indeed,

for the space of three days, the behavior of the heir out-Heroded

Herod, and fairly surpassed the expectations of his most

enthusiastic admirers. Shameful debaucheries—flagrant

treacheries—unheard-of atrocities—gave his trembling vassals

quickly to understand that no servile submission on their part—no

punctilios of conscience on his own—were thenceforward to prove

any security against the remorseless fangs of a petty Caligula.

On the night of the fourth day, the stables of the castle

Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire; and the unanimous

opinion of the neighborhood added the crime of the incendiary to

the already hideous list of the Baron’s misdemeanors and

enormities.

But during the tumult occasioned by this occurrence, the young

nobleman himself sat apparently buried in meditation, in a vast

and desolate upper apartment of the family palace of

Metzengerstein. The rich although faded tapestry hangings which

swung gloomily upon the walls, represented the shadowy and

majestic forms of a thousand illustrious ancestors. _Here_,

rich-ermined priests, and pontifical dignitaries, familiarly

seated with the autocrat and the sovereign, put a veto on the

wishes of a temporal king, or restrained with the fiat of papal

supremacy the rebellious sceptre of the Arch-enemy. _There_, the

dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzengerstein—their muscular

war-coursers plunging over the carcasses of fallen foes—startled

the steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression; and _here_,

again, the voluptuous and swan-like figures of the dames of days

gone by, floated away in the mazes of an unreal dance to the

strains of imaginary melody.

But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen, to the

gradually increasing uproar in the stables of Berlifitzing—or

perhaps pondered upon some more novel, some more decided act of

audacity—his eyes became unwittingly rivetted to the figure of an

enormous, and unnaturally colored horse, represented in the

tapestry as belonging to a Saracen ancestor of the family of his

rival. The horse itself, in the foreground of the design, stood

motionless and statue-like—while farther back, its discomfited

rider perished by the dagger of a Metzengerstein.

On Frederick’s lip arose a fiendish expression, as he became

aware of the direction which his glance had, without his

consciousness, assumed. Yet he did not remove it. On the

contrary, he could by no means account for the overwhelming

anxiety which appeared falling like a pall upon his senses. It

was with difficulty that he reconciled his dreamy and incoherent

feelings with the certainty of being awake. The longer he gazed

the more absorbing became the spell—the more impossible did it

appear that he could ever withdraw his glance from the

fascination of that tapestry. But the tumult without becoming

suddenly more violent, with a compulsory exertion he diverted his

attention to the glare of ruddy light thrown full by the flaming

stables upon the windows of the apartment.

The action, however, was but momentary, his gaze returned

mechanically to the wall. To his extreme horror and astonishment,

the head of the gigantic steed had, in the meantime, altered its

position. The neck of the animal, before arched, as if in

compassion, over the prostrate body of its lord, was now

extended, at full length, in the direction of the Baron. The

eyes, before invisible, now wore an energetic and human

expression, while they gleamed with a fiery and unusual red; and

the distended lips of the apparently enraged horse left in full

view his gigantic and disgusting teeth.

Stupefied with terror, the young nobleman tottered to the door.

As he threw it open, a flash of red light, streaming far into the

chamber, flung his shadow with a clear outline against the

quivering tapestry, and he shuddered to perceive that shadow—as

he staggered awhile upon the threshold—assuming the exact

position, and precisely filling up the contour, of the relentless

and triumphant murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing.

To lighten the depression of his spirits, the Baron hurried into

the open air. At the principal gate of the palace he encountered

three equerries. With much difficulty, and at the imminent peril

of their lives, they were restraining the convulsive plunges of a

gigantic and fiery-colored horse.

“Whose horse? Where did you get him?” demanded the youth, in a

querulous and husky tone of voice, as he became instantly aware

that the mysterious steed in the tapestried chamber was the very

counterpart of the furious animal before his eyes.

“He is your own property, sire,” replied one of the equerries,

“at least he is claimed by no other owner. We caught him flying,

all smoking and foaming with rage, from the burning stables of

the Castle Berlifitzing. Supposing him to have belonged to the

old Count’s stud of foreign horses, we led him back as an estray.

But the grooms there disclaim any title to the creature; which is

strange, since he bears evident marks of having made a narrow

escape from the flames.

“The letters W. V. B. are also branded very distinctly on his

forehead,” interrupted a second equerry, “I supposed them, of

course, to be the initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing—but all at

the castle are positive in denying any knowledge of the horse.”

“Extremely singular!” said the young Baron, with a musing air,

and apparently unconscious of the meaning of his words. “He is,

as you say, a remarkable horse—a prodigious horse! although, as

you very justly observe, of a suspicious and untractable

character; let him be mine, however,” he added, after a pause,

“perhaps a rider like Frederick of Metzengerstein, may tame even

the devil from the stables of Berlifitzing.”

“You are mistaken, my lord; the horse, as I think we mentioned,

is _not_ from the stables of the Count. If such had been the

case, we know our duty better than to bring him into the presence

of a noble of your family.”

“True!” observed the Baron, dryly, and at that instant a page of

the bedchamber came from the palace with a heightened color, and

a precipitate step. He whispered into his master’s ear an account

of the sudden disappearance of a small portion of the tapestry,

in an apartment which he designated; entering, at the same time,

into particulars of a minute and circumstantial character; but

from the low tone of voice in which these latter were

communicated, nothing escaped to gratify the excited curiosity of

the equerries.

The young Frederick, during the conference, seemed agitated by a

variety of emotions. He soon, however, recovered his composure,

and an expression of determined malignancy settled upon his

countenance, as he gave peremptory orders that a certain chamber

should be immediately locked up, and the key placed in his own

possession.

“Have you heard of the unhappy death of the old hunter

Berlifitzing?” said one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after

the departure of the page, the huge steed which that nobleman had

adopted as his own, plunged and curvetted, with redoubled fury,

down the long avenue which extended from the château to the

stables of Metzengerstein.

“No!” said the Baron, turning abruptly toward the speaker, “dead!

say you?”

“It is indeed true, my lord; and, to a noble of your name, will

be, I imagine, no unwelcome intelligence.”

A rapid smile shot over the countenance of the listener. “How

died he?”

“In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite portion of his

hunting stud, he has himself perished miserably in the flames.”

“I-n-d-e-e-d-!” ejaculated the Baron, as if slowly and

deliberately impressed with the truth of some exciting idea.

“Indeed;” repeated the vassal.

“Shocking!” said the youth, calmly, and turned quietly into the

château.

From this date a marked alteration took place in the outward

demeanor of the dissolute young Baron Frederick Von

Metzengerstein. Indeed, his behavior disappointed every

expectation, and proved little in accordance with the views of

many a manoeuvering mamma; while his habits and manner, still

less than formerly, offered any thing congenial with those of the

neighboring aristocracy. He was never to be seen beyond the

limits of his own domain, and, in this wide and social world, was

utterly companionless—unless, indeed, that unnatural, impetuous,

and fiery-colored horse, which he henceforward continually

bestrode, had any mysterious right to the title of his friend.

