The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 4
by Edgar Allan Poe · English · Gutenberg #2150 · 572,720 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 4
Author: Edgar Allan Poe
Release date: April 1, 2000 [eBook #2150]
Most recently updated: August 31, 2026
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2150
Credits: Produced by David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE — VOLUME 4 ***
The Works of Edgar Allan Poe
by Edgar Allan Poe
The Raven Edition
VOLUME IV.
Contents
THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY
LIONIZING
X-ING A PARAGRAB
METZENGERSTEIN
THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER
THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ.
HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE
A PREDICAMENT
MYSTIFICATION
DIDDLING
THE ANGEL OF THE ODD
MELLONTA TAUTA
THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE
THE OBLONG BOX
LOSS OF BREATH
THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP
THE BUSINESS MAN
THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN
MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER
THE POWER OF WORDS
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION
SHADOW—A PARABLE
THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY
What o’clock is it?—_Old Saying_.
Everybody knows, in a general way, that the finest place in the
world is—or, alas, _was_—the Dutch borough of
Vondervotteimittiss. Yet as it lies some distance from any of the
main roads, being in a somewhat out-of-the-way situation, there
are perhaps very few of my readers who have ever paid it a visit.
For the benefit of those who have not, therefore, it will be only
proper that I should enter into some account of it. And this is
indeed the more necessary, as with the hope of enlisting public
sympathy in behalf of the inhabitants, I design here to give a
history of the calamitous events which have so lately occurred
within its limits. No one who knows me will doubt that the duty
thus self-imposed will be executed to the best of my ability,
with all that rigid impartiality, all that cautious examination
into facts, and diligent collation of authorities, which should
ever distinguish him who aspires to the title of historian.
By the united aid of medals, manuscripts, and inscriptions, I am
enabled to say, positively, that the borough of
Vondervotteimittiss has existed, from its origin, in precisely
the same condition which it at present preserves. Of the date of
this origin, however, I grieve that I can only speak with that
species of indefinite definiteness which mathematicians are, at
times, forced to put up with in certain algebraic formulae. The
date, I may thus say, in regard to the remoteness of its
antiquity, cannot be less than any assignable quantity
whatsoever.
Touching the derivation of the name Vondervotteimittiss, I
confess myself, with sorrow, equally at fault. Among a multitude
of opinions upon this delicate point—some acute, some learned,
some sufficiently the reverse—I am able to select nothing which
ought to be considered satisfactory. Perhaps the idea of
Grogswigg—nearly coincident with that of Kroutaplenttey—is to be
cautiously preferred.—It runs:—“Vondervotteimittis—Vonder, lege
Donder—Votteimittis, quasi und Bleitziz—Bleitziz obsol:—pro
Blitzen.” This derivative, to say the truth, is still
countenanced by some traces of the electric fluid evident on the
summit of the steeple of the House of the Town-Council. I do not
choose, however, to commit myself on a theme of such importance,
and must refer the reader desirous of information to the
“Oratiunculae de Rebus Praeter-Veteris,” of Dundergutz. See,
also, Blunderbuzzard “De Derivationibus,” pp. 27 to 5010, Folio,
Gothic edit., Red and Black character, Catch-word and No Cypher;
wherein consult, also, marginal notes in the autograph of
Stuffundpuff, with the Sub-Commentaries of Gruntundguzzell.
Notwithstanding the obscurity which thus envelops the date of the
foundation of Vondervotteimittis, and the derivation of its name,
there can be no doubt, as I said before, that it has always
existed as we find it at this epoch. The oldest man in the
borough can remember not the slightest difference in the
appearance of any portion of it; and, indeed, the very suggestion
of such a possibility is considered an insult. The site of the
village is in a perfectly circular valley, about a quarter of a
mile in circumference, and entirely surrounded by gentle hills,
over whose summit the people have never yet ventured to pass. For
this they assign the very good reason that they do not believe
there is anything at all on the other side.
Round the skirts of the valley (which is quite level, and paved
throughout with flat tiles), extends a continuous row of sixty
little houses. These, having their backs on the hills, must look,
of course, to the centre of the plain, which is just sixty yards
from the front door of each dwelling. Every house has a small
garden before it, with a circular path, a sun-dial, and
twenty-four cabbages. The buildings themselves are so precisely
alike, that one can in no manner be distinguished from the other.
Owing to the vast antiquity, the style of architecture is
somewhat odd, but it is not for that reason the less strikingly
picturesque. They are fashioned of hard-burned little bricks,
red, with black ends, so that the walls look like a chess-board
upon a great scale. The gables are turned to the front, and there
are cornices, as big as all the rest of the house, over the eaves
and over the main doors. The windows are narrow and deep, with
very tiny panes and a great deal of sash. On the roof is a vast
quantity of tiles with long curly ears. The woodwork, throughout,
is of a dark hue and there is much carving about it, with but a
trifling variety of pattern for, time out of mind, the carvers of
Vondervotteimittiss have never been able to carve more than two
objects—a time-piece and a cabbage. But these they do exceedingly
well, and intersperse them, with singular ingenuity, wherever
they find room for the chisel.
The dwellings are as much alike inside as out, and the furniture
is all upon one plan. The floors are of square tiles, the chairs
and tables of black-looking wood with thin crooked legs and puppy
feet. The mantelpieces are wide and high, and have not only
time-pieces and cabbages sculptured over the front, but a real
time-piece, which makes a prodigious ticking, on the top in the
middle, with a flower-pot containing a cabbage standing on each
extremity by way of outrider. Between each cabbage and the
time-piece, again, is a little China man having a large stomach
with a great round hole in it, through which is seen the
dial-plate of a watch.
The fireplaces are large and deep, with fierce crooked-looking
fire-dogs. There is constantly a rousing fire, and a huge pot
over it, full of sauer-kraut and pork, to which the good woman of
the house is always busy in attending. She is a little fat old
lady, with blue eyes and a red face, and wears a huge cap like a
sugar-loaf, ornamented with purple and yellow ribbons. Her dress
is of orange-colored linsey-woolsey, made very full behind and
very short in the waist—and indeed very short in other respects,
not reaching below the middle of her leg. This is somewhat thick,
and so are her ankles, but she has a fine pair of green stockings
to cover them. Her shoes—of pink leather—are fastened each with a
bunch of yellow ribbons puckered up in the shape of a cabbage. In
her left hand she has a little heavy Dutch watch; in her right
she wields a ladle for the sauerkraut and pork. By her side there
stands a fat tabby cat, with a gilt toy-repeater tied to its
tail, which “the boys” have there fastened by way of a quiz.
The boys themselves are, all three of them, in the garden
attending the pig. They are each two feet in height. They have
three-cornered cocked hats, purple waistcoats reaching down to
their thighs, buckskin knee-breeches, red stockings, heavy shoes
with big silver buckles, long surtout coats with large buttons of
mother-of-pearl. Each, too, has a pipe in his mouth, and a little
dumpy watch in his right hand. He takes a puff and a look, and
then a look and a puff. The pig—which is corpulent and lazy—is
occupied now in picking up the stray leaves that fall from the
cabbages, and now in giving a kick behind at the gilt repeater,
which the urchins have also tied to his tail in order to make him
look as handsome as the cat.
Right at the front door, in a high-backed leather-bottomed armed
chair, with crooked legs and puppy feet like the tables, is
seated the old man of the house himself. He is an exceedingly
puffy little old gentleman, with big circular eyes and a huge
double chin. His dress resembles that of the boys—and I need say
nothing farther about it. All the difference is, that his pipe is
somewhat bigger than theirs and he can make a greater smoke. Like
them, he has a watch, but he carries his watch in his pocket. To
say the truth, he has something of more importance than a watch
to attend to—and what that is, I shall presently explain. He sits
with his right leg upon his left knee, wears a grave countenance,
and always keeps one of his eyes, at least, resolutely bent upon
a certain remarkable object in the centre of the plain.
This object is situated in the steeple of the House of the Town
Council. The Town Council are all very little, round, oily,
intelligent men, with big saucer eyes and fat double chins, and
have their coats much longer and their shoe-buckles much bigger
than the ordinary inhabitants of Vondervotteimittiss. Since my
sojourn in the borough, they have had several special meetings,
and have adopted these three important resolutions:
“That it is wrong to alter the good old course of things:”
“That there is nothing tolerable out of Vondervotteimittiss:”
and—
“That we will stick by our clocks and our cabbages.”
Above the session-room of the Council is the steeple, and in the
steeple is the belfry, where exists, and has existed time out of
mind, the pride and wonder of the village—the great clock of the
borough of Vondervotteimittiss. And this is the object to which
the eyes of the old gentlemen are turned who sit in the
leather-bottomed arm-chairs.
The great clock has seven faces—one in each of the seven sides of
the steeple—so that it can be readily seen from all quarters. Its
faces are large and white, and its hands heavy and black. There
is a belfry-man whose sole duty is to attend to it; but this duty
is the most perfect of sinecures—for the clock of
Vondervotteimittis was never yet known to have anything the
matter with it. Until lately, the bare supposition of such a
thing was considered heretical. From the remotest period of
antiquity to which the archives have reference, the hours have
been regularly struck by the big bell. And, indeed the case was
just the same with all the other clocks and watches in the
borough. Never was such a place for keeping the true time. When
the large clapper thought proper to say “Twelve o’clock!” all its
obedient followers opened their throats simultaneously, and
responded like a very echo. In short, the good burghers were fond
of their sauer-kraut, but then they were proud of their clocks.
All people who hold sinecure offices are held in more or less
respect, and as the belfry—man of Vondervotteimittiss has the
most perfect of sinecures, he is the most perfectly respected of
any man in the world. He is the chief dignitary of the borough,
and the very pigs look up to him with a sentiment of reverence.
His coat-tail is very far longer—his pipe, his shoe-buckles, his
eyes, and his stomach, very far bigger—than those of any other
old gentleman in the village; and as to his chin, it is not only
double, but triple.
I have thus painted the happy estate of Vondervotteimittiss:
alas, that so fair a picture should ever experience a reverse!
There has been long a saying among the wisest inhabitants, that
“no good can come from over the hills”; and it really seemed that
the words had in them something of the spirit of prophecy. It
wanted five minutes of noon, on the day before yesterday, when
there appeared a very odd-looking object on the summit of the
ridge of the eastward. Such an occurrence, of course, attracted
universal attention, and every little old gentleman who sat in a
leather-bottomed arm-chair turned one of his eyes with a stare of
dismay upon the phenomenon, still keeping the other upon the
clock in the steeple.
By the time that it wanted only three minutes to noon, the droll
object in question was perceived to be a very diminutive
foreign-looking young man. He descended the hills at a great
rate, so that every body had soon a good look at him. He was
really the most finicky little personage that had ever been seen
in Vondervotteimittiss. His countenance was of a dark
snuff-color, and he had a long hooked nose, pea eyes, a wide
mouth, and an excellent set of teeth, which latter he seemed
anxious of displaying, as he was grinning from ear to ear. What
with mustachios and whiskers, there was none of the rest of his
face to be seen. His head was uncovered, and his hair neatly done
up in papillotes. His dress was a tight-fitting swallow-tailed
black coat (from one of whose pockets dangled a vast length of
white handkerchief), black kerseymere knee-breeches, black
stockings, and stumpy-looking pumps, with huge bunches of black
satin ribbon for bows. Under one arm he carried a huge
_chapeau-de-bras_, and under the other a fiddle nearly five times
as big as himself. In his left hand was a gold snuff-box, from
which, as he capered down the hill, cutting all manner of
fantastic steps, he took snuff incessantly with an air of the
greatest possible self-satisfaction. God bless me!—here was a
sight for the honest burghers of Vondervotteimittiss!
To speak plainly, the fellow had, in spite of his grinning, an
audacious and sinister kind of face; and as he curvetted right
into the village, the old stumpy appearance of his pumps excited
no little suspicion; and many a burgher who beheld him that day
would have given a trifle for a peep beneath the white cambric
handkerchief which hung so obtrusively from the pocket of his
swallow-tailed coat. But what mainly occasioned a righteous
indignation was, that the scoundrelly popinjay, while he cut a
fandango here, and a whirligig there, did not seem to have the
remotest idea in the world of such a thing as keeping time in his
steps.
The good people of the borough had scarcely a chance, however, to
get their eyes thoroughly open, when, just as it wanted half a
minute of noon, the rascal bounced, as I say, right into the
midst of them; gave a _chassez_ here, and a _balancez_ there; and
then, after a _pirouette_ and a _pas-de-zephyr_, pigeon-winged
himself right up into the belfry of the House of the Town
Council, where the wonder-stricken belfry-man sat smoking in a
state of dignity and dismay. But the little chap seized him at
once by the nose; gave it a swing and a pull; clapped the big
_chapeau-de-bras_ upon his head; knocked it down over his eyes
and mouth; and then, lifting up the big fiddle, beat him with it
so long and so soundly, that what with the belfry-man being so
fat, and the fiddle being so hollow, you would have sworn that
there was a regiment of double-bass drummers all beating the
devil’s tattoo up in the belfry of the steeple of
Vondervotteimittiss.
There is no knowing to what desperate act of vengeance this
unprincipled attack might have aroused the inhabitants, but for
the important fact that it now wanted only half a second of noon.
The bell was about to strike, and it was a matter of absolute and
pre-eminent necessity that every body should look well at his
watch. It was evident, however, that just at this moment the
fellow in the steeple was doing something that he had no business
to do with the clock. But as it now began to strike, nobody had
any time to attend to his manœuvres, for they had all to count
the strokes of the bell as it sounded.
“One!” said the clock.
“Von!” echoed every little old gentleman in every
leather-bottomed arm-chair in Vondervotteimittiss. “Von!” said
his watch also; “von!” said the watch of his vrow; and “von!”
said the watches of the boys, and the little gilt repeaters on
the tails of the cat and pig.
“Two!” continued the big bell; and
“Doo!” repeated all the repeaters.
“Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!” said the bell.
