CHAPTER V.

Ye realms yet unrevealed to human sight,

Ye canes athwart the hapless hands that write,

Ye critic chiefs,-permit me to relate

The mystic wonders of your silent state!

VIRGIL, AEneid, book vi.

Fortune had smiled upon Mr. MacGrawler since he first undertook the

tuition of Mrs. Lobkins's protege. He now inhabited a second-floor, and

defied the sheriff and his evil spirits. It was at the dusk of evening

that Paul found him at home and alone.

Before the mighty man stood a pot of London porter; a candle, with an

unregarded wick, shed its solitary light upon his labours; and an infant

cat played sportively at his learned feet, beguiling the weary moments

with the remnants of the spiral cap wherewith, instead of laurel, the

critic had hitherto nightly adorned his brows.

So soon as MacGrawler, piercing through the gloomy mist which hung about

the chamber, perceived the person of the intruder, a frown settled upon

his brow.

“Have I not told you, youngster,” he growled, “never to enter a

gentleman's room without knocking? I tell you, sir, that manners are no

less essential to human happiness than virtue; wherefore, never disturb

a gentleman in his avocations, and sit yourself down without molesting

the cat!”

Paul, who knew that his respected tutor disliked any one to trace

the source of the wonderful spirit which he infused into his critical

compositions, affected not to perceive the pewter Hippocrene, and with

many apologies for his want of preparatory politeness, seated himself as

directed. It was then that the following edifying conversation ensued.

“The ancients,” quoth Paul, “were very great men, Mr. MacGrawler.”

“They were so, sir,” returned the critic; “we make it a rule in our

profession to assert that fact.”

“But, sir,” said Paul, “they were wrong now and then.”

“Never, Ignoramus; never!”

“They praised poverty, Mr. MacGrawler!” said Paul, with a sigh.

“Hem!” quoth the critic, a little staggered; but presently recovering

his characteristic, acumen, he observed, “It is true, Paul; but that was

the poverty of other people.”

There was a slight pause. “Criticism,” renewed Paul, “must be a most

difficult art.”

“A-hem! And what art is there, sir, that is not difficult,--at least, to

become master of?”

“True,” sighed Paul; “or else--”

“Or else what, boy?” repeated Mr. MacGrawler, seeing that Paul

hesitated, either from fear of his superior knowledge, as the critic's

vanity suggested, or from (what was equally likely) want of a word to

express his meaning.

“Why, I was thinking, sir,” said Paul, with that desperate courage which

gives a distinct and loud intonation to the voice of all who set, or

think they set, their fate upon a cast,--“I was thinking that I should

like to become a critic myself!”

“W-h-e-w!” whistled MacGrawler, elevating his eyebrows; “w-h-e-w! great

ends have come of less beginnings!”

Encouraging as this assertion was, coming as it did from the lips of so

great a man and so great a critic, at the very moment too when nothing

short of an anathema against arrogance and presumption was expected to

issue from those portals of wisdom, yet such is the fallacy of all human

hopes, that Paul's of a surety would have been a little less elated, had

he, at the same time his ears drank in the balm of these gracious words,

been able to have dived into the source whence they emanated.

“Know thyself!” was a precept the sage MacGrawler had endeavoured to

obey; consequently the result of his obedience was that even by himself

he was better known than trusted. Whatever he might appear to others, he

had in reality no vain faith in the infallibility of his own talents and

resources; as well might a butcher deem himself a perfect anatomist

from the frequent amputation of legs of mutton, as the critic of “The

Asinaeum” have laid “the flattering unction to his soul” that he was

really skilled in the art of criticism, or even acquainted with one of

its commonest rules, because he could with all speed cut up and disjoint

any work, from the smallest to the greatest, from the most superficial

to the most superior; and thus it was that he never had the want of

candour to deceive himself as to his own talents. Paul's wish therefore

was no sooner expressed than a vague but golden scheme of future profit

illumined the brain of MacGrawler,--in a word, he resolved that Paul

should henceforward share the labour of his critiques; and that he,

MacGrawler, should receive the whole profits in return for the honour

thereby conferred on his coadjutor.

Looking therefore at our hero with a benignant air, Mr. MacGrawler thus

continued:--

“Yes, I repeat,--great ends have come from less beginnings! Rome was not

built in a day; and I, Paul, I myself was not always the editor of 'The

Asinaeum.' You say wisely, criticism is a great science, a very great

science; and it maybe divided into three branches,--namely, 'to tickle,

to slash, and to plaster.' In each of these three I believe without

vanity I am a profound adept! I will initiate you into all. Your labours

shall begin this very evening. I have three works on my table; they must

be despatched by tomorrow night. I will take the most arduous; I abandon

to you the others. The three consist of a Romance, an Epic in twelve

books, and an Inquiry into the Human Mind, in three volumes. I, Paul,

will tickle the Romance; you this very evening shall plaster the Epic,

and slash the Inquiry!”

