Chapter IV: Part 4

Week after week, month after month elapsed, without making any
change in my circumstances. The vital flame, which had seemed
nearly extinct when first I met my father, kept fluttering on
without any apparent diminution. I watched him constantly,
faithfully—I had almost said patiently. I knew that his death
alone would set me free; yet I never at any moment wished it. I
felt too glad to be able to make any atonement for past
disobedience; and, denied as I had been all endearments of
relationship in my early days, my heart yearned towards a father,
who, in his age and helplessness, had thrown himself entirely on
me for comfort. My passion for Bianca gained daily more force
from absence; by constant meditation it wore itself a deeper and
deeper channel. I made no new friends nor acquaintances; sought
none of the pleasures of Naples which my rank and fortune threw
open to me. Mine was a heart that confined itself to few objects,
but dwelt upon those with the intenser passion. To sit by my
father, and administer to his wants, and to meditate on Bianca in
the silence of his chamber, was my constant habit. Sometimes I
amused myself with my pencil in portraying the image that was
ever present to my imagination. I transferred to canvas every
look and smile of hers that dwelt in my heart. I showed them to
my father in hopes of awakening an interest in his bosom for the
mere shadow of my love; but he was too far sunk in intellect to
take any more than a child-like notice of them.

When I received a letter from Bianca it was a new source of
solitary luxury. Her letters, it is true, were less and less
frequent, but they were always full of assurances of unabated
affection. They breathed not the frank and innocent warmth with
which she expressed herself in conversation, but I accounted for
it from the embarrassment which inexperienced minds have often to
express themselves upon paper. Filippo assured me of her
unaltered constancy. They both lamented in the strongest terms
our continued separation, though they did justice to the filial
feeling that kept me by my father’s side.

Nearly eighteen months elapsed in this protracted exile. To me
they were so many ages. Ardent and impetuous by nature, I
scarcely know how I should have supported so long an absence, had
I not felt assured that the faith of Bianca was equal to my own.
At length my father died. Life went from him almost
imperceptibly. I hung over him in mute affliction, and watched
the expiring spasms of nature. His last faltering accents
whispered repeatedly a blessing on me—alas! how has it been
fulfilled!

When I had paid due honors to his remains, and laid them in the
tomb of our ancestors, I arranged briefly my affairs; put them in
a posture to be easily at my command from a distance, and
embarked once more, with a bounding heart, for Genoa.

Our voyage was propitious, and oh! what was my rapture when
first, in the dawn of morning, I saw the shadowy summits of the
Apennines rising almost like clouds above the horizon. The sweet
breath of summer just moved us over the long wavering billows
that were rolling us on towards Genoa. By degrees the coast of
Sestri rose like a sweet creation of enchantment from the silver
bosom of the deep. I behold the line of villages and palaces
studding its borders. My eye reverted to a well-known point, and
at length, from the confusion of distant objects, it singled out
the villa which contained Bianca. It was a mere speck in the
landscape, but glimmering from afar, the polar star of my heart.

Again I gazed at it for a livelong summer’s day; but oh how
different the emotions between departure and return. It now kept
growing and growing, instead of lessening on my sight. My heart
seemed to dilate with it. I looked at it through a telescope. I
gradually defined one feature after another. The balconies of the
central saloon where first I met Bianca beneath its roof; the
terrace where we so often had passed the delightful summer
evenings; the awning that shaded her chamber window—I almost
fancied I saw her form beneath it. Could she but know her lover
was in the bark whose white sail now gleamed on the sunny bosom
of the sea! My fond impatience increased as we neared the coast.
The ship seemed to lag lazily over the billows; I could almost
have sprung into the sea and swam to the desired shore.

The shadows of evening gradually shrouded the scene, but the moon
arose in all her fullness and beauty and shed the tender light so
dear to lovers, over the romantic coast of Sestri. My whole soul
was bathed in unutterable tenderness. I anticipated the heavenly
evenings I should pass in wandering with Bianca by the light of
that blessed moon.

