University of Virginia Library

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. 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.

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,” replied 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 schoolmate'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 schoolmate, 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
favours 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 virago's
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 clamour 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 imbitter 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 neighbour'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
fac simile 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.