been the life and soul, though Sheridan's production of his own poem at the end of the play which was then running, as an independent performance and sacrifice to the manes of his predecessor, was a novelty on the stage. It was partly said and partly sung, and must have been on the whole a curious interlude in its solemnity amid the bustle and animation of the evening's performance. As a poem it is not remarkable, but it is the most considerable of Sheridan's productions in that way. The most characteristic point in it is the complaint of the evanescence of an actor's fame and reputation, which was very appropriate to the moment, though perhaps too solemn for the occasion. After recording the honours paid to the poet and painter, he contrasts their lasting fame with the temporary reputation of the heroes of the stage:

"The actor only shrinks from time's award;
Feeble tradition is his mem'ry's guard;

By whose faint breath his merits must abide,
Unvouch'd by proof-to substance unallied!
E'en matchless Garrick's art to heaven resign'á,
No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind!
The grace of action, the adapted mien,
Faithful as nature to the varied scene;

The expressive glance whose subtle comment draws
Entranced attention and a mute applause;
Gesture which marks, with force and feeling fraught,
A sense in silence and a will in thought;
Harmonious speech whose pure and liquid tone
Gives verse a music scarce confess'd its own.

*

All perishable! like th' electric fire,

But strike the frame-and as they strike expire;
Incense too pure a bodied flame to bear,

Its fragrance charms the sense and blends with air.

Where, then-while sunk in cold decay he lies,
And pale eclipse for ever seals those eyes-
Where is the blest memorial that ensures
Our Garrick's fame?

Whose is the trust ?-'tis yours!"

No one would grudge Garrick all the honour that could be paid him on the stage where he had been so important a figure. But that the fame of the actor should be like incense which melts in the air and dies is very natural, notwithstanding Sheridan's protest. The poetry which inspires him is not his, nor the sentiments to which he gives expression. He is but an interpreter; he has no claim of originality upon our admiration. But Garrick, if any man, has had a reputation of the permanent kind. His name is as well known as that of Pope or Samuel Johnson. His generation, and the many notable persons in it, gave him a sort of worship in his day. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, his pall borne by noble peers, thirty-four mourning coaches in all the panoply of woe following, "while the streets were lined with groups of spectators falling in with the train as it reached the Abbey." And up to this day we have not forgotten Garrick. He died in 1779, just four years after the beginning of Sheridan's connection with the theatre. The Monody came in between the School for Scandal and The Critic, the keenest satire and laughter alternating with the dirge, which, however, was only permitted for a few nights-the audience in general have something else to do than to amuse itself by weeping over the lost.

It must have been shortly after this solemn performance that the theatre found a more suitable manager in the person of King, the actor; and though Sheridan never ceased to harass and drain it, yet the business of every day began to go on in a more regular manner. His father

retired from the head of affairs, and he had, fortunately, too much to do cultivating pleasure and society to attempt this additional work-even with the assistance of his Betsey, who seems to have done him faithful service through all these early years. He was still but twenty-nine when his growing acquaintance with statesmen and interest in political affairs opened to the brilliant young man, whom everybody admired, the portals of a more important world.

CHAPTER IV.

PUBLIC LIFE.

WHILE Sheridan was completing his brief career in literature, and bringing fortune and fame to one theatre after another by the short series of plays, each an essay of a distinct kind in dramatic composition, which we have discussed, his position had been gradually changing. It had been from the beginning, according to all rules of reason, a perfectly untenable position. When he established himself in London with his beautiful young wife they had neither means nor prospects to justify the life which they immediately began to lead, making their house, which had no feasible means of support, into a sort of little social centre, and collecting about it a crowd of acquaintances, much better off than they, out of that indefinite mass of society which is always ready to go where good talk and good music are to be had, to amuse themselves at the cost of the rash entertainers, who probably believe they are "making friends" when they expend all their best gifts upon an unscrupulous, though fashionable, mob. Nothing could be more unwarrantable than this outset upon an existence which was serious to neither of them, and in which wit and song were made the servants of a vague and shifting public which took everything and gave nothing. Society (in words) judges leniently the foolish victims who thus

immolate themselves for its pleasure, giving them credit for generosity and other liberal virtues; but it is to be feared that the excitement of high animal spirits, and the love of commotion and applause, have more to do with their folly than kindness for their fellow-creatures. The two young

Sheridans had both been brought up in an atmosphere of publicity, and to both of them an admiring audience was a sort of necessity of nature. And it is so easy to believe, and far easier then than now, that to "make good friends" is to make your fortune. Sheridan was more fortunate than it is good for our moral to admit any man to be. His rashness, joined to his brilliant social qualities, seemed at first-even before dramatic fame came in to make assurance sure-likely to attain the reward for which he hoped, and to bring the world to his feet. But such success, if for the moment both brilliant and sweet, has a Nemesis from whose clutches few escape.

It is evident that there were some connections of his boyish days, Harrow schoolfellows, who had not forgotten him, or were ready enough to resume old acquaintanceand gay companions of the holiday period of Bath, among whom was no less a person than Windham-who helped him to the friendship of others still more desirable. Lord John Townshend, one of these early friends, brought him acquainted with the most intimate and distinguished of his after-associates-the leader with whom the most important part of his life was identified. It was, thus that he formed the friendship of Fox:

"I made [Townshend writes] the first dinner-party at which they met, having told Fox that all the notions he might have conceived of Sheridan's talents and genius from the comedy of The Rivals, etc., would fall infinitely short of the admiration of his astonishing powers which I was sure he would entertain at the first interview. The