hat slanders mirth or love.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.--_Second Prologue to The Rivals_.

THE IRRESISTIBLE OGLE

The devotion of Mr. Sheridan to the Dean of Winchester's daughter, Miss
Esther Jane Ogle--or "the irresistible Ogle," as she was toasted at the
Kit-cat--was now a circumstance to be assumed in the polite world of
London. As a result, when the parliamentarian followed her into
Scotland, in the spring of 1795, people only shrugged.

"Because it proves that misery loves company," was Mr. Fox's
observation at Wattier's, hard upon two in the morning. "Poor Sherry,
as an inconsolable widower, must naturally have some one to share his
grief. He perfectly comprehends that no one will lament the death of
his wife more fervently than her successor."

In London Mr. Fox thus worded his interpretation of the matter; and
spoke, oddly enough, at the very moment that in Edinburgh Mr. Sheridan
returned to his lodgings in Abercromby Place, deep in the reminiscences
of a fortunate evening at cards. In consequence, Mr. Sheridan entered
the room so quietly that the young man who was employed in turning over
the contents of the top bureau-drawer was taken unprepared.

But in the marauder's nature, as far as resolution went, was little
lacking. "Silence!" he ordered, and with the mandate a pistol was
leveled upon the representative for the borough of Stafford. "One cry
for help, and you perish like a dog. I warn you that I am a desperate
man."

"Now, even at a hazard of discourtesy, I must make bold to question
your statement," said Mr. Sheridan, "although, indeed, it is not so
much the recklessness as the masculinity which I dare call into
dispute."

He continued, in his best parliamentary manner, a happy blending of
reproach, omniscience and pardon. "Only two months ago," said Mr.
Sheridan, "I was so fortunate as to encounter a lady who, alike through
the attractions of her person and the sprightliness of her
conversation, convinced me I was on the road to fall in love after the
high fashion of a popular romance. I accordingly make her a
declaration. I am rejected. I besiege her with the customary
artillery of sonnets, bouquets, serenades, bonbons, theater-tickets and
threats of suicide. In fine, I contract the habit of proposing to Miss
Ogle on every Wednesday; and so strong is my infatuation that I follow
her as far into the north as Edinburgh in order to secure my eleventh
rejection at half-pas