Anxious to become familiar with the people in their
assemblies and public gatherings—to learn how crowds
are excited and assuaged, and made to do the bidding
of cunning men: how that which would be folly and sheer
madness with one, may, practised upon many in a confused
mass, take the hue of profoundest wisdom and justice: and
having at heart withal the suggestions of his strange old
friend of Fogfire Hall, Puffer Hopkins now made it a point
to haunt meetings and congregations of every sort, anniversaries,
wharf crowds and lectures, and to detect how the Leviathan
populace is snared in a fair net of silvery words
and pleasant speeches.

At the lower extremity of the great thoroughfare of
Chatham Street, just below the theatre, lies an oblong
deep shop, into which is drawn, between the hours of seven
and nine, evening, a portion of the metropolitan life, where
it is kept raging and fuming—pent up in a close mass—and
struggling with the black-haired demon of the place. The
genius of the oblong warehouse is none other than a gloomy
looking auctioneer, who hangs over a counter fixed on a

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

raised platform, calling on the individuals before him—who
are chiefly clerks, news-boys, journeymen and innocent gentlemen
from the country—to sustain him in his disinterested
desire to advocate the elegance of binders, the instructive
and entertaining qualities of authors, and the gorgeous
genius of colorists, engravers and paper-rulers.

This gentleman is ably sustained and seconded, in the
performance of these arduous duties, by a sable-haired associate,
who makes it his business to stroll cheerfully up and
down the enclosed space behind the counter, rubbing his
hands from time to time, as in token of internal satisfaction
at the success of their joint efforts, and dashing down upon
the counter such wares as a sagacious glance at his audience
satisfies him are most likely to be competed for.

On some occasions, one or other of the black-haired gentlemen
behind the counter condescends to be facetious, and
says remarkably funny things for the special benefit and
solace of the citizens underneath: this department properly
belongs to the auctioneer, but is incidentally filled by the
feeder, with such chance morsels of humor as may suggest
themselves to him as he rambles to and fro.

Into this oblong region of sale, as one of the resorts
where his plans might be furthered, Puffer one evening
made his way.

“Gentlemen,” cried the black-haired auctioneer with increased
animation as Puffer Hopkins entered; discovering
perhaps in the peculiar costume and manner of that excellent
young gentleman some indications of a melo-dramatic
tendency: “Gentlemen, here's the primest article I've offered
to-night: this is `Brimstone Castle,' a native melo-drama,
as performed one hundred nights at the Bowery Theatre,
Bowery, New York. The hero of this piece, gentlemen,
is a regular salamander, and could take out a policy in any
company in this city at a low hazard: he 's fire-proof. In
the first act, he appears sitting on a log, meditating; is suddenly
surprised and taken by a band of savages of a redochre
complexion, from whom he escapes by ruthlessly cutsting
off the right leg of every mother's son of them—rushes
over a bridge—rescues a lady with dishevelled hair and a
small boy in her hand, climbs up a cataract, waives his
cap to the rescued lady, loses his appetite, and is finally
re-taken by the savages, and burnt at the stake for an
hour—when he walks out of the flame, advances to the

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

foot-lights, and, with a very cheerful smile on his countenance,
announces `Brimstone Castle' for the next twelve nights,
with an extra savage and fresh faggots every night. How
much gentlemen? Going, going. How much? It 's a
master-piece, gentlemen—a perfect work of art. How
much?”

The melo-drama was bandied about for more than a
quarter of an hour among sundry young gentlemen in round-crowned
hats, with sleek shining heads of black hair and
broad-skirted blue coats, but finally fell to the lot of a
bidder with a stout voice, just one of those voices that are
irresistible in an auction-room, and a terror to gentlemen
that desire cheap purchases.

