CHAPTER III.
MORE LIONS.
THE next night, after the theatre, Tarleton and I strolled into Wills's.Half-a-dozen wits were assembled. Heavens! how they talked! actors,actresses, poets, statesmen, philosophers, critics, divines, were allpulled to pieces with the most gratifying malice imaginable. We satourselves down, and while Tarleton amused himself with a dish of coffeeand the "Flying Post," I listened very attentively to the conversation.Certainly if we would take every opportunity of getting a grain ortwo of knowledge, we should soon have a chest-full; a man earnedan excellent subsistence by asking every one who came out of atobacconist's shop for a pinch of snuff, and retailing the mixture assoon as he had filled his box.*
* "Tatler."
While I was listening to a tall lusty gentleman, who was abusing Dogget,the actor, a well-dressed man entered, and immediately attracted thegeneral observation. He was of a very flat, ill-favoured countenance,but of a quick eye, and a genteel air; there was, however, somethingconstrained and artificial in his address, and he appeared to beendeavouring to clothe a natural good-humour with a certain primnesswhich could never be made to fit it.
"Ha, Steele!" cried a gentleman in an orange-coloured coat, who seemedby a fashionable swagger of importance desirous of giving the toneto the company,--"Ha, Steele, whence come you? from the chapel or thetavern?" and the speaker winked round the room as if he wished us toparticipate in the pleasure of a good thing.
Mr. Steele drew up, seemingly a little affronted; but his good-natureconquering the affectation of personal sanctity, which, at the timeI refer to, that excellent writer was pleased to assume, he contentedhimself with nodding to the speaker, and saying,--
"All the world knows, Colonel Cleland, that you are a wit, andtherefore we take your fine sayings as we take change from an honesttradesman,--rest perfectly satisfied with the coin we get, withoutpaying any attention to it."
"Zounds, Cleland, you got the worst of it there," cried a gentleman in aflaxen wig. And Steele slid into a seat near my own.
Tarleton, who was sufficiently well educated to pretend to the characterof a man of letters, hereupon thought it necessary to lay aside the"Flying Post," and to introduce me to my literary neighbour.
"Pray," said Colonel Cleland, taking snuff and swinging himself to andfro with an air of fashionable grace, "has any one seen the new paper?"
"What!" cried the gentleman in the flaxen wig, "what! the 'Tatler's'successor,--the 'Spectator'?"
"The same," quoth the colonel.
"To be sure; who has not?" returned he of the flaxen ornament. "Peoplesay Congreve writes it."
"They are very much mistaken, then," cried a little square man withspectacles; "to my certain knowledge Swift is the author."
"Pooh!" said Cleland, imperiously, "pooh! it is neither the one nor theother; I, gentlemen, am in the secret--but--you take me, eh? One mustnot speak well of one's self; mum is the word."
"Then," asked Steele, quietly, "we are to suppose that you, Colonel, arethe writer?"
"I never said so, Dicky; but the women will have it that I am," and thecolonel smoothed down his cravat.
"Pray, Mr. Addison, what say you?" cried the gentleman in the flaxenwig; "are you for Congreve, Swift, or Colonel Cleland?" This wasaddressed to a gentleman of a grave but rather prepossessing mien; who,with eyes fixed upon the ground, was very quietly and to all appearancevery inattentively solacing himself with a pipe; without lifting hiseyes, this personage, then eminent, afterwards rendered immortal,replied,
"Colonel Cleland must produce other witnesses to prove his claim to theauthorship of the 'Spectator:' the women, we well know, are prejudicedin his favour."
"That's true enough, old friend," cried the colonel, looking askant athis orange-coloured coat; "but faith, Addison, I wish you would set up apaper of the same sort, d'ye see; you're a nice judge of merit, and yoursketches of character would do justice to your friends."
"If ever I do, Colonel, I, or my coadjutors, will study at least to dojustice to you."*
* This seems to corroborate the suspicion entertained of the identity ofColonel Cleland with the Will Honeycomb of the "Spectator."
"Prithee, Steele," cried the stranger in spectacles, "prithee, tell usthy thoughts on the subject: dost thou know the author of this drollperiodical?"
"I saw him this morning," replied Steele, carelessly.
"Aha! and what said you to him?"
"I asked him his name."
"And what did he answer?" cried he of the flaxen wig, while all of uscrowded round the speaker, with the curiosity every one felt inthe authorship of a work then exciting the most universal and eagerinterest.
"He answered me solemnly," said Steele, "in the following words,--
"'Graeci carent ablativo, Itali dativo, ego nominativo.'"*
* "The Greek wants an ablative, the Italians a dative, I a nominative."
"Famous--capital!" cried the gentleman in spectacles; and then, touchingColonel Cleland, added, "what does it exactly mean?"
"Ignoramus!" said Cleland, disdainfully, "every _schoolboy knowsVirgil_!"
"Devereux," said Tarleton, yawning, "what a d----d delightful thingit is to hear so much wit: pity that the atmosphere is so fine that nolungs unaccustomed to it can endure it long, Let us recover ourselves bya walk."
"Willingly," said I; and we sauntered forth into the streets.
"Wills's is not what it was," said Tarleton; "'tis a pitiful ghost ofits former self, and if they had not introduced cards, one would die ofthe vapours there."
"I know nothing so insipid," said I, "as that mock literary air whichit is so much the fashion to assume. 'Tis but a wearisome relief toconversation to have interludes of songs about Strephon and Sylvia,recited with a lisp by a gentleman with fringed gloves and a languishinglook."
"Fie on it," cried Tarleton, "let us seek for a fresher topic. Areyou asked to Abigail Masham's to-night, or will you come to Dame de laRiviere Manley's?"
"Dame de la what?--in the name of long words who is she?"
"Oh! Learning made libidinous: one who reads Catullus and profits byit."
"Bah, no, we will not leave the gentle Abigail for her. I have promisedto meet St. John, too, at the Mashams'."
"As you like. We shall get some wine at Abigail's, which we should neverdo at the house of her cousin of Marlborough."
And, comforting himself with this belief, Tarleton peaceably accompaniedme to that celebrated woman, who did the Tories such notable service, atthe expense of being termed by the Whigs one great want divided into twoparts; namely, a great want of every shilling belonging to other people,and a great want of every virtue that should have belonged to herself.As we mounted the staircase, a door to the left (a private apartment)was opened, and I saw the favourite dismiss, with the most flatteringair of respect, my old preceptor, the Abbe Montreuil. He received herattentions as his due, and, descending the stairs, came full upon me.He drew back, changed neither hue nor muscle, bowed civilly enough, anddisappeared. I had not much opportunity to muse over this circumstance,for St. John and Mr. Domville--excellent companions both--joined us; andthe party being small, we had the unwonted felicity of talking, as wellas bowing, to each other. It was impossible to think of any one elsewhen St. John chose to exert himself; and so even the Abbe Montreuilglided out of my brain as St. John's wit glided into it. We were all ofthe same way of thinking on politics, and therefore were witty withoutbeing quarrelsome,--a rare thing. The trusty Abigail told us stories ofthe good Queen, and we added _bons mots_ by way of corollary. Wine, too,wine that even Tarleton approved, lit up our intellects, and we spentaltogether an evening such as gentlemen and Tories very seldom have thesense to enjoy.
O Apollo! I wonder whether Tories of the next century will be suchclever, charming, well-informed fellows as we were!