[20]. I have said somewhere, that all professions that do not make money breed are careless and extravagant. This is not true of lawyers, &c. I ought to have said that this is the case with all those that by the regularity of their returns do not afford a prospect of realizing an independence by frugality and industry.
[21]. ‘Il a manqué au plus grand philosophe qu’aient eu les Francais, de vivre dans quelque solitude des Alpes, dans quelque séjour éloigné, et de lancer delà son livre dans Paris sans y venir jamais lui-même. Rousseau avait trop de sensibilité et trop peu de raison, Buffon trop d’hypocrisie à son jardin des plantes, Voltaire trop d’enfantillage dans la tête, pour pouvoir juger le principe d’Helvétius,’—De l’Amour, tom. 2. p. 230.
My friend Mr. Beyle here lays too much stress on a borrowed verbal fallacy.
[22]. Waverley, vol. iii. p. 201.
[23]. This lady is not, it is true, at Covent Garden: I wish she were!
[24]. ‘Mais vois la rapidité de cet astre qui vole et ne s’arrête jamais.’—New Eloise.
[25]. The thoughts of a captive can no more get beyond his prison-walls than his limbs, unless they are busied in planning an escape; as, on the contrary, what prisoner, after effecting his escape, ever suffered them to return there, or took common precautions to prevent his own? We indulge our fancy more than we consult our interest. The sense of personal identity has almost as little influence in practice as it has foundation in theory.
[26]. Taylor, of the Opera-House, used to say of Sheridan, that he could not pull off his hat to him in the street without its costing him fifty pounds; and if he stopped to speak to him, it was a hundred. No one could be a stronger instance than he was of what is called living from hand to mouth. He was always in want of money, though he received vast sums which he must have disbursed; and yet nobody can tell what became of them, for he paid nobody. He spent his wife’s fortune (sixteen hundred pounds) in a six weeks’ jaunt to Bath, and returned to town as poor as a rat. Whenever he and his son were invited out into the country, they always went in two post-chaises and four; he in one, and his son Tom following in another. This is the secret of those who live in a round of extravagance, and are at the same time always in debt and difficulty—they throw away all the ready money they get upon any newfangled whim or project that comes in their way, and never think of paying off old scores, which of course accumulate to a dreadful amount. ‘Such gain the cap of him who makes them fine, yet keeps his book uncrossed.’ Sheridan once wanted to take Mrs. Sheridan a very handsome dress down into the country, and went to Barber and Nunn’s to order it, saying he must have it by such a day, but promising they should have ready money. Mrs. Barber (I think it was) made answer that the time was short, but that ready money was a very charming thing, and that he should have it. Accordingly, at the time appointed she brought the dress, which came to five-and-twenty pounds, and it was sent in to Mr. Sheridan: who sent out a Mr. Grimm (one of his jackalls) to say he admired it exceedingly, and that he was sure Mrs. Sheridan would be delighted with it, but he was sorry to have nothing under a hundred pound bank-note in the house. She said she had come provided for such an accident, and could give change for a hundred, two hundred, or five hundred pound note, if it were necessary. Grimm then went back to his principal for farther instructions: who made an excuse that he had no stamped receipt by him. For this, Mrs. B. said, she was also provided; she had brought one in her pocket. At each message, she could hear them laughing heartily in the next room at the idea of having met with their match for once; and presently after, Sheridan came out in high good-humour, and paid her the amount of her bill, in ten, five, and one pounds. Once when a creditor brought him a bill for payment, which had often been presented before, and the man complained of its soiled and tattered state, and said he was quite ashamed to see it, ‘I’ll tell you what I’d advise you to do with it, my friend,’ said Sheridan, ‘take it home, and write it upon parchment!’ He once mounted a horse which a horse-dealer was shewing off near a coffee-house at the bottom of St. James’s-street, rode it to Tattersall’s, and sold it, and walked quietly back to the spot from which he set out. The owner was furious, swore he would be the death of him; and, in quarter of an hour afterwards they were seen sitting together over a bottle of wine in the coffee-house, the horse-jockey with the tears running down his face at Sheridan’s jokes, and almost ready to hug him as an honest fellow. Sheridan’s house and lobby were beset with duns every morning, who were told that Mr. Sheridan was not yet up, and shewn into the several rooms on each side of the entrance. As soon as he had breakfasted, he asked, ‘Are those doors all shut, John?’ and, being assured they were, marched out very deliberately between them, to the astonishment of his self-invited guests, who soon found the bird was flown. I have heard one of his old City friends declare, that such was the effect of his frank, cordial manner, and insinuating eloquence, that he was always afraid to go to ask him for a debt of long standing, lest he should borrow twice as much. A play had been put off one night, or a favourite actor did not appear, and the audience demanded to have their money back again: but when they came to the door, they were told by the check-takers there was none for them, for that Mr. Sheridan had been in the mean time, and had carried off all the money in the till. He used often to get the old cobbler who kept a stall under the ruins of Drury Lane to broil a beef-steak for him, and take their dinner together. On the night that Drury Lane was burnt down, Sheridan was in the House of Commons, making a speech, though he could hardly stand without leaning his hands on the table, and it was with some difficulty he was forced away, urging the plea, ‘What signified the concerns of a private individual, compared to the good of the state?’ When he got to Covent Garden, he went into the Piazza Coffee-house, to steady himself with another bottle, and then strolled out to the end of the Piazza to look at the progress of the fire. Here he was accosted by Charles Kemble and Fawcett, who complimented him on the calmness with which he seemed to regard so great a loss. He declined this praise, and said—‘Gentlemen, there are but three things in human life that in my opinion ought to disturb a wise man’s patience. The first of these is bodily pain, and that (whatever the ancient stoics may have said to the contrary) is too much for any man to bear without flinching: this I have felt severely, and I know it to be the case. The second is the loss of a friend whom you have dearly loved; that, gentlemen, is a great evil: this I have also felt, and I know it to be too much for any man’s fortitude. And the third is the consciousness of having done an unjust action. That, gentlemen, is a great evil, a very great evil, too much for any man to endure the reflection of; but that’ (laying his hand upon his heart,) ‘but that, thank God, I have never felt!’ I have been told that these were nearly the very words, except that he appealed to the mens conscia recti very emphatically three or four times over, by an excellent authority, Mr. Mathews the player, who was on the spot at the time, a gentleman whom the public admire deservedly, but with whose real talents and nice discrimination of character his friends only are acquainted. Sheridan’s reply to the watchman who had picked him up in the street, and who wanted to know who he was, ‘I am Mr. Wilberforce!’—is well known, and shews that, however frequently he might be at a loss for money, he never wanted wit!
[27]. In Scotland, it seems, the draught of ale or whiskey with which you commence the day, is emphatically called ‘taking your morning.’
[28]. Shylock’s lamentation over the loss of ‘his daughter and his ducats,’ is another case in point.