zlitt, his hand still warm with the grip of Lamb's, has
entered it often. In an essay on 'Coffee-House Politicians,' in the
second volume of his 'Table Talk,' Hazlitt has sketched the coterie at
the 'Southampton,' in a manner not unworthy of Steele. The picture wants
Sir Richard's mellow, Jan Steen colour, but it possesses much of
Wilkie's dainty touch and keen appreciation of character. Let us call
up, he says, the old customers at the 'Southampton' from the dead, and
take a glass with them. First of all comes Mr. George Kirkpatrick, who
was admired by William, the sleek, neat waiter (who had a music-master
to teach him the flageolet two hours every morning before the maids were
up), for his temper in managing an argument. Mr. Kirkpatrick was one of
those bland, simpering, self-complacent men, who, unshakable from the
high tower of their own self-satisfaction, look down upon your arguments
from their magnificent elevation. 'I will explain,' was his
condescending phrase. If you corrected the intolerable magnifico, he
corrected your correction; if you hinted at an obvious blunder, he was
always aware what your mistaken objection would be. He and his clique
would spend a whole evening on a wager as to whether the first edition
of Dr. Johnson's 'Dictionary' was quarto or folio. The confident
assertions, the cautious ventures, the length of time demanded to
ascertain the fact, the precise terms of the forfeit, the provisoes for
getting out of paying it at last, led to a long and inextricable
discussion. Kirkpatrick's vanity, however, one night led him into a
terrible pitfall. He recklessly ventured money on the fact that _The
Mourning Bride_ was written by Shakespeare; headlong he fell, and
ruefully he partook of the bowl of punch for which he had to pay. As a
rule his nightly outlay seldom exceeded sevenpence. Four hours' good
conversation for sevenpence made the 'Southampton' the cheapest of
London clubs.

[Illustration: HAZLITT (_see page 87_).]

"Kirkpatrick's brother Roger was the Mercutio to his Shallow. Roger was
a rare fellow, 'of the driest humour and the nicest tact, of infinite
sleights and evasions, of a picked phraseology, and the very soul of
mimicry.' He had the mind of a harlequin; his wit was acrobatic, and
threw somersaults. He took in a character at a glance, and threw a pun
at you as dexterously as a fly-fisher casts his fly over a trout's nose.
'How finely,' says Hazlitt, in his best and heartiest mood