'Dr. Sheridan was a school-master, and in many instances, perfectly well adapted for that station. He was deeply vers'd in the Greek and Roman languages; and in their customs and antiquities. He had that kind of good nature, which absence of mind, indolence of body, and carelessness of fortune produce: And although not over-strict in his own conduct, yet he took care of the morality of his scholars, whom he sent to the university, remarkably well founded in all kind of classical learning, and not ill instructed in the social duties of life. He was slovenly, indigent, and chearful. He knew books much better than men; And he knew the value of money least of all. In this situation, and with this disposition, Swift fattened upon him as upon a prey, with which he intended to regale himself, whenever his appetite should prompt him. Sheridan was therefore certainly within his reach; and the only time he was permitted to go beyond the limits of his chain, was to take possession of a living in the county of Corke, which had been bestowed upon him, by the then lord lieutenant of Ireland, the present earl of Granville. Sheridan, in one fatal moment, or by one fatal text, effected his own ruin. You will find the story told by Swift himself, in the fourth volume of his works [page 289. in a pamphlet intitled a Vindication of his Excellency John Lord Carteret, from the charge of favouring none but Tories, High-Churchmen, and Jacobites.] So that here I need only tell you, that this ill-starred, good-natur'd, improvident man returned to Dublin, unhinged from all favour at court, and even banished from the Castle: But still he remained a punster, a quibbler, a fiddler, and a wit. Not a day passed without a rebus, an anagram, or a madrigal. His pen and his fiddle-stick were in continual motion; and yet to little or no purpose, if we may give credit to the following verses, which shall serve as the conclusion of his poetical character.'
With music and poetry equally bless'd[1], A bard thus Apollo most humbly address'd, Great author of poetry, music, and light, Instructed by thee, I both fiddle and write:
Yet unheeded I scrape, or I scribble all day, My tunes are neglected, my verse flung away. Thy substantive here, Vice Apollo [2] disdains, To vouch for my numbers, or list to my strains. Thy manual sign he refuses to put To the airs I produce from the pen, or the gut: Be thou then propitious, great Phoebus, and grant Belief, or reward to my merit, or want, Tho' the Dean and Delany [3] transcendently shine, O! brighten one solo, or sonnet of mine, Make one work immortal, 'tis all I request; Apollo look'd pleas'd, and resolving to jest, Replied--Honest friend, I've consider'd your case. Nor dislike your unmeaning and innocent face. Your petition I grant, the boon is not great, Your works shall continue, and here's the receipt; On Roundo's[4] hereafter, your fiddle-strings spend. Write verses in circles, they never shall end.