University of Virginia Library

4. ROCKY SMALT;
OR, THE DANGERS OF IMITATION.

Man is an imitative animal, and so strong is the
instinctive feeling to follow in the footsteps of others,
that he who is so fortunate as to strike out a new path
must travel rapidly, if he would avoid being run down by
imitators, and preserve the merit of originality. If his
discovery be a good one, the “servum pecus” will sweep
toward it like an avalanche; and so quick will be their
motion, that the daring spirit who first had the self-reliance
to turn from the beaten track, is in danger of
being lost among the crowd, and of having his claim to
the honours of a discoverer doubted and derided. Turn
where you will, the imitative propensity is to be
found busily at work; its votaries clustering round the
falcon to obtain a portion of the quarry which the nobler
bird has stricken; and perhaps, like Sir John Falstaff,
to deal the prize a “new wound in the thigh,” and
falsely claim the wreath of victory. In the useful arts,
there are thousands of instances in which the real discoverer
has been thrust aside to give place to the imitator;
and in every other branch in which human ingenuity
has been exercised, if the flock of copyists do not
obtain the patent right of fame, they soon, where it is
practicable, wear out the novelty, and measurably deprive

the inventor of the consideration to which he is entitled.
In the apportionment of applause, the praise too often
depends upon which is first seen, the statue or the cast—
although the one be marble, and the other plaster.

In business, no one can hope to recommend his wares
to patronage in a new and taking way, no matter what
outlay of thought has been required for its invention,
without finding multitudes prompt in the adoption of
the same device. He who travels by a fresh and verdant
path in literature, and is successful, soon hears the
murmurs of a pursuing troop, and has his by-way converted
into a dusty turnpike, macadamized on the principle
of “writing made easy;” while, on the stage, the
drama groans with great ones at second-hand. The
illustrious in tragedy can designate an army of those,
who, unable to retail their beauties, strive for renown by
exaggerating their defects; and Thalia has even seen her
female aids cut off their flowing locks, and teach themselves
to wriggle, because she who was in fashion wore
a crop, and had adopted a gait after her own fancy.

It is to this principle that a professional look is attributable.
In striving to emulate the excellence of another,
the student thinks he has made an important step if he
can catch the air, manner, and tone of his model; and
believes that he is in a fair way to acquire equal wisdom,
if he can assume the same expression of the face, and
compass the same “hang of the nether lip.” We have
seen a pupil endeavouring to help himself onward in
the race for distinction by wearing a coat similar in cut
and colour to that wherewith his preceptor indued
himself; and we remember the time when whole classes
at a certain eastern university became a regiment of
ugly Dromios, lengthening their visages, and smoothing
their hair down to their eyes, for no other reason than

that an eminent and popular professor chose to display
his frontispiece after that fashion—and that, as they
emulated his literary abilities, they, therefore, thought it
advantageous to imitate his personal defects. When
Byron's fame was in the zenith, poetic scribblers dealt
liberally in shirt collar, and sported an expanse of neck;
and when Waterloo heroes were the wonders of the
hour, every town in England could show its limpers and
hobblers, who, innocent of war, would fain have passed
for men damaged by the French. On similar grounds,
humps, squints, impediments of speech, mouths awry,
and limbs distorted, have been the rage.

How then could Orson Dabbs, the Hittite, admired
and peculiar as he was, both for his ways and for his
opinions, hope to escape imitation? If he entertained
such a belief, it was folly; and if he dreamed that he
could so thump the world as to preserve his originality,
it was a mere delusion. Among the many who frequented
the Goose and Gridiron, where Orson resided,
was one Rocky Smalt, whose early admiration
for the great one it is beyond the power of words to
utter, though subsequent events converted that admiration
into hostility. Rocky Smalt had long listened with
delight to Orson's lectures upon the best method of
removing difficulties, which, according to him, is by
thumping them down, as a paviour smooths the streets;
and as Orson descanted, and shook his fists in exemplification
of the text, the soul of Rocky, like a bean in a
bottle, swelled within him to put these sublime doctrines
in practice.

