Chapter XXXII: A History of Coffee in Literature (3)

Coffee, Du Barry, and Louis XV figure in one scene of the story of _The Moat with the Crimson Stains_, as told by Elizabeth W. Champney in her _Romance of the Bourbon Chateaux_.[354] It tells of the German apprentice Riesener, who assisted his master Oeben in designing for Louis XV a beautiful desk with a secret drawer, which it took ten years of unremitting industry to execute. At the end, Riesener was to be accepted by his master as a partner and a son-in-law. Little Victoire, who loved to sit in a punt and trail her doll in the waters of the Bievre to see to what color its frock would be changed by the dyes of the Gobelin factory, was then only five, and Madam Oeben twenty-three. As the years rolled by, Riesener grew to love the mother and not the daughter, who, meanwhile, shot up into a slim girl, not of her mother's beauty, but of a loveliness all her own. Then there was a quarrel because the young apprentice thought the master should have resented the suggestion of M. Duplessis that his wife pose in the nude for the statuettes which were to hold the sconces on the king's desk; and Riesener left in a fine youthful frenzy, vowing he would never return while the _maître_ lived. The latter, unable to complete the masterpiece which he loved more than anything else on earth, sought death, and perished in the crimson waters of the Bievre.

The _maître_ had no enemies, but his quarrel with Riesener caused a fear to spring up in the widow's heart that the apprentice might have been guilty of his murder, so she refused to see him when, hearing of his master's death, he returned, stricken with remorse, to finish the desk. On it were the statuettes modeled in perfect likeness of Mlle. de Vaubernier, a wily little milliner of Riesener's bohemian set who had taken this way to bring herself to the attention of Louis XV. The ruse was successful; and after the acceptance of the desk, there was installed a new _maîtresse en titre_, the notorious Madame Du Barry, erstwhile the pretty milliner, Mlle. de Vaubernier.

Later, Madame Du Barry sent for the now famous _ebeniste_ (cabinet maker); and, when her negro page Zamore admitted him, he found His Majesty Louis XV kneeling in front of the fireplace, making coffee for her while she laughed at him for scalding his fingers. He had been summoned to show the king the mechanism of the secret drawer, so cunningly concealed in the king's desk that no one could find it. But Riesener knew not the secret of his master, who had died without revealing it. Then the red revolution came; and when the pretty pavilion at Louveciennes was sacked, and its costly furniture hurled down the cliff to the Seine, the king's desk, shattered almost beyond repair, was carried to the Gobelins' factory and presented to Mme. Oeben in recognition of her husband's workmanship. Then the secret compartment was found to have been disclosed, and Riesener was absolved by a letter therein, from the _maître_, who intimated he was about to end it all because of paralysis. Riesener marries the widow and all ends happily.

James Lane Allen, in _The Kentucky Warbler_, tells a tale of the Blue Grass country and of a young hero who wanders after a bird's note to find romance and the key to his own locked nature. Here is an incident from his first forest adventure:

There was one tree he curiously looked around for, positive that he
should not be blind to it if fortunate enough to set his eyes on
one--the coffee tree. That is, he felt sure he'd recognize it if it
yielded coffee ready to drink, of which never in his life had they
given him enough. Not once throughout his long troubled experience
as to being fed had he been allowed as much coffee as he craved.
Once, when younger, he had heard some one say that the only tree in
all the American forests that bore the name of Kentucky was the
Kentucky coffee tree, and he had instantly conceived a desire to
pay a visit in secret to that corner of the woods. To take his cup
and a few lumps of sugar and sit under the boughs and catch the
coffee as it dripped down.... No one to hold him back ... as much
as he wanted at last.... The Kentucky coffee tree--his favorite in
Nature!

John Kendrick Bangs relates, in _Coffee and Repartee_[355], some amusing skirmishes indulged in at the boarding-house table, between the Idiot and the guests, where coffee served the purpose of enlivening the tilt:

"Can't I give you another cup of coffee?" asked the landlady of the
School Master.

"You may," returned the School Master, pained at the lady's
grammar, but too courteous to call attention to it save by the
emphasis with which he spoke the word "may".

Said the Idiot: "You may fill my cup too, Mrs. Smithers."

"The coffee is all gone," returned the landlady, with a snap.

"Then, Mary," said the Idiot, gracefully turning to the maid, "you
may give me a glass of ice water. It is quite as warm, after all,
as the coffee and not quite so weak."

One other little skit remains at the expense of Mrs. Smithers' coffee. At the breakfast table, where the air, as usual, is charged with repartee, Mr. Whitechoker, the minister, says to his landlady:

"Mrs. Smithers, I'll have a dash of hot water in my coffee, this
morning." Then with a glance toward the Idiot, he added, "I think it
looks like rain."

"Referring to the coffee, Mr. Whitechoker?" queried the Idiot....

"Ah,--I don't quite follow you," replied the Minister with some
annoyance.

"You said something looked like rain, and I asked you if the thing
referred to was the coffee, for I was disposed to agree with you,"
said the Idiot.

"I am sure," put in Mrs. Smithers, "that a gentleman of Mr.
Whitechoker's refinement would not make any such insinuation, sir.
He is not the man to quarrel with what is set before him."

"I must ask your pardon, Madam," returned the Idiot politely. "I
hope I am not the man to quarrel with my food, either. Indeed, I
make it a rule to avoid unpleasantness of all sorts, particularly
with the weak, under which category I find your coffee."

