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.