"Donner und blitzen!" cried the delighte_Bentley's Miscellany, Volume I

now!"

Alas for all sublunary pleasures!--alas for all worldly

convictions!--instead of his enemy being broken into a thousand pieces,

it was multiplied into a thousand pipes,--every one a facsimile of the

original, each possessing the same impertinent cock of the eye, each

disclosing the same satirical twist of the mouth, and all laughing like

a troop of hyenas, and shouting in chorus, "Smoke away! smoke away, old

boy!--capital tobacco!"

The patience of a Dutchman may be great, but the concentrated patience

of all Holland could not stand unmoved on so trying an occasion as that

which occurred to Jacob Kats. He saw his multitudinous tormentors form

into regular rank and file, and then, as if his mouth had been a breach

which he had "armed to the teeth," they presented their stems like so

many bayonets, and charged in military fashion, screaming, laughing,

and shouting, in a manner sufficiently terrible to scare the senses

out of all the cobblers in Christendom. Slowly the trembling wretch

retreated before the threatening phalanx; but he was surrounded--his

back was against the wall--there was no escape; and with one leap the

enemy were in the citadel. Extraordinary as it may appear, Jacob did

not lose his presence of mind. As they were all jostling, and giggling,

and crying out to be smoked, the unconquered cobbler firmly grasped the

whole mass of his foes in both his hands to make a last attempt at their

destruction, by throwing them into a tub of water, in which he soaked

his leather, that happened to be just within reach; but, in a manner

inexplicable to him, he felt that the more vigorously he grasped them

in a body, the more rapidly they seemed to shrink from his touch, till

nothing was left but the original pipe, which suddenly slipped out of

his hands.

"Well then, you _won't_ smoke me," coolly remarked the sooty

demon;--"but," added he, in tones that made the marrow in Jacob's bones

turn cold as ice, "I'LL SMOKE YOU!"

While the last of the family of the Kats was reflecting upon the meaning

of those mysterious words, to his increasing horror he observed the

well-smoked features of the satyr gradually swell into an enormous bulk

of countenance, as the same process of enlargement transformed the stem

into legs, arms, and body, proportionately huge and terrific; but the

monstrous face still wore its original expression, and seemed to the

unhappy Dutchman as if he was looking at the cock of his eye through

a microscope. Without saying a word, the monster, with the finger and

thumb of his right hand, caught up Jacob Kats by the middle, just as

an ordinary man would take up an ordinary pipe, and with his left hand

twisted one of his victim's legs over the other, as if they had been

made of wax, till they came to a tolerable point at the foot; then,

taking from a capacious pocket at his side a moderate-sized piece of

tobacco, with the utmost impudence imaginable, he rubbed it briskly upon

Jacob's unfortunate nose, which, as would any fiery nose under such

circumstances, was burning with indignation; and the weed immediately

igniting, as the poor cobbler lay with his head down gasping for breath,

he thrust the flaming mass into his mouth, extended a pair of jaws

that looked like the lock of the Grand Canal, quietly raised Jacob's

foot between them, and immediately began to smoke with the energy of a

steam-engine! Miserable Jacob Kats!--what agonies he endured! At every

whiff the inhuman smoker took, he could feel the narcotic vapour, hot as

a living coal, drawn rapidly down his throat, through his veins and out

at his toes, to be puffed in huge volumes out of the monster's mouth,

till the place was filled with the smoke. Jacob felt that his teeth were

red-hot,--that his tongue was a cinder,--and big drops of perspiration

coursed each other down his burning cheeks, like the waves of the Zuyder

Zee on the shore when the tide's running up. Jacob looked pitiably at

his tormentor, and thought he discerned a glimpse of relenting in the

atrocious ugliness of his physiognomy. He unclosed his enormous jaws,

and removed from them the foot of his victim. The cobbler of Dort

congratulated himself on the approach of his release.

"Jacob Kats, my boy!" exclaimed the giant, in that quiet patronising

kind of voice all great men affect, carelessly balancing Jacob on his

finger and thumb at a little distance from his mouth, as he threw out

a long wreath of acrid smoke; "Jacob, you are a capital pipe,--there's

no denying _that_. You smoke admirably,--take my word for it;" and

then, without a word of pity or consolation, he resumed his unnatural

fumigations with more fierceness than ever. Jacob had behaved like a

martyr,--he had shown a spirit worthy of the Kats in their best days;

but the impertinence of such conduct was not to be endured. He would a

minute since have allowed himself to have been dried into a Westphalia

ham, to which state he had been rapidly progressing, but the insult

he had just received had roused the dormant spirit of resistance in

his nature; and, while every feature in his tyrant's smoky face seemed

illuminated with a thousand sardonic grins, having no better weapon

at hand, Jacob hastily snatched the red cap off his head, and, taking

deliberate aim at his persecutor, flung it bang into the very cock of

his eye. The monster opened his jaws to utter a yell of agony, and down

came the head of Jacob Kats upon the floor, that left him without sense

or motion.

How long the cobbler of Dort remained in this unenviable situation it is

impossible to say, but he was first recalled to consciousness by a loud

knocking at the door of his stall.

"Jacob! Jacob Kats!" exclaimed the well-known voice of his fair

customer, in a tone of considerable impatience; and Jacob, raising

himself on his elbows, discovered that he had fallen back off his

stool; and the empty flask at his side, and the unfinished work on his

lap, while they gave him a tolerably correct notion of his condition,

did not suggest any remedy for the fatal consequences of disappointing

the burgomaster's nursery-maid. It is only necessary to add, that,

with considerable difficulty, he managed to satisfy his important

patroness; but, to the very day of his death, Jacob, who proved to be

the last of the long dynasty of Kats who enjoyed the dignity inseparable

from the situation of Cobbler of Dort, could not, with any degree of

satisfaction, make up his mind as to whether the strange effects he

had that eventful day experienced had been caused by extraordinary

indulgence in the luxury of pickled herrings,--or too prodigal allowance

of Schiedam,--or intense disappointment for the loss of the widow Van

Bree.

AN EPIGRAM.

On Sabbath morn two sisters rise,

And each to chapel goes;

Fair Caroline to close her eyes,

And Jane to eye her clothes (close).

ANOTHER.

All Flora's friends have died, it seems, before her:--

I wish my wife had been a friend of Flora!

HERO AND LEANDER.

FROM THE GREEK OF MUSÆUS.

The lamp that saw the lovers side by side

In furtive clasp; the swimmer bold o' nights;

The close embrace Aurora never spied,

Sing Muse! and Sestos, nest of their delights,

Where Hero watched, and Eros had his rites

Duly performed. My song is of Leander,

And lovingly the beacon-lamp requites,

Which lured him o'er the ocean's back to wander,

Sweet Hero's message-light, love's harbinger and pandar.

Zeus should have placed that signal-light above,

(Their love-race ended) 'mid the constellations,

And called its name the bridal star of love,

As minister of rapture's keen sensations,

The cresset, by whose aid they found occasions

Of sleepless nights--till blew the fatal blast.

Come, Muse! and join with me in lamentations

For that clear night, by which love's bidding past,

And for Leander's life, extinguished both at last.

