TWO DISTINGUISHED VISITORS.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN—
The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall,
The orator, dramatist, minstrel who ran
Through each mode of the lyre and was master of all—
was a very great man in those days in many ways; but what made him
just now of especial importance to Mr. Samuel Erin was that he was the
manager of Drury Lane Theatre.
That Mr. Harris, of Covent Garden, should have snapped at the
‘Vortigern’ bait had been a satisfactory circumstance enough (though
indeed he had only ‘sucked it’ and got off the hook), but the coming
of Sheridan was quite another matter. Compared with him, all other
managers were small fry.
It was with a less assured demeanour, therefore, than usual, and with
an expectancy somewhat tempered with awe, that Mr. Samuel Erin repaired
to the parlour. Even the MS. in his hand had lost some of its virtue
in view of the authority who was about to pronounce upon it; it was
almost as if he had been a young author with his own play; a work of
immense original genius, but which he was about to submit for the first
time to a leading publisher. It was some relief to him to feel that Dr.
Parr would be present, who was well known to him, and a believer in the
Shakespearean manuscripts.
As he entered the room the great man came forward to shake him
frankly by the hand. His manner was more than gracious, it was
genial, and seemed to put him at his ease in a moment. His appearance
was not imposing—a man of forty-five inclined to corpulency, with
a loose-fitting coat secured by one button over the chest, and a
carelessly knotted white neck-cloth—he wore his own hair, already very
grey, tied behind with a black riband. His face was puffy, and evinced
signs of what was even then called ‘free living. What redeemed it,
however, and invested the whole man with marvellous attraction were
his bright and sparkling eyes, which glittered with merriment and good
humour. The antiquary was so fascinated with them that for the moment
he took no notice of the other person in the room, till Sheridan called
his attention to him.
[Illustration: THE OTHER, INSTEAD OF TAKING HIS HAND, DREW HIMSELF
UP.]
‘You have doubtless seen our friend here pretty often before, Mr.
Erin?’ he said smiling.
The antiquary turned round and held out his hand mechanically. The
other, however, instead of taking it, drew himself up to his full
height (which was a good way), put his hands behind him, and bowed
stiffly; it was not Dr. Parr but John Kemble.
Mr. Erin, as a playgoer, had of course seen him ‘pretty often before,’
but generally in royal robes or in armour, attired as a king or a
warrior; as it happened he had never before seen him in plain clothes.
He had a noble figure and a handsome face—though, strange to say,
not a very mobile one—and, so far, was in strong contrast to his
companion; the difference in expression was even greater. Mr. Kemble
had a sternness of demeanour that was almost forbidding, and which
reminded Mr. Erin on the instant that he was an intimate friend of
Malone’s.
‘I did not expect the honour of a visit from Mr. Kemble,’ said the
antiquary drily.
‘I did not come, sir, of my own free will,’ was the uncompromising
reply, delivered in deep tragic tones. ‘I am here at the request of my
friend Mr. Sheridan.’
‘Quite true,’ observed that gentleman, his eyes dancing with laughter
at the antagonistic attitude of his two companions; the tragedian
like a stately St. Bernard with stiff tail, who resents the attention
of some half-breed of no insignificant stature, and that ventures to
entertain a very tolerable opinion of itself.
‘I dragged him here, Mr. Erin, like iniquity, with cart-ropes. The
quarrels of commentators, I know, are like the bars of a castle;
they’ll be shot rather than open their arms to one another. For my
sake, however, I hope you will, both of you, make a truce while this
little matter of business is under discussion; then to it again hammer
and tongs with all my heart.—Now, where’s this play?’
Mr. Erin produced it from his breast-pocket, into which he had
hurriedly thrust it.
‘Oh, that’s it, is it? Gad! he carries it about with him as a mother
carries a newborn babe, whose paternity has never been questioned.’
Kemble smiled, as Coriolanus might have done at the mention of
gratitude.
