with a burst of intense feeling, 66 spare me "You have no authority," cried the your reproaches, Charles; they indeed are|| mendicant; "I am not, as you may supinsupportable."

pose, a convict escaped from Botany Bay;" and he drew from his bosom a paper, which the Judge examined, and perceived to be a release by expiration of time. "We have, indeed, no authority to detain him at present," said Lord Earlsden; "let him therefore depart, and if he would escape the desert his baseness merits, be seen no more in this neighbourhood." Yes, yes! go, go!" continued Macallan, in a voice of eagerness and alarm. "No, I will not go!" exclaimed the harper, "till the purpose dearest to my heart be accomplished." Snatching the chain and ring, he threw them at Macallan's feet: there!" concluded he, "take back these cruel fetters, which, for fifteen years of toil and suffer||ing, were borne by my aching limbs, in testimony of my despair and your triumph !"

Lord Earlsden shuddered-a chill rushed
to his heart." Advise!" repeated he,
"to you I should advise nothing; but to a
man who really could have been capable of ||
sacrificing an innocent victim to the punish-
ment which he himself deserved, I should ||
exhort him to confess his enormity, and
prepare for death."

Macallan shuddered; convulsive sobs burst from his labouring breast. Lord Earlsden gazed at him with a sensation of horror; a new emotion rushed into his heart he read the guilt of Macallan in his deportment. The conviction that he had been the means of condemning a fellowcreature to a hard and unmerited punishment filled his mind; and, scarcely master of his feelings, he abruptly quitted the apartment.

During this interview, Charles had sought the harper to desire he would immediately withdraw. "Go," said he," or the power of my father, Lord Earlsden-"-" "Tis || for me to impart that your real father still exists," calmly interrupted the man of mystery. Exists!-my father !—speak, where?" impatiently inquired the youth, almost forgetting his animosity.

66

"He is in poverty," was the reply: "he has passed fifteen years of unmerited slavery for the crime of another. Read this paper." Charles saw that the harper wept; and what was his astonishment, on glancing at the tendered manuscript, to find it in the hand-writing of his departed mother, exactly corresponding with a letter which had been found on his own person, when, a deserted infant, he was discovered at the hospitable door of Lord Earlsden. Almost blinded by tears, the young man perused the sad epistle :—

never been dry since the moment of our separation. One last effort to part with my infant, and then――'tis accomplished-I-my senses expire▬▬▬

Charles drew his hand across his face to dry the tears which flowed copiously down his pale cheek-“ But my father!" exclaimed he, "where is he, that the arms of his son may not enfold him?" The harper's agitation was extreme; and, throwing himself on the breast of Charles, he faintly sobbed, "My son my son! do not thou disdain thine outcast, injured father, though he comes to thee thus, in the garb of humiliation and sorrow."

With a transport of filial affection, Charles pressed the unfortunate author of his existence to his heart, and for some moments they mingled their tears in silence. At length, Charles inquired the name of his father's persecutor, the assassin of his mother. "Thou wouldst marry his daughter !" shuddered the old man ; " that monster is no other than Macallan!" Charles recoiled as from the touch of a torpedo: "Thou canst prove this?" cried he, sternly." I can! On my voyage home, heaven assisted me to save a fellow-creature from perishing by shipwreck-it was one of those mistaken-men, who, with Macallan and Robert, had effected my early ruin. He was struck with remorse at the sight of his preserver-he confessed his own crime, and proclaimed my innocence; the truth of my assertion is well attested."

