first dramatic performance, The Good-Natured Man, produced, in 1772, presents one of the happiest of his delineations, in the character of Croaker; but as a whole, the play wants point and sprightliness. His second drama, She Stoops to Conquer, performed in the following year, has all the requisites for interesting and amusing an audience; and Dr. Johnson said, 'he knew of no comedy for many years that had answered so much the great end of comedy-making an audience merry.' The plot turns on what may be termed a farcical incident-two parties mistaking a gentleman's house for an inn. But the excellent discrimination of character, and the humor and vivacity of the dialogue throughout the play, render this drama one of the richest contributions that have been made to modern comedy. The native pleasantry and originality of Goldsmith were never more happily displayed, and his success, as Davies remarks, 'revived fancy, wit, gayety, humor, incident, and character, in the place of sentiment and moral preachment.'

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, the greatest comic writer of modern times, appeared before the public two years after Goldsmith obtained his dramatic triumph. On the seventeenth of January, 1775, his play of The Rivals was brought out at Covent Garden. In this first effort of Sheridan there is more humor than wit. He copied some of his characters from Humphrey Clinker,' and the testy but generous Captain Absolute, evidently borrowed from Matthew Bramble, and Mrs. Malaprop, whose mistakes in words are the echoes of Mrs. Winifred Jenkin's blunders. Some of these are farcical enough; but as Moore observes, the luckiness of Mrs. Malaprop's simile, ' as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile,' will be acknowledged as long as there are writers to be run away with by the wilfulness of this species of composition. In the same year, St. Patrick's Day and The Duenna were produced; and such was the popularity of the latter that it had a run of seventy-five successive nights. His popularity did not, however, reach its height until 1777, when he produced The Trip to Scarborough, and The School for Scandal. In plot, character, and incident, dialogue, humor, and wit, 'The School for Scandal' is acknowledged to surpass any other comedy of modern times. The author selected, arranged, and moulded his language with such consummate skill, as to render it a transparent channel for the communication of his thoughts.

As in his first comedy Sheridan had taken hints from Smollett, so in this, his last, he had recourse to Smollett's rival novelist, Fielding. The characters of Charles and Joseph Surface are evidently copied from Tom Jones and Blifil. Nor is the moral of the play an improvement on that of the novel. The careless, extravagant rake, is generous, warm-hearted, and fascinating; seriousness and gravity are rendered odious by being united to meanness and hypocrisy. The dramatic art of Sheridan is evinced in the ludicrous incidents and situations with which 'The School for Scandal' abounds: his ge nius shines forth in his witty dialogues. The entire comedy,' says Moore, 'is an El Dorado of wit, where the precious metal is thrown about by all

classes as carelessly as if they had not the least idea of its value.' Some shorter pieces were afterwards written by Sheridan; such as The Camp, a musical opera, and The Critic, a witty afterpiece, in the manner of The Rehearsal.' The character of Sir Fretful Plagiary, intended, it is supposed, for Cumberland, is one of the author's happiest efforts; and the schemes and contrivances of Puff, the manager-such as making his theatrical clock strike four in the morning scene, ' to beget an awful attention' in the audience, and to 'save a description of the rising sun, and a great deal about gilding the eastern hemisphere'-are a felicitous combination of humor and satire. The scene in which Sneer mortifies the vanity of Sir Fretful, and Puff's description of his own mode of life by his proficiency in the art of puffing, are, perhaps, the best that Sheridan ever wrote.

This versatile and extraordinary genius was born in the city of Dublin, on the thirty-first of October, 1751. After receiving his education at Harrow, he entered Lincoln's Inn, as a student of law; but he was never called to the bar. He married early in life, and having exhausted his pecuniary resources, was compelled to look to literature for his immediate subsistence. The drama, at that time, held out stronger inducements than any other department of writing; and with what success his devotion to it was attended, we have already seen. In 1780, he was elected member of parliament for Strafford, and during a parliamentary career of thirty-two years, he was unrivalled in wit, and had few equals in eloquence. One of his greatest efforts of oratory was his speech, as manager, upon the impeachment of Warren Hastings. Burke declared, at its close, that neither ancient nor modern times had ever produced any thing equal to it. In his latter years Sheridan drank deeply of the cup of bitterness. His profuse habits involved him largely in debt; the destruction of Drury Lane theatre, of which he was one of the proprietors, increased his embarrassments; his failure to obtain a seat in parliament deprived him of protection from arrest; his person was more than once seized by the harpies of the law; and, amidst difficulties, fears, and sorrows, this highly-gifted man sunk to the grave, on the seventh of July, 1816.

