n the beginning of his decline, when, having reached
the climax of all his ambition and completed his fame as a dramatist,
orator, and wit, that the hand of Providence mercifully interposed to
rescue this reckless man from his downfall. It smote him with that
common but powerful weapon--death. Those he best loved were torn from
him, one after another, rapidly, and with little warning. The Linleys,
the 'nest of nightingales,' were all delicate as nightingales should be;
and it seemed as if this very time was chosen for their deaths, that the
one erring soul--more precious, remember, than many just lives--might be
called back. Almost within one year he lost his dear sister-in-law, the
wife of his most intimate friend Tickell; Maria Linley, the last of the
family; his own wife, and his little daughter. One grief succeeded
another so rapidly that Sheridan was utterly unnerved, utterly brought
low by them; but it was his wife's death that told most upon him. With
that wife he had always been the lover rather than the husband. She had
married him in the days of his poverty, when her beauty was so
celebrated that she might have wed whom she would. She had risen with
him and shared his later anxieties. Yet she had seen him forget, neglect
her, and seek other society. In spite of his tender affection for her
and for his children, he had never made a _home_ of their home. Vanity
Fair had kept him ever flitting, and it is little to be wondered at that
Mrs. Sheridan was the object of much, though ever respectful
admiration.[9] Yet, in spite of calumny, she died with a fair fame.
Decline had long pressed upon her, yet her last illness was too brief.
In 1792 she was taken away, still in the summer of her days, and with
her last breath uttering her love for the man who had never duly prized
her. His grief was terrible; yet it passed, and wrought no change. He
found solace in his beloved son, and yet more beloved daughter. A few
months--and the little girl followed her mother. Again his grief was
terrible: again passed and wrought no change. Yes, it did work some
change, but not for the better; it drove him to the goblet; and from
that time we may date the confirmation of his habit of drinking. The
solemn warnings had been unheeded: they were to be repeated by a
long-suffering God in a yet more solemn manner, which should touch him
yet more nearly. His beautiful wife had been the one restraint upon his
folly and his lavishness. Now she w