DEATH OF MR. SHERIDAN'S FATHER.--VERSES BY MRS. SHERIDAN ON THE DEATH OF
HER SISTER, MRS. TICKELL.
In the summer of this year the father of Mr. Sheridan died. He had been
recommended to try the air of Lisbon for his health, and had left Dublin
for that purpose, accompanied by his younger daughter. But the rapid
increase of his malady prevented him from proceeding farther than
Margate, where he died about the beginning of August, attended in his
last moments by his son Richard.
We have seen with what harshness, to use no stronger term, Mr. Sheridan
was for many years treated by his father, and how persevering and
affectionate were the efforts, in spite of many capricious repulses, that
he made to be restored to forgiveness and favor. In his happiest moments,
both of love and fame, the thought of being excluded from the paternal
roof came across him with a chill that seemed to sadden all his triumph.
[Footnote: See the letter written by him immediately after his marriage,
vol. i. page 80, and the anecdote in page 111, same vol.] When it is
considered, too, that the father, to whom he felt thus amiably, had never
distinguished him by any particular kindness but, on the contrary, had
always shown a marked preference for the disposition and abilities of his
brother Charles--it is impossible not to acknowledge, in such true filial
affection, a proof that talent was not the only ornament of Sheridan, and
that, however unfavorable to moral culture was the life that he led,
Nature, in forming his mind, had implanted there virtue, as well as
genius.
Of the tender attention which he paid to his father on his death-bed, I
am enabled to lay before the reader no less a testimony than the letters
written at the time by Miss Sheridan, who, as I have already said,
accompanied the old gentleman from Ireland, and now shared with her
brother the task of comforting his last moments. And here,--it is
difficult even for contempt to keep down the indignation, that one cannot
but feel at those slanderers, under the name of biographers, who calling
in malice to the aid of their ignorance, have not scrupled to assert that
the father of Sheridan died unattended by any of his nearest
relatives!--Such are ever the marks that Dulness leaves behind, in its
Gothic irruptions into the sanctuary of departed Genius--defacing what it
cannot understand, polluting what it has not the soul to reverence, and
taking revenge for its own darkness, by the wanton profanation of all
that is sacred in the eyes of others.
Immediately on the death of their father, Sheridan removed his sister to
Deepden--a seat of the Duke of Norfolk in Surrey, which His Grace had
lately lent him--and then returned, himself, to Margate, to pay the last
tribute to his father's remains. The letters of Miss Sheridan are
addressed to her elder sister in Ireland, and the first which I shall
give entire, was written a day or two after her arrival at Deepden.
"MY DEAR LOVE,
"_Dibden, August 18._
"Though you have ever been uppermost in my thoughts, yet it has not been
in my power to write since the few lines I sent from Margate. I hope this
will find you, in some degree, recovered from the shock you must have
experienced from the late melancholy event. I trust to your own piety and
the tenderness of your worthy husband, for procuring you such a degree of
calmness of mind as may secure your health from injury. In the midst of
what I have suffered I have been thankful that you did not share a scene
of distress which you could not have relieved. I have supported myself,
but I am sure, had we been together, we should have suffered more.
"With regard to my brother's kindness, I can scarcely express to you how
great it has been. He saw my father while he was still sensible, and
never quitted him till the awful moment was past--I will not now dwell on
particulars. My mind is not sufficiently recovered to enter on the
subject, and you could only be distressed by it. He returns soon to
Margate to pay the last duties in the manner desired by my father. His
feelings have been severely tried, and earnestly I pray he may not suffer
from that cause, or from the fatigue he has endured. His tenderness to me
I never can forget. I had so little claim on him, that I still feel a
degree of surprise mixed with my gratitude. Mrs. Sheridan's reception of
me was truly affectionate. They leave me to myself now as much as I
please, as I had gone through so much fatigue of body and mind that I
require some rest. I have not, as you may suppose, looked much beyond the
present hour, but I begin to be more composed. I could now enjoy your
society, and I wish for it hourly. I should think I may hope to see you
sooner in England than you had intended; but you will write to me very
soon, and let me know everything that concerns you. I know not whether
you will feel like me a melancholy pleasure in the reflection that my
father received the last kind offices from my brother Richard, [Footnote:
In a letter, from which I have given an extract in the early part of this
volume, written by the elder sister of Sheridan a short time after his
death, in referring to the differences that existed between him and his
father, she says--"and yet it was that son, and not the object of his
partial fondness, who at last closed his eyes." It generally happens that
the injustice of such partialities is revenged by the ingratitude of
those who are the objects of them; and the present instance, as there is
but too much reason to believe, was not altogether an exception to the
remark.] whose conduct on this occasion must convince every one of the
goodness of his heart and the truth of his filial affection. One more
reflection of consolation is, that nothing was omitted that could have
prolonged his life or eased his latter hours. God bless and preserve you,
my dear love. I shall soon write more to you, but shall for a short time
suspend my journal, as still too many painful thoughts will crowd upon me
to suffer me to regain such a frame of mind as I should wish when I write
to you.