_Coffee Quips and Anecdotes_

Coffee literature is full of quips and anecdotes. Probably the most famous coffee quip is that of Mme. de Sévigné, who, as already told in chapter XI, was wrongfully credited with saying, "Racine and coffee will pass." It was Voltaire in his preface to _Irene_ who thus accused the amiable letter-writer; and she, being dead, could not deny it.

That Mme. de Sévigné was at one time a coffee drinker is apparent from this quotation from one of her letters: "The cavalier believes that coffee gives him warmth, and I at the same time, foolish as you know me, do not take it any longer."

La Roque called the beverage "the King of Perfumes", whose charm was enriched when vanilla was added.

Emile Souvestre (1806-1854) said: "Coffee keeps, so to say, the balance between bodily and spiritual nourishment."

Isid Bourdon said: "The discovery of coffee has enlarged the realm of illusion and given more promise to hope."

An old Bourbon proverb says: "To an old man a cup of coffee is like the door post of an old house--it sustains and strengthens him."

Jardin says that in the Antilles, instead of orange blossoms, the brides carry a spray of coffee blossoms; and when a woman remains unmarried, they say she has lost her coffee branch. "We say in France, that she has _coiffé_ Sainte-Catherine."

Fontenelle and Voltaire have both been quoted as authors of the famous reply to the remark that coffee was a slow poison: "I think it must be, for I've been drinking it for eighty-five years and am not dead yet."

In Meidinger's _German Grammar_ the "slow-poison" _bon mot_ is attributed to Fontenelle.

It seems reasonable to give Fontenelle credit for this _bon mot_. Voltaire died at eighty-four. Fontenelle lived to be nearly a hundred years. Of his cheerfulness at an advanced age an anecdote is related. In conversation, one day, a lady a few years younger than Fontenelle playfully remarked, "Monsieur, you and I stay here so long, methinks Death has forgotten us." "Hush! Speak in a whisper, madame," replied Fontenelle, "_tant mieux!_ (so much the better!) don't remind him of us."

Flaubert, Hugo, Baudelaire, Paul de Kock, Théophile Gautier, Alfred de Musset, Zola, Coppée, George Sand, Guy de Maupassant, and Sarah Bernhardt, all have been credited with many clever or witty sallies about coffee.

Prince Talleyrand (1754-1839), the French diplomat and wit, has given us the cleverest summing up of the ideal cup of coffee. He said it should be "_Noir comme le diable, chaud comme l'enfer, pur comme un ange, doux comme l'amour._" Or in English, "black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love."

This quip has been wrongfully attributed to Brillat-Savarin. Talleyrand said also:

A cup of coffee lightly tempered with good milk detracts nothing
from your intellect; on the contrary, your stomach is freed by it,
and no longer distresses your brain; it will not hamper your mind
with troubles, but give freedom to its working. Suave molecules of
Mocha stir up your blood, without causing excessive heat; the organ
of thought receives from it a feeling of sympathy; work becomes
easier, and you will sit down without distress to your principal
repast, which will restore your body, and afford you a calm
delicious night.

Among coffee drinkers a high place must be given to Prince Bismarck (1815-1898). He liked coffee unadulterated. While with the Prussian army in France, he one day entered a country inn and asked the host if he had any chicory in the house. He had. Bismarck said: "Well, bring it to me; all you have." The man obeyed, and handed Bismarck a canister full of chicory.

"Are you sure this is all you have?" demanded the chancellor.

"Yes, my lord, every grain."

"Then," said Bismarck, keeping the canister by him, "go now and make me a pot of coffee."

This same story has been related of François Paul Jules Grévy (1807-1891), president of France, 1879-1887. According to the French story, Grévy never took wine, even at dinner. He was, however, passionately fond of coffee. To be certain of having his favorite beverage of the best quality, he always, when he could, prepared it himself. Once he was invited, with a friend, M. Bethmont, to a hunting party by M. Menier, the celebrated manufacturer of chocolate, at Noisiel. It happened that M. Grévy and M. Bethmont lost themselves in the forest. Trying to find their way out, they stumbled upon a little wine house, and stopped for a rest. They asked for something to drink. M. Bethmont found his wine excellent; but, as usual, Grévy would not drink. He wanted coffee, but he was afraid of the decoction which would be brought him. He got a good cup, however, and this is how he managed it:

"Have you any chicory?" he said to the man.

"Yes, sir."

"Bring me some."

Soon the proprietor returned with a small can of chicory.

"Is that all you have?" asked Grévy.

"We have a little more."

"Bring me the rest."

When he came again, with another can of chicory, Grévy said:

"You have no more?"

"No, sir."

"Very well. Now go and make me a cup of coffee."

As already told, Louis XV had a great passion for coffee, which he made himself. Lenormand, the head gardener at Versailles, raised six pounds of coffee a year which was for the exclusive use of the king. The king's fondness for coffee and for Mme. Du Barry gave rise to a celebrated anecdote of Louveciennes which was accepted as true by many serious writers. It is told in this fashion by Mairobert in a pamphlet scandalizing Du Barry in 1776:

His Majesty loves to make his own coffee and to forsake the cares
of the government. One day the coffee pot was on the fire and, his
Majesty being occupied with something else, the coffee boiled over.
"Oh France, take care! Your coffee _f---- le camp_!" cried the
beautiful favorite.

Charles Vatel has denied this story.

It is related of Jean Jacques Rousseau that once when he was walking in the Tuileries he caught the aroma of roasting coffee. Turning to his companion, Bernardino de Saint-Pierre, he said, "Ah, that is a perfume in which I delight; when they roast coffee near my house, I hasten to open the door to take in all the aroma." And such was the passion for coffee of this philosopher of Geneva that when he died, "he just missed doing it with a cup of coffee in his hand".

