Love

"Maid of Bath"; her father's power of protection he did not consider adequate. His brother Charles and Halhe, however, were rivals of whom he easily disposed; but Mathews was a more ardent, more pertinacious wooer. Sheridan watched the progress of events in anguish; his Irish imagination played havoc with him. In his eyes, Mathew's infatuation became exaggerated, and, in order to fathom the depths of the man's designs, he had recourse to all manner of subterfuges.

Elizabeth also became infected with Richard's anxiety. She saw no means of escape from her persecutors. She grew desperate, and when at length one day she discovered a small phial of laudanum in Miss Sheridan's bedroom, she decided to put an end to her troubles and to drink the poisonous contents. But, fortunately, the quantity of fluid was so small that no serious harm was done.

However, now it became quite clear to Sheridan that the time for drastic measures had arrived. With his sister's connivance, he suggested and arranged an elopement. To this Elizabeth consented, and, by representing her as a wealthy heiress, Sheridan was able to raise enough money to carry the plan into effect.

The lovers accordingly set out for London; thence they proceeded to Calais, where, in order that later they might be able to throw dust in the face of scandal, an informal marriage was celebrated. This, however, they kept a secret, and after the ceremony Mrs. Sheridan went to Lisle and entered a convent. Here her father found her.

On their return to England, since the matter of the marriage still was kept a secret, Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan were forced to live apart. There are on record, however, some letters which Elizabeth wrote to her husband at this time, and, although by some authorities doubts have been expressed as to their authenticity, the letters are so delightful that at least an extract must be quoted here.

"Twelve o'clock!" she writes. "You unconscionable creature to make me sit up this time of the night to scribble nonsense to you, when you will not let me hear one word from you for this week to come! Oh, my dear, you are the very tyrant indeed! You do not fancy I would do this if it was not equally agreeable to myself. Indeed, my dearest love, I am never happy except when I am with you, or writing to you. . . . My mother and me called on Miss Roscoe this evening, when we talked a great deal about you. Miss R. said she was sure you and I would make a match of it. Nay, she said the whole world was of the opinion that we should be married in less than a month. Only think of this, bright Heaven's! God bless you, my dear, dear love!"

"When you will not let me hear one word of you for this week to come!" Poor

Sheridan! At this time he was fully occupied with other and very serious matters.

Shortly after his return from most defamatory libel on-his character was inserted by Mathews in "The Bath Chronicle."

This resulted in two duels - the first in a London tavern, after which Mathews apolo-gised; and the second near Bath, in which Sheridan was wounded

It was on the occasion of this latter that Mrs. Sheridan all but betrayed her secret, for as soon as she heard of the mishap she hastened to Sheridan's bedside, exclaiming, "My husband! my husband!" Even this confession, however, does not appear to have aroused her friends' suspicions. They attributed it merely to anxiety and excitement.

Next, Sheridan persuaded a friend to insert a repetition of the libels in "The Morning Advertiser," in order that he might publicly refute them. But, with delightful indolence, he forgot to contradict them.

In the meanwhile, however, Sheridan's father refused to consider the question of a marriage; he even forbade his son to see or communicate with "Miss Linley." This was a further and great source of trouble to Sheridan, for his wife was now appearing at Covent Garden, and her host of admirers was increasing rapidly in number.

Thus jealousy was added to Sheridan's other troubles, and letters such as those which are accredited to his wife at this time could not have helped to allay his fears.

". . . There are insurmountable difficulties to prevent our ever being united, even supposing I could be induced again to believe you. I did not think to have told you of a great one, but I must, or you will not be convinced that I am in earnest. . . My father, before we left Bath, received proposals for me from a gentleman in London which he insisted on my accepting. . . . He is not a young man, but, I believe, a worthy one. When I found my father so resolute I resolved to acquaint the gentleman with every circumstance of my life. I did, and. instead of inducing him to give me up, he is now more earnest than ever."

What? Did his wife intend to ignore the marriage vows which she took at Calais? Sheridan's mind was in a turmoil of doubts and jealousy. How could he see her, how could he talk to her, how could he discover the truth? He entered into all manner of conspiracies, and on several occasions disguised himself as a hackney coachman, and drove her to and from the theatre in order that he might exchange a few words with her.

And so the comedy continued. It reads like a fairy story, and as such, indeed, it ends, for at length Mr. Linley's heart melted. A confession was made, and the lovers were formally married on April 13th, 1773.

That marriage proved itself to be a splendid triumph, for in its wake not only came success, but happiness; and this

Love must be attributed very largely to the tact and inspiring influence of the wife.

