FullReads

Whereas mankind in general are observed to warp their speculative conclusions to the bent of their individual humours, his theories are sure to be in diametrical opposition to his constitution. He is courageous as Charles of Sweden, upon instinct; chary of his person, upon principle, as a travelling Quaker.–He has been preaching up to me, all my life, the doctrine of bowing to the great–the necessity of forms, and manner, to a man’s getting on in the world. He himself never aims at either, that I can discover,–and has a spirit, that would stand upright in the presence of the Cham of Tartary. It is pleasant to hear him discourse of patience–extolling it as the truest wisdom–and to see him during the last seven minutes that his dinner is getting ready. Nature never ran up in her haste a more restless piece of workmanship than when she moulded this impetuous cousin–and Art never turned out a more elaborate orator than he can display himself to be, upon his favourite topic of the advantages of quiet, and contentedness in the state, whatever it may be, that we are placed in. He is triumphant on this theme, when he has you safe in one of those short stages that ply for the western road, in a very obstructing manner, at the foot of John Murray’s street–where you get in when it is empty, and are expected to wait till the vehicle hath completed her just freight–a trying three quarters of an hour to some people. He wonders at your fidgetiness,–“where could we be better than we are, thus silting, thus consulting?“–“prefers, for his part, a state of rest to locomotion,”–with an eye all the while upon the coachman–till at length, waxing out of all patience, at your want of it, he breaks out into a pathetic remonstrance at the fellow for detaining us so long over the time which he had professed, and declares peremptorily, that “the gentleman in the coach is determined to get out, if he does not drive on that instant.”

Very quick at inventing an argument, or detecting a sophistry, he is incapable of attending you in any chain of arguing. Indeed he makes wild work with logic; and seems to jump at most admirable conclusions by some process, not at all akin to it. Consonantly enough to this, he hath been heard to deny, upon certain occasions, that there exists such a faculty at all in man as reason; and wondereth how man came first to have a conceit of it–enforcing his negation with all the might of reasoning he is master of. He has some speculative notions against laughter, and will maintain that laughing is not natural to him–when peradventure the next moment his lungs shall crow like Chanticleer. He says some of the best things in the world–and declareth that wit is his aversion. It was he who said, upon seeing the Eton boys at play in their grounds–What a pity to think, that these fine ingenuous lads in a few years will all be changed into frivolous Members of Parliament!

His youth was fiery, glowing, tempestuous–and in age he discovereth no symptom of cooling. This is that which I admire in him. I hate people who meet Time half-way. I am for no compromise with that inevitable spoiler. While he lives, J.E. will take his swing.–It does me good, as I walk towards the street of my daily avocation, on some fine May morning, to meet him marching in a quite opposite direction, with a jolly handsome presence, and shining sanguine face, that indicates some purchase in his eye–a Claude–or a Hobbima–for much of his enviable leisure is consumed at Christie’s, and Phillips’s–or where not, to pick up pictures, and such gauds. On these occasions he mostly stoppeth me, to read a short lecture on the advantage a person like me possesses above himself, in having his time occupied with business which he must do–assureth me that he often feels it hang heavy on his hands–wishes he had fewer holidays–and goes off–Westward Ho!–chanting a tune, to Pall Mall–perfectly convinced that he has convinced me–while I proceed in my opposite direction tuneless.