"Burke," said F——, "predicts that he must perish; that the Revolution will go on, increasing in terrors; and that it would be as easy to stop a planet launched through space, as the progress of France to ruin."
"So be it," said Sheridan with sudden animation. "There have been revolutions in every age of the world, but the world has outlived them all. Like tempests, they may wreck a royal fleet now and then, but they prevent the ocean from being a pond, and the air from being a pestilence. I am content if the world is the better for all this, though France may be the worse. I am a political optimist, in spite of Voltaire; or, I agree with a better man and a greater poet—'All's well that ends well.'"
The prince looked grave; and significantly asked, "Whether too high a present price might not be paid for prospective good?"
Sheridan turned off the question with a smile. "The man who has as little to pay as I have," said he, "seldom thinks of price one way or the other. Possibly, if I were his Grace of Bedford, or my Lord Fitzwilliam, I might begin to balance my rent-roll against my raptures. Or, if I were higher still, I might be only more prudent. But," said he, with a bow, "if what was fit for Parmenio was not fit for Alexander, neither would what was fit for Alexander be fit for Parmenio."
The prince soon after rose from table, and led the way into the library, where we spent some time in looking over an exquisite collection of drawings of Greece and Albania, a present from the French king to his royal highness. The windows were thrown open, and the fresh scents of the flower garden were delicious; the night was calm, and the moon gleamed far over the quiet ocean.
At this moment a soft sound of music arose at a distance. I looked in vain for the musicians—none were visible. The strain, incomparably managed, now approached, now receded, now seemed to ascend from the sea, now to stoop from the sky. All crowded to the casement—to me, a stranger and unexpecting, all was surprise and spell. I, almost unconsciously, repeated the fine lines in the Tempest:—
"Where should this music be? I' the air, or the earth?
It sounds no more: and sure, it waits upon
Some god of the island—
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air—But 'tis gone!
No, it begins again."
The prince returned my quotation with a gracious smile, and the words of the great poet,
"This is no mortal business, nor no sound
This the earth owns."
The private band, stationed in one of the thickets, had been the magicians. Supper was laid in this handsome apartment, not precisely