Now, it unluckily happens that Rocky Smalt is a
very little man—one of the feather weights—which
militates somewhat against the gratification of his pugilistic
desires, insomuch that if he “squares off” at a big

fellow, he is obliged, in dealing a facer, to hit his antagonist
on the knee; and a blow given there, everybody
knows, neither “bungs a peeper” nor “taps a smeller.”
But Rocky, being to a certain degree aware of his gladiatorial
deficiencies, is rather theoretical than practical;
that is, he talks much more than he battles. His narratives,
differing from himself, are colossal; and as Colossus
stood with one foot on one side, and with the other
foot on the other side, so do Rocky's speeches refer to
the past and to the future—to what he has done, and to
what he means to do. He is now retrospective, and
again prospective, in talking of personal contention, his
combats never being present, which is by far the most
agreeable method of obtaining reputation, as we thereby
avoid the inconvenience of pricking our fingers in gathering
glory.

Rocky, in copying Dabbs as to his belligerent principles,
is likewise careful to do the same, as far as it is
possible, in relation to personal appearance. He is,
therefore, a pocket Dabbs—a miniature Orson. He
cultivates whiskers to the apex of the chin; and although
they are not very luxuriant, they make up in length
what they want in thickness. He cocks his hat fiercely,
rolls in his gait, and, with doubled fists, carries his arms
in the muscular curve, elbows pointing outward, and
each arm forming the segment of a circle. He slams
doors after him, kicks little dogs, and swears at little
boys, as Orson does. If any one runs against him, he
waits until the offender is out of hearing, and then
denounces him in the most energetic expletives belonging
to the language, and is altogether a vinaigrette of
wrath. It is the combat only that bothers Smalt; if it
were not for that link in the chain of progression from
defiance to victory, he would indeed be a most truculent

hero, and deserve a salary from all the nose menders
about town, whether natural bone-setters or gristle-tinkers
by commission—were it not for that, Larrey's Military
Surgery would be in continual demand, as a guide to the
cure of contusions, and so great would be the application
of oysters to the eye, that there would be a scarcity of
shell-fish.

Sometimes, however, Smalt's flaming ardour precipitates
him into a quarrel; but, even then, he manages
matters very adroitly, by selecting the largest individual
of the opposite faction for his antagonist.

“Come on!” shrieks Smalt, in such an emergency;
“come on! I'll lick any thing near my own weight. I'll
chaw up any indewidooal that's fairly my match—yes,
and give him ten pounds. I ain't petickelar, when it's
a matter of accommodation. Whe-e-w! fire away!”

But, as Rocky's weight is just ninety-four pounds,
counting boots, hat, dead-latch key, pennies, fips, clothes,
and a little bit of cavendish, he is certain to escape; for
even the most valiant may be excused from encountering
the long odds in a pitched battle, although he may sometimes
run against them in a crowded chance-medley.
Rocky, therefore, puts on his coat again, puffing and
blowing like a porpoise, as he walks vapouring about, and
repeating with an occasional attitude a la Orson Dabbs,
“Any thing in reason—and a little chucked in to accommodate—when
I'm wound up, it 'most takes a stone wall to
stop me, for I go right through the timber—that's me!”

Yet these happy days of theoretical championship at
length were clouded. Science avails nothing against
love: Dan Cupid laughs at sparring, and beats down the
most perfect guard. It so fell out that Orson Dabbs and
Rocky Smalt both were smitten with the tender passion
at the same time, the complaint perhaps being epidemic

