Chapter LXXIII: Letter 228: To Mr. Moore

"Terrace, Piccadilly, October 31. 1815.

"I have not been able to ascertain precisely the time of duration
of the stock market; but I believe it is a good time for selling
out, and I hope so. First, because I shall see you; and, next,
because I shall receive certain monies on behalf of Lady B., the
which will materially conduce to my comfort,--I wanting (as the
duns say) 'to make up a sum.'

"Yesterday, I dined out with a large-ish party, where were Sheridan
and Colman, Harry Harris of C. G, and his brother, Sir Gilbert
Heathcote, Ds. Kinnaird, and others, of note and notoriety. Like
other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then talky, then
argumentative, then disputatious, then unintelligible, then
altogethery, then inarticulate, and then drunk. When we had reached
the last step of this glorious ladder, it was difficult to get down
again without stumbling; and to crown all, Kinnaird and I had to
conduct Sheridan down a d----d corkscrew staircase, which had
certainly been constructed before the discovery of fermented
liquors, and to which no legs, however crooked, could possibly
accommodate themselves. We deposited him safe at home, where his
man, evidently used to the business, waited to receive him in the
hall.

"Both he and Colman were, as usual, very good; but I carried away
much wine, and the wine had previously carried away my memory; so
that all was hiccup and happiness for the last hour or so, and I am
not impregnated with any of the conversation. Perhaps you heard of
a late answer of Sheridan to the watchman who found him bereft of
that 'divine particle of air,' called reason, * * *. He, the
watchman, who found Sherry in the street, fuddled and bewildered,
and almost insensible. 'Who are _you_, sir? '--no answer. 'What's
your name?'--a hiccup. 'What's your name?'--Answer, in a slow,
deliberate and impassive tone--'Wilberforce!!!' Is not that Sherry
all over?--and, to my mind, excellent. Poor fellow, _his_ very
dregs are better than the 'first sprightly runnings' of others.

"My paper is full, and I have a grievous headach.

"P.S. Lady B. is in full progress. Next month will bring to light
(with the aid of 'Juno Lucina, _fer opem_,' or rather _opes_, for
the last are most wanted,) the tenth wonder of the world--Gil Blas
being the eighth, and he (my son's father) the ninth."

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