Barthez, confidential physician of Napoleon the first, drank a great deal of it, freely, calling it "the intellectual drink."

Bonaparte, himself, said: "Strong coffee, and plenty, awakens me. It gives me a warmth, an unusual force, a pain that is not without pleasure. I would rather suffer than be senseless."

Edward R. Emerson[356] tells the following story of the Café Procope. One day while M. Saint-Foix was seated at his usual table in this café an officer of the king's body-guard entered, sat down, and ordered a cup of coffee, with milk and a roll, adding, "It will serve me for a dinner." At this, Saint-Foix remarked aloud that a cup of coffee, with milk and a roll, was a confoundedly poor dinner. The officer remonstrated. Saint-Foix reiterated his remark, adding that nothing he could say to the contrary would convince him that it was _not_ a confoundedly poor dinner. Thereupon a challenge was given and accepted, and the whole company present adjourned as spectators to a duel which ended by Saint-Foix receiving a wound in the arm.

"That is all very well," said the wounded combatant; "but I call you to witness, gentlemen, that I am still profoundly convinced that a cup of coffee, with milk and a roll, is a confoundedly poor dinner."

At this moment the principals were arrested and carried before the Duke de Noailles, in whose presence Saint-Foix, without waiting to be questioned, said:

"Monseigneur, I had not the slightest intention of offending this gallant officer who, I doubt not, is an honorable man; but your excellency can never prevent my asserting that a cup of coffee, with milk and a roll, is a confoundedly poor dinner."

"Why, so it is," said the Duke.

"Then I am not in the wrong," persisted Saint-Foix; "and a cup of coffee"--at these words magistrates, delinquents, and auditory burst into a roar of laughter, and the antagonists forthwith became warm friends.

"Boswell in his _Life of Johnson_ tells a story of an old chevalier de Malte, of _ancienne noblesse_, but in low circumstances, who was in a coffee house in Paris, where was also Julien, the great manufacturer at Gobelins, of fine tapestry, so much distinguished for the figures and the colours. The chevalier's carriage was very old. Says Julien with a plebeian insolence, 'I think, sir, you had better have your carriage new painted.'

"The chevalier looked at him with indignant contempt, and answered:

"'Well, sir, you may take it home and dye it.'

"All the coffee house rejoiced at Julien's confusion."

Sydney Smith (1771-1845) the English clergyman and humorist, once said: "If you want to improve your understanding, drink coffee; it is the intellectual beverage."

Our own William Dean Howells pays the beverage this tribute: "This coffee intoxicates without exciting, soothes you softly out of dull sobriety, making you think and talk of all the pleasant things that ever happened to you."

The wife of the president of the United States prefers coffee to tea. Afternoon guests at the White House may be refreshed, if they choose, by a sip of tea. But while tea is on tap for callers, Mrs. Harding always has coffee for those who, like herself, prefer it.

_Old London Coffee-House Anecdotes_

A good-sized volume might be compiled of the many anecdotes that have been written about habitués of the London coffee houses of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

Dr. Samuel Johnson (1709-1784), the lexicographer, was one of the most constant frequenters of the coffee houses of his day. His big, awkward figure was a familiar sight as he went about attended by his satellite, young James Boswell, who was to write about him for the delight of future generations in his marvelous _Life of Johnson_. The intellectual and moral peculiarities of the man found a natural expression in the coffee house. Johnson was fifty-four and Boswell only twenty-three when the two first met in Tom Davies' book-shop in Covent Garden. The story is told by Boswell with great particularity and characteristic naiveté:

Mr. Davies mentioned my name, and respectfully introduced me to
him. I was much agitated, and recollecting his prejudice against
the Scotch, of which I had heard so much, I said to Davies, "Don't
tell him where I come from." "From Scotland," cried Davies
roguishly. "Mr. Johnson," said I, "I do indeed come from Scotland,
but I cannot help it." I am willing to flatter myself that I meant
this as a light pleasantry to sooth and conciliate him, and not as
a humiliating abasement at the expense of my country. But however
that might be, this speech was somewhat unlucky, for with that
quickness of wit for which he was so remarkable, he seized the
expression, "come from Scotland!" which I used In the sense of
being of that country; and, as if I had come away from it, or left
it, he retorted, "That, sir, I find is what a great many of your
countrymen cannot help."

Nothing daunted, however, Boswell within a week called upon Johnson in his chambers. This time the doctor urged him to tarry. Three weeks later he said to him, "Come to me as often as you can." Within a fortnight thereafter Boswell was giving the great man a sketch of his own life and Johnson was exclaiming, "Give me your hand; I have taken a liking to you."

When people began to ask, "Who is this Scotch cur at Johnson's heels?" Goldsmith replied: "He is not a cur; he is only a bur. Tom Davies flung him at Johnson in sport, and he has the faculty of sticking."

Thus began one of the strangest friendships, out of which developed the most delightful biography in all literature. Boswell's taste for literary adventures, and Johnson's literary vagrancy met in a companionship that found much satisfaction in the bohemianism of the inns and coffee houses of old London. Boswell thus describes the eccentric doctor's outlook on this mode of living:

We dined today at an excellent inn at Chapel-House, where Mr.
Johnson commented on English coffee houses and inns remarking that
the English triumphed over the French in one respect, in that the
French had no perfection of tavern life. There is no private house,
(said he) in which people can enjoy themselves so well, as at a
capital tavern. Let there be ever so great plenty of good things,
ever so much grandeur, ever so much elegance, ever so much desire
that everybody should be easy; in the nature of things it cannot
be: there must always be some degree of care and anxiety. The
master of the house is anxious to entertain his guests; the guests
are anxious to be agreeable to him; and no man, but a very impudent
dog indeed, can as freely command what is in another man's house,
as if it were his own. Whereas, at a tavern, there is a general
freedom from anxiety. You are sure you are welcome: and the more
noise you make, the more trouble you give, the more good things you
call for, the welcomer you are. No servants will attend you with
the alacrity which waiters do, who are incited by the prospect of
an immediate reward in proportion as they please. No, Sir, there is
nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much
happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn. He then repeated,
with great emotion, Shenstone's lines:

"Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
His warmest welcome at an inn."