It is impossible here to trace the history of Sheridan's career. It must suffice that in 1773 Sheridan was a man without an income, without a profession and without energy. He insisted, moreover, that his wife should sever her connection with the stage. But Mrs. Sheridan still possessed Long's £3,000, and the newly married couple did not hesitate to live upon this capital.

In 1775, however, Sheridan was the leading dramatist of his age, and shortly afterwards he acquired a large financial interest in Drury Lane Theatre.

How, it is impossible to imagine, unless it was owing to the clever manner in which his wife managed his affairs, for Sheridan was addicted to the wildest of excesses, and if ever there was a thriftless man, that man was he. He drank heavily, he betted beyond his means. But these were merely customs of the age, and to the end of his life Sheridan remained one of the most popular men in London society.

His utter recklessness did not become apparent until death had deprived him of his wife's restraining hand. During her lifetime, it is true, he formed a friendship with the Prince of Wales, and became implicated in a more than shady turf transaction; and during her lifetime, it is true, his passion for practical jokes still triumphed without restraint.

Many of these freaks of eccentricity have become historic. When Samuel Richardson died, Sheridan arrived too late for the funeral. Determined, however, to compensate for his negligence, he insisted that the burial ceremony should be repeated.

There is, however, another aspect to Sheridan's character - behind an exterior of flippancy was a deep line of thoughtful melancholy. He was an Irishman, and therefore a mystic and a dreamer. Often found upon his lips were Dryden's words:

"Vain men! How vanishing a bliss we crave, Now warm in love, now withering in the grave; Never, oh, never more to see the sun! Still dark, in a damp vault, and still alone."

Mrs. Sheridan, however, understood her husband, and knew how to deal with him. But her home life was not without its troubles. Quarrels were inevitable with a man of Sheridan's temperament, but these were fleeting, and the nineteen years of her married life were, almost without interruption, years of happiness.

Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan cannot be described better than in the words of Fanny Burney. "The elegance of Mrs. Sheridan's beauty," she writes, "is unequalled by any that I ever saw, except Mrs. Crewe. . . . She is much more lively and agreeable than I had any idea of finding her. She was very gay and unaffected, and totally free from airs of any kind. ... Mr. Sheridan has a fine figure, and a good, though I don't think handsome, face. ... I like him vastly, and think him every way worthy of his beautiful companion. . . . They are extremely happy in each other: he evidently adores her, and she as evidently idolises him. The world has by no means done him justice."

In 1779 Sheridan regarded his position as sufficiently strong to justify him embarking on the storm-tossed ship of politics. This was the ambition of his life, but his wife regarded the move with grave misgiving. Seeing, however, that he was obdurate, she threw herself into the new life whole-heartedly, and contributed in no small measure towards her husband's great triumph - the impeachment of Warren Hastings - by assiduously collecting evidence. But even as late as 1790 she wrote to him: "I am more than ever convinced we must look to other sources for wealth and independence, and consider politics merely as an amusement."

By this time, moreover, the home was being beset by other troubles. Mrs. Sheridan was anything but strong, and in 1792, after a long illness, and in spite of her husband's devotion, she died of consumption. Sheridan was laid prostrate with grief, and he mourned her truly. "The victory of the grave," he declared, "is sharper than the sting of death."

But how great was his loss posterity alone can fully realise. After the death of his first wife Sheridan degenerated rapidly, and, although he still remained a brilliant man, his later years were years of tragedy. In 1795 he married again. But his affairs were now in an amazing state of confusion; and his second wife, Miss Ogle, a daughter of the Dean of Winchester, regarded the difficulties as unsoluble, and made no endeavour to cope with them.

A description of the end may be found in the Croker Papers, and it perhaps alone suffices to relate the story.

"They had hardly a servant left. Mrs. Sheridan's maid she was about to send away, but could not collect a guinea or two to pay the woman her wages. When Vaughan entered ... he found . the whole house in a state of filth and stench that was quite intolerable. Sheridan himself he found in a truckle bed in a garret . . . out of this bed he had not moved for a week . . . and in this state the unhappy man had been allowed to wallow. Nor could Vaughan discover that anyone had taken any notice of him, except one old female friend - whose name I hardly know whether I am authorised to mention - Lady Bessborough, who sent £20."

Thus on July 7th, 1816, deserted by his friends, and with his creditors clamouring at his door, Sheridan departed from the world which his wit and genius had adorned. But England, not insensible to the tragedy and injustice of the end, endeavoured to afford a tardy compensation. At Westminster Abbey, therefore, a few days later, he was buried with stately grandeur.