Originally published in the _Morning Post_ for 1834; afterwards
included in his _Essays_.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied.--_Dryden_.
It has frequently been observed that genius and madness are nearly
allied; that very great talents are seldom found unaccompanied by a
touch of insanity, and that there are few Bedlamites who will not,
upon a close examination, display symptoms of a powerful, though ruined
intellect. According to this hypothesis, the flowers of Parnassus must
be blended with the drugs of Anticyra; and the man who feels himself to
be in possession of very brilliant wits may conclude that he is within
an ace of running out of them. Whether this be true or false, we are
not at present disposed to contradict the assertion. What we wish to
notice is the pains which many young men take to qualify themselves for
Bedlam, by hiding a good, sober, gentlemanlike understanding beneath an
assumption of thoughtlessness and whim. It is the received opinion
among many that a man's talents and abilities are to be rated by the
quantity of nonsense he utters per diem, and the number of follies he
runs into per annum. Against this idea we must enter our protest; if we
concede that every real genius is more or less a madman, we must not be
supposed to allow that every sham madman is more or less a genius.
In the days of our ancestors, the hot-blooded youth who threw away his
fortune at twenty-one, his character at twenty-two, and his life at
twenty-three, was termed "a good fellow", "an honest fellow", "nobody's
enemy but his own". In our time the name is altered; and the
fashionable who squanders his father's estate, or murders his best
friend--who breaks his wife's heart at the gaming-table, and his own
neck at a steeple-chase--escapes the sentence which morality would pass
upon him, by the plea of lunacy. "He was a rascal," says Common-Sense.
"True," says the World; "but he was mad, you know--quite mad."
We were lately in company with a knot of young men who were discussing
the character and fortunes of one of their own body, who was, it seems,
distinguished for his proficiency in the art of madness. "Harry," said
a young sprig of nobility, "have you heard that Charles is in the
King's Bench?" "I heard it this morning," drawled the Exquisite; "how
distressing! I have not been so hurt since poor Angelica (his bay mare)
broke down. Poor Charles has been too flighty." "His wings will be
clipped for the future!" observed young Caustic. "He has been very
imprudent," said young Candour.
I inquired of whom they were speaking. "Don't you know Charles Gally?"
said the Exquisite, endeavouring to turn in his collar. "Not know
Charles Gally?" he repeated, with an expression of pity. "He is the
best fellow breathing; only lives to laugh and make others laugh:
drinks his two bottles with any man, and rides the finest mare I ever
saw--next to my Angelica. Not know Charles Gally? Why, everybody knows
him! He is so amusing! Ha! ha! And tells such admirable stories! Ha!
ha! Often have they kept me awake"--a yawn--"when nothing else could."
"Poor fellow!" said his lordship; "I understand he's done for ten
thousand!" "I never believe more than half what the world says,"
observed Candour. "He that has not a farthing," said Caustic, "cares
little whether he owes ten thousand or five." "Thank Heaven!" said
Candour, "that will never be the case with Charles: he has a fine
estate in Leicestershire." "Mortgaged for half its value," said his
lordship. "A large personal property!" "All gone in annuity bills,"
said the Exquisite. "A rich uncle upwards of fourscore!" "He'll cut him
off with a shilling," said Caustic.
"Let us hope he may reform," sighed the Hypocrite; "and sell the pack,"
added the Nobleman; "and marry," continued the Dandy. "Pshaw!" cried
the Satirist, "he will never get rid of his habits, his hounds, or his
horns." "But he has an excellent heart," said Candour. "Excellent,"
repeated his lordship unthinkingly. "Excellent," lisped the Fop
effeminately. "Excellent," exclaimed the Wit ironically. We took this
opportunity to ask by what means so excellent a heart and so bright a
genius had contrived to plunge him into these disasters. "He was my
friend," replied his lordship, "and a man of large property; but he was
mad--quite mad. I remember his leaping a lame pony over a stone wall,
simply because Sir Marmaduke bet him a dozen that he broke his neck in
the attempt; and sending a bullet through a poor pedlar's pack because
Bob Darrell said the piece wouldn't carry so far." "Upon another
occasion," began the Exquisite, in his turn, "he jumped into a
horse-pond after dinner, in order to prove it was not six feet deep;
and overturned a bottle of eau-de-cologne in Lady Emilia's face, to
convince me that she was not painted. Poor fellow! The first experiment
cost him a dress, and the second an heiress." "I have heard," resumed
the Nobleman, "that he lost his election for ---- by lampooning the
mayor; and was dismissed from his place in the Treasury for challenging
Lord C----." "The last accounts I heard of him," said Caustic, "told me
that Lady Tarrel had forbid him her house for driving a sucking-pig
into her drawing-room; and that young Hawthorn had run him through for
boasting of favours from his sister!" "These gentlemen are really too
severe," remarked young Candour to us. "Not a jot," we said to
ourselves.