Numerous invitations on the part of the neighborhood for a long

time, however, periodically came in. “Will the Baron honor our

festivals with his presence?” “Will the Baron join us in a

hunting of the boar?”—“Metzengerstein does not hunt;”

“Metzengerstein will not attend,” were the haughty and laconic

answers.

These repeated insults were not to be endured by an imperious

nobility. Such invitations became less cordial—less frequent—in

time they ceased altogether. The widow of the unfortunate Count

Berlifitzing was even heard to express a hope “that the Baron

might be at home when he did not wish to be at home, since he

disdained the company of his equals; and ride when he did not

wish to ride, since he preferred the society of a horse.” This to

be sure was a very silly explosion of hereditary pique; and

merely proved how singularly unmeaning our sayings are apt to

become, when we desire to be unusually energetic.

The charitable, nevertheless, attributed the alteration in the

conduct of the young nobleman to the natural sorrow of a son for

the untimely loss of his parents—forgetting, however, his

atrocious and reckless behavior during the short period

immediately succeeding that bereavement. Some there were, indeed,

who suggested a too haughty idea of self-consequence and dignity.

Others again (among them may be mentioned the family physician)

did not hesitate in speaking of morbid melancholy, and hereditary

ill-health; while dark hints, of a more equivocal nature, were

current among the multitude.

Indeed, the Baron’s perverse attachment to his lately-acquired

charger—an attachment which seemed to attain new strength from

every fresh example of the animal’s ferocious and demon-like

propensities—at length became, in the eyes of all reasonable men,

a hideous and unnatural fervor. In the glare of noon—at the dead

hour of night—in sickness or in health—in calm or in tempest—the

young Metzengerstein seemed rivetted to the saddle of that

colossal horse, whose intractable audacities so well accorded

with his own spirit.

There were circumstances, moreover, which coupled with late

events, gave an unearthly and portentous character to the mania

of the rider, and to the capabilities of the steed. The space

passed over in a single leap had been accurately measured, and

was found to exceed, by an astounding difference, the wildest

expectations of the most imaginative. The Baron, besides, had no

particular _name_ for the animal, although all the rest in his

collection were distinguished by characteristic appellations. His

stable, too, was appointed at a distance from the rest; and with

regard to grooming and other necessary offices, none but the

owner in person had ventured to officiate, or even to enter the

enclosure of that particular stall. It was also to be observed,

that although the three grooms, who had caught the steed as he

fled from the conflagration at Berlifitzing, had succeeded in

arresting his course, by means of a chain-bridle and noose—yet no

one of the three could with any certainty affirm that he had,

during that dangerous struggle, or at any period thereafter,

actually placed his hand upon the body of the beast. Instances of

peculiar intelligence in the demeanor of a noble and

high-spirited horse are not to be supposed capable of exciting

unreasonable attention—especially among men who, daily trained to

the labors of the chase, might appear well acquainted with the

sagacity of a horse—but there were certain circumstances which

intruded themselves per force upon the most skeptical and

phlegmatic; and it is said there were times when the animal

caused the gaping crowd who stood around to recoil in horror from

the deep and impressive meaning of his terrible stamp—times when

the young Metzengerstein turned pale and shrunk away from the

rapid and searching expression of his earnest and human-looking

eye.

Among all the retinue of the Baron, however, none were found to

doubt the ardor of that extraordinary affection which existed on

the part of the young nobleman for the fiery qualities of his

horse; at least, none but an insignificant and misshapen little

page, whose deformities were in everybody’s way, and whose

opinions were of the least possible importance. He—if his ideas

are worth mentioning at all—had the effrontery to assert that his

master never vaulted into the saddle without an unaccountable and

almost imperceptible shudder, and that, upon his return from

every long-continued and habitual ride, an expression of

triumphant malignity distorted every muscle in his countenance.

One tempestuous night, Metzengerstein, awaking from a heavy

slumber, descended like a maniac from his chamber, and, mounting

in hot haste, bounded away into the mazes of the forest. An

occurrence so common attracted no particular attention, but his

return was looked for with intense anxiety on the part of his

domestics, when, after some hours’ absence, the stupendous and

magnificent battlements of the Chateau Metzengerstein, were

discovered crackling and rocking to their very foundation, under

the influence of a dense and livid mass of ungovernable fire.

As the flames, when first seen, had already made so terrible a

progress that all efforts to save any portion of the building

were evidently futile, the astonished neighborhood stood idly

around in silent and pathetic wonder. But a new and fearful

object soon rivetted the attention of the multitude, and proved

how much more intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings

of a crowd by the contemplation of human agony, than that brought

about by the most appalling spectacles of inanimate matter.

Up the long avenue of aged oaks which led from the forest to the

main entrance of the Château Metzengerstein, a steed, bearing an

unbonneted and disordered rider, was seen leaping with an

impetuosity which outstripped the very Demon of the Tempest.

The career of the horseman was indisputably, on his own part,

uncontrollable. The agony of his countenance, the convulsive

struggle of his frame, gave evidence of superhuman exertion: but

no sound, save a solitary shriek, escaped from his lacerated

lips, which were bitten through and through in the intensity of

terror. One instant, and the clattering of hoofs resounded

sharply and shrilly above the roaring of the flames and the

shrieking of the winds—another, and, clearing at a single plunge

the gate-way and the moat, the steed bounded far up the tottering

staircases of the palace, and, with its rider, disappeared amid

the whirlwind of chaotic fire.

The fury of the tempest immediately died away, and a dead calm

sullenly succeeded. A white flame still enveloped the building

like a shroud, and, streaming far away into the quiet atmosphere,

shot forth a glare of preternatural light; while a cloud of smoke

settled heavily over the battlements in the distinct colossal

figure of—_a horse_.

THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER

During the autumn of 18—, while on a tour through the extreme

southern provinces of France, my route led me within a few miles

of a certain _Maison de Santé_ or private mad-house, about which

I had heard much, in Paris, from my medical friends. As I had

never visited a place of the kind, I thought the opportunity too

good to be lost; and so proposed to my travelling companion (a

gentleman with whom I had made casual acquaintance a few days

before), that we should turn aside, for an hour or so, and look

through the establishment. To this he objected—pleading haste in

the first place, and, in the second, a very usual horror at the

sight of a lunatic. He begged me, however, not to let any mere

courtesy towards himself interfere with the gratification of my

curiosity, and said that he would ride on leisurely, so that I

might overtake him during the day, or, at all events, during the

next. As he bade me good-bye, I bethought me that there might be

some difficulty in obtaining access to the premises, and

mentioned my fears on this point. He replied that, in fact,

unless I had personal knowledge of the superintendent, Monsieur

Maillard, or some credential in the way of a letter, a difficulty

might be found to exist, as the regulations of these private

mad-houses were more rigid than the public hospital laws. For

himself, he added, he had, some years since, made the

acquaintance of Maillard, and would so far assist me as to ride

up to the door and introduce me; although his feelings on the

subject of lunacy would not permit of his entering the house.

