DEATH OF MRS. SHERIDAN.
In the year 1792, after a long illness, which terminated in consumption,
Mrs. Sheridan died at Bristol, in the thirty-eighth year of her age.
There has seldom, perhaps, existed a finer combination of all those
qualities that attract both eye and heart, than this accomplished and
lovely person exhibited. To judge by what we hear, it was impossible to
see her without admiration, or know her without love; and a late Bishop
used to say that she "seemed to him the connecting link between woman and
angel." [Footnote: Jackson of Exeter, too, giving a description of her,
in some Memoirs of his own Life that were never published, said that to
see her, as she stood singing beside him at the piano-forte, was "like
looking into the face of an angel."] The devotedness of affection, too,
with which she was regarded, not only by her own father and sisters, but
by all her husband's family, showed that her fascination was of that best
kind which, like charity, "begins at home;" and that while her beauty and
music enchanted the world, she had charms more intrinsic and lasting for
those who came nearer to her. We have already seen with what pliant
sympathy she followed her husband through his various pursuits,--
identifying herself with the politician as warmly and readily
as with the author, and keeping Love still attendant on Genius through
all his transformations. As the wife of the dramatist and manager, we
find her calculating the receipts of the house, assisting in the
adaptation of her husband's opera, and reading over the plays sent in by
dramatic candidates. As the wife of the senator and orator we see her,
with no less zeal, making extracts from state-papers, and copying out
ponderous pamphlets,--entering with all her heart and soul into the
details of elections, and even endeavoring to fathom the mysteries of the
Funds. The affectionate and sensible care with which she watched over,
not only her own children, but those which her beloved sister, Mrs.
Tickell, confided to her, in dying, gives the finish to this picture of
domestic usefulness. When it is recollected, too, that the person thus
homelily employed was gifted with every charm that could adorn and
delight society, it would be difficult, perhaps, to find any where a more
perfect example of that happy mixture of utility and ornament, in which
all that is prized by the husband and the lover combines, and which
renders woman what the Sacred Fire was to the Parsees,--not only an
object of adoration on their altars, but a source of warmth and comfort
to their hearths.
To say that, with all this, she was not happy, nor escaped the censure of
the world, is but to assign to her that share of shadow, without which
nothing bright ever existed on this earth. United not only by marriage,
but by love, to a man who was the object of universal admiration, and
whose vanity and passions too often led him to yield to the temptations
by which he was surrounded, it was but natural that, in the consciousness
of her own power to charm, she should be now and then piqued into an
appearance of retaliation, and seem to listen with complaisance to some
of those numerous worshippers, who crowd around such beautiful and
unguarded shrines. Not that she was at any time unwatched by
Sheridan,--on the contrary, he followed her with a lover's eyes
throughout; and it was believed of both, by those who knew them best,
that, even when they seemed most attracted by other objects, they would
willingly, had they consulted the real wishes of their hearts, have given
up every one in the world for each other. So wantonly do those, who have
happiness in their grasp, trifle with that rare and delicate treasure,
till, like the careless hand playing with the rose,
"In swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas,
They snap it--it falls to ground."
They had, immediately after their marriage, as we have seen, passed some
time in a little cottage at Eastburnham, and it was a period, of course,
long remembered by them both for its happiness. I have been told by a
friend of Sheridan, that he once overheard him exclaiming to himself,
after looking for some moments at his wife, with a pang, no doubt, of
melancholy self-reproach,--"Could anything bring back those first
feelings?" then adding with a sigh, "Yes, perhaps, the cottage at
Eastburnham might." In this as well as in some other traits of the same
kind, there is assuredly any thing but that common-place indifference,
which too often clouds over the evening of married life. On the contrary,
it seems rather the struggle of affection with its own remorse; and, like
the humorist who mourned over the extinction of his intellect so
eloquently as to prove that it was still in full vigor, shows love to be
still warmly alive in the very act of lamenting its death.