At this moment Lord Earlsden entered in some confusion. Charles related all the harper's story in a few words—the Judge answered in silence: at last he was about to speak, when the report of a pistol was heard, and a scream from Emily drew "Before I close my eyes for ever-rob- Charles and his companions precipitately bed of all consolation-Oh, my husband! | into the adjoining chamber. Macallan had Oh, unfortunate victim of another's crime! | destroyed himself: he lay on the earth in if you have not preceded your unhappy the last agonies of death-Emily was in the Adelaide to eternity, accept her last prayers arms of the terrified domestics. As the and adieus! Thy son, thy dear son, Charles, harper appeared, Macallan turned towards is still alive, on my chilling bosom; pre-him his ghastly and blood-stained features, sently I shall quit him too-quit him for and, raising his dying hands, he seemed to ever! One day, if thine innocence-too invoke the forgiveness he could not ask; slowly proved, alas! for me-be ascertain-then feebly drawing forth from his bosom ed, thou wilt hear of our poor boy at Lord Earlsden's, that fearful and mistaken judge, but benevolent man. When you meet again, think of her whose grief-swollen eyes have

a carefully-folded paper, he kissed it with a convulsive wildness, and expired. That paper was the confession of a penitent who had struggled long with the agonies of ap

keys and of false signatures, and besought compassion for the unoffending Emily. But where was the agent in Macallan's guilt the morose Robert? What share had he taken in the baseness of his early employer? None could ever answer that inquiry: Robert had hastily withdrawn himself, and from that period was seen in the place no more. There was yet another criminal to merit retribution-the man whose life the harper had saved; but the thirst of malediction had been more than sated in the self-offered blood of the chief offender, and the punishment awarded arose only from the lacerations of conscience.

prehension and remorse-it spoke of false || birds and the hamlet bells were uniting in harmonious concert-a nuptial throng was coming out of the little church; the traveller checked his horse to gaze at the || happy bride and bridegroom—he evidently knew them; he evidently remembered well the features of Charles and of Emily. A venerable and majestic man, in rather a sombre habit for a wedding, led the train ; it was the harper. The traveller, who, one might perceive by his surprise, had not prepared himself to encounter features so familiar to his recollection, as the eye of the harper was directed towards him, started, drew his hat abruptly over his brow, and rode hastily away. Some imagined this stranger was no other than the criminal Robert; but the harper was silent as to his own thoughts; and still the fate of that culprit remains unknown.

Two years after this melancholy catastrophe, a traveller was riding leisurely through a village at a distant part of the country-it was a lovely morning-and the

E. B.

THE SHERIDAN FAMILY.

FEW families are more remarkable for was probably indebted to the family of his hereditary genius, unfolding itself in literary mother. Let us first, however, advert to talent, and for humour and eccentricity of that of his father. He was the great-grandmanner, than that of our great dramatist, son of Dr. Thomas Sheridan, the brother whose politico-poetical life, by Moore, has of Dr. William, a conscientious non-juror, for some weeks been exciting considerable who, in 1691, was deprived of the Bishopric interest. There is a publication which of Kilmore: as a profound scholar and stamps the fidelity of this opinion, far be-eminent schoolmaster, intimately connectyond that of Mr. Moore;-a publication to ed with Dean Swift, and other distinguished which, indeed, that gentleman has most writers in the reign of Queen Anne, the handsomely acknowledged himself much character of his grandfather, Dr. Thomas indebted. We mean," Memoirs of the Life Sheridan, is full in the recollection of every and Writings of Mrs. Frances Sheridan,|| historical, political, and literary reader. Mother of the late Right Hon. Richard Thomas Sheridan, his father, was, as an Brinsley Sheridan, and Author of Sidney actor, the contemporary and successful Biddulph,Nourjahad,' and 'The Dis- rival of Garrick; and, as an orthoepist, covery. By her Grand-Daughter, Alicia and teacher of elocution, he stood unriLefanu." This volume, which ranks with valled. His judgment, we apprehend, was the neatest and most amusing specimens of sounder than his genius was brilliant. modern biography, sheds a flood of light His accurate opinion of the female characupon the family connexions of Mr. Sheri- ter, insures for him the favour of our readan, not one ray of which illumines the ders. "Of the virtues of women in genemore ponderous and imposing production ral," observes Miss Lefanu," Mr. Sheridan of the first song-writer of the age. had a very favourable opinion; and he was often heard to observe, that in the distressing vicissitudes of his fortune, he had met, in his female friends, with more generosity, more disinterestedness, and far greater steadiness of attachment than