Patient delving into Johnsoniana is rewarded with many anecdotes about the mad doctor philosopher and his faithful reporter who delighted in translating his genius to the world.

Boswell was a wine-bibber, but Johnson confessed to being "a hardened and shameless tea drinker." When Boswell twigged him for abstaining from the stronger drink, the doctor replied: "Sir, I have no objection to a man's drinking wine if he can do it in moderation. I find myself apt to go to excess in it and therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it."

Another time he said of tea: "What a delightful beverage must that be that pleases all palates at a time when they can take nothing else at breakfast."

In his early days Johnson had David Garrick as an unwilling pupil. After the actor had become famous and his prosperity had turned his head, he was wont to "put the table in a roar" by mimicking the doctor's grimaces. There is a story that on the occasion of a certain dinner party where both were guests, Garrick indulged in a coarse jest on the great man's table manners. After the merriment had subsided, Doctor Johnson arose solemnly and said:

"Gentlemen, you must doubtless suppose from the extreme familiarity with which Mr. Garrick has thought fit to treat me that I am an acquaintance of his; but I can assure you that until I met him here, I never saw him but once before--and then I paid five shillings for the sight."

A certain sycophant, thinking to curry favor with Johnson, took to laughing loud and long at everything he said. Johnson's patience at last became exhausted, and after a particularly objectionable outburst, he turned upon the boor with:

"Pray sir, what is the matter? I hope I have not said anything which you can comprehend!"

Because of his physical and mental disabilities Dr. Johnson was not a good social animal. Nevertheless, when it pleased his humor, he could be the cavalier, for his mind overcame every impediment.

It is related of him that once when a lady who was showing him around her garden expressed her regret at being unable to bring a particular flower to perfection, he arose gallantly to the occasion by taking her hand and remarking:

"Then, madam, permit me to bring perfection to the flower!"

Again, when Mrs. Siddons, the great English tragedienne, called upon him in his chambers and the servant did not promptly bring her a chair, his quick wit made capital of the incident by the remark:

"You see, madam, wherever you go there are no seats to be had!"

John Thomas Smith in his _Antiquarian Rambles in the Streets of London_ (1846), tells an amusing incident in the life of Sir George Etherege, the playright, who having run up a bill at Locket's ordinary, a coffee house much frequented by dramatists of the period, and finding himself unable to pay, began to absent himself from the place. Mrs. Locket thereupon sent a man to dun and to threaten him with prosecution if he did not pay. Sir George sent back word that if she stirred a step in the matter he would kiss her. On receiving this answer, the good lady, much exasperated, called for her hood and scarf, and told her husband, who interposed, that "she would see if there was any fellow alive who would have the impudence--" "Prithee! my dear, don't be so rash," said her husband; "there is no telling what a man may do in his passion."

Richard Savage, the English poet and friend of Johnson, who included him in his famous _Lives of the Poets_, was arrested for the murder of James Sinclair after a drunken brawl in Robinson's coffee house in 1727. He was found guilty, but narrowly escaped the death penalty by the intercession of the countess of Hertford. A feature of his trial was the extraordinary charge to the jury of Judge Page, who for his hard words and his love of hanging, is damned to everlasting fame in the verse of Pope. The charge was:

Gentlemen of the jury! You are to consider that Mr. Savage is a
very great man, a much greater man than you or I, gentlemen of the
jury; that he wears very fine clothes, much finer than you or I,
gentlemen of the jury; that he has an abundance of money in his
pocket, much more money than you or I, gentlemen of the jury; but,
gentlemen of the jury, is it not a very hard case, gentlemen of the
jury, that Mr. Savage should therefore kill you or me, gentlemen of
the jury?

Albert V. Lally[357] has made a collection of old coffee-house anecdotes. Among them are the following:

The story is told of how Sir Richard Steele in Button's Coffee
House was once made the umpire in an amusing difference between two
unnamed disputants. These two were arguing about religion, when one
of them said: "I wonder, sir, you should talk of religion, when
I'll hold you five guineas you can't say the Lord's prayer."
"Done," said the other, "and Sir Richard Steele shall hold the
stakes." The money being deposited the gentleman began with, "I
believe in God", and so went right through the creed. "Well," said
the other when he had finished, "I didn't think he could have done
it."

* * * * *

There is another story of a famous judge, Sir Nicholas Bacon, who
was importuned by a criminal to spare his life on account of
kinship. "How so," demanded the judge. "Because my name is Hog and
yours is Bacon; and hog and bacon are so near akin that they cannot
be separated."

"Ay," responded the judge dryly, "but you and I cannot yet be
kindred, for hog is not bacon until it is well hanged."

* * * * *

On another occasion a nervous barrister, pleading before this same
judge, began with repeated references to his "unfortunate client."
"Go on, sir," said the judge, "so far the Court is with you."

