I think it was but the very next evening that in coming out of
Covent Garden Theatre with my eccentric friend Buckthorne, he
proposed to give me another peep at life and character. Finding
me willing for any research of the kind, he took me through a
variety of the narrow courts and lanes about Covent Garden, until
we stopped before a tavern from which we heard the bursts of
merriment of a jovial party. There would be a loud peal of
laughter, then an interval, then another peal; as if a prime wag
were telling a story. After a little while there was a song, and
at the close of each stanza a hearty roar and a vehement thumping
on the table.
“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. I’d rather, any
time, have my steak and tankard among my own set, than drink
claret and eat venison with your cursed civil, elegant company,
who never laugh at a good joke from a poor devil, for fear of its
being vulgar. A good joke grows in a wet soil; it flourishes in
low places, but withers on your d—d high, dry grounds. I once
kept high company, sir, until I nearly ruined myself; I grew so
dull, and vapid, and genteel. Nothing saved me but being arrested
by my landlady and thrown into prison; where a course of
catch-clubs, eight-penny ale, and poor-devil company, manured my
mind and brought it back to itself again.”
As it was now growing late we parted for the evening; though I
felt anxious to know more of this practical philosopher. I was
glad, therefore, when Buckthorne proposed to have another meeting
to talk over old school times, and inquired his school-mate’s
address. The latter seemed at first a little shy of naming his
lodgings; but suddenly assuming an air of hardihood—“Green Arbour
court, sir,” exclaimed he—“number—in Green Arbour court. You must
know the place. Classic ground, sir! classic ground! It was there
Goldsmith wrote his Vicar of Wakefield. I always like to live in
literary haunts.”
I was amused with this whimsical apology for shabby quarters. On
our Way homewards Buckthorne assured me that this Dribble had
been the prime wit and great wag of the school in their boyish
days, and one of those unlucky urchins denominated bright
geniuses. As he perceived me curious respecting his old
school-mate, he promised to take me with him, in his proposed
visit to Green Arbour court.
A few mornings afterwards he called upon me, and we set forth on
our expedition. He led me through a variety of singular alleys,
and courts, and blind passages; for he appeared to be profoundly
versed in all the intricate geography of the metropolis. At
length we came out upon Fleet Market, and traversing it, turned
up a narrow street to the bottom of a long steep flight of stone
steps, named Break-neck Stairs. These, he told me, led up to
Green Arbour court, and that down them poor Goldsmith might many
a time have risked his neck. When we entered the court, I could
not but smile to think in what out-of-the-way corners genius
produces her bantlings! And the muses, those capricious dames,
who, forsooth, so often refuse to visit palaces, and deny a
single smile to votaries in splendid studies and gilded
drawing-rooms,—what holes and burrows will they frequent to
lavish their favors on some ragged disciple!
This Green Arbour court I found to be a small square of tall and
Miserable houses, the very intestines of which seemed turned
inside out, to judge from the old garments and frippery that
fluttered from every window. It appeared to be a region of
washerwomen, and lines were stretched about the little square, on
which clothes were dangling to dry. Just as we entered the
square, a scuffle took place between two viragos about a disputed
right to a washtub, and immediately the whole community was in a
hubbub. Heads in mob caps popped out of every window, and such a
clamor of tongues ensued that I was fain to stop my ears. Every
Amazon took part with one or other of the disputants, and
brandished her arms dripping with soapsuds, and fired away from
her window as from the embrazure of a fortress; while the swarms
of children nestled and cradled in every procreant chamber of
this hive, waking with the noise, set up their shrill pipes to
swell the general concert.
Poor Goldsmith! what a time must he have had of it, with his
quiet Disposition and nervous habits, penned up in this den of
noise and vulgarity. How strange that while every sight and sound
was sufficient to embitter the heart and fill it with
misanthropy, his pen should be dropping the honey of Hybla. Yet
it is more than probable that he drew many of his inimitable
pictures of low life from the scenes which surrounded him in this
abode. The circumstance of Mrs. Tibbs being obliged to wash her
husband’s two shirts in a neighbor’s house, who refused to lend
her washtub, may have been no sport of fancy, but a fact passing
under his own eye. His landlady may have sat for the picture, and
Beau Tibbs’ scanty wardrobe have been a facsimile of his own.
It was with some difficulty that we found our way to Dribble’s
lodgings. They were up two pair of stairs, in a room that looked
upon the court, and when we entered he was seated on the edge of
his bed, writing at a broken table. He received us, however, with
a free, open, poor devil air, that was irresistible. It is true
he did at first appear slightly confused; buttoned up his
waistcoat a little higher and tucked in a stray frill of linen.
But he recollected himself in an instant; gave a half swagger,
half leer, as he stepped forth to receive us; drew a three-legged
stool for Mr. Buckthorne; pointed me to a lumbering old damask
chair that looked like a dethroned monarch in exile, and bade us
welcome to his garret.
We soon got engaged in conversation. Buckthorne and he had much
to say about early school scenes; and as nothing opens a man’s
heart more than recollections of the kind, we soon drew from him
a brief outline of his literary career.