whom he lived much, there was one who was always complaining of ill-health and low spirits without being able to assign any particular malady as the cause. One evening at Hayman’s club, it was mentioned that this maladie imaginaire had been married the day before. “Is he! and be dd to him!” said Hayman; “now he’ll know what ails him!”—(From Sir J. Reynolds.)
Mendez, the Jew poet, sat to him for his picture, but requested he would not put it in his show-room, as he wished to keep the matter a secret. However, as Hayman had but little business in portraits, he could not afford to let his new work remain in obscurity, so out it went with the few others that he had to display. A new picture being a rarity in Hayman’s room, the first friend that came in took notice of it and asked whose portrait it was? “Mendez’.” “Good heavens!” said the friend, “you are wonderfully out of luck here. It has not a trait of his countenance.” “Why, to tell you the truth,” said the painter, “he desired it might not be known.”
The present Duke of Marlborough has been always remarkably shy and reserved. Among other small talents that he possesses he plays Quinze uncommonly well. He told Sir J. Reynolds one day, when speaking of the defect in himself already mentioned, of which he is very sensible, that having once made a master-stroke at that game by which he should have made a hundred pounds, he put his cards into the heap, and lost what he had set on them, knowing that if he had shown them, which
