[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

The two parties, it was now quite obvious, were
rapidly approaching the field of encounter. Both
were on the alert for recruits; busy at the drum, keeping
up such uproar as they could; summoning meetings;
despatching spies to the opposite camp; in a word,
availing themselves of every opening to obtain an
advantage over the adversary. Among other schemes, it
was thought expedient to secure, as early as possible, the
services of a corps of bold, active and ready-witted billposters,
who would not only come in aid of the Bottom
Club and other fraternities of that class, in laying waste
and ravaging the enemies' placards, but also serve, by
their ingenuity and vigor, to give prominence and conspicuous
display to their own calls and handbills.

On this service Mr. Fishblatt and Puffer Hopkins, as
combining great readiness of invention, with handsome
powers of persuasion, were named; and Puffer, accordingly,
one evening called by appointment on his associate,
to set out with him on the performance of this delicate
duty.

Mr. Fishblatt was discovered, as might perhaps have
been expected, in his high-backed chair, in nearly the
same attitude as before, with an immense newspaper,—it
was larger than the other, and had sprung up in the interval,—
in his outstretched arms; his feet braced against
the wall: and ranging with his eye up and down the long
columns of solid print, like a dragoon under demonaical
possession. It was a little time before Puffer's entrance
caught his attention; but when it did, he sprang suddenly
to his feet, welcomed him, and spreading the great
sheet over a horse by the fire,—which contrivance he had
been driven upon by the extraordinary expansion of the
weekly press,—said he would be ready in a trice.

“A wonderful age this,” said Mr. Fishblatt, while in
act of enduing his long brown overcoat, “an astonishing,
an immense age; all the ages that have gone before it,
should be counted as nothing, sir, and this year, this very

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year of our Lord, should be called the year one. We do
our ancestors too much honor by keeping any accounts
with them. We should cut them at once; deny any
knowledge of them. They were a poor, mean, miserable
set of sneaking folio-readers; do you know that? The
editor of this paper, sir,” pursued Mr. Fishblatt, grasping
a sturdy stick that stood in a corner, “is a wonderful
man. His sheet is two inches longer and four inches
broader than any other in the country; he always has
news an hour and three quarters in advance of the regular
mail; and he has lately—there's enterprise for you—purchased
a small blood poney to ride down to the office
with his leaders. It's astonishing to think what a popularity
this man enjoys; he's known from one end of the
country to the other, and gives us a half column of notices
of his paper every week, speaking of him—him individually—
in the very handsomest terms. There's the
Nauvoo `Bludgeon' says he wields a trenchant and vigorous
pen—yes sir, the Nauvoo `Bludgeon' says that—
then the Potomac `Trumpet' admits he has an unrivalled
genius for the more elegant species of composition; and
by the Western `Thunder-gust,' which has just come in,
I see they allow him `a penetrating eye and a remarkable
talent for journalism.' He's a wonderful man:—we
must go.” And forth they issued. They struck through
the heart of the city for the quarter they were in quest
of; Mr. Fishblatt, whenever they passed through an obscure
street, unbending a little and addressing his companion
in a familiar tone, but as soon as ever they were
abroad again in a great thoroughfare, he stretched himself
to his full stature, and marched forward very gravely,
without so much as uttering a word. From the manner
in which he wielded the cane that he bore in his
hand—sometimes twirling it about in his fingers, sometimes
making a home-thrust at an imaginary object just
before him—he may have been employed in revolving a
passage or two of declamation: any how, so they walked
on. An old dingy building soon stood before them, and
they knew they had reached their destination. The
quarter in which they had arrived was gross, squalid and
unclean, and the building itself seemed a natural production
of the soil, and not the work of human hands.
A broad gaping area was there, in which such other

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fungi of the place, as broken quarter-kegs, stockingends,
and shattered hats lay in heaps about, and into
this they plunged.