at the season. This, however, though individually
troublesome, as the disorder is understood to be a sharp
one, would not have been productive of discord between
them, had it not unluckily happened that they became
enamoured of the same “fair damosel.” Two warriors
and but one lady!—not one lady per piece, to speak
commercially, but one lady per pair. This was embarrassing—this
was dangerous. Miss Araminta Stycke—
or Miss Mint Stycke, as she was sometimes more sweetly
termed—could not, according to legal enactments, marry
both the gentlemen in question; and as each was determined
to have her entire, the situation was decidely perplexing,
essentially bothering, and effectively dramatic,
which, however amusing to the looker-on, is the ne plus
ultra of discomfort to those who form the tableau. Miss
Araminta could doubtless have been very “happy with
either, were t'other dear charmer away;” but this was
out of the question; for, when Dabbs on one side stuck
to Stycke, Smalt on the other side just as assiduously
stuck to Stycke, and both stickled stoutly for her
smiles.

“My dear Mint Stycke,” said Rocky Smalt, at a tea
party, taking hold of a dish of plums nicely done in molasses—“my
dear Mint Stycke, allow me to help you to
a small few of the goodies.”

“Minty, my darling!” observed Dabbs, who sat on
her left hand, Rocky being on the right—“Minty my
darling,” repeated Dabbs, with that dashing familiarity
so becoming in a majestic personage, as he stretched
forth his hand, and likewise grasped the dish of plums,
“I insist upon helping you myself.”

The consequence was an illustration of the embarras
of having two lovers on the ground at the same time.
The plums were spilt in such a way as to render Miss

Stycke sweeter that ever, by giving “sweets to the
sweet;” but the young lady was by no means so pretty
to look at as she had been before the ceremony.

“Of the twain, she most affected” Dabbs, of which
Rocky was not a little jealous.

“Minty, I don't care for Dabbs,” said Rocky, in heroic
tones; “big as he is, if he comes here too often a crossing
me, he'll ketch it. I'll thump him, Minty, I will—feed
me on hay, if I don't.”

Minty laughed, and well she might, for just then Orson
arrived, and, walking into the room, scowled fiercely at
Smalt, who suddenly remembered “he had to go somewheres,
and promised to be there early—he must go, as
it was a'most late now.”

“He thump me!” said Dabbs, with a supercilious
smile, when Minty repeated the threat. “The next time
I meet that chap, I'll take my stick and kill it—I'll sqush
it with my foot.”

Unhappily for the serenity of his mind, Rocky Smalt
had his ear at the key hole when this awful threat was
made, and he quaked to hear it, not doubting that Dabbs
would be as good as his word. He, therefore, fled instanter,
and roamed about like a perturbed spirit; now travelling
quickly—anon pausing to remember the frightful
words, and, as they rushed vividly to mind, he would
hop-scotch convulsively and dart off like an arrow, the
whole being done in a style similar to that of a fish which
has indulged in a frolic upon cocculus indicus. In the
course of his eccentric rambles, he stopped in at various
places, and, either from that cause, or some other which
has not been ascertained, he waxed valiant a little after
midnight. But, as his spirits rose, his locomotive propensity
appeared to decrease, and he, at length, sat down
on a step.

“So!” soliloquized our hero: “he intends to belt me,
does he? Take a stick—sqush with his foot—and calls
me `it'—`it' right before Minty! Powers of wengeance,
settle on my fist, take aim with my knuckles, and shoot
him in the eye! If I wasn't so tired, and if I hadn't a
little touch of my family disorder, I'd start after him. I'd
go and dun him for the hiding; and if he'd only squat, or
let me stand on a chair, I'd give him a receipt in full,
right in the face, under my own hand and seal. I'd
knock him this-er way, and I'd whack him that-er way,
till you couldn't tell which end of his head his face
was on.”

Smalt suited the action to the word, and threw out his
blows, right and left, with great vigour.

Suddenly, however, he felt a heavy hand grasp his
shoulder, and give him a severe shake, while a deep gruff
voice exclaimed:

“Halloo! what the deuse are you about? You'll tear
your coat.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Smalt, with a convulsive start;
“oh, don't! I holler enough!”

“Why, little 'un, you must be cracked, if you flunk
out before we begin. Holler enough, indeed! nobody's
guv' you any yet.”