I thanked him, and, turning from the main road, we entered a

grass-grown by-path, which, in half an hour, nearly lost itself

in a dense forest, clothing the base of a mountain. Through this

dank and gloomy wood we rode some two miles, when the _Maison de

Santé_ came in view. It was a fantastic château, much

dilapidated, and indeed scarcely tenantable through age and

neglect. Its aspect inspired me with absolute dread, and,

checking my horse, I half resolved to turn back. I soon, however,

grew ashamed of my weakness, and proceeded.

As we rode up to the gate-way, I perceived it slightly open, and

the visage of a man peering through. In an instant afterward,

this man came forth, accosted my companion by name, shook him

cordially by the hand, and begged him to alight. It was Monsieur

Maillard himself. He was a portly, fine-looking gentleman of the

old school, with a polished manner, and a certain air of gravity,

dignity, and authority which was very impressive.

My friend, having presented me, mentioned my desire to inspect

the establishment, and received Monsieur Maillard’s assurance

that he would show me all attention, now took leave, and I saw

him no more.

When he had gone, the superintendent ushered me into a small and

exceedingly neat parlor, containing, among other indications of

refined taste, many books, drawings, pots of flowers, and musical

instruments. A cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth. At a piano,

singing an aria from Bellini, sat a young and very beautiful

woman, who, at my entrance, paused in her song, and received me

with graceful courtesy. Her voice was low, and her whole manner

subdued. I thought, too, that I perceived the traces of sorrow in

her countenance, which was excessively, although to my taste, not

unpleasingly, pale. She was attired in deep mourning, and excited

in my bosom a feeling of mingled respect, interest, and

admiration.

I had heard, at Paris, that the institution of Monsieur Maillard

was managed upon what is vulgarly termed the “system of

soothing”—that all punishments were avoided—that even confinement

was seldom resorted to—that the patients, while secretly watched,

were left much apparent liberty, and that most of them were

permitted to roam about the house and grounds in the ordinary

apparel of persons in right mind.

Keeping these impressions in view, I was cautious in what I said

before the young lady; for I could not be sure that she was sane;

and, in fact, there was a certain restless brilliancy about her

eyes which half led me to imagine she was not. I confined my

remarks, therefore, to general topics, and to such as I thought

would not be displeasing or exciting even to a lunatic. She

replied in a perfectly rational manner to all that I said; and

even her original observations were marked with the soundest good

sense, but a long acquaintance with the metaphysics of mania, had

taught me to put no faith in such evidence of sanity, and I

continued to practise, throughout the interview, the caution with

which I commenced it.

Presently a smart footman in livery brought in a tray with fruit,

wine, and other refreshments, of which I partook, the lady soon

afterward leaving the room. As she departed I turned my eyes in

an inquiring manner toward my host.

“No,” he said, “oh, no—a member of my family—my niece, and a most

accomplished woman.”

“I beg a thousand pardons for the suspicion,” I replied, “but of

course you will know how to excuse me. The excellent

administration of your affairs here is well understood in Paris,

and I thought it just possible, you know—”

“Yes, yes—say no more—or rather it is myself who should thank you

for the commendable prudence you have displayed. We seldom find

so much of forethought in young men; and, more than once, some

unhappy contre-temps has occurred in consequence of

thoughtlessness on the part of our visitors. While my former

system was in operation, and my patients were permitted the

privilege of roaming to and fro at will, they were often aroused

to a dangerous frenzy by injudicious persons who called to

inspect the house. Hence I was obliged to enforce a rigid system

of exclusion; and none obtained access to the premises upon whose

discretion I could not rely.”

“While your former system was in operation!” I said, repeating

his words—“do I understand you, then, to say that the ‘soothing

system’ of which I have heard so much is no longer in force?”

“It is now,” he replied, “several weeks since we have concluded

to renounce it forever.”

“Indeed! you astonish me!”

“We found it, sir,” he said, with a sigh, “absolutely necessary

to return to the old usages. The danger of the soothing system

was, at all times, appalling; and its advantages have been much

overrated. I believe, sir, that in this house it has been given a

fair trial, if ever in any. We did every thing that rational

humanity could suggest. I am sorry that you could not have paid

us a visit at an earlier period, that you might have judged for

yourself. But I presume you are conversant with the soothing

practice—with its details.”

“Not altogether. What I have heard has been at third or fourth

hand.”

“I may state the system, then, in general terms, as one in which

the patients were _menagés_—humored. We contradicted no fancies

which entered the brains of the mad. On the contrary, we not only

indulged but encouraged them; and many of our most permanent

cures have been thus effected. There is no argument which so

touches the feeble reason of the madman as the argumentum ad

absurdum. We have had men, for example, who fancied themselves

chickens. The cure was, to insist upon the thing as a fact—to

accuse the patient of stupidity in not sufficiently perceiving it

to be a fact—and thus to refuse him any other diet for a week

than that which properly appertains to a chicken. In this manner

a little corn and gravel were made to perform wonders.”

“But was this species of acquiescence all?”

“By no means. We put much faith in amusements of a simple kind,

such as music, dancing, gymnastic exercises generally, cards,

certain classes of books, and so forth. We affected to treat each

individual as if for some ordinary physical disorder; and the

word ‘lunacy’ was never employed. A great point was to set each

lunatic to guard the actions of all the others. To repose

confidence in the understanding or discretion of a madman, is to

gain him body and soul. In this way we were enabled to dispense

with an expensive body of keepers.”

“And you had no punishments of any kind?”

“None.”

“And you never confined your patients?”

“Very rarely. Now and then, the malady of some individual growing

to a crisis, or taking a sudden turn of fury, we conveyed him to

a secret cell, lest his disorder should infect the rest, and

there kept him until we could dismiss him to his friends—for with

the raging maniac we have nothing to do. He is usually removed to

the public hospitals.”

“And you have now changed all this—and you think for the better?”

“Decidedly. The system had its disadvantages, and even its

dangers. It is now, happily, exploded throughout all the _Maisons

de Santé_ of France.”

“I am very much surprised,” I said, “at what you tell me; for I

made sure that, at this moment, no other method of treatment for

mania existed in any portion of the country.”

“You are young yet, my friend,” replied my host, “but the time

will arrive when you will learn to judge for yourself of what is

going on in the world, without trusting to the gossip of others.

Believe nothing you hear, and only one-half that you see. Now

about our _Maisons de Santé_, it is clear that some ignoramus has

misled you. After dinner, however, when you have sufficiently

recovered from the fatigue of your ride, I will be happy to take

you over the house, and introduce to you a system which, in my

opinion, and in that of every one who has witnessed its

operation, is incomparably the most effectual as yet devised.”

“Your own?” I inquired—“one of your own invention?”

“I am proud,” he replied, “to acknowledge that it is—at least in

some measure.”

In this manner I conversed with Monsieur Maillard for an hour or

two, during which he showed me the gardens and conservatories of

the place.

