On the death of Mr. Pitt, and the accession of the Whigs to power, Sheridan was appointed Treasurer of the Navy,—a situation which he held but a short time, the ministry being unexpectedly broken up by the demise of Mr. Fox. It was while holding this office that he gave a splendid entertainment to the Prince of Wales, which swallowed up his whole year's income. Nevertheless he turned even this absurd extravagance to account; for, having occasion to allude to his resig nation in Parliament, he, with matchless effrontery, thanked God that he quitted office as poor as when he entered upon it!

Parliament being dissolved soon after Fox's death, Sheridan, after a violent struggle, was returned for Westminster, but was unseated on the next dissolution, which occurred in 1807. Somewhere about

this time his friend the Prince made him a privy-councillor, and appointed him to the Receivership of the Duchy of Cornwall; but, whatever were the pecuniary advantages he derived from this sinecure, they were more than counterbalanced by the destruction of all his theatrical property by fire. This calamity took place in 1809, when Sheridan was on his legs at St. Stephen's. He instantly quitted the House, and, after coolly looking on at the conflagration, retired to a neighbouring tavern, where he was found by a friend, luxuriating over a bottle of wine. On being asked how he could think of enjoying himself at such a time, he replied, "A man may surely be allowed to take a glass by his own fireside !"

We now approach the last and most melancholy period of poor Sheridan's life. The sun that we have seen blazing so long and brilliantly, is now about to set in storm and cloud. Having committed himself with his party by some mysterious intrigues in which he had engaged, relative to the formation of a new ministry, Sheridan lost almost all his political influence; and, on the dissolution of Parliament in 1812, was defeated in his attempts to be re-elected for Stafford. Ruin now began to stare him in the face. The management of the new theatre had been, some time before, taken out of his hands; his debts were on the increase; his duns grew daily more clamorous; and he had no longer the House of Commons to fly to for shelter. To such a wretched state of destitution was he now reduced, that he was absolutely compelled to pawn his books, his pictures, and all his most valuable furniture. Nor was this the worst. In the spring of 1814 he was arrested and carried to a spunginghouse, where he remained in "durance vile" upwards of three days!

From this moment he never again held up his head, or ventured abroad into the world. His heart was broken, and he would sit for hours weeping in the solitude of his chamber. Yet, though hovering on the very threshold of the grave, his duns allowed him not the slightest respite; writs and executions were multiplied against him; and the bailiffs at length forced their way into his house. He was then dying; yet, even in that state, the agents of the law were about to carry him out in blankets, when the interference of a friend saved him from the humiliation of drawing his last breath in a spunging-house. And where were all his fashionable and titled friends during this season of distress? Where were the princes, and dukes, and lords, of whom he had so long been the idol? All had flown; the sight of his death-bed-and such a death-bed!—would, no doubt, have been too much for their delicate sensibilities; and, with the exception of Messrs. Moore, Rogers, and one or two other friends,

who remained faithful to the last, there was not one to close his dying eyes. But when all was over, then came the pomp and the pageantry, the titled pall-bearers, the long array of mourners, the public funeral, and the tomb in Westminster Abbey! Poor Sheridan! He was thought of sufficient consequence to be laid by the side of the departed worthies of England; yet the very men who paid this homage to his ashes, scorned to come near him in his poverty!

At the period of his death, which took place in 1816, Sheridan had just completed his sixty-fifth year. His constitution was robust and healthy; and he might have lived full ten years longer, had not grief and his own excesses cut short the span of his days. In youth he was considered handsome; but long and confirmed habits of conviviality had obliterated, ere he had yet entered on the autumn of life, every trace of comeliness. His manners were remarkably insinuating, especially to women; his wit ever at command; and his flow of animal spirits unflagging. His worst failing was his unconquerable indolence. To this may be attributed all his misfortunes, and those humiliating expedients to which he was compelled to have recourse in order to ward off the evil day. So deeply was this vice implanted in his nature, that, even when he had to attend the funeral of his old friend Richardson, he could not be prevailed on to set out in time, but arrived after the service was concluded, which, at his particular request, was performed a second time.