“Dree! Vour! Fibe! Sax! Seben! Aight! Noin! Den!” answered the
others.
“Eleven!” said the big one.
“Eleben!” assented the little ones.
“Twelve!” said the bell.
“Dvelf!” they replied perfectly satisfied, and dropping their
voices.
“Und dvelf it is!” said all the little old gentlemen, putting up
their watches. But the big bell had not done with them yet.
“Thirteen!” said he.
“Der Teufel!” gasped the little old gentlemen, turning pale,
dropping their pipes, and putting down all their right legs from
over their left knees.
“Der Teufel!” groaned they, “Dirteen! Dirteen!!—Mein Gott, it is
Dirteen o’clock!!”
Why attempt to describe the terrible scene which ensued? All
Vondervotteimittiss flew at once into a lamentable state of
uproar.
“Vot is cum’d to mein pelly?” roared all the boys—“I’ve been
ongry for dis hour!”
“Vot is com’d to mein kraut?” screamed all the vrows, “It has
been done to rags for this hour!”
“Vot is cum’d to mein pipe?” swore all the little old gentlemen,
“Donder and Blitzen; it has been smoked out for dis hour!”—and
they filled them up again in a great rage, and sinking back in
their arm-chairs, puffed away so fast and so fiercely that the
whole valley was immediately filled with impenetrable smoke.
Meantime the cabbages all turned very red in the face, and it
seemed as if old Nick himself had taken possession of every thing
in the shape of a timepiece. The clocks carved upon the furniture
took to dancing as if bewitched, while those upon the
mantel-pieces could scarcely contain themselves for fury, and
kept such a continual striking of thirteen, and such a frisking
and wriggling of their pendulums as was really horrible to see.
But, worse than all, neither the cats nor the pigs could put up
any longer with the behavior of the little repeaters tied to
their tails, and resented it by scampering all over the place,
scratching and poking, and squeaking and screeching, and
caterwauling and squalling, and flying into the faces, and
running under the petticoats of the people, and creating
altogether the most abominable din and confusion which it is
possible for a reasonable person to conceive. And to make matters
still more distressing, the rascally little scape-grace in the
steeple was evidently exerting himself to the utmost. Every now
and then one might catch a glimpse of the scoundrel through the
smoke. There he sat in the belfry upon the belfry-man, who was
lying flat upon his back. In his teeth the villain held the
bell-rope, which he kept jerking about with his head, raising
such a clatter that my ears ring again even to think of it. On
his lap lay the big fiddle, at which he was scraping, out of all
time and tune, with both hands, making a great show, the
nincompoop! of playing “Judy O’Flannagan and Paddy O’Rafferty.”
Affairs being thus miserably situated, I left the place in
disgust, and now appeal for aid to all lovers of correct time and
fine kraut. Let us proceed in a body to the borough, and restore
the ancient order of things in Vondervotteimittiss by ejecting
that little fellow from the steeple.
LIONIZING
—— all people went
Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment.
—_Bishop Hall’s Satires_.
I am—that is to say I was—a great man; but I am neither the
author of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe,
is Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of
Fum-Fudge.
The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with
both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius—my father
wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I
mastered before I was breeched.
I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to
understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently
conspicuous, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a
Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone.
Every morning I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed
a half dozen of drams.
When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step
with him into his study.
“My son,” said he, when we were seated, “what is the chief end of
your existence?”
“My father,” I answered, “it is the study of Nosology.”
“And what, Robert,” he inquired, “is Nosology?”
“Sir,” I said, “it is the science of Noses.”
“And can you tell me,” he demanded, “what is the meaning of a
nose?”
“A nose, my father;” I replied, greatly softened, “has been
variously defined by about a thousand different authors.” [Here I
pulled out my watch.] “It is now noon or thereabouts—we shall
have time enough to get through with them all before midnight. To
commence then:—The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that
protuberance—that bump—that excrescence—that—”
“Will do, Robert,” interrupted the good old gentleman. “I am
thunderstruck at the extent of your information—I am
positively—upon my soul.” [Here he closed his eyes and placed his
hand upon his heart.] “Come here!” [Here he took me by the arm.]
“Your education may now be considered as finished—it is high time
you should scuffle for yourself—and you cannot do a better thing
than merely follow your nose—so—so—so—” [Here he kicked me
downstairs and out of the door.]—“so get out of my house, and God
bless you!”
As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this
accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided
by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it
a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology
forthwith.
All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.
“Wonderful genius!” said the Quarterly.
“Superb physiologist!” said the Westminster.
“Clever fellow!” said the Foreign.
“Fine writer!” said the Edinburgh.
“Profound thinker!” said the Dublin.
“Great man!” said Bentley.
“Divine soul!” said Fraser.
“One of us!” said Blackwood.
“Who can he be?” said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.
“What can he be?” said big Miss Bas-Bleu.
“Where can he be?” said little Miss Bas-Bleu.—But I paid these
people no attention whatever—I just stepped into the shop of an
artist.
The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the
Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess’ poodle; the Earl of
This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness
of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair.
I approached the artist and turned up my nose.
“Oh, beautiful!” sighed her Grace.
“Oh my!” lisped the Marquis.
“Oh, shocking!” groaned the Earl.
“Oh, abominable!” growled his Royal Highness.
“What will you take for it?” asked the artist.
“For his nose!” shouted her Grace.
“A thousand pounds,” said I, sitting down.
“A thousand pounds?” inquired the artist, musingly.
“A thousand pounds,” said I.
“Beautiful!” said he, entranced.
“A thousand pounds,” said I.
“Do you warrant it?” he asked, turning the nose to the light.
“I do,” said I, blowing it well.
“Is it quite original?” he inquired; touching it with reverence.
“Humph!” said I, twisting it to one side.
“Has no copy been taken?” he demanded, surveying it through a
microscope.
“None,” said I, turning it up.
“Admirable!” he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the
beauty of the manœuvre.
“A thousand pounds,” said I.
“A thousand pounds?” said he.
“Precisely,” said I.
“A thousand pounds?” said he.
“Just so,” said I.
“You shall have them,” said he. “What a piece of virtu!” So he
drew me a check upon the spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I
engaged rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the
ninety-ninth edition of the “Nosology,” with a portrait of the
proboscis.—That sad little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me
to dinner.
We were all lions and _recherchés_.
There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus,
Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.
There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgôt, Price,
Priestly, Condorcêt, De Staël, and the “Ambitious Student in Ill
Health.”
There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were
philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.
There was Æstheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms;
bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive
intelligence and homoömeria.
There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus;
heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism;
Homousios and Homouioisios.
There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned
Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with _velouté_ sauce; veal _à
la St_. Menehoult; marinade _à la_ St. Florentin; and orange
jellies _en mosaïques_.
There was Bibulus O’Bumper. He touched upon Latour and
Markbrünnen; upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and St.
George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and
Preignac; upon Grâve, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St.
Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his
eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.
There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of
Cimabué, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino—of the gloom of
Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of
the frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen.
There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of
opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in
Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece.
There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not help thinking
that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that somebody in
the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth
was supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of
green horns.