“I cannot let you see my patients,” he said, “just at present. To

a sensitive mind there is always more or less of the shocking in

such exhibitions; and I do not wish to spoil your appetite for

dinner. We will dine. I can give you some veal a la Menehoult,

with cauliflowers in _velouté_ sauce—after that a glass of Clos

de Vougeot—then your nerves will be sufficiently steadied.”

At six, dinner was announced; and my host conducted me into a

large _salle à manger_, where a very numerous company were

assembled—twenty-five or thirty in all. They were, apparently,

people of rank—certainly of high breeding—although their

habiliments, I thought, were extravagantly rich, partaking

somewhat too much of the ostentatious finery of the _vielle

cour_. I noticed that at least two-thirds of these guests were

ladies; and some of the latter were by no means accoutred in what

a Parisian would consider good taste at the present day. Many

females, for example, whose age could not have been less than

seventy were bedecked with a profusion of jewelry, such as rings,

bracelets, and earrings, and wore their bosoms and arms

shamefully bare. I observed, too, that very few of the dresses

were well made—or, at least, that very few of them fitted the

wearers. In looking about, I discovered the interesting girl to

whom Monsieur Maillard had presented me in the little parlor; but

my surprise was great to see her wearing a hoop and farthingale,

with high-heeled shoes, and a dirty cap of Brussels lace, so much

too large for her that it gave her face a ridiculously diminutive

expression. When I had first seen her, she was attired, most

becomingly, in deep mourning. There was an air of oddity, in

short, about the dress of the whole party, which, at first,

caused me to recur to my original idea of the “soothing system,”

and to fancy that Monsieur Maillard had been willing to deceive

me until after dinner, that I might experience no uncomfortable

feelings during the repast, at finding myself dining with

lunatics; but I remembered having been informed, in Paris, that

the southern provincialists were a peculiarly eccentric people,

with a vast number of antiquated notions; and then, too, upon

conversing with several members of the company, my apprehensions

were immediately and fully dispelled.

The dining-room itself, although perhaps sufficiently comfortable

and of good dimensions, had nothing too much of elegance about

it. For example, the floor was uncarpeted; in France, however, a

carpet is frequently dispensed with. The windows, too, were

without curtains; the shutters, being shut, were securely

fastened with iron bars, applied diagonally, after the fashion of

our ordinary shop-shutters. The apartment, I observed, formed, in

itself, a wing of the château, and thus the windows were on three

sides of the parallelogram, the door being at the other. There

were no less than ten windows in all.

The table was superbly set out. It was loaded with plate, and

more than loaded with delicacies. The profusion was absolutely

barbaric. There were meats enough to have feasted the Anakim.

Never, in all my life, had I witnessed so lavish, so wasteful an

expenditure of the good things of life. There seemed very little

taste, however, in the arrangements; and my eyes, accustomed to

quiet lights, were sadly offended by the prodigious glare of a

multitude of wax candles, which, in silver candelabra, were

deposited upon the table, and all about the room, wherever it was

possible to find a place. There were several active servants in

attendance; and, upon a large table, at the farther end of the

apartment, were seated seven or eight people with fiddles, fifes,

trombones, and a drum. These fellows annoyed me very much, at

intervals, during the repast, by an infinite variety of noises,

which were intended for music, and which appeared to afford much

entertainment to all present, with the exception of myself.

Upon the whole, I could not help thinking that there was much of

the bizarre about every thing I saw—but then the world is made up

of all kinds of persons, with all modes of thought, and all sorts

of conventional customs. I had travelled, too, so much, as to be

quite an adept at the nil admirari; so I took my seat very coolly

at the right hand of my host, and, having an excellent appetite,

did justice to the good cheer set before me.

The conversation, in the meantime, was spirited and general. The

ladies, as usual, talked a great deal. I soon found that nearly

all the company were well educated; and my host was a world of

good-humored anecdote in himself. He seemed quite willing to

speak of his position as superintendent of a_Maison de Santé_;

and, indeed, the topic of lunacy was, much to my surprise, a

favorite one with all present. A great many amusing stories were

told, having reference to the _whims_ of the patients.

“We had a fellow here once,” said a fat little gentleman, who sat

at my right,—“a fellow that fancied himself a tea-pot; and by the

way, is it not especially singular how often this particular

crotchet has entered the brain of the lunatic? There is scarcely

an insane asylum in France which cannot supply a human tea-pot.

Our gentleman was a Britannia-ware tea-pot, and was careful to

polish himself every morning with buckskin and whiting.”

“And then,” said a tall man just opposite, “we had here, not long

ago, a person who had taken it into his head that he was a

donkey—which allegorically speaking, you will say, was quite

true. He was a troublesome patient; and we had much ado to keep

him within bounds. For a long time he would eat nothing but

thistles; but of this idea we soon cured him by insisting upon

his eating nothing else. Then he was perpetually kicking out his

heels—so—so—”

“Mr. De Kock! I will thank you to behave yourself!” here

interrupted an old lady, who sat next to the speaker. “Please

keep your feet to yourself! You have spoiled my brocade! Is it

necessary, pray, to illustrate a remark in so practical a style?

Our friend here can surely comprehend you without all this. Upon

my word, you are nearly as great a donkey as the poor unfortunate

imagined himself. Your acting is very natural, as I live.”

“Mille pardons! Ma’m’selle!” replied Monsieur De Kock, thus

addressed—“a thousand pardons! I had no intention of offending.

Ma’m’selle Laplace—Monsieur De Kock will do himself the honor of

taking wine with you.”

Here Monsieur De Kock bowed low, kissed his hand with much

ceremony, and took wine with Ma’m’selle Laplace.

“Allow me, mon ami,” now said Monsieur Maillard, addressing

myself, “allow me to send you a morsel of this veal _à la St.

Menehoult_—you will find it particularly fine.”

At this instant three sturdy waiters had just succeeded in

depositing safely upon the table an enormous dish, or trencher,

containing what I supposed to be the “_monstrum, horrendum,

informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum_.” A closer scrutiny assured

me, however, that it was only a small calf roasted whole, and set

upon its knees, with an apple in its mouth, as is the English

fashion of dressing a hare.

“Thank you, no,” I replied; “to say the truth, I am not

particularly partial to veal _à la St_.—what is it?—for I do not

find that it altogether agrees with me. I will change my plate,

however, and try some of the rabbit.”

There were several side-dishes on the table, containing what

appeared to be the ordinary French rabbit—a very delicious

morceau, which I can recommend.

“Pierre,” cried the host, “change this gentleman’s plate, and

give him a side-piece of this rabbit au-chat.”

“This what?” said I.

“This rabbit _au-chat_.”

“Why, thank you—upon second thoughts, no. I will just help myself

to some of the ham.”

There is no knowing what one eats, thought I to myself, at the

tables of these people of the province. I will have none of their

rabbit _au-chat_—and, for the matter of that, none of their

_cat-au-rabbit_ either.

“And then,” said a cadaverous looking personage, near the foot of

the table, taking up the thread of the conversation where it had

been broken off,—“and then, among other oddities, we had a

patient, once upon a time, who very pertinaciously maintained

himself to be a Cordova cheese, and went about, with a knife in

his hand, soliciting his friends to try a small slice from the

middle of his leg.”

