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?