largely profited, in the collection of dry but stubborn facts, which he himself wanted the application to acquire, but without which he would not have made a figure in the House of Commons. Such a woman was indeed a fit partner for an intellectual husband, the sharer of his labours, the appreciator of his talents, and the participator in his triumphs. The vain man may dread a competitor in such a wife; and a fool may fear the dominion of a master-spirit; but a man accustomed to think must feel his happiness incomplete, if, in the arms of beauty, he finds in the companion of his choice no reflection of his own mind. That Sheridan was not insensible to such various excellence, that he should never have ceased to respect and esteem those qualities which first won his affections, may be easily believed; but Sheridan was a sensualist, devoted to wine, to conviviality, and the applause he received from society. "Il-y-a des bons marriages, mais il n'-y-a point de delicieux," says a French writer; and without going to the full length of this assertion, we must doubt whether the varnish of sensibility and jealous apprehension which Mr. Moore has applied to heighten the colouring of his picture, is quite appropriate to the subject. Over the errors of Sheridan's life, as we have already stated, a decent veil is thrown in Mr. Moore's pages; and either from a want of information, or from motives of delicacy in the narrator, the same has been done by his pecuniary affairs. Without hereditary fortune, or profitable employment, it is difficult to imagine how a man of pleasure, early burthened with the expense of a family, could have possessed himself in the first instance of ten thousand pounds, which, it appears, he paid for the purchase of Drury-lane theatre, and finally have been enabled to raise sums three or four times of that amount. On this circumstance Mr. Moore remarks:

There was, indeed, something mysterious and miraculous about all his acquisi tions, whether in love, in learning, in wit, or in wealth. How or when his stock of knowledge was laid in, nobody knew-it was as much a matter of marvel to those who never saw him read, as the existence of the chameleon has been to those who fancied it never eat. His advances in the heart of his mistress were, as we have seen, equally trackless and inaudible, and his triumph was the first that even rivals knew of his love. In like manner, the productions of his wit took the world by surprise, being perfected in secret, till ready for display, and then seeming to break from under the cloud of his indolence in full maturity of splendour. His financial resources had no less an air of magic about them; and the mode by which he conjured up, at this time, the money for his first purchase into the theatre, remains, as far as I can learn, still a mystery. It has been said that Mr. Garrick supplied him with the means-but a perusal of the above letters must set that notion to rest. There was evidently, at this time, no such confidential understanding between them as an act of friendship of so signal a nature would imply; and it appears that Sheridan had the purchase-money ready, even before the terms upon which Garrick would sell were ascertained. That Dr. Ford should have advanced the money is not less improbable; for the share of which, contrary to his first intention, he ultimately became proprietor, absorbed, there is every reason to think, the whole of his disposable means. He was afterwards a sufferer by the concern to such an extent, as to be obliged, in consequence of his embarrassments, to absent himself for a considerable time from England; and there are among the papers of Mr. Sheridan, several letters of remonstrance, addressed to him by the son of Dr. Ford, in which some allusion to such a friendly service, had it ever occurred, would hardly have been omitted.

Another fact, equally unintelligible is, that Sheridan died but little more than 50007. in debt. How such a man, leading such a life, should ewe so little; or how, owing so little and possessing such an interest

in Drury-lane theatre, he should have been so constantly harassed and distressed, is quite beyond our power of divination to develope. His embarrassments through life are notorious; and so likewise was he notorious for the ingenuity with which from time to time he extricated himself. On this point, as Mr. Moore is silent, we refer our readers to some curious facts developed in Kelly's Memoirs.

Apropos to these distresses we have to state, that the accusation heretofore levelled against an illustrious personage of unfeeling neglect of Sheridan in his last moments, is formally and courageously reiterated in Mr. Moore's present publication. This accusation Kelly, in his ge neral quality of actor, and of obliged servant, has in his Memoirs as formally denied ; but the sad and painful story of the destitution and neglect in which Sheridan died, is confirmed in so many particulars by living witnesses, that the fact must be reluctantly admitted as indubitable. "Principibus placuisse viris," if it be not the poorest praise, is certainly not the best road to fortune, when unaccompanied by the happier art of taking care of No. 1. "Had I but served my God," &c. &c., is a reflection applicable to nearly all those who have devoted themselves "body and soul" to the service of Princes.