“I now offer you,” cried the auctioneer, “one of the
most astonishing and wonderful works of the present day.
It's full of thought, gentlemen, expressed in the very happiest
words out of Todd's Johnson and Noah Webster, as
clear as a moonbeam, gentlemen, and profound as the
Atlantic. It treats of various subjects, such as”—here the
auctioneer turned the pages of the book in his hand rapidly,
after the manner of a quarterly Reviewer, with the hope of
gleaning a comprehensive knowledge of its contents, but,
judging by the face of ineffable despair he assumed after
thrusting his nose half a dozen times between the leaves,
with little success. “Excuse me,” he continued, smiling
sardonically on his audience; “It would be presumptuous
in me, a plain, unlearned citizen, to undertake to convey to
your minds the substance of a volume like this. Gentlemen,
I'll read you a passage from the `Introduction,' which
explains itself. `Ponds have presented turtles in two aspects;
either as turtles or as not turtles. In the one, turtle,
the living, breathing, air-cased creature, the individual in his
pneumatic being, sitting on a rock pond-centred, is mighty,
supernal, vastly infinite—more than frogdom at bottom,
blind eel or muscle life: not he theirs, or for them, but they
nothing save for him. Outward world—to them, mud-encompassed—
otherwise dead, as door-nail: in the other, slidden
from pond-centred rock down to the depths of the unsearchable
(pond?) frogdom, blind eel and muscle life—each more
than turtle; he theirs—being thick-headed, obfuscated by
lack of light and doltish—and for them, he little or nothing
save a black lump, part of the general pond-bottom, pavement,
chips, wind, gas, snake-grass and bulrushes.”'

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

It need scarcely be added that the lucid work on which
the auctioneer was engaged, was nothing more nor less than
a volume of Transcendental lectures. Puffer Hopkins detected
the same burly voice bidding for this—and triumphing
in its bid—that he had heard twice before.

At this juncture a member of the great fraternity of laybishops—
in other words, a very worthy cartman in his
short frock—came in, and supposing, from the few words
that he caught as he entered, that the work in hand was
illustrative of some new and improved method of “bobbing
for eels,” was rash enough to invest seven shillings in the
purchase of a second copy. Paying his money very awkwardly
at the counter—out of a blind-pocket in his cartfrock—
he carried his purchase to a lamp in another quarter
of the auction-room, and proceeded very slowy and painfully
to enlighten himself on the favorite pursuit of eel-bobbing.
He bobbed, however, in that pond to very little
purpose—and becoming confused and horribly enraged at
the constant recurrence of the phrases a “oneness,” an
“obscure and unreachable infinite,” “divergence towards
central orbits,” and “revolutionary inwardnesses,”—intemperately
sold it (for six cents and a fraction) to a match-boy,
who stood by with a basket ready to catch such purchases
as might prove unavailable or disrelishing to the
buyers. “There's an acre of fog-bank there, boy,” said the
cartman from between his teeth, “take it away. My horse
has a better head for writings, and authorships, and what not,
than the stupid journeyman fellow that spoked this wheel
together. Just away with it.”

“If there's a patriot in the room,” continued the salesman,
“a single young or middle-aged gentleman that loves his
country and the story of her achievements—let him come
forward and lay down his one dollar fifty. I offer you,
gentlemen, the `Battle of Bloody Puddle,' a narrative
poem, in six books. This master-piece of genius has nine
heroes—each one of whom accomplishes more in the way
of slaughter, swordsmanship and small-talk, from various
elevations, peaks, cliffs and hill-tops, than any nine heroes
ever let loose on the world before. The stanza is irregular,
to correspond with the thought, which is very wild and
super-human. The chief hero—the A. No. 1,—pattern
warrior, is discovered by moonlight sharpening his sword
on a boulder of granite, in two nimble-foot octosylabic stanzas