It was late at night before we entered the harbor. As early next
morning as I could get released from the formalities of landing I
threw myself on horseback and hastened to the villa. As I
galloped round the rocky promontory on which stands the Faro, and
saw the coast of Sestri opening upon me, a thousand anxieties and
doubts suddenly sprang up in my bosom. There is something fearful
in returning to those we love, while yet uncertain what ills or
changes absence may have effected. The turbulence of my agitation
shook my very frame. I spurred my horse to redoubled speed; he
was covered with foam when we both arrived panting at the gateway
that opened to the grounds around the villa. I left my horse at a
cottage and walked through the grounds, that I might regain
tranquillity for the approaching interview. I chid myself for
having suffered mere doubts and surmises thus suddenly to
overcome me; but I was always prone to be carried away by these
gusts of the feelings.

On entering the garden everything bore the same look as when I
had left it; and this unchanged aspect of things reassured me.
There were the alleys in which I had so often walked with Bianca;
the same shades under which we had so often sat during the
noontide. There were the same flowers of which she was fond; and
which appeared still to be under the ministry of her hand.
Everything around looked and breathed of Bianca; hope and joy
flushed in my bosom at every step. I passed a little bower in
which we had often sat and read together. A book and a glove lay
on the bench. It was Bianca’s glove; it was a volume of the
Metestasio I had given her. The glove lay in my favorite passage.
I clasped them to my heart. “All is safe!” exclaimed I, with
rapture, “she loves me! she is still my own!”

I bounded lightly along the avenue down which I had faltered so
slowly at my departure. I beheld her favorite pavilion which had
witnessed our parting scene. The window was open, with the same
vine clambering about it, precisely as when she waved and wept me
an adieu. Oh! how transporting was the contrast in my situation.
As I passed near the pavilion, I heard the tones of a female
voice. They thrilled through me with an appeal to my heart not to
be mistaken. Before I could think, I _felt_ they were Bianca’s.
For an instant I paused, overpowered with agitation. I feared to
break in suddenly upon her. I softly ascended the steps of the
pavilion. The door was open. I saw Bianca seated at a table; her
back was towards me; she was warbling a soft melancholy air, and
was occupied in drawing. A glance sufficed to show me that she
was copying one of my own paintings. I gazed on her for a moment
in a delicious tumult of emotions. She paused in her singing; a
heavy sigh, almost a sob followed. I could no longer contain
myself. “Bianca!” exclaimed I, in a half smothered voice. She
started at the sound; brushed back the ringlets that hung
clustering about her face; darted a glance at me; uttered a
piercing shriek and would have fallen to the earth, had I not
caught her in my arms.

“Bianca! my own Bianca!” exclaimed I, folding her to my bosom; my
voice stifled in sobs of convulsive joy. She lay in my arms
without sense or motion. Alarmed at the effects of my own
precipitation, I scarce knew what to do. I tried by a thousand
endearing words to call her back to consciousness. She slowly
recovered, and half opening her eyes—“where am I?” murmured she
faintly. “Here,” exclaimed I, pressing her to my bosom. “Here!
close to the heart that adores you; in the arms of your faithful
Ottavio!”

“Oh no! no! no!” shrieked she, starting into sudden life and
terror—“away! away! leave me! leave me!”

She tore herself from my arms; rushed to a corner of the saloon,
and covered her face with her hands, as if the very sight of me
were baleful. I was thunderstruck—I could not believe my senses.
I followed her, trembling, confounded. I endeavored to take her
hand, but she shrunk from my very touch with horror.

“Good heavens, Bianca,” exclaimed I, “what is the meaning of
this? Is this my reception after so long an absence? Is this the
love you professed for me?”

At the mention of love, a shuddering ran through her. She turned
to me a face wild with anguish. “No more of that! no more of
that!” gasped she—“talk not to me of love—I—I—am married!”

I reeled as if I had received a mortal blow. A sickness struck to
my very heart. I caught at a window frame for support. For a
moment or two, everything was chaos around me. When I recovered,
I beheld Bianca lying on a sofa; her face buried in a pillow, and
sobbing convulsively. Indignation at her fickleness for a moment
overpowered every other feeling.

