As Mr. Sheridan was coming up to town in one of the public coaches for the purpose of canvassing Westminster, at the time when Paull was his opponent, he found himself in company with two Westminster electors. In the course of the conversation, one of them asked the other to whom he meant to give his vote? When his friend replied, “To Paull, certainly; for though I think him but a shabby sort of fellow, I would vote for any one rather than that rascal Sheridan!”
“Do you know Sheridan?” asked the stranger.
“Not I, sir,” answered the gentleman, “nor should I wish to know him.”
The conversation dropped here; but when the party alighted to breakfast, Sheridan called aside the one gentleman, and said, —
“Pray who is that very agreeable friend of yours? He is one of the pleasantest fellows I ever met with, and I should be glad to know his name?”
“His name is Mr. T – : he is an eminent lawyer, and resides in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
Breakfast over, the party resumed their seats in the coach; soon after which, Sheridan turned the discourse to the law. “It is,” said he, “a fine profession. Men may rise from it to the highest eminence in the state; and it gives vast scope to the display of talent: many of the most virtuous and noble characters recorded in our history have been lawyers. I am sorry, however, to add, that some of the greatest rascals have been lawyers; but of all the rascals of lawyers I ever heard of, the greatest is one Mr. T – , who lives in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
“I am Mr. T – ,” said the gentleman.
“And I am Mr. Sheridan,” was the reply.
The jest was instantly seen; they shook hands, and, instead of voting against the facetious orator, the lawyer exerted himself warmly in promoting his election.
A bully telling a gentleman, that in manhood and valour he came far behind him, “You are not far wrong,” answered the other; “the last time I fought with you, you ran away so fast that I could not overtake you, run as I might.”
The second Duke of Buckingham talking to Sir Robert Viner in a melancholy humour about his personal extravagance, “I am afraid, Sir Robert,” he said, “I shall die a beggar at last – the most terrible thing in the world.” “Upon my word, my lord,” answered the mayor, “there is another thing more terrible which you have reason to apprehend, and that is, that you will live a beggar at the rate you go on.”
One coming into a cathedral, where the choir consisted of very bad voices, said, that the prophecy of Amos was fulfilled; “and the songs of the temple shall be howlings.”
The dissenters waited upon Lord Thurlow by appointment, to request his vote for the repeal of the test act. After he had heard their sentiments in a long harangue, with more than his ordinary patience, when the speech was concluded, he thus addressed them: – “Gentlemen, you have requested me to vote for the repeal of the test act. I shall not vote for it. I do not care whether your religion or mine has the ascendancy, or whether any religion or none; but as I know when you were uppermost, you kept us down; so now that we are uppermost, we will, by the help of God, keep you where you are.”
Sheridan took his son one day to task upon his celibacy, and strongly urged that he should take a wife. “Very well, father,” answered Tom, “whose wife shall I take?”
In a cathedral, one day after service, the bellows-blower said to the organist, “I think we have done very well to-day.” “We!” said the organist, in no small surprise at the impudence of his menial, “how can you pretend to have any merit in the performance? Never let me hear you say such a thing again.” The man said nothing more at the time, but when they were next playing, he suddenly intermitted in his task of inflating the organ. The organist rose in wrath to order him to proceed, when the fellow thrusting his head out from behind the curtain, asked slily, “Shall it be we then?”
A lady, who, by virtue of an immense fortune, acquired by her father in the profession of a pawnbroker, had married a poor nobleman, was shewing her new and elegantly furnished house to George Selwyn. Having led him from room to room, and displayed the whole of her rhetoric and taste, she at last threw open a pair of large folding doors that led into the grand saloon, which was superbly furnished, but contained no pictures. “Here, Mr. Selwyn,” said she, “I intend to hang up all my family.” “I thought,” replied George, “your ladyship might have spared yourself that trouble; for I always understood they were hung up long ago.”
A friend having pointed out to Sheridan, that Lord Kenyon had fallen asleep at the first representation of Pizarro, and that, too, in the midst of Rollo’s fine speech to the Peruvian soldiers, the dramatist felt rather mortified; but, instantly recovering his usual good humour, he said, “Ah poor man! let him sleep! he thinks he is on the bench.”
Sheridan sometimes met with his match, and that in quarters where it might have been least expected. He was one day endeavouring to cut a suit of new clothes out of a tailor’s shop in the city. Flattery was the weapon he employed. “Upon my word,” said he, “you are an excellent finisher; you beat our snips in the West End hollow. Why don’t you push your thimble amongst us? I’ll recommend you every where. Upon my honour your work does you infinite credit.” “Yes,” replied the artist, “I always take care that my work gives long credit, but the wearers ready money.”
A stammering Lord Deloraine, being in a cock-pit, and offering several bets, which he would have lost if he could have replied in time, at length offered ten pounds to a crown. A gambler who stood by, said, “Done;” but, his lordship’s fit of stuttering happening to seize him at that moment, he could not repeat the word “done” till the favourite cock was beat. “Confound your stuttering tongue!” cried the leg, “if you could speak like other folk, you would be ruined.”
Dunning the celebrated barrister, was addicted to the low and unpardonable vice of turning witnesses into ridicule at their examinations. One morning, he was telling Mr. Solicitor-General Lee that he had bought a few good manors in Devonshire, near his native village of Ashburton. “I wish,” said Lee, “you would bring some of them into Westminster Hall; for upon my honour, you have most need of them there.”
The first time the musical instrument called The Serpent was used in a concert where Handel presided, he was so much surprised with the coarseness of its tones, that he called out hastily, “Vat de devil is dat?” On being informed it was the serpent, he replied, “It never can be de serpent vat seduced Eve.”
About the time when Murphy so successfully attacked the stage-struck heroes in the pleasant farce of The Apprentice, an eminent poulterer went to a sporting-club in search of his servant, who, he understood, was that evening to make his debut in Lear; he entered the room at the moment when Dick was exclaiming, “I am the king – you cannot touch me for the coining!” “No, you dog,” cried the enraged master, catching the mad monarch by the collar; “but I can for not picking the ducks.”
A Frenchman, who had learnt English, wished to be particularly polite, and never neglected an opportunity of saying something pretty. One evening, he observed to Lady R – , whose dress was fawn-coloured, and that of her daughter pink, “Milady, your daughter is de pink of beauty.” “Ah monsieur, you Frenchmen always flatter.” “No madam, I only speak de truth, and what all de world will allow, dat your daughter is de pink, and your ladyship de drab of fashion!” It was with great difficulty that the Frenchman could be made to comprehend his sottise.
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