“Heavens, Mr. MacGrawler!” cried Paul, in consternation, “what do you

mean? I should never be able to read an epic in twelve books, and I

should fall asleep in the first page of the Inquiry. No, no, leave me

the Romance, and take the other two under your own protection!”

Although great genius is always benevolent, Mr. MacGrawler could not

restrain a smile of ineffable contempt at the simplicity of his pupil.

“Know, young gentleman,” said he, solemnly, “that the Romance in

question must be tickled; it is not given to raw beginners to conquer

that great mystery of our science.”

“Before we proceed further, explain the words of the art,” said Paul,

impatiently.

“Listen, then,” rejoined MacGrawler; and as he spoke, the candle cast

an awful glimmering on his countenance. “To slash is, speaking

grammatically, to employ the accusative, or accusing case; you must cut

up your book right and left, top and bottom, root and branch. To plaster

a book is to employ the dative, or giving case; and you must bestow on

the work all the superlatives in the language,--you must lay on your

praise thick and thin, and not leave a crevice untrowelled. But to

tickle, sir, is a comprehensive word, and it comprises all the infinite

varieties that fill the interval between slashing and plastering. This

is the nicety of the art, and you can only acquire it by practice; a few

examples will suffice to give you an idea of its delicacy.

“We will begin with the encouraging tickle: 'Although this work is

full of faults,--though the characters are unnatural, the plot utterly

improbable, the thoughts hackneyed, and the style ungrammatical,--yet we

would by no means discourage the author from proceeding; and in the mean

while we confidently recommend his work to the attention of the reading

public.”

“Take, now, the advising tickle: 'There is a good deal of merit in these

little volumes, although we must regret the evident haste in which they

were written. The author might do better,--we recommend him a study of

the best writers;' then conclude by a Latin quotation, which you may

take from one of the mottoes in the 'Spectator.'

“Now, young gentleman, for a specimen of the metaphorical tickle: 'We

beg this poetical aspirant to remember the fate of Pyrenaeus, who,

attempting to pursue the Muses, forgot that he had not the wings of the

goddesses, flung himself from the loftiest ascent he could reach, and

perished.'

“This you see, Paul, is a loftier and more erudite sort of tickle, and

may be reserved for one of the Quarterly Reviews. Never throw away a

simile unnecessarily.

“Now for a sample of the facetious tickle: 'Mr.---has obtained a

considerable reputation! Some fine ladies think him a great philosopher,

and he has been praised in our hearing by some Cambridge Fellows for his

knowledge of fashionable society.'

“For this sort of tickle we generally use the dullest of our tribe;

and I have selected the foregoing example from the criticisms of a

distinguished writer in 'The Asinaeum,' whom we call, par excellence,

the Ass.

“There is a variety of other tickles,--the familiar, the vulgar, the

polite, the good-natured, the bitter; but in general all tickles may be

supposed to signify, however disguised, one or other of these meanings:

'This book would be exceedingly good if it were not exceedingly bad;'

or, 'this book would be exceedingly bad if it were not exceedingly

good.'

“You have now, Paul, a general idea of the superior art required by the

tickle?”

Our hero signified his assent by a sort of hysterical sound between a

laugh and a groan. MacGrawler continued:--

“There is another grand difficulty attendant on this class of

criticism.--it is generally requisite to read a few pages of the work;

because we seldom tickle without extracting, and it requires some

judgment to make the context agree with the extract. But it is not often

necessary to extract when you slash or when you plaster; when you slash,

it is better in general to conclude with: 'After what we have said, it

is unnecessary to add that we cannot offend the taste of our readers by

any quotation from this execrable trash.' And when you plaster, you may

wind up with: 'We regret that our limits will not allow us to give any

extracts from this wonderful and unrivalled work. We must refer our

readers to the book itself.'

“And now, sir, I think I have given you a sufficient outline of the

noble science of Scaliger and MacGrawler. Doubtless you are reconciled

to the task I have allotted you; and while I tickle the Romance, you

will slash the Inquiry and plaster the Epic!”

“I will do my best, sir!” said Paul, with that modest yet noble

simplicity which becomes the virtuously ambitious; and MacGrawler

forthwith gave him pen and paper, and set him down to his undertaking.

He had the good fortune to please MacGrawler, who, after having made a

few corrections in style, declared he evinced a peculiar genius in that

branch of composition. And then it was that Paul, made conceited by

praise, said, looking contemptuously in the face of his preceptor, and

swinging his legs to and fro,--

“And what, sir, shall I receive for the plastered Epic and the slashed

Inquiry?”

As the face of the school-boy who, when guessing, as he thinks rightly,

at the meaning of some mysterious word in Cornelius Nepos, receiveth

not the sugared epithet of praise, but a sudden stroke across the

os humerosve [Face or shoulders] even so, blank, puzzled, and

thunder-stricken, waxed the face of Mr. MacGrawler at the abrupt and

astounding audacity of Paul.

“Receive!” he repeated,--“receive! Why, you impudent, ungrateful puppy,

would you steal the bread from your old master? If I can obtain for

your crude articles an admission into the illustrious pages of 'The

Asinaeum,' will you not be sufficiently paid, sir, by the honour? Answer

me that. Another man, young gentleman, would have charged you a premium

for his instructions; and here have I, in one lesson, imparted to you

all the mysteries of the science, and for nothing! And you talk to me of

'receive!--receive!' Young gentleman, in the words of the immortal bard,

'I would as lief you had talked to me of ratsbane!'”

“In fine, then, Mr. MacGrawler, I shall get nothing for my trouble?”

said Paul.

“To be sure not, sir; the very best writer in 'The Asinaeum' only gets

three shillings an article!” Almost more than he deserves, the critic

might have added; for he who writes for nobody should receive nothing!

“Then, sir,” quoth the mercenary Paul, profanely, and rising, he kicked

with one kick the cat, the Epic, and the Inquiry to the other end of the

room,--“then, sir, you may all go to the devil!”

We do not, O gentle reader! seek to excuse this hasty anathema. The

habits of childhood will sometimes break forth despite of the after

blessings of education; and we set not up Paul for thine imitation as

that model of virtue and of wisdom which we design thee to discover in

MacGrawler.

When that great critic perceived Paul had risen and was retreating in

high dudgeon towards the door, he rose also, and repeating Paul's last

words, said,--

“'Go to the devil!' Not so quick, young gentleman,--festinca lente,--all

in good time. What though I did, astonished at your premature request,

say that you should receive nothing; yet my great love for you may

induce me to bestir myself on your behalf. The 'Asinaeum,' it is true,

only gives three shillings an article in general; but I am its editor,

and will intercede with the proprietors on your behalf. Yes, yes; I will

see what is to be done. Stop a bit, my boy.”

Paul, though very irascible, was easily pacified; he reseated himself,

and taking MacGrawler's hand, said,--

“Forgive me for my petulance, my dear sir; but, to tell you the honest

truth, I am very low in the world just at present, and must get money in

some way or another,--in short, I must either pick pockets or write (not

gratuitously) for 'The Asinaeum. '”

And without further preliminary Paul related his present circumstances

to the critic, declared his determination not to return to the Mug,

and requested, at least, from the friendship of his old preceptor the

accommodation of shelter for that night.

MacGrawler was exceedingly disconcerted at hearing so bad an account of

his pupil's finances as well as prospects, for he had secretly intended

to regale himself that evening with a bowl of punch, for which he

purposed that Paul should pay; but as he knew the quickness of

parts possessed by the young gentleman, as also the great affection

entertained for him by Mrs. Lobkins, who in all probability would

solicit his return the next day, he thought it not unlikely that Paul

would enjoy the same good fortune as that presiding over his feline

companion, which, though it had just been kicked to the other end of the

apartment, was now resuming its former occupation, unhurt, and no less

merrily than before. He therefore thought it would be imprudent

to discard his quondam pupil, despite of his present poverty; and,

moreover, although the first happy project of pocketing all the profits

derivable from Paul's industry was now abandoned, he still perceived

great facility in pocketing a part of the same receipts. He therefore

answered Paul very warmly, that he fully sympathized with him in his

present melancholy situation; that, so far as he was concerned, he would

share his last shilling with his beloved pupil, but that he regretted

at that moment he had only eleven-pence halfpenny in his pocket; that he

would, however, exert himself to the utmost in procuring an opening for

Paul's literary genius; and that, if Paul liked to take the slashing and

plastering part of the business on himself, he would willingly surrender

it to him, and give him all the profits whatever they might be. En

attendant, he regretted that a violent rheumatism prevented his giving

up his own bed to his pupil, but that he might, with all the pleasure

imaginable, sleep upon the rug before the fire. Paul was so affected by

this kindness in the worthy man, that, though not much addicted to the

melting mood, he shed tears of gratitude. He insisted, however, on not

receiving the whole reward of his labours; and at length it was settled,

though with a noble reluctance on the part of MacGrawler, that it should

be equally shared between the critic and the critic's protege,--the half

profits being reasonably awarded to MacGrawler for his instructions and

his recommendation.