Sestos is opposite Abydos, near

And neighbour cities--parted by the sea:

Love with one arrow scorched a virgin there,

And here a youth; the fairest Hero she,

The handsome bachelor, Leander, he.

Stars of their cities, but resembling each

The other. Sestos keeps her memory

Where Hero's lamp was wont his way to teach,

And for Leander moans Abydos' sullen beach.

Whence grew Leander's passion? Whence again

Did the same fire sweet Hero's heart devour?

Priestess of Cypris, and of noble strain,

Untaught in Hymen's rites, and of love's power

Unconscious, Hero in a sea-side tower,

An ancient and ancestral pile, was dwelling,--

Another Cypris, but a virgin flower,

In sensitive white purity excelling,

The slander and the touch of license rude repelling.

She went not where the light-foot choir assembled,

Shunned ribalds, and the breath that Envy blew,

(The fair hate those are fairer,) and she trembled

At thought of young Love's quiver,--for she knew

His mother favoured every shaft he drew;

Prayers to the mother, and with girlish art

Cates to the son she offered: nathless flew

From the sly urchin's bow the fire-plumed dart

Straight to its destined mark, the maiden's trembling heart.

What time came round the Sestian festival,

Sacred to Cypris, and her Syrian fere,

All who inhabited the coronal

Of sparkling isles their way to Sestos steer;

Some from Emonia gather far and near;

Others from Cyprus; in Cythera now

No woman stays; in Sestos now appear

The Phrygian, and the dancer on the brow

Of spicy Lebanon, as thereto bound by vow.

Thither the virgin-hunters thick repair,

As is their wont; a rash and reckless race,

Whose prayers are only offered to the fair.

There moved our Hero with majestic pace;

A star-like glory scattered from her face

Sparkles of light, as when the moon discloses

Among the stars her cheek's clear-shining grace;

Like a twin-rose, one white, one red, reposes

On either snow-white cheek the blushing bloom of roses.

You'd say her limbs were rose-buds; for a light

Of rose-like hues fell from them; you might see

The rose-blush on her feet and ankles white;

And from her limbs with every movement free

Flowed many graces: they who feigned them three

Said falsely, for in Hero's laughing eyes

A thousand graces budded. Such was she--

Fit priestess of the beauty of the skies,

For without question hers was mortal beauty's prize.

Into the young men's minds her beauty entered:

Who wished not loveliest Hero for his wife?

Where'er she paced the temple, still she centred

All eyes, hearts, wishes. "I have seen the strife

For beauty's prize in Lacedemon, rife

With virgins radiant, with love's dazzling splendour;

But never there, nor elsewhere in my life,

Saw I a girl so dignified, yet tender;

She surely is a Grace: Oh, would Queen Cypris lend her--

"Or give her me! I've tired, not filled mine eye

With gazing. Let me press her dainty side,

And die! A god's life on Olympus high

Would I refuse, had I that girl for bride:

But, since to me thy priestess is denied,

Queen! let my home with such a one be gladdened."

Thus spake one bachelor; another tried

To smile and mock, as tho' he were not saddened,

Hiding the secret wound, which all the time him maddened.

But thou, Leander, wouldst not hide the wound,

And vex thy secret soul; but when Desire

Surprised thee looking on the maid renowned,

Tamed by the sudden darts of arrowy fire,

Thou wouldst not live without her; fiercer, higher,

Flamed love's hot torch, and pierced into thy marrow,

Fed by her eye-beams. Loveliness, entire

And blameless, sharper is than any arrow,

Reaching the heart of man thro' channel sure tho' narrow.

The liquid fire from hers to his eye glides,

Thence passing inward, dives into his breast:

A sudden whirl of thoughts his mind divides;

Amazement at her loveliness confest;

Shame at himself soon caught; fear, love's unrest,

And hope, impatient for love's recompense;

But love to this delirious whirl gave zest,

And furnished him with resolute impudence

To venture, and outface that glorious innocence.

He turned on her askant his guileful eye,

With speechless nods the damsel's mind assailing:

She gladly saw his love, and silently

Her sweet face ever and anon was veiling,

And then with furtive nods her lover hailing,

Bowed to him in return. He with delight

Observed she saw, nor scorned his love. Then, trailing

His robe of beams, the Day departed quite,

(Leander watched the hour,) and rose the star of night.

Nor, when he saw the dark-robed mist, he lingered,

But hastened boldly to the maid beloved,

And with a sigh her rosy palm he fingered.

But, drawing back her hand, the virgin moved

In silence from th' intruder; unreproved,

For he had seen her nods, and they were kind,

He pulled her broidered robe, and, as behoved,

He drew her gently to the gloom behind:

She slowly followed him, as if against her mind.

And then with art and language feminine

She threatened him:--"Why pullest me, lewd ranger?

Pursue thy way, I beg, and leave me mine.

To touch a priestess is a deed of danger;

A virgin's bed is not for any stranger."

She spake as virgins should; and yet she missed

To frighten him, who reckoned soon to change her,

When he her chiding heard; for well he wist

That women chide the most when they would fain be kissed.

Kissing her polished, fragrant neck, he cries:

"After the fairest Cytherea, fair!

And after the most wise Athena, wise!

For with Jove's daughters thee will I compare,

And not with any dames that mortal are;

Happy thy father! happy she who bore thee!

But hear, and pardon, and accept my prayer;

I come for love; for love I now implore thee;

Perform love's ministry with me, for I adore thee.

"A virgin priestess to the Cyprian Queen!

No grace in virgins Cytherea trows;

To marriage only point her rites, I ween;

Then if to her thy heart true service vows,

Accept me for thy lover and thy spouse,

Whom Eros hunted as a spoil for thee.

As Hermes of the gold-wand (Fame allows)

Led Hercules to serve Queen Omphale,

So Cytherea now, not Hermes, leadeth me.

"The tale of Atalantis too is known,

Who fled the couch of Prince Milanion,

To keep her virgin flower; but wrath was shewn

By Cypris, who, for scorn to marriage done,

Him once she loved not, made her dote upon:

Beware lest thou too anger her." Commenting

Thus cunningly, the maiden's ear he won,

And willing mind, to dulcet words consenting,

To love's soft eloquence, that genders love, relenting.

In silence on the ground she fixed her eyes,

And gently turned aside her glowing cheek,

And shuffled her small feet, and modest-wise

Drew round her graceful neck, and bosom sleek,

Her robe yet closer. These are signs that speak;

A virgin's silence ever means consent;

The bitter-sweet of love was hers, and eke

The glow of heart, hopeful, but not content,

While yet the thoughts are lost in love's first wonderment.

This for Leander gentle Hero felt;

But, while she downward looked, his greedy eyes

Fed on her neck. With words that dew-like melt,

While blossom on her cheek the moist red dies

Of modesty, she says: "Such power there lies

In thy sweet eloquence, that it might move

The flinty rock; who taught the harmonies

Of such enticing words? What impulse drove

Thee hither? Who thy guide? Oh was it, was it Love?

"Perchance thou mockest me; but how canst thou,

A stranger and unknown, my love enjoy?

