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