* * * * *

Of Jonathan Swift it is related that a gentleman who had sought to
persuade him to accept an invitation to dinner said, in way of
special inducement, "I'll send you my bill of fare." "Send me
rather your bill of company," retorted Swift, showing his
appreciation of the truth that not that which is eaten, but those
who eat, form the more important part of a good dinner.

On the occasion when the "dreadful Judge Jeffreys" was trying Compton, bishop of London, before the Court of High Commission, that prelate, as Campbell relates in his _Lives of the Lord Chancellors_, complained of having no copy of the indictment. Jeffreys replied to this excuse that "all the coffee houses had it for a penny." The case being resumed after the lapse of a week, the bishop again protested that he was unprepared, owing to his continued difficulty in obtaining a copy of the necessary document. Jeffreys was obliged once more to adjourn the case, and in so doing offered this bantering apology:

"My lord," said he, "in telling you our commission was to be seen in every coffee house, I did not speak with any design to reflect on your lordship, as if you were a haunter of coffee houses. I abhor the thoughts of it!"

As the Judge had once been distinctly opposed to the party and principles which he went to such a length in supporting, so had he formerly owed something to the very institution against which his last blow was directed. Roger North relates (and Campbell repeats the story) that, "after he was called to the bar, he used to sit in coffee houses and order his man to come and tell him that company attended him at his chamber; at which he would huff and say, 'let them stay a little, I will come presently,' and thus made a show of business."

John Timbs, in his _Clubs and Club Life in London_, has a host of anecdotes and stories of the old London coffee houses, among them the following:

Garraway's noted coffee-house, situated in Change-alley, Cornhill,
had a threefold celebrity; tea was first sold in England here; it
was a place of great resort in the time of the South Sea Bubble;
and was later a place of great mercantile transactions. The
original proprietor was Thomas Garway, tobacconist and coffee-man,
the first who retailed tea, recommending it as a cure of all
disorders.

The George Inn of today has retained a portion of its old
galleries, the original of which completely surrounded the
courtyard in typical "Dickens Inn" style. The visitor can imagine
Mr. Pickwick emerging from the door of one of the bedrooms and
calling into the yard to Sam Weller. In the old-fashioned coffee
room on the ground floor one may still lunch and dine enclosed in
high bench seats]

Ogilby, the compiler of the _Britannia_, had his standing lottery
of books at Mr. Garway's Coffee-house from April 7, 1673, till
wholly drawn off. And, in the "Journey through England," 1722,
Garraway's, Robins's, and Joe's are described as the three
celebrated coffee-houses: "In the first, the People of Quality, who
have business in the City, and the most considerable and wealthy
citizens frequent. In the second the Foreign Banquiers, and often
even Foreign Ministers. And in the third, the buyers and sellers of
stock."

Wines were sold at Garraway's in 1673, "by the candle", that is, by
auction, while an inch of candle burns. In the _Tatler_, No. 147,
we read: "Upon my coming home last night, I found a very handsome
present of French wine, left for me, as a taste of 216 hogshead,
which are to be put on sale at 20£ a hogshead, at Garraway's
Coffee-house, in Exchange alley" etc. The sale by candle is not,
however, by candlelight, but during the day. At the commencement of
the sale, when the auctioneer has read a description of the
property, and the conditions on which it is to be disposed of, a
piece of candle, usually an inch long, is lighted, and he who is
the last bidder at the time the light goes out is declared the
purchaser.

Swift, in his _Ballad on the South Sea Scheme_, 1721, did not
forget Garraway's:

There is a gulf, where thousands fell,
Here all the bold adventurers came,
A narrow sound, though deep as hell,
'Change alley is the dreadful name.

Subscribers here by thousands float,
And jostle one another down,
Each paddling in his leaky boat,
And here they fish for gold and drown.

Now buried in the depths below,
Now mounted up to heaven again,
They reel and stagger to and fro,
At their wits' end, like drunken men.

Meantime secure on Garway cliffs,
A savage race, by shipwrecks fed,
Lie waiting for the founder'd skiffs,
And strip the bodies of the dead.

Dr. Jno. Radcliff, who was a rash speculator in the South Sea
Scheme, was usually planted at a table at Garraway's about Exchange
time, to watch the turn of the market; and here he was seated when
the footman of his powerful rival, Dr. Edward Hannes, came into
Garraway's and inquired by way of a puff, if Dr. H. was there. Dr.
Radcliff, who was surrounded with several apothecaries and
chirurgeons that flocked about him, cried out, "Dr. Hannes is not
here," and desired to know "who wants him?" The fellow's reply was,
"such a lord and such a lord;" but he was taken up with the dry
rebuke, "No, no, friend, you are mistaken; the Doctor wants those
lords." One of Radcliff's ventures was five thousand guineas upon
one South Sea project. When he was told at Garraway's that 'twas
all lost, "Why," said he, "'tis but going up five thousand pair of
stairs more." "This answer," says Tom Brown, "deserved a statue."

* * * * *

Jonathan's Coffee-house was another Change-alley coffee-house,
which is described in the _Tatler_, No. 38, as "the general mart of
stock-jobbers," and the _Spectator_, No. 1, tells us that he
"sometimes passes for a Jew in the assembly of stock-jobbers at
Jonathan's." This was their rendezvous, where gambling of all sorts
was carried on, notwithstanding a former prohibition against the
assemblage of the jobbers, issued by the City of London, which
prohibition continued unrepealed until 1825.

* * * * *

The _Spectator_, No. 16, notices some gay frequenters of the
Rainbow Coffee-house in Fleet Street: "I have received a letter
desiring me to be very satirical upon the little muff that is now
in fashion; another informs me of a pair of silver garters buckled
below the knee, that have been lately seen at the Rainbow
Coffee-house in Fleet Street."