I never can be thine by open vow;

My parents shut me up. Can we employ

Art for our secret, love? Oh, men destroy

Who trust them! ever babbling in the street

Of what they do in secret. Wilt decoy

A trusting heart to ruin? yet, as meet,

Speak truth; thy fatherland and name to me repeat.

"My name is Hero; my abode is lonely,

A tower that lifts its echoes to the sky,

For so my parents will; one handmaid only

Dwells with me there; no choirs e'er court mine eye,

Nor friends of equal years. The shores close by

Rebellow; night and day the roaring tide

Rings in mine ears, and eke the clanging cry

Of the sea-winds." She spake, and sought to hide,

Shamefaced, her rosy cheek, her words to chide.

Leander then did with himself advise,

How in love's contest he might best contend;

For wily Love, though wont to tyrannise,

Heals whom he wounds, and ever loves to lend

His subjects wit, their counsellor and friend.

He helped Leander, then, who deeply sighed,

And said: "Dear virgin! for our wished-for end

I dauntless on the rugged surge will ride,

Tho' in it ships be whelmed, and o'er it lightnings glide.

"Seeking thy bed, I tremble not, nor cower

At ocean's angry roar and frightful front:

A dripping bed-mate, nightly to thy tower

Will I swim o'er the rapid Hellespont;

Abydos is not far from Hero's haunt.

But promise me to shew a lamp, to be

My nightly star; and it shall be my wont,

E'en like a ship, to swim across the sea,

Thy lamp the blessed star that guides my course to thee.

"And, watching it, I ne'er will turn mine eye on

Setting Boötes, nor th' unwetted Wain,

Nor on the sworded, storm-engirt Orion,

But, guided by the lamp, I soon shall gain

Safe anchorage and sweet. Strict guard maintain

Against the blasts, for fear my safety-light

They rudely quench, and in the howling main

I perish so. Leander am I hight,

And Hero's happy spouse." Thus they their love-vows plight.

She from her tower to shew a lamp agrees,

And he from the swelling waves at night to cleave:

Then to her tower the anxious maiden flees,

While he must in a pinnace Sestos leave,

And in Abydos wait till he receive

The promised signal, his appointed guide,

When he must swim, not sail. Till they achieve

Love's celebration, rest is them denied.

Haste, Night! and canopy the bridegroom and the bride.

In veil of darkness Night ran up the sky,

Bringing on sleep, but not for Hero's lover;

He, where the swelling waves roared mightily,

For by the shore, stood waiting to discover

The lamentable lamp that lured him over--

To death at last. But Hero, seaward turning,

Perceived the gloom, and for her ocean-rover

Kindled the signal; but on his discerning

Its promised flame, he burned with love, as that was burning.

At first he trembled at the ringing roar

Of the mad surge, but with the soothing spell

Of hopeful words took courage; "What is more

Cruel than love, or more implacable

Than ocean? in moist ruin this doth swell;

That in the heart, a burning furnace, raves.

Fear not, my soul! why shouldst thou fear the hell

Of waters? Aphrodite from the waves

Sprung, and rules over them, sways our love pains and saves."

He then put off his vest with playful glee,

And twined it round his head; and from the shore

Plunged fearlessly into the surf o' the sea;

And where the signal shone, he hastened o'er,

Ship, sail, and oars himself. But yet before

He reached his port, how oft the Sestian flower

Kept off the breezes with the robe she wore

From the trimmed lamp! It is her nuptial hour--

Leander comes at last, and now ascends her tower.

With a mute clasp she welcomed to her home

The panting youth, and to her chamber led,

While from his hair fast dropt the salt sea-foam:

She rubbed his limbs with rose-oil, and then led

Her lover to her virgin couch, and said,

Embracing him the while, and softly willing

"Enough of brine and odours which bred:

No bridegroom but thyself was ever willing

To run such risk, such toil none else but thou fulfilling.

"No longer lies our joy and us between

That envious sea--now lay thee down to rest."

Silence was there, and Night drew round her screen;

Their nuptial troth was by no minstrel blest;

The bridal pair were in no hymn addrest;

No choir danced round them; and no torches lightened

About the genial bed; no marriage guest

Led the gay dance; nor hymeneal heightened

The joy, approving it; no parent's smile there brightened.

Silence arranged the couch, and Darkness drew

The curtains; paranymph and bridemaid none

Had they beside. Aurora ne'er did view

Leander lying, when the night was done,

In Hero's arms. He was already gone,--

Already wishing for the night again.

The wife at night, by day a virgin shone.

As thought her parents wise; while she was fain,

Of night, to welcome him who made their wisdom vain.

Thus they enjoyed awhile their furtive pleasure,

He to his bed-mate nightly swimming o'er;

But soon their life's bloom fell, and scant their measure

Of bridal hours. When came the winter frore,

And brought the cold blast and the whirlwind's roar,

Sharp gusts the bottom of the deep confounding,

And lashing up the main from shore to shore,

Whirling and rushing, roaring and rebounding,

The watery paths above and shaken depths astounding--

What time a desperate pilot, who no more

Amid the waters wild his course could hold,

Had run his ship upon a fork o' the shore;

Not then the tempest checked Leander bold,

For Hero's signal-light her summons told.

Oh! cruel, faithless light of love! to scout him

On such a night! to plunge him in the cold

And hissing waves, that rudely toss and flout him!

Why could not Hero sleep, while winter raged, without him?

But love and fate compelled her; light of love,

Drawn by desire, she shewed not, but the black

Torch-gloom of fate. The winds collected drove

Volumes of gusty darts upon the track

Of the sea-broken shore; but on the back

Of raving ocean lost Leander went.

The water stood in heaps; with fearful crack

The winds ran counter, and were madly blent,

Rushing from every side, in wildest minglement.

Wave upon wave! ocean with ether mixt!

Mighty the crash! How could Leander ride on

The monstrous whirl? Sore tost, he one while fixt

In prayer on Cypris, then on King Poseidon,

And e'en the fierce and frantic Boreas cried on,

Who then forgot his Atthis. Lover lorn!

None helped him, none! Love, whom he most relied on,

Averted not his fate; tost, tumbled, torn,

By every counter wave he was at random borne.

He can no longer ply his hands or feet;

Drench'd with the brine, his strength is failing fast;

On him the cruel waves remorseless beat;

The lamp is now extinguished by the blast,

And with it his young life and love at last:

But while the waves his lifeless body drove,

How many a glance poor Hero seaward cast!

In vain into the gloom her glances rove;

Her anxious thoughts a pool of spectred troubles move.

The morning came, nor yet Leander came!

Upon the sea's broad back her glance was thrown,

If haply, missing that unfaithful flame,

He wandered there; but soon she spied him strown

A mangled corse below. She tore her gown,

And shrieked, and for Leander madly cried,

And from the tower fell whizzing headlong down.

Thus, on her husband dead sweet Hero died,

And who were joined in life, then death did not divide.

THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON.

"Signor Giacomo caro, non vi accorgete che sete un giovane senza pare?

Nobile, bello, dotto, e robusto, ed alto quasi egualmente, or lingua or

mano ad oprando, a dire e fare ogni bene?"

