riddle by rule. There is no genius needed here.
The word has two meanings; both shall be used;
it is a mechanical process. Why is a reaper at
his work, like a chiropodist?—Because he's a
corn-cutter. Made by rule, complete, impregnable;
but yet not interesting. The Cs are not
propitious, and you apply to the Bs. In your
loitering mood you drop down upon the word
"Bring," and with idiotcy at hand sit gazing
at it. Suddenly you revive—Bring, Brought,
Brought up. Brought up will do. Why is the
coal-scuttle which Mary has conveyed from the
kitchen to the second floor, like an infant put
out to dry-nurse?—Because it's brought up by
hand. You try once more, and this time it is
the letter H on which your hopes depend. The
columns under H, duly perused, bring you in due
time to Horse. Why is a horse attached to the
vehicle of a miser, like a war-steamer of the
present day?—Because he's driven by a screw.
Another? Hoarse. Why is a family, the
members of which have always been subject to
sore-throats, like "The Derby?"—Because it's
a hoarse-race (Horse-race).

It is by no means always the case, however,
that the Dictionary affords so large a yield as
this. It is hard work—exhausting work—and,
worst of all, there is no end to it. You get, after
a certain time, incapable of shaking off the shop
even in your moments of relaxation. Nay, worse.
You feel as if you ought to be always at it, lest you
should miss a good chance, that would never
return. It is this that makes epigrammatic literature
wearing. If you go to the play, if you take
up a newspaper, if you ensconce yourself in a
corner with a blessed work of fiction, you find
yourself still pursued and haunted by your
profession. The dialogue to which you listen
when you go to the theatre, the words of the
book you are reading, may suggest something,
and it behoves you to be on the look-out.
Horrible and distracting calling! You may
get rid of your superfluous flesh more quickly
by going through a course of riddling, than by
running up-hill in blankets for a week together,
or going through a systematic course of Turkish
baths.

Moreover, the cultivator of epigrammatic
literature has much to undergo in the disposal
of his wares, when they are once ready for the
market. There is a public sale for them, and,
between ourselves, there is a private ditto.
The public demand for the article, which it has
been so long my lot to supply, is not large, nor,
I am constrained to say, is it entirely cordial.
The periodicals in which your rebus or your
conundrum appears hebdomadally, are not
numerous; nor are the proprietors of such journals
respectfully eager for this peculiar kind of
literature. The conundrum or the rebus will
knock about the office for a long time, and, perhaps,
only get inserted at last because it fits a
vacant space. When we are inserted, we always
—always mind—occupy an ignoble place. We
come in at the bottom of a column, or occupy
the very last lines of the periodical in which we
appear—in company with that inevitable game
at chess in which white is to check-mate in four
moves. One of the best riddles—the best, I
think, that I ever made—was knocking about at
the office of a certain journal six weeks before
it got before the public. It ran thus: Why is
a little man who is always telling long stories
about nothing, like a certain new kind of rifle?
ANSWER: Because he's a small-bore.

This work was the means of bringing me
acquainted with the fact that there was a Private
as well as a Public sale for the productions of
the epigrammatic artist. A gentleman, who did
not give his name—neither will I give it, though
I know it well—called at the office of the
periodical in which this particular riddle appeared,
on the day succeeding its publication, and asked
for the name and address of its author. The
sub-editor of the journal, a fast friend of mine,
to whom I owe many a good turn, furnished
him with both, and, on a certain day, a middle-aged
gentleman of rather plethoric appearance,
with a sly twinkle in his eye, and with
humorous lines about his mouth—both eye and
mouth were utter impostors, for my friend had
not a particle of humour in his composition—
came gasping up my stairs, and introducing
himself as an admirer of genius—"and therefore,"
he added, with a courteous wave of the
hand, "your very humble servant"—wished to
know whether it would suit my purpose to
supply him, from time to time, with certain
specimens of epigrammatic literature, now a
riddle, now an epigram, now a short story that
could be briefly and effectively told, all of which
should be guaranteed to be entirely new and
original, which should be made over wholly and
solely to him, and to which no other human
being should have access on any consideration
whatever. My gentleman added that he was
prepared to pay very handsomely for what he
had, and, indeed, mentioned terms which caused
me to open my eyes to the fullest extent of
which those organs are capable.

I soon found out what my friend Mr. Price
Scrooper was at. I call him by this name
(which is fictitious, but something like his own),
for the sake of convenience. He was a diner-out,
who held a somewhat precarious reputation,
which, by hook or crook, he had acquired
as a sayer of good things, a man sure to have
the last new story at the end of his tongue.
Mr. Scrooper liked dining-out above all things,
and the horror of that day when there should
come a decline in the number of his invitations
was always before his eyes. Thus it came
about that relations were established between
us—between me, the epigrammatic artist, and
Price Scrooper, the diner-out.

I fitted him with a good thing or two even
on the very day of his paying me a first visit.
I gave him a story which I remembered to have
heard my father tell when I was an infant—a
perfectly safe story, which had been buried for
years in oblivion. I supplied him with a riddle
or two which I happened to have by me, and
which were so very bad that no company could
ever suspect them of a professional origin. I set