There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the
eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus; of the fifty-four
orations of Isæus; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches
of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus;
of the eighth book of the conic sections of Apollonius; of
Pindar’s hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and forty
tragedies of Homer Junior.
There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He informed us all
about internal fires and tertiary formations; about aëriforms,
fluidiforms, and solidiforms; about quartz and marl; about schist
and schorl; about gypsum and trap; about talc and calc; about
blende and horn-blende; about mica-slate and pudding-stone; about
cyanite and lepidolite; about hematite and tremolite; about
antimony and calcedony; about manganese and whatever you please.
There was myself. I spoke of myself;—of myself, of myself, of
myself;—of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I turned up
my nose, and I spoke of myself.
“Marvellous clever man!” said the Prince.
“Superb!” said his guests;—and next morning her Grace of
Bless-my-Soul paid me a visit.
“Will you go to Almack’s, pretty creature?” she said, tapping me
under the chin.
“Upon honor,” said I.
“Nose and all?” she asked.
“As I live,” I replied.
“Here then is a card, my life. Shall I say you will be there?”
“Dear Duchess, with all my heart.”
“Pshaw, no!—but with all your nose?”
“Every bit of it, my love,” said I:—so I gave it a twist or two,
and found myself at Almack’s. The rooms were crowded to
suffocation.
“He is coming!” said somebody on the staircase.
“He is coming!” said somebody farther up.
“He is coming!” said somebody farther still.
“He is come!” exclaimed the Duchess. “He is come, the little
love!”—and, seizing me firmly by both hands, she kissed me thrice
upon the nose. A marked sensation immediately ensued.
“_Diavolo!_” cried Count Capricornutti.
“_Dios guarda!_” muttered Don Stiletto.
“_Mille tonnerres!_” ejaculated the Prince de Grenouille.
“_Tousand teufel!_” growled the Elector of Bluddennuff.
It was not to be borne. I grew angry. I turned short upon
Bluddennuff.
“Sir!” said I to him, “you are a baboon.”
“Sir,” he replied, after a pause, “_Donner und Blitzen!_”
This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At
Chalk-Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose—and then called
upon my friends.
“_Bête!_” said the first.
“Fool!” said the second.
“Dolt!” said the third.
“Ass!” said the fourth.
“Ninny!” said the fifth.
“Noodle!” said the sixth.
“Be off!” said the seventh.
At all this I felt mortified, and so called upon my father.
“Father,” I asked, “what is the chief end of my existence?”
“My son,” he replied, “it is still the study of Nosology; but in
hitting the Elector upon the nose you have overshot your mark.
You have a fine nose, it is true; but then Bluddennuff has none.
You are damned, and he has become the hero of the day. I grant
you that in Fum-Fudge the greatness of a lion is in proportion to
the size of his proboscis—but, good heavens! there is no
competing with a lion who has no proboscis at all.”
X-ING A PARAGRAB
As it is well known that the ‘wise men’ came ‘from the East,’ and
as Mr. Touch-and-go Bullet-head came from the East, it follows
that Mr. Bullet-head was a wise man; and if collateral proof of
the matter be needed, here we have it—Mr. B. was an editor.
Irascibility was his sole foible, for in fact the obstinacy of
which men accused him was anything but his foible, since he
justly considered it his forte. It was his strong point—his
virtue; and it would have required all the logic of a Brownson to
convince him that it was ‘anything else.’
I have shown that Touch-and-go Bullet-head was a wise man; and
the only occasion on which he did not prove infallible, was when,
abandoning that legitimate home for all wise men, the East, he
migrated to the city of Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, or some
place of a similar title, out West.
I must do him the justice to say, however, that when he made up
his mind finally to settle in that town, it was under the
impression that no newspaper, and consequently no editor, existed
in that particular section of the country. In establishing ‘The
Tea-Pot’ he expected to have the field all to himself. I feel
confident he never would have dreamed of taking up his residence
in Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis had he been aware that, in
Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, there lived a gentleman named John
Smith (if I rightly remember), who for many years had there
quietly grown fat in editing and publishing the
‘Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis Gazette.’ It was solely,
therefore, on account of having been misinformed, that Mr.
Bullet-head found himself in Alex—— suppose we call it Nopolis,
‘for short’—but, as he did find himself there, he determined to
keep up his character for obst—for firmness, and remain. So
remain he did; and he did more; he unpacked his press, type,
etc., etc., rented an office exactly opposite to that of the
‘Gazette,’ and, on the third morning after his arrival, issued
the first number of ‘The Alexan’—that is to say, of ‘The Nopolis
Tea-Pot’—as nearly as I can recollect, this was the name of the
new paper.
The leading article, I must admit, was brilliant—not to say
severe. It was especially bitter about things in general—and as
for the editor of ‘The Gazette,’ he was torn all to pieces in
particular. Some of Bullet-head’s remarks were really so fiery
that I have always, since that time, been forced to look upon
John Smith, who is still alive, in the light of a salamander. I
cannot pretend to give all the ‘Tea-Pot’s’ paragraphs verbatim,
but one of them runs thus:
‘Oh, yes!—Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! The editor over the way
is a genius—O, my! Oh, goodness, gracious!—what is this world
coming to? Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!’
A philippic at once so caustic and so classical, alighted like a
bombshell among the hitherto peaceful citizens of Nopolis. Groups
of excited individuals gathered at the corners of the streets.
Every one awaited, with heartfelt anxiety, the reply of the
dignified Smith. Next morning it appeared as follows:
‘We quote from “The Tea-Pot” of yesterday the subjoined
paragraph: “Oh, yes! Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! Oh, my! Oh,
goodness! Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!” Why, the fellow is all O! That
accounts for his reasoning in a circle, and explains why there is
neither beginning nor end to him, nor to anything he says. We
really do not believe the vagabond can write a word that hasn’t
an O in it. Wonder if this O-ing is a habit of his? By-the-by, he
came away from Down-East in a great hurry. Wonder if he O’s as
much there as he does here? “O! it is pitiful.”’
The indignation of Mr. Bullet-head at these scandalous
insinuations, I shall not attempt to describe. On the
eel-skinning principle, however, he did not seem to be so much
incensed at the attack upon his integrity as one might have
imagined. It was the sneer at his style that drove him to
desperation. What!—he Touch-and-go Bullet-head!—not able to write
a word without an O in it! He would soon let the jackanapes see
that he was mistaken. Yes! he would let him see how much he was
mistaken, the puppy! He, Touch-and-go Bullet-head, of
Frogpondium, would let Mr. John Smith perceive that he,
Bullet-head, could indite, if it so pleased him, a whole
paragraph—aye! a whole article—in which that contemptible vowel
should not once—not even once—make its appearance. But no;—that
would be yielding a point to the said John Smith. He,
Bullet-head, would make no alteration in his style, to suit the
caprices of any Mr. Smith in Christendom. Perish so vile a
thought! The O forever; He would persist in the O. He would be as
O-wy as O-wy could be.
