University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Anon.

The day following Paul Redding's installation at
Mr. Munson's, he entered as a student the sanctum
of Mr. Scrapp. He found that gentleman engaged
in transferring from his well-stored imagination a
human figure; for so he called it.

“Young gentleman,” said Mr. Scrapp, “give me

your attention for a moment. Here is a human
figure. I am about to explain to you some of the
fundamental principles of the art. You observe
that I am not trammeled with any of those superfluous
rules in drawing which Sir Joshua and others
have laid down as the standard. No, sir, they were
all humbugs! What did they know more about
the human figure than I do? Was nature any
more nature then than it is now? Hang their
rules, they always put me out, as Fuseli once said;
a remark that in my opinion was sufficient of itself
to immortalize the author. So I say, hang their
rules; I have found a system of my own, in which
you will observe that I am neither a slave to nature
nor the old masters. In my rules for drawing a
figure, as in this case, the head forms one sixteenth
part of the body; the arms, when extended, are
half as long again as the whole length of the person;
while the hand is half the length of the arm;
and every foot is a foot and a half. You see that
my system is at once simple, striking, and original!”

“Very!” replied Paul.

“But, hark!” said Mr. Scrapp; “somebody is at
the door. Go and see who it is; remember, if it is
a suspicious-looking man, a collector, I mean, do n't
admit him; I 'm out!” And he slipped very
dexterously behind a screen, while Paul opened the
door.

“Is Scrapp in?” said an ill-looking man, with
very red whiskers and rank beard. Paul thought

that the stranger was rather suspicious-looking, but
would n't lie even to shield the renowned caricaturist;
therefore he replied, “Yes, sir, he is in, but
I believe is engaged.”

“What do I care,” said the man, walking boldly
into the room. “He is very suspicious-looking,”
thought Paul, “but it could n't be helped.”

“Ah, my dear Gall, I 'm rejoiced to see you!”
said Scrapp, stepping forth from the screen.

“I 've a job for you, Scrapp,” said Mr. Gall.

“I 'm delighted to hear it! what sort of a job?
Any thing in this way, eh?” as he spoke, he flourished
his pencil in the air, with great significance.

“You sometimes write satires, eh?”

“Oh, frequently.”

“Very well, sir, I want a few caustic lines embodying
the ideas that you will find on this scrap of
paper. Do it, sir, and five dollars shall be your
reward! Make that fellow who dares to write
poetry wish he had never been born! do it, and
five dollars will reward your labors!”

“Yes!” said Mr. Scrapp, making the late production
of his pencil fly across the room. “To-day
is Saturday. Let me see, say on Monday; yes, you
shall have it on Monday.”

“Very well, sir; only make the fellow wish that
he had never been born, that 's all!”

“Never fear; I 'll do it!”

“On Monday?”

“Yes, Monday!”

“Good day, Scrapp.”

“Good bye, Gall.”

Mr. Scrapp lost no time in seating himself before
a piece of virgin paper; and he was soon plunged
in the most profound meditation. For a long time
did he remain in that situation, without giving any
signs of animation; at last, however, his lips began
to move, as if he communed inwardly, with spirits,
(very likely he did.) Paul was strongly reminded
of a line by Wordsworth,

In the course of time, the word poem escaped
from the mouth of the inspired satirist; faintly, at
first, but, as the storm thickened, it grew louder and
louder, until, at last, burst out, “Poem! poem!
poem! hide your works! Oh, never, never, nev—er
— blood and thunder!” cried he; at the same time,
striking his pencil on the table with great desperation,
he addressed Paul, saying, “Come, young
man, what rhymes with po?” The youth answered,
“flow, go, wo —”

“Stop! stop!” cried the other, eagerly; “not
so fast. I want time to think as you go along.
Now for it!” Paul continued, “Sow, row, throw
—” “There, now, hold up a minute, will you!”
Mr. Scrapp looked at the floor, scratched his head,
and bit his nails; then turning his inspired orbs
towards that little oval streak of daylight, he exclaimed,—

But it was no use! The enraged satirist caught
his hat, and rushed out of the room. He dashed
down Second street, and plunged headlong into a
coffee-house, where he was pretty certain of finding
his friend, Mr. Inkleton; he seized and dragged
that poetical gentleman precipitously away; nor
did he attempt any explanation, until he succeeded
in thrusting the poet, head first, into his studio.
After dismissing Paul, those two hopefuls sat in
solemn conclave for twenty-four hours, uninterrupted
by any one during the whole, if we except a boy,
that on Saturday afternoon delivered to them a well-filled
demijohn. Mr. Inkleton, it is said, spoiled
several quires of paper with his immense labors;
and, on Monday morning, precisely at three o'clock,
kicked the empty jug across the room, with an
imprecation, and read, to the infinite delight of his
companion, some lines, which, in the course of a
few days, appeared in one of the leading papers,
and created a great sensation in the select circle of
three persons; namely, Mr. Gall and the co-authors.