“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 lone10 table in a dusky corner of the room. The club was assembled round a table, on which stood beverages12 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 promising13 face and his complete taciturnity. Matters, however, were entirely14 changed with him. There he was a mere15 cypher: here he was lord of the ascendant; the choice spirit, the dominant16 genius. He sat at the head of the table with his hat on, and an eye beaming even more luminously17 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 eliciting18 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 maudlin19 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 boon20 companions, who would have been worthy21 subjects for Hogarth’s pencil. As they were each provided with a written copy, I was enabled to procure22 the reading of it.
Merrily, merrily push round the glass,
And merrily troll the glee,
So neighbor I drink to thee.
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 drooped26 upon his breast; and gazing with lack-lustre countenance27 on an empty tankard. His gayety was gone, his fire completely quenched28.
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 Dribble30, 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 recollect29 me. I was your junior by several years; don’t you recollect little Jack31 Buckthorne?”
Here then ensued a scene of school-fellow recognition; and a world of talk about old school times and school pranks32. 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 shrug33 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 sterling34 gold from the mint.”
“You surely do yourself injustice35, 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 daunted36.”
“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 twitch37 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 withers38 on your d—d high, dry grounds. I once kept high company, sir, until I nearly ruined myself; I grew so dull, and vapid39, and genteel. Nothing saved me but being arrested by my landlady40 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 lodgings41; 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 urchins42 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 forth43 on our expedition. He led me through a variety of singular alleys44, and courts, and blind passages; for he appeared to be profoundly versed45 in all the intricate geography of the metropolis46. 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 muses47, those capricious dames48, who, forsooth, so often refuse to visit palaces, and deny a single smile to votaries49 in splendid studies and gilded50 drawing-rooms,—what holes and burrows51 will they frequent to lavish52 their favors on some ragged53 disciple54!
This Green Arbour court I found to be a small square of tall and Miserable55 houses, the very intestines56 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 dangling57 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 hubbub58. 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 brandished59 her arms dripping with soapsuds, and fired away from her window as from the embrazure of a fortress60; while the swarms61 of children nestled and cradled in every procreant chamber62 of this hive, waking with the noise, set up their shrill63 pipes to swell64 the general concert.
Poor Goldsmith! what a time must he have had of it, with his quiet Disposition65 and nervous habits, penned up in this den1 of noise and vulgarity. How strange that while every sight and sound was sufficient to embitter66 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 abode67. 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’ scanty68 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 irresistible69. It is true he did at first appear slightly confused; buttoned up his waistcoat a little higher and tucked in a stray frill of linen70. But he recollected71 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; pointed72 me to a lumbering73 old damask chair that looked like a dethroned monarch74 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.
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1 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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2 tavern | |
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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3 jovial | |
adj.快乐的,好交际的 | |
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4 peal | |
n.钟声;v.鸣响 | |
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5 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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6 stanza | |
n.(诗)节,段 | |
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7 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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8 vehement | |
adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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9 thumping | |
adj.重大的,巨大的;重击的;尺码大的;极好的adv.极端地;非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词);狠打;怦怦地跳;全力支持 | |
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10 lone | |
adj.孤寂的,单独的;唯一的 | |
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11 ass | |
n.驴;傻瓜,蠢笨的人 | |
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12 beverages | |
n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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13 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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14 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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15 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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16 dominant | |
adj.支配的,统治的;占优势的;显性的;n.主因,要素,主要的人(或物);显性基因 | |
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17 luminously | |
发光的; 明亮的; 清楚的; 辉赫 | |
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18 eliciting | |
n. 诱发, 引出 动词elicit的现在分词形式 | |
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19 maudlin | |
adj.感情脆弱的,爱哭的 | |
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20 boon | |
n.恩赐,恩物,恩惠 | |
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21 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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22 procure | |
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
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23 wink | |
n.眨眼,使眼色,瞬间;v.眨眼,使眼色,闪烁 | |
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24 puddle | |
n.(雨)水坑,泥潭 | |
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25 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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26 drooped | |
弯曲或下垂,发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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28 quenched | |
解(渴)( quench的过去式和过去分词 ); 终止(某事物); (用水)扑灭(火焰等); 将(热物体)放入水中急速冷却 | |
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29 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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30 dribble | |
v.点滴留下,流口水;n.口水 | |
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31 jack | |
n.插座,千斤顶,男人;v.抬起,提醒,扛举;n.(Jake)杰克 | |
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32 pranks | |
n.玩笑,恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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33 shrug | |
v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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34 sterling | |
adj.英币的(纯粹的,货真价实的);n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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35 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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36 daunted | |
使(某人)气馁,威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37 twitch | |
v.急拉,抽动,痉挛,抽搐;n.扯,阵痛,痉挛 | |
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38 withers | |
马肩隆 | |
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39 vapid | |
adj.无味的;无生气的 | |
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40 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
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41 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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42 urchins | |
n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 );淘气鬼;猬;海胆 | |
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43 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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44 alleys | |
胡同,小巷( alley的名词复数 ); 小径 | |
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45 versed | |
adj. 精通,熟练 | |
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46 metropolis | |
n.首府;大城市 | |
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47 muses | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的第三人称单数 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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48 dames | |
n.(在英国)夫人(一种封号),夫人(爵士妻子的称号)( dame的名词复数 );女人 | |
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49 votaries | |
n.信徒( votary的名词复数 );追随者;(天主教)修士;修女 | |
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50 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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51 burrows | |
n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘(洞穴),挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 );翻寻 | |
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52 lavish | |
adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
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53 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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54 disciple | |
n.信徒,门徒,追随者 | |
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55 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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56 intestines | |
n.肠( intestine的名词复数 ) | |
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57 dangling | |
悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 ); 摆动不定; 用某事物诱惑…; 吊胃口 | |
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58 hubbub | |
n.嘈杂;骚乱 | |
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59 brandished | |
v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 );炫耀 | |
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60 fortress | |
n.堡垒,防御工事 | |
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61 swarms | |
蜂群,一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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62 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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63 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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64 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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65 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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66 embitter | |
v.使苦;激怒 | |
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67 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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68 scanty | |
adj.缺乏的,仅有的,节省的,狭小的,不够的 | |
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69 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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70 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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71 recollected | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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73 lumbering | |
n.采伐林木 | |
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74 monarch | |
n.帝王,君主,最高统治者 | |
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