reader who is curious in the matter may be referred to a work which has recently appeared under the title of ‘Sheridan and his Times,’ professing to be written by an Octogenarian, intimate with the hero.  The fray ended with the arrival of the watch, who rescued Blackstock, Greystock, and Thinstock, and with Dogberryan stupidity carried them off to a neighbouring lock-up.  The examination which took place was just the occasion for Sheridan’s fun to display itself on, and pretending to turn informer, he succeeded in bewildering the unfortunate parochial constable, who conducted it, till the arrival of the magistrate, whose duty was to deliver his friends from durance vile.  The whole scene is well described in the book just referred to, with, we presume, a certain amount of idealizing; but the ‘Octogenarian’ had probably heard the story from Sheridan himself, and the main points must be accepted as correct.  The affair ended, as usual, with a supper at the ‘Salutation.’

We must now follow Sheridan in his gradual downfall.

One of the causes of this—­as far as money was concerned—­was his extreme indolence and utter negligence.  He trusted far too much to his ready wit and rapid genius.  Thus when ‘Pizarro’ was to appear, day after day went by, and nothing was done.  On the night of representation, only four acts out of five were written, and even these had not been rehearsed, the principal performers, Siddons, Charles Kemble and Barrymore, having only just received their parts.  Sheridan was up in the prompter’s room actually writing the fifth act while the first was being performed, and every now and then appeared in the green-room with a fresh relay of dialogue, and setting all in good humour by his merry abuse of his own negligence.  In spite of this, ‘Pizarro’ succeeded.  He seldom wrote except at night, and surrounded by a profusion of lights.  Wine was his great stimulant in composition, as it has been to better and worse authors.  ‘If the thought is slow to come,’ he would say, ’a glass of good wine encourages it; and when it does come, a glass of good wine rewards it.’  Those glasses of good wine, were, unfortunately, even more frequent than the good thoughts, many and merry as they were.

His neglect of letters was a standing joke against him.  He never took the trouble to open any that he did not expect, and often left sealed many that he was most anxious to read.  He once appeared with his begging face at the Bank, humbly asking an advance of twenty pounds.  ’Certainly, sir; would you like any more?—­fifty or a hundred?’ said the smiling clerk.  Sheridan was overpowered.  He would like a hundred.  ’Two or three?’ asked the scribe.  Sheridan thought he was joking, but was ready for two or even three—­he was always ready for more.  But he could not conceal his surprise.  ‘Have you not received our letter?’ the clerk asked, perceiving it.  Certainly he had received the epistle, which informed him that his salary as Receiver-General of Cornwall had been paid in, but he had never opened it.