They descended a few steps: and by the aid of a flickering
lamp getting into an unclean passage, the walls of
which were embellished with numerous impressions of
small hands taken in primitive earth, they reached a door
from which a great hubbub of voices and confused sounds
constantly escaped. Here they entered, and found themselves
in a low-roofed apartment, lighted by various
glittering and resplendent reflectors pinned against
upright posts at the side: around the whole room there
was a narrow bench, and at the farther extremity was a
desk several feet above the level of the floor. Puffer and
his companion were ushered to a place by the side of the
desk; a tall young gentleman, who seemed to act as
president, or chairman, stood up and knocked on the
board before him, in imitation of a popular tune, when
there came pouring in at a side passage, which Puffer had
not at first observed, a swarm of youths, of all sizes, ages
and complexions; dressed in all possible varieties of apparel;
and bearing themselves with as great freedom and
independence of demeanor as any number of gentlemen
that could be found. Many of them bore in their hands
threepenny pies, out of which, from time to time, they
cut a mouthful: many more carried cigars in the corners
of their mouths, at which they puffed with an exemplary
vehemence and unction. At another bidding they were
all seated, or gathered in groups and clusters about pillars in
the middle of the apartment, and pausing for a season in
their respective labors, turned their faces toward the tall
chairman.

“Ge'mmen!” said the chief of the news-boys, rising in
his place, having first priggishly buttoned his coat and
thrust a broken yellow handkerchief in his breast, “Ge'mmen!”
said he, “we all knows—what we've come here
for, to-night. You know Tom Hurley, and Joe Shirks,
and Bill Gidney—what we're come here for to do. We
all knows what a low ebb 'Mery-kin literature had got
to, when we took hold of it. We all knows what it is
now—the wery pride and ornament of the earth. I can
say it of a truth, ge'mmen, that Bill Gidney, the activest
news-boy in the metropolis, is a honor to his species: so

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

is Joe Shirks, and so is Tom Hurley. Where was natyve
genius afore we took hold of it?—it was a bud in the
worm, a undeveloped onion. What's the complaint
now? There's too much genius, too much surprisin'
talent and keen obserwation and overpowerin' eloquence.
King Solomon and the greasy wise men 'ud be ashamed
o' themselves, if they only knew Mr. Flabby, what edits
the `Empty Puncheon,' or Mr. Busts, what conducts the
`Daily Bladder,' or Mr. Bloater, what writes four-horse
leaders for the `Junk Bottle,' but what's going to be the
head man of the new and interestin' paper, called the
`Mammoth Mug.' That 'll be a remarkable paper, ge'mmen:
depend on it! The uncommon stock of brains
put into that newspaper will be mere waste; it 'll be
a extravagant usin' up o' the human intellect. For myself,
ge'mmen, if you ask my views of litter-a-toor, I don't
hesitate to say, in vun sense o' the word, excuse the expression,
it's nothin' but a powerful combination o' rags
and brass: by which I means to say, it takes a uncommon
quantity o' rags to make the paper out of, and it takes a
uncommon sight o' brass and courage to make the paper
full o' readin' matter. Now what's our duty? Shall we
give the cause of natyve genius the go-by; a sort of a
wink to a blind horse, instead of a nice nod of encouragement?
As long as we can make twenty-five off of a hundred,
and lunches—shall we give it up?”

Here the speaker was interrupted by a terrific and general
cry of “No, no.” “Carry that man to Bellewue:
he's lost his wits!”

It was quite obvious that his excellency, the chairman,
was prepared still further to thrill and enlighten them
with his peculiar eloquence: but at this stage of the proceedings
there came into the meeting, pushing his way
through the news-boys, with the most easy, natural and
serene self-possession—a stout, blustering fellow, with
great staring eyes—not altogether ill-looking either—a
red neckerchief about his throat, a frock-coat flaunting
from his side, his hair in disorder, and his countenance
beaming with a broad, unrestrained expression of assurance
and conceit. This was an editor. It was Piddleton
Bloater himself; and Piddleton Bloater, the Mighty, the
Immense, the Immeasurable, had come to bargain with
the news-boys to take an interest in a new journal in
which he was about to embark his magnificent talents.

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

“The new paper to be issued on Saturday morning,”
said Mr. Bloater, looking gigantic, so as to overawe the
juvenile gentry before him, “will be the completest
paper ever published; eight feet square, honest measure;
illustrated by the most splendid wood-cuts, head-pieces,
tail-pieces, and so forth, by the most celebrated artists.
Correspondents in every quarter of the world. We have
already engaged Commissioner Lin for the Chinese department;
President Boyer, of Hayti, does the African
branch. The Board of Directors of the N. Y. Gas Company
are retained as regular contributors. Mr. Bulfinch
Twaddle will furnish a poem to every number. We
expect to have a circulation of one hundred and fifty
thousand by the end of the present year: in fact, we
have it already, although they have'nt all paid in yet.
We intend to make the `Mug' the most remarkable
journal of the day. The `Mug' must go. Don't all
speak at once!”

