whom to cut? Who is Bullfrog, that he
should stand at my elbow, a thousand times
more exigent and obtrusive than Sancho's
physician, and with his puny baton wave
away the viands that I love,—nay, with even
more insolence and pretension than the
Baratarian practitioner, insist upon my gorging
myself with meats of his selection—meats
which my stomach rebels against and my
soul abhors? Is it because Bullfrog is related
by the mother's side to the Bellows family,
and is a distant connection of the Blowers,
and the Puffs, and the Blatants? Is it
because he married Miss Hogg (of the
Wholecombe family), that I am to pin my faith on
Bullfrog, and reverence his dicta in all matters
of taste as well as conduct, and accept him as
my arbiter elegantiarum,—my guide,
philosopher, and friend? Am I to give up my
convictions, to abandon my preconceived
notions, to write myself down an ass, which
is a hundred degrees worse than being written
down one by somebody else? Am I to see
through Bullfrog's spectacles; to ride behind
him on his hobbyhorse and a pillion; to
stand in his shoes; be ted with mind-pap
from his spoon, and learn my ABC from his
hornbook? No, not for a thousand Bullfrogs.

It is my steadfast opinion that the British
public are not only in danger of falling under
the tyranny of Bullfrog, but that a considerable
section of them are absolutely subject to
his humiliating domination. Not believing in,
or setting the slightest store by the opinions
of Bullfrog, I am sensible that he has legions
of dupes, admirers, and adherents. I deplore
this. I consider Bullfrog to be a shallow,
conceited, mischievous impostor, and I
denounce him as such. I don't care about his
being on visiting terms with Sir Fretful
Plagiary, and having Dangle and Sneer at
his elbow. I don't care for his kinsman Mr.
Puff's tragedy, in which the heroine goes mad
in white satin and the confidant in white
linen. I don't care for his having the "press
under his thumb" (as he boasts); for his
telling me "what they say at the clubs;" for
his after-dinner speeches; for his platform
speeches; for his stage speeches; for his
pulpit speeches; for his advertisements,
placards, posters, slips, cards, circulars, and
handbills. I won't believe in his coats, his
hats, his cookery, his books, his patriotism,
his pills, his temperance, his accomplishments
as a linguist, his leaders, his travels
I don't know how far beyond the Rocky
Mountains, his aesthetic tragedies, his poetry
(spasmodic or otherwise), his pictures, his
lectures, his Shakespearean impersonations,
his Seers (of Poughkeepsie or otherwise), his
remedial measures, and his finality. I snap
my fingers at the statistics which he vomits;
I scorn his tables that turn, his cheffoniers
that argue, and his music-stools that reason.
Let him pass acts of parliament, I will
drive six-in-hand through them, till they are
repealed. Let him croak, puff, blow, and
swell as much as he pleases; he will burst at
last, and his marsh will know him no more.

For Bullfrog would not be Bullfrog if he
were not continually emulating that emerited
prototype of his in the fable, and straining
till his eyes start out of his head, and the
froggish blood out of his veins, in a miserable
attempt to attain the size and stature of the
lordly bull above him. Whenever a great thing
is done, a great principle recognised, a great
man made manifest, forthwith up rises Bullfrog
from the mud and the rushes; forthwith
he swells and swells and swells. He is
ridiculous of course; it would be well enough if
he were only ridiculous; but the worst of it is
that the other frogs believe in him; likewise
the toads, and the tadpoles, and the newts: they
all believe in him, and cry what a fine frog he
is as they see him swell, and hear him roar (for
your Bullfrog can roar lustily)—till he bursts.

When a few learned and pious men
possibly vain, perhaps mistaken, certainly
enthusiastic, obviously disinterested, parted
from the church that reared, and the schools
of learning that nurtured them, then, from
afar off, uprose Bullfrog, and swelled and
roared. Bullfrog gave up no fat living: not
he. Prebend he stuck to, and fellowship he
held on to with prehensile tenacity; but he
parted his hair down the middle, and allowed
it to grow down his back; he left off wearing
collars to his coat, collars to his shirt, and
bows to his neckcloth; he fastened his waist-coat
behind; abjured pomatum; shaved three
times a day; cut out a large cross in red
cloth, and pasted it on his prayer-book; and
dated his letters Feast of St. Puterpotte, Eve
of St. Gilles. He did not read the Fathers,
but he quoted them. He dined upon parched
peas twice a week, and was suspected of wearing
vegetables of that description in his patent
leather boots. He did not condemn while
mildly refraining from absolutely approving
the wearing of hair shirts, spiked girdles, and
sackcloth drawers. He talked of lecterns,
piscinae, pyxes, octaves, novenas, matins,
vespers, and complins. He almost ruined
himself in the purchase of flowers for the
communion-table of his quiet, humble, little
country church. He preached in a surplice,
and put the ragged little boys of the village
into surplices too, and made them chant
drearily, to the great scandal of the
white-headed organist and the parish clerk. He
made more bows than a dancing-master, and
went through more postures than an acrobat,
in the solemn, simple Liturgy. He wrote
foolish letters to his bishop, and foolish
pamphlets for the benefit of his butterman.
He shared, with lap-dogs, bearded
music-asters, and quack-doctors, the capricious
admiration of wheezy dowagers and
sentimental young ladies with long auburn ringlets.
In short—what is curious, but perfectly
reconcilable with the Bullfrog organisation—he
made an ass of himself.

Bullfrog's great cynosure—the bull—is