Lord Byron, who saw much of him in his decline, has stated-as we see by Moore's admirable life of that poet-that Sheridan's wit was bitter and morose, rather than sparkling or conciliatory. It should be borne in mind, however, that he was then worn down by sickness, disappointed in all his hopes, and deserted by that Prince on whose favour he laid so much stress, and to preserve which he had made so many sacrifices. The concurrent testimony of those who knew him in his best days represents him as having been, like a Wharton or a Villiers, the "life of pleasure and the soul of whim." That in the course of his meteor-like career he committed many indefensible acts, and carried the faculty of non-payment to its highest point of perfection, is true; but, before we finally condemn him, let us consider what was his education, what his original position in society, and, above all, what were his temptations. He was never taught in early life to set a right value on thrifty and industrious habits. His father was an eccentric being from whose example he could derive no benefit; and, at an age when the majority of men are yet in the parental leading-strings, he was cast adrift upon the world, to sink or swim as might happen. Thus situated, without any legitimate profession or certain income, he made his own way to celebrity; and if, while associating with people infinitely his superiors in rank, wealth, and all worldly advantages, he imbibed their extravagances and aped their follies, such weakness is surely a fitter subject for our regret than indignation. At any rate, let us not forget that, if he erred, he paid the penalty; and that many men a thousand times worse than ever he was, but with more tact in concealing their faults, have gone down to the grave honoured and lamented as good citizens and good Christians.

A SUMMER NIGHT'S REVERIE. "Tis night—and, save the waterfall

That murmurs through the stony vale,
No sound is near the castle wall

On which the moonlight falls so pale!
There is no wind, but up on high
The clouds are passing hurriedly;
And the bright tops of tree and tow'r
Look chilly cold, although the hour
Is midtime of a summer's night,
When moon is mixt with morning light.
There is a terror o'er the scene,
As if but lately it had been
A battle-plain, and dead and dying
Were silent in the shadows lying!
Is it within the night's lone hour-
The open vale, or closed bower-
The murmur of the distant dells,
That such wild melancholy dwells?
Is it the silvery orbs that sleep.
So tranquilly in heaven's deep,
That with their silence wake the mind
To such calm sorrow-such refin'd,
And mixture sweet of joy and grief,

That makes young hearts think tears relief?
Why should the softest season bring
The mind such blissful suffering,
As oft we feel when Nature's rest
Seems most divinely--calmly blest?
Who ever roam'd on moonlit night,
And thought its beam was gaily bright?
Who ever heard a serenade,

With ev'n a theme of lightest mirth,
But melancholy echoes play'd,

And sighs within the heart had birth?
Who ever trode, in glenwood way,
The trellised shadows of the trees,
But felt come o'er his spirit's play
A mournful cadence like a breeze?—
A mingled thrill of pain and bliss-

A dream of hopes and mem'ries lost?
Oh! even happiest lovers' kiss,

By moonlight is with sadness crost! At such an hour the gayest thing

Is sicklied o'er with pleasing sorrow :
The nightingale would gladly sing,

Were we to list its song by morrow!
Such is to-night-a soft, calm, summer night-
Dim in its beauty, gloomy in its light!-
Breathing a peacefulness o'er vale and hill,
But in its quiet, something sadden'd still!

W.

This is the first o' the May, boys!
Listen to me, an' my planxty pipe
Will show ye the fun o' the day, boys!
I know for a spree that ye 're always ripe,
And fond o' gingerbread while it is gilt.
"Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"

First, on the first o' the May, boys!

Do as the birds did Valentine morn;
Find out a lass for the day, boys!

And then together go gether the thorn-
I warrant she 'll never be jade or jilt.
"Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"

Go where ye may for the May, boys!
Folla yir nose, an' ye'll find it soon:
On every hedge by the way, boys!

Ye'll hear it singin' its scented tune,
Unless by the breath o' your darlin' kilt!
"Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"

But isn't it betther the May, boys!

All living to lave on its flow'ry tree,
Than wound it by braking away, boys!

A branch that in blossom not long will be
When the rosy dew that it drank is spilt?
"Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"

An' when ye're all tir'd o' the May, boys!
Come to the sign o' the Muzzle an' Can:

An' there, at the close o' the day, boys!

Let ev'ry lass, by the side of her man, Dance till the daisies are spreadin' their quilt. "Hurroo! for Leary the Piper's Lilt!"

W.

Mercury, god of eloquence, son of Jupiter and Maia.

OLIVER TWIST;

OR, THE PARISH BOY'S PRogress.

BY BOZ.

ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY.

NOAH CLAYPOLE ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket, and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment.

"Why, what's the matter with the boy ?" said the old pauper.

"Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-affected dismay, and in tones so loud and agitated that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat, which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance, as showing that even a beadle, acted upon by a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity.

"Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!" said Noah; "Oliver, sir,-Oliver has

"What? what?" interposed Mr. Bumble, with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. "Not run away: he hasn't run away; has he, Noah ?"

"No, sir, no; not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious," replied Noah. "He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte, and then missis. Oh, what dreadful pain it is! such agony, please sir!" and here Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that speaking suffering the acutest torture.

When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before and, when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamenta