MORE LIONS.
THE next night, after the theatre, Tarleton and I strolled into Wills's.
Half-a-dozen wits were assembled. Heavens! how they talked! actors,
actresses, poets, statesmen, philosophers, critics, divines, were all
pulled to pieces with the most gratifying malice imaginable. We sat
ourselves down, and while Tarleton amused himself with a dish of coffee
and the "Flying Post," I listened very attentively to the conversation.
Certainly if we would take every opportunity of getting a grain or two
of knowledge, we should soon have a chest-full; a man earned an
excellent subsistence by asking every one who came out of a
tobacconist's shop for a pinch of snuff, and retailing the mixture as
soon as he had filled his box.*
* "Tatler."
While I was listening to a tall lusty gentleman, who was abusing Dogget,
the actor, a well-dressed man entered, and immediately attracted the
general observation. He was of a very flat, ill-favoured countenance,
but of a quick eye, and a genteel air; there was, however, something
constrained and artificial in his address, and he appeared to be
endeavouring to clothe a natural good-humour with a certain primness
which could never be made to fit it.
"Ha, Steele!" cried a gentleman in an orange-coloured coat, who seemed
by a fashionable swagger of importance desirous of giving the tone to
the company,--"Ha, Steele, whence come you? from the chapel or the
tavern?" and the speaker winked round the room as if he wished us to
participate in the pleasure of a good thing.
Mr. Steele drew up, seemingly a little affronted; but his good-nature
conquering the affectation of personal sanctity, which, at the time I
refer to, that excellent writer was pleased to assume, he contented
himself with nodding to the speaker, and saying,--
"All the world knows, Colonel Cleland, that you are a wit, and therefore
we take your fine sayings as we take change from an honest
tradesman,--rest perfectly satisfied with the coin we get, without
paying any attention to it."
"Zounds, Cleland, you got the worst of it there," cried a gentleman in a
flaxen wig. And Steele slid into a seat near my own.
Tarleton, who was sufficiently well educated to pretend to the character
of a man of letters, hereupon thought it necessary to lay aside the
"Flying Post," and to introduce me to my literary neighbour.
"Pray," said Colonel Cleland, taking snuff and swinging himself to and
fro with an air of fashionable grace, "has any one seen the new paper?"
"What!" cried the gentleman in the flaxen wig, "what! the 'Tatler's'
successor,--the 'Spectator'?"
"The same," quoth the colonel.
"To be sure; who has not?" returned he of the flaxen ornament. "People
say Congreve writes it."
"They are very much mistaken, then," cried a little square man with
spectacles; "to my certain knowledge Swift is the author."
"Pooh!" said Cleland, imperiously, "pooh! it is neither the one nor the
other; I, gentlemen, am in the secret--but--you take me, eh? One must
not speak well of one's self; mum is the word."
"Then," asked Steele, quietly, "we are to suppose that you, Colonel, are
the writer?"
"I never said so, Dicky; but the women will have it that I am," and the
colonel smoothed down his cravat.
"Pray, Mr. Addison, what say you?" cried the gentleman in the flaxen
wig; "are you for Congreve, Swift, or Colonel Cleland?" This was
addressed to a gentleman of a grave but rather prepossessing mien; who,
with eyes fixed upon the ground, was very quietly and to all appearance
very inattentively solacing himself with a pipe; without lifting his
eyes, this personage, then eminent, afterwards rendered immortal,
replied,
"Colonel Cleland must produce other witnesses to prove his claim to the
authorship of the 'Spectator:' the women, we well know, are prejudiced
in his favour."
"That's true enough, old friend," cried the colonel, looking askant at
his orange-coloured coat; "but faith, Addison, I wish you would set up a
paper of the same sort, d'ye see; you're a nice judge of merit, and your
sketches of character would do justice to your friends."
"If ever I do, Colonel, I, or my coadjutors, will study at least to do
justice to you."*
* This seems to corroborate the suspicion entertained of the identity of
Colonel Cleland with the Will Honeycomb of the "Spectator."
"Prithee, Steele," cried the stranger in spectacles, "prithee, tell us
thy thoughts on the subject: dost thou know the author of this droll
periodical?"
"I saw him this morning," replied Steele, carelessly.
"Aha! and what said you to him?"
"I asked him his name."
"And what did he answer?" cried he of the flaxen wig, while all of us
crowded round the speaker, with the curiosity every one felt in the
authorship of a work then exciting the most universal and eager
interest.
"He answered me solemnly," said Steele, "in the following words,--
"'Graeci carent ablativo, Itali dativo, ego nominativo.'"*
* "The Greek wants an ablative, the Italians a dative, I a nominative."
"Famous--capital!" cried the gentleman in spectacles; and then, touching
Colonel Cleland, added, "what does it exactly mean?"
"Ignoramus!" said Cleland, disdainfully, "every /schoolboy knows
Virgil/!"
"Devereux," said Tarleton, yawning, "what a d----d delightful thing it
is to hear so much wit: pity that the atmosphere is so fine that no
lungs unaccustomed to it can endure it long, Let us recover ourselves by
a walk."
"Willingly," said I; and we sauntered forth into the streets.
"Wills's is not what it was," said Tarleton; "'tis a pitiful ghost of
its former self, and if they had not introduced cards, one would die of
the vapours there."
"I know nothing so insipid," said I, "as that mock literary air which it
is so much the fashion to assume. 'Tis but a wearisome relief to
conversation to have interludes of songs about Strephon and Sylvia,
recited with a lisp by a gentleman with fringed gloves and a languishing
look."
"Fie on it," cried Tarleton, "let us seek for a fresher topic. Are you
asked to Abigail Masham's to-night, or will you come to Dame de la
Riviere Manley's?"
"Dame de la what?--in the name of long words who is she?"
"Oh! Learning made libidinous: one who reads Catullus and profits by
it."
"Bah, no, we will not leave the gentle Abigail for her. I have promised
to meet St. John, too, at the Mashams'."
"As you like. We shall get some wine at Abigail's, which we should
never do at the house of her cousin of Marlborough."
And, comforting himself with this belief, Tarleton peaceably accompanied
me to that celebrated woman, who did the Tories such notable service, at
the expense of being termed by the Whigs one great want divided into two
parts; namely, a great want of every shilling belonging to other people,
and a great want of every virtue that should have belonged to herself.
As we mounted the staircase, a door to the left (a private apartment)
was opened, and I saw the favourite dismiss, with the most flattering
air of respect, my old preceptor, the Abbe Montreuil. He received her
attentions as his due, and, descending the stairs, came full upon me.
He drew back, changed neither hue nor muscle, bowed civilly enough, and
disappeared. I had not much opportunity to muse over this circumstance,
for St. John and Mr. Domville--excellent companions both--joined us; and
the party being small, we had the unwonted felicity of talking, as well
as bowing, to each other. It was impossible to think of any one else
when St. John chose to exert himself; and so even the Abbe Montreuil
glided out of my brain as St. John's wit glided into it. We were all of
the same way of thinking on politics, and therefore were witty without
being quarrelsome,--a rare thing. The trusty Abigail told us stories of
the good Queen, and we added /bons mots/ by way of corollary. Wine,
too, wine that even Tarleton approved, lit up our intellects, and we
spent altogether an evening such as gentlemen and Tories very seldom
have the sense to enjoy.
O Apollo! I wonder whether Tories of the next century will be such
clever, charming, well-informed fellows as we were!