I have already presented the reader with some letters of Mrs. Sheridan,
in which the feminine character of her mind very interestingly displays
itself. Their chief charm is unaffectedness, and the total absence of
that literary style, which in the present day infects even the most
familiar correspondence. I shall here give a few more of her letters,
written at different periods to the elder sister of Sheridan,--it being
one of her many merits to have kept alive between her husband and his
family, though so far separated, a constant and cordial intercourse,
which, unluckily, after her death, from his own indolence and the new
connections into which he entered, was suffered to die away, almost
entirely. The first letter, from its allusion to the Westminster
Scrutiny, must have been written in the year 1784, Mr. Fox having gained
his great victory over Sir Cecil Wray on the 17th of May, and the
Scrutiny having been granted on the same day.
"MY DEAR LISSY,
"_London, June 6._
"I am happy to find by your last that our apprehensions on Charles's
account were useless. The many reports that were circulated here of his
accident gave us a good deal of uneasiness; but it is no longer wonderful
that he should be buried here, when Mr. Jackman has so barbarously
murdered him with you. I fancy he would risk another broken head, rather
than give up his title to it as an officer of the Crown. We go on here
wrangling as usual, but I am afraid all to no purpose. Those who are in
possession of power are determined to use it without the least pretence
to justice or consistency. They have ordered a Scrutiny for Westminster,
in defiance of all law or precedent, and without any other hope or
expectation but that of harassing and tormenting Mr. Fox and his friends,
and obliging them to waste their time and money, which perhaps they think
might otherwise be employed to a better purpose in another cause. We have
nothing for it but patience and perseverance, which I hope will at last
be crowned with success, though I fear it will be a much longer trial
than we at first expected. I hear from every body that your ... are
vastly disliked--but are you not all kept in awe by such beauty? I know
she flattered herself to subdue all your Volunteers by the fire of her
eyes only:--how astonished she must be to find that they have not yet
laid down their arms! There is nothing would tempt me to trust my sweet
person upon the water sooner than the thoughts of seeing you; but I fear
my friendship will hardly ever be put to so hard a trial. Though Sheridan
is not in office, I think he is more engaged by politics than ever.
"I suppose we shall not leave town till September. We have promised to
pay many visits, but I fear we shall be obliged to give up many of our
schemes, for I take it for granted Parliament will meet again as soon as
possible. We are to go to Chatsworth, and to another friend of mine in
that neighborhood, so that I doubt our being able to pay our annual visit
to Crewe Hall. Mrs. Crewe has been very ill all this winter with your old
complaint, the rheumatism--she is gone to Brightelmstone to wash it away
in the sea. Do you ever see Mrs. Greville? I am glad to hear my two
nephews are both in so thriving a way. Are you still a nurse? I should
like to take a peep at your bantlings. Which is the handsomest? have you
candor enough to think any thing equal to your own boy? if you have, you
have more merit than I can claim. Pray remember me kindly to Bess, Mr.
L., &c., and don't forget to kiss the little squaller for me when you
have nothing better to do. God bless you.
"Ever yours."
"The inclosed came to Dick in one of Charles's franks; he said he should
write to you himself with it, but I think it safest not to trust him."
In another letter, written in the same year, there are some touches both
of sisterly and of conjugal feeling, which seem to bespeak a heart happy
in all its affections.
"MY DEAR LISSY,
_Putney, August 16._
"You will no doubt be surprised to find me still dating from this place,
but various reasons have detained me here from day to day, to the great
dissatisfaction of my dear Mary, who has been expecting me hourly for the
last fortnight. I propose going to Hampton-Court tonight, if Dick returns
in any decent time from town.
"I got your letter and a half the day before yesterday, and shall be very
well pleased to have such blunders occur more frequently. You mistake, if
you suppose I am a friend to your tarrers and featherers:--it is such
wretches that always ruin a good cause. There is no reason on earth why
you should not have a new Parliament as well as us:--it might not,
perhaps, be quite as convenient to our immaculate Minister, but I
sincerely hope he will not find your Volunteers so accommodating as the
present India troops in our House of Commons. What! does the Secretary at
War condescend to reside in any house but his own?--'Tis very odd he
should turn himself out of doors in his situation. I never could perceive
any economy in dragging furniture from one place to another; but, of
course, he has more experience in these matters than I have.
"Mr. Forbes dined here the other day, and I had a great deal of
conversation with him on various subjects relating to you all. He says,
Charles's manner of talking of his wife, &c. is so ridiculous, that,
whenever he comes into company, they always cry out,--'Now S----a, we
allow you half an hour to talk of the beauties of Mrs. S.----, half an hour
to your child, and another half hour to your farm,--and then we expect
you will behave like a reasonable person.'