‘I think, Mr. Sheridan,’ said the antiquary in an offended tone, ‘if
you will be so good as to glance at yonder certificate, including
among other authorities your friend Dr. Parr, you must admit that the
legitimacy of “Vortigern and Rowena“ is tolerably well established.
Herbert Croft, Dr. Walton, the Poet Laureate, Sir James Bland Burgess,
are vouchers——’
‘Weighty enough, indeed,’ interposed the manager impatiently; ‘anything
ought to go down with such names attached to it. But the play, the
play’s the thing. Let’s look at it.’
It was a detail, if report spoke true, that Sheridan did not always
insist upon. He had offered to accept a comedy from the authoress of
‘Evelina’ unread, and to put it on the boards of Drury Lane. Even now,
when the manuscript was spread out before him, he seemed to shrink from
the task he had imposed upon himself.
‘Gad!’ he exclaimed, ‘there seems a good lot of it!’
‘There are two thousand eight hundred lines in all,’ explained Mr. Erin
gravely.
‘Fourteen hundred lines are deemed sufficient for an acting drama,’
observed Mr. Kemble acidly.
‘The dramas of William Shakespeare, sir, with which I happen to have
some acquaintance,’ returned the antiquary with bitter significance,
‘extend in more than one case to a greater length than the “Vortigern.”’
‘Come, come, Kemble,’ said the manager good-naturedly. ‘Surplusage is
no error, and one can hardly complain because one gets two plays for
the price of one. Now, Mr. Erin, would you prefer to be present at our
investigation or not? Mothers generally shrink from an inquest upon
even a foster-child, but there have been Roman matrons——’
‘I make it an invariable rule, Mr. Sheridan,’ put in the antiquary
hastily, ‘though on the present occasion there is no ground, of course,
for its being put in practice, never to permit the literary offspring
of which you speak to leave my hands.’
‘Afraid of body-snatching, eh? Think of you and me wanting to steal a
play, Kemble! Why, Drury Lane is a perfect foundling hospital for them.
However, just as you please, sir.’
Then, while Mr. Erin sat apart affecting to be immersed in a folio (but
with his ears wide open), the two sat down to the manuscript, from
which Kemble now and then read aloud in deep sonorous tones, which were
not always so sarcastic as he intended them to be.
There was a certain rhythmical roll in many lines like the thunder
of the surf, and also (as in its case) a head of foam which gave the
impression of strength. For example:—
Full fifty breathless bodies struck my sight;
And some with gaping mouths did seem to mock me;
Whilst others, smiling in cold death itself,
Scoffingly bade me look on that which soon
Would wrench from off my brow this sacred crown,
And make me too a subject like themselves.
From Kemble’s mouth at least such lines were not wanting in majestic
vigour, though he lent it to them involuntarily. It was evident enough,
indeed, that he was adverse to the acceptance of the play, while
Sheridan was in favour of it. What doubtless furthered Mr. Erin’s hopes
was that Sheridan had notoriously no very high opinion of Shakespeare
himself; he thought his genius exaggerated. Presently Kemble came to
the three best lines in the tragedy—
Give me a sword,
I have so clogged and badged this with blood
And slippery gore, that it doth mock my grasp;
A sword I say!
A speech he delivered with fine emphasis.
‘Come, that is better than “Titus Andronicus,” anyway,’ said Sheridan
slily.
‘An echo, sir, a mere echo of “Richard the Third,”’ growled the
tragedian.
‘Let us hope it will answer with “Richard the Fourth,”’ was the
laughing rejoinder.
Their disagreement was like the conflict between the whale and a
sword-fish, and could have but the same end.
‘I don’t mean to say that some things here are not better than others,’
said Kemble doggedly, ‘though perhaps I may be permitted to add that
you hear them to the best advantage; but to me the whole thing has a
false ring.’
‘Perhaps it’s my want of ear,’ returned the manager; ‘but do you think,
Mr. Kemble,’ here he sank his voice to a whisper, ‘that many people
_have_ good ears?’
The drollery and even roguishness of his face as he hazarded this
inquiry was indescribable. The tragedian ‘put the question by’ and
pursued his argument.
