could easily comprehend all that Mrs. Canning told me of the sufferings of Mrs. Sheridan, who was destined, this moment to adore the man for his affection and brilliant talents, whom she was the next moment to be ready to detest and fly from, overpowered and indignant at his teazing unreasonableness and nervous, unintelligible folly.

But to a boy at Eton and at College, what a treat was the Critic. To a mind then living upon tragedies, ancient and modern, what an inexhaustible magazine was here to be found, of sarcasms quite exquisite, and of humorous sallies totally irresistible. But the full force and merit of this capital composition can only be perceived by those who discover it in the same unfortunate manner, that at a subsequent period I did myself. For instance, I brought one morning to Sheridan a copy of some verses I had published, which he received with his usual courtesy and kindness, but without reading a word of them, either then, or I believe ever after; "Now, my good Smyth," he observed, "if you can write poetry, go you and write a tragedy, and you may then make your own fortune and mine too." The hint was sufficient; I set to work immediately, and it was then that I saw all the cleverness of this celebrated piece; I could not stir a step without knocking my head against some part or other of it. My story could not be told, my characters could not be got on the

stage or off, no metaphor could be produced, no surprise constructed, nothing in short could be said or done, the ridicule of which had not been anticipated by this provoking drama. I was ready to laugh, I was ready to cry with vexation: I shall never forget what I suffered while endeavouring to keep my scenes and my characters out of harm's way. I have no particular notion of my talents for writing a tragedy, or writing any thing else, but I think I may venture to affirm, that no one will ever write a tragedy if he once becomes as conversant with the Critic as I then was.

Every thing thus concurred to prepare me for the admiration of this distinguished man. The very species of poetry in which he so much excelled, was of that description which more particularly struck my fancy-the songs in the Duenna and his occasional pieces.

The last finish to Sheridan's perfections, in my eyes at the time, remains to be mentioned. He was a Whig, and his wit, according to the probationary odes, had become the terror of Pitt and the Treasury Bench;—and at that time, political questions, or rather, the opposite merits of Pitt and Fox, so occupied the nation, that they reached the Universities; and the debates in the House of Commons were not for a moment to be compared for energy and uproar to our political contentions in our college rooms; and it had often struck two

and three in the morning before we could bear to leave the nation to its fate and retire to rest.

From the gallery of the House of Commons I could only see Mr. Sheridan at a distance. I have haunted the box lobbies of Drury-Lane, night after night, to get a sight of him. For the same purpose, I traversed St. James's-Street, if possible to see him go in or out of Brooks's, but in vain. His talents, in the mean time, and his politics-his verses, his dramas, his speecheswere the great objects of my constant idolatry. And finally, I must observe, that there was no sentiment of admiration and interest experienced by me, that had not been far more felt by the nation itself, while he was delivering his four days' speech in Westminster-Hall, on the trial of Mr. Hastings.

And now I have to arrive at the real subject of this present Memoir.

This idolatry of the genius of Sheridan, and the visionary attachment that I had indulged, were destined, some few years after, to be put to a severe test; most unexpectedly, indeed, and in a manner not a little afflicting.

The French Revolution broke out, the government was dissolved, the king was executed, war was declared between England and France, the French had over-run Holland and Flanders, the stocks had fallen, the merchants and manu

facturers were every where in a state of embarrassment and dismay, and among the rest the banking-house of my father was totally ruined.

In calamities of this nature, one of the first mournful results is this, that the family must break up and separate, and every one endeavour to provide for himself in the best manner he can. So fared it with us. One brother, a spirited young man, became a soldier; another, by the kindness of his master, Dr. Davies of Macclesfield, at whose school he had the happiness to be, and who thought highly of his talents and disposition, was sent to Oxford; and I had myself to cast about and consider what effort I could make for my own support, and the support of those who now wanted assistance; no strong exertion was possible, my eyes had been long weakened, there was a nervous affection in the retina; I had thus been prevented from going into any active profession; I could not read more than two or three hours in the day, and not at all at night; I had therefore no other chance but to go tutor into some family, where such services and superintendence, as in that state I could render, might be worth some pecuniary recompense. I therefore wrote, right and left, to my college and other friends, informing them of my wishes,-among the rest, to Mr. Edward Morris, with whom I had spent many happy hours while we were fellow-students

at Peter-House; and of whose attachment and zeal to serve me I had no doubt. Morris, on his leaving college, had been smit with a passion for the drama; had been guilty of writing a farce, and afterwards a comedy, that was unsuccessful; but had thus been introduced to the acquaintance of Sheridan. The result was, that I received from him a letter, to state that Sheridan's son had been brought away from Dr. Parr, who could do nothing for him; that he was running wild at Sheridan's seat at Isleworth; the poor mother dead, and the father never there; and that a tutor was wanted for him. The only disagreeable part of this business, said Morris, is this, that Sheridan, though disposed, he assures me, to give every credit to my recommendation, is unwilling to engage with any gentleman whom he has never seen; and, therefore, all that can be done is, that you should come up to town, under pretence of seeing me and other business, and I will bring you together.

This was a bitter pill. Unaccustomed to misfortune, and with all the childish delicacy of one who had "slept with soft content upon his pillow," I recoiled from the thought of going two hundred miles, to be looked at, and perhaps rejected as an article not worth the purchase. I had heard, too, much of Mr. Sheridan's genius, and was sufficiently enamoured of it; but I had