er his fashionable reputation stood him
in no little stead; he was considered to be a gentleman of good present
means and better expectations, who wrote for his pleasure, than which
there cannot be a greater recommendation to a young literary aspirant.
Bacon, Bungay and Co. were proud to accept his articles; Mr. Wenham
asked him to dinner; Mr. Wagg looked upon him with a favourable eye;
and they reported how they met him at the houses of persons of fashion,
amongst whom he was pretty welcome, as they did not trouble themselves
about his means, present or future; as his appearance and address were
good; and as he had got a character for being a clever fellow. Finally,
he was asked to one house, because he was seen at another house: and
thus no small varieties of London life were presented to the young man:
he was made familiar with all sorts of people from Paternoster Row to
Pimlico, and was as much at home at Mayfair dining-tables as at those
tavern boards where some of his companions of the pen were accustomed to
assemble.

Full of high spirits and curiosity, easily adapting himself to all whom
he met, the young fellow pleased himself in this strange variety and
jumble of men, and made himself welcome, or at ease at least, wherever
he went. He would breakfast, for instance, at Mr. Plover's of a morning,
in company with a Peer, a Bishop, a parliamentary orator, two blue
ladies of fashion, a popular preacher, the author of the last new novel,
and the very latest lion imported from Egypt or from America: and would
quit this distinguished society for the back room at the newspaper
office, where pens and ink and the wet proof-sheets were awaiting him.
Here would be Finucane, the sub-editor, with the last news from the
Row: and Shandon would come in presently, and giving a nod to Pen, would
begin scribbling his leading article at the other end of the table,
flanked by the pint of sherry, which, when the attendant boy beheld him,
was always silently brought for the Captain: or Mr. Bludyer's roaring
voice would be heard in the front room, where that truculent
critic would impound the books on the counter in spite of the timid
remonstrances of Mr. Midge, the publisher, and after looking through the
volumes would sell them at his accustomed bookstall, and having drunken
and dined upon the produce of the sale in a tavern box, would call for
ink and paper, and proceed to "smash" the author of his dinner and the
novel. Towards even