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 line 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 fo
llowing significant words, prefixed in italics and between brackets:
[We call the attention of our readers to the subjoined admirable stanzas on “The Oil-of-Bob.” We need say nothing of their sublimity, or of their pathos:—it is impossible to peruse them without tears. Those who have been nauseated with a sad dose on the same august topic from the goose-quill of the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” will do well to compare the two compositions.
P. S.—We are consumed with anxiety to probe the mystery which envelops the evident pseudonym “Snob.” May we hope for a personal interview?]
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. Fly, the pages of the Lollipop Mr. Crab assured me, were at my unlimited disposal. In the meantime, as it was very certain that I would be attacked in the Fly for my attempt at composing a rival poem on the “Oil-of-Bob,” he (Mr. Crab) would take it upon himself to attend, pointedly, to my private and personal interests. If I were not made a man of at once, it should not be the fault of himself (Mr. Crab).
Mr. Crab having now paused in his discourse (the latter portion of which I found it impossible to comprehend), I ventured to suggest something about the remuneration which I had been taught to expect for my poem, by an announcement on the cover of the Lollipop, declaring that it (the Lollipop) “insisted upon being permitted to pay exorbitant prices for all accepted contributions,—frequently expending more money for a single brief poem than the whole annual cost of the Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle combined.
As I mentioned the word “remuneration,” Mr. Crab first opened his eyes, and then his mouth, to quite a remarkable extent, 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 afterward, “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 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—from its entire freedom from sycophancy and subservience to the givers of dinners:
“The Lollipop for October is out in advance of all its contemporaries, and infinitely surpasses them, of course, in the splendor of its embellishments, as well as in the richness of its contents. The Hum-Drum, the Rowdy-Dow, and the Goosetherumfoodle excel, we admit, in braggadocio, but, in all other points, give us the Lollipop. How this celebrated magazine can sustain its evidently tremen
dous 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. They seemed to me to be deficient in force. They were not sufficiently prononcés (as we have it in France).
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