"Ever affectionately your
"E. SHERIDAN."
In another letter, dated a few days after, she gives an account of the
domestic life of Mrs. Sheridan, which, like everything that is related of
that most interesting woman, excites a feeling towards her memory, little
short of love.
"MY DEAR LOVE,
"_Dibden, Friday, 22._
"I shall endeavor to resume my journal, though my anxiety to hear from
you occupies my mind in a way that unfits me for writing. I have been
here almost a week in perfect quiet. While there was company in the
house, I stayed in my room, and since my brother's leaving us to go to
Margate, I have sat at times with Mrs. Sheridan, who is kind and
considerate; so that I have entire liberty. Her poor sister's [Footnote:
Mrs. Tickell.] children are all with her. The girl gives her constant
employment, and seems to profit by being under so good an instructor.
Their father was here for some days, but I did not see him. Last night
Mrs. S. showed me a picture of Mrs. Tickell, which she wears round her
neck. The thing was misrepresented to you;--it was not done after her
death, but a short time before it. The sketch was taken while she slept,
by a painter at Bristol. This Mrs. Sheridan got copied by Cosway, who has
softened down the traces of illness in such a way that the picture
conveys no gloomy idea. It represents her in a sweet sleep; which must
have been soothing to her friend, after seeing her for a length of time
in a state of constant suffering.
"My brother left us Wednesday morning, and we do not expect him to return
for some days. He meant only to stay at Margate long enough to attend the
last melancholy office, which it was my poor father's express desire
should be performed in whatever parish he died.
* * * * *
"_Sunday_.
"Dick is still in town, and we do not expect him for some time. Mrs.
Sheridan seems now quite reconciled to these little absences, which she
knows are unavoidable. I never saw any one so constant in employing every
moment of her time, and to that I attribute, in a great measure, the
recovery of her health and spirits. The education of her niece, her
music, books, and work, occupy every minute of the day. After dinner, the
children, who call her "Mamma-aunt," spend some time with us, and her
manner to them is truly delightful. The girl, you know, is the eldest.
The eldest boy is about five years old, very like his father, but
extremely gentle in his manners. The youngest is past three. The whole
set then retire to the music-room. As yet I cannot enjoy their
parties;--a song from Mrs. Sheridan affected me last night in a most
painful manner. I shall not try the experiment soon again. Mrs. S. blamed
herself for putting me to the trial, and, after tea, got a book, which
she read to us till supper. This, I find, is the general way of passing
the evening.
"They are now at their music, and I have retired to add a few lines. This
day has been more gloomy than we have been for some days past;--it is the
first day of our getting into mourning. All the servants in deep mourning
made a melancholy appearance, and I found it very difficult to sit out
the dinner. But as I have dined below since there has been only Mrs.
Sheridan and Miss Linley here, I would not suffer a circumstance, to
which I must accustom myself, to break in on their comfort."
These children, to whom Mrs. Sheridan thus wholly devoted herself, and
continued to do so for the remainder of her life, had lost their mother,
Mrs. Tickell, in the year 1787, by the same complaint that afterwards
proved fatal to their aunt. The passionate attachment of Mrs. Sheridan to
this sister, and the deep grief with which she mourned her loss, are
expressed in a poem of her own so touchingly, that, to those who love the
language of real feeling, I need not apologize for their introduction
here. Poetry, in general, is but a cold interpreter of sorrow; and the
more it displays its skill, as an art, the less is it likely to do
justice to nature. In writing these verses, however, the workmanship was
forgotten in the subject; and the critic, to feel them as he ought,
should forget his own craft in reading them.
"_Written in the Spring of the Year 1788._
"The hours and days pass on;--sweet Spring returns,
And whispers comfort to the heart that mourns:
But not to mine, whose dear and cherish'd grief
Asks for indulgence, but ne'er hopes relief.
For, ah, can changing seasons e'er restore
The lov'd companion I must still deplore?
Shall all the wisdom of the world combin'd
Erase thy image, Mary, from my mind,
Or bid me hope from others to receive
The fond affection thou alone could'st give?
Ah, no, my best belov'd, thou still shalt be
My friend, my sister, all the world to me.
"With tender woe sad memory woos back time,
And paints the scenes when youth was in its prime;
The craggy hill, where rocks, with wild flow'rs crown'd,
Burst from the hazle copse or verdant ground;
Where sportive nature every form assumes,
And, gaily lavish, wastes a thousand blooms;
Where oft we heard the echoing hills repeat
Our untaught strains and rural ditties sweet,
Till purpling clouds proclaimed the closing day,
While distant streams detain'd the parting ray.
