[L3] “The Walnut Coffin Papers.  The Third Chapter,” The Citizen Soldier, Oct. 11, 1843

In various parts and parcels, containing much matter for meditation, some fancy, and a good deal of sober truth, mingled with glimpses of the rise and origin of the Fogtown literati, together with a few views of these redoubtables, in all their present glory, being in fact, a true, copious and veracious account of

THE UPRISINGS OF THE COFFIN-MAKER'S 'PRENTICE.

“I say, G—, why do you keep that fellow, W—, about the E—g M—y?”

“Oh, why, G—m?  What have you got against him?  He’s a man of talent.”

“D—n him—he praises the Walnut Coffin Papers.”

(Extract from Lacon.)

THE THIRD CHAPTER.

The beauties of the “Prize System,” illustrated in the doings of the Walnut Coffin Lodge.

“Gentlemen of the Lodge—brothers of the Walnut Coffin—it is my principal duty to inform your venerable body of a slight circumstance.—Humbug wanes, gentlemen—the humbug of my magazine is beginning to fade—I’m not making much.  The naysayers say I’m losing a fine penny.  That’s a lie.  But, gentlemen, the fact is this; and it can’t be denied, and it’s no use of concealing it, unless “The Salt River Saturday Stick and Universal Lamp Post” is enlivened by some new humbug, we’ll all go to grass, and the Coffin Maker’s ’Prentice will have to go to polishin’ baby coffins agin’—There—”

“And I’ll have to go back to politics!  Things assume a martial air—they look like selling out”—said he of the burning visage.

“I’ll have to take to pettifogging agin,” cried Peter the Plagiarist.  “Let’s see; what law do I know?  When I was at the bar, I had an ‘audit’ and a case before an Alderman!  Limited practice,—very.  Peter—Peter must brush up.  Times is ticklish.”

“And for all that we are about to receive may the Lord make us thankful,” chimed in Rumpus Grizzle.  “And I’ll have to go to preaching again!”

Things did indeed assume a curious air.  The Grey Ham was sad.  He thought of his fine house, his mantel glasses and his carpets—he thought of ugly handbills, pasted on the walls of that house—ugh!

Peter Sun was sad.  All his reputation was about to vanish.  What with stealing from Bulwer, what with pilfering from “The Diary of a London Physician” he had been able to write “Avengers.”—“Bruizings in the Last War”—“Jeremy Long’s Monologues”—and now all was about to vanish.  Utter annihilation threatened the concern.

Sam was sad.  Sadness dwelt in his full round face—he looked like a melancholy round of beef.  “The Stick” was about to pass away from his grasp.

“Gentlemen,” said the Coffin Maker’s ’Prentice, “I have it—I have it!  Such an idea!”

“He has it!” suggested Peter Sun, who was the invariable toad eater of the Grey Ham.  “How much he looks like Dr. Franklin in that light!—Singular genius—very!”

“What shall we do?” cried Grizzle, “shall we engage the ‘American Tract Society’ as contributors to your ‘Babe?’  Shall we publish the ‘Missionary Reports’ in full?”

“No!”

The Grey Ham glanced around with a look of great dignity as he spoke.  The torch light fell upon his face, as the ruddy reflection of Spermaceti Sam’s visage was thrown across the table.

“We’ll offer a Premium for a Prize Story!” said the ’Prentice in a low and thrilling whisper.  The Walnut Coffin Lodge were struck with astonishment.  A Prize story!  Was not that humbug worn dry?

“Gentlemen, I’ll offer a premium of $152 for the best Revolutionary story; $80 for the best Domestic story—subject, tea pot—”

“Faix and be me mother’s old short gown, hadn’t you betther offer a praymium for the best autho-beography o’ a dog-catcher, wid a porthrait o’ your conthributors for a frontispiece?”

Phelix Phillegrim awoke from his nap.  He looked round upon the puzzled faces of the Lodge.  He smiled upon the venerable Grey Ham as he spoke.

“Gentlemen, I have a word to say.  The world know me as the author of “The Old Bugaboo”—“The Southern Smig”—“Marion and his Sunset Potatoe”—I say the world know me as sich.  Wouldn’t it be better for us to conduct this prize business on the ‘mysterious’ plan?  I say mysterious—and I wish to be understood as indicating the proper course to be pursued—”

“That is to say, Peter, that we are to pack an ‘impartial committee’ ’names of authors, in a secret envelope’ addressed to Publishers, and it is understood that you ae to be the first Revolutionary prize?”

“Sir, you do me a distinguished honor,” said Peter, sententiously.  “That’s the state of the case Ex-actly: Your perception is acute.  Spermaceti Sam, allow me to congratulate you on your poetical talents.  Your lines to your mother are beautiful.  Gentlemen of the Lodge, allow me to repeat the following

LINES TO MY MOTHER.

By Spermaceti Samuel, Esq.

Mother!  my mother!  With tears—with bitter tears

            I now remember in my manhood’s noon.

My days of infancy—those best and blissful years,

            When on thy lap reclined—I sucked the spoon.

My gaze then met thy kindling eye,

            As softly laid upon that dear maternal lap,

Mingling with thy voice arose my cry,

            Shrieking to heaven with infant-grief for PAP.

Mother!  Though in man’s bloom I now rejoice,

            Bustling the busy paths of life about;

Still in the stilly night I hear thy voice,

            “Oh Sammy, does your mother know you’re out?”

