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 Mac Grawler, I shall get nothing for my trouble?’ said Paul.

‘To be sure not, sir; the very best writer in the Asinæum 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 Mac Grawler.

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, – festina 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 Asinæum, 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 Mac Grawler’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 Asinæum.’

And, without farther 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.

Mac Grawler 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 Mac Grawler, that it should be equally shared between the critic and the critic’s protégé; the half profits being reasonably awarded to Mac Grawler for his instructions and his recommendation.

Chapter VI

      Bad events peep out o’ the tail of good purposes.

Bartholomew Fair

It was not long before there was a visible improvement in the pages of the Asinæum: the slashing part of that incomparable journal was suddenly conceived and carried on with a vigour and spirit which astonished the hallowed few who contributed to its circulation. It was not difficult to see that a new soldier had been enlisted in the service; there was something so fresh and hearty about the abuse, that it could never have proceeded from the worn-out acerbity of an old slasher. To be sure, a little ignorance of ordinary facts, and an innovating method of applying words to meanings which they never were meant to denote, were now and then distinguishable in the criticisms of the new Achilles: nevertheless, it was easy to attribute these peculiarities to an original turn of thinking; and the rise of the paper upon the appearance of a series of articles upon contemporary authors, written by this ‘eminent hand,’ was so remarkable, that fifty copies – a number perfectly unprecedented in the annals of the Asinæum – were absolutely sold in one week: indeed, remembering the principle on which it was founded, one sturdy old writer declared, that the journal would soon do for itself and become popular. There was a remarkable peculiarity about the literary débutant, who signed himself ‘Nobilitas.’ He not only put old words to a new sense, but he used words which had never, among the general run of writers, been used before. This was especially remarkable in the application of hard names to authors. Once, in censuring a popular writer for pleasing the public, and thereby growing rich, the ‘eminent hand’ ended with – ‘He who surreptitiously accumulates bustle* is, in fact, nothing better than a buzz gloak!’†

These enigmatical words and recondite phrases imparted a great air of learning to the style of the new critic; and, from the unintelligible sublimity of his diction, it seemed doubtful whether he was a poet from Highgate, or a philosopher from Köningsburg. At all events, the reviewer preserved his incognito, and, while his praises were rung at no less than three tea-tables, even glory appeared to him less delicious than disguise.

In this incognito, reader, thou hast already discovered Paul; and now, we have to delight thee with a piece of unexampled morality in the excellent Mac Grawler. That worthy Mentor, perceiving that there was an inherent turn for dissipation and extravagance in our hero, resolved magnanimously rather to bring upon himself the sins of treachery and mal-appropriation, than suffer his friend and former pupil to incur those of wastefulness and profusion. Contrary, therefore, to the agreement made with Paul, instead of giving that youth the half of those profits consequent on his brilliant lucubrations, he imparted to him only one fourth, and, with the utmost tenderness for Paul’s salvation, applied the other three portions of the same to his own necessities. The best actions are – alas! – often misconstrued in this world; and we are now about to record a remarkable instance of that melancholy truth.

One evening, Mac Grawler, having ‘moistened his virtue’ in the same manner that the great Cato is said to have done, in the confusion which such a process sometimes occasions in the best regulated heads, gave Paul what appeared to him the outline of a certain article, which he wished to be slashingly filled up, but what in reality was the following note from the editor of a monthly periodical: –

Sir,

Understanding that my friend, Mr —, proprietor of the Asinæum, allows the very distinguished writer whom you have introduced to the literary world, and who signs himself ‘Nobilitas,’ only five shillings an article, I beg, through you, to tender him double that sum: the article required will be of an ordinary length.

I am, sir, &c.,

—

Now, that very morning, Mac Grawler had informed Paul of this offer, altering only, from the amiable motives we have already explained, the sum of ten shillings to that of four; and no sooner did Paul read the communication we have placed before the reader, than instead of gratitude to Mac Grawler for his consideration of Paul’s moral infirmities, he conceived against that gentleman the most bitter resentment. He did not, however, vent his feelings at once upon the Scotsman; indeed, at that moment, as the sage was in a deep sleep under the table, it would have been to no purpose had he unbridled his indignation. But he resolved without loss of time to quit the abode of the critic. ‘And, indeed,’ said he, soliloquizing, ‘I am heartily tired of this life, and shall be very glad to seek some other employment. Fortunately, I have hoarded up five guineas and four shillings, and with that independence in my possession, since I have forsworn gambling, I cannot easily starve.’

To this soliloquy succeeded a misanthropical reverie upon the faithlessness of friends; and the meditation ended in Paul’s making up a little bundle of such clothes, &c., as Dummie had succeeded in removing from the Mug, and which Paul had taken from the rag-merchant’s abode one morning when Dummie was abroad.

When this easy task was concluded, Paul wrote a short and upbraiding note to his illustrious preceptor, and left it unsealed on the table. He then, upsetting the ink-bottle on Mac Grawler’s sleeping countenance, departed from the house, and strolled away he cared not whither.

The evening was gradually closing as Paul, chewing the cud of his bitter fancies, found himself on London Bridge. He paused there, and, leaning over the bridge, gazed wistfully on the gloomy waters that rolled onward, caring not a minnow for the numerous charming young ladies who have thought proper to drown themselves in those merciless waves, thereby depriving many a good mistress of an excellent housemaid or an invaluable cook, and many a treacherous Phaon of letters beginning with ‘Parjured Villen,’ and ending with ‘Your affectionot but molancolly Molly.’

While thus musing, he was suddenly accosted by a gentleman in boots and spurs, having a riding-whip in one hand, and the other hand stuck in the pocket of his inexpressibles. The hat of the gallant was gracefully and carefully put on, so as to derange as little as possible a profusion of dark curls which, streaming with unguents, fell low not only on either side of the face, but on the neck, and even the shoulders of the owner. The face was saturnine and strongly marked, but handsome and striking. There was a mixture of frippery and sternness in its expression; – something between Madame Vestris and T. P. Cooke, or between ‘lovely Sally’ and a ‘Captain bold of Halifax.’ The stature of this personage was remarkably tall, and his figure was stout, muscular, and well knit. In fine, to complete his portrait, and give our readers of the present day an exact idea of this hero of the past, we shall add that he was altogether that sort of gentleman one sees swaggering in the Burlington Arcade, with his hair and hat on one side, and a military cloak thrown over his shoulders; – or prowling in Regent Street, towards the evening, whiskered and cigarred.

Laying his hand on the shoulder of our hero, this gentleman said, with an affected intonation of voice: –

‘How dost, my fine fellow? Long since I saw you! Dammee, but you look the worse for wear. What hast thou been doing with thyself?’

‘Ha!’ cried our hero, returning the salutation of the stranger, ‘and is it Long Ned whom I behold? I am indeed glad to meet you; and I say, my friend, I hope what I heard of you is not true!’

‘Hist!’ said Long Ned, looking round fearfully, and sinking his voice, – ‘never talk of what you hear of gentlemen, except you wish to bring them to their last dying speech and confession.