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