ess sufficient
to induce them to rush recklessly into print, and thus strangle their
fame in its cradle. Let it fail, was Richard Sheridan's thought; he had
now a far more engrossing ambition. In a word, he was in love.

Yes, he was in love for a time--only for a time, and not truly. But, be
it remembered, Sheridan's evil days had not commenced. He sowed his wild
oats late in life,--alack for him!--and he never finished sowing them.
His was not the viciousness of nature, but the corruption of success.
'In all time of wealth, good Lord deliver us!' What prayer can wild,
unrestrained, unheeding Genius utter with more fervency? I own Genius is
rarely in love. There is an egotism, almost a selfishness, about it,
that will not stoop to such common worship. Women know it, and often
prefer the blunt, honest, common-place soldier to the wild erratic poet.
Genius, grand as it is, is unsympathetic. It demands higher--the highest
joys. Genius claims to be loved, but to love is too much to ask it. And
yet at this time Sheridan was not a matured Genius. When his development
came, he cast off this very love for which he had fought, manoeuvred,
struggled, and was unfaithful to the very wife whom he had nearly died
to obtain.

Miss Linley was one of a family who have been called 'a nest of
nightingales.' Young ladies who practise elaborate pieces and sing
simple ballads in the voice of a white mouse, know the name of Linley
well. For ages the Linleys have been the bards of England--composers,
musicians, singers, always popular, always English. Sheridan's love was
one of the most renowned of the family, but the 'Maid of Bath,' as she
was called, was as celebrated for her beauty as for the magnificence of
her voice. When Sheridan first knew her, she was only sixteen years
old--very beautiful, clever, and modest. She was a singer by profession,
living at Bath, as Sheridan, only three years older than herself, also
was, but attending concerts, oratorios, and so forth, in other places,
especially at Oxford. Her adorers were legion; and the Oxford boys
especially--always in love as they are--were among them. Halhed was
among these last, and in the innocence of his heart confided his passion
to his friend Dick Sheridan. At sixteen the young beauty began her
conquests. A rich old Wiltshire squire, with a fine heart, as golden as
his guineas, offered to or for her, and was readily accepted. But
'Cecilia,' as she was always called, could not sa