“Faithless—perjured—” cried I, striding across the room. But
another glance at that beautiful being in distress, checked all
my wrath. Anger could not dwell together with her idea in my
soul.

“Oh, Bianca,” exclaimed I, in anguish, “could I have dreamt of
this; could I have suspected you would have been false to me?”

She raised her face all streaming with tears, all disordered with
emotion, and gave me one appealing look—“False to you!—they told
me you were dead!”

“What,” said I, “in spite of our constant correspondence?”

She gazed wildly at me—“correspondence!—what correspondence?”

“Have you not repeatedly received and replied to my letters?”

She clasped her hands with solemnity and fervor—“As I hope for
mercy, never!”

A horrible surmise shot through my brain—“Who told you I was
dead?”

“It was reported that the ship in which you embarked for Naples
perished at sea.”

“But who told you the report?”

She paused for an instant, and trembled—

“Filippo!”

“May the God of heaven curse him!” cried I, extending my clinched
fists aloft.

“Oh do not curse him—do not curse him!” exclaimed she—“He is—he
is —my husband!”

This was all that was wanting to unfold the perfidy that had been
practised upon me. My blood boiled like liquid fire in my veins.
I gasped with rage too great for utterance. I remained for a time
bewildered by the whirl of horrible thoughts that rushed through
my mind. The poor victim of deception before me thought it was
with her I was incensed. She faintly murmured forth her
exculpation. I will not dwell upon it. I saw in it more than she
meant to reveal. I saw with a glance how both of us had been
betrayed. “’Tis well!” muttered I to myself in smothered accents
of concentrated fury. “He shall account to me for this!”

Bianca overhead me. New terror flashed in her countenance. “For
mercy’s sake do not meet him—say nothing of what has passed—for
my sake say nothing to him—I only shall be the sufferer!”

A new suspicion darted across my mind—“What!” exclaimed I—“do you
then _fear_ him—is he _unkind_ to you—tell me,” reiterated I,
grasping her hand and looking her eagerly in the face—“tell
me—_dares_ he to use you harshly!”

“No! no! no!” cried she faltering and embarrassed; but the glance
at her face had told me volumes. I saw in her pallid and wasted
features; in the prompt terror and subdued agony of her eye a
whole history of a mind broken down by tyranny. Great God! and
was this beauteous flower snatched from me to be thus trampled
upon? The idea roused me to madness. I clinched my teeth and my
hands; I foamed at the mouth; every passion seemed to have
resolved itself into the fury that like a lava boiled within my
heart. Bianca shrunk from me in speechless affright. As I strode
by the window my eye darted down the alley. Fatal moment! I
beheld Filippo at a distance! My brain was in a delirium—I sprang
from the pavilion, and was before him with the quickness of
lightning. He saw me as I came rushing upon him—he turned pale,
looked wildly to right and left, as if he would have fled, and
trembling drew his sword.

“Wretch!” cried I, “well may you draw your weapon!”

I spake not another word—I snatched forth a stiletto, put by the
sword which trembled in his hand, and buried my poniard in his
bosom. He fell with the blow, but my rage was unsated. I sprang
upon him with the blood-thirsty feeling of a tiger; redoubled my
blows; mangled him in my frenzy, grasped him by the throat, until
with reiterated wounds and strangling convulsions he expired in
my grasp. I remained glaring on the countenance, horrible in
death, that seemed to stare back with its protruded eyes upon me.
Piercing shrieks roused me from my delirium. I looked round and
beheld Bianca flying distractedly towards us. My brain whirled. I
waited not to meet her, but fled from the scene of horror. I fled
forth from the garden like another Cain, a hell within my bosom,
and a curse upon my head. I fled without knowing whither—almost
without knowing why—my only idea was to get farther and farther
from the horrors I had left behind; as if I could throw space
between myself and my conscience. I fled to the Apennines, and
wandered for days and days among their savage heights. How I
existed I cannot tell—what rocks and precipices I braved, and how
I braved them, I know not. I kept on and on—trying to outtravel
the curse that clung to me. Alas, the shrieks of Bianca rung for
ever in my ear. The horrible countenance of my victim was for
ever before my eyes. “The blood of Filippo cried to me from the
ground.” Rocks, trees, and torrents all resounded with my crime.