So, in or about the year of Grace 1582, wrote Sperone Speroni the

Paduan, to James Crichton the Scotchman:

"Dear James, do you not know that you have no equal? Noble, handsome,

learned, and robust,--equally apt to use the tongue or the hand,--to say

or to do what is excellent?"

There cannot be the smallest doubt that James knew all this himself;

and now, since the appearance of Mr. Ainsworth's romance, all the world

knows it. Wherefore, as the Admirable has suddenly become an object of

admiration, we are moved to say a few words about him.

A number of learned people, remarkable chiefly for the dullness of

their learning, have on various occasions undertaken to prove the

egregious quackery and pretension of the famous Scot. Such-like people

are, naturally enough, given to such researches; for they cannot endure

in any shape the rebuke of an obvious superiority. "How now, thou

particular fellow?" said Jack Cade to the man who sought to recommend

himself on the score of being able to write and read; and, "How now,

thou particular fellow?" is the exclamation of plodding pedants to

the illustrious Crichton, when, instead of approaching them covered

with the dust of folios, he bounds into their presence beaming with

grace and beauty, the idol of the gay and the young, the observed of

all observers, crowned with the favours of women, and followed by the

applauding shouts of men!

We are not pedants, and therefore we have faith in Crichton. How

otherwise? In philosophy and learning was he not a Bayle's Dictionary?

In the universality of his literary accomplishments, a perfect Bentley's

Miscellany? Who shall impugn the opinions of the most classic time of

Scotland, or set up his dogmas against the generous acknowledgments of

Italy in her golden day? And was not Crichton so beautiful in body only

because he was in mind so beautiful;--for, where true beauty exists, who

would separate body from mind? Shade of the Admirable, forgive your poor

detractors, for the sake of the true worship your memory has inspired!

It was natural that to the sight of many men, before whom in life you

strode on so far, you should have dwindled in the distance; but now,

after many years, you reappear again, graceful as ever in form, and

wonderful in accomplishments. We hail you as we should some missing star

that once more "swims into our ken!"

And what sort of fame is that, the reader possibly asks, which may seek

from the hands of some novelist or romancer its privilege of continuance

in the mouths of men? Let that reader first ask himself how many

brilliant actions there are which pass away and are forgotten--while

a thousandth part of the effort that produced them, embodied in a few

words, might have lived for ever. It was the remark of an old writer,

that words harden into substances, while bodies moulder away into air.

Even Cæsar and Alexander weigh little in comparison with Virgil and

Homer. Now Crichton might have been a Cæsar or an Alexander, if he had

had legions at his back; or, without the legions, if his youth had

been allowed to ripen into age. The great principle of his being was a

stirring and irrepressible activity. His learning was as prodigious as

his accomplishments; but how, in the short six or seven years of his

public life, could he have exhibited them to the admiration of Europe,

if he had set to work in the fashion of the schoolmen? With a probable

forecast of his early doom, he bethought himself of a different way.

He made up for the brevity of his life, by its brightness. He kindled

all its fires at once. Resolved to abate no single particle of his

brilliancy among the great men of his time, he rose at once to the

topmost height of his possible achievements, careless whether he should

fall among posterity, dark as a spent rocket, and recognizable by a few

fragments of faded paper only. But what of that? What he designed to

do, he did. He struck the blow he had desired to strike. And which of

the Great Men has done more? How many have done lamentably less! We see

the beauty and the learning of Crichton reflected back from the most

intellectual minds of the greatest day that ever shone upon Scotland or

Italy. What nobler mirror?

Justly Mr. Ainsworth remarks--"It is from the effect produced upon his

contemporaries, and _such_ contemporaries, that we can form a just

estimate of the extent of Crichton's powers. By them he was esteemed a

miracle of learning--_divinum planè juvenem_: and we have an instance

in our own times of a great poet and philosopher, whose published

works scarcely bear out the high reputation he enjoyed for colloquial

ability. The idolized friend of Aldus Manutius, of Lorenzo Massa,

Giovanni Donati, and Sperone Speroni, amongst the must accomplished

scholars of their age,--the antagonist of the redoubted Arcangelus

Mercenarius and Giacomo Mazzoni, men who had sounded all the depths

of philosophy,--could not have been other than an extraordinary

person." The allusion to Coleridge here is not altogether out of place.

Coleridge, like Crichton, though in a humbler sphere, preferred prompt

payment to the tardy waiting for posterity. With both it was in some

sort necessary that the effort and the applause should go together. To

Coleridge, for instance, so strong had this habit of excessive talking

become, even the certainty of seeing what he wrote in print the next day

was too remote a stimulus for his imagination; and it was a constant

practice of his to lay aside his pen in the middle of an article, if

a friend happened to drop in upon him, and to finish the subject more

effectually aloud, so that the approbation of his hearer and the sound

of his own voice might be co-instantaneous. But what would Coleridge

have done, if, besides having to write an article for the Courier,

in which he was to unravel some transcendentalism about humanity and

universal brotherhood into a slavish support of the Allies--(a difficult

task we admit),--if, besides this, the ball-room, the ladies' chamber,

the hunting-fields, the riding-house, the lists at the Louvre, and some

profoundly learned controversies with the doctors of Navarre or Padua,

had all, nearly at the same instant, awaited him? Poor Coleridge would

have died at twenty, untouched by opium, and unknown, except by the

admiring testimonies of his less accomplished contemporaries.

Mr. Ainsworth has omitted, by-the-by, a very characteristic, and,

we think, a very decisive opinion of Crichton, by the famous Joseph

Scaliger. "He was a man of very wonderful genius," observes that

laborious and self-satisfied person; "but he had something of the

coxcomb about him. He wanted a little common sense." Here is an

unbiassed opinion. What Joseph means by the coxcombry is obvious enough.

Why, thinks Joseph, should a scholar have cheerfulness of blood? All

the women ran after Crichton,--a most indecorous thing, and a certain

evidence of coxcombry to a person who cannot get a woman to run after

him,--"Nor were the young unmarried ladies," as Sir Thomas Urquhart

remarks in his jewel of a book, "of all the most eminent places of

Italy anything respected of one another, that had not either a lock of

Crichtown's haire, or a copy of verses of his composing." Who doubts his

coxcombry, or that it was other than a very delightful thing in him?

A want of common sense, in Scaliger's notion, was probably an over

supply of modesty. Nothing is so remarkable in Crichton as the modesty

which in him united with the most perfect confidence. He proved that a

coxcomb and a confident man may possess the truest modesty. There is a

charming anecdote told of him at a great levee of learned men in Padua,

where, having exposed the errors of the school of Aristotle with equal

solidity, modesty, and acuteness, and perceiving that the enthusiasm

of his audience was carrying them too far in admiration of himself, he

suddenly changed his tone, assumed an extreme playfulness of manner, and

declaimed in exquisite phrase upon the _happiness of ignorance_. Nothing

could have been so perfectly devised to self-check any exuberance of

pride. But in all things his modesty was remarkable, when taken in

connexion with his extraordinary powers. Observe it in the circumstance

of his melancholy death, where a romantic sense of what was due to his

prince and master induced him to throw aside his unmatchable skill, and

present himself naked and defenceless to the dagger of an assassin.