Of the style of Mr. Moore's book, we must say that we think it of too glittering and fanciful a character for the dignity of a grave biographical quarto; too poetic, too pointed. Yet, on the whole, it is less so than might have been anticipated. Amidst much fine and much powerful writing, there is a too frequent superabundance of imagery; and if "as" and "like" occurred less often in the structure of the sentences, the perusal would be less fatiguing to the reader. Sometimes this fury of fine writing betrays the author into conceits, such as:

He had not yet searched his fancy for those curious fossils of thought, which make the School for Scandal such a rich museum of wit.

or again :

It is the opinion of a learned Jesuit, that it was by aqua regia the Golden Calf of the Israelites was dissolved-and the cause of kings was the royal solvent, in which the wealth of Great Britain now melted irrecoverably away.

But this is rare; much more frequently his ornaments, even when misplaced, are of the highest beauty and polish; and sometimes they add force as well as grace to the passage, and illustrate no less than they adorn. In one or two places, on the other hand, marks of negligence are visible, which however would not be worthy of notice in an author less fastidious in his compositions.

IDEAL LIKENESSES.

Ariadne.

A SWEET but happy looking face, the mouth
Seem'd a rose opening to the pleasant south,
Giving sweets, stealing sunshine; it was gay
As it could smile e'en sorrow's self away;
The curls were all thrown back as not allow'd
To shed o'er that young brow, the slightest cloud;
From the fair forehead's height, they downward roll'd
A sunny stream, floating with waves of gold;
A wreath of vine-leaves bound it, but the wind
Kiss'd the stray ringlets it had not confined.
Too beautiful for earth, the sky had given
Her eye and cheek the colouring of heaven,
Blue, the clear blue upon an April sky,
Red, the first red the morning blushes dye :
Her downcast look at times wore pensiveness,
But tender more than sorrowful, as less

She had known than dreamed woe, as her chief grief

Had been a fading flower, a falling leaf.

Her song was as the red wine sparkling up,

Gaily o'erflowing from a festal cup.

Her step was light as wont to move along
To the gay cymbal and the choral song;
Her laugh was glad as one who rather chose
To dwell upon life's pleasures, than life's woes.
And this was she whom Theseus left to pine,
And mingle with her salt tears the salt brine;
Her face was all too bright for tears, she gave
Sighs to the wind, and weeping to the wave,
And left a lesson unto after-times,

Too little dwelt upon in minstrel rhymes,
A lesson how inconstancy should be

Repaid again by like inconstancy.

Sappho.

Dark, passionate, though beautiful, the eye
Was as the lightning of the stormy sky

Flashing through darkness; light and shadow blent

Workings of the mind's troubled element:

You did not mark the features, could not trace
What hue, what outline, was upon that face;
Even while present, indistinct it seem'd,
Like that of which we have but only dream'd.
You saw a hurried hand fling back the hair
Like tempest clouds roll'd back upon the air.
Still midnight was beneath, that haughty brow
Darken'd with thoughts to which it would not bow-
Midnight, albeit a starry one, the light

Meteor or planet still was that of night.

She had a dangerous gift, though genius be
All this earth boasts of immortality.

It is too heavenly to suit that earth,
The spirit perishes with its fatal birth;
This mingling fire and water, soul and clay,
The one must make the other one its prey.
Her heart sufficed not to itself, such mind
Will shrink such utter loneliness to find,
As it must in its range of burning thought,
Will sigh above the ruins it has wrought,
False fancies, prejudice, affections vain,
Until it seeks to wear again the chain

Itself has broken, so that it could be
Less desolate, although no longer free.
She lov'd! again her ardent soul was buoy'd
On hope's bright wings, above life's dreary void
Again its fond illusions were received,
Centered in one the dearest yet believed;
It ended as illusions ever must,

The shining temple prostrate dust to dust.
Look on that brow, is it not stamp'd with pride?
How might it brook the grief it could not hide!
Look on that lip, it has a sad sweet smile,
How may it brook to feel alone the while!
Overhead was the storm, beneath the sea,
And Love and Genius found their destiny-
Despair and Death.

Erinna.