Then it was I felt how much more insupportable is the anguish of
remorse than every other mental pang. Oh! could I but have cast
off this crime that festered in my heart; could I but have
regained the innocence that reigned in my breast as I entered the
garden at Sestri; could I but have restored my victim to life, I
felt as if I could look on with transport even though Bianca were
in his arms.

By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled into a
permanent malady of the mind. Into one of the most horrible that
ever poor wretch was cursed with. Wherever I went, the
countenance of him I had slain appeared to follow me. Wherever I
turned my head I beheld it behind me, hideous with the
contortions of the dying moment. I have tried in every way to
escape from this horrible phantom; but in vain. I know not
whether it is an illusion of the mind, the consequence of my
dismal education at the convent, or whether a phantom really sent
by heaven to punish me; but there it ever is—at all times—in all
places—nor has time nor habit had any effect in familiarizing me
with its terrors. I have travelled from place to place, plunged
into amusements—tried dissipation and distraction of every
kind—all—all in vain.

I once had recourse to my pencil as a desperate experiment. I
painted an exact resemblance of this phantom face. I placed it
before me in hopes that by constantly contemplating the copy I
might diminish the effect of the original. But I only doubled
instead of diminishing the misery.

Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps—that has made my
life a burthen—but the thoughts of death, terrible. God knows
what I have suffered. What days and days, and nights and nights,
of sleepless torment. What a never-dying worm has preyed upon my
heart; what an unquenchable fire has burned within my brain. He
knows the wrongs that wrought upon my poor weak nature; that
converted the tenderest of affections into the deadliest of fury.
He knows best whether a frail erring creature has expiated by
long-enduring torture and measureless remorse, the crime of a
moment of madness. Often, often have I prostrated myself in the
dust, and implored that he would give me a sign of his
forgiveness, and let me die.—

Thus far had I written some time since. I had meant to leave this
record of misery and crime with you, to be read when I should be
no more. My prayer to heaven has at length been heard. You were
witness to my emotions last evening at the performance of the
Miserere; when the vaulted temple resounded with the words of
atonement and redemption. I heard a voice speaking to me from the
midst of the music; I heard it rising above the pealing of the
organ and the voices of the choir; it spoke to me in tones of
celestial melody; it promised mercy and forgiveness, but demanded
from me full expiation. I go to make it. To-morrow I shall be on
my way to Genoa to surrender myself to justice. You who have
pitied my sufferings; who have poured the balm of sympathy into
my wounds, do not shrink from my memory with abhorrence now that
you know my story. Recollect, when you read of my crime I shall
have atoned for it with my blood!

When the Baronet had finished, there was an universal desire
expressed to see the painting of this frightful visage. After
much entreaty the Baronet consented, on condition that they
should only visit it one by one. He called his housekeeper and
gave her charge to conduct the gentlemen singly to the chamber.
They all returned varying in their stories: some affected in one
way, some in another; some more, some less; but all agreeing that
there was a certain something about the painting that had a very
odd effect upon the feelings.

I stood in a deep bow window with the Baronet, and could not help
expressing my wonder. “After all,” said I, “there are certain
mysteries in our nature, certain inscrutable impulses and
influences, that warrant one in being superstitious. Who can
account for so many persons of different characters being thus
strangely affected by a mere painting?”

“And especially when not one of them has seen it!” said the
Baronet with a smile.

“How?” exclaimed I, “not seen it?”

“Not one of them?” replied he, laying his finger on his lips in
sign of secrecy. “I saw that some of them were in a bantering
vein, and I did not choose that the memento of the poor Italian
should be made a jest of. So I gave the housekeeper a hint to
show them all to a different chamber!”

Thus end the Stories of the Nervous Gentleman.

PART SECOND BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS

“’Tis a very good world that we live in,
To lend, or to spend, or to give in;
But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man’s own,
’Tis the very worst world, sir, that ever was known.”
—LINES FROM AN INN WINDOW.

