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Her form belov'd the trembling drops reveal.
"Sometimes the lovely, blooming girl I view,
My youth's companion, friend for ever true,
Whose looks, the sweet expressions of a heart
So gaily innocent, so void of art,

With soft attraction whisper'd blessings drew
From all who stopp'd, her beauteous face to view.
Then, in the dear domestic scene I mourn,
And weep past pleasures never to return!
There, where each gentle virtue lov'd to rest,
In the pure mansion of my Mary's breast,
The days of social happiness are o'er,
The voice of harmony is heard no more;
No more her graceful tenderness shall prove
The wife's fond duty or the parent's love.
Those eyes, which bright'ned with maternal pride,
As her sweet infants wanton'd by her side,
'Twas my sad fate to see for ever close
On life, on love, the world, and all its woes;
To watch the slow disease, with hopeless care,
And veil in painful smiles my heart's despair;
To see her droop, with restless languor weak,
While fatal beauty mantled in her cheek,

Like fresh flow'rs, springing from some mouldering clay,
Cherish'd by death, and blooming from decay.
Yet, tho' oppress'd by ever-varying pain,
The gentle sufferer scarcely would complain,
Hid every sigh, each trembling doubt reprov'd,
To spare a pang to those fond hearts she lov'd.
And often, in short intervals of ease,
Her kind and cheerful spirit strove to please;
Whilst we, alas, unable to refuse

The sad delight we were so soon to lose,

Treasur'd each word, each kind expression claim'd,"Twas me she look'd at,"—"it was me she nam'd."

Thus fondly soothing grief, too great to bear,

With mournful eagerness and jealous care.

"But soon, alas, from hearts with sorrow worn

Ev'n this last comfort was for ever torn:
That mind, the seat of wisdom, genius, taste,
The cruel hand of sickness now laid waste;
Subdued with pain, it shar'd the common lot,
All, all its lovely energies forgot!

The husband, parent, sister, knelt in vain,
One recollecting look alone to gain :
The shades of night her beaming eyes obscur'd,
And Nature, vanquish'd, no sharp pain endur'd;

Calm and serene-till the last trembling breath
Wafted an angel from the bed of death!

"Oh, if the soul, releas'd from mortal cares,
Views the sad scene, the voice of mourning hears,
Then, dearest saint, didst thou thy heav'n forego,
Lingering on earth in pity to our woe.

'Twas thy kind influence sooth'd our minds to peace,
And bade our vain and selfish murmurs cease;
'Twas thy soft smile, that gave the worshipp'd clay
Of thy bright essence one celestial ray,

Making e'en death so beautiful, that we,
Gazing on it, forgot our misery.

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Then-pleasing thought!-ere to the realms of light
Thy franchis'd spirit took its happy flight,

With fond regard, perhaps, thou saw'st me bend
O'er the cold relics of my heart's best friend,
And heard'st me swear, while her dear hand I prest,
And tears of agony bedew'd my breast,

For her lov'd sake to act the mother's part,
And take her darling infants to my heart,

With tenderest care their youthful minds improve,

And guard her treasure with protecting love.
Once more look down, blest creature, and behold
These arms the precious innocents enfold;

Assist my erring nature to fulfil

The sacred trust, and ward off every ill!
And, oh, let her, who is my dearest care,

Thy blest regard and heavenly influence share;
Teach me to form her pure and artless mind,
Like thine, as true, as innocent, as kind,-
That when some future day my hopes shall bless,
And every voice her virtue shall confess,
When my fond heart delighted hears her praise,

As with unconscious loveliness she strays,

Such,' let me say, with tears of joy the while,

'Such was the softness of my Mary's smile;
Such was her youth, so blithe, so rosy sweet,
'And such her mind, unpractis'd in deceit ;
With artless elegance, unstudied grace,
Thus did she gain in every heart a place!'
"Then, while the dear remembrance I behold,
Time shall steal on, nor tell me I am old,
Till, nature wearied, each fond duty o'er,

I join my Angel Friend-to part no more!"

To the conduct of Mr. Sheridan, during the last moments of his father, a further testimony has been kindly communi

cated to me by Mr. Jarvis, a medical gentleman of Margate, who attended Mr. Thomas Sheridan on that occasion, and whose interesting communication I shall here give in his own words :

"On the 10th of August, 1788, I was first called on to visit Mr. Sheridan, who was then fast declining at his lodgings in this place, where he was in the care of his daughter. On the next day Mr. R. B. Sheridan arrived here from town, having brought with him Dr. Morris, of Parliament Street. I was in the bed-room with Mr. Sheridan when the son arrived, and witnessed an interview in which the father showed himself to be strongly impressed by his son's attention, saying, with considerable emotion, 'Oh Dick, I give you a great deal of trouble!' and seeming to imply by his manner, that his son had been less to blame than himself, for any previous want of cordiality between them.

