There was no doubt in Mr. Erin’s mind as to Sir James Bland Burgess being a better poet than Mr. Pye. There were other hitches—nay, absolute breaks-down—which could not be so easily mended. Mrs. Siddons, who it was hoped would play the chief female character, Edmunda, had a severe cold, which was suspected by many people, and known by her friends, to be a stage cold—a malady which actors and actresses assume at pleasure as a pretext for declining any objectionable part. When a barrister refuses a brief, it is naturally concluded that his client’s cause is precarious—a lawyer, it is argued, would never send money away from his doors except for the gravest reasons; and similarly the ‘Vortigern’ suffered in public estimation when the news of Mrs. Siddons’s indisposition got abroad. Her reason, as Malone and Company averred, was that ‘the whole play was an audacious imposition.’ In this case that flattering unction of ‘There are as good fish in the sea,’ &c., could hardly be laid to Mr. Erin’s soul; it was unquestionably a bitter disappointment; the part had to be given to Mrs. Powell, a much prettier and younger woman, but not the queen of the stage. His sister’s conduct, too, seemed to have an unfavourable effect on Kemble, whose interest in the play was already at the best but lukewarm, and it was felt absolutely necessary to conciliate him. Mr. Erin wrote to him to say that, notwithstanding the circumstance of ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ being the production of the immortal bard, the great tragedian was at liberty to use his own excellent judgment in preparing it for the stage. A cold reply was received, to the effect that it should be acted faithfully from the copy sent to the theatre. These were bitter drops; but where is the cup of human prosperity without them? In reading the record of even the most fortunate man’s career, we may be sure that, though it appears to run with such unbroken smoothness, there is many a hitch. We hear the triumphant pæans, but not the deep low notes of chagrin and disappointment that to the hero’s own ear accompany them and turn his blood to gall. The shining shield, bossed with victories, appears to be of solid gold, but there is but a thin coating of it, and underneath lies rusted and corroding iron. It is something, however, to show gold at all; and Margaret was prompt with her comfort. ‘When, my dear Willie, was good fortune without its drawbacks? These are but spots in the sun of our prosperity, and we should have only room in our hearts for gratitude. Think how much sunshine we have had of late, and how far beyond our expectations. When you first chanced upon these wonderful discoveries, how great a thing it would have seemed to you to light on such a treasure trove as the “Vortigern,“ and then to have it accepted by Sheridan for Drury Lane! Think of that!’