Mr. Moncrieff, the dramatist, used to tell that about 1780, this
house was kept by his grandfather, Alexander Moncrieff, when it
retained its original title of "The Rainbow Coffee-house."

* * * * *

Nando's Coffee-house at the east corner of Inner Temple-lane, No.
17, Fleet-Street, by some confused with Groom's house, No. 16, was
the favourite haunt of Lord Thurlow before he dashed into law
practice. At this coffee-house a large attendance of professional
loungers was attracted by the fame of the punch and the charms of
the landlady, which, with the small wits, were duly admired by and
at the bar. One evening, the famous cause of Douglas _v._ the Duke
of Hamilton was the topic of discussion, when Thurlow being
present, it was suggested, half in earnest, to appoint him junior
counsel, which was done. This employment brought him acquaintance
with the Duchess of Queensberry, who saw at once the value of a man
like Thurlow, and recommended Lord Bute to secure him by a silk
gown.

* * * * *

Dick's Coffee-house, at No. 8, Fleet-street, (south side, near
Temple Bar) was originally "Richard's", named from Richard Torner,
or Turner, to whom the house was let in 1680. Richard's was
frequented by Cowper, when he lived in the Temple. In his own
account of his insanity, Cowper tells us:

"At breakfast I read the newspaper, and in it a letter, which, the
further I perused it, the more closely engaged my attention. I
cannot now recollect the purport of it; but before I had finished
it, it appeared demonstratively true to me that it was a libel or
satire upon me. The author appeared to be acquainted with my
purpose of self-destruction, and to have written that letter on
purpose to secure and hasten the execution of it. My mind,
probably, at this time began to be disordered; however it was, I
was certainly given to a strong delusion. I said within myself,
'Your cruelty shall be gratified; you shall have your revenge,' and
flinging down the paper in a fit of strong passion, I rushed
hastily out of the room; directing my way towards the fields, where
I intended to find some house to die in; or, if not, determined to
poison myself in a ditch, where I could meet with one sufficiently
retired."

* * * * *

Lloyd's Coffee-house was one of the earliest establishments of its
kind; it is referred to in a poem printed in the year 1700, called
the _Wealthy Shopkeeper, or Charitable Christian_:

Now to Lloyd's Coffee-house he never fails, To read the letters, and attend the sales.

In 1710, Steele (_Tatler_, No. 246) dates from Lloyd's his Petition
on Coffee-house Orators and Newsvendors. And Addison, in
_Spectator_, April 23, 1711, relates this droll incident: "About a
week since there happened to me a very odd accident, by reason of
one of these my papers of minutes which I had accidentally dropped
at Lloyd's Coffee-house, where the auctions are usually kept.
Before I missed it, there were a cluster of people who had found
it, and were diverting themselves with it at one end of the
coffee-house. It had raised so much laughter among them before I
observed what they were about, that I had not the courage to own
it. The boy of the coffee-house, when they had done with it,
carried it about in his hand, asking everybody if they had dropped
a written paper; but nobody challenging it, he was ordered by those
merry gentlemen who had before perused it, to get up into the
auction pulpit, and read it to the whole room, that if anybody
would own it they might. The boy accordingly mounted the pulpit,
and with a very audible voice read what proved to be minutes, which
made the whole coffee-house very merry; some of them concluded it
was written by a madman, and others by somebody that had been
taking notes out of the _Spectator_. After it was read, and the boy
was coming put of the pulpit, the _Spectator_ reached his arm out,
and desired the boy to given it him; which was done according. This
drew the whole eyes of the company upon the _Spectator_; but after
casting a cursory glance over it, he shook his head twice or thrice
at the reading of it, twisted it into a kind of match, and lighted
his pipe with it. 'My profound silence,' says the _Spectator_,
'together with the steadiness of my countenance, and the gravity of
my behaviour during the whole transaction, raised a very loud
laugh on all sides of me; but as I had escaped all suspicion of
being the author, I was very well satisfied, and applying myself to
my pipe and the _Postman_, took no further notice of anything that
passed about me.'"

* * * * *

The Smyrna Coffee-house in Pall Mall, was, in the reign of Queen
Anne, famous for "that cluster of wise-heads" found sitting every
evening from the left side of the fire to the door. The following
announcement in the _Tatler_, No. 78, is amusing: "This is to give
notice to all ingenious gentlemen in and about the cities of London
and Westminster, who have a mind to be instructed in the noble
sciences of music, poetry and politics, that they repair to the
Smyrna Coffee-house, in Pall Mall, betwixt the hours of eight and
ten at night, where they may be instructed gratis, with elaborate
essays 'by word of mouth', on all or any of the above-mentioned
arts."

* * * * *

St. James's Coffee-house was the famous Whig coffee-house from the
time of Queen Anne till late in the reign of George III. It was the
last house but one on the southwest corner of St. James's street,
and is thus mentioned in No. 1 of the _Tatler_: "Foreign and
Domestic News you will have from St. James's Coffee-house." It
occurs also in the passage quoted previously from the _Spectator_.
The St. James's was much frequented by Swift; letters for him were
left here. In his Journal to Stella he says: "I met Mr. Harley, and
he asked me how long I had learnt the trick of writing to myself?
He had seen your letter through the glass case at the Coffee-house,
and would swear it was my hand."

Elliott, who kept the coffee-house, was, on occasions, placed on a
friendly footing with his guests. Swift, in his Journal to Stella,
November 19, 1710, records an odd instance of this familiarity:
"This evening I christened our coffee-man Elliott's child; when the
rogue had a most noble supper, and Steele and I sat amongst some
scurvy company over a bowl of punch."