Here the orator produced from his coat-pocket a great
red handkerchief, the duplicate segment of that about
his neck, which he unfurled with a flourish, and disclosed
before the gaze of the assembled news-boys, the words,
“The Mammoth Mug—Edited by Piddleton Bloater,
Esq.,” wrought thereon in portentous capitals. This
movement was hailed with a cheer, and as he waived it
about his head, and reddened in the face by the exertion,
the cheers grew in energy and emphasis.

“But gentlemen,” continued Mr. Bloater, when the
enthusiasm had a little abated, sinking his voice to an
awful whisper, “there's a secret I've got to disclose, that
will astonish you. Prepare yourselves. Brace up, and
hold fast of each other. Rum-Fusti, the Patriarch of
Jerusalem, is employed to write an entirely original
Continuous Tale for the `Mug;' to be contributed exclusively
to the `Mug' and to no other paper!”

This had a fine sounding style, and the news-boys,
from the very circumstance of not apprehending
it very thoroughly, cheered and shouted more
heartily than ever. With this tremendous announcement,
Mr. Piddleton Bloater paused and taking a notebook
from his pocket, said he was ready for orders; but
hoped they would restrain themselves, and not come on
too fast.

“Eight feet square—that's ever so many thousand

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[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

surface inches!” said Master Tom Hurley, a pale-faced
news-boy, apparelled in a long tail coat, with metal
buttons. “I'm death for the Mug, Mr. Bloater. I'll
cut the `Empty Puncheon,' and take a hundred Mugs
to start with.”

“The Puncheon! How in the name of Heaven could
any one patronize that miserable abortion!” exclaimed
Mr. Bloater. “Flabby's a poor withered alligator;
and the Puncheon a mere pothecary's show-bottle, that
shines a mile or two off, but's nothing after all but
colored water, and that not fit to drink.”

“If Rum-Buster out o' Noah's ark, writes for the
first number,” said Master Gidney, a small, corpulent,
jolly-looking fellow, in a roundabout and tasselled cap,
grinning, and speaking up, as he cocked it on his brow,
“I'll cut in for a gross of number one; if I seed his
Tale's name in big letter on the fences, it 'ud give me
confidence, and I might go in for a couple o' hundred;
but that's as many as 'ud do, till I have a interview
with the fire-board makers.”

Mr. Bloater, not exactly understanding how a privity
of knowledge between the fire-board makers and Master
Gidney could affect the sale of the Mug, looked upon
the youth approvingly, and dashed his open palm upon
his leg, crying out that was “juicy, and just the thing!”

“I think Busts of the `Daily Bladder' is breaking
down,” interposed another news-vender, in a suit all
shreds and patches, with an unclean face, uncombed
hair, (the prevailing fashion of the place) and no covering
to his head. “He writes all his editorials in a cheer
made out of the staves of a rum cask: he loves the
smell of the thing wonderfully; and has to be tied in by
the foreman, while he's writin'. Busts writes a history
of his sprees over night, in somebody else's name, and
that fills up the Police Head. I'll take fifty `Mugs' fresh
and bright, with the froth on.”

“The best thing you could do, my lad!” cried Mr.
Bloater from where he stood, smiling. “That Busts is a
poor miserable wretch: a viper in the uniform of the
rifle brigade, and he kills character by the platoon.
They call Busts a keen observer of life! so he is of animalcul
æ that live in the kennel: there is'nt a viler
wretch on the face of the earth than this same Busts,

p264-149 [figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

if you except Flabby of the `Empty Puncheon!'
But how many copies do you take Mr. Chairman?”
asked Mr. Bloater turning toward that functionary: “I
know you to be one of the longest-legged and loudest-voiced
of the Society.”

“That's a wery delicate question sir,” answered the
president, rising with dignity, and buttoning his coat
calmly as he ascended, “a wery delicate question—unless
I was informed of the principles the Mug 's to be
conducted on: does it go Captain Kidd, or the moral
code?”

