Bentley's Miscellany, Volume I

by Various

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.