In the first advertisement of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's "Town
Eclogues," they are stated to have been read over at the St.
James's Coffee-house, when they were considered by the general
voice to be productions of a Lady of Quality. From the proximity of
the house to St. James's Palace, it was much frequented by the
Guards; and we read of its being no uncommon circumstance to see
Dr. Joseph Warton at breakfast in the St. James's Coffee-house,
surrounded by officers of the Guards, who listened with the utmost
attention and pleasure to his remarks.

To show the order and regularity observed at the St. James's, we
may quote the following advertisement, appended to the _Tatler_.
No. 25; "To prevent all mistakes that may happen among gentlemen of
the other end of the town, who come but once a week to St. James's
Coffee-house, either by miscalling the servants, or requiring such
things from them as are not properly within their respective
provinces, this is to give notice that Kidney, keeper of the
book-debts of the outlying customers, and observer of those who go
off without paying, having resigned that employment, is succeeded
by John Sowton; to whose place of enterer of messages and first
coffee-grinder, William Bird is promoted; and Samuel Burdock comes
as shoe-cleaner in the room of the said Bird."

But the St. James's is more memorable as the house where originated
Goldsmith's celebrated poem, "Retaliation." The poet belonged to a
temporary association of men of talent, some of them members of the
Club, who dined together occasionally here. At these dinners he was
generally the last to arrive. On one occasion, when he was later
than usual, a whim seized the company to write epitaphs on him as
"the late Dr. Goldsmith", and several were thrown off in a playful
vein. The only one extant was written by Garrick, and has been
preserved, very probably, by its pungency:

Here lies poet Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll; He wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll.

Goldsmith did not relish the sarcasm, especially coming from such a
quarter; and, by way of _retaliation_, he produced the famous poem,
of which Cumberland has left a very interesting account, but which
Mr. Forster, in his "Life of Goldsmith", states to be "pure
romance". The poem itself, however, with what was prefixed to it
when published, sufficiently explains its own origin. What had
formerly been abrupt and strange in Goldsmith's manners, had now so
visibly increased, as to become matter of increased sport to such
as were ignorant of its cause; and a proposition made at one of the
dinners, when he was absent, to write a series of epitaphs upon him
(his "country dialect" and his awkward person) was agreed to, and
put in practice by several of the guests. The active aggressors
appear to have been Garrick, Doctor Bernard, Richard Burke, and
Caleb Whitefoord. Cumberland says he, too, wrote an epitaph; but it
was complimentary and grave, and hence the grateful return he
received. Mr. Forster considers Garrick's epitaph to indicate the
tone of all. This, with the rest, was read to Goldsmith when he
next appeared at the St. James's Coffee-house, where Cumberland,
however, says he never again met his friends. But "the Doctor was
called on for Retaliation," says the friend who published the poem
with that name, "and at their next meeting produced the following,
which I think adds one leaf to his immortal wreath."
"'Retaliation'", says Sir Walter Scott, "had the effect of placing
the author on a more equal footing with his Society than he had
ever before assumed."

Cumberland's account differs from the version formerly received,
which intimates that the epitaphs were written before Goldsmith
arrived: whereas the pun, "the late Dr. Goldsmith" appears to have
suggested the writing of the epitaphs. In the "Retaliation",
Goldsmith has not spared the characters and failings of his
associates, but has drawn them with satire, at once pungent and
good-humoured. Garrick is smartly chastised; Burke, the Dinner-bell
of the House of Commons, is not let off; and of all the more
distinguished names of the Club, Thomson, Cumberland, and Reynolds
alone escape the lash of the satirist. The former is not mentioned,
and the two latter are even dismissed with unqualified and
affectionate applause.

Still we quote Cumberland's account of the "Retaliation" which is
very amusing from the closely circumstantial manner in which the
incidents are narrated, although they have so little relationship
to truth: "It was upon a proposal started by Edmund Burke, that a
party of friends who had dined together at Sir Joshua Reynolds's
and my house, should meet at the St. James's Coffee-house, which
accordingly took place, and was repeated occasionally with much
festivity and good fellowship. Dr. Bernard, Dean of Derry; a very
amiable and old friend of mine, Dr. Douglas, since Bishop of
Salisbury; Johnson, David Garrick, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Oliver
Goldsmith, Edmund and Richard Burke, Hickey, with two or three
others, constituted our party. At one of these meetings, an idea
was suggested of extemporary epitaphs upon the parties present; pen
and ink were called for, and Garrick, offhand, wrote an epitaph
with a good deal of humour, upon poor Goldsmith, who was the first
in jest, as he proved to be in reality, that we committed to the
grave. The Dean also gave him an epitaph, and Sir Joshua
illuminated the Dean's verses with a sketch of his bust in pen and
ink, inimitably caricatured. Neither Johnson nor Burke wrote
anything, and when I perceived that Oliver was rather sore, and
seemed to watch me with that kind of attention which indicated his
expectation of something in the same kind of burlesque with theirs;
I thought it time to press the joke no further, and wrote a few
couplets at a side-table, which, when I had finished, and was
called upon by the company to exhibit, Goldsmith, with much
agitation, besought me to spare him; and I was about to tear them,
when Johnson wrested them out of my hand, and in a loud voice read
them at the table. I have now lost recollection of them, and, in
fact, they were little worth remembering; but as they were serious
and complimentary, the effect upon Goldsmith was the more pleasing
for being so entirely unexpected. The concluding line, which was
the only one I can call to mind, was:

"All mourn the poet, I lament the man.

