"The correspondent critic is generally an energetic gentleman of foreign extraction and doubtful ancestry. Being without means or business, he sets up for a critic of books. He will correspond gratis for papers in Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, Cincinnati, and other large cities. Having "got his newspapers," he forms an extensive acquaintance with authors, publishers, and actors-in a word, with any one in need of puffing, the force of which he gauges according to the amount paid. Although the wise critic holds him in utter contempt, he affects a knowledge of books quite as profound, and can completely outshine him in his style of adulation. As for new books, no enterprising publisher would deign to send him less than two copies, which may be found at a book stall the very next morning. As, however, his sense of feeling is so delicate that he only wants to feel a book to decide upon its merits, this disposing of the books fortunately does not debar him from giving a ten dollar opinion of it in one of his newspapers. When, however, his puffs are not squared according to the publisher's liking, he is sent about his business; sometimes threatened with an expos‚ of the peculiarities of his trade. He has free drinks and dinners at various first class hotels, which he invariably recommends in his 'articles.' Doctor Thompson's purgative powders, Lubin's perfumery, and the Home Journal, are severally victims of his profound respect.
"The correspondent critic has small apartments at first class hotels, which he changes frequently, out of sheer respect, as he says, to economy. But I have failed to discover how this could apply, since the change was invariably made for a more expensive hotel, while a little score always remained on the ledger, to the no small annoyance of the host. But, sir, where they have it is in 'knowing' the impressibility of certain ambitious actresses, whose acquaintance they cultivate, and for a given sum set them up for Siddonses and Rachels, with the same respect for modesty they evince in puffing Peteler's soda water.
"And now, sir, we have come to the last, but depend upon it, he is not the least of them all—I mean the critic at large." Here Mr. Tickler, who, it must be known, was as big a knave as any of them, and only charged upon others the little inconsistencies he had himself been guilty of, lighted his cigar, and suggested the good results of another well compounded punch, which the general ordered without delay. "I tell you, sir," Mr. Tickler resumed, "he is an oily gentleman in very shabby clothes, and might be easily mistaken for a cross between a toper and a tinker. Lacking capacity for any other business, he forms a cheap connection with the press, where his first office would seem to be that of sitting in judgment upon literature. Indeed, I have seldom seen a more shabby gentleman set up for a man of letters. His aversion to water and clean linen is only equaled by his love of actors and bad brandy, the latter having painted his face with a deep glow. The limit of his 'set phrases' is somewhat narrow; but notwithstanding this little impediment, he has a wonderful facility for making heroes. He assists publishers in 'getting out books,' getting up sensations, and, perhaps, a learned controversy, in which the Evening Post, feeling its reserved rights infringed, will join issue with every one else. The critic at large is, in most cases, a foreign gentleman, who boasts an engagement on the Express, adding at the same time, and with some assurance, that he writes for the Sunday Dispatch and Atlas. This stroke of policy he holds necessary to preserve his respectability. He is in high favor at all the theaters, tips winks to his actress acquaintances, drinks slings and toddies at Honey's with actors befuddling themselves into that dreamy state regarded by the profession as necessary to the clear bringing out of all the beauties with which a beneficent providence endowed the kings and conquerors they are to personate at night, on that sequestered world called the stage. You may know by the downy state of his wardrobe that he has a place to sleep. But where he gets his breakfast is a mystery no friend has ever yet solved for me. Aside from taking a two shilling dinner at an oyster cellar in William Street and wiping his greasy fingers on a leather apron, he would seem to live on hopes and brandy-mixed. He affects great admiration of Johnson and Goldsmith, compares his poverty with theirs, and attributes the present wretched condition of criticism to the disgrace brought upon the profession by Easley and other dilapidated priests. You will frequently see this shabby man of letters standing at the corner of Nassau and Ann streets, his hands in his pockets and his head bent in meditation. Occasionally he will pitch his post in the vicinity of the Herald office, and look up longingly at the windows, as if envying the dare devils who write for that witty journal their fat larder. And here he will remain until some kind friend with a shilling invites him to a sling. Truly, sir, he is starved into flattering his patrons. If you be an ambitious author, you have only to show him the color of your coin, and for two dollars he will make you quite equal to Thackeray. Five dollars in his palm, and, my word for it, he will have you superior to either Bulwer or Dickens. If you be a poet, he will, for the sum of eight dollars, (which is Easley's price,) enshrine you with the combined mantles of Homer and Shakspeare. He applies the same scale of prices to such actors and actresses as stand in need of his services. Notwithstanding his passion for exalting his patrons, he affects in conversation a great dislike for American literature, while at the same time he is ever ready to lavish the most indiscriminate praise upon the books of foreign authors. He never makes both ends meet on Saturday, but will borrow a dollar to go to Coney Island on Sunday.
