The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 45
A Sad List
A Sad List.
Oliver Goldsmith, one of the brightest ornaments of English literature, led a most wandering and erratic life. His greatest hindrance was his own love of drink, and such a spendthrift was he, that had it not been for the kindness of friends, he would have died of starvation. He lived in obscurity, and died in poverty.
George Morland, the painter, was accustomed to work with the brandy bottle ready to hand, by the side of his easel. So accustomed was he to this stimulant that he would frequently spend whole days and nights in revelling with the lowest characters, at some pothouse, and during the whole time he would drink spirits only. It was a common custom for unscrupulous picture dealers, who wished to obtain his productions, to sit by his side plying him with spirits until his task was finished, when the picture would be carried off in triumph for less than one-fourth of its value, and Morland would squander the proceeds in some low haunt. At an early age, he was stricken with paralysis, the result of intemperate habits, and died in poverty.
Sir Richard Steele, one of the originators of the Spectator and Tatler, was one of the first essayists of his time; but his intemperate dissipated habits often led him into such difficulties that sometimes he was compelled to walk the streets of London all night, not having the means to pay for a bed.
Theodore Hook was a popular humourist and a man of letters. He made thousands of pounds by his literary ability, but entered into dissipated pleasures to such a degree that be was worn out in his prime. Only a few days before his death, as he rose from dinner, he looked in the mirror, and said to those around him: Aye, I see I look as I am, done up in purse, in mind, and in body too, at last."
Porson, professor of Greek at Cambridge, was intemperate to the last degree. His attainments, in knowledge of the dead languages, were so extensive that he was a walking compendium of the classic authors. But he was frequently picked up in the street dead drunk, and died, at last, in a hospital, whither he was carried in a fit of apoplexy, induced by excessive drinking.
Alexander the Great was the conqueror of the known world; but he failed to conquer his own appetite for drink, and was by its means led to excesses which were disgraceful to him, not less as a man than as an emperor.
Philip, King of Macedonia, was renowned as a just and wise king. But one day a poor woman preferred a complaint before him, and received a most unjust and unrighteous answer. The reason for this was found in the fact that the king was drunk. "I appeal," said the woman. "Appeal!" returned the king, "to whom dost thou appeal?" "From Philip drunk to Philip sober," was her reply. To his honour, be it said, the king received this well-merited rebuke without resentment.
Brinsley Sheridan, dramatist and orator, whose impeachment of Warren Hastings will be quoted as long as the English language is spoken, as one of the greatest efforts of oratory, was an ardent worshipper of wine. Days of excitement and nights of intemperance shortened his career; and he was cut off in the prime of life—his wife and himself both dying at the same time.
Hartley Coleridge was a poet of some distinction, and a contributor to some of the leading magazines of the day. He might have achieved literary renown, but he dreamed his life away under the combined influence of opium and alcohol; conscious all the time of his folly, but making no determined effort to conquer it.
Robert Burns, the favourite poet of "auld Scotia," whose "Cottar's Saturday Night" will be remembered and quoted as long as a Scot draws breath, was cursed and hampered all his life long by his passion for strong drink. The man who sang in stirring tones, "A man's a man for a' that," forgot his manhood, and tarnished his own frame by the sin of intemperance. He died at the premature age o thirty-seven.
Lord Byron is another notable instance of this vice. Doubtless all our readers know his fame, and have some acquaintance with his productions, His biographers tell us of his indulgence in wine and spirits, and his diary confirms the woeful tale. Here is an extract:—"Wrote more of the tragedy. Took a glass of grog, and scribbled and scribbled again; my spirits need a little exhilaration, and I do not take laudanum now, as I used to do, so I have mixed a glass of strong water which I shall now proceed to employ. The effect of ale, wines, and spirits upon me, however, is strange. It settles, but it makes me gloomy." Lord Byron lived an intemperate and dissipated life. He might have done something worth living for; but he wasted his talents and wrecked his life, so that at the age of thirty-six, about a year before his death, he wrote, sadly and mournfully:
"My days are in the sere and yellow leaf,
Their bloom is gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone.