These speeches, when they do not produce nausea, which they are very apt to do, or at least a disagreeable feeling of squeamishness, are powerful soporifics, and, possessing this quality, would be rather grateful than otherwise, if one were in bed when within hearing of them; but unhappily this pleasant effect is neutralised by the roaring and stamping that accompanies their delivery: so that this sort of orator is in reality a positive nuisance.
The oratorical genius is nearly, if not every bit, as conceited as the poetical genius. He has the same provoking, self-satisfied simper, and is in other respects a still greater bore, for his forensic habits and practices, without furnishing him with a single additional idea, have given him an unhappy fluency of speech, which he himself mistakes for eloquence, and with which he mercilessly inundates every one whom he can get beneath the spout of his oratorical pump. Every thing he says to you is said in set phrase—in the stiff, formal, affected language of the debating society. His remarks on the most ordinary subjects are all regular built speeches—dull, long-winded, prosy things, smelling strong of the forum.
We know a speculative or debating society man the moment he opens his mouth. We know him by his studied, prolix phraseology, and much, much do we dread him, for of all earthly bores he is the most intolerable. To be obliged to listen to his maudlin philosophy and misty metaphysics—for they are all to a man philosophers or metaphysicians—is about one of the most distressing inflictions we know.
The next genius on our list is the Universal Genius, perhaps the most amusing of the whole fraternity. This gentleman, although perfectly satisfied that he is a genius, and a very great genius too, does not know himself precisely in what he excels. He has no definite ideas on the subject, and in this respect is rather at a loss. But he enjoys a delightful consciousness of a capacity that would enable him to surpass in anything to which he might choose to devote himself, and that in fact he does surpass in everything. His pretensions therefore rest on a very broad basis, and embrace all human attainments. He is in short a universal genius. This gentleman is very apt to assume peculiarities in dress and exterior appearance, to wear odd things in an odd way, and to sport a few eccentricities because he has heard or imagines that all geniuses are eccentric. These are common and favourite expedients with the would-be genius, who moreover frequently adds dissipation to his distinguishing characteristics, it being a pretty general notion that genius is drunken, and of a wild and irregular life.
To make out this character, then, the universal genius takes to breaking the public lamps, wrenching off bell-handles, kicking up rows in taverns with the waiters and others, and on the streets with the police; gets his head broken and his eyes blackened; keeps late hours, and goes home drunk every night; and thus becomes a genius of the first order. This sort of genius, we have observed, is much addicted to wearing odd sorts of head-dresses, fantastic caps all befurred and betasselled, and moreover greatly affects the bare throat, or wearing only an apology for a neckcloth, with shirt-collar turned down—in this aiming at a fine wild brigandish sort of look and appearance, much coveted by geniuses of a certain order.
Nature, however, does not always favour those ambitious attempts at the bold and romantic, for we often find them associated with snub noses, lantern jaws, and the most stupid and unmeaning countenances, that express anything but a consonance of character with pretension. We have known geniuses of this kind—the bare-necked and turned-down-collared—set up for romantic desperadoes on the strength of a hairy throat and a pair of bushy whiskers.
The great class of universal geniuses now under consideration may, on close inspection, be found to subdivide itself into several minor classes, including the Sublime Genius, the Solemn Genius, and another tribe which has hitherto been, we rather think, without a name, but which we shall take the liberty of calling the Dirty Genius. This is a curious species of the race. The dirty genius delights in unkempt locks, which he not only allows but encourages to hang about his face and behind on his coat collar, in large tangled filthy looking masses. He delighteth also in an unwashed face, in dirty linen, and in a general slovenliness and shabbiness of apparel. The pretensions of this genius are very high; for he affects to be superior to all the common observances of civilised life; its courtesies and amenities he holds in the most sovereign contempt; despises soap and water, and rises proudly above white stockings and clean shirts.
There are several other descriptions of geniuses, on each of which we could say an edifying word or two, but reserve them for another occasion.
C.
Anecdote of the late Mr Bradbury, the celebrated Clown.—In the year 1814, when Mr Bradbury was in the heyday of his popularity, he lodged in Portsmouth, in the well-known and elegant establishment called the Crown Hotel, then kept by a Mr Hanna, where a number of the fashionable and gay daily resorted. It happened at a dinner party where a considerable number were present, Mr Bradbury introduced a most splendid gold snuff-box which had been shortly before presented to him by the members of a convivial club to which he belonged, in token of their estimation of him as a convivial friend and of his talents in his line of acting, which qualities he was known to possess in a very high degree. This box he highly prized, and it was sent round the table and admired by all. After some time, however, it was found not to be forthcoming. Every one stared—no one had it—all had seen it the moment before, but could not tell what could possibly have become of it. In vain the owner entreated every gentleman to search his pocket, as some one might have taken it inadvertently. All tried without success. After remaining an hour in the greatest anxiety, in which the company seemed to participate, they separated. Mr Bradbury consulted some of his friends on this very unpleasant business, who advised him to send for a Bow Street officer, who might from his habits be able to suggest some means of detection. This advice was instantly followed, and Rivett, the well-known peace-officer, was sent for. The same company met next day at dinner, and the most anxious inquiries were made by all for the box, but still no account of it. Amongst the company was a Captain C——, who was aide-de-camp to General Leake, who was then going out to India, and waiting for the first fair wind. This gentleman was the first to quit the room after dinner, and by a preconcerted arrangement was followed into his bedroom by Rivett, who was waiting outside. Mr Bradbury also followed; and it was immediately communicated to Captain C—— that he must submit to a search, a warrant for that purpose having been obtained against every gentleman in the room. This was instantly submitted to in the most cheerful manner by Captain C——, who invited them to make it, and expressed great satisfaction at such a course as the only means of detection; but he could not bring himself to believe that any gentleman could be guilty of so infamous an act except through inadvertence. After his trunk and dressing-case had been searched, he hoped they were perfectly satisfied of his integrity in the business. Rivett, however, observed that as far the search was made, he was satisfied that all was correct, and nothing now remained but to search his person. These words were scarcely uttered when he was observed to change colour and stagger; a smothered groan escaped him, and he fell back in a chair; and in a state scarcely conscious of existence, the box was taken from his pocket. He remained in this state of stupor for a few moments, whilst Bradbury and the peace-officer stood looking at each other, scarcely believing the evidence of their senses; and recovering himself a little, he stood up, gazed wildly at one and then at the other, and gasping with the intensity of his feelings, he rushed to his dressing-table, and like lightning drew a razor across his throat. Surgical assistance being on the spot, the wound was first pronounced not to be mortal. The effect of the scene—the look of the man—his maniac look, and the act or desperation accompanying it—his rank in life, and every circumstance connected with it, had such an effect on poor Bradbury that he lost his reason, and did not recover it for a year afterwards. The matter could not be kept a secret. The truly unfortunate and miserable Captain C—— of course lost his commission, and it is not known what afterwards became of him. There was, however, no prosecution. The punishment was sufficient.