"Sheridan," observed C----, "amounts, in my idea, to a perfect wit, at once keen and polished; nothing of either violence or virulence--nothing of the sabre or the saw; his weapon is the stiletto, fine as a needle, yet it strikes home." "_Apropos_," said the prince, "does any one know whether there is to be a debate this evening? He was to have dined here. What can have happened to him?" "What always happens to him," said one of the party; "he has postponed it. Ask Sheridan for Monday at seven, and you will have him next week on Tuesday at eight. 'Procrastination is the thief of time,' to him more than, I suppose, any other man living." "At all events," said H----, "it is the only thief that Sheridan has to fear. His present condition defies all the skill of larceny. He is completely in the position of Horace's traveller--he might sing in a forest of felons." At this moment the sound of a post-chaise was heard rushing up the avenue, and Sheridan soon made his appearance. He was received by the prince with evident gladness, and by all the table with congratulations on his having arrived at all. He was abundant in apologies; among the rest "his carriage had broken down halfway--he had been compelled to spend the morning with Charles Fox--he had been subpoenaed on the trial of one of the Scottish conspirators--he had been summoned on a committee of a contested election." The prince smiled sceptically enough at this succession of causes to produce the single effect of being an hour behind-hand. "The prince bows at every new excuse," said H---- at my side, "as Boileau took off his hat at every plagiarism in his friend's comedy--on the score of old acquaintance. If one word of all this is true, it may be the breaking down of his post-chaise, and even that he probably broke down for the sake of the excuse. Sheridan could not walk from the door to the dinner-table without a stratagem."