"And now, your honor, you have the whole mob, and you may make what you please of them." The general raised his glass, and was about to declare he had been highly entertained, when Mr. Tickler suddenly interrupted, by reminding him that he had just called to mind the fact, that there was a play writer critic. "This fellow is the most congenial of them all, has a little room somewhere in North Moore Street, in which may found two or three pictures of fierce looking tragedians; a cot covered with a quilt of various colors, and looking as if it had been used for a horse blanket; a carpet the colors have long since been worn out of; a dumb clock over the dingy mantel piece; a portrait of the deceased husband of the hostess; and a table well supplied with pipes, tobacco, and French plays. The French plays are, when slightly altered and rendered into English, for the public; the pipes and tobacco are for his friends. And although perpetually climbing the mountain of poverty, while building no end of castles in the air, he spends what he gets to-day and has no thought for to-morrow. It having come the fashion of the day for managers of theaters to feast their patrons on the morbid sentimentality of French plays, (as if the vices of our own social system were not enough to excite the vicious propensities of our high blooded youths,) so also would it seem the highest inspiration of the eighteenth century play writer to rehash and coarsify for the American stage all those lascivious eccentricities for which the French are famous. Hence, your jolly play writer is generally engaged with his friends, smoking pipes and reading the last French piece. The pleasure excited by this congenial occupation is invariably heightened with libations of whiskey, the play writer having a credit with the grocer at the corner for three bottles, which, in a case of emergency, may be extended to four. He writes occasionally for the Sunday newspapers, thinks John Brougham the greatest dramatist and wit of the age, and stands ready either to join him in a glass or sing his praises, though there is as much reason for committing so flagrant an outrage as there would be in praising the ten thousand and one stanzas written by that wonderful and very eccentric bard, Richard Yeadon, who has sung of so many springs and watering places as to dry up his own muse. He is likewise something of a dabbler at reviewing novels, but they must be largely sprinkled with murders, and have plots strong enough to carry anything but the clergy. All other critics are to him great bores; but, like them, he has a price for his services, and will, if you pay him, make Shakspeares and Corneilles of very ordinary persons. As for respectable society, he never even scented the perfumery of its outskirts; he therefore holds it in utter contempt. Ready at all times to adapt himself to circumstances, if he chance to get in arrears to his landlady, he will square the account by marrying either herself or her daughter." Mr. Tickler proceeded in this strain, relating sundry curious things of the critics, until the night was far advanced, and concluded by suggesting that no serious damage could result to his constitution from another punch. The general immediately fell in with this opinion, and indeed was so entertained by his narrative, that he would have ordered a dozen punches without considering his obligation to him wiped out. The punch being dispatched, the general slipped five dollars into Mr. Tickler's hand, and desired him to proceed to the host, thank him for his great kindness, and clear the little score from his ledger. Greatly delighted at the prospect of performing this service, Mr. Tickler proceeded to the office, and was informed by the polite host that it was a custom with him never to take money of persons driven to seek shelter in his house by accidents. To end the matter, he vowed it not only gave him great pleasure to have so distinguished a military gentleman in his house, which had bore a character for hospitality he was scrupulous it should continue to maintain, but that he would be happy to see him again. Indeed, he wished him success in all his undertakings, hoping they would bring comfort in great abundance.
Slipping the price of a criticism into his own pocket, the adroit Tickler returned to the general, swore the host was the most generous fellow within his knowledge, and said, "See here, sir! faith of my father! but he would only take three dollars for it all. And he passed the divil knows how many compliments on your valor, for I couldn't count them." He now proffered the remaining two, but was not slow in acting upon the general's admonition to put them in his own pocket. "And now, sir," resumed Mr. Tickler, with an air of great anxiety, "let us hasten home to your lodgings, and to-morrow I will write this generous man a note for you, thanking him for such rare disinterestedness. And it shall be such a note!" The general, however, was not quite sure whether such an act would become a man of courtesy, and expressed a desire to see so generous a landlord and tell him how much he thanked him. But as this would seriously disturb Mr. Tickler's arrangements, that gentleman got him out of the house as speedily as possible, assuring him that such a proceeding would be contrary to all the established rules of etiquette. Quietly then, they proceeded down Broadway together, suspicious that they were seen by every passer by, and entered the St. Nicholas by a private door. And so unobserved was this achievement, that the host was, on the following morning, surprised and astonished at the return of his guest, whom he would have sworn was lying a corpse at the New York Hotel.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
GENERAL POTTER RECEIVES A LETTER FROM HIS WIFE POLLY; HE ENGAGES TO FIGHT THE KING OF THE KALORAMAS; PREPARES TO LEAVE FOR WASHINGTON; AND VARIOUS THINGS CURIOUS AND INTERESTING.
WHEN Tickler parted company with the general, it was with the understanding that they meet again in a day or two, and consummate the agreement whereby the adroit critic was to follow the fortunes of his master through politics and war. He therefore went directly to his home, and returned thanks for the mercy of this opportune deliverance from his dire necessities. A shilling he had not had in his pocket for several days; and as to the five dollars, it would enable him to assume a position of no small importance among his friends at the opera.
As to the general, he awoke early in the morning, and began to contemplate his honors. There could not be the slightest doubt of his fame in politics, seeing how many distinguished persons had sought to pay him homage. Indeed, he had been carried by a process known only to politicians to an incredible height of popularity, which, being vain of, he bore with a patience and cheerfulness equaled only by the docility of old Battle, his horse. The city fathers, it must be mentioned, finding him not quite up to their expectations, were endeavoring to drop him with as little noise as possible. But it seemed a question which was most deceived, the general or the city fathers. The latter found the former a shallow pated man, who from mere joking, had been made to believe himself a great politician, and by a singular cleverness in committing to memory the altered speeches of others, had created for himself a respectability that always vanished on an acquaintance with him; while the former declared that the population of a city was no proof of the amount of moral rectitude by which its government was conducted, seeing that he had found those of the city fathers with whom he had come in contact, very craggy headed men, and sadly deficient in everything but creating disorders and bringing disgrace upon the city: in fine, that they were not what they ought to be.
The general now began to look about him for means whereby he could distinguish himself in war, and make his fame national. He argued within himself that however famous a man might become in politics, there was an uncertainty always impending. But to be famous in war, was something as durable as time, and which always excited the warmest admiration of one's countrymen. And while he, with confused fancies flitting through his imagination, was thus contemplating his present greatness and future prospects, a servant entered, bearing a letter.