"This I recollect, because he repeated it several times, and seemed
much gratified by it. At our next meeting he produced his epitaphs
... and this was the last time he ever enjoyed the company of his
friends."

* * * * *

Will's Coffee-house, the predecessor of Button's, and even more
celebrated than that coffee-house, was kept by William Urwin. It
first had the title of the Red Cow, then of the Rose, and, we
believe, is the same house alluded to in the pleasant story in the
second number of the _Tatler_. "Supper and friends expect we at the
Rose."

Dean Lockier has left this life-like picture of his interview with
the presiding genius (Dryden) at Will's.

"I was about seventeen when I first came up to town," says the
Dean, "an odd-looking boy, with short rough hair, and that sort of
awkwardness which one always brings up at first out of the country
with one. However, in spite of my bashfulness and appearance, I
used, now and then, to thrust myself into Will's to have the
pleasure of seeing the most celebrated wits of that time, who then
resorted thither. The second time that ever I was there, Mr. Dryden
was speaking of his own things, as he frequently did, especially of
such as had been lately published. 'If anything of mine is good,'
says he, ''tis 'Mac-Flecno', and I value myself the more upon it,
because it is the first piece of ridicule written in heroics.' On
hearing this I plucked up my spirit so far as to say, in a voice
but just loud enough to be heard, 'that "Mac-Flecno" was a very
fine poem, but that I had not imagined it to be the first that was
ever writ that way.' On this, Dryden turned short upon me, as
surprised at my interposing; asked me how long 'I had been a dealer
in poetry'; and added, with a smile, 'Pray, Sir, what is it that
you did imagine to have been writ so before?'--I named Boileau's
'Lutrin' and Tassoni's 'Secchia Rapita,' which I had read, and knew
Dryden had borrowed some strokes from each. ''Tis true,' said
Dryden, 'I had forgot them.' A little after, Dryden went out, and
in going, spoke to me again, and desired me to come and see him the
next day. I was highly delighted with the invitation; went to see
him accordingly; and was well acquainted with him after, as long as
he lived."

* * * * *

Will's Coffee-house was the open market for libels and lampoons,
the latter named from the established burden formerly sung to them:

_Lampone, lampone, camerada lampone._

There was a drunken fellow, named Julian, who was a characterless
frequenter of Will's, and Sir Walter Scott has given this account
of him and his vocation:

"Upon the general practice of writing lampoons, and the necessity
of finding some mode of dispersing them, which should diffuse the
scandal widely while the authors remained concealed, was founded
the self-erected office of Julian, Secretary, as he called himself,
to the Muses. This person attended Will's, the Wits' Coffee-house,
as it was called; and dispersed among the crowds who frequented
that place of gay resort copies of the lampoons which had been
privately communicated to him by their authors. 'He is described,'
says Mr. Malone, 'as a very drunken fellow, and at one time was
confined for a libel.'"

* * * * *

Tom Brown describes 'a Wit and a Beau set up with little or no
expense. A pair of red stockings and a swordknot set up one, and
peeping once a day in at Will's, and two or three second-hand
sayings, the other.'

* * * * *

Pepys, one night, going to fetch home his wife, stopped in Covent
Garden, at the Great Coffee-house there, as he called Will's, where
he never was before: "Where," he adds, "Dryden, the poet (I knew at
Cambridge), and all the Wits of the town, and Harris the player,
and Mr. Hoole of our College. And had I had time then, or could at
other times, it will be good coming thither, for there, I perceive,
is very witty and pleasant discourse. But I could not tarry, and,
as it was late, they were all ready to go away."

Addison passed each day alike, and much in the manner that Dryden
did. Dryden employed his mornings in writing, dined _en famille_,
and then went to Will's, "only he came home earlier o' nights."

Pope, when very young, was impressed with such veneration for
Dryden, that he persuaded some friends to take him to Will's
Coffee-house, and was delighted that he could say that he had seen
Dryden. Sir Charles Wogan, too, brought up Pope from the Forest of
Windsor, to dress _a la mode_, and introduce at Will's
Coffee-house. Pope afterwards described Dryden as "a plump man with
a down look, and not very conversible," and Cibber could tell no
more "but that he remembered him a decent old man, arbiter of
critical disputes at Will's." Prior sings of--

The younger Stiles,
Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's!

Most of the hostile criticism on his Plays, which Dryden has
noticed in his various Prefaces, appear to have been made at his
favourite haunt, Will's Coffee-house.

Dryden is generally said to have been returning from Will's to his
house in Gerard Street, when he was cudgelled in Rose Street by
three persons hired for the purpose by Wilmot, Earl of Rochester,
in the winter of 1679. The assault, or "the Rose-alley Ambuscade,"
certainly took place; but it is not so certain that Dryden was on
his way from Will's, and he then lived in Long-acre, not Gerard
Street.

It is worthy of remark that Swift was accustomed to speak
disparagingly of Will's, as in his "Rhapsody on Poetry:"

Be sure at Will's the following day Lie snug, and hear what critics say; And if you find the general vogue Pronounces you a stupid rogue, Damns all your thoughts as low and little; Sit still, and swallow down your spittle.

Swift thought little of the frequenters of Will's: "he used to say,
the worst conversation he ever heard in his life was at Will's
Coffee-house, where the wits (as they were called) used formerly to
assemble; that is to say, five or six men who had writ plays or at
least prologues, or had a share in a miscellany, came thither, and
entertained one another with their trifling composures, in so
important an air as if they had been the noblest efforts of human
nature, or that the fate of kingdoms depended on them."