LITERARY LIFE

Among the great variety of characters which fall in a traveller’s
way, I became acquainted during my sojourn in London, with an
eccentric personage of the name of Buckthorne. He was a literary
man, had lived much in the metropolis, and had acquired a great
deal of curious, though unprofitable knowledge concerning it. He
was a great observer of character, and could give the natural
history of every odd animal that presented itself in this great
wilderness of men. Finding me very curious about literary life
and literary characters, he took much pains to gratify my
curiosity.

“The literary world of England,” said he to me one day, “is made
up of a number of little fraternities, each existing merely for
itself, and thinking the rest of the world created only to look
on and admire. It may be resembled to the firmament, consisting
of a number of systems, each composed of its own central sun with
its revolving train of moons and satellites, all acting in the
most harmonious concord; but the comparison fails in part,
inasmuch as the literary world has no general concord. Each
system acts independently of the rest, and indeed considers all
other stars as mere exhalations and transient meteors, beaming
for awhile with false fires, but doomed soon to fall and be
forgotten; while its own luminaries are the lights of the
universe, destined to increase in splendor and to shine steadily
on to immortality.”

“And pray,” said I, “how is a man to get a peep into one of these
systems you talk of? I presume an intercourse with authors is a
kind of intellectual exchange, where one must bring his
commodities to barter, and always give a _quid pro quo_.”

“Pooh, pooh—how you mistake,” said Buckthorne, smiling; “you must
never think to become popular among wits by shining. They go into
society to shine themselves, not to admire the brilliancy of
others. I thought as you do when I first cultivated the society
of men of letters, and never went to a blue-stocking coterie
without studying my part beforehand as diligently as an actor.
The consequence was, I soon got the name of an intolerable
proser, and should in a little while have been completely
excommunicated had I not changed my plan of operations. From
thenceforth I became a most assiduous listener, or if ever I were
eloquent, it was tête-a-tête with an author in praise of his own
works, or what is nearly as acceptable, in disparagement of the
works of his contemporaries. If ever he spoke favorably of the
productions of some particular friend, I ventured boldly to
dissent from him, and to prove that his friend was a blockhead;
and much as people say of the pertinacity and irritability of
authors, I never found one to take offence at my contradictions.
No, no, sir, authors are particularly candid in admitting the
faults of their friends.

“Indeed, I was extremely sparing of my remarks on all modern
works, excepting to make sarcastic observations on the most
distinguished writers of the day. I never ventured to praise an
author that had not been dead at least half a century; and even
then I was rather cautious; for you must know that many old
writers have been enlisted under the banners of different sects,
and their merits have become as complete topics of party
prejudice and dispute, as the merits of living statesmen and
politicians. Nay, there have been whole periods of literature
absolutely _taboo’d_, to use a South Sea phrase. It is, for
example, as much as a man’s reputation is worth, in some circles,
to say a word in praise of any writers of the reign of Charles
the Second, or even of Queen Anne; they being all declared to be
Frenchmen in disguise.”

“And pray, then,” said I, “when am I to know that I am on safe
grounds; being totally unacquainted with the literary landmarks
and the boundary lines of fashionable taste?”

“Oh,” replied he, there is fortunately one tract of literature
that forms a kind of neutral ground, on which all the literary
world meet amicably; lay down their weapons and even run riot in
their excess of good humor, and this is, the reigns of Elizabeth
and James. Here you may praise away at a venture; here it is ‘cut
and come again,’ and the more obscure the author, and the more
quaint and crabbed his style, the more your admiration will smack
of the real relish of the connoisseur; whose taste, like that of
an epicure, is always for game that has an antiquated flavor.

“But,” continued he, “as you seem anxious to know something of
literary society I will take an opportunity to introduce you to
some coterie, where the talents of the day are assembled. I
cannot promise you, however, that they will be of the first
order. Somehow or other, our great geniuses are not gregarious,
they do not go in flocks, but fly singly in general society. They
prefer mingling, like common men, with the multitude; and are apt
to carry nothing of the author about them but the reputation. It
is only the inferior orders that herd together, acquire strength
and importance by their confederacies, and bear all the
distinctive characteristics of their species.”

