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.