"So Mrs. ---- is not happy: poor thing, I dare say, if the truth were
known, he teazes her to death. Your _very good_ husbands generally
contrive to make you sensible of their merit somehow or other.
"From a letter Mr. Canning has just got from Dublin, I find you have been
breaking the heads of some of our English heroes. I have no doubt in the
world that they deserved it; and if half a score more that I know had
shared the same fate, it might, perhaps become less the fashion among our
young men to be such contemptible coxcombs as they certainly are.
"My sister desired me to say all sorts of affectionate things to you, in
return for your kind remembrance of her in your last. I assure you, you
lost a great deal by not seeing her in her maternal character:--it is the
prettiest sight in the world to see her with her children:--they are both
charming creatures, but my little namesake is my delight:--'tis
impossible to say how foolishly fond of her I am. Poor Mary! she is in a
way to have more;--and what will become of them all is sometimes a
consideration that gives me many a painful hour. But _they_ are
happy, with _their_ little portion of the goods of this
world:--then, what are riches good for? For my part, as you know, poor
Dick and I have always been struggling against the stream, and shall
probably continue to do so to the end of our lives,--yet we would not
change sentiments or sensations with ... for all his estate. By the bye,
I was told t'other day he was going to receive eight thousand pounds as a
compromise for his uncle's estate, which has been so long in
litigation;--is it true?--I dare say it is, though, or he would not be so
discontented as you say he is. God bless you.--Give my love to Bess, and
return a kiss to my nephew for me. Remember me to Mr. L. and believe me
"Truly yours."
The following letter appears to have been written in 1785, some months
after the death of her sister, Miss Maria Linley. Her playful allusions
to the fame of her own beauty might have been answered in the language of
Paris to Helen:--
"_Minor est tua gloria vero
Famaque de forma pene maligna est_."
"Thy beauty far outruns even rumor's tongue,
And envious fame leaves half thy charms unsung."
"MY DEAR LISSY,
"_Delapre Abbey, Dec. 27._
"Notwithstanding your incredulity, I assure you I wrote to you from
Hampton-Court, very soon after Bess came to England. My letter was a
dismal one; for my mind was at that time entirely occupied by the
affecting circumstance of my poor sister's death. Perhaps you lost
nothing by not receiving my letter, for it was not much calculated to
amuse you.
"I am still a recluse, you see, but I am preparing to _launch_ for
the winter in a few days. Dick was detained in town by a bad fever:--you
may suppose I was kept in ignorance of his situation, or I should not
have remained so quietly here. He came last week, and the fatigue of the
journey very nearly occasioned a relapse:--but by the help of a jewel of
a doctor that lives in this neighborhood we are both quite stout and well
again, (for _I_ took it into my head to fall sick again, too,
without rhyme or reason.)
"We purpose going to town to-morrow or next day. Our own house has been
painting and papering, and the weather has been so unfavorable to the
business, that it is probable it will not be fit for us to go into this
month; we have, therefore, accepted a most pressing invitation of General
Burgoyne to take up our abode with him, till our house is ready; so your
next must be directed to Bruton-Street, under cover to Dick, unless
Charles will frank it again. I don't believe what you say of Charles's
not being glad to have seen me in Dublin. You are very flattering in the
reasons you give, but I rather think his vanity would have been more
gratified by showing every body how much prettier and younger his wife
was than the Mrs. Sheridan in whose favor they have been prejudiced by
your good-natured partiality. If I could have persuaded myself to trust
the treacherous ocean, the pleasure of seeing you and your nursery would
have compensated for all the fame I should have lost by a comparison. But
my guardian sylph, vainer of my beauty, perhaps, than myself, would not
suffer me to destroy the flattering illusion _you_ have so often
displayed to your Irish friends. No,--I shall stay till I am past all
pretensions, and then you may excuse your want of taste by saying, 'Oh,
if you had seen her when she was young!'
