profitable. The lawsuits, the debts, the engagements upon it, all rose
from his negligence and extravagance. But Old Drury was doomed. On the
24th February, 1809, soon after the conclusion of the performances, it
was announced to be in flames. Rather it announced itself. In a few
moments it was blazing--a royal bonfire. Sheridan was in the House of
Commons at the time. The reddened clouds above London threw the glare
back even to the windows of the House. The members rushed from their
seats to see the unwonted light, and in consideration for Sheridan, an
adjournment was moved. But he rose calmly, though sadly, and begged that
no misfortune of his should interrupt the public business. His
independence, he said--witty in the midst of his troubles--had often
been questioned, but was now confirmed, for he had nothing more to
depend upon. He then left the House, and repaired to the scene of
conflagration.

Not long after, Kelly found him sitting quite composed in 'The Bedford,'
sipping his wine, as if nothing had happened. The musician expressed his
astonishment at Mr. Sheridan's _sang froid_. 'Surely,' replied the wit,
'you'll admit that a man has a right to take his wine by his own
fireside.' But Sheridan was only drowning care, not disregarding it. The
event was really too much for him, though perhaps he did not realize the
extent of its effect at the time. In a word, all he had in the world
went with the theatre. Nothing was left either for him or the principal
shareholders. Yet he bore it all with fortitude, till he heard that the
harpsichord, on which his first wife was wont to play, was gone too.
Then he burst into tears.

This fire was the opening of the shaft down which the great man sank
rapidly. While his fortunes kept up, his spirits were not completely
exhausted. He drank much, but as an indulgence rather than as a relief.