"On my making my last call for the evening, Mr. R. B. Sheridan, with delicacy, but much earnestness, expressed his fear that the nurse in attendance on his father, might not be so competent as myself to the requisite attentions, and his hope that I would consent to remain in the room for a few of the first hours of the night; as he himself, having been travelling the preceding night, required some short repose. I complied with his request, and remained at the father's bedside till relieved by the son, about three o'clock in the morning-he then insisted on taking my place. From this time he never quitted the house till his father's death; on the day after which he wrote me a letter, now before me, of which the annexed is an exact copy:


Friday Morning.

'I wished to see you this morning before I went, to thank you for your attention and trouble. You will be so good to give the account to Mr. Thompson, who will settle it; and I must further beg your acceptance of the inclosed from myself. 'I am, Sir,

6 Your obedient Servant,

'I have explained to Dr. Morris (who has informed me that you will recommend a proper person), that it is my desire to have the hearse, and the manner of coming to town, as respectful as possible.'

"The inclosure, referred to in this letter, was a bank-note of ten pounds,-a most liberal renumeration. Mr. R. B. Sheridan left Margate, intending that his father should be buried in London; but he there ascertained that it had been his father's expressed wish, that he should be buried in the parish next to that in which he should happen to die. He then, consequently, returned to Margate, accompanied by his brother-in-law, Mr. Tickell, with whom and Mr. Thompson and myself, he followed his father's remains to the burialplace, which was not in Margate church-yard, but in the north

aisle of the church at St. Peter's."

Mr. Jarvis, the writer of the letter from which I have given this extract, had once, as he informs me, the intention of having a cenotaph raised, to the memory of Mr. Sheridan's father, in the church of Margate.* With this view he applied to Dr. Parr for an Inscription, and the following is the tribute to his old friend with which that learned and kindhearted man supplied him :

"This monument, A. D. 1824, was, by subscription, erected to the memory of Thomas Sheridan, Esq., who died in the neighbouring parish of St. John, August 14, 1788, in the 69th year of his age, and, according to his own request, was there buried. He was grandson to Dr. Thomas Sheridan, the brother of Dr. William, a conscientious non-juror, who, in 1691, was deprived of the Bishopric of Kilmore. He was the son of Dr. Thomas Sheridan, a profound scholar and eminent schoolmaster, intimately connected with Dean Swift and other illustrious writers in the reign of Queen Anne. He was husband to the ingenious and amiable author of Sidney Biddulph and several dramatic pieces favorably received. He was father of the celebrated orator and dramatist, Richard Brinsley Sheridan. He had

Though this idea was relinquished, it appears that a friend of Mr. Jarvis, with a zeal for the memory of talent highly honourable to him, has recently caused a monument to Mr. Thomas Sheridan to be raised in the church of St. Peter.

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been the schoolfellow, and, through life, was the companion, of the amiable Archbishop Markham. He was the friend of the learned Dr. Sumner, master of Harrow School, and the well-known Dr. Parr. He took his first academical degree in the University of Dublin, about 1736. He was honoured by the University of Oxford with the degree of A. M. in 1758, and in 1759 he obtained the same distinction at Cambridge. He, for many years, presided over the theatre of Dublin; and, at Drury Lane, he in public estimation stood next to David Garrick. In the literary world he was distinguished by numerous and useful writings on the pronunciation of the English language. Through some of his opinions ran a vein of singularity, mingled with the rich ore of genius. In his manners there was dignified ease;-in his spirit, invincible firmness;-and in his habits and principles, unsullied integrity."



MR. SHERIDAN had assuredly no reason to complain of any deficiency of excitement in the new career to which he now devoted himself. A succession of great questions, both foreign and domestic, came, one after the other, like the waves described by the poet,

"And one no sooner touched the shore, and died,

Than a new follower rose, and swell'd as proudly."

Scarcely had the impulse, which his own genius had given to the prosecution of Hastings, begun to abate, when the indisposition of the King opened another field, not only for the display of all his various powers, but for the fondest specu lations of his interest and ambition.

The robust health and temperate habits of the Monarch, while they held out the temptation of a long lease of power, to those who either enjoyed or were inclined to speculate in his favour, gave proportionably the grace of disinterestedness to the followers of an Heir-Apparent, whose means of rewarding their devotion were, from the same causes, uncer

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