Sheridan made his appearance one day in a pair of new boots; these attracting the notice of some of his friends: “Now guess,” said he, “how I came by these boots?” Many probable guesses were then ventured, but in vain. “No,” said Sheridan, “no, you have not hit it, nor ever will. I bought them, and paid for them!” Sheridan was very desirous that his son Tom should marry a young lady of large fortune, but knew that Miss Callander had won his son’s heart. Sheridan, expatiating once on the folly of his son, at length broke out: “Tom, if you marry Caroline Callander, I’ll cut you off with a shilling!” Tom, looking maliciously at his father, said, “Then, sir, you must borrow it.” In a large party one evening, the conversation turned upon young men’s allowances at college. Tom deplored the ill-judging parsimony of many parents in that respect. “I am sure, Tom,” said his father, “you have no reason to complain; I always allowed you £800 a-year.” “Yes, father, I confess you allowed it; but then—it was never paid!”
KILLING NO MURDER.
In a journey which Mademoiselle Scudéry, the Sappho of the French, made along with her no less celebrated brother, a curious incident befell them at an inn at a great distance from Paris. Their conversation happened one evening to turn upon a romance which they were then jointly composing, to the hero of which they had given the name of Prince Mazare. “What shall we do with Prince Mazare?” said Mademoiselle Scudéry to her brother. “Is it not better that he should fall by poison, than by the poignard?” “It is not time yet,” replied the brother, “for that business; when it is necessary we can despatch him as we please; but at present we have not quite done with him.” Two merchants in the next chamber, overhearing this conversation, concluded that they had formed a conspiracy for the murder of some prince whose real name they disguised under that of Mazare. Full of this important discovery, they imparted their suspicions to the host and hostess; and it was resolved to inform the police of what had happened. The police officers, eager to show their diligence and activity, put the travellers immediately under arrest, and conducted them under a strong escort to Paris. It was not without difficulty and expense that they there procured their liberation, and leave for the future to hold an unlimited right and power over all the princes and personages in the realms of romance.
SENSITIVENESS TO CRITICISM.
Hawkesworth and Stillingfleet died of criticism; Tasso was driven mad by it; Newton, the calm Newton, kept hold of life only by the sufferance of a friend who withheld a criticism on his chronology, for no other reason than his conviction that if it were published while he lived, it would put an end to him; and every one knows the effect on the sensitive nature of Keats, of the attacks on his Endymion. Tasso had a vast and prolific imagination, accompanied with an excessively hypochondriacal temperament. The composition of his great epic, the Jerusalem Delivered, by giving scope to the boldest flights, and calling into play the energies of his exalted and enthusiastic genius—whilst with equal ardour it led him to entertain hopes of immediate and extensive fame—laid most probably the foundation of his subsequent derangement. His susceptibility and tenderness of feeling were great; and, when his sublime work met with unexpected opposition, and was even treated with contempt and derision, the fortitude of the poet was not proof against the keen sense of disappointment. He twice attempted to please his ignorant and malignant critics by recomposing his poem; and during the hurry, the anguish, and the irritation attending these efforts, the vigour of a great mind was entirely exhausted, and in two years after the publication of the Jerusalem, the unhappy author became an object of pity and terror. Newton, with all his philosophy, was so sensible to critical remarks, that Whiston tells us he lost his favour, which he had enjoyed for twenty years, by contradicting him in his old age; for “no man was of a more fearful temper.”
BUTLER AND BUCKINGHAM.
Of Butler, the author of Hudibras—which Dr. Johnson terms “one of those productions of which a nation may justly boast”—little further is known than that his genius was not sufficient to rescue him from its too frequent attendant, poverty; he lived in obscurity, and died in want. Wycherley often represented to the Duke of Buckingham how well Butler had deserved of the royal family by writing his inimitable Hudibras, and that it was a disgrace to the Court that a person of his loyalty and genius should remain in obscurity and suffer the wants which he did. The Duke, thus pressed, promised to recommend Butler to his Majesty; and Wycherley, in hopes to keep his Grace steady to his word, prevailed on him to fix a day when he might introduce the modest and unfortunate poet to his new patron. The place of meeting fixed upon was the “Roebuck.” Butler and his friend attended punctually; the Duke joined them, when, unluckily, the door of the room being open, his Grace observed one of his acquaintances pass by with two ladies; on which he immediately quitted his engagement, and from that time to the day of his death poor Butler never derived the least benefit from his promise.