Fashion'd by Nature in her gentlest mood,
Almost for human brow too fair, too good;
"Twas a sweet face, a face of smiles, of tears,
Of all that soothes and softens, wins, endears;
Bearing the omen of its early fate :-

The rose upon her lip was delicate,

Her youthful cheek was pale, and all too plain
Was seen the azure wandering of the vein,
That shone in the clear temple, as if care,
Wasting to sickness, had been working there.
Erinna, she who died like her own song,
Passing away soon, yet remember'd long;
Her heart and lip were music, albeit one

Who marvell'd at what her sweet self had done;

Who breathed for Love, and pined to find that Fame

In answer to her lute's soft summons came;

See, the eye droops in sadness, as to shun

That which it dared not gaze on, Glory's sun.

Corinna.

There is an antic gem on which her brow
Retains its graven beauty, even now:
Her hair is braided, but one curl behind
Floats as enamour'd of the summer wind;
The dress is simple, as she were too fair
To even think of beauty's own sweet care;
The lip and brow are contrasts, one so fraught
With pride, the melancholy pride of thought,
Conscious of its own power, yet forced to know
How very little way that power will go;
Regretting while too proud of the fine mind,
Which raises but to part it from its kind—
But the sweet mouth had nothing of all this—
It was a mouth the bee had learnt to kiss,
For her young sister, telling though now mute,
How soft an echo it was to the lute.
The one spoke genius in its high revealing,
The other smiled a woman's gentler feeling.
It was a lovely face, the Greek outline
Flowing yet delicate and feminine.
The glorious lightning of the kindled eye,
Raised as it communed with its native sky;
A lovely face, the spirit's fitting shrine,
The one almost, the other quite divine.

L.E.L

KELLY'S MEMOIRS.*

"Pleased let me trifle life away,

And sing of love ere I grow old."

THIS seems to have been the motto of our old theatrical acquaintance Michael Kelly, whose life has been a round of gaiety and happiness. From his boyhood upwards, he has flourished familiarly and with infinite enjoyment, not only in the society of all the illustrious men of his day, in the musical world, here and on the continent, but in the more brilliant circles of courtiers, nobles, princes, and kings, whose patronage he seems uniformly to have obtained. This is not all; for from one or two slight hints dropped in the course of his book, we suspect that fortune, as if determined to make a pet child of Michael, conferred favours on him still more precious than even the applauses of royalty, by gifting him with a knack of propitiating the kindness of some of the prettiest women in Italy and Germany. Nothing, indeed, seems to have been wanting to make Kelly's draught of life, especially the early part of it, go down in the sweetest possible way; and here we cannot refrain from remarking on the great advantages the musical profession appears to have over most others in introducing its followers to all the gay luxuries of the very highest circles of fashionable life. This is abundantly proved by the book before us, which is the fullest of adventures and anecdotes (the greater part of a joyous cast) of any we ever read without exception; and we think the next good thing to passing such a life as Kelly's, is to sit down with a bottle and a bright fire on a winter's evening, and read his very diverting volumes, out of which we purpose to lay before our readers a few quotations, as the best possible way of reviewing such a work.

Before, however, we say a word more, it is fair to apprise the reader that our passions are Italy, Music, and the Drama; and that Mr. Kelly's Memoir treats of those matters from the beginning to the end. If, therefore, our judgment should seem overstrained, we must beg the reader to make a reasonable discount for these weaknesses before he condemns our partiality. Having thus eased our consciences, we may say, that a more gay, light-hearted, unpresuming narrative we have seldom read; and though, as the author himself allows, he was not much famed for modesty as an actor or a man, yet, as an author, he lays no claim to merit which he does not amply justify: let it likewise be borne in mind that the greatest masters in literature have not always been the best writers of memoirs; and that Benvenuto Cellini, the liveliest and most entertaining of biographers, was an unlettered artist. Instruction in such a work nobody will look for. Kelly is a mere comedian, more conversant with musical operas, than with literature, or the scenes and business of real life, and more given to notes than to comments. With the exception of a little squeamish loyalty at the end of the book, very

* Reminiscences of Michael Kelly, of the King's Theatre, and Theatre Royal, Drury Lane; Abroad and at Home: including a period of nearly half a century; with original Anecdotes of many distinguished persons, royal, political, literary, and musical. Dedicated, by permission, to his Majesty. 2 vols. 8vo.