This was not weakness in Crichton. Himself the descendant of rulers of

the earth, of princes and bishops,--(shall we ever forget that perfect

model of ecclesiastical fitness, Bishop George Crichton of Dunkeld, "a

man nobly disposed, very hospitable, and a magnificent housekeeper, but

in matters of religion not much skilled"?)--a weak and unmanly feeling

would have given him presumption, not deference,--would have thrown

insult in the face of Gonzaga, and not ill-required chivalry at his feet.

But what more need we say of Crichton? Have not three volumes of

brilliant writing been just devoted to the delineation of two days of

his matchlessly brilliant life? We may refer the reader, whether he

is curious after the Admirable Crichton, or after his own amusement

solely, to William Harrison Ainsworth's last romance. An expression of

character equally poetic and dramatic, a rich glow of colouring which

diffuses itself through every part of the work, and a generally easy and

effective style, have secured for this book a high and permanent place

in the literature of fiction.

[Illustration: R B Sheridan]

MEMOIRS OF SHERIDAN.

Though it may appear paradoxical to say so, yet there is no more

melancholy reading than the biography of a celebrated wit. In nine

out of ten cases, what is such a memoir other than a record of acute

suffering, the almost inseparable attendant of that thoughtless and

mercurial temperament which cannot, or will not, conform to the staid

usages society; which makes ten enemies where it makes one friend; is

engaged in a constant warfare with common sense, and lives for the day,

letting the morrow shift for itself? Instances there are of prosperous

wits, such as Congreve, Pope, and some others that we could mention,

whose singular tact and provident habits have preserved them from the

usual fate of their fraternity; but these instances are rare: the

majority, though enjoying, it is true, their sunny hours, and realising

for a brief season their most brilliant hopes, have struggled through

life a prey to the bitterest disappointments.

The life of Sheridan will go far to verify these cursory remarks. No wit

ever enjoyed more intoxicating successes, or suffered more humiliating

reverses. He had frequent opportunities of realising a handsome

independence; but, with that recklessness and inattention to the

business of life peculiar to such natures as his, he flung away all his

chances, and died a beggar, deserted by almost all his old associates,

his celebrity on the wane, and his character under a cloud. Never was

there a more impressive homily than his death-bed inculcates; it speaks

to the heart, like the closing scene of "great Villiers," and is worth

all the sermons that ever were preached from the pulpit.

Many, however, of poor Sheridan's defects seem to have descended to

him as a sort of heir-loom from his ancestors. His grandfather, Dr.

Sheridan, the friend and butt of Swift, though an amiable, was a

singularly reckless and improvident man; and his father, the well-known

teacher of elocution, is mentioned more then once by Johnson as being

remarkable for nothing so much as his "wrong-headedness." It is but

justice, however, to this individual to state, that by fits and starts

he paid every attention to his son's education that his straitened means

and capricious temper would allow. In the year 1758, when young Sheridan

had just completed his seventh year, he sent him to a private school in

Dublin, whence, at the expiration of fourteen months, he brought him

over with him to England, and placed him at Harrow, under the care of

Dr. Sumner. From this period to the day of his death, the subject of our

memoir never again beheld his native city.

Sheridan had not been long at Harrow when he attracted the favourable

notice of Dr. Parr, at that time one of the head-masters of the

establishment, who, perceiving in him unquestionable evidences of

superior capacity, did all he could to stimulate him to exertion. But

his endeavours were fruitless, for the boy was incorrigibly idle, though

a general favourite by reason of his good-humour and the social turn

of his mind,--and left Harrow at the age of eighteen, with a slender

amount of Latin and less Greek, but at the same time with a very fair

acquaintance with the lighter branches of English literature.

In the year 1770, Sheridan accompanied his family to Bath, which was

then what Cheltenham and Brighton now are,--the head-quarters of gaiety

and dissipation. Here he promptly signalised himself, after the usual

Irish fashion, by an elopement and two duels; thus literally fighting

his way to celebrity! The young lady who was the cause of these

sprightly sallies was Miss Linley, daughter of the eminent musician of

that name, and one of the most beautiful women of her day. At the time

when Sheridan first became acquainted with her she was but sixteen, the

favourite vocalist at the Bath concerts, and the standing toast of all

the wits and gallants of the city. It is to the impassioned feelings

which the charms of this lovely girl called forth in his breast that we

owe our hero's first decided plunge into unequivocal poetry. Having on

one occasion--for the families of the young couple were in habits of

strict intimacy--presumed to offer her some sober counsel, she resented

his officiousness, and a quarrel took place between them, which was not

made up till Sheridan sent some stanzas of a most penitential character,

by way of a peace-offering. We subjoin a specimen or two of this poem,

which evinces unquestionable feeling, but is deformed, as was the

fashion of those days, by tawdry and puerile conceits:

Oh, 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 confide 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 sighed 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 could I see;

She frowned, for reflection had clouded her brow;

She sighed, but perhaps 'twas in pity to me.

Then wave thy leaves brisker, thou willow of woe,

I tell thee no rage in her looks I could see;

I cannot, I will not, believe it was so;

She was not, she could not, be angry with 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 erred from the feelings it could not explain.

Sentimental poetry, it is well known, has a great effect in softening

the female heart; and Sheridan soon succeeded in sonnetteering Miss

Linley into sympathy. He had, however, a sturdy opponent to contend

against in the person of Captain Mathews, a married man, of specious

address and persevering gallantry. This _roué_ beset the fair vocalist

in every possible way, and, when mildly but firmly repulsed, threw out a

menace of attacking her good fame. Alarmed at this unmanly threat, and

at the consequences of her father's indignation should the captain's

dishonourable proposals become known to him, Miss Linley had recourse to

Sheridan, who instantly advised her to accept of his escort to France,

where he promised that he would place her under the secure protection of

a convent. With some hesitation she complied with his advice, assisted

not a little in her resolution by the repugnance which she had long

entertained to her profession; and the parties set out for Calais,

accompanied by a third person, a female, by way of chaperon.

On reaching the place of their destination, Sheridan at once threw off

the mask of the friend, and, addressing Miss Linley as the lover, so

worked upon her feelings by artful hints about the injury her character

would sustain, if she did not give him a legal title to protect her,

that she consented to a private marriage, which accordingly took place

in 1772, at a little village near Calais. The parties then made the best

of their way back to England where they returned to their respective

families; old Linley, from whom the marriage was kept a profound secret,

being, of course, not less incensed than surprised by the, to him,

unaccountable conduct of his daughter.

Meanwhile Captain Mathews, on learning Miss Linley's extraordinary

flight, instantly made good his threat of defaming her character in the

local journals, for which he was twice called out by Sheridan, who in

the second duel received a wound which long confined him to his bed.

His situation at this period must have been one of extreme uneasiness.

He was separated from his wife, and was on ill terms with his father,

who, on his return from London shortly after the catastrophe, refused

to see him, and even went the length of forbidding any of his family to

hold the slightest intercourse with the Linleys. A communication was

nevertheless kept up between the lovers through the agency of Sheridan's

sisters, who had not the heart to resist the imploring appeals of their

brother.

