I had almost forgotten the Southampton Tavern. We for some time took C{{{1}}} for a lawyer, from a
fugacious of followers, of the arts by which he had left the City to lure the patients that he wanted after him to the West-End, of the ounce of tea that he purchased by stratagem as an unusual treat to his guest, and of the narrow winding staircase, from the height of which he contemplated in security the imaginary approach of duns. He was a large, plain, fair-faced Moravian preacher, turned physician. He was an honest man, but vain of he knew not what. He was once sitting where Sarratt was playing a game at chess without seeing the board; and after remaining for some time absorbed in silent wonder, he turned suddenly to me and said, “Do you know, Mr. Hazlitt, that I think there is something I could do?” “Well, what is that?” “Why, perhaps you would not guess, but I think I could dance, I’m sure I could; ay, I could dance like Vestris!” Sarratt, who was a man of various accomplishments (among others one of the Fancy,) afterwards bared his arm to convince us of his muscular strength, and Mrs. L{{{1}}} going out of the room with another lady said, “Do you know, Madam, the Doctor is a great jumper!” Moliere could not outdo this. Never shall I forget his pulling off his coat to eat beef-steaks on equal terms with Martin Burney. Life is short, but full of mirth and pastime, did we not so soon forget what we have laughed at, perhaps that we may not remember what we have cried at!—Sarratt, the chess-player, was an extraordinary man. He had the same tenacious, epileptic faculty in other things that he had at chess, and could no more get any other ideas out of his mind than he could those of the figures on the board. He was a great reader, but had not the least taste. Indeed the violence of his memory tyrannised over and destroyed all power