“He was a great fool, beyond doubt,” interposed some one, “but

not to be compared with a certain individual whom we all know,

with the exception of this strange gentleman. I mean the man who

took himself for a bottle of champagne, and always went off with

a pop and a fizz, in this fashion.”

Here the speaker, very rudely, as I thought, put his right thumb

in his left cheek, withdrew it with a sound resembling the

popping of a cork, and then, by a dexterous movement of the

tongue upon the teeth, created a sharp hissing and fizzing, which

lasted for several minutes, in imitation of the frothing of

champagne. This behavior, I saw plainly, was not very pleasing to

Monsieur Maillard; but that gentleman said nothing, and the

conversation was resumed by a very lean little man in a big wig.

“And then there was an ignoramus,” said he, “who mistook himself

for a frog, which, by the way, he resembled in no little degree.

I wish you could have seen him, sir,”—here the speaker addressed

myself—“it would have done your heart good to see the natural

airs that he put on. Sir, if that man was not a frog, I can only

observe that it is a pity he was not. His croak

thus—o-o-o-o-gh—o-o-o-o-gh! was the finest note in the world—B

flat; and when he put his elbows upon the table thus—after taking

a glass or two of wine—and distended his mouth, thus, and rolled

up his eyes, thus, and winked them with excessive rapidity, thus,

why then, sir, I take it upon myself to say, positively, that you

would have been lost in admiration of the genius of the man.”

“I have no doubt of it,” I said.

“And then,” said somebody else, “then there was Petit Gaillard,

who thought himself a pinch of snuff, and was truly distressed

because he could not take himself between his own finger and

thumb.”

“And then there was Jules Desoulières, who was a very singular

genius, indeed, and went mad with the idea that he was a pumpkin.

He persecuted the cook to make him up into pies—a thing which the

cook indignantly refused to do. For my part, I am by no means

sure that a pumpkin pie _à la Desoulières_ would not have been

very capital eating indeed!”

“You astonish me!” said I; and I looked inquisitively at Monsieur

Maillard.

“Ha! ha! ha!” said that gentleman—“he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho!

ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—very good indeed! You must not be astonished,

_mon ami;_ our friend here is a wit—a _drôle_—you must not

understand him to the letter.”

“And then,” said some other one of the party,—“then there was

Bouffon Le Grand—another extraordinary personage in his way. He

grew deranged through love, and fancied himself possessed of two

heads. One of these he maintained to be the head of Cicero; the

other he imagined a composite one, being Demosthenes’ from the

top of the forehead to the mouth, and Lord Brougham’s from the

mouth to the chin. It is not impossible that he was wrong; but he

would have convinced you of his being in the right; for he was a

man of great eloquence. He had an absolute passion for oratory,

and could not refrain from display. For example, he used to leap

upon the dinner-table thus, and—and—”

Here a friend, at the side of the speaker, put a hand upon his

shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear; upon which he

ceased talking with great suddenness, and sank back within his

chair.

“And then,” said the friend who had whispered, “there was

Boullard, the tee-totum. I call him the tee-totum because, in

fact, he was seized with the droll, but not altogether

irrational, crotchet, that he had been converted into a

tee-totum. You would have roared with laughter to see him spin.

He would turn round upon one heel by the hour, in this

manner—so—”

Here the friend whom he had just interrupted by a whisper,

performed an exactly similar office for himself.

“But then,” cried the old lady, at the top of her voice, “your

Monsieur Boullard was a madman, and a very silly madman at best;

for who, allow me to ask you, ever heard of a human tee-totum?

The thing is absurd. Madame Joyeuse was a more sensible person,

as you know. She had a crotchet, but it was instinct with common

sense, and gave pleasure to all who had the honor of her

acquaintance. She found, upon mature deliberation, that, by some

accident, she had been turned into a chicken-cock; but, as such,

she behaved with propriety. She flapped her wings with prodigious

effect—so—so—so—and, as for her crow, it was delicious!

Cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-de-doo

dooo-do-o-o-o-o-o-o!”

“Madame Joyeuse, I will thank you to behave yourself!” here

interrupted our host, very angrily. “You can either conduct

yourself as a lady should do, or you can quit the table

forthwith—take your choice.”

The lady (whom I was much astonished to hear addressed as Madame

Joyeuse, after the description of Madame Joyeuse she had just

given) blushed up to the eyebrows, and seemed exceedingly abashed

at the reproof. She hung down her head, and said not a syllable

in reply. But another and younger lady resumed the theme. It was

my beautiful girl of the little parlor.

“Oh, Madame Joyeuse was a fool!” she exclaimed, “but there was

really much sound sense, after all, in the opinion of Eugénie

Salsafette. She was a very beautiful and painfully modest young

lady, who thought the ordinary mode of habiliment indecent, and

wished to dress herself, always, by getting outside instead of

inside of her clothes. It is a thing very easily done, after all.

You have only to do so—and then so—so—so—and then so—so—so—and

then so—so—and then—”

“Mon dieu! Ma’m’selle Salsafette!” here cried a dozen voices at

once. “What are you about?—forbear!—that is sufficient!—we see,

very plainly, how it is done!—hold! hold!” and several persons

were already leaping from their seats to withhold Ma’m’selle

Salsafette from putting herself upon a par with the Medicean

Venus, when the point was very effectually and suddenly

accomplished by a series of loud screams, or yells, from some

portion of the main body of the _château_.

My nerves were very much affected, indeed, by these yells; but

the rest of the company I really pitied. I never saw any set of

reasonable people so thoroughly frightened in my life. They all

grew as pale as so many corpses, and, shrinking within their

seats, sat quivering and gibbering with terror, and listening for

a repetition of the sound. It came again—louder and seemingly

nearer—and then a third time very loud, and then a fourth time

with a vigor evidently diminished. At this apparent dying away of

the noise, the spirits of the company were immediately regained,

and all was life and anecdote as before. I now ventured to

inquire the cause of the disturbance.

“A mere _bagatelle_,” said Monsieur Maillard. “We are used to

these things, and care really very little about them. The

lunatics, every now and then, get up a howl in concert; one

starting another, as is sometimes the case with a bevy of dogs at

night. It occasionally happens, however, that the _concerto_

yells are succeeded by a simultaneous effort at breaking loose;

when, of course, some little danger is to be apprehended.”

“And how many have you in charge?”

“At present we have not more than ten, altogether.”

“Principally females, I presume?”

“Oh, no—every one of them men, and stout fellows, too, I can tell

you.”

“Indeed! I have always understood that the majority of lunatics

were of the gentler sex.”

“It is generally so, but not always. Some time ago, there were

about twenty-seven patients here; and, of that number, no less

than eighteen were women; but, lately, matters have changed very

much, as you see.”

“Yes—have changed very much, as you see,” here interrupted the

gentleman who had broken the shins of Ma’m’selle Laplace.

“Yes—have changed very much, as you see!” chimed in the whole

company at once.

“Hold your tongues, every one of you!” said my host, in a great

rage. Whereupon the whole company maintained a dead silence for

nearly a minute. As for one lady, she obeyed Monsieur Maillard to

the letter, and thrusting out her tongue, which was an

excessively long one, held it very resignedly, with both hands,

until the end of the entertainment.

“And this gentlewoman,” said I, to Monsieur Maillard, bending

over and addressing him in a whisper—“this good lady who has just

spoken, and who gives us the cock-a-doodle-de-doo—she, I presume,

is harmless—quite harmless, eh?”

“Harmless!” ejaculated he, in unfeigned surprise, “why—why, what

can you mean?”

“Only slightly touched?” said I, touching my head. “I take it for

granted that she is not particularly not dangerously affected,

eh?”

“_Mon dieu!_ what is it you imagine? This lady, my particular old

friend Madame Joyeuse, is as absolutely sane as myself. She has

her little eccentricities, to be sure—but then, you know, all old

women—all _very_ old women—are more or less eccentric!”

“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure—and then the rest of these

ladies and gentlemen—”

“Are my friends and keepers,” interupted Monsieur Maillard,

drawing himself up with _hauteur_,—“my very good friends and

assistants.”

“What! all of them?” I asked,—“the women and all?”

“Assuredly,” he said,—“we could not do at all without the women;

they are the best lunatic nurses in the world; they have a way of

their own, you know; their bright eyes have a marvellous

effect—something like the fascination of the snake, you know.”

“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure! They behave a little odd,

eh?—they are a little queer, eh?—don’t you think so?”

“Odd!—queer!—why, do you really think so? We are not very

prudish, to be sure, here in the South—do pretty much as we

please—enjoy life, and all that sort of thing, you know—”

“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure.”

“And then, perhaps, this Clos de Vougeot is a little heady, you

know—a little strong—you understand, eh?”

“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure. By the bye, Monsieur, did I

understand you to say that the system you have adopted, in place

of the celebrated soothing system, was one of very rigorous

severity?”

“By no means. Our confinement is necessarily close; but the

treatment—the medical treatment, I mean—is rather agreeable to

the patients than otherwise.”

“And the new system is one of your own invention?”

“Not altogether. Some portions of it are referable to Professor

Tarr, of whom you have, necessarily, heard; and, again, there are

modifications in my plan which I am happy to acknowledge as

belonging of right to the celebrated Fether, with whom, if I

mistake not, you have the honor of an intimate acquaintance.”

“I am quite ashamed to confess,” I replied, “that I have never

even heard the names of either gentleman before.”

“Good heavens!” ejaculated my host, drawing back his chair

abruptly, and uplifting his hands. “I surely do not hear you

aright! You did not intend to say, eh? that you had never heard

either of the learned Doctor Tarr, or of the celebrated Professor

Fether?”

“I am forced to acknowledge my ignorance,” I replied; “but the

truth should be held inviolate above all things. Nevertheless, I

feel humbled to the dust, not to be acquainted with the works of

these, no doubt, extraordinary men. I will seek out their

writings forthwith, and peruse them with deliberate care.

Monsieur Maillard, you have really—I must confess it—you have

really—made me ashamed of myself!”

And this was the fact.

“Say no more, my good young friend,” he said kindly, pressing my

hand,—“join me now in a glass of Sauterne.”

We drank. The company followed our example without stint. They

chatted—they jested—they laughed—they perpetrated a thousand

absurdities—the fiddles shrieked—the drum row-de-dowed—the

trombones bellowed like so many brazen bulls of Phalaris—and the

whole scene, growing gradually worse and worse, as the wines

gained the ascendancy, became at length a sort of pandemonium in

petto. In the meantime, Monsieur Maillard and myself, with some

bottles of Sauterne and Vougeot between us, continued our

conversation at the top of the voice. A word spoken in an

ordinary key stood no more chance of being heard than the voice

of a fish from the bottom of Niagara Falls.

“And, sir,” said I, screaming in his ear, “you mentioned

something before dinner about the danger incurred in the old

system of soothing. How is that?”

“Yes,” he replied, “there was, occasionally, very great danger

indeed. There is no accounting for the caprices of madmen; and,

in my opinion as well as in that of Dr. Tarr and Professor

Fether, it is never safe to permit them to run at large

unattended. A lunatic may be ‘soothed,’ as it is called, for a

time, but, in the end, he is very apt to become obstreperous. His

cunning, too, is proverbial and great. If he has a project in

view, he conceals his design with a marvellous wisdom; and the

dexterity with which he counterfeits sanity, presents, to the

metaphysician, one of the most singular problems in the study of

mind. When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high

time to put him in a straitjacket.”

“But the danger, my dear sir, of which you were speaking, in your

own experience—during your control of this house—have you had

practical reason to think liberty hazardous in the case of a

lunatic?”

“Here?—in my own experience?—why, I may say, yes. For example:—no

very long while ago, a singular circumstance occurred in this

very house. The ‘soothing system,’ you know, was then in

operation, and the patients were at large. They behaved

remarkably well—especially so—any one of sense might have known

that some devilish scheme was brewing from that particular fact,

that the fellows behaved so remarkably well. And, sure enough,

one fine morning the keepers found themselves pinioned hand and

foot, and thrown into the cells, where they were attended, as if

they were the lunatics, by the lunatics themselves, who had

usurped the offices of the keepers.”

“You don’t tell me so! I never heard of any thing so absurd in my

life!”

“Fact—it all came to pass by means of a stupid fellow—a

lunatic—who, by some means, had taken it into his head that he

had invented a better system of government than any ever heard of

before—of lunatic government, I mean. He wished to give his

invention a trial, I suppose, and so he persuaded the rest of the

patients to join him in a conspiracy for the overthrow of the

reigning powers.”

“And he really succeeded?”

“No doubt of it. The keepers and kept were soon made to exchange

places. Not that exactly either—for the madmen had been free, but

the keepers were shut up in cells forthwith, and treated, I am

sorry to say, in a very cavalier manner.”

“But I presume a counter-revolution was soon effected. This

condition of things could not have long existed. The country

people in the neighborhood—visitors coming to see the

establishment—would have given the alarm.”

“There you are out. The head rebel was too cunning for that. He

admitted no visitors at all—with the exception, one day, of a

very stupid-looking young gentleman of whom he had no reason to

be afraid. He let him in to see the place—just by way of

variety,—to have a little fun with him. As soon as he had

gammoned him sufficiently, he let him out, and sent him about his

business.”

“And how long, then, did the madmen reign?”

“Oh, a very long time, indeed—a month certainly—how much longer I

can’t precisely say. In the meantime, the lunatics had a jolly

season of it—that you may swear. They doffed their own shabby

clothes, and made free with the family wardrobe and jewels. The

cellars of the château were well stocked with wine; and these

madmen are just the devils that know how to drink it. They lived

well, I can tell you.”

“And the treatment—what was the particular species of treatment

which the leader of the rebels put into operation?”