A LITERARY DINNER

A few days after this conversation with Mr. Buckthorne, he called
upon me, and took me with him to a regular literary dinner. It
was given by a great bookseller, or rather a company of
booksellers, whose firm surpassed in length even that of
Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego.

I was surprised to find between twenty and thirty guests
assembled, most of whom I had never seen before. Buckthorne
explained this to me by informing me that this was a “business
dinner,” or kind of field day, which the house gave about twice a
year to its authors. It is true, they did occasionally give snug
dinners to three or four literary men at a time, but then these
were generally select authors; favorites of the public; such as
had arrived at their sixth and seventh editions. “There are,”
said he, “certain geographical boundaries in the land of
literature, and you may judge tolerably well of an author’s
popularity, by the wine his bookseller gives him. 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. 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.

THE POOR DEVIL AUTHOR

I began life unluckily by being the wag and bright fellow at
school; and I had the farther misfortune of becoming the great
genius of my native village. My father was a country attorney,
and intended that I should succeed him in business; but I had too
much genius to study, and he was too fond of my genius to force
it into the traces. So I fell into bad company and took to bad
habits. Do not mistake me. I mean that I fell into the company of
village literati and village blues, and took to writing village
poetry.

It was quite the fashion in the village to be literary. We had a
little knot of choice spirits who assembled frequently together,
formed ourselves into a Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical
Society, and fancied ourselves the most learned philos in
existence. Every one had a great character assigned him,
suggested by some casual habit or affectation. One heavy fellow
drank an enormous quantity of tea; rolled in his armchair, talked
sententiously, pronounced dogmatically, and was considered a
second Dr. Johnson; another, who happened to be a curate, uttered
coarse jokes, wrote doggerel rhymes, and was the Swift of our
association. Thus we had also our Popes and Goldsmiths and
Addisons, and a blue-stocking lady, whose drawing-room we
frequented, who corresponded about nothing with all the world,
and wrote letters with the stiffness and formality of a printed
book, was cried up as another Mrs. Montagu. I was, by common
consent, the juvenile prodigy, the poetical youth, the great
genius, the pride and hope of the village, through whom it was to
become one day as celebrated as Stratford-on-Avon.

My father died and left me his blessing and his business. His
blessing brought no money into my pocket; and as to his business
it soon deserted me: for I was busy writing poetry, and could not
attend to law; and my clients, though they had great respect for
my talents, had no faith in a poetical attorney.

I lost my business therefore, spent my money, and finished my
poem. It was the Pleasures of Melancholy, and was cried up to the
skies by the whole circle. The Pleasures of Imagination, the
Pleasures of Hope, and the Pleasures of Memory, though each had
placed its author in the first rank of poets, were blank prose in
comparison. Our Mrs. Montagu would cry over it from beginning to
end. It was pronounced by all the members of the Literary,
Scientific, and Philosophical Society the greatest poem of the
age, and all anticipated the noise it would make in the great
world. There was not a doubt but the London booksellers would be
mad after it, and the only fear of my friends was, that I would
make a sacrifice by selling it too cheap.

Every time they talked the matter over they increased the price.
They reckoned up the great sums given for the poems of certain
popular writers, and determined that mine was worth more than all
put together, and ought to be paid for accordingly. For my part,
I was modest in my expectations, and determined that I would be
satisfied with a thousand guineas. So I put my poem in my pocket
and set off for London.

My journey was joyous. My heart was light as my purse, and my
head full of anticipations of fame and fortune. With what
swelling pride did I cast my eyes upon old London from the
heights of Highgate. I was like a general looking down upon a
place he expects to conquer. The great metropolis lay stretched
before me, buried under a home-made cloud of murky smoke, that
wrapped it from the brightness of a sunny day, and formed for it
a kind of artificial bad weather. At the outskirts of the city,
away to the west, the smoke gradually decreased until all was
clear and sunny, and the view stretched uninterrupted to the blue
line of the Kentish Hills.

