A few days after this conversation with Mr. Buckthorne, he called
upon me, and took me with him to a regular literary dinner. It
was given by a great bookseller, or rather a company of
booksellers, whose firm surpassed in length even that of
Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego.
I was surprised to find between twenty and thirty guests
assembled, most of whom I had never seen before. Buckthorne
explained this to me by informing me that this was a “business
dinner,” or kind of field day, which the house gave about twice a
year to its authors. It is true, they did occasionally give snug
dinners to three or four literary men at a time, but then these
were generally select authors; favorites of the public; such as
had arrived at their sixth and seventh editions. “There are,”
said he, “certain geographical boundaries in the land of
literature, and you may judge tolerably well of an author’s
popularity, by the wine his bookseller gives him. An author
crosses the port line about the third edition and gets into
claret, but when he has reached the sixth and seventh, he may
revel in champagne and burgundy.”
“And pray,” said I, “how far may these gentlemen have reached
that I see around me; are any of these claret drinkers?”
“Not exactly, not exactly. You find at these great dinners the
common steady run of authors, one, two, edition men—or if any
others are invited they are aware that it is a kind of republican
meeting—You understand me—a meeting of the republic of letters,
and that they must expect nothing but plain substantial fare.”
These hints enabled me to comprehend more fully the arrangement
of the table. The two ends were occupied by two partners of the
house. And the host seemed to have adopted Addison’s ideas as to
the literary precedence of his guests. A popular poet had the
post of honor, opposite to whom was a hot-pressed traveller in
quarto, with plates. A grave-looking antiquarian, who had
produced several solid works, which were much quoted and little
read, was treated with great respect, and seated next to a neat,
dressy gentleman in black, who had written a thin, genteel,
hot-pressed octavo on political economy that was getting into
fashion. Several three-volume duodecimo men of fair currency were
placed about the centre of the table; while the lower end was
taken up with small poets, translators, and authors, who had not
as yet risen into much notice.
The conversation during dinner was by fits and starts; breaking
out here and there in various parts of the table in small
flashes, and ending in smoke. The poet, who had the confidence of
a man on good terms with the world and independent of his
bookseller, was very gay and brilliant, and said many clever
things, which set the partner next him, in a roar, and delighted
all the company. The other partner, however, maintained his
sedateness, and kept carving on, with the air of a thorough man
of business, intent upon the occupation of the moment. His
gravity was explained to me by my friend Buckthorne. He informed
me that the concerns of the house were admirably distributed
among the partners. “Thus, for instance,” said he, “the grave
gentleman is the carving partner who attends to the joints, and
the other is the laughing partner who attends to the jokes.”
The general conversation was chiefly carried on at the upper end
of the table; as the authors there seemed to possess the greatest
courage of the tongue. As to the crew at the lower end, if they
did not make much figure in talking, they did in eating. Never
was there a more determined, inveterate, thoroughly-sustained
attack on the trencher, than by this phalanx of masticators. When
the cloth was removed, and the wine began to circulate, they grew
very merry and jocose among themselves. Their jokes, however, if
by chance any of them reached the upper end of the table, seldom
produced much effect. Even the laughing partner did not seem to
think it necessary to honor them with a smile; which my neighbour
Buckthorne accounted for, by informing me that there was a
certain degree of popularity to be obtained, before a bookseller
could afford to laugh at an author’s jokes.
Among this crew of questionable gentlemen thus seated below the
salt, my eye singled out one in particular. He was rather
shabbily dressed; though he had evidently made the most of a
rusty black coat, and wore his shirt-frill plaited and puffed out
voluminously at the bosom. His face was dusky, but florid—perhaps
a little too florid, particularly about the nose, though the rosy
hue gave the greater lustre to a twinkling black eye. He had a
little the look of a boon companion, with that dash of the poor
devil in it which gives an inexpressibly mellow tone to a man’s
humor. I had seldom seen a face of richer promise; but never was
promise so ill kept. He said nothing; ate and drank with the keen
appetite of a gazetteer, and scarcely stopped to laugh even at
the good jokes from the upper end of the table. I inquired who he
was. Buckthorne looked at him attentively. “Gad,” said he, “I
have seen that face before, but where I cannot recollect. He
cannot be an author of any note. I suppose some writer of sermons
or grinder of foreign travels.”
After dinner we retired to another room to take tea and coffee,
where we were re-enforced by a cloud of inferior guests. Authors
of small volumes in boards, and pamphlets stitched in blue paper.
These had not as yet arrived to the importance of a dinner
invitation, but were invited occasionally to pass the evening “in
a friendly way.” They were very respectful to the partners, and
indeed seemed to stand a little in awe of them; but they paid
very devoted court to the lady of the house, and were
extravagantly fond of the children. I looked round for the poor
devil author in the rusty black coat and magnificent frill, but
he had disappeared immediately after leaving the table; having a
dread, no doubt, of the glaring light of a drawing-room. Finding
nothing farther to interest my attention, I took my departure as
soon as coffee had been served, leaving the port and the thin,
genteel, hot-pressed, octavo gentlemen, masters of the field.