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

—he loses his scabbard and temper in four Spenserian—
entering a cave to conceal himself from the bloody British
foe—who are tracking him about like dogs, in twenty-five
hexameters—but recovers both in an eleven-syllabled song;
in which he grows very happy about wine, war and woman—
particularly Isobel the fair—until, all at once, he discovers
a cloud on the moon; which reminds him to prepare for
a few elegiac verses and death. He ultimately hangs himself
in a hemlock sapling, and leaves his pocket-book—with
a counterfeit bill and some forged letters in it—to his Isobel;
bidding her, in a brief touching epistolary farewell, never to
part with these relics of his affection—never, never! which
it is'nt very likely she ever will: particularly the counterfeits.
The rest of the poem corresponds; how much, how
much? Cheap—going cheap—as politicians' consciences, a
penny a dozen. It's yours, sir, at twenty-five cents. It's
perfectly ruinous to sell this work at that price,” sighed the
auctioneer, wheeling round and stoically receiving from his
assistant a bundle of two dozen more of the same.

There was something in the voice of the bidder who had
borne off the chief purchases of the evening, that excited
the curiosity of Puffer Hopkins; he thought he had heard
it before, and, to ascertain the owner, now mounted a bench,
and peered over the heads of the audience towards the quarter
whence it had issued.

In a remote angle of the auction room, apart from the
crowd, in a little domain of his own, stood a square, broad-breasted
gentleman, with his arms folded and gazing at the
auctioneer with a fixed and intense look, that could not have
been readily surpassed by a Spanish inquisitor, or a petty
justice reproving a constable. The fury of his demeanor
was heightened by the close buttoning of his coat, to the very
throat, the inflation of his coat skirts with a thick bundle of
newspapers and a large bandanna handkerchief, the strapping
of his pantaloons firmly down upon the boot, and still
further, by his being a gentleman of moderate stature, in
whom, it is well known, fierceness is natural and quite becoming.
It was this gentleman that bid for the melo-drama,
the poem of Bloody Puddle, and the volume of Transcendental
Lectures; and now that he had attained a full view of
his person, Puffer felt quite sure that he knew him. Pushing
through the mass of bidders, he reached the little Zahara

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

which this gentleman's frowns and dignity had created for
himself.

“Mr. Fishblatt—I think,” said Puffer, respectfully contemplating
the figure before him.

“The same, sir,” responded the broad-breasted gentleman,
starting back a pace or two, dropping his brows, and regarding
the questioner steadily for a minute or more. “You are
one of our speakers I believe,” continued Mr. Fishblatt, still
maintaining his survey, “one of the oratorical youth of Fogfire
Hall—am I right?

“You are,” answered Puffer Hopkins: “I had the honor
of speaking before you at the last general meeting; you
were a Vice-President.”

“What!” cried Mr. Fishblatt, in an earnest whisper,
“you are not the young gentleman that used the simile of
the rainbow? On my soul you are; don't blush, my dear
sir, and turn every color in a minute, for that convicts you
at once. I'm glad to see you: it 's quite a treat. Take my
hand, Mr. Hopkins.”

Hereupon Mr. Fishblatt took possession of Puffer Hopkins'
right hand, shook it strenuously, and then turning to
the auctioneer on service, said:

“That man 's worthy to be a Quarterly Reviewer. He
's a Jeffrey, a Babbington Macaulay, sir; an Edward Everett,
with the devil in him. He tells books by the smell of
the leather. And see how daintily he holds an annual up, as
a fishmonger does a bass by the tail, so as to send the circulation
to the head, and give the eyes a life-like look. Don't
he play on the leaves and illustrations like a musical genius?
See, my good sir, how he displays that volume with colored
plates; it 's like a glimpse into the fall woods. This is the
shop for sound criticism; writers that are disdainfully treated
in the weeklies and monthlies, need'nt be afraid to come
here; if they're hacked and hewed so that their best friend
could'nt know them, all they need do is to huddle themselves
into a coarse blue-cloth apparel, and throw themselves before
that black-haired gentleman; and they'll have a blast
sounded in their behalf that will bring every two and six
pence in the place rattling on the counter.”