“Ah!” gasped Smalt, turning round; “I took you
for Orson Dabbs. I promised, when I cotch'd him, to
give him a licking, and I was werry much afeard I'd
have to break the peace. Breaking the peace is a werry
disagreeable thing fur to do; but I must—I'm conshensis
about it—when I ketches Orson. Somebody ought to
tell him to keep out of the way, fur fear I'll have to break
the peace.”

“It wouldn't do to kick up a row—but I'm thinking
it would be a little piece, if you could break it. I'll

carry home all the pieces you break off, in my waistcoat
pocket. You're only a pocket piece yourself.”

“Nobody asked your opinions—go 'way. I've got a
job of thinking to do, and I musn't be disturbed—talking
puts me out. Paddle, steamboat, or—”

“Take keer—don't persume,” was the impressive
reply; “I'm a 'fishal functionary out a ketching of dogs.
You musn't cut up because it's night. The mayor and
the 'squires have gone to bed; but the law is a thing
that never gets asleep. After ten o'clock, the law is a
watchman and a dog ketcher—we're the whole law till
breakfast's a'most ready.”

“You only want bristles to be another sort of a whole
animal,” muttered Smalt.

“Whew! confound your little kerkus, what do you
mean? I'd hit you unofficially, if there was any use in
pegging at a fly.”

Smalt began to feel uneasy; so, taking the hint conveyed
in the word fly, he made a spring as the commencement
of a retreat from one who talked so fiercely
and so disrespectfully. But he had miscalculated his
powers. After running a few steps, his apprehensions
overthrew him, and his persecutor walking up, said:

“Oh! you stumpy little peace-breaker, I knows what
you have been about—you've been drinking.”

“You nose it, hey?—much good may it do you.
Can't a man wet his whistle without your nosing it?”

“No, you can't—it's agin the law, which is very full
upon this pint.”

“Pint! Not the half of it—I haven't got the stowage
room.”

The “ketcher” laughed, for, notwithstanding their
sanguinary profession, ketchers, like Lord Norbury, are
said to love a joke, and to indulge in merriment, whenever

the boys are not near. He therefore picked up
Smalt, and placing him upon his knee, remarked as
follows:

“You're a clever enough kind of little feller, sonny;
but you ain't been eddicated to the law as I have; so I'll
give you a lecture. Justice vinks at vot it can't see, and
lets them off vot it can't ketch. When you want to break
it, you must dodge. You may do what you like in your
own house, and the law don't know nothing about the
matter. But never go thumping and bumping about
the streets, when you are primed and snapped. That's
intemperance, and the other is temperance. But now you
come under the muzzle of the ordinance—you're a
loafer.”

“Now, look here—I'll tell you the truth. Orson
Dabbs swears he'll belt me—yes, he calls me `it'—he
said he'd sqush me with his foot—he'd take a stick and
kill `it'—me, I mean. What am I to do?—there'll be a
fight, and Dabbs will get hurt.”

“He can't do what he says—the law declares he
musn't; and if he does, it isn't any great matter—he'll
be put in limbo, you know.”

This, however, was a species of comfort which had
very little effect upon Smalt. He cared nothing about
what might be done with Orson Dabbs after Orson had
done for him.

His new friend, however, proved, as Smalt classically
remarked, to be like a singed cat, much better than he
looked, for he conducted the Lilliputian hero home, and,
bundling him into the entry, left him there in comfort.
Rocky afterwards removed to another part of the town,
for the purpose of keeping clear of his enemy, and, with
many struggles, yielded the palm in relation to Miss
Araminta Stycke, who soon became Mrs. Orson Dabbs.

After this event, Rocky Smalt, who is not above the
useful employment of gathering a little wisdom from
experience, changed his system, and now speaks belligerently
only in reference to the past, his gasconading
stories invariably beginning, “A few years ago, when I
was a fighting carackter.”