“This is the place,” whispered Buckthorne. “It is the ‘Club of Queer Fellows.’ A great resort of the small wits, third-rate actors, and newspaper critics of the theatres. Any one can go in on paying a shilling at the bar for the use of the club.”
We entered, therefore, without ceremony, and took our seats at a lone10 table in a dusky corner of the room. The club was assembled round a table, on which stood beverages12 of various kinds, according to the taste of the individual. The members were a set of queer fellows indeed; but what was my surprise on recognizing in the prime wit of the meeting the poor devil author whom I had remarked at the booksellers’ dinner for his promising13 face and his complete taciturnity. Matters, however, were entirely14 changed with him. There he was a mere15 cypher: here he was lord of the ascendant; the choice spirit, the dominant16 genius. He sat at the head of the table with his hat on, and an eye beaming even more luminously17 than his nose. He had a quiz and a fillip for every one, and a good thing on every occasion. Nothing could be said or done without eliciting18 a spark from him; and I solemnly declare I have heard much worse wit even from noblemen. His jokes, it must be confessed, were rather wet, but they suited the circle in which he presided. The company were in that maudlin19 mood when a little wit goes a great way. Every time he opened his lips there was sure to be a roar, and sometimes before he had time to speak.
We were fortunate enough to enter in time for a glee composed by him expressly for the club, and which he sang with two boon20 companions, who would have been worthy21 subjects for Hogarth’s pencil. As they were each provided with a written copy, I was enabled to procure22 the reading of it.
Merrily, merrily push round the glass,
And merrily troll the glee,
For he who won’t drink till he wink23 is an ass11,
So neighbor I drink to thee.
Merrily, merrily puddle24 thy nose,
Until it right rosy25 shall be;
For a jolly red nose, I speak under the rose,
Is a sign of good company.
We waited until the party broke up, and no one but the wit remained. He sat at the table with his legs stretched under it, and wide apart; his hands in his breeches pockets; his head drooped26 upon his breast; and gazing with lack-lustre countenance27 on an empty tankard. His gayety was gone, his fire completely quenched28.
My companion approached and startled him from his fit of brown study, introducing himself on the strength of their having dined together at the booksellers’.
“By the way,” said he, “it seems to me I have seen you before; your face is surely the face of an old acquaintance, though for the life of me I cannot tell where I have known you.”
“Very likely,” said he with a smile; “many of my old friends have forgotten me. Though, to tell the truth, my memory in this instance is as bad as your own. If, however, it will assist your recollection in any way, my name is Thomas Dribble30, at your service.”
“What, Tom Dribble, who was at old Birchell’s school in Warwickshire?”
“The same,” said the other, coolly.
“Why, then we are old schoolmates, though it’s no wonder you don’t recollect29 me. I was your junior by several years; don’t you recollect little Jack31 Buckthorne?”
Here then ensued a scene of school-fellow recognition; and a world of talk about old school times and school pranks32. Mr. Dribble ended by observing, with a heavy sigh, “that times were sadly changed since those days.”
“Faith, Mr. Dribble,” said I, “you seem quite a different man here from what you were at dinner. I had no idea that you had so much stuff in you. There you were all silence; but here you absolutely keep the table in a roar.”
“Ah, my dear sir,” replied he, with a shake of the head and a shrug33 of the shoulder, “I’m a mere glow-worm. I never shine by daylight. Besides, it’s a hard thing for a poor devil of an author to shine at the table of a rich bookseller. Who do you think would laugh at any thing I could say, when I had some of the current wits of the day about me? But here, though a poor devil, I am among still poorer devils than myself; men who look up to me as a man of letters and a bel esprit, and all my jokes pass as sterling34 gold from the mint.”
“You surely do yourself injustice35, sir,” said I; “I have certainly heard more good things from you this evening than from any of those beaux esprits by whom you appear to have been so daunted36.”
“Ah, sir! but they have luck on their side; they are in the fashion— there’s nothing like being in fashion. A man that has once got his character up for a wit, is always sure of a laugh, say what he may. He may utter as much nonsense as he pleases, and all will pass current. No one stops to question the coin of a rich man; but a poor devil cannot pass off either a joke or a guinea, without its being examined on both sides. Wit and coin are always doubted with a threadbare coat.
“For my part,” continued he, giving his hat a
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