While the broad-breasted gentleman was engaged elaborating
this artful encomium on his friend, the auctioneer had
produced a huge bundle of controversial tracts and almanacs,
black with wood-cuts, and dashed them upon the counter

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

with great spirit; at which Mr. Fishblatt started, again
grasped Hopkins by the hand, gave him the street and number
of his residence, and urged him to call speedily.

“You can't mistake the house; it 's a red front, with tall
chimney-pots—grenadier pots we call them—and a slab of
brass on the door, with `Halsey Fishblatt' in large text.
Any of the hackmen on the Square can direct you, for they
can all read my plate as they stand, nearly two rods off.
Come soon!”

Pouring out his passages of description and invitation vehemently,
Mr. Fishblatt gave Puffer a strenuous good-night—
advanced and threw his card upon the counter, and thrusting
his right hand into the breast of his coat, marched out
of the auction room with great vigor and self-possession.

Now that the chief bidder, who had held the room in
awe by his peremptory and majestic manner of calling the
price, had departed, the minor customers immediately
swelled into consequence, and a horrible conflict was forthwith
engendered betwixt the match-boy—whose imagination
always kindled at the slighest suggestion of a goblin; a small
retail clerk, who had sympathies with coffins and family
vaults, as he slept every night in an unwholesome and gravelike
cabin at the rear of the dry-goods shop; and a broken-down
gentleman—a speculator in cemeteries—who was on
the look out for information on sepulchral subjects.

“Here's a rare morsel for you, my lads,” said the auctioneer,
whose style grew more familiar on the departure of the
majestic Fishblatt: “a dainty mouthfull, I can tell you.
`The Vision of the Coffin-maker's 'Prentice—a story in manuscript—
never published.' It 's a copyright, boys: as good
as new in first hands. It 's said the author starved to death,
because the publishers would'nt buy his book; they could import
goblins and bugbears cheaper than they could be grown
on the spot.” “The biggest bugbears always come from
abroad,” said the feeder, pausing a moment from his rambles—
facing the audience, and laying both hands on the
counter. “Come, bid up—will ye? Don't go to sleep, if
you please, in that corner. Others say the author choked
himself with a chicken-bone—nobody believes that. Poets
and poultry have never been on good terms, that I could
learn. Will the band be good enough to strike up!”

“Sixpence—there 's a dodge,” cried the match-boy.

p264-051

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

“I'll go nine,” said the retail clerk. “That's a more superlative
go, I know.”

“Nine and one,” cried the match-boy, reddening in the
face, and glancing spitefully at the retail bidder.

“No penny bids in this shop,” interposed the auctioneer,
authoritatively. “Try again, gentleman—yours, twelve and
a half—twelve and a half!”

This last was the bid of the cemetery speculator.

“Twelve and a half. Fifteen, fifteen, fifteen—one and
nine.” The bids ran on; the auctioneer chanced to turn
the volume toward Puffer Hopkins, who discovered at the
side of one of the pages, a pen-and-ink drawing of a stout
gentleman, standing in a coffin, with his right arm outstretched
as if on the point of beginning a speech. Not
knowing but that this might be some new exercise in oratory,
and seeing at once the facilities for the pathetic afforded by
a snug-built coffin, Puffer entered the field, and overtopping
all competition by a half-dollar bid, paid the purchase money
in silver—which it employed him some ten minutes to hunt
into a corner of his pocket and secure—and bore it away.

In less than a quarter of an hour, he was at his own room
in the Fork; had called in his poor neighbor, the tailor, and
by the light of a dim candle, (snuffers not being within the
appointments of his establishment), entered upon the perusal
of his new-bought story.

The manuscript was bound in a black linen cover, worn
threadbare and ragged by much handling; was ornamented
with rude drawings of cross-bones and tombstones, with
quaint inscriptions on the margin; and the leaves were
spotted in various places, and the ink faded, as if many
burning tears had fallen on the page.