of goodness or whim. Tate might not, perhaps, be quite the Dimidium Menandri; but even of Foote, how little has been recorded! A practice has foolishly obtained of imputing to known wits all the fugitive pleasantry that seeks a parent in the world: so that we can depend on little more than the joke itself, but often see reason to question its diction, its occasion, its author, and even its country. Murphy once promised to write a life of Foote; but it ended in Foote's writing a life of Murphy: what nobody wanted, instead of that which we must now want for ever. But I know not that Murphy could have done what would have satisfied upon the subject; he was a rival wit, and a superior author; he had not the docility nor the zeal that should accompany the retailer of another man's wit or wisdom: he would not be at the pains to collect his materials from the various sources and would be too ambitious to display himself, to do complete justice to his friend. This it was that made his life of Garrick so inferior to Tom Davies's. The bookseller did not want vanity, but the actor reverenced the master of his craft. It was this feeling, added to a perfect memory, that made Boswell's record of Doctor Johnson the most striking achievement in biography. "A man who [Johnson's] buffets and rewards, Has ta'en with equal thanks. And blest are they Even Malone, with the most painful accuracy, though he could and did correct and improve that work, could not have written it. Drury Lane Theatre opened the season of 1803-04 on the 10th of September, with "Pizarro" and the "Prize;" the receipts of the night, £537 3s. 6d., were paid into the Patriotic Fund at Lloyd's. Pope was the Rolla vice Kemble, transferred to Covent Garden, to which theatre Mrs. Siddons and Charles Kemble also removed, and several private boxes were arranged in their new domain for the accommodation of sundry noble supporters of that family. The house underwent more alterations on this sublime accession of tragedy to that property, and it opened under Mr. Kemble's management, as he himself thought, and indeed most other people; but by a special clause in the deed of partnership, the actual management was vested for life in Mr. Harris solely, and he could have appointed a new stage deputy the first season if he thought fit to do so. At the death of Mr. Harris I think Kemble was entitled to purchase the whole property at £150,000. In other words, to pay so much for an old house that must be taken down, and have a new theatre to erect, then properly the House of Kemble. During the recess, this year, Drury Lane Theatre had lost one of its proprietors, in Mr. Joseph Richardson, who died on the 9th of June, 1803, from the effects of a ruptured blood-vessel. He held a fourth share of the theatre, and, I should suppose, had been enabled to purchase by his steady patron the late Duke of Northumberland. About £38,000 were thus lost to his widow and daughters; for, when subsequently they applied to Mr. Whitbread for some compensation, he replied that he really had not nerve enough to go into the claim, and a few renters' shares, that produced little, were the only alleviation of the loss. Richardson received 15 guineas weekly from the treasury; Sheridan, 30 guineas; Tom Sheridan, £6 IOS.; and Grubb, £9. Richardson was a scholar and a poet; he completed his studies at St. John's College, Cambridge, and two very celebrated deans were his tutors at the university. With a strong political feeling for Whiggism, he joined with Ellis and Lawrence in the "Rolliad" and "Probationary Odes." He thus aided his party to secure the laugh on their side; which their great rivals were contented to leave them, so long as they themselves enjoyed the honours or the patronage of office. As to the comforts of ministerial stations, they may be estimated by the sleepless energies and wasting frame of Pitt, standing alone against a revolutionary world, and unembarrassed by family, expiring, heartbroken, in poverty. Among the usual sacrifices to the game of political ambition, are to be numbered the domestic enjoyments. The thorough-paced politician lives either at the House or the club. To his party he devotes every faculty of his soul, and assiduously avoids every scene that does not convey excitement to his darling prejudices. I remember once going with some ever dear friends to a grand entertainment given by Mr. Perry, the proprietor of the party journal. Let me say that his conduct of it was throughout a full contrast to the ruffian scurrility of some other journalists. There was a concert in his great room, where Billington and Storace and Braham, and others of great name, were the singers; and many first-rate professors, such as Shield, for instance, becoming absolutely privates in the ranks, on their respective instruments afforded us the perfection only to be had from masters in the art. At such a moment Tom Sheridan came up to me and asked me whether I had a mind for a high treat. "I won't keep you long," said he, "you may rely upon that." He then led a few of us, among whom was George Gordon, the brother of Pryse Lockhart, a fellow of "infinite jest and most excellent fancy," to the opposite end of the building, where, standing in an armchair, with the back foremost, we saw Thomas Erskine, the prince of pleaders, but the most unfortunate of politicians, with an audience of about a dozen dry Scotch Whigs, delivering, with almost insane expression, a whole armada of political oratory. The thing was irresistible. We honoured the orator with the "Hear! hear!" very exactly imitated, of several well-known voices in the House of Commons, and effected our retreat, undiscovered by the learned and honourable gentleman. To return to another politician. Besides their theatrical connection, there was a sincere esteem between Sheridan and Richardson; and the latter devoted to their intercourse both his time and his constitution. Home was to Sheridan a place where creditors might apply for their demands, and perhaps, sometimes, catch a glimpse of him, as |