Burning with the chivalry of this determination, the great
Touch-and-go, in the next ‘Tea-Pot,’ came out merely with this
simple but resolute paragraph, in reference to this unhappy
affair:
‘The editor of the “Tea-Pot” has the honor of advising the editor
of the “Gazette” that he (the “Tea-Pot”) will take an opportunity
in tomorrow morning’s paper, of convincing him (the “Gazette”)
that he (the “Tea-Pot”) both can and will be _his own master_, as
regards style;—he (the “Tea-Pot”) intending to show him (the
“Gazette”) the supreme, and indeed the withering contempt with
which the criticism of him (the “Gazette”) inspires the
independent bosom of him (the “Tea-Pot”) by composing for the
especial gratification (?) of him (the “Gazette”) a leading
article, of some extent, in which the beautiful vowel—the emblem
of Eternity—yet so offensive to the hyper-exquisite delicacy of
him (the “Gazette”) shall most certainly not be avoided by his
(the “Gazette’s”) most obedient, humble servant, the “Tea-Pot.”
“So much for Buckingham!”’
In fulfilment of the awful threat thus darkly intimated rather
than decidedly enunciated, the great Bullet-head, turning a deaf
ear to all entreaties for ‘copy,’ and simply requesting his
foreman to ‘go to the d——l,’ when he (the foreman) assured him
(the ‘Tea-Pot’!) that it was high time to ‘go to press’: turning
a deaf ear to everything, I say, the great Bullet-head sat up
until day-break, consuming the midnight oil, and absorbed in the
composition of the really unparalleled paragraph, which follows:—
‘So ho, John! how now? Told you so, you know. Don’t crow, another
time, before you’re out of the woods! Does your mother know
you’re out? Oh, no, no!—so go home at once, now, John, to your
odious old woods of Concord! Go home to your woods, old owl—go!
You won’t! Oh, poh, poh, John don’t do so! You’ve _got_ to go,
you know! So go at once, and don’t go slow, for nobody owns you
here, you know! Oh! John, John, if you don’t go you’re no
homo—no! You’re only a fowl, an owl; a cow, a sow; a doll, a
poll; a poor, old, good-for-nothing-to-nobody, log, dog, hog, or
frog, come out of a Concord bog. Cool, now—cool! Do be cool, you
fool! None of your crowing, old cock! Don’t frown so—don’t! Don’t
hollo, nor howl nor growl, nor bow-wow-wow! Good Lord, John, how
you do look! Told you so, you know—but stop rolling your goose of
an old poll about so, and go and drown your sorrows in a bowl!’
Exhausted, very naturally, by so stupendous an effort, the great
Touch-and-go could attend to nothing farther that night. Firmly,
composedly, yet with an air of conscious power, he handed his MS.
to the devil in waiting, and then, walking leisurely home,
retired, with ineffable dignity to bed.
Meantime the devil, to whom the copy was entrusted, ran up stairs
to his ‘case,’ in an unutterable hurry, and forthwith made a
commencement at ‘setting’ the MS. ‘up.’
In the first place, of course,—as the opening word was ‘So,’—he
made a plunge into the capital S hole and came out in triumph
with a capital S. Elated by this success, he immediately threw
himself upon the little-o box with a blindfold impetuosity—but
who shall describe his horror when his fingers came up without
the anticipated letter in their clutch? who shall paint his
astonishment and rage at perceiving, as he rubbed his knuckles,
that he had been only thumping them to no purpose, against the
bottom of an empty box. Not a single little-o was in the little-o
hole; and, glancing fearfully at the capital-O partition, he
found _that_, to his extreme terror, in a precisely similar
predicament. Awe-stricken, his first impulse was to rush to the
foreman.
‘Sir!’ said he, gasping for breath, ‘I can’t never set up nothing
without no o’s.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ growled the foreman, who was in a
very ill humor at being kept so late.
‘Why, sir, there beant an o in the office, neither a big un nor a
little un!’
‘What—what the d—l has become of all that were in the case?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said the boy, ‘but one of them ere “G’zette”
devils is bin prowling ’bout here all night, and I spect he’s
gone and cabbaged ‘em every one.’
‘Dod rot him! I haven’t a doubt of it,’ replied the foreman,
getting purple with rage ‘but I tell you what you do, Bob, that’s
a good boy—you go over the first chance you get and hook every
one of their i’s and (d——n them!) their izzards.’
‘Jist so,’ replied Bob, with a wink and a frown—‘I’ll be into
‘em, I’ll let ‘em know a thing or two; but in de meantime, that
ere paragrab? Mus go in to-night, you know—else there’ll be the
d—l to pay, and—’
‘And not a bit of pitch hot,’ interrupted the foreman, with a
deep sigh, and an emphasis on the ‘bit.’ ‘Is it a long paragraph,
Bob?’
‘Shouldn’t call it a _wery_ long paragrab,’ said Bob.
‘Ah, well, then! do the best you can with it! We must get to
press,’ said the foreman, who was over head and ears in work;
‘just stick in some other letter for o; nobody’s going to read
the fellow’s trash anyhow.’
‘Wery well,’ replied Bob, ‘here goes it!’ and off he hurried to
his case, muttering as he went: ‘Considdeble vell, them ere
expressions, perticcler for a man as doesn’t swar. So I’s to
gouge out all their eyes, eh? and d-n all their gizzards! Vell!
this here’s the chap as is just able for to do it.’ The fact is
that although Bob was but twelve years old and four feet high, he
was equal to any amount of fight, in a small way.
The exigency here described is by no means of rare occurrence in
printing-offices; and I cannot tell how to account for it, but
the fact is indisputable, that when the exigency does occur, it
almost always happens that x is adopted as a substitute for the
letter deficient. The true reason, perhaps, is that x is rather
the most superabundant letter in the cases, or at least was so in
the old times—long enough to render the substitution in question
an habitual thing with printers. As for Bob, he would have
considered it heretical to employ any other character, in a case
of this kind, than the x to which he had been accustomed.
‘I shell have to x this ere paragrab,’ said he to himself, as he
read it over in astonishment, ‘but it’s jest about the awfulest
o-wy paragrab I ever did see’: so x it he did, unflinchingly, and
to press it went x-ed.
Next morning the population of Nopolis were taken all aback by
reading in ‘The Tea-Pot,’ the following extraordinary leader:
‘Sx hx, Jxhn! hxw nxw? Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw. Dxn’t crxw, anxther
time, befxre yxu’re xut xf the wxxds! Dxes yxur mxther knxw
yxu’re xut? Xh, nx, nx!—sx gx hxme at xnce, nxw, Jxhn, tx yxur
xdixus xld wxxds xf Cxncxrd! Gx hxme tx yxur wxxds, xld xwl,—gx!