Maternally, as well as paternally, Sheridan had the felicity of enjoying a rich inheritance of genius and humour: for the greater portion of the former, with all the more amiable affections of the heart, he

among men. The female heart did not grow cold at the aspect of calamity, and the sympathies of woman were ever ready at the call of unmerited distress."

occasion to speak more at large presently,
was fond of plain attire and grave colours,
the antipathy of her husband.
One day,
when reading by the fire, in a gown of dark
brown silk, a colour he particularly detest-
ed, a hot coal fell, unobserved by her, upon
the train. Sheridan quietly let the coal

We are not biographizing-if we may be allowed to coin such a word—but merely throwing together a few characteristic anecdotes. As Christmas is approaching, smoulder on, till it had burnt a hole suffi

ciently large to render the favourite brown dress unfit for future service; and then, for the first time, called her attention to it by saying, "My dear, don't you see your gown's on fire !"

Mr. Sheridan's judgment, as we have before remarked, was particularly sound, especially in literature, and in the histrionic art. When at Paris, a short time before the death of his wife, he was particularly struck with the acting of the sublime Clairon;" and upon afterwards becoming acquainted with Mrs. Siddons, he often compared the styles of those two celebrated actresses, who, in his opinion, came nearer to perfection than any he had ever beheld.

it may not be amiss to display Mr. Sheri- || dan's skill in cookery, in illustration of ancient Irish hospitality. At a convivial party in the early part of his life, some of his friends particularly enlarged on the merits of a "swilled mutton;" a dish which they affirmed preserved the juices of the animal in much greater perfection than any mode of dressing in which its limbs are divided. Sheridan took the hint, and named the day for a treat in the primeval Irish style. The floor of the eating-room || was strewed with rushes, and the respective dishes, amongst which the swilled mutton was not forgotten, all cooked after the ancient manner, were placed upon the table. The swilled mutton was, in fact, a sheep roasted whole, in the inside of which had been insinuated a lamb; the lamb, again, was stuffed with a hare and rabbits. There was also a goose, the body of which was stuffed with a duck; and various other delicacies of a similar nature. The effect seems to have been almost like that of the feast of the ancients, so ludicrously described in Smollett's novel of " Peregrine Pickle. These savoury viands proved repugnant to the taste of modern palates. The guests affected to relish them, praised the juiciness of the mutton, and the high || flavour of the goose; but, through all their affected approbation, Mr. Sheridan saw that they were thoroughly disappointed. || After suffering them to regale to the extent of their appetites on these dishes, having given a private hint for reservation to one or two friends, they were taken away and replaced by a second course, consisting of turbot, venison, wild fowl, and every deli-ed as only an empty boast-much mirth cacy of the season. The two or three epicures aware of their host's intention, now with great satisfaction began their real dinner; while the rest, who had already dined heartily, could only lament their mistake, which had left them no appetite for the luxurious fare that succeeded. ||

Mrs. Sheridan, of whom we shall have

It is worth mentioning here, that in the year 1775, Mr. Sheridan was at Drury Lane Theatre, one evening, during the performance of Mrs. Cowley's comedy of "The Runaway," in which a sentimental part was sustained by a young lady, whose talents were highly extolled by those who had the best opportunities of judging of her. The lady's friends lamented the selfish policy of Garrick, who avoided bringing her forward, from a fear, as it was considered, that she would divide the public attention with him. In a dispute with Miss Young (afterwards Mrs. Pope) who had begun, as well as other actresses, to shew a refractory temper, Garrick had said,

I tell you, you had better not give yourselves airs, for there is a woman in the house, who, if I chose to bring her forward, would eclipse you all in youth, beauty, and talent." These mysterious expressions were regard

was excited by the idea of Garrick's greenroom goddesɛ—and, at the end of the season, her attraction proved insufficient to obtain a renewal of her engagement. A few years afterwards, Mr. Sheridan, while at Bath, was strongly urged to witness the performance of a young actress, who was said to distance all competition in tragedy.

