prudently indecisive sort; and, considering that they were panegyrics, and nothing but panegyrics, without anything analytical about them; an elderly friend of a literary turn, had made bold to say to our hero—'Pierre, this is very high praise, I grant, and you are a surprisingly young author to receive it; but I do not see any criticisms as yet.'
'Criticisms?' cried Pierre, in amazement; 'why, sir, they are all criticisms! I am the idol of the critics!'
'Ah!' sighed the elderly friend, as if suddenly reminded that that was true after all—'Ah!' and went on with his inoffensive, non-committal cigar.
Nevertheless, thanks to the editors, such at last became the popular literary enthusiasm in behalf of Pierre, that two young men, recently abandoning the ignoble pursuit of tailoring for the more honourable trade of the publisher (probably with an economical view of working up in books, the linen and cotton shreds of the cutter's counter, after having been subjected to the action of the paper-mill), had on the daintiest scolloped-edged paper, and in the neatest possible, and fine-needlework hand, addressed him a letter, couched in the following terms; the general style of which letter will sufficiently evince that, though—thanks to the manufacturer—their linen and cotton shreds may have been very completely transmuted into paper, yet the cutters themselves were not yet entirely out of the metamorphosing mill.
'Hon. Pierre Glendinning,
'Revered Sir,
'The fine cut, the judicious fit of your productions fill us with amazement. The fabric is excellent—the finest broadcloth of genius. We have just started in business. Your pantaloons—productions, we mean—have never yet been collected. They should be published in the Library form. The tailors—we mean the librarians,
