"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 lone
table in a dusky corner of the room. The club was assembled round a
table, on which stood beverages 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 promising face and his complete taciturnity. Matters,
however, were entirely changed with him. There he was a mere cypher:
here he was lord of the ascendant; the choice spirit, the dominant
genius. He sat at the head of the table with his hat on, and an eye
beaming even more luminously 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 eliciting 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 maudlin 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 boon companions, who
would have been worthy subjects for Hogarth's pencil. As they were each
provided with a written copy, I was enabled to procure the reading of
it.
Merrily, merrily push round the glass,
And merrily troll the glee,
For he who won't drink till he wink is an ass,
So neighbor I drink to thee.
Merrily, merrily puddle thy nose,
Until it right rosy 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 drooped upon his breast; and
gazing with lack-lustre countenance on an empty tankard. His gayety was
gone, his fire completely quenched.
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 Dribble, 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
recollect me. I was your junior by several years; don't you recollect
little Jack Buckthorne?"
Here then ensued a scene of school-fellow recognition; and a world of
talk about old school times and school pranks. 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 shrug 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 sterling gold from the mint."
"You surely do yourself injustice, 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 daunted."
"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 twitch a little more on
one side, "for my part, I hate your fine dinners; there's nothing, sir,
like the freedom of a chop-house.
