was beyond the reach of doubt.

Who that has

felt or witnessed the first success of all-believing, allattempting "two-and-twenty," will fail to appreciate the keenness of the sense of mingled pride and joy that such a triumph naturally afforded? The tragedy was announced for repetition, and was soon afterwards published, with a dedication full of gratitude and compliment to her whose "zealous exertion and great talents” had mainly contributed to its favourable reception.

The story of Adelaide is founded on an incident connected with the emigration of the noblesse during the French Revolution. Whether the tragic tale was derived from some narrative of suffering which the author had heard from the lips of some of the youthful exiles amongst whom his school-days had been passed, or whether there lingered in his mind vague memories of their misfortunes, from which his busy imagination wove the fable afterwards embodied in the play,-who now can tell? Few survive of the intimates to whom he was accustomed to impart his immature conceptions as they grew and formed themselves; for never was there one whose nature oftener impelled him to

"Snatch at his laurels while yet they were growing;"

or who was more consciously dependent upon sympathy for sustainment in his intellectual efforts. When, in after years, the subject of his first play was adverted to, he could rarely be induced to dwell upon it. The pride and pleasure of its early success were not forgotten, but his judgment of its defects had become inexorable, and his over sensitiveness exaggerated both their number and degree. The truth is, that while no one who cares for his fame can desire that his first composition shall be regarded as a fair test or specimen of his poetic powers, it cannot be denied that it contains many passages of touching beauty, and possesses, as a whole, no inconsiderable merit.

St. Evermont, a refugee of noble birth, accepts the hospitality of Count Lunenberg, a Viennese courtier, who woos and deceives Adelaide, the only daughter of the aged emigré. Her father's first misgivings are excited by her refusal to accept the hand of a distinguished noble; but he repels distrustful thoughts respecting his daughter, remembering that

Suspicion is the growth of meaner spirits;

Yet does misfortune often cherish it,
And then it lurks a rank and leafless weed
Amid the ruins of a noble mind."

His grief and anger when he finds that he has lost the confidence, though not the affection, of his child,

is heightened by her unexplained absence from the cottage where Lunenberg had permitted them to dwell. He goes to seek her, while Julia, the betrothed of her brother, endeavours to soothe her mother's fears.

Julia.-She said that in the very deep of night,
Amid the abbey's ruined solitude,

The holy rite was done.

Madame St. Evermont.-Oh! do not speak,

Lest you disturb the quiet of the air;

And then-Hark! there-a step-it comes this way.
'Tis she. 'Twas nothing but the fitful breeze

That rustled through the multitude of leaves.

Julia.-Perhaps

Madame St. Evermont.-Perhaps! It is a blessed sound, And hope is fond of it. The sable slave

Stands on the beach of Western India's isles

In evening's breathing hour, and says "perhaps."
The captive in his darksome prison-house
Doth watch a ray of light upon the wall,
And gives an utterance to the holy word.
'Tis heard within Potosi's silver tombs,
Gasps in the fetid air of hospitals,
And in the naked huts of poverty.

Why is that comfort then denied to me?

Why then not say "perhaps ?" Speak it again,
It is a drop of balm upon my heart.

An amusing anecdote relative to this period is told by one who afterwards became one of his most zealous fellow-workers in political life. Passing, one Sunday morning, through Abbey-street, this gentleman heard

his name called, in a low tone, by an acquaintance who resided in a house exactly opposite to that of Mr. Sheil. "Come," he said, laughing, "I will show you a strange sight." They entered the house, and from the drawing-room window perceived through the open casement of the same floor, on the other side of the way, what the prosaic householder assured his friend was a confirmed case of insanity. The young dramatist alternately sat at a small table, where he wrote with astonishing rapidity, and then starting up approached a full-length mirror, clasped his hands, and seemed to recite with passionate earnestness what he had been composing. "There he is, poor fellow," said his compassionate observer, "quite mad. The rest of the family are all gone to prayers, and he is making the most of his time while the house is still; for his father hates the notion of his writing plays, and worries him about it."

Whatever pride his father may have taken in the éclat attendant on his theatrical success, he had no disposition to tolerate the abstraction of his son's future thoughts from that profession towards the attainment of eminence in which all his parental dreams of ambition for years had tended. He had watched with pleasure the early predilections of the

boy for all kinds of fervid declamation. He had recounted fondly to his intimates the good report of his preceptors at Stoneyhurst of his progress in classical study, English composition, and rhetorical exercises. He had not concealed his exultation at the notoriety won by the precocious demagogue at Catholic meetings; and the praises bestowed on Adelaide were enhanced in his estimation by the recollection that they were due to an impatient energy on the part of his son to be enrolled a member of the bar. And were all the climbing hopes of professional profit and renown to be suddenly dashed by a wayward preference for the applause of playgoers, and the transient celebrity attendant upon dramatic verse? Declining health and fortune had not tended to improve a temper naturally irritable; and the frank and fearless avowals by his son, that he looked with more confidence to the success of his powers as a writer than a lawyer, oftentimes filled the old man's heart with bitterness and vexation. He was accustomed, during the sittings of the courts in term, to frequent the "Hall," at that time the centre of all gossip and news-telling in Dublin, and where he was sure to hear whatever might be said of his son. But the sounds of professional appreciation and promise for which he