--as if all debts
incurred without hope of repayment were not dishonourable. A story is
told relative to the old-fashioned idea of a 'debt of honour.' A
tradesman, to whom he had given a bill for L200, called on him for the
amount. A heap of gold was lying on the table. 'Don't look that way,'
cried Sheridan, after protesting that he had not a penny in the world,
'that is to pay a debt of honour.' The applicant, with some wit, tore up
the bill he held. 'Now, Mr. Sheridan,' quoth he, 'mine is a debt of
honour too.' It is to be hoped that Sheridan handed him the money.

The story of Gunter's bill is not so much to his credit, Hanson, an
ironmonger, called upon him and pressed for payment. A bill sent in by
the famous confectioner was lying on the table. A thought struck the
debtor, who had no means of getting rid of his importunate applicant.
'You know Gunter?' he asked. 'One of the safest men in London,' replied
the ironmonger. 'Then will you be satisfied if I give you his _bill_ for
the amount?'--'Certainly.' Thereupon Sheridan handed him the neatly
folded account and rushed from the room, leaving the creditor to
discover the point of Mr. Sheridan's little fun.

Still Sheridan might have weathered through the storm. Drury Lane was a
mine of wealth to him, and with a little care might have been really
profitable. The lawsuits, the debts, the engagements upon it, all rose
from his negligence and extravagance. But Old Drury was doomed. On the
24th February, 1809, soon after the conclusion of the performances, it
was announced to be in flames. Rather it announced itself. In a few
moments it was blazing--a royal bonfire. Sheridan was in the House of
Commons at the time. The reddened clouds above London threw the glare
back even to the windows of the House. The members rushed from their
seats to see the unwonted light, and in consideration for Sheridan, an
adjournment was moved. But he rose calmly, though sadly, and begged that
no misfortune of his should interrupt the public business. His
independence, he said--witty in the midst of his troubles--had often
been questioned, but was now confirmed, for he had nothing more to
depend upon. He then left the House, and repaired to the scene of
conflagration.

Not long after, Kelly found him sitting quite composed in 'The Bedford,'
sipping his wine, as if nothing had happened. The musician expressed his
astonishment at Mr. Sheridan's _sang froid_. 'Surely,' replied the wit,
'you'l