In the autumn of 1772 the young Benedict was sent by his father--who was

anxious to detach him wholly from the Linleys--to the house of a friend

in Essex, where he remained for some months in strict retirement, and

spent much of his time in study. While here, he paid occasional flying

visits to London, for the purpose of seeing his wife, who was then

professionally engaged at the Covent Garden oratorios; but, finding no

means of procuring an interview with her, so closely was she watched

by her father, he more than once, it is said, disguised himself as a

hackney-coachman, for the sole pleasure of driving her home from the

theatre.

The time, however, was at hand when his perseverance was to meet with

its reward. Old Linley, finding that neither threat, supplication, nor

remonstrance could change the current of his daughter's affections and

that, by some mysterious process, letters from her husband always found

their way into her hands, at length gave his reluctant consent to their

union, and they were re-married, by licence, in 1773.

About this time Sheridan entered himself of the Middle Temple, and took

a small cottage at East Burnham, whither he retired immediately after

his marriage, with no other resources than his wife's slender jointure

and his own talents afforded him. Yet, though cramped in his finances,

he had the fortitude to resist all the golden temptations which Mrs.

Sheridan's musical abilities held out to him; and withdrew her for ever

from public life, resolving henceforth to be himself the artificer of

his own fortunes.

After a short stay at East Burnham, to which in after-years he often

looked back with regret as being the happiest period of his life,

Sheridan took a house in the neighbourhood of Portman-square, which his

father-in-law kindly furnished for him. Here he laboured with great

assiduity; wrote several political tracts, among which was a reply to

"Junius;" and completed his comedy of the "Rivals," which was brought

out at Covent Garden in the year 1775, and proved a failure on its first

representation, though it subsequently won its way into public favour.

The "Rivals" is a lively play, whose interest seldom or never flags; is

easy and graceful in its dialogue; and contains one or two characters

drawn with consummate skill. That of Falkland, in particular,--the

sensitive, wayward lover, the idea of which was, no doubt, suggested

by Sheridan's own personal experience,--is a masterpiece; and not less

effective is the sketch of Sir Anthony Absolute. Mrs. Malaprop--an

evident imitation of Fielding's Mrs. Slip-slop--is a mere whimsical

caricature; while, as respects Lydia Languish, she is one of the insipid

common-places to be picked up at all watering-places, well delineated,

it is true, but scarcely worth the labour of delineation.

Sheridan's next production was "St. Patrick's Day;" a clever, bustling

farce, but bearing marks of haste and negligence. It was followed, in

the winter of 1775, by the well-known opera of the "Duenna," which at

once obtained a popularity unexampled in the annals of the drama. The

plot of this delightful play is remarkable for the tact with which it

is conducted; the language is elegant, without being too ornate or

elaborate,--a very common defect in Sheridan's dramas;--and the songs

are prettily versified, which is the highest praise we can accord them.

In the year 1776, on the retirement of Garrick from the stage, Sheridan

became one of the proprietors of Drury Lane Theatre. How, or by whose

assistance, he obtained the large sum--upwards of forty-five thousand

pounds--necessary to make this purchase, is a mystery which none of

his numerous biographers, with all their research and ingenuity,

have ever been able to fathom. We conclude it must have been by that

winning address, and the strenuous exercise of those unrivalled powers

of persuasion, which, at a later period, enabled Sheridan to work a

miracle,--that is, to soften the soul of an attorney! It was in allusion

to these fascinating powers that a rich City banker once observed,

"Whenever Sherry makes me a bow, it always costs me a good dinner; and

when he calls me 'Tom,' it is a full hundred pounds out of my pocket!"

The year 1777 was rendered memorable by the production of the "School

for Scandal," which is incomparably the finest comedy of which modern

times can boast. Its success was proportionate to its deserts. It

completely took the town by storm. Nevertheless, transcendent as are the

excellencies of this brilliant play, it is not without many and serious

defects. Its dialogue is too studiously artificial; it has little or

no sustained interest of plot; and its characters--with the exception

of Charles Surface, whose airy, Mercutio-like vivacity conciliates us

in spite of ourselves--are such as them from first to last we regard

with indifference. The incessant dazzle of the language, however,--for

the "School for Scandal" is a perfect repertory of wit,--its consummate

polish, and the power of quick, apt repartee, that it exhibits in every

page, altogether blind us to its defects. The only play that can bear a

comparison with it is Congreve's "Love for Love," which shows an equal

opulence of wit, and an equal sacrifice to effect, of the free and easy

play of nature.

Sheridan had now the ball at his feet. He was the lion of the day,

courted by all classes; the proprietor of the most thriving theatrical

establishment in London; and, could he but have been industrious, and

exercised ordinary forethought, he might have insured, not merely what

Thomson calls "an elegant sufficiency," but a splendid independence for

life. But indolence was his bane,--the fertile source of all his errors

and all his misfortunes,--the rock on which he split,--the quicksand in

which he was finally engulfed.

In the year following the production of the "School for Scandal,"

Sheridan brought out "The Critic,"--an admirable farce, the conception

of which is derived from the Duke of Buckingham's "Rehearsal." The best

character in this drama, and the most natural and spirited ever drawn by

its author, is that of Sir Fretful Plagiary, which is supposed to have

been meant for Cumberland, who witnessed the representation from one of

the side-boxes, and, being of an irritable, tetchy temperament, must of

course have been highly entertained.

We are now to regard Sheridan in a new character. Hitherto we have

seen him as the triumphant dramatist,--we are now to see him as the

triumphant orator. He had always, from his first entrance into public

life, had a strong predilection for politics; and the acquaintance

with Burke, Fox, Wyndham, and other eminent statesmen, which he made

at Johnson's Literary Club, decided him on trying his chance in the

House of Commons. Accordingly, in 1780, he stood, and was returned,

for Stafford; and made his first speech, as an avowed partisan of

Fox, in the November of that year, on the presentation of a petition

complaining of his undue election. Though he was listened to with marked

attention, yet so general was the impression that he had failed, that

the well-known printer, Woodfall, who happened to be in the gallery at

the time, said to him, as they quitted the house together, "Oratory is

not your forte; you had much better have stuck to the drama;" on which

Sheridan impatiently interrupted him with, "It is in me, however, and,

by G--! it shall come out."

But, despite this determined confidence in his own powers, he did not

for months afterwards take any active part in the debates; but, when he

did speak, spoke briefly and unassumingly, with a view, no doubt, to

feel his way. By this shrewd conduct he gained insensibly on the good

opinion of the house, and became at length so useful an auxiliary to

his party, that, on their accession to office in the year 1782, he was

appointed one of the Under Secretaries of State; a snug, easy post, but

which he was compelled shortly to resign by the sudden breaking up of

the ministry, occasioned by the death of the Marquis of Rockingham.

In the following year he was reinstated in office as Secretary of the

Treasury, a coalition having been formed between Lord North and the

Whigs, much against Sheridan's wishes; for he had the sagacity to

foresee that a junction of such discordant interests could have but one

termination; and the result proved that he was right. The Coalition

Ministry was speedily defeated, chiefly by the King's own personal

exertions; and the Under Secretary of the Treasury found himself once

again transported to that Siberia,--the Opposition bench.