“Why, as for that, a madman is not necessarily a fool, as I have

already observed; and it is my honest opinion that his treatment

was a much better treatment than that which it superseded. It was

a very capital system indeed—simple—neat—no trouble at all—in

fact it was delicious—it was—”

Here my host’s observations were cut short by another series of

yells, of the same character as those which had previously

disconcerted us. This time, however, they seemed to proceed from

persons rapidly approaching.

“Gracious heavens!” I ejaculated—“the lunatics have most

undoubtedly broken loose.”

“I very much fear it is so,” replied Monsieur Maillard, now

becoming excessively pale. He had scarcely finished the sentence,

before loud shouts and imprecations were heard beneath the

windows; and, immediately afterward, it became evident that some

persons outside were endeavoring to gain entrance into the room.

The door was beaten with what appeared to be a sledge-hammer, and

the shutters were wrenched and shaken with prodigious violence.

A scene of the most terrible confusion ensued. Monsieur Maillard,

to my excessive astonishment threw himself under the side-board.

I had expected more resolution at his hands. The members of the

orchestra, who, for the last fifteen minutes, had been seemingly

too much intoxicated to do duty, now sprang all at once to their

feet and to their instruments, and, scrambling upon their table,

broke out, with one accord, into, “Yankee Doodle,” which they

performed, if not exactly in tune, at least with an energy

superhuman, during the whole of the uproar.

Meantime, upon the main dining-table, among the bottles and

glasses, leaped the gentleman who, with such difficulty, had been

restrained from leaping there before. As soon as he fairly

settled himself, he commenced an oration, which, no doubt, was a

very capital one, if it could only have been heard. At the same

moment, the man with the teetotum predilection, set himself to

spinning around the apartment, with immense energy, and with arms

outstretched at right angles with his body; so that he had all

the air of a tee-totum in fact, and knocked everybody down that

happened to get in his way. And now, too, hearing an incredible

popping and fizzing of champagne, I discovered at length, that it

proceeded from the person who performed the bottle of that

delicate drink during dinner. And then, again, the frog-man

croaked away as if the salvation of his soul depended upon every

note that he uttered. And, in the midst of all this, the

continuous braying of a donkey arose over all. As for my old

friend, Madame Joyeuse, I really could have wept for the poor

lady, she appeared so terribly perplexed. All she did, however,

was to stand up in a corner, by the fireplace, and sing out

incessantly at the top of her voice, “Cock-a-doodle-de-dooooooh!”

And now came the climax—the catastrophe of the drama. As no

resistance, beyond whooping and yelling and cock-a-doodling, was

offered to the encroachments of the party without, the ten

windows were very speedily, and almost simultaneously, broken in.

But I shall never forget the emotions of wonder and horror with

which I gazed, when, leaping through these windows, and down

among us _pêle-mêle_, fighting, stamping, scratching, and

howling, there rushed a perfect army of what I took to be

chimpanzees, ourang-outangs, or big black baboons of the Cape of

Good Hope.

I received a terrible beating—after which I rolled under a sofa

and lay still. After lying there some fifteen minutes, during

which time I listened with all my ears to what was going on in

the room, I came to same satisfactory _dénouement_ of this

tragedy. Monsieur Maillard, it appeared, in giving me the account

of the lunatic who had excited his fellows to rebellion, had been

merely relating his own exploits. This gentleman had, indeed,

some two or three years before, been the superintendent of the

establishment, but grew crazy himself, and so became a patient.

This fact was unknown to the travelling companion who introduced

me. The keepers, ten in number, having been suddenly overpowered,

were first well tarred, then carefully feathered, and then shut

up in underground cells. They had been so imprisoned for more

than a month, during which period Monsieur Maillard had

generously allowed them not only the tar and feathers (which

constituted his “system”), but some bread and abundance of water.

The latter was pumped on them daily. At length, one escaping

through a sewer, gave freedom to all the rest.

The “soothing system,” with important modifications, has been

resumed at the _château;_ yet I cannot help agreeing with

Monsieur Maillard, that his own “treatment” was a very capital

one of its kind. As he justly observed, it was “simple—neat—and

gave no trouble at all—not the least.”

I have only to add that, although I have searched every library

in Europe for the works of Doctor _Tarr_ and Professor _Fether_,

I have, up to the present day, utterly failed in my endeavors at

procuring an edition.

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.

HOW TO WRITE A “BLACKWOOD” ARTICLE

“In the name of the Prophet—figs!!”

—_Cry of the 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,” &c.? [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 the 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, &c, &c. Dr.

Moneypenny says that S. stands for stale, and that D. U. K.

spells duck, (but it don’t,) 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 always 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 any thing 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 “Culley’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.

“My dear madam,” said he, evidently struck with my majestic

appearance, for I had on the crimson satin, with the green

agraffas, and orange-colored auriclas. “My dear madam,” said he,

“sit down. The matter stands thus: In the first place your writer

of intensities must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with

a very blunt nib. And, mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!” he

continued, after a pause, with the most expressive energy and

solemnity of manner, “mark me!—that pen—must—never be mended!

Herein, madam, lies the secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume

upon myself to say, that no individual, of however great genius

ever wrote with a good pen—understand me,—a good article. You may

take, it for granted, that when manuscript can be read it is

never worth reading. This is a leading principle in our faith, to

which if you cannot readily assent, our conference is at an end.”

He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the

conference, I assented to a proposition so very obvious, and one,

too, of whose truth I had all along been sufficiently aware. He

seemed pleased, and went on with his instructions.

“It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you

to any article, or set of articles, in the way of model or study,

yet perhaps I may as well call your attention to a few cases. Let

me see. There was ‘The Dead Alive,’ a capital thing!—the record

of a gentleman’s sensations when entombed before the breath was

out of his body—full of tastes, terror, sentiment, metaphysics,

and erudition. You would have sworn that the writer had been born

and brought up in a coffin. Then we had the ‘Confessions of an

Opium-eater’—fine, very fine!—glorious imagination—deep

philosophy acute speculation—plenty of fire and fury, and a good

spicing of the decidedly unintelligible. That was a nice bit of

flummery, and went down the throats of the people delightfully.

They would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper—but not so. It

was composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of Hollands

and water, ‘hot, without sugar.’” [This I could scarcely have

believed had it been anybody but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of

it.] “Then there was ‘The Involuntary Experimentalist,’ all about

a gentleman who got baked in an oven, and came out alive and

well, although certainly done to a turn. And then there was ‘The

Diary of a Late Physician,’ where the merit lay in good rant, and

indifferent Greek—both of them taking things with the public. And

then there was ‘The Man in the Bell,’ a paper by-the-by, Miss

Zenobia, which I cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention.

It is the history of a young person who goes to sleep under the

clapper of a church bell, and is awakened by its tolling for a

funeral. The sound drives him mad, and, accordingly, pulling out

his tablets, he gives a record of his sensations. Sensations are

the great things after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung,

be sure and make a note of your sensations—they will be worth to

you ten guineas a sheet. If you wish to write forcibly, Miss

Zenobia, pay minute attention to the sensations.”

“That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood,” said I.