Yxu wxn’t? Xh, pxh, pxh, Jxhn, dxn’t dx sx! Yxu’ve gxt tx gx, yxu
knxw, sx gx at xnce, and dxn’t gx slxw; fxr nxbxdy xwns yxu here,
yxu knxw. Xh, Jxhn, Jxhn, Jxhn, if yxu dxn’t gx yxu’re nx
hxmx—nx! Yxu’re xnly a fxwl, an xwl; a cxw, a sxw; a dxll, a
pxll; a pxxr xld gxxd-fxr-nxthing-tx-nxbxdy, lxg, dxg, hxg, xr
frxg, cxme xut xf a Cxncxrd bxg. Cxxl, nxw—cxxl! Dx be cxxl, yxu
fxxl! Nxne xf yxur crxwing, xld cxck! Dxn’t frxwn sx—dxn’t! Dxn’t
hxllx, nxr hxwl, nxr grxwl, nxr bxw-wxw-wxw! Gxxd Lxrd, Jxhn, hxw
yxu dx lxxk! Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw,—but stxp rxlling yxur gxxse
xf an xld pxll abxut sx, and gx and drxwn yxur sxrrxws in a
bxwl!’
The uproar occasioned by this mystical and cabalistical article,
is not to be conceived. The first definite idea entertained by
the populace was, that some diabolical treason lay concealed in
the hieroglyphics; and there was a general rush to Bullet-head’s
residence, for the purpose of riding him on a rail; but that
gentleman was nowhere to be found. He had vanished, no one could
tell how; and not even the ghost of him has ever been seen since.
Unable to discover its legitimate object, the popular fury at
length subsided; leaving behind it, by way of sediment, quite a
medley of opinion about this unhappy affair.
One gentleman thought the whole an X-ellent joke.
Another said that, indeed, Bullet-head had shown much X-uberance
of fancy.
A third admitted him X-entric, but no more.
A fourth could only suppose it the Yankee’s design to X-press, in
a general way, his X-asperation.
‘Say, rather, to set an X-ample to posterity,’ suggested a fifth.
That Bullet-head had been driven to an extremity, was clear to
all; and in fact, since that editor could not be found, there was
some talk about lynching the other one.
The more common conclusion, however, was that the affair was,
simply, X-traordinary and in-X-plicable. Even the town
mathematician confessed that he could make nothing of so dark a
problem. X, everybody knew, was an unknown quantity; but in this
case (as he properly observed), there was an unknown quantity of
X.
The opinion of Bob, the devil (who kept dark about his having
‘X-ed the paragrab’), did not meet with so much attention as I
think it deserved, although it was very openly and very
fearlessly expressed. He said that, for his part, he had no doubt
about the matter at all, that it was a clear case, that Mr.
Bullet-head ‘never could be persuaded fur to drink like other
folks, but vas continually a-svigging o’ that ere blessed XXX
ale, and as a naiteral consekvence, it just puffed him up savage,
and made him X (cross) in the X-treme.’
METZENGERSTEIN
Pestis eram vivus—moriens tua mors ero.
—_Martin Luther_
Horror and fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why
then give a date to this story I have to tell? Let it suffice to
say, that at the period of which I speak, there existed, in the
interior of Hungary, a settled although hidden belief in the
doctrines of the Metempsychosis. Of the doctrines themselves—that
is, of their falsity, or of their probability—I say nothing. I
assert, however, that much of our incredulity—as La Bruyère says
of all our unhappiness—“_vient de ne pouvoir être seuls_.” {*1}
But there are some points in the Hungarian superstition which
were fast verging to absurdity. They—the Hungarians—differed very
essentially from their Eastern authorities. For example, “_The
soul_,” said the former—I give the words of an acute and
intelligent Parisian—“_ne demeure qu’un seul fois dans un corps
sensible: au reste—un cheval, un chien, un homme même, n’est que
la ressemblance peu tangible de ces animaux._”
The families of Berlifitzing and Metzengerstein had been at
variance for centuries. Never before were two houses so
illustrious, mutually embittered by hostility so deadly. The
origin of this enmity seems to be found in the words of an
ancient prophecy—“A lofty name shall have a fearful fall when, as
the rider over his horse, the mortality of Metzengerstein shall
triumph over the immortality of Berlifitzing.”
To be sure the words themselves had little or no meaning. But
more trivial causes have given rise—and that no long while ago—to
consequences equally eventful. Besides, the estates, which were
contiguous, had long exercised a rival influence in the affairs
of a busy government. Moreover, near neighbors are seldom
friends; and the inhabitants of the Castle Berlifitzing might
look, from their lofty buttresses, into the very windows of the
palace Metzengerstein. Least of all had the more than feudal
magnificence, thus discovered, a tendency to allay the irritable
feelings of the less ancient and less wealthy Berlifitzings. What
wonder then, that the words, however silly, of that prediction,
should have succeeded in setting and keeping at variance two
families already predisposed to quarrel by every instigation of
hereditary jealousy? The prophecy seemed to imply—if it implied
anything—a final triumph on the part of the already more powerful
house; and was of course remembered with the more bitter
animosity by the weaker and less influential.
Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although loftily descended, was, at
the epoch of this narrative, an infirm and doting old man,
remarkable for nothing but an inordinate and inveterate personal
antipathy to the family of his rival, and so passionate a love of
horses, and of hunting, that neither bodily infirmity, great age,
nor mental incapacity, prevented his daily participation in the
dangers of the chase.
Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the other hand, not yet
of age. His father, the Minister G—, died young. His mother, the
Lady Mary, followed him quickly after. Frederick was, at that
time, in his fifteenth year. In a city, fifteen years are no long
period—a child may be still a child in his third lustrum: but in
a wilderness—in so magnificent a wilderness as that old
principality, fifteen years have a far deeper meaning.
From some peculiar circumstances attending the administration of
his father, the young Baron, at the decease of the former,
entered immediately upon his vast possessions. Such estates were
seldom held before by a nobleman of Hungary. His castles were
without number. The chief in point of splendor and extent was the
“Château Metzengerstein.” The boundary line of his dominions was
never clearly defined; but his principal park embraced a circuit
of fifty miles.
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!’’
“That’s German—from Schiller. ‘And if I die, at least I die—for
thee—for thee!’ Here it is clear that you are apostrophizing the
cause of your disaster, the chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or
lady either) of sense, wouldn’t die, I should like to know, for a
well fattened capon of the right Molucca breed, stuffed with
capers and mushrooms, and served up in a salad-bowl, with
orange-jellies _en mosaïques_. Write! (You can get them that way
at Tortoni’s)—Write, if you please!
“Here is a nice little Latin phrase, and rare too, (one can’t be
too _recherché_ or brief in one’s Latin, it’s getting so
common—ignoratio elenchi. He has committed an ignoratio
elenchi—that is to say, he has understood the words of your
proposition, but not the idea. The man was a fool, you see. Some
poor fellow whom you address while choking with that
chicken-bone, and who therefore didn’t precisely understand what
you were talking about. Throw the ignoratio elenchi in his teeth,
and, at once, you have him annihilated. If he dares to reply, you
can tell him from Lucan (here it is) that speeches are mere
anemonae verborum, anemone words. The anemone, with great
brilliancy, has no smell. Or, if he begins to bluster, you may be
down upon him with insomnia Jovis, reveries of Jupiter—a phrase
which Silius Italicus (see here!) applies to thoughts pompous and
inflated. This will be sure and cut him to the heart. He can do
nothing but roll over and die. Will you be kind enough to write?
“In Greek we must have some thing pretty—from Demosthenes, for
example. Ανερο φευων και παλιν μαχεσεται. [Aner o pheugoen kai
palin makesetai.] There is a tolerably good translation of it in
Hudibras—
‘For he that flies may fight again,
Which he can never do that’s slain.’
In a Blackwood article nothing makes so fine a show as your
Greek. The very letters have an air of profundity about them.
Only observe, madam, the astute look of that Epsilon! That Phi
ought certainly to be a bishop! Was ever there a smarter fellow
than that Omicron? Just twig that Tau! In short, there is nothing
like Greek for a genuine sensation-paper. In the present case
your application is the most obvious thing in the world. Rap out
the sentence, with a huge oath, and by way of ultimatum at the
good-for-nothing dunder-headed villain who couldn’t understand
your plain English in relation to the chicken-bone. He’ll take
the hint and be off, you may depend upon it.”
These were all the instructions Mr. B. could afford me upon the
topic in question, but I felt they would be entirely sufficient.
I was, at length, able to write a genuine Blackwood article, and
determined to do it forthwith. In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made
a proposition for the purchase of the paper when written; but as
he could offer me only fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better
to let our society have it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a
sum. Notwithstanding this niggardly spirit, however, the
gentleman showed his consideration for me in all other respects,
and indeed treated me with the greatest civility. His parting
words made a deep impression upon my heart, and I hope I shall
always remember them with gratitude.
“My dear Miss Zenobia,” he said, while the tears stood in his
eyes, “is there anything else I can do to promote the success of
your laudable undertaking? Let me reflect! It is just possible
that you may not be able, so soon as convenient, to—to—get
yourself drowned, or—choked with a chicken-bone, or—or
hung,—or—bitten by a—but stay! Now I think me of it, there are a
couple of very excellent bull-dogs in the yard—fine fellows, I
assure you—savage, and all that—indeed just the thing for your
money—they’ll have you eaten up, auricula and all, in less than
five minutes (here’s my watch!)—and then only think of the
sensations! Here! I say—Tom!—Peter!—Dick, you villain!—let out
those”—but as I was really in a great hurry, and had not another
moment to spare, I was reluctantly forced to expedite my
departure, and accordingly took leave at once—somewhat more
abruptly, I admit, than strict courtesy would have otherwise
allowed.
It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into
some immediate difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this
view I spent the greater part of the day in wandering about
Edinburgh, seeking for desperate adventures—adventures adequate
to the intensity of my feelings, and adapted to the vast
character of the article I intended to write. In this excursion I
was attended by one negro servant, Pompey, and my little lap-dog
Diana, whom I had brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not,
however, until late in the afternoon that I fully succeeded in my
arduous undertaking. An important event then happened of which
the following Blackwood article, in the tone heterogeneous, is
the substance and result.
A PREDICAMENT
What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?—COMUS.
It was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the
goodly city of Edina. The confusion and bustle in the streets
were terrible. Men were talking. Women were screaming. Children
were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls they
bellowed. Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats they
caterwauled. Dogs they danced. _Danced!_ Could it then be
possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, my dancing days are over! Thus
it is ever. What a host of gloomy recollections will ever and
anon be awakened in the mind of genius and imaginative
contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the everlasting,
and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say,
the—continued—yes, the continued and continuous, bitter,
harassing, disturbing, and, if I may be allowed the expression,
the very disturbing influence of the serene, and godlike, and
heavenly, and exalted, and elevated, and purifying effect of what
may be rightly termed the most enviable, the most truly
enviable—nay! the most benignly beautiful, the most deliciously
ethereal, and, as it were, the most pretty (if I may use so bold
an expression) thing (pardon me, gentle reader!) in the world—but
I am always led away by my feelings. In such a mind, I repeat,
what a host of recollections are stirred up by a trifle! The dogs
danced! I—I could not! They frisked—I wept. They capered—I sobbed
aloud. Touching circumstances! which cannot fail to bring to the
recollection of the classical reader that exquisite passage in
relation to the fitness of things, which is to be found in the
commencement of the third volume of that admirable and venerable
Chinese novel the Jo-Go-Slow.
In my solitary walk through, the city I had two humble but
faithful companions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She
had a quantity of hair over her one eye, and a blue ribbon tied
fashionably around her neck. Diana was not more than five inches
in height, but her head was somewhat bigger than her body, and
her tail being cut off exceedingly close, gave an air of injured
innocence to the interesting animal which rendered her a favorite
with all.
And Pompey, my negro!—sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee?
I had taken Pompey’s arm. He was three feet in height (I like to
be particular) and about seventy, or perhaps eighty, years of
age. He had bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not be
called small, nor his ears short. His teeth, however, were like
pearl, and his large full eyes were deliciously white. Nature had
endowed him with no neck, and had placed his ankles (as usual
with that race) in the middle of the upper portion of the feet.
He was clad with a striking simplicity. His sole garments were a
stock of nine inches in height, and a nearly-new drab overcoat
which had formerly been in the service of the tall, stately, and
illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat. It was well
cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey held it up
out of the dirt with both hands.
There were three persons in our party, and two of them have
already been the subject of remark. There was a third—that person
was myself. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. I am not Suky
Snobbs. My appearance is commanding. On the memorable occasion of
which I speak I was habited in a crimson satin dress, with a
sky-blue Arabian mantelet. And the dress had trimmings of green
agraffas, and seven graceful flounces of the orange-colored
auricula. I thus formed the third of the party. There was the
poodle. There was Pompey. There was myself. We were three. Thus
it is said there were originally but three Furies—Melty, Nimmy,
and Hetty—Meditation, Memory, and Fiddling.
Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and attended at a
respectable distance by Diana, I proceeded down one of the
populous and very pleasant streets of the now deserted Edina. On
a sudden, there presented itself to view a church—a Gothic
cathedral—vast, venerable, and with a tall steeple, which towered
into the sky. What madness now possessed me? Why did I rush upon
my fate? I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to ascend the
giddy pinnacle, and then survey the immense extent of the city.
The door of the cathedral stood invitingly open. My destiny
prevailed. I entered the ominous archway. Where then was my
guardian angel?—if indeed such angels there be. If! Distressing
monosyllable! what world of mystery, and meaning, and doubt, and
uncertainty is there involved in thy two letters! I entered the
ominous archway! I entered; and, without injury to my
orange-colored auriculas, I passed beneath the portal, and
emerged within the vestibule. Thus it is said the immense river
Alfred passed, unscathed, and unwetted, beneath the sea.
I thought the staircase would never have an end. Round! Yes, they
went round and up, and round and up and round and up, until I
could not help surmising, with the sagacious Pompey, upon whose
supporting arm I leaned in all the confidence of early
affection—I could not help surmising that the upper end of the
continuous spiral ladder had been accidentally, or perhaps
designedly, removed. I paused for breath; and, in the meantime,
an accident occurred of too momentous a nature in a moral, and
also in a metaphysical point of view, to be passed over without
notice. It appeared to me—indeed I was quite confident of the
fact—I could not be mistaken—no! I had, for some moments,
carefully and anxiously observed the motions of my Diana—I say
that I could not be mistaken—Diana smelt a rat! At once I called
Pompey’s attention to the subject, and he—he agreed with me.