Then on some mossy stone we'd sit us down,
And watch the changing sky and shadows brown,
That swiftly glided o'er the mead below,
Or in some fancied form descended slow.
How oft, well pleas'd each other to adorn,
We stripped the blossoms from the fragrant thorn,
Or caught the violet where, in humble bed,
Asham'd its own sweets it hung its head.
But, oh, what rapture Mary's eyes would speak,
Through her dark hair how rosy glow'd her cheek,
If, in her playful search, she saw appear
The first-blown cowslip of the opening year.
Thy gales, oh Spring, then whisper'd life and joy;--
Now mem'ry wakes thy pleasures to destroy,
And all thy beauties serve but to renew
Regrets too keen for reason to subdue.
Ah me! while tender recollections rise,
The ready tears obscure my sadden'd eyes,
And, while surrounding objects they conceal,
_Her_ form belov'd the trembling drops reveal.
"Sometimes the lovely, blooming girl I view.
My youth's companion, friend for ever true,
Whose looks, the sweet expressions of her heart
So gaily innocent, so void of art,
With soft attraction whisper'd blessings drew
From all who stopp'd, her beauteous face to view.
Then in the dear domestic scene I mourn,
And weep past pleasures never to return!
There, where each gentle virtue lov'd to rest.
In the pure mansion of my Mary's breast,
The days of social happiness are o'er,
The voice of harmony is heard no more;
No more her graceful tenderness shall prove
The wife's fond duty or the parent's love.
Those eyes, which brighten'd with maternal pride,
As her sweet infants wanton'd by her side,
'Twas my sad fate to see for ever close
On life, on love, the world, and all its woes;
To watch the slow disease, with hopeless care,
And veil in painful smiles my heart's despair;
To see her droop, with restless languor weak,
While fatal beauty mantled in her cheek,
Like fresh flow'rs springing from some mouldering clay,
Cherish'd by death, and blooming from decay.
Yet, tho' oppress'd by ever-varying pain,
The gentle sufferer scarcely would complain,
Hid every sigh, each trembling doubt reprov'd,
To spare a pang to those fond hearts she lov'd.
And often, in short intervals of ease,
Her kind and cheerful spirit strove to please;
Whilst we, alas, unable to refuse
The sad delight we were so soon to lose,
Treasur'd each word, each kind expression claim'd,--
''Twas me she look'd at,'--'it was me she nam'd.'
Thus fondly soothing grief, too great to bear,
With mournful eagerness and jealous care.
"But soon, alas, from hearts with sorrow worn
E'en this last comfort was for ever torn:
That mind, the seat of wisdom, genius, taste.
The cruel hand of sickness now laid waste;
Subdued with pain, it shar'd the common lot.
All, all its lovely energies forgot!
The husband, parent, sister, knelt in vain,
One recollecting look alone to gain:
The shades of night her beaming eyes obscur'd,
And Nature, vanquished, no sharp pain endur'd;
Calm and serene--till the last trembling breath
Wafted an angel from the bed of death!
"Oh, if the soul, releas'd from mortal cares,
Views the sad scene, the voice of mourning hears,
Then, dearest saint, didst thou thy heav'n forego,
Lingering on earth in pity to our woe.
'Twas thy kind influence sooth'd our minds to peace.
And bade our vain and selfish murmurs cease;
'Twas thy soft smile, that gave the worshipp'd clay
Of thy bright essence one celestial ray,
Making e'en death so beautiful, that we,
Gazing on it, forgot our misery.
Then--pleasing thought!--ere to the realms of light
Thy franchis'd spirit took its happy flight,
With fond regard, perhaps, thou saw'st me bend
O'er the cold relics of my heart's best friend,
And heard'st me swear, while her dear hand I prest.
And tears of agony bedew'd my breast,
For her lov'd sake to act the mother's part,
And take her darling infants to my heart,
With tenderest care their youthful minds improve,
And guard her treasure with protecting love.
Once more look down, blest creature, and behold
These arms the precious innocence enfold;
Assist my erring nature to fulfil
The sacred trust, and ward off every ill!
And, oh, let _her_, who is my dearest care,
Thy blest regard and heavenly influence share;
Teach me to form her pure and artless mind,
Like thine, as true, as innocent, as kind,--
That when some future day my hopes shall bless,
And every voice her virtue shall confess,
When my fond heart delighted hears her praise,
As with unconscious loveliness she strays,
'Such,' let me say, with tears of joy the while,
'Such was the softness of my Mary's smile;
Such was _her_ youth, so blithe, so rosy sweet,
And such _her_ mind, unpractis'd in deceit;
With artless elegance, unstudied grace,
Thus did _she_ gain in every heart a place!'
"Then, while the dear remembrance I behold,
Time shall steal on, nor tell me I am old,
Till, nature wearied, each fond duty o'er,
I join my Angel Friend--to part no more!"
To the conduct of Mr. Sheridan, during the last moments of his father, a
further testimony has been kindly communicated to me by Mr. Jarvis, a
medical gentleman of Margate, who attended Mr. Thomas Sheridan on that
occasion, and whose interesting communication I shall here give in his
own words:--
"On the 10th of August, 1788, I was first called on to visit Mr.
Sheridan, who was then fast declining at his lodgings in this place,
where he was in the care of his daughter. On the next day Mr. R. B.
Sheridan arrived here from town, having brought with him Dr. Morris, of
Parliament street. I was in the bedroom with Mr. Sheridan when the son
arrived, and witnessed an interview in which the father showed himself to
be strongly impressed by his son's attention, saying with considerable
emotion, 'Oh Dick, I give you a great deal of trouble!' and seeming to
imply by his manner, that his son had been less to blame than himself,
for any previous want of cordiality between them.
"On my making my last call for the evening, Mr. R. B. Sheridan, with
delicacy, but much earnestness, expressed his fear that the nurse in
attendance on his father, might not be so competent as myself to the
requisite attentions, and his hope that I would consent to remain in the
room for a few of the first hours of the night; as he himself, having
been travelling the preceding night, required some short repose. I
complied with his request, and remained at the father's bed-side till
relieved by the son, about three o'clock in the morning:--he then
insisted on taking my place. From this time he never quitted the house
till his father's death; on the day after which he wrote me a letter, now
before me, of which the annexed is an exact copy:
'SIR,
'_Friday Morning_,
'I wished to see you this morning before I went, to thank you for your
attention and trouble. You will be so good to give the account to Mr.
Thompson, who will settle it; and I must further beg your acceptance of
the inclosed from myself.
'I am, Sir,
'Your obedient Servant,
'R. B. SHERIDAN.
'I have explained to Dr. Morris (who has informed me that you will
recommend a proper person), that it is my desire to have the hearse, and
the manner of coming to town, as respectful as possible.'
"The inclosure, referred to in this letter, was a bank-note of ten
pounds,--a most liberal remuneration. Mr. R. B. Sheridan left Margate,
intending that his father should be buried in London; but he there
ascertained that it had been his father's expressed wish that he should
be buried in the parish next to that in which he should happen to die. He
then, consequently, returned to Margate, accompanied by his
brother-in-law, Mr. Tickell, with whom and Mr. Thompson and myself, he
followed his father's remains to the burial-place, which was not in
Margate church-yard, but in the north aisle of the church of St. Peter's."
Mr. Jarvis, the writer of the letter from which I have given this
extract, had once, as he informs me, the intention of having a cenotaph
raised, to the memory of Mr. Sheridan's father, in the church of Margate.
[Footnote: Though this idea was relinquished, it appears that a friend of
Mr. Jarvis, with a zeal for the memory of talent highly honorable to him,
has recently caused a monument to Mr. Thomas Sheridan to be raised in the
church of St. Peter.] With this view he applied to Dr. Parr for an
Inscription, and the following is the tribute to his old friend with
which that learned and kind-hearted man supplied him:--
"This monument, A. D. 1824, was, by subscription, erected to the memory
of Thomas Sheridan, Esq., who died in the neighboring parish of St. John,
August 14, 1788, in the 69th year of his age, and, according to his own
request, was there buried. He was grandson to Dr. Thomas Sheridan, the
brother of Dr. William, a conscientious non-juror, who, in 1691, was
deprived of the Bishopric of Kilmore. He was the son of Dr. Thomas
Sheridan, a profound scholar and eminent schoolmaster, intimately
connected with Dean Swift and other illustrious writers in the reign of
Queen Anne. He was husband to the ingenious and amiable author of Sidney
Biddulph and several dramatic pieces favorably received. He was father of
the celebrated orator and dramatist, Richard Brinsley Sheridan. He had
been the schoolfellow, and, through life, was the companion, of the
amiable Archbishop Markham. He was the friend of the learned Dr. Sumner,
master of Harrow School, and the well-known Dr. Parr. He took his first
academical degree in the University of Dublin, about 1736. He was honored
by the University of Oxford with the degree of A. M. in 1758, and in 1759
he obtained the same distinction at Cambridge. He, for many years,
presided over the theatre of Dublin; and, at Drury Lane, he in public
estimation stood next to David Garrick. In the literary world he was
distinguished by numerous and useful writings on the pronunciation of the
English language. Through some of his opinions ran a vein of singularity,
mingled with the rich ore of genius. In his manners there was dignified
ease;--in his spirit, invincible firmness;--and in his habits and
principles, unsullied integrity."