HAVING given his order to the servant, General Potter turned to Mr. Tickler, and with great politeness said, "I may say to you in confidence, seeing that I shall be all right when I take a bottle or two of Townsend's Sarsaparilla, that my friends made me a General last night; and as experience teaches me that this title will do me great service, pray make it convenient to address me accordingly." Mr. Tickler at once promised to scrupulously regard this admonition, as well as to hold the general's person in profound respect.
And now, as many inquiries were made after his health by persons of distinction, he desired the host to send them away, saying he was doing as well as could be expected under the circumstances. And when the gentlemen who retired at Mr. Tickler's request reentered the room, they were surprised and astonished to find the man they had supposed on the point of death restored to perfect health, and weak only from the blood taken from him by the skillful physician. He was, indeed, speaking as good English as needs be, and earnestly debating a question of state policy with Mr. Tickler over an excellent punch. On making inquiries about his pains, he good naturedly assured them he was a much sounder man than before, except that he had a slight itching in one of his toes, which could be readily removed with a bottle or two of Dr. Townsend's Sarsaparilla. They were not a little diverted at the quaintness of the remark, and went away satisfied that he was at least the most remarkable man of the age, if not the wisest.
Not a thought was given to old Battle during all this time, which was the strangest thing of all, considering the affection he bore him. Having drained his glass, the general (which he must henceforth be called) gave Mr. Tickler wonderful account of his mission, and the prospects that were held out to him. "I see, sir," said he, addressing Tickler, "that you are a man of uncommon ability; and as I stand in great need of just such a gentleman's services, to write my speeches, and do an elegant correspondence, you have but to say you will join me, and I promise you such a share of the rewards as will make you a happy man for the rest of your life. My speeches are not difficult, but my correspondence is extensive and curious enough, God knows."
"An office that will better my condition will not stand long waiting my acceptance, as you shall have reason to know, sir, when you make me the offer. Mind ye, I have followed the wretched life of a critic so long that I am compelled to cheat my tailor, and depend on a friend to invite me to dinner. As to my accomplishments, you will find them out by inquiring at the Press Club, which is composed of as nice gentlemen as any lady of taste could wish; and I swear, sir, they have so much learning that they have killed several magazines of great respectability." Mr. Tickler said this with an air of superlative dignity; and having a beard and mustache of exquisite growth, he drew a delicate comb from his pocket, and commenced curling them with great care. In truth, Mr. Orlando Tickler was something of an exquisite, and as much a fixture at the opera as the empty chair of a stockholder. What was more, he leveled an opera glass worth sixty dollars at the belles.
"Really, sir," replied the general with a smile, "you talk like a gentleman of profound wisdom. I perhaps ought to tell you, that a clever young gentleman, who did me the service I desire of you, being ambitious, left me, and set up for a lawyer. And it was in vain I promisd him a seat in Congress in two years, if he would remain with me. It is also said of him, that he has taken to writing my history, which an honest bookseller has engaged to publish out of sheer respect to the severe and very uncharitable things he had said of me and my wife, Polly Potter." The general now begged Mr. Tickler to give him a more detailed account of these critics, of whom he he had spoken so strangely.
"Faith, sir, it gives me pleasure to impart knowledge to others," rejoined Mr. Tickler; "and as I have no great love for any of them, I will, to be brief, tell you that you may divide them under four heads: The wise critics, the fashionable society critics, the correspondent critics, and the critics at large. The wise critic is generally a dilapidated parson, who, having vacated the pulpit for want of morals, brings into literature the spirit of the viper, which he manifests toward his brother craftsmen with peculiar unction. He preserves a sort of clerical air, wears a white neckcloth, spectacles, and a shabby coat; and in addition to foul linen, he has a great passion for sending poets and novel writers to the devil. He affects to despise a literature not well savored with religious sentiment, but will at times condescend to lavish unmeasured praise upon a book of loose morals. The wise critic generally has lodging with some pious lady in Fourth Street, breakfasts on rolls and coffee at Peteler's, dines three times a week with his female literary friends, and for the rest takes rice and milk at Savery's, in Beekman Street. Being literary editor of two or more daily papers, publishers hold him in great respect, and employ him at reading the novels of ambitious school girls, which he will aid them in cramming down the spacious throat of the public. It would not do to offer a wise critic pay for his services; but the accepting of presents he regards in the light of exchanges of love between a friend served and a friend admired. He has numerous affairs of ceremony with gifted widows, who write very excellent sensation books in behalf of downtrodden humanity, and who never fail to express their admiration of his great learning; and this high consideration he repays with ponderous eulogies on their books. His carping he reserves for the devil, and such authors as Prescott, Bryant, and Longfellow.
"The fashionable critic belongs to the Press Club, from which it may be inferred that he is an excellent judge of Cologne and hair oil. I say this, sir, seeing how large a a quantity of these excellent articles are used by the nice persons who constitute that club. In dress, the fashionable critic is quite up to Fifth Avenue, and in manners he is rather above it. He is in high favor with certain aged dowagers of doubtful ancestry, who never think of giving an evening party without one or two of the best cravatted. He has a wonderful relish for light literature, and affects to speak numerous tongues. In truth, if there be a tongue he is not familiar with, he will tell you most patronizingly that it is a tongue not known in fashionable society. He writes articles for magazines, turns the brains of certain young damsels at boarding schools, and at the end of the year fancies himself a Byron. Now and then he gathers his stray effusions together, and gives them to the forgiving world in a book that sends a titillation of joy to the hearts of his numerous admirers, and also sets every fashionable critic to praising it as the most wonderful work of the age; for unlike the wise critic, the fashionable critic eschews envy, and invariably puffs the bantlings of his fellows. In fine, the fashionable critic is always tied to some lady friend, who has written a book he is about to notice in Putnam, a journal he has nearly choked to death with his great learning. If you would know how he lives I will tell you. He has three dollar lodgings with Mrs. Sponge, in Amity Street, which is fashionable enough for any body. But being a sharp fellow, he takes a dinner or two at the Brevort House, which enables him to indite all his epistles therefrom, so, to his friends, he is at the Brevort House. And, believe me, sir, for I say it more in pity than anger, he is a man much given to appropriating to himself the coats and breeches of his friends, and going uninvited to balls.
"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 exposé 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 ............