There was then no longer any reasonable room for doubt. The rat
had been smelled—and by Diana. Heavens! shall I ever forget the
intense excitement of the moment? Alas! what is the boasted
intellect of man? The rat!—it was there—that is to say, it was
somewhere. Diana smelled the rat. I—I could not! Thus it is said
the Prussian Isis has, for some persons, a sweet and very
powerful perfume, while to others it is perfectly scentless.
The staircase had been surmounted, and there were now only three
or four more upward steps intervening between us and the summit.
We still ascended, and now only one step remained. One step! One
little, little step! Upon one such little step in the great
staircase of human life how vast a sum of human happiness or
misery depends! I thought of myself, then of Pompey, and then of
the mysterious and inexplicable destiny which surrounded us. I
thought of Pompey!—alas, I thought of love! I thought of my many
false steps which have been taken, and may be taken again. I
resolved to be more cautious, more reserved. I abandoned the arm
of Pompey, and, without his assistance, surmounted the one
remaining step, and gained the chamber of the belfry. I was
followed immediately afterward by my poodle. Pompey alone
remained behind. I stood at the head of the staircase, and
encouraged him to ascend. He stretched forth to me his hand, and
unfortunately in so doing was forced to abandon his firm hold
upon the overcoat. Will the gods never cease their persecution?
The overcoat is dropped, and, with one of his feet, Pompey
stepped upon the long and trailing skirt of the overcoat. He
stumbled and fell—this consequence was inevitable. He fell
forward, and, with his accursed head, striking me full in the—in
the breast, precipitated me headlong, together with himself, upon
the hard, filthy, and detestable floor of the belfry. But my
revenge was sure, sudden, and complete. Seizing him furiously by
the wool with both hands, I tore out a vast quantity of black,
and crisp, and curling material, and tossed it from me with every
manifestation of disdain. It fell among the ropes of the belfry
and remained. Pompey arose, and said no word. But he regarded me
piteously with his large eyes and—sighed. Ye Gods—that sigh! It
sunk into my heart. And the hair—the wool! Could I have reached
that wool I would have bathed it with my tears, in testimony of
regret. But alas! it was now far beyond my grasp. As it dangled
among the cordage of the bell, I fancied it alive. I fancied that
it stood on end with indignation. Thus the happy-dandy Flos Aeris
of Java bears, it is said, a beautiful flower, which will live
when pulled up by the roots. The natives suspend it by a cord
from the ceiling and enjoy its fragrance for years.
Our quarrel was now made up, and we looked about the room for an
aperture through which to survey the city of Edina. Windows there
were none. The sole light admitted into the gloomy chamber
proceeded from a square opening, about a foot in diameter, at a
height of about seven feet from the floor. Yet what will the
energy of true genius not effect? I resolved to clamber up to
this hole. A vast quantity of wheels, pinions, and other
cabalistic-looking machinery stood opposite the hole, close to
it; and through the hole there passed an iron rod from the
machinery. Between the wheels and the wall where the hole lay
there was barely room for my body—yet I was desperate, and
determined to persevere. I called Pompey to my side.
“You perceive that aperture, Pompey. I wish to look through it.
You will stand here just beneath the hole—so. Now, hold out one
of your hands, Pompey, and let me step upon it—thus. Now, the
other hand, Pompey, and with its aid I will get upon your
shoulders.”
He did every thing I wished, and I found, upon getting up, that I
could easily pass my head and neck through the aperture. The
prospect was sublime. Nothing could be more magnificent. I merely
paused a moment to bid Diana behave herself, and assure Pompey
that I would be considerate and bear as lightly as possible upon
his shoulders. I told him I would be tender of his feelings—ossi
tender que beefsteak. Having done this justice to my faithful
friend, I gave myself up with great zest and enthusiasm to the
enjoyment of the scene which so obligingly spread itself out
before my eyes.
Upon this subject, however, I shall forbear to dilate. I will not
describe the city of Edinburgh. Every one has been to the city of
Edinburgh. Every one has been to Edinburgh—the classic Edina. I
will confine myself to the momentous details of my own lamentable
adventure. Having, in some measure, satisfied my curiosity in
regard to the extent, situation, and general appearance of the
city, I had leisure to survey the church in which I was, and the
delicate architecture of the steeple. I observed that the
aperture through which I had thrust my head was an opening in the
dial-plate of a gigantic clock, and must have appeared, from the
street, as a large key-hole, such as we see in the face of the
French watches. No doubt the true object was to admit the arm of
an attendant, to adjust, when necessary, the hands of the clock
from within. I observed also, with surprise, the immense size of
these hands, the longest of which could not have been less than
ten feet in length, and, where broadest, eight or nine inches in
breadth. They were of solid steel apparently, and their edges
appeared to be sharp. Having noticed these particulars, and some
others, I again turned my eyes upon the glorious prospect below,
and soon became absorbed in contemplation.
From this, after some minutes, I was aroused by the voice of
Pompey, who declared that he could stand it no longer, and
requested that I would be so kind as to come down. This was
unreasonable, and I told him so in a speech of some length. He
replied, but with an evident misunderstanding of my ideas upon
the subject. I accordingly grew angry, and told him in plain
words, that he was a fool, that he had committed an ignoramus
e-clench-eye, that his notions were mere insommary Bovis, and his
words little better than an ennemywerrybor’em. With this he
appeared satisfied, and I resumed my contemplations.
It might have been half an hour after this altercation when, as I
was deeply absorbed in the heavenly scenery beneath me, I was
startled by something very cold which pressed with a gentle
pressure on the back of my neck. It is needless to say that I
felt inexpressibly alarmed. I knew that Pompey was beneath my
feet, and that Diana was sitting, according to my explicit
directions, upon her hind legs, in the farthest corner of the
room. What could it be? Alas! I but too soon discovered. Turning
my head gently to one side, I perceived, to my extreme horror,
that the huge, glittering, scimetar-like minute-hand of the clock
had, in the course of its hourly revolution, descended upon my
neck. There was, I knew, not a second to be lost. I pulled back
at once—but it was too late. There was no chance of forcing my
head through the mouth of that terrible trap in which it was so
fairly caught, and which grew narrower and narrower with a
rapidity too horrible to be conceived. The agony of that moment
is not to be imagined. I threw up my hands and endeavored, with
all my strength, to force upward the ponderous iron bar. I might
as well have tried to lift the cathedral itself. Down, down, down
it came, closer and yet closer. I screamed to Pompey for aid; but
he said that I had hurt his feelings by calling him “an ignorant
old squint-eye.” I yelled to Diana; but she only said
“bow-wow-wow,” and that I had told her “on no account to stir
from the corner.” Thus I had no relief to expect from my
associates.
Meantime the ponderous and terrific Scythe of Time (for I now
discovered the literal import of that classical phrase) had not
stopped, nor was it likely to stop, in its career. Down and still
down, it came. It had already buried its sharp edge a full inch
in my flesh, and my sensations grew indistinct and confused. At
one time I fancied myself
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