Up to this period, Sheridan, though acknowledged to be a skilful, ready

debater, had not particularly distinguished himself in the House; but

the hour was approaching which was to draw forth all his powers, and

place him on the very highest pinnacle of oratorical fame. In the year

1787, on the question of Warren Hastings' conduct as Governor-general

of India, he was chosen by his party to bring forward in Parliament the

charge relative to the Begum princesses of Oude. His speech on this

occasion produced an effect on all who heard it, to which there is no

parallel in the records of the senate. It startled the House like a

thunderbolt. Men of all parties vied with each other in lavishing on

it the most enthusiastic praises. Burke declared it to be the "most

astonishing effort of eloquence, argument, and wit united, of which

there was any record or tradition." Fox said, "all that he had ever

heard, all that he had ever read, when compared with it, dwindled into

nothing;" and Pitt--even the cold, reserved Pitt--confessed that, in his

opinion, "it surpassed all the eloquence of ancient or modern times, and

possessed everything that genius or art could furnish, to agitate and

control the human mind." So intense, in short, was the sensation created

by this philippic, that the Minister actually moved an adjournment of

the debate, in order, as he observed, that honourable members might have

time to recover from the mental intoxication into which they had been

thrown by the spells of the enchanter!

Sheridan was now considered of so much consequence by the Whig party,

that when the trial of Warren Hastings was finally determined on, he was

appointed one of the managers to make good the articles of impeachment;

and brought forward in Westminster Hall, before the most august assembly

in the world, the same charge which he had previously urged in the

House of Commons. On this occasion he spoke for four successive days,

exciting, as before, the astonishment and admiration of all his hearers.

Fortunately this celebrated oration, unlike the former one, has been

preserved, and we are therefore enabled to form a tolerable estimate

of it. It contains much brilliant wit, dexterous reasoning, and ready

sarcasm; but is at the same time defaced by the most tawdry, patchwork

imagery. Whenever Sheridan essays the poetic, he is invariably affected

and on stilts. He cannot soar, like Burke, into the empyreum; for he had

capacity, not imagination. His best passages are his most unlaboured

ones; but of these he seems to have thought least. He tricks out

superficial thoughts and obvious common-places in glittering trope and

metaphor; piles hyperbole on hyperbole, conceit on conceit; and mistakes

such showy, elaborate fustian for the true work of the fancy. There is

as much difference between the figurative composition of Sheridan and

that of Burke, as there is between specious tinsel and sterling gold;

yet, throughout the Westminster Hall proceedings, the former appears to

have thrown the latter completely into the shade,--so apt is the world

to be caught by the mere show and glare of oratory!

The illness of his Majesty, George the Third, and the discussion on the

Regency question which took place in consequence, afforded Sheridan

numerous other opportunities of distinguishing himself in Parliament. He

espoused, of course, the side of the Prince of Wales, whose confidence

he soon gained, and at whose splendid entertainments he was ever the

favoured guest. He was, in fact, the chief adviser of the heir-apparent,

to whom was entrusted the delicate task of drawing up his state papers;

and he would, no doubt, in the event of a change of ministry, have been

raised to one of the most valuable posts that his party could offer, had

not the King's recovery put an end to his golden expectations.

Shortly after, a dissolution took place, when he hurried off to

Stafford, with the intention of again trying his luck with that

borough. One of his fellow-passengers chanced to be an elector; on

discovering which, Sheridan took the opportunity of asking him for whom

he should vote. The other, ignorant who it was that put the question,

replied that neither of the candidates were much to be depended on,

but that he would vote for the devil sooner than that scamp Sheridan.

The conversation here dropped for a while; but, having in the interim

contrived to learn from the coachman the name of his opponent, Sheridan

resumed the discourse by observing, that he had heard say there were

many corrupt rogues among the Stafford electors, and that among them

was one Thompson, the biggest scoundrel in the borough. "I am Mr.

Thompson," exclaimed his fellow-traveller, crimson with rage. "And I am

Mr. Sheridan," rejoined the other. The joke was immediately seen, and

the parties became sworn friends ever after. Another anecdote, equally

characteristic of Sheridan, is told of him at this period. A few days

after his return to town, having hired a hackney-coach to take him from

Carlton Palace to his own house, he found himself, as usual, without the

means of paying for it. Luckily he espied his friend Richardson in the

street, and, calling to him to get in, he engaged him in a favourite

discussion, which he was well aware would draw forth all his energies;

and then, after adroitly contradicting him, and so rousing his utmost

indignation, he affected to grow angry himself; and, exclaiming that he

would not remain an instant longer in the same coach with a man capable

of holding such language, he insisted on Jehu setting him down, and

walked quietly to his own house, which was now but a few yards off,

leaving his angry friend to pay the fare!

In the year 1792, Sheridan lost his beautiful and accomplished wife;

a loss which he took greatly to heart. It was indeed an irreparable

one; for she had long been his best "guide and friend;" and her benign

influence removed, he plunged headlong into that reckless extravagance

which ultimately sealed his ruin. Henceforth, for some time, he seldom

or never distinguished himself in Parliament, though the French

Revolution was then setting all England in a ferment; but was chiefly to

be heard of in the circles of fashion, and at the Carlton House revels.

On the occasion, however, of the Nore Mutiny, he took a decided part,

nobly sacrificing all party considerations in his zeal to maintain his

country's honour.

About four years after the death of his first wife, Sheridan entered

into a second marriage with Miss Ogle, daughter of the Dean of

Winchester. His affairs were now in a sad state of embarrassment, for he

obtained but a slender jointure with his wife; and, to retrieve them, he

once again turned his attention to the stage. In 1799 he brought out the

play of "Pizarro," which had a prodigious run, and is still occasionally

performed. The style and sentiments of this drama are in the worst

possible taste, utterly at variance with nature, and outraging all the

legitimate rules of composition. Strange, however, to say its author was

as proud of it as even of his "School for Scandal."

On the death of Mr. Pitt, and the accession of the Whigs to power,

Sheridan was appointed Treasurer of the Navy,--a situation which he

held but a short time, the ministry being unexpectedly broken up by

the demise of Mr. Fox. It was while holding this office that he gave

a splendid entertainment to the Prince of Wales, which swallowed up

his whole year's income. Nevertheless he turned even this absurd

extravagance to account; for, having occasion to allude to his

resignation in Parliament, he, with matchless effrontery, thanked God

that he quitted office as poor as when he entered upon it!

Parliament being dissolved soon after Fox's death, Sheridan, after a

violent struggle, was returned for Westminster, but was unseated on the

next dissolution, which occurred in 1807. Somewhere about this time

his friend the Prince made him a privy-councillor, and appointed him

to the Receivership of the Duchy of Cornwall; but, whatever were the

pecuniary advantages he derived from this sinecure, they were more than

counterbalanced by the destruction of all his theatrical property by

fire. This calamity took place in 1809, when Sheridan was on his legs at

St. Stephen's. He instantly quitted the House, and, after coolly looking

on at the conflagration, retired to a neighbouring tavern, where he was

found by a friend, luxuriating over a bottle of wine. On being asked how

he could think of enjoying himself at such a time, he replied, "A man

may surely be allowed to take a glass by his own fireside!"