"This will be a terrible blow for his sister," said a young man who had
been listening in silence. "A fine girl--a very fine girl," said the
Exquisite. "And a fine fortune," said the Nobleman; "the mines of Peru
are nothing to her." "Nothing at all," observed the Sneerer; "she has
no property there. But I would not have you caught, Harry; her income
was good, but is dipped, horribly dipped. Guineas melt very fast when
the cards are put by them." "I was not aware Maria was a gambler,"
said the young man, much alarmed. "Her brother is, sir," replied his
informant. The querist looked sorry, but yet relieved. We could see
that he was not quite disinterested in his inquiries. "However,"
resumed the young Cynic, "his profusion has at least obtained him many
noble and wealthy friends." He glanced at his hearers, and went on: "No
one that knew him will hear of his distresses without being forward to
relieve them. He will find interest for his money in the hearts of his
friends." Nobility took snuff; Foppery played with his watch-chain;
Hypocrisy looked grave. There was long silence. We ventured to regret
the misuse of natural talents, which, if properly directed, might have
rendered their possessor useful to the interests of society and
celebrated in the records of his country. Everyone stared, as if we
were talking Hebrew. "Very true," said his lordship, "he enjoys great
talents. No man is a nicer judge of horseflesh. He beats me at
billiards, and Harry at picquet; he's a dead shot at a button, and can
drive his curricle-wheels over a brace of sovereigns." "Radicalism,"
says Caustic, looking round for a laugh. "He is a great amateur of
pictures," observed the Exquisite, "and is allowed to be quite a
connoisseur in beauty; but there," simpering, "everyone must claim the
privilege of judging for themselves." "Upon my word," said Candour,
"you allow poor Charles too little. I have no doubt he has great
courage--though, to be sure, there was a whisper that young Hawthorn
found him rather shy; and I am convinced he is very generous, though I
must confess that I have it from good authority that his younger
brother was refused the loan of a hundred when Charles had pigeoned
that fool of a nabob but the evening before. I would stake my existence
that he is a man of unshaken honour--though, when he eased Lieutenant
Hardy of his pay, there certainly was an awkward story about the
transaction, which was never properly cleared up. I hope that when
matters are properly investigated he will be liberated from all his
embarrassments; though I am sorry to be compelled to believe that he
has been spending double the amount of his income annually. But I trust
that all will be adjusted. I have no doubt upon the subject." "Nor I,"
said Caustic. "We shall miss him prodigiously at the Club," said the
Dandy, with a slight shake of the head. "What a bore!" replied the
Nobleman, with a long yawn. We could hardly venture to express
compassion for a character so despicable. Our auditors, however,
entertained very different opinions of right and wrong! "Poor fellow!
he was much to be pitied: had done some very foolish things--to say the
truth was a sad scoundrel--but then he was always so mad." And having
come unanimously to this decision, the conclave dispersed.
Charles gave an additional proof of his madness within a week after
this discussion by swallowing laudanum. The verdict of the coroner's
inquest confirmed the judgment of his four friends. For our own parts
we must pause before we give in to so dangerous a doctrine. Here is a
man who has outraged the laws of honour, the ties of relationship, and
the duties of religion: he appears before us in the triple character of
a libertine, a swindler, and a suicide. Yet his follies, his vices, his
crimes, are all palliated or even applauded by this specious _façon de
parler_--"He was mad--quite mad!"