“Gintlemin, that’s what I call poethry—beautiful and say-lect!  It’s quite as touching as Peter Sun’s song to his mother, where the old leddy tells him

“Of holy sires, with their God—

Of they who Joseph’s garment tore—”

“But to the Prize Stories.  This is to be on the ’Mysterious Plan.’  We must make a great hand-bill—show out a great deal—make a fuss, and so on.  The people will be gulled now as they have been a hundred times before.  Hurrah for St. Humbug!”

“Gintlemin—with the kindest intentions in the world—let me make a single remark.  It’s yerselves as understands the art o’ humbuggery to the very top o’ th’ jug—now jest tell me all of you, how did ye get along so well in the world?  Peter Sun, you begin first—yer foxey whiskers give ye precedence—”

“Sir, the course of my life is a clear one.  Writin’ novels had did the business for me.  I’m a genius.  The Multackanowango Patriot, published on the Barnegat shoals says so.  The people, sir, have confirmed that opinion.  You wink—you want to know how I write a novel?  Sir—I take a few pages of Weem’s Life of Marion, I mix a few moral maxims from Montaigne (I’ve got an old translation,) I steal a little dullness from James, a small touch of wildness from Bulwer—the flatness I furnish myself.  I turn the mixture round in my brain—”

“Doesn’t it hurt ye, Peter?”

“I turn out a first rate, Original American Novel—“Marion and his Sweet Potato”—illustrative of the “Domestic Life of the Revolution.”—Grey Ham here says I’m a genius—”

“And Misther Edgar Allan Poe—what does he say of you Pather?”

“Why—why—in fact—Poe—is—a—a—great reader of Bulwer, and—he looks at me—as if—he thought, you know—oh, d—n the thing, he knows I steal my stories—that’s all!”

“Is that all!  What an inconsiderate crathur that Poe is to be shure!”

“Phillegrim, I’ll tell you how I’ve got along.—I’ll tell you, Phillegrim.  Some say honorable dealing is the true principle of business—some say one thing—some say another.  I say ‘stoopin’ is the true method.  When I was “a five-dollars-a-week sub-editor of the Taylor’s-Alley-Dirty-Shirt”—I used to “stoop;” when I bought out the “Stick and Lamp Post” I “stooped” to every man, cringed to everybody when I started the “Grey Ham Babe,” and now I stoop, and intend to stoop, and will keep a-stoopin’ to those gifted with a little wealth and very little brains.  As for the author who has no money! let him not come near me—I’m the Grey Ham—am I.  And I know what’s o’clock, and don’t care a d—n for nobody—don’t I!”

“Spermaceti Sam how did ye rise in the world?”

“Crept up, sir.  Very fat, sir—still I could creep.  Creeping’s my natur.  Crept into Government stations, crept into a reputation for political sagacity.  Trying to creep into a literary reputation now.  Creeping’s my natur.”

“A sort of intellectual bed bug, eh?  Sperm?”  And then with his comical look, his red head and his rolling eye, Phelix Phillegrim looked round upon the other members of the Lodge.  He asked concerning their origin.

And here our pen must be cautious.  For the literati of Fogtown, which everybody knows is situated a good way off from Philadelphia, are very touchy.  They ride down all character, they lie down all genius, they malign all worth, they make a profession of scandal and a living out of calumniation.  But you must not say a word about their character, or their talents.  They are touchy.  Attack them for charlatanism, and they will speak of the obligations you are under to them, because you may have sold them literary productions for the tenth part of a tithe of their worth.  Attack them for their low bred insult, for their employment of a herd of ignorant and asinine clerks, who treat men—their masters—with impertinence, and they will tell you that you ought to be insulted because you are poor.

And these men offer “Prizes for Stories!”  In other words they ask some hundred authors, to write for their “Lamp Post” and write for nothing, while Peter Sun takes the first prize—Harry Daneforth the second—Agnes Parasol the third—Grace Mercie the fourth—Balsey Babblebitshe the fifth, and A. H. Dana, and Walter Hawbrier the rest.  All these gentlemen and ladies, being merely Professor Peter Sun, in a variety of ways.  Like a thief, the man assumes a dozen aliases, and sanctifies dullness on them all.  Immortal Peter.

Pah!  Grey Ham is a great man—but I have scored him somewhat with the lash.  Peter Sun is a great man—then why does he writhe and struggle under the inflection of—truth?  Sam—poor Sam—weak Sam—harmless Sam—he is a great man, and he—furnishes me with fun.

A word to our friends in the country.  You may not fully understand the Walnut Coffin Papers.  To you they may be an unknown language.  Let me give you an idea.

They don’t mean any body in Philadelphia.  No.  Of course not.

Here we have no overgrown literary charlatans, who make a mock of all talent, persecute all genius, and spit their venom at all worth.  Here we have no humbug “Saturday Sticks”—here we have no self-conceited, ignorant pliable individual—yclept the Grey Ham; here we have no organized bands of Magazine Clerks, whose business is to swear to the lies of their masters.  Here we have no “Grey Ham Babes”—no great literary reputations, built on the foundation of a Walnut Coffin.

No. These “Papers” mean nothing.

“Do they, Phelix Phillegrim?”

“Of course not!  But why the devil do these fellers take ’em so much to heart.  Eh, boy?”