society. That the musician and his wife might have entertained hopes or even allowed themselves to be betrayed into not entirely unjustifiable schemings to marry their beautiful child to somebody who would raise her into a higher sphere, may well be believed. One such plan, indeed, it is evident did exist, which the poor girl herself foiled by making an artless confession to the man whom her parents had determined she should marry-" Mr. Long, an old gentleman of considerable fortune," who had the magnanimity to take upon himself the burden of breaking the engagement, and closed the indignant father's mouth by settling a little fortune of £3000 upon the young lady.

A danger escaped in this way, however, points to many other pitfalls among which her young feet had to tread, and one at least of a far more alarming kind has secured for itself a lasting place in her future husband's history. There is a curious letter' extant, which is printed in all Sheridan's biographies, and in which Eliza gives an account to a dear friend and confidant of the toils woven around her by one of her father's visitors, a certain Captain Matthews, who, though a married man and much older than herself, had beguiled the simple girl into a prolonged and clandestine sentimental correspondence. The sophisticated reader, glancing at this quaint production, without thought of the circumstances or the person, would probably conclude that there was harm in it, which it is very certain from all that is said and done besides did not exist; but the girl in her innocence evidently felt that the stolen intercourse, the whisperings aside, the man's prot

1 Mrs. Norton, in a preliminary sketch to an intended history of the Sheridans, never written, denies the authenticity of this letter with a somewhat ill-directed family pride; but no doubt has been thrown upon it by any of Sheridan's biographers.

estations of fondness, and despair if she withdrew from him, and her own half-flattered, half-frightened attraction towards him, were positive guilt. The letter, indeed, is Lydia Languish from beginning to end-the Lydia Languish of real life without any genius to trim her utterance into just as much as is needful and characteristic—and in consequence is somewhat tedious, long-winded, and confused; but her style, something between Clarissa Harlowe and Julia Mannering, is quite appropriate at once to the revelation and the period. The affair to which her letter refers has occupied far too much space, we think, in the story of Sheridan's life, yet it is a curious exposition of the time, the class, and the locality. The Maid of Bath, as she was called, had many adorers. Young Halhed, young Charles Sheridan-neither of them with much to offer-followed her steps wherever she moved, and applauded to the echo every note she sang, as did many another adorer; while within the busy and full house the middle-aged visitor, her father's so-called friend, had a hundred opportunities for a whispered word, a stolen caress, half permissible for the sake of old friendship, and because, no doubt, he had known her from a child. But even at sixteen the eyes of a girl accustomed to so many tributes would soon be opened, and the poor Lydia became alarmed by the warmth of her half-paternal lover and by the secrecy of his communications. This was her position at the time the Sheridans appear upon the scene.

The new influence immediately began to tell. Miss Linley and Miss Sheridan became devoted friends—and the two brothers" on our first acquaintance both professed to love me." She gave them no hope "that I should ever look upon them in any other light than as brothers of my friend," but yet "preferred the youngest,"

as "by far the most agreeable in person, beloved by every one, and greatly respected by all the better sort of people." Richard Sheridan, it would seem, immediately assumed the position of the young lady's secret guardian. He made friends with Matthews, became even intimate with him, and thus discovered the villanous designs which he entertained; while, on the other hand, he obtained the confidence of the lady, and became her chief adviser. It was a curious position for a young man-but he was very young, very poor, without any prospects that could justify him in entering the lists on his own account; and while he probably succeeded in convincing Miss Linley that his love for her was subdued into friendship, he seems to have been able to keep his secret from all his competitors, and not to have been suspected by any of them. In the heat of the persecution by Matthews, who resisted all her attempts to shake off his society, frightening her by such old-fashioned expedients as threatening his own life, and declaring that he could not live without seeing her, incessant consultations were necessary with the young champion who knew the secret, and whose advice and countenance were continually appealed to. No doubt they met daily in the ordinary course at each other's houses; but romance made it desirable that they should find a secret spot where Eliza could confide her troubles to Richard, and he warn her and encourage her in her resistance. "A grotto in Sydney Gardens" is reported to have been the scene of these meetings. On one occasion the anxious adviser must have urged his warnings too far, or insisted too warmly upon the danger of her position, for she left him angrily, resenting his interference; and this was the occasion of the verses addressed to Delia which he left upon the seat of the grotto for her, with an apparently well-justified but

somewhat rash confidence that they would fall into no other hands. In this, after celebrating the "moss-covered grotto of stone" and the dew-dripping willow that overshadows it, he unfolds the situation as follows:

"This is the grotto where Delia reclined,

As late I in secret her confidence sought;
And this is the tree kept her safe from the wind,
As, blushing, she heard the grave lesson I taught.

"Then tell me, thou grotto of moss-covered stone;

And tell me, thou willow with leaves dripping dew,
Did Delia seem vexed when Horatio was gone,

And did she confess her resentment to you?

"Methinks now each bough as you're waving it tries
To whisper a cause for the sorrow I feel,
To hint how she frowned when I dared to advise,
And sigh'd when she saw that I did it with zeal.

"True, true, silly leaves, so she did, I allow;

She frowned, but no rage in her looks did I see;
She frowned, but reflection had clouded her brow;
She sigh'd, but perhaps 'twas in pity for me.

"For well did she know that my heart meant no wrong

It sank at the thought but of giving her pain;

But trusted its task to a faltering tongue,

Which err'd from the feelings it could not explain.

"Yet oh! if indeed I've offended the maid,
If Delia my humble monition refuse,

Sweet willow, the next time she visits thy shade,
Fan gently her bosom, and plead its excuse.

And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve
Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew;
And just let them fall at her feet, and they'll serve
As tears of my sorrow intrusted to you."

This is not very fine poetry; but it is very instructive as to the curious complication of affairs. It would not have suited Captain Absolute to play such a part; but Lydia Languish, amid all the real seriousness of the dilemma, no doubt would have derived a certain comfort from the romantic circumstances altogether-the villain, on one hand, threatening to lay his death at her door; the modest, self-suppressed adorer, on the other, devoting himself to her service; the long, confidential conferences in the dark and damp little shelter behind the willow; the verses left on the seat-nothing could have been more delightful to a romantic imagination.

But the excitement heightened as time went on; and the poor girl was so harassed and persecuted by the man whose suit was a scandal, that she tried at last, she tells us, to take poison, as the only way of escape for her, searching for and finding in Miss Sheridan's room a small phial of laudanum, which had been used for an aching tooth, and which was too small apparently to do any harm. After this tremendous evidence of her miserable state, Sheridan, who would seem to have confined himself hitherto to warnings and hints, now disclosed the full turpitude of Matthews's intentions, and showed her a letter in which the villain announced that he had determined to proceed to strong measures, and if he could not overcome her by pleadings meant to carry her off by force. "The moment I read this horrid letter I fainted, and it was some time before I could recover my senses sufficiently to thank Mr. Sheridan for opening my eyes." But the question now was, what was to be done? For the poor girl seems to have had no confidence in her father's power of protecting her, and probably knew the inexpediency of embroiling him with his patrons. The two young creatures laid