Our space will allow us to select but a single scene from Sheridan's comedies, and we know of none superior to the following from 'The School for Scandal'::

ANATOMY OF CHARACTER PERFORMED BY UNCHARITABLENESS.

[Maria enters to Lady Sneerwell and Joseph Surface.]

Lady S. Maria, my dear, how do you do? What's the matter?

Maria. Oh there is that disagreeable lover of mine, Sir Benjamin Backbite, has just called at my guardian's with his odious uncle, Crabtree; so I slipt out and

ran hither to avoid them.

Lady S. Is that all?

Joseph S. If my brother Charles had been of the party, madam, perhaps you would not have been so much alarmed,

Lady S. Nay, now you are severe; for I dare swear the truth of the matter is, Maria heard you were here. But, my dear, what has Sir Benjamin done that you should avoid him so?

Maria. Oh, he has done nothing-but 'tis for what he has said: his conversation is a perpetual libel on all his acquaintance.

Joseph S. Ay, and the worst of it is, there is no advantage in not knowing himfor he'll abuse a stranger just as soon as his best friend; and his uncle Crabtree's as bad.

Ladu S. Nay, but we should make allowance. Sir Benjamin is a wit and a poet. Maria. For my part, I own, madam, wit loses its respect with me when I see it in company with malice. What do you think, Mr. Surface?

Joseph S. Certainly, madam; to smile at the jest that places a thorn in another's breast is to become a principal in the mischief.

Lady S. Pshaw!-there's no possibility of being witty without a little ill nature: the malice of a good thing is the barb that makes it stick. What's your opinion, Mr. Surface ?

Joseph S. To be sure, madam; that conversation, where the spirit of raillery is suppressed, will ever appear tedious and insipid.

Maria. Well, I'll not debate how far scandal may be allowable; but in a man, I am sure it is always contemptible. We have pride, envy, rivalship, and a thousand little motives to depreciate each other; but the male slanderer must have the cowardice of a woman before he can traduce one.

[Enter Servant.]

Serv. Madam, Mrs. Candour is below, and if your ladyship's at leisure, will leave her carriage.

Lady S. Beg her to walk in. [Exit Servant.] Now, Maria, however, here is a character to your taste; for though Mrs. Candour is a little talkative, every body allows her to be the best natured and best sort of woman.

Maria. Yes-with a very gross affectation of good-nature and benevolence, she does more mischief than the direct malice of old Crabtree.

Joseph S. I'faith that's true, Lady Sneerwell: whenever I hear the current running against the characters of my friends, I never think them in such danger as when Candour undertakes their defence.

Lady S. Hush!-here she is.

[Enter Mrs. Candour.]

Mrs. C. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how have you been this century? Mr. Surface, what news do you hear?-though indeed it is no matter, for I think one hears nothing else but scandal.

Joseph S. Just so, indeed, ma'am.

Mrs. C. Oh, Maria! child--what! is the whole affair off between you and Charles? His extravagance, I presume--the town talks of nothing else. Maria. I am very sorry, ma'am, the town has so little to do.

Mrs. C. True, true, child: but there's no stopping people's tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it, as I indeed was to learn, from the same quarter, that your guardian, Sir Peter, and Lady Teazle, have not agreed lately as well as could be wished.

Maria. 'Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves so.

Mrs. C. Very true, child: but what's to be done? People will talk-there's no preventing it. Why, it was but yesterday I was told that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filligree Flirt. But there's no minding what one hears; though to be sure, I had this from very good authority.

Maria. Such reports are highly scandalous.

Mrs. C. So they are, child-shameful, shameful! But the world is so censorious, no character escapes. Well, now, who would have suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion? Yet such is the ill-nature of people that they say her uncle stopt her last week, just as she was stepping into the York mail with her dancing

master.

Maria. I'll answer for 't there are no grounds for that report.

Mrs. C. Ah, no foundation in the world, I dare swear; no more, probably, than for the story circulated last month of Mrs. Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino; though, to be sure, that matter was never rightly cleared up.

Joseph S. The license of invention some people take up is monstrous indeed. Maria. 'Tis so-but, in my opinion, those who report such things are equally culpable.

Mrs. C. To be sure they are; tale-bearers are as bad as the tale-makers-'tis an old observation, and a very true one: but what's to be done, as I said before? how will you prevent people from talking? To-day Mrs. Clackitt assured me Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife, like the rest of their acquaintance. * * No, no! tale-bearers, as I said before, are just as bad as tale-makers.

