Paul Clifford — Complete
fatality; and as he still retained some influence over the mind of
his quondam pupil, his accusations against Paul, as the origin of
his banishment, were attended with a greater success than were the
complaints of Dummie Dunnaker on a similar calamity. Paul, who, like
most people who are good for nothing, had an excellent heart, was
exceedingly grieved at MacGrawler's banishment on his account; and he
endeavoured to atone for it by such pecuniary consolations as he was
enabled to offer. These MacGrawler (purely, we may suppose, from a
benevolent desire to lessen the boy's remorse) scrupled not to accept;
and thus, so similar often are the effects of virtue and of vice, the
exemplary MacGrawler conspired with the unprincipled Long Ned and the
heartless Henry Finish in producing that unenviable state of vacuity
which now saddened over the pockets of Paul.
As our hero was slowly walking towards the sage's abode, depending
on his gratitude and friendship for a temporary shelter, one of those
lightning flashes of thought which often illumine the profoundest abyss
of affliction darted across his mind. Recalling the image of the critic,
he remembered that he had seen that ornament of “The Asinaeum” receive
sundry sums for his critical lucubrations.
“Why,” said Paul, seizing on that fact, and stopping short in the
street,--“why should I not turn critic myself?”
The only person to whom one ever puts a question with a tolerable
certainty of receiving a satisfactory answer is one's self. The moment
Paul started this luminous suggestion, it appeared to him that he had
discovered the mines of Potosi. Burning with impatience to discuss with
the great MacGrawler the feasibility of his project, he quickened
his pace almost into a run, and in a very few minutes, having only
overthrown one chimney-sweeper and two apple-women by the way, he
arrived at the sage's door.
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