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