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.