A BOHEMIAN CAROUSE.
The bar-maid surveyed the room and its occupants calmly, then asked for the orders. The pot-boy, feeling that he was only a subordinate, retired in disgust, with his dish-cloth on his left arm. One man called for "sherry weak," another for "gin and water," and a third for a "pint of cooper." The cooper was brought in a metal mug, with hoops girding it, and for this reason, I believe, the mug is called a "cooper." Pretty soon the room began to fill with stray Bohemians, who dropped in one by one and took their seats as if they feared no eviction.
In half an hour there were a dozen present, and the room was so crowded that two of them had to stand up. One or two were dandies, and wore heavy scarfs and pins, and talked French because, forsooth, they had been on the Continent. Some of them were artists on the half score of comic weeklies which are to be seen in the windows of every news-shop in London. Some were wood-engravers, some were painters in a small way, and there were correspondents of the Birmingham, Manchester, and Liverpool papers also present. All were in the literary or artistic line, and a few had been in the gallery of the House of Commons as reporters, doing short-hand work, and there was one really clever artist, who had illustrated books by some of the best authors in England. This man was a little scant of hair on the top of the forehead, and had a light moustache. He had been to many prize-fights, and had gloated over many a frightful murder, through his sketches in the weekly illustrated newspapers. He was a merry, good-natured fellow, with a genuine fund of pleasant anecdote and a liking for Burton ale.
There was another man very quiet in appearance, and wearing a gray mixed sack coat, with his bosom open in the style of Walt Whitman. He puzzled me when I first looked at him, but after a while I found that he was a German by birth, very recondite,—from Lower Prussia, domiciled in London for many years, who had written a work with the mystical title of "Entities of God." None of his intimates had ever even read this book; with the exception of one man, (a dear friend,) who was in his debt, and had honored his friendship so far as to read the preface, but could not get any farther for a different reason from that assigned by the Heidelberg student, who, after reading a work of John Stuart Mill, threw down the book in disgust, saying that "it was too clear;" yet he was respected in this mixed assemblage of topers and clever fellows, because he had written a book that no one could understand. Such is the force of intellect.
There were two Irishmen present who sat in a corner together, drank together, gave each other a light for the pipes which they smoked, and quarreled with a fraternal regard.
THE RADICAL AND CONSERVATIVE.
One was an old man with a grey moustache, an Orangeman, who had been in America in the old days when Virginia and South Carolina ruled the Senate of the republic, and since then he had been a correspondent by turns for some of the London newspapers abroad, and again a literary hack for the shabby sheets that are read in the obscure holes of the city. His friend was a much younger man, full blooded, and a thorough Irish Nationalist, although he disclaimed Fenianism. He was a reporter, and had an extensive knowledge of his professional associates on the London press. His name was Fitzgerald, and his venerable friend was known as Dawson. The German of the profound intellect was called Meyer, or Herr Meyer. The names of the French dandies I have forgotten; they were but poor specimens, and did not furnish any entertainment during the evening.
There were two reporters of the morning press at this feast of reason and flow of beer, but they did not contribute much amusement to the party, as they were discussing the respective rates of salaries on the Daily Bludgeon and the Morning Budget during the entire evening's conversation. The two Irishmen were perpetually at loggerheads about politics, "Fitz" being a Radical, Dawson a Conservative Churchman of the old school. Occasionally they gave each other the lie, and then I expected to see them striking out at each other; but in three minutes after they would vow eternal friendship, and shake each other's hand with great warmth. The name of the artist was Sullivan. Sullivan hailed the head clerk with great feeling, and as he sat down there was a drink all around.
"Well, old Cockerell," said the vivacious Fitz, "how is Slogger's book getting on with yeer people?"