“Captain Kidd—decidedly,” rejoined Mr. Piddleton
Bloater. “We shall pirate all foreign tales regularly;
and where we can purloin proof sheets shall publish in
advance of the author himself; shall in all cases employ
third-rate native writers at journeyman-cobbler's
wages, and swear to their genius as a matter of business:
shall reprint the old annuals and almanacs, systematically,
as select extracts and facetiæ, and shall reproduce
their cuts and illustrations, as new designs from the
burin of Mr. Tinto, the celebrated Engraver.”

“That'll do—that'll do,” cried the chairman, interrupting
the speaker. “Set me down for the balance of
the fust edition: it'll be a fust rate paper, and conducted
on fust rate principles.”

“There's another thing,” said Mr. Bloater, continuing
the subject, “another thing to be distinctly and clearly
understood. Whoever writes the chief article of the
Mug is to be the great writer—the biggest penman in
America, for that week. For instance, if it should even
be Busts or Flabby; Flabby is to be advertised as an
angel in large caps, and Busts as a genius of the first
water.”

“Of course!” cried the president: “Of course!”
echoed the news-boys to a man, who understood this
policy thoroughly.

“With this understanding, I'll say good night to
you,” said Mr. Bloater, wiping his brow. “I hope
you'll be in good voice for the first day: I'd suggest a
little practice in crying false alarms for a night or two,
the length of half a dozen streets.”

“We does that regularly,” answered Master Joe
Shirks, “and some of us goes on amateur duty as oyster

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boys, when shell fish 's in season and big enough to cry!”

With this satisfactory assurance, Mr. Piddleton Bloater
departed, sounding the natural trumpet of his nose with
all his might as he went.

“Who knows, but some of these youth,” asked
Mr. Fishblatt, who had been thrown into temporary
shade by the presence of so astounding a genius,
wheeling about and looking Puffer full in the face,
“may come to serve their country one of these
days in the halls of legislation? Who knows but nature
may be unconsciously training in the crier of a
`Junk Bottle,' a future speaker of the House? or in the
street shouter of the `Empty Puncheon,' a leading
Congressional orator? I begin to think its the true training
for rhetorical talent; and why should not their ambition
be turned in this direction? My young friends and
Mr. President,” he continued, elevating his voice, now
that he was fairly roused, and falling back a step or two,
“To return to what I was about to say when interrupted
by Mr. Bloater—I would put it to your patriotism, whether
you should not withdraw for a time from the literary
luxury of crying the news and take an active part in
public affairs. Here is a noble opportunity to serve your
country, my young friends: don't let it pass. Gidney
and Shirks and Hurley—for such I understand to be the
names of some of you—have now an enviable opportunity
of achieving lasting glory. Think of it, you may
save your country: the conspicuous exhibition of a
placard by your ingenuity may draw to the polls, say
only a single voter, that voter casts for Gallipot, and
the business is done. Give up every thing to serve your
country, abandon your cherished pursuits, sacrifice your
feelings, and endear yourselves to all the good and
virtuous, and public-spirited throughout this great metropolis—
this mighty nation!”

“For my part,” responded Mr. Gidney, who was the
first to rise, “I considers it degradin' for a news-boy to
become a bill-sticker; it's lowerin' oneself in the scale
of society and makin' a object of hisself for all future
times and generations. The woice of Fame is agin it.”

“You are wrong, my young friend,” continued Mr.
Fishblatt, rising again majestically, stretching out his right
hand and depositing it on the desk top, while he passed his

[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]

left behind his person, and thrust it in one of the nether
pockets of his coat. “The vocation of a bill-sticker is
a highly honorable one and admits of a great expansion
of natural talent. What does he do? Why, Mr. Chairman,
he makes dumb walls and dead stones speak; he
puts a tongue in the old thirsty street-pump; and he
causes shutters and bulk-heads to cry aloud and shout
out, at all hours, day and night; night and day. Is'nt
that enough? Where do you find the bill-sticker?
Why he's at the bottom, the very prime mover and
getter up of all public gatherings, concerts, lectures,
balloonings, ballotings, packet-sailings, fairs, shows and
spectacles. He's the prompter and bell-puller of society.
Is'nt this an honorable calling? Why, sir, next to
the popular preacher and the popular author the bill-sticker
is certainly the greatest benefactor of his race!”

As soon as Mr. Fishblatt had taken his seat, after this
powerful outbreak, Master Joe Shirks rose in reply.

