t 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 contriv