We now approach the last and most melancholy period of poor Sheridan's

life. The sun that we have seen blazing so long and brilliantly, is

now about to set in storm and cloud. Having committed himself with his

party by some mysterious intrigues in which he had engaged, relative to

the formation of a new ministry, Sheridan lost almost all his political

influence; and, on the dissolution of Parliament in 1812, was defeated

in his attempts to be re-elected for Stafford. Ruin now begun to stare

him in the face. The management of the new theatre had been, some time

before, taken out of his hands; his debts were on the increase; his duns

grew daily more clamorous; and he had no longer the House of Commons

to fly to for shelter. To such a wretched state of destitution was he

now reduced, that he was absolutely compelled to pawn his books, his

pictures, and all his most valuable furniture. Nor was this the worst.

In the spring of 1814 he was arrested and carried to a spunging-house,

where he remained in "durance vile" upwards of three days!

From this moment he never again held up his head, or ventured abroad

into the world. His heart was broken, and he would sit for hours

weeping in the solitude of his chamber. Yet, though hovering on the

very threshold of the grave, his duns allowed him not the slightest

respite; writs and executions were multiplied against him; and the

bailiffs at length forced their way into his house. He was then dying;

yet, even in that state, the agents of the law were about to carry

him out in blankets, when the interference of a friend saved him

from the humiliation of drawing his last breath in a spunging-house.

And where were all his fashionable and titled friends during this

season of distress? Where were the princes, and dukes, and lords, of

whom he had so long been the idol? All had flown; the sight of his

death-bed--and such a death-bed!--would, no doubt, have been too much

for their delicate sensibilities; and, with the exception of Messrs.

Moore, Rogers, and one or two other friends, who remained faithful to

the last, there was not one to close his dying eyes. But when all was

over, then came the pomp and the pageantry, the titled pall-bearers, the

long array of mourners, the public funeral, and the tomb in Westminster

Abbey! Poor Sheridan! He was thought of sufficient consequence to be

laid by the side of the departed worthies of England; yet the very men

who paid this homage to his ashes, scorned to come near him in his

poverty!

At the period of his death, which took place in 1816, Sheridan had just

completed his sixty-fifth year. His constitution was robust and healthy;

and he might have lived full ten years longer, had not grief and his

own excesses cut short the span of his days. In youth he was considered

handsome; but long confirmed habits of conviviality had obliterated, ere

he had yet entered on the autumn of life, every trace of comeliness.

His manners were remarkably insinuating, especially to women; his wit

ever at command; and his flow of animal spirits unflagging. His worst

failing was his unconquerable indolence. To this may be attributed

all his misfortunes, and those humiliating expedients to which he was

compelled to have recourse in order in ward off the evil day. So deeply

was this vice implanted in his nature, that, even when he had to attend

the funeral of his old friend Richardson, he could not be prevailed on

to set out in time, but arrived after the service was concluded, which,

at his particular request, was performed a second time.

Lord Byron, who saw much of him in his decline, has stated--as we see

by Moore's admirable life of that poet--that Sheridan's wit was bitter

and morose, rather than sparkling or conciliatory. It should be borne in

mind, however, that he was then worn down by sickness, disappointed in

all his hopes, and deserted by that Prince on whose favour he laid so

much stress, and to preserve which he had made so many sacrifices. The

concurrent testimony of those who knew him in his best days represents

him as having been, like a Wharton or a Villiers, the "life of pleasure

and the soul of whim." That in the course of his meteor-like career he

committed many indefensible acts, and carried the faculty of non-payment

to its highest point of perfection, is true; but, before we finally

condemn him, let us consider what was his education, what his original

position in society, and, above all, what were his temptations. He

was never taught in early life to set a right value on thrifty and

industrious habits. His father was an eccentric being from whose example

he could derive no benefit; and, at an age when the majority of men are

yet in the parental leading-strings, he was cast adrift upon the world,

to sink or swim as might happen. Thus situated, without any legitimate

profession or certain income, he made his own way to celebrity; and if,

while associating with people infinitely his superiors in rank, wealth,

and all worldly advantages, he imbibed their extravagances and aped

their follies, such weakness is surely a fitter subject for our regret

than indignation. At any rate, let us not forget that, if he erred, he

paid the penalty; and that many men a thousand times worse than ever he

was, but with more tact in concealing their faults, have gone down to

the grave honoured and lamented as good citizens and good Christians.

A SUMMER NIGHT'S REVERIE.

'Tis night--and, save the waterfall

That murmurs through the stony vale,

No sound is near the castle wall

On which the moonlight falls so pale!

There is no wind, but up on high

The clouds are passing hurriedly;

And the bright tops of tree and tow'r

Look chilly cold, although the hour

Is midtime of a summer's night,

When moon is mixt with morning light.

There is a terror o'er the scene,

As if but lately it had been

A battle-plain,--and dead and dying

Were silent in the shadows lying!

Is it within the night's lone hour--

The open vale, or closed bower--

The murmur of the distant dells,

That such wild melancholy dwells?

Is it the silvery orbs that sleep

So tranquilly in heaven's deep,

That with their silence wake the mind

To such calm sorrow--such refin'd,

And mixture sweet of joy and grief,

That makes young hearts think tears relief?

Why should the softest season bring

The mind such blissful suffering,

As oft we feel when Nature's rest

Seems most divinely--calmly blest?

Who ever roam'd on moonlit night,

And thought its beam was gaily bright?

Who ever heard a serenade,

With ev'n a theme of lightest mirth,

But melancholy echoes play'd,

And sighs within the heart had birth?

Who ever trode, in glenwood way,

The trellised shadows of the trees,

But felt come o'er his spirit's play

A mournful cadence like a breeze?--

A mingled thrill of pain and bliss--

A dream of hopes and mem'ries lost?

Oh! even happiest lovers' kiss,

By moonlight is with sadness crost!

At such an hour the gayest thing

Is sicklied o'er with pleasing sorrow:

The nightingale would gladly sing,

Were we to list its song by morrow!

Such is to-night--a soft, calm, summer night--

Dim in its beauty,--gloomy in its light!--

Breathing a peacefulness o'er vale and hill,

But in its quiet, something sadden'd still! W.

SONGS OF THE MONTH. No. V.

May, 1837.

MAY MORNING.

Welcome, sweet May!

There is not a day

On the wings of the whole year round,

That sheds in its flight

Such heart-felt delight

As thou dost, with even thy sound!

May! May!

There's music in May,

From the breath of the mead

To the song of the spray!

Welcome, fair May!

The first dewy ray

That awaken'd the infant earth,

Descended when Thou

(With spring-summer brow)

And Beauty were twins of a birth!

May! May!

There's something in May

That even the lips

Of thy son[88] could not say!

[88] Mercury, god of eloquence, son of Jupiter and Maia.

LEARY THE PIPER'S LILT.

This is the first o' the May, boys!

Listen to me, an' my planxty pipe

Will show ye the fun o' the day, boys!

I know for a spree that ye're always ripe,

And fond o' gingerbread while it is gilt.