My eye turned fondly to where the mighty cupola of St. Paul’s
swelled Dimly through this misty chaos, and I pictured to myself
the solemn realm of learning that lies about its base. How soon
should the Pleasures of Melancholy throw this world of
booksellers and printers into a bustle of business and delight!
How soon should I hear my name repeated by printers’ devils
throughout Pater Noster Row, and Angel Court, and Ave Maria Lane,
until Amen corner should echo back the sound!

Arrived in town, I repaired at once to the most fashionable
publisher. Every new author patronizes him of course. In fact, it
had been determined in the village circle that he should be the
fortunate man. I cannot tell you how vaingloriously I walked the
streets; my head was in the clouds. I felt the airs of heaven
playing about it, and fancied it already encircled by a halo of
literary glory.

As I passed by the windows of bookshops, I anticipated the time
when my work would be shining among the hotpressed wonders of the
day; and my face, scratched on copper, or cut in wood, figuring
in fellowship with those of Scott and Byron and Moore.

When I applied at the publisher’s house there was something in
the loftiness of my air, and the dinginess of my dress, that
struck the clerks with reverence. They doubtless took me for some
person of consequence, probably a digger of Greek roots, or a
penetrator of pyramids. A proud man in a dirty shirt is always an
imposing character in the world of letters; one must feel
intellectually secure before he can venture to dress shabbily;
none but a great scholar or a great genius dares to be dirty; so
I was ushered at once to the sanctum sanctorum of this high
priest of Minerva.

The publishing of books is a very different affair now-a-days
from what it was in the time of Bernard Lintot. I found the
publisher a fashionably-dressed man, in an elegant drawing-room,
furnished with sofas and portraits of celebrated authors, and
cases of splendidly bound books. He was writing letters at an
elegant table. This was transacting business in style. The place
seemed suited to the magnificent publications that issued from
it. I rejoiced at the choice I had made of a publisher, for I
always liked to encourage men of taste and spirit.

I stepped up to the table with the lofty poetical port that I had
Been accustomed to maintain in our village circle; though I threw
in it something of a patronizing air, such as one feels when
about to make a man’s fortune. The publisher paused with his pen
in his hand, and seemed waiting in mute suspense to know what was
to be announced by so singular an apparition.

I put him at his ease in a moment, for I felt that I had but to
come, see, and conquer. I made known my name, and the name of my
poem; produced my precious roll of blotted manuscript, laid it on
the table with an emphasis, and told him at once, to save time
and come directly to the point, the price was one thousand
guineas.

I had given him no time to speak, nor did he seem so inclined. He
Continued looking at me for a moment with an air of whimsical
perplexity; scanned me from head to foot; looked down at the
manuscript, then up again at me, then pointed to a chair; and
whistling softly to himself, went on writing his letter.

I sat for some time waiting his reply, supposing he was making up
his mind; but he only paused occasionally to take a fresh dip of
ink; to stroke his chin or the tip of his nose, and then resumed
his writing. It was evident his mind was intently occupied upon
some other subject; but I had no idea that any other subject
should be attended to and my poem lie unnoticed on the table. I
had supposed that every thing would make way for the Pleasures of
Melancholy.

My gorge at length rose within me. I took up my manuscript;
thrust it into my pocket, and walked out of the room: making some
noise as I went, to let my departure be heard. The publisher,
however, was too much busied in minor concerns to notice it. I
was suffered to walk down-stairs without being called back. I
sallied forth into the street, but no clerk was sent after me,
nor did the publisher call after me from the drawing-room window.
I have been told since, that he considered me either a madman or
a fool. I leave you to judge how much he was in the wrong in his
opinion.

When I turned the corner my crest fell. I cooled down in my pride
and my expectations, and reduced my terms with the next
bookseller to whom I applied. I had no better success: nor with a
third: nor with a fourth. I then desired the booksellers to make
an offer themselves; but the deuce an offer would they make. They
told me poetry was a mere drug; everybody wrote poetry; the
market was overstocked with it. And then, they said, the title of
my poem was not taking: that pleasures of all kinds were worn
threadbare; nothing but horrors did now-a-days, and even these
were almost worn out. Tales of pirates, robbers, and bloody Turks
might answer tolerably well; but then they must come from some
established well-known name, or the public would not look at
them.