till next morning. I turned to you and said
that 'this was trifling work', that I could not
admit of any delay, and engaged to remove the
gentleman (who proved to be an officer), and
who then left."

The shirker was at last aroused by taunts
(as sluggish bulls in the Spanish arenas are
stimulated by fireworks). He drew his
reluctant sword and threw himself into position.
Sheridan was on him in a moment, hot as
Tybalt. The thrusts were swift and furious;
the parries subtle and dexterous; one turn of
the wrist, one glance of the steel, and the heart
of one or the other would pour out its best
life-blood. Suddenly, amid all this cunning of
fence, Sheridan, with a wild impulse of rage
and fury, leaped within his adversary's guard,
dashed his sword from his hand, and drove him
to the ground. There, bleeding and bruised,
the slanderer sued for his life, and signed a full
confession and retractation of his published
falsehoods. Sheridan then left him in scorn
and disgust, and, on his return to Bath,
instantly published in the public journals the
man's abject confession.

Maddened by the contempt of the world, and
as covered with disgrace as a thief just fresh
from the pillory, Mathews skulked back to his
Glamorganshire property, there also to find
himself scouted in the ball-room, pointed at at the
covert-side, and derided in the sessions court.
Stung to rage, and as a last hope, he returned
to the scene of his hopeless disgrace and
demanded another meeting. At last he was
thirsty for blood and eager to die, if he could
only expire on the body of his dead rival.

Sheridan's friends urged him not to go out.
Mathews was indelibly disgraced, and had been
fairly defeated; but there is gunpowder in an
Irishman's blood, and Sheridan was too
chivalrous to refuse the meeting.

The two inveterate enemies met on Kingsdown,
outside Bath. Mr. Barnett was Sheridan's
second; Captain Knight the captain's.
They had both pistols and swords this time;
death to one or both seemed certain. Mathews
had nothing to lose. Mr. Sheridan had boundless
hope before him, a love transcendently
fervent and pure, and the career of a great mind.
All these, however, he cast behind him, as of no
more value than the cocked-hat or laced coat he
threw upon the turf, and the fight began with a
relentless and deadly fury. The pistols were
pointed with care, but both discharges were
without effect. The two duellists then flashed
out their swords and rushed upon each other
with a ferocity almost unknown in the fashionable
English duel. Their swords met in thrust
and parry quicker than the eye could follow—
the carte and tierce and stab of madmen,
eager only to kill or to be killed. An opening
of a hair's breadth caime, and Sheridan rushed
blindly in to grapple Mathews's sword-wrist,
and disarm him as before. But Mathews had this
time the cunning as well as the savagery of
delirium and despair; he twisted away his sword-
arm and closed on his wily and dangerous
antagonist. The struggle now was foot to foot,
chest to chest, wrestling, hewing, stabbing
with swords shortened into daggers. Passion
and skill were on both sides. Both were in the
prime of life—robust, lithe, sinewy, and powerful.
Both were bleeding, and pale with the
paroxysm of their rage. Each was trying to
get his sword free to pass it straight through
the lungs or heart of the other. Both were
severely wounded and in danger. At last, in a
scuffling wrestle, they both fell to the ground,
weak with loss of blood, and in that heavy fall
both their swords snapped in two.

Mathews was uppermost, and sneeringly
triumphant at the advantage. He pressed his
whole weight on Sheridan, and stabbing at his
chest and side with his broken sword, exultingly
demanded of him whether he would beg for his
life.

"Never," gasped Sheridan, "never;" then
fell back and fainted from loss of blood.

The disgraceful seconds, who had calmly
permitted this savage duel, now interposed,
and carried Sheridan to his chaise. Mathews
and his friend proceeded immediately to
London. Sheridan's wounds were deep and
dangerous, and confined him to his bed for
several weeks. Of the scoundrel we hear no
more. He had had his quietus at last, both
from the pen and the sword. Miss Linley,
though in agony at the danger of the hero
who had twice ventured his life for her, was
never permitted to see him till long after he
recovered. Old Sheridan thought the match a
disgrace, and so did old Linley. Two old
pedants! Young Sheridan was of no profession,
and had no expectations. He had written some
essays, but who could live on essays? Above
all, the audacious fellow disliked the Maid of
Bath's singing in public; but who could baffle so
artful, dramatic, and ingenious a lover? He
tried all the disguises of Proteus; he even, as
a coachman, drove the glass coach that Miss
Linley ordered to and from the concert. They
met in this way frequently, and also corresponded.
At length Sheridan entered himself at the Middle
Temple, and the selfish and unwise Linleys
then gave way, but with a bad grace. The two
devoted lovers were married on the 13th of April,
1773. Sheridan reluctantly allowed his beautiful
young wife to appear once more at Oxford and
also at the Worcester Festival, compelling her,
however (to old grubbing Linley's horror and
dismay), to put all the money given her into the
plate of the charity. For this foolish but
chivalrous pride Dr. Johnson highly commended
him.

The doctor, with all the high spirit of a Roman.
senator, exclaimed, "He resolved wisely and
nobly, to be sure. He is a brave man. Would
not a gentleman be disgraced by having his
wife sing publicly for hire? No, sir, there can
be no doubt here. I know not if I should not
prepare myself for a public singer as readily as
let my wife be one."

The young couple were then living at a
pretty rose-covered cottage at East Burnham.