UNFINISHED PLAYS AND POEMS. WHEN in his seventeenth year, Sheridan produced a dramatic sketch founded on the "Vicar of Wakefield," a scene of which will serve to show how early his talent for lively dialogue displayed itself: SCENE II. THORNHILL and ARNOLD. Thornhill. Nay, prithee, Jack, no more of that if you love me. What, shall I stop short with the game in full view ? Faith, I believe the fellow's turned puritan. What think you of turning methodist, Jack? You have a tolerable good canting countenance, and, if escaped being taken up for a Jesuit, you might make a fortune in Moorfields. Arnold. I was serious, Tom. Thorn. Splenetic, you mean. Come, fill your glass, and a truce to your preaching. Here's a pretty fellow has let his conscience sleep for these five years, and has now plucked morality from the leaves of his grandmother's Bible, beginning to declaim against what he has practised half his life-time. Why, I tell you once more, my schemes are all come to perfection. I, am now convinced Olivia loves me-at our last conversation, she said she would rely wholly on my honour. Arn. And therefore you would deceive her. Thorn. Why no-deceive her?-why-indeed-as to thatbut-but, for God's sake, let me hear no more on this subject, for 'faith, you make me sad, Jack. If you continue your admonitions, I shall begin to think you have yourself an eye on the girl. You have promised me your assistance, and, when you came down into the country, were as hot on the scheme as myself: but, since you have been two or three times with me at Primrose's, you have fallen off strangely. No encroachments, Jack, on my little rosebud-if you have a mind to beat up game in this quarter, there's her sister-but no poaching. Arn. I am not insensible to her sister's merit, but have no such views as you have. However, you have promised me that if you find in this lady that real virtue which you so firmly deny to exist in the sex, you will give up the pursuit, and, foregoing the low considerations of fortune, make atonement by marriage. Thorn. Such is my serious resolution. " I wish you'd forego the experiment. But you have been so much in raptures with your success, that I have, as yet, had no clear account how you came acquainted in the family. Thorn. Oh, I'll tell you immediately. You know Lady Patchet? Arn. What, is she here? Thorn. It was by her I was first introduced. It seems that, last year, her ladyship's reputation began to suffer a little; so that she thought it prudent to retire for a while, till people learned better manners or got worse memories. She soon became acquainted with this little family, and, as the wife is a prodigious admirer of quality, grew in a short time to be very intimate, and, imagining that she may one day make her market of the girls, has much ingratiated herself with them. She introduced me I drank, and abused this degenerate age with the father-promised wonders to the mother for all her bratspraised her gooseberry wine, and ogled the daughters, by which means in three days I made the progress I related to you. Arn. You have been expeditious indeed. I fear where that devil Lady Patchet is concerned there can be no good—but is there not a son? He has Thorn, Oh! the most ridiculous creature in nature. been bred in the country a bumpkin all his life, till within these six years, when he was sent to the University, but the misfortunes that have reduced his father falling out, he is returned, the most ridiculous animal you ever saw, a conceited, disputing blockhead. So there is no great matter to fear from his penetration. But come, let us begone, and see this moral family, we shall meet them coming from the field, and you will see a man who was once in affluence, maintaining by hard labour a numerous family. Arn. Oh! Thornhill, can you wish to add infamy to their poverty? [Exeunt. There also remain among his papers some scenes of a drama, without a name, written evidently in haste, and with scarcely any correction, the subject of which is so wild and unmanage able, that I should not have hesitated in referring it to the same early date, had not the introduction into one of the scenes of "Dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh," proved it to have been produced after that pretty song was written. The chief personages upon whom the story turns are a band of outlaws, who, under the name and disguise of Devils, have taken up their residence in a gloomy wood, adjoining a village, the inhabitants of which they keep in perpetual alarm by their incursions and apparitions. In the same wood resides a hermit, secretly connected with this band, who keeps secluded within his cave the beautiful Reginilla, hid alike from the light of the sun and the eyes of men. She has, however, been indulged in her prison with a glimpse of a handsome young huntsman, whom she believes to be a phantom, and is encouraged in her belief by the hermit, by whose contrivance this huntsman (a prince in disguise) has been thus presented to her. The following is the scene that takes place between the fair recluse and her visitant. The style, where style is attempted, shows, as the reader will perceive, a taste yet immature and unchas tened : Scene draws, and discovers REGINILLA asleep in the Cave. Enter PEVIDOR and other Devils, with the HUNTSMAN-unbind him, and exeunt. Hunts. Ha! Where am I now? Is it indeed the dread abode of guilt, or refuge of a band of thieves? it cannot be a dream. (Sees REGINILLA.) Ha! if this be so, and I do dream, may I never wake-it is—my beating heart acknowledges my dear, gentle Reginilla. I'll not wake her, lest, if it be a phantom, it should vanish. Oh, balmy breath! but for thy soft sighs that come to tell me it is no image, I should believe. . . . (bends down towards her) a sigh from her heart!--thus let me arrest thee on thy way (kisses her.) A deeper blush has flushed her cheek-sweet modesty! that even in sleep is conscious and resentful.-She will not wake, and yet some fancy calls up those frequent sighs-how her heart beats in its ivory cage, like an imprisoned bird-or as if to reprove the hand that dares approach its sanctuary! Oh, would she but wake, |