TWO NEW MEN.
[Sidenote: 1780--The younger Pitt and Brinsley Sheridan]
The year 1780 that witnessed the Gordon riots welcomed into political
life two men, both of whom were young, both of whom bore names that
were already familiar from an honorable parentage, and both of whom
were destined to play very conspicuous parts in the House of Commons.
One of the two men was known to his family alone, and his intimates, as
a youth of great promise and great knowledge, which gave to his twenty
years the ripened wisdom of a statesman and a scholar. The other, who
was eight years older, had been for some years in the public eye, had
been the hero of a romantic scandal which had done much to make his
name notorious, and had written some dramatic works which had done more
to make his name famous. It was a fortunate chance that when the House
of Commons stood in need of new blood and new men the same time and the
same year saw the return to Parliament of William Pitt and of Richard
Brinsley Sheridan.
It has been said that every reader of the "Iliad" finds himself
irresistibly compelled to take sides with one or other of the great
opposing camps, and to be thenceforward either a Greek or a Trojan. In
something of the same spirit every student of the reign of the third
George becomes perforce a partisan of one or other of two statesmen who
divided the honors of its prime between them, who were opposed on all
the great questions of their day, and who represented at their best the
two forces into which English political life was then, and is still,
divided. The history of England for the closing years of the
eighteenth century and the early dawn of the nineteenth century is
{212} the history of these two men and of their influence. Those who
study their age and their career are separated as keenly and as hotly
to-day as they were separated keenly and hotly a hundred years ago into
the followers of Charles James Fox or the followers of William Pitt.
The record of English party politics is a record of long and splendid
duels between recognized chiefs of the two antagonistic armies. What
the struggle between Gladstone and Disraeli, for example, was to our
own time, the struggle between Fox and Pitt was to our ancestors of
three generations ago. All the force and feeling that made for what we
now call liberal principles found its most splendid representative in
the son of Lord Holland: all the force and feeling that rallied around
the conservative impulse looked for and found its ideal in the son of
Lord Chatham. The two men were as much contrasted as the opinions that
they professed. To the misgoverned, misguided, splendidly reckless
boyhood and early manhood of Fox Pitt opposed the gravity and stillness
of his youth. The exuberant animal vitality of Fox, wasting itself
overlong in the flame of aimless passions, was emphasized by the solid
reserve, the passionless austerity of Pitt. The one man was compact of
all the heady enthusiasms, the splendid generosities of a nature rich
in the vitality that sought eagerly new outlets for its energy, that
played hard as it worked hard, that exulted in extremes. The other
moved in a narrow path to one envisaged aim, and, conscious of a
certain physical frailty, husbanded his resources, limited the scope of
his fine intellect, and acted not indeed along the line of least
resistance but within lines of purpose that were not very far apart.
The one explored the mountain and the valley, lingered in gardens and
orchards, or wandered at all adventure upon desolate heaths; the other
pursued in patience the white highway to his goal, untempted or at
least unconquered by allurements that could prove irresistible to his
adversary.
[Sidenote: 1780--The character of the younger Pitt]
The two men differed as much in appearance as in mind. The outer
seeming of each is almost as familiar as the forms and faces of
contemporaries. Fox was massively {213} corpulent, furiously untidy, a
heroic sloven, his bull throat and cheeks too often black with a three
days' beard, infinitely lovable, exquisitely cultured, capable of the
noblest tenderness, yet with a kind of grossness sometimes that was but
a part, and perhaps an inevitable part, of his wide humanity. Pitt was
slender, boyish, precise, punctilious in attire, his native composure
only occasionally lightened by a flash of humor or sweetened by a show
of playfulness, old beyond his years and young to the end of his short
life, sternly self-restrained and self-commanded, gracious in a kind of
melancholy, unconscious charm, a curiously unadorned, uncolored
personality, that attracted where it did attract with a magnetism that
was perhaps all the more potent for being somewhat difficult to
explain. Fox was always a lover in many kinds of love, fugitive,
venal, illicit, honorable, and enduring. Pitt carried himself through
temptations with a monastic rigor. There was a time when his friends
implored him for the sake of appearances, and not to flout too
flagrantly the manners of the time, to show himself in public with a
woman of the town. His one love story, strange and fruitless, neither
got nor gave happiness and remains an unsolved mystery.
There were only two tastes held in common by the two men, and those
were tastes shared by most of the gentlemen of their generation and
century, the taste for politics and the taste for wine. Men of the
class of Holland's son, of Chatham's son, if they were not soldiers and
sailors, and very often when they were soldiers and sailors, went into
political life as naturally as they went into a university or into the
hunting field. In the case of the younger Fox and of the younger Pitt
the political direction was conspicuously inevitable from the
beginning. The paths of both lay plain from the threshold of the
nursery to the threshold of St. Stephen's. The lad who was the chosen
companion of his father at an age when his contemporaries had only
abandoned a horn-book to grapple with Corderius, the boy who learned
the principles of elocution and the essence of debate from the lips of
the Great Commoner, were children very specially fostered in the arts
of {214} statesmanship and curiously favored in the knowledge that
enables men to guide and govern men. From the other taste there was no
escape, or little escape, possible for the men of that day. It would
have been strange indeed if Fox had been absolved from the love of
wine, which was held by every one he knew, from his father's old friend
and late enemy Rigby to the elderly place-holder, gambler, and
letter-writer Selwyn, who loved, slandered, and failed to ruin Fox's
brilliant youth. It would have been impossible for Pitt, floated
through a precarious childhood on floods of Oporto, to liberate his
blood and judgment from the generous liquor that promised him a
strength it sapped. It was no more disgrace to the austere Pitt than
to the profligate Fox to come to the House of Commons visibly under the
influence of much more wine than could possibly have been good for
Hercules. Sobriety was not unknown among statesmen even in those days
of many bottles, but intoxication was no shame, and Burke was no more
commended for his temperance than Fox, or Pitt, or Sheridan were blamed
for their intemperance.
[Sidenote: 1759-80--The youth of the younger Pitt]
William Pitt was born in 1759, when George the Second still seemed
stable on his throne, and when the world knew nothing of that grandson
and heir to whose service the child of Chatham was to be devoted. He
was the fourth child and second son; the third son and last child of
Chatham was born two years later. William Pitt was delicate from his
infancy, and by reason of his delicacy was never sent to school. He
was educated by private tuition, directly guided and controlled by his
father. From the first he was precocious, full of promise, full of
performance. He acquired knowledge eagerly and surely; what he learned
he learned well and thoroughly. Trained from his cradle in the
acquirements essential to a public life, he applied himself, as soon as
he was of an age to appreciate his tastes and to form a purpose, to
equipping himself at all points for a political career. When the great
Chatham died he left behind him a son who was to be as famous as
himself, a statesman formed in his own school, trained in his own
methods, inspired by his counsels, and guided by {215} his example. A
legend which may be more than legend has it that from the first destiny
seemed determined to confront the genius and the fame of Fox with the
genius and the fame of Pitt. It is said that the Foxes were assured by
a relative of the Pitts that the young son of Chatham, then a child
under a tutor's charge, showed parts which were sure to prove him a
formidable rival to the precocious youth who was at once the delight
and the despair of Lord Holland's life. It is certain that the young
Fox was early made acquainted with the ripe intelligence and eager
genius of the younger Pitt. It was his chance to stand with the boy
one night at the bar of the House of Lords, and to be attracted and
amazed at the avidity with which Pitt followed the debate, the sagacity
with which he commented upon what he saw and heard, and the readiness
with which he formulated answers to arguments which failed to carry
conviction to his dawning wisdom. Pitt loved the House of Commons
while he was still in the schoolroom; it was inevitable that he should
belong to the House of Commons, and he entered it at the earliest
possible moment, even before he was legally qualified to do so, for he
was not quite of age when he first took his seat.
The qualities of fairness and fitness which Greek wisdom praised in the
conduct of life were characteristic of Pitt's life. In its zealous,
patient preparation for public life, its noble girding of the loins
against great issues, its wistful renunciation of human hopes, its
early consciousness of terrible disease, its fortitude in the face of
catastrophes so unexpected and so cruel; in its pensive isolation, in
the richness of those early successes that seemed as if in anticipation
to offer compensation for the early death, his life seems to have been
adorned with certain ornaments and ordered by certain laws that make it
strangely comely, curiously symmetrical. In that youth of his which
was never quite young, and which was never allowed to grow old, in his
austere attitude to so much that youth holds most dear, in the high
passion of his patriotism with its eager desire, so often and so
sternly thwarted, to add to England's glory, he stands apart from {216}
many greater and many wiser men, in a melancholy, lonely dignity. It
has been given to few men to inspire more passionate attachment in the
minds of his contemporaries; it has been given to few statesmen to be
regarded abroad, by eyes for the most part envious or hostile, as
pre-eminently representative of the qualities that made his country at
once disliked and feared. His political instincts were for the most
part admirable, and if it had been his fortune to serve a sovereign
more reasonable, more temperate, and more intelligent than George the
Third his name might have been written among the great reformers of the
world. At home an unhappy deference to the dictates of a rash and
incapable king, abroad an enforced opposition to one of the greatest
forces and one of the greatest conquerors that European civilization
has seen, prevented Pitt from gaining that position to which his
genius, under conditions less persistently unhappy, would have entitled
him. To have gained what he did gain under such conditions was in
itself a triumph.
The new-comer who entered Parliament at the same period as William Pitt
was as curiously unlike him as even Fox himself. If few knew anything
of Pitt every one knew something of Sheridan, who had already made fame
in one career and was now about to make fame in another. It may afford
consolation to the unappreciated to reflect that the most famous
English dramatist since Shakespeare's day, the brightest wit of an age
which piqued itself into being considered witty, the most brilliant
orator of an age which regarded oratory as one of the greatest of the
arts, and whose roll is studded with the names of illustrious orators,
the most unrivalled humorist of a century which in all parts of the
world distinguished itself by its love of humor, was looked upon in his
nonage as a dull, unpromising boy, chiefly remarkable for his idleness
and carelessness.
[Sidenote: 1751-80--The parents of Brinsley Sheridan]
The quality which we now call Bohemianism certainly ran in Sheridan's
blood. His grandfather, Dr. Thomas Sheridan, the friend of Swift, the
Dublin clergyman and schoolmaster, was a delightfully amiable, wholly
reckless, {217} slovenly, indigent, and cheerful personage. His
father, Thomas Sheridan, was a no less cheerful, no less careless man,
who turned play-actor, and taught elocution, and married a woman who
wrote novels and a life of Swift. At one time he could boast the
friendship of Dr. Johnson, who seems to have regarded him with an
ill-humored contempt, but Dr. Johnson's expression of this contempt
brought about a quarrel. The most remarkable thing about him is that
he was the father of his son. Neither he nor his wife appears to have
had any idea of their good fortune. Mrs. Sheridan once declared of her
two boys that she had never met with "two such impenetrable dunces."
None the less the father contrived with difficulty to scrape together
enough money to send his boys to Harrow, and there, luckily, Dr. Parr
discerned that Richard, with all his faults, was by no means an
impenetrable dunce. Both he and Sumner, the head-master of Harrow,
discovered in the schoolboy Sheridan great talents which neither of
them was capable of calling into action.
Richard Sheridan came from Harrow School and Harrow playgrounds to
London, and, later on, to Bath. London did not make him much more
industrious or more careful than he had been at Harrow-on-the-Hill. It
was far pleasanter to translate the honeyed Greek of Theocritus, with
its babble of Sicilian shepherds, its nymphs and waters and Sicilian
seas, than to follow the beaten track of ordinary education. It was
vastly more entertaining to translate the impassioned prose of
Aristaenetus into impassioned verse, especially in collaboration with a
cherished friend, than to yawn over Euclid and to grumble over Cocker.
The translation of Aristaenetus, the boyish task of Sheridan and his
friend Halhed, still enjoys a sort of existence in the series of
classical translations in Bohn's Library. It is one of the ironies of
literature that fate has preserved this translation while it has
permitted the two Begum speeches, that in the House of Commons and that
in Westminster Hall, practically to perish. What little interest does
now cling to the early work belongs to the fact of its being a
collaboration. Halhed, who worked {218} with Sheridan at the useless
task, was a clever young Oxford student, who was as poor as he was
clever, and who seemed to entertain the eccentric idea that large sums
of money were to be readily obtained from the reading public for a
rendering in flippant verse of the prose of an obscure author whose
very identity is involved in doubt. Aristaenetus did not become the
talk of the town even in spite of an ingeniously promulgated rumor
assigning the authorship of the verses to Dr. Johnson. Neither did the
plays and essays in which the friends collaborated meet with any
prosperous fate.
From the doing of Greek prose into English verse Sheridan and Halhed
turned to another occupation, in which, as in the first, they were both
of the same mind. They both fell in love, and both fell in love with
the same woman. All contemporary accounts agree in regarding the
daughter of Linley the musician as one of the most beautiful women of
her age. Those who knew the portrait which the greatest painter of his
time painted of Sheridan's wife as St. Cecilia will understand the
extraordinary, the almost universal homage which society and art, wit
and wealth, and genius and rank paid to Miss Linley. Unlike the girl
in Sheridan's own poem, who is assured by her adorer that she will meet
with friends in all the aged and lovers in the young. Miss Linley
found old men as well as young men competing for her affection and for
the honor of her hand.
Sheridan and Halhed were little more than boys when they first beheld
and at once adored Miss Linley. Charles Sheridan, Richard's elder
brother, was still a very young man. But Miss Linley had old lovers
too, men long past the middle pathway of their lives, who besought her
to marry them with all the impetuosity of youth. One of them, whom she
wisely rejected on the ground that wealth alone could not compensate
for the disparity in years, carried off his disappointment gracefully
enough by immediately settling a sum of three thousand pounds upon the
young lady.
There is an air of romance over the whole course of {219} Sheridan's
attachment to Miss Linley. For a long time he contrived to keep his
attachment a secret from his elder brother, Charles, and from his
friend Halhed, both of whom were madly in love with Miss Linley, and
neither of whom appears to have had the faintest suspicion of finding a
rival, the one in so close a kinsman, the other in his own familiar
friend. It must be admitted that Sheridan does not appear to have
behaved with that uprightness which was to be expected from his
gallant, impetuous nature. Not merely did he keep his secret from his
brother and his friend, but he seems to have allowed his friend to look
upon him as a confidant and ally in pressing Halhed's suit upon Miss
Linley. Halhed reproached him sadly, but not bitterly, in a poetical
epistle, the value of which is more personal than poetical, when he
discovered the real mind of his friend. Then, like a wise man if a sad
one, Halhed went away. He sailed for India, the golden land of so many
wrecked hopes and disappointed ambitions; he long outlived his first
love and his successful rival; he became in the fulness of time a
member of Parliament, and he died in 1830. He is dimly remembered as
the author of a grammar of the Bengalee language and of a work on
Gentoo laws translated from the Persian.
[Sidenote: 1771--Marriage of Sheridan and Miss Linley]
Sheridan's courtship progressed more and more romantically. The
persecutions of a married rake named Matthews drove Miss Linley to fly
to France with Sheridan, to whom she was secretly married at Calais.
The revengeful and disappointed Matthews inserted a libellous attack
upon Sheridan in the _Bath Chronicle_. Sheridan extorted at his
sword's point a public apology from Matthews. Further and baser
mendacity on the part of Matthews provoked a second duel, in which the
combatants seem to have fought with desperate ferocity, and in which
Sheridan, badly wounded, refused to ask his life at the hands of his
antagonist and was only rescued by the seconds. A long period of
separation followed, full of dark hours for Sheridan, hours only
brightened by occasional meetings of the most eccentric kind, as when
the wild young poet, quaintly {220} disguised in the complicated capes
of a hackney coachman, had the tormenting privilege of driving his
beloved from Covent Garden Theatre, where her voice and beauty were
nightly charming all London. At last the opposition of Linley was
overcome, and on April 13, 1773, the most brilliant man and most
beautiful woman of their day were for the second time and more formally
married, and a series of adventures more romantic than fiction came to
an end.
The romance, it is agreeable to think, did not conclude with the
marriage ceremony. Sheridan seems to have offered his wife as devoted
an attachment after her marriage as he had shown in the days of
duelling and disguising that preceded it. He wrote verses to her, and
she wrote verses to him, long after they had settled down to serene
domesticity, which breathe the most passionate expressions of mutual
love. And yet there is a legend--it is to be hoped and believed that
it is only a legend--which ends the romance very sadly. According to
the legend young Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Sheridan's close friend, felt
more than a friend's admiration for the wife of his friend. According
to the legend Elizabeth Sheridan returned the passion, which by the
unhappiness it brought with it shortened her life. According to the
legend Lord Edward only married the fair Pamela, Philippe Egalité's
daughter, because of the striking resemblance she bore to the St.
Cecilia of his dreams. The legend rests on the authority of Madame de
Genlis, who was probably Pamela's mother and who is no infallible
authority. It is possible that the undoubted resemblance of Pamela to
Mrs. Sheridan is the origin of the whole story. Lord Edward was always
falling in love in a graceful, chivalrous kind of way. But there is no
serious proof that his friendship for Mrs. Sheridan was anything more
than the friendship an honorable man may entertain for the wife of his
friend. The graver and more authentic story of Fitzgerald's life has
yet to be told in these pages.
[Sidenote: 1775--Sheridan as dramatist and politician]
For a brief period after his marriage Sheridan thought of devoting
himself to the law. But his thoughts and {221} tastes were otherwise
inclined, and on January 27, 1775, not quite two years after his
marriage, "The Rivals" was produced at Covent Garden and a new chapter
opened in the history of dramatic literature. It is curious to think
that the clumsiness of the player to whom the part of Sir Lucius
O'Trigger was given came very near to damning the most brilliant comedy
that the English stage had seen for nearly two centuries. The happy
substitution of actor Clinch for actor Lee, however, saved the piece
and made Sheridan the most popular author in London. How grateful
Sheridan felt to Clinch for rescuing Sir Lucius is shown by the fact
that his next production, the farce called "St. Patrick's Day; or, the
Scheming Lieutenant," was expressly written to afford opportunity for
Clinch's peculiar talents. In 1777 came "The School for Scandal,"
Sheridan's masterpiece, which was followed by Sheridan's last dramatic
work, "The Critic." Never probably before was so splendid a success
gained so rapidly, so steadily increased in so short a time, to come so
abruptly to an end in the very pride of its triumph.
Quite suddenly the most famous English author then alive found
opportunity for the display of wholly new and unexpected talents, and
became one of the most famous politicians and orators alive. There
had, indeed, always been a certain political bent in Sheridan's mind.
He had tried his hand at many political pamphlets, fragments of which
were found among his papers by Moore. He had always taken the keenest
interest in the great questions which agitated the political life of
the waning eighteenth century. The general election of 1780 gave him
an opportunity of expressing this interest in the public field, and he
was returned to Parliament as member for the borough of Stamford. It
is difficult to find a parallel in our history for the extraordinary
success which attended Sheridan in his political life as it had already
attended him in his dramatic career.
Just on the threshold of his political career Sheridan lost the wife he
loved so well. He was profoundly afflicted, but the affliction
lessened and he married a Miss {222} Ogle. There is a story told in
connection with this second marriage which is half melancholy, half
humorous, and wholly pathetic. The second Mrs. Sheridan, young,
clever, and ardently devoted to her husband, was found one day,
according to this story, walking up and down her drawing-room
apparently in a frantic state of mind because she had discovered that
the love-letters Sheridan had sent to her were the same as those which
he had written to his first wife. Word for word, sentence for
sentence, passion for passion, they were the same letters. No doubt
Sheridan made his peace. It is to be presumed that he thought the
letters so good that they might very well serve a second turn; but this
act of literary parsimony was not happy. Parsimony of his written work
was, however, Sheridan's peculiarity. Verses addressed to his dear St.
Cecilia make their appearance again and again, under altered
conditions, in his plays. It is singular enough, as has been happily
said, that the treasures of wit which Sheridan was thought to possess
in such profusion should have been the only species of wealth which he
ever dreamed of economizing.
{223}