“Good!” he replied. “I see you are a pupil after my own heart.

But I must put you au fait to the details necessary in composing

what may be denominated a genuine Blackwood article of the

sensation stamp—the kind which you will understand me to say I

consider the best for all purposes.

“The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape

as no one ever got into before. The oven, for instance,—that was

a good hit. But if you have no oven or big bell, at hand, and if

you cannot conveniently tumble out of a balloon, or be swallowed

up in an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney, you will

have to be contented with simply imagining some similar

misadventure. I should prefer, however, that you have the actual

fact to bear you out. Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an

experimental knowledge of the matter in hand. ‘Truth is strange,’

you know, ‘stranger than fiction’—besides being more to the

purpose.”

Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would

go and hang myself forthwith.

“Good!” he replied, “do so;—although hanging is somewhat

hacknied. Perhaps you might do better. Take a dose of Brandreth’s

pills, and then give us your sensations. However, my instructions

will apply equally well to any variety of misadventure, and in

your way home you may easily get knocked in the head, or run over

by an omnibus, or bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a gutter.

But to proceed.

“Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the

tone, or manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic,

the tone enthusiastic, the tone natural—all commonplace enough.

But then there is the tone laconic, or curt, which has lately

come much into use. It consists in short sentences. Somehow thus:

Can’t be too brief. Can’t be too snappish. Always a full stop.

And never a paragraph.

“Then there is the tone elevated, diffusive, and interjectional.

Some of our best novelists patronize this tone. The words must be

all in a whirl, like a humming-top, and make a noise very

similar, which answers remarkably well instead of meaning. This

is the best of all possible styles where the writer is in too

great a hurry to think.

“The tone metaphysical is also a good one. If you know any big

words this is your chance for them. Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic

schools—of Archytas, Gorgias, and Alcmaeon. Say something about

objectivity and subjectivity. Be sure and abuse a man named

Locke. Turn up your nose at things in general, and when you let

slip any thing a little too absurd, you need not be at the

trouble of scratching it out, but just add a footnote and say

that you are indebted for the above profound observation to the

‘Kritik der reinem Vernunft,’ or to the ‘Metaphysithe

Anfongsgrunde der Noturwissenchaft.’ This would look erudite

and—and—and frank.

“There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall

mention only two more—the tone transcendental and the tone

heterogeneous. In the former the merit consists in seeing into

the nature of affairs a very great deal farther than anybody

else. This second sight is very efficient when properly managed.

A little reading of the ‘Dial’ will carry you a great way.

Eschew, in this case, big words; get them as small as possible,

and write them upside down. Look over Channing’s poems and quote

what he says about a ‘fat little man with a delusive show of

Can.’ Put in something about the Supernal Oneness. Don’t say a

syllable about the Infernal Twoness. Above all, study innuendo.

Hint everything—assert nothing. If you feel inclined to say

‘bread and butter,’ do not by any means say it outright. You may

say any thing and every thing approaching to ‘bread and butter.’

You may hint at buck-wheat cake, or you may even go so far as to

insinuate oat-meal porridge, but if bread and butter be your real

meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any account to

say ‘bread and butter!’”

I assured him that I should never say it again as long as I

lived. He kissed me and continued:

“As for the tone heterogeneous, it is merely a judicious mixture,

in equal proportions, of all the other tones in the world, and is

consequently made up of every thing deep, great, odd, piquant,

pertinent, and pretty.

“Let us suppose now you have determined upon your incidents and

tone. The most important portion—in fact, the soul of the whole

business, is yet to be attended to—I allude to the filling up. It

is not to be supposed that a lady, or gentleman either, has been

leading the life of a book worm. And yet above all things it is

necessary that your article have an air of erudition, or at least

afford evidence of extensive general reading. Now I’ll put you in

the way of accomplishing this point. See here!” (pulling down

some three or four ordinary-looking volumes, and opening them at

random). “By casting your eye down almost any page of any book in

the world, you will be able to perceive at once a host of little

scraps of either learning or _bel-esprit-ism_, which are the very

thing for the spicing of a Blackwood article. You might as well

note down a few while I read them to you. I shall make two

divisions: first, Piquant Facts for the Manufacture of Similes,

and, second, Piquant Expressions to be introduced as occasion may

require. Write now!”—and I wrote as he dictated.

“PIQUANT FACTS FOR SIMILES. ‘There were originally but three

Muses—Melete, Mneme, Aœde—meditation, memory, and singing.’ You

may make a good deal of that little fact if properly worked. You

see it is not generally known, and looks _recherché_. You must be

careful and give the thing with a downright improviso air.

“Again. ‘The river Alpheus passed beneath the sea, and emerged

without injury to the purity of its waters.’ Rather stale that,

to be sure, but, if properly dressed and dished up, will look

quite as fresh as ever.

“Here is something better. ‘The Persian Iris appears to some

persons to possess a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to

others it is perfectly scentless.’ Fine that, and very delicate!

Turn it about a little, and it will do wonders. We’ll have some

thing else in the botanical line. There’s nothing goes down so

well, especially with the help of a little Latin. Write!

“‘_The Epidendrum Flos Aeris_, of Java, bears a very beautiful

flower, and will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives

suspend it by a cord from the ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance

for years.’ That’s capital! That will do for the similes. Now for

the Piquant Expressions.

“PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS. ‘_The Venerable Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li_.’

Good! By introducing these few words with dexterity you will

evince your intimate acquaintance with the language and

literature of the Chinese. With the aid of this you may either

get along without either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There

is no passing muster, however, without Spanish, Italian, German,

Latin, and Greek. I must look you out a little specimen of each.

Any scrap will answer, because you must depend upon your own

ingenuity to make it fit into your article. Now write!

“‘_Aussi tendre que Zaire_’—as tender as Zaire-French. Alludes to

the frequent repetition of the phrase, _la tendre Zaire_, in the

French tragedy of that name. Properly introduced, will show not

only your knowledge of the language, but your general reading and

wit. You can say, for instance, that the chicken you were eating

(write an article about being choked to death by a chicken-bone)

was not altogether _aussi tendre que Zaire_. Write!

‘Van muerte tan escondida,

Que no te sienta venir,

Porque el plazer del morir,

No mestorne a dar la vida.’

“That’s Spanish—from Miguel de Cervantes. ‘Come quickly, O death!

but be sure and don’t let me see you coming, lest the pleasure I

shall feel at your appearance should unfortunately bring me back

again to life.’ This you may slip in quite a propos when you are

struggling in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write!

‘Il pover ‘huomo che non se’n era accorto,

Andava combattendo, e era morto.‘

“That’s Italian, you perceive—from Ariosto. It means that a great

hero, in the heat of combat, not perceiving that he had been

fairly killed, continued to fight valiantly, dead as he was. The

application of this to your own case is obvious—for I trust, Miss

Psyche, that you will not neglect to kick for at least an hour

and a half after you have been choked to death by that

chicken-bone. Please to write!

‘Und sterb’ich doch, no sterb’ich denn

Durch sie—durch sie!’’