sonation never before seen on the English stage. Now we see the Mephistopheles, Sheridan, inducing her to barter away her reputation and ideal of great art for the substantial benefits of increased gains and larger audiences.
A different class of entertainment now invaded the classic boards. We can see Timour the Tartar, Tekeli, or the Siege of Montgatz, The Miller and His Men, Pizarro, and a host of spectacular pieces, mounted to draw numerous and uncritical audiences. This first season was a fatiguing and anxious one for the great actress, more especially also that she was in delicate health. Her daughter Cecilia was born this year, 1794, on 25th July. Her husband wrote to a friend:—
I have the pleasure to tell you your little god-daughter (for such she is, myself being your proxy a few days back) is very well, and as fine a girl as if her father was not more than one-and-twenty. She is named after Mrs. Piozzi's youngest daughter, Cecilia; her sponsors are yourself and Mr. Greatheed, Mrs. Piozzi and Lady Percival (ci devant Miss B. Wynn); and, what is better, the mother is well, too, and is just going to the theatre to perform Mrs. Beverley for the benefit of her brother's wife, Mrs. Stephen Kemble.
She never all through life gave herself the rest requisite to re-establish her health; always before the public, what wonder that languor and weakness attacked her physically, and despondency and dissatisfaction mentally.
"My whole family are gone to Margate," she wrote in September, "whither I am going also, and nothing would make it tolerable to me, but that my husband and daughters are delighted with the prospect before them. I wish they could go and enjoy themselves there, and leave me the comfort and pleasure of remaining in my own convenient house, and taking care of my baby. But I am every day more and more