Joseph S. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if every body had your forbearanee and goodnature!

Mrs. C. I confess, Mr. Surface, I can not bear to hear people attacked behind their backs; and when ugly circumstances come out against our acquaintances, I own I always love to think the best. By-the-by, I hope 'tis not true your brother is absolutely ruined?

Joseph S. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed, ma'am.

Mrs. C. Ah! I heard so-but you must tell him to keep up his spirits; every body almost is in the same way-Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas Splint, and Mr. Nickitall up, I hear, within this week; so, if Charles is undone, he'll find half of his acquaintances ruined too; and that you know, is a consolation.

Joseph S. Doubtless, ma'am-a very great one.

[Enter Servant.]

Serv. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.

[Exit Servant.]

Lady S. So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you; positively you shan't escape,

[Enter Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.]

Crab. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour, I don't believe you are acquainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin Backbite? Egad! ma'am, he has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet, too; isn't he, Lady Sneerwell?

Sir B. O fie, uncle!

Crab. Nay, egad, it's true; I back him at a rebus or a charade against the best rhymer in the kingdom. Has your ladyship heard the epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's feather catching fire? Do, Benjamin, repeat it, or the charade you made last night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione. Come now; your first is the name of a fish, your second a great naval commander, and—

Sir B. Uncle, now-prithee

Crab. I' faith, ma'am, 'twould surprise you to hear how ready he is at these things.

Lady S. I wonder, Sir Benjamin, you never publish any thing.

Sir B. To say truth, ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to print; and as my little productions are mostly satires and lampoons on particular people, I find they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the friends of the parties. However, I have some love elegies, which, when favoured with this lady's smiles, I mean to give the public.

Crab. 'Fore heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalize you! you will be handed down to posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa.

Sir B. Yes, madam, I think you will like them, when you shall see them on a beautiful quarto page, where a neat rivulet of text shall murmur through a meadow of margin. 'Fore gad, they will be the most elegant things of their kind!

Crab. But, ladies, that's true-have you heard the news?

Mrs. C. What, sir, do you mean the report of

Crab. No, ma'am, that's not it-Miss Nicely is going to be married to her own footman.

Mrs. C. Impossible!

Crab. Ask Sir Benjamin.

Sir B. 'Tis very true, ma'am; every thing is fixed, and the wedding liveries bespoke.

Crab. Yes; and they do say there were very pressing reasons for it.

Lady S. Why, I have heard something of this before.

Mrs. C. It can't be; and I wonder any one should believe such a story of so prudent a lady as Miss Nicely.

Sir B. O lud! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas believed at once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved that every body was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.

Mrs. C. Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the credit of a prudent lady of her stamp as a fever is generally to those of the strongest constitutions. But there is a sort of puny sickly reputation that is always ailing, yet will outlive the robuster characters of a hundred prudes.

Sir B. True, madam, there are valetudinarians in reputation as well as constitution; who, being conscious of their weak part, avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by care and circumspection.

Mrs. C. Well, but this may be all a mistake. You know, Sir Benjamin, very trifling circumstances often give rise to the most injurious tales.

Crab. That they do, I'll be sworn, ma'am. O lud! Mr. Surface, pray is it true that your uncle, Sir Oliver, is coming home?

Joseph S. Not that I know of, indeed, sir.

Crab. He has been in the East Indies a long time. You can scarcely remember him, I believe? Sad comfort whenever he returns, to hear how your brother has gone on.

Joseph S. Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure; but I hope no busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him. He may reform.

Sir B. To be sure he may; for my part I never believed him to be so utterly void of principle as people say; and though he has lost all his friends, I am told nobody is better spoken of by the Jews.

Crab. That's true, egad, nephew. If the old Jewry was a ward, I believe Charles would be an alderman: no man more popular there! I hear he pays as many annuities as the Irish tontine; and that, whenever he is sick, they have prayers for the recovery of his health in all the synagogues.

Sir B. Yet no man lives in greater splendour. They tell me, when he entertains his friends, he will sit down to dinner with a dozen of his own securities; have a score of tradesmen waiting in the antechamber, and an officer behind every guest's chair.

Joseph S. This may be entertainment to you, gentlemen; but you pay very little regard to the feelings of a brother.

Maria. Their malice is intolerable. Lady Sneerwell, I must wish you a good morning: I'm not very well. [Exit Maria.]

Mrs. C. O dear! she changes colour very much.

Lady S. Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her: she may want your assistance.