‘Whatever you think of Shakespeare, Mr. Sheridan, you must allow that
he at least always wrote poetry. Now, much of what I have had the
honour to read to you is not poetry.’
‘But let us suppose Shakespeare was drunk.’
‘Sir!’ exclaimed the tragedian in an offended tone.
‘Sir!’ echoed the antiquary, dropping the folio with a crash.
‘Good Heavens! gentlemen, may not one even put a postulate? Even
Euclid, a writer of little imagination, permits that much. It is not
such a very impossible supposition. Have you never heard of a man of
genius with a turn for the bottle?’
As he looked very hard at the tragedian, that gentleman felt called
upon to reply. ‘I have no personal experience of anything of that
kind,’ he said loftily.
‘Well, of course not; how should you?’ returned Sheridan blandly, but
with a curve of the lip that seemed to say, ‘We are talking of men of
genius.’ Perhaps his reference to his own weakness made him bitter.
If it was so, the feeling was very transitory; it was with his most
winning smile that he presently addressed his friend, ‘Come, Prester
John, we can do nothing without you in this affair; surely you will
not fail us.’
‘I will have no responsibility in the matter,’ was the haughty reply.
‘I will not append my name to yonder list; I will not have it go forth
to the world that I admit the genuineness of this production; I will
not stamp it with my warranty; I will not——’
‘Tut, tut, man,’ broke in the manager impatiently; ‘but you’ll act,
you’ll act.’
‘Well, yes, I will play Vortigern.’
‘And Mrs. Siddons will play Edmunda?’
‘Nay, sir, that is a question for herself. I cannot answer for Sarah;
she always takes her own way.’
‘To hear you talk one would think she was your wife instead of your
sister,’ said the manager laughing. ‘Then the Country Girl’ (so Mrs.
Jordan was called from her first success, which had been made in that
piece) ‘shall be Flavia, who has to appear in man’s clothes; she loves
to wear the breeches, as the poor Duke has long discovered. Well, we’ll
take your friend Shakespeare’s play, Mr. Erin.’ And the manager rose
from his chair with a yawn, like one who has concluded a distasteful
business.
‘But, ahem! nothing has been said about terms,’ suggested the antiquary.
‘Terms? Does he mean money?’ said the manager, looking towards the
tragedian with an air of extreme astonishment, as though he would say,
‘Can I believe my ears?’
‘I am almost inclined to believe he does,’ replied the other, smiling
for the first time.
‘But surely not money down; not ready money, he can’t mean that.’
The antiquary’s face unmistakably implied that he did.
‘Good heavens, Mr. Erin, who _has_ any ready money? I was just talking
of the Duke of Clarence, has _he_ any ready money? Not a guinea—though
you should threaten to drown him, like his namesake, in a butt of
malmsey—to save his life.’
‘The money might be paid out of the profits of the first night, and
then half profits,’ suggested Mr. Erin.
‘Mere details—business,’ cried the manager disdainfully. ‘You must see
Albany Wallis about all that. That’s a pretty face,’ he added, stopping
abruptly beneath a picture on the wall and pointing to it—’a charming
face.’
‘It is the portrait of my niece, Margaret.’
‘Aye, aye; love, faith, a pure soul in a fair body; a true heart, I am
sure of it.’
His voice, freighted with genuine feeling, seemed to melt away in music.
‘She is in truth a good girl, Mr. Sheridan: the light of my poor house.’
‘Take care of her, sir; be kind to her, lest, when it is too late, you
rue it.’
He was gone in a flash, and the door closed behind him.
Mr. Erin looked at the tragedian in amazement.
‘Some likeness to his late wife, I fancy,’ observed that gentleman in
grave explanation. ‘Her death was a matter of much regret to him.’
He seemed to be about to hold out his hand, but something restrained
him; his eye had lit by chance on the certificate. ‘Good morning, Mr.
Erin,’ he said with a stiff bow.
‘Good morning, Mr. Kemble.’