“We can't do it—no how,” said Master Shirks, addressing
the chair. “We are pledged contrarywise to the
citizens of New-York. What'll they say, I'd like to
know, when you, Mr. Chairman, and I, and Bill Gidney
here, loses our voice, and cry no more papers than if
we was dumb-fish and flounders. Papers must be cried;
and there's the Extras—who's to know anything about
that 'ere sudden murder, where a affectionate husband
has chopped his wife into tender-loins, with a new broadaxe;
or that 'ere dreadful case of explosion, where the
benevolent gentleman has called a tea-party over his
steamboat boiler, and blowed 'em all to atoms with gitting
the fun and the jollification up too high? What's
to become of these little things sir, if we go off duty.
It's easy to see, without a telyscop, or a constable's
peepers, the city 'ud have a shock of the apoplexy, and
go into fits regularly till we begun to cry again. The
news-boys, sir, and we all knows it—but we're too
modest to say it out of doors—is the moral lamplighters
of this 'ere city. The ge'mmen talks about public affairs:
that's a good 'un, as if we did'nt keep the public
mind straight about all that 'ere! If the Englishers go
up into the bowels of China, and drink up all the old
hyson, that's been laid away there, drying and gitting
strength for four hundred year, I guess we knows it!

[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]

What's the use of all our private interviews with the
pressmen and clerks about Extras, if it don't come to
that? By private advices we learns that the Florida Indians
all waded in a body into a large swamp, and committed
soo-cide by holding each others heads under
water, on the nineteenth instant: where do you get all
that from old fellow? Why from news-boy Tom or
news-boy Bill or Joe Shirks, your sarvant.

I'm agin the motion, Mr. Cheerman, and move we
sticks to our business, and lets overybody else stick to
theirs!”

Another young gentleman followed who could'nt think
of the proposition, as he had been assured, from good
sources, that there were to be four powerful Extras issued
in the course of the month—containing a vast deal of
inflammable information, in advance of all the regular
packets, steamers and stages; and for his part, he
would'nt lose the chance. Theatre-money was low in
his pocket—he had'nt seen a mellow-drama for a week,
and it was asking too much of him.

Another was willing to do all he could to forward the
proposition; but he'd like to know why the gem'men
did'nt stick the bills himself; he seemed to have good
legs of his own, and a very respectable pair of reachers.
At this suggestion the chairman cried “order,” and there
was a general shout of disapprobation at the line of questioning
adopted by the young gentleman.

After a pretty thorough discussion of the subject,
when no satisfactory result seemed possible, the chairman
himself arose.

“Ge'mmen!” said he, “this 'll never do. These
ge'mmen come to us with the very highest recommendations,
and from the very most respectable quarters.
We must'nt let 'em go away without a lift. We can
help 'em, and we must. Now, there is in this very
meeting, and I'm not afraid to say it, certain young gentlemen
that had better go to be bill-stickers afore their
healths is ruined and entirely broken up. There's one
of us—I don't mention names, ge'mmen—that bursted
his voice on extra Junks last week; he was entirely
too wiolent on the China question. His voice is gone.
Then there's another of us—you recollect him, ge'mmen—
who broke down (there was a sight for you) in

p264-153 [figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

the wery middle of the street, with a wery exciting number
of the `Puncheon' (containing all them pleasant
particulars about the two dead bodies found in a gen'leman's
iron-safe) under his arm, tryin' to do justice to it.
How many wictims of weto messages there is in this
room, I would'nt like to say: but I do know that a weto
message from the presidin' chief of these United States,
and a influenza is equally fatal to the woice of the news-boy.
Then there's you, Ikey Larkins,” continued the
chairman, addressing a lumbering, over-grown fellow,
that stood shouldering a post in the corner: “Have n't
I told you more nor twenty times that you'r beyond the
news-boy age. Its immoral of such a weteran as you to
be cryin' papers about New-York streets: don't you see
that your'e too big a build, that your'e lame of one leg and
short of an eye; and yet you will keep hanging about
the offices, and cutting in as if you was born to the business.
Ge'mmen, let's give Mr. Fishblatt six to begin with
(Ikey Larkins for one) and throw 'em in one a day as
fast as they break down. It's carried!”

And in this summary way the mission of Puffer Hopkins
and Mr. Fishblatt was accomplished, and amidst an
uproar of cries, among which they heard above all others
“three cheers for the cheer!” and “Ikey Larkins is a
`extra foolish”'—they left.