the country, was a firm believer in the Banshi, or female demon, supposed to be attached to certain ancient families. "She seriously maintained that the Banshi of the Sheridan family was heard wailing beneath the windows of Quilca before the news arrived from France of Mrs. Frances Sheridan's death at Blois, thus affording them a preternatural intimation of the impending melancholy event. A niece of Miss Sheridan's made her very angry by observing, that as Mrs. Frances Sheridan was by birth a Chamberlaine, a family of English extrace tion, she had no right to the guardianship of an Irish fairy, and that therefore the Banshi must have made a mistake.”

To his astonishment, he found that it was the lady who had made so little impression upon him in "The Runaway;" but who, as Garrick had declared, was possessed of tragic powers, sufficient to delight and electrify an audience. Sheridan, after the play was over, obtained an introduction to her, complimented her upon her performance, and expressed his surprise that, with such talents, she should confine herself to the country. The lady replied, that she had already tried London, but without the success which had been anticipated ;|| and that she was advised by her friends to be content with the fame and profit she obtained at Bath, particularly as her voice was deemed unequal to the extent of a London theatre. Sheridan, judging very|| differently of her powers, obtained an engagement for her at Drury Lane theatre, which was then under the management of King. She selected for her debut the part of Euphrasia, in “The Grecian Daughter;" but, by the nicer taste of Mr. Sheridan, she was induced to adopt that of Isabella, in "The Fatal Marriage." Thus burst forth in the full blaze of transcendant merit-interchange of sentiment in the confidential Mrs. Siddons! Sheridan exerted himself in every possible mode for her interest; and, when at the height of her professional prosperity, she used gratefully to speak of him, as the father of her fortune and her fame.

Respecting this gentleman, we shall only further state, that he breathed his last at Margate, on the 14th of August, 1788, in the 69th year of his age. He was anxiously attended in his departure by his son Richard Brinsley. It was intended to convey his remains to be buried near those of Dr. Robert Sumner, of Harrow, his dearest and most esteemed friend; but, on opening his will, it was found, that he had left the most positive injunctions, that in whatever place he died, there he should be buried, and in the most private manner possible. His remains were accordingly deposited in a vault, in the centre aisle of St. Peter's church, Margate.

Reverting to Mrs. Sheridan's death, which took place at Blois, in the month of August, 1766, it is not incurious to remark, that Miss Elizabeth Sheridan, the sister of her husband, like many Irish ladies, who had resided during the early part of life in No. 12.-Fol. II.

Dr. Chamberlaine, the father of Mrs. Sheridan, was an admired preacher, and strict in the performance of all his clerical duties; but, withal, a great humorist. He was with difficulty prevailed on to allow his daughter to learn to read; and, to write, he affirmed to be perfectly superfluous in the education of a woman-tending to nothing but the multiplication of love-letters, or the scarcely less dangerous

effusions of female correspondence. Mr. Sheridan, on the contrary, was extremely liberal in his notions of female education. || In France he had begun to teach his eldest daughter Latin in the class with her brothers; and, had not various circumstances occurred to present obstacles to his designs, he would have adopted the same mode of instruction for both his daughters.

Fortunately for Miss Chamberlaine, she was blessed with affectionate brothers, who vied with each other in averting the effects of her father's injudicious prohibitions. By her eldest brother, Walter, she was privately instructed in writing and in the rudiments of the Latin language; and by her brother Richard she was initiated into the science of botany. The latter acquisition she chiefly confined to benefiting the poor of her father's parish, to whose distresses and wants she liberally administered relief. Throughout life, indeed, her character was distinguished by a spirit of truly Christian benevolence..

Blessed with genius, she was not without a portion of that eccentricity by which it is generally accompanied. There was amongst her father's parishioners a poor creature

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