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.
THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS.
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.
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