"I am very glad that Bess is satisfied with my attention to her. The
unpleasant situation I was in prevented my seeing her as often as I could
wish. For _her_ sake I assure you I shall be glad to have Dick and
your father on good terms, without entering into any arguments on the
subject; but I fear, where _one_ of the parties, at least, has a
_tincture_ of what they call in Latin _damnatus obstinatus
mulio_, the attempt will be difficult, and the success uncertain. God
bless you, and believe me
"_Mrs. Lefanu, Great Cuff-Street, Dublin_.
"Truly yours."
The next letter I shall give refers to the illness with which old Mr.
Sheridan was attacked in the beginning of the year 1788, and of which he
died in the month of August following. It is unnecessary to direct the
reader's attention to the passages in which she speaks of her lost
sister, Mrs. Tickell, and her children:--they have too much of the
heart's best feelings in them to be passed over slightly.
"MY DEAR LISSY,
"_London, April 5._
"Your last letter I hope was written when you were low spirited, and
consequently inclined to forebode misfortune. I would not show it to
Sheridan:--he has lately been much harassed by business, and I could not
bear to give him the pain I know your letter would have occasioned.
Partial as your father has always been to Charles, I am confident
_he_ never has, nor ever will feel half the duty and affections that
Dick has always exprest. I know how deeply he will be afflicted, if you
confirm the melancholy account of his declining health;--but I trust your
next will remove my apprehensions, and make it unnecessary for me to
wound his affectionate heart by the intelligence. I flatter myself
likewise, that you have been without reason alarmed about poor Bess. Her
life, to be sure, must be dreadful;--but I should hope the good nature
and kindness of her disposition will support her, and enable her to
continue the painful duty so necessary, probably, to the comfort of your
poor father. If Charles has not or does not do every thing in his power
to contribute to the happiness of the few years which nature can allow
him, he will have more to answer to his conscience than I trust any of
those dear to me will have. Mrs. Crewe told us, the other day, she had
heard from Mrs. Greville, that every thing was settled much to your
father's satisfaction. I _will_ hope, therefore, as I have said
before, you were in a gloomy fit when you wrote, and in the mean time I
will congratulate you on the recovery of your own health and that of your
children.
"I have been confined now near two months:--I caught cold almost
immediately on coming to town, which brought on all those dreadful
complaints with which I was afflicted at Crewe-Hall. By constant
attention and strict regimen I am once more got about again; but I never
go out of my house after the sun is down, and on those terms only can I
enjoy tolerable health. I never knew Dick better. My dear boy is now with
me for his holydays, and a charming creature he is, I assure you, in
every respect. My sweet little charge, too, promises to reward me for all
my care and anxiety. The little ones come to me every day, though they do
not at present live with me. We think of taking a house in the country
this summer as necessary for my health and convenient to S., who must be
often in town. I shall then have _all_ the children with me, as they
now constitute a very great part of my happiness. The scenes of sorrow
and sickness I have lately gone through have depressed my spirits, and
made me incapable of finding pleasure in the amusements which used to
occupy me perhaps too much. My greatest delight is in the reflection that
I am acting according to the wishes of my ever dear and lamented sister,
and that by fulfilling the sacred trust bequeathed me in her last
moments, I insure my own felicity in the grateful affection of the sweet
creatures,--whom, though I love for their own sakes, I idolize when I
consider them as the dearest part of her who was the first and nearest
friend of my heart! God bless you, my dear Liss:--this is a subject that
always carries me away. I will therefore bid you adieu,--only entreating
you as soon as you can to send me a more comfortable letter. My kind love
to Bess, and Mr. L.
"Yours, ever affectionately."
I shall give but one more letter; which is perhaps only interesting as
showing how little her heart went along with the gayeties into which her
husband's connection with the world of fashion and politics led her.
"MY DEAR LISSY,
"_May 23._
"I have only time at present to write a few lines at the request of Mrs.
Crewe, who is made very unhappy by an account of Mrs. Greville's illness,
as she thinks it possible Mrs. G. has not confessed the whole of her
situation. She earnestly wishes you would find out from Dr. Quin what the
nature of her complaint is, with every other particular you can gather on
the subject, and give me a line as soon as possible.
"I am very glad to find your father is better. As there has been a recess
lately from the Trial, I thought it best to acquaint Sheridan with his
illness. I hope now, however, there is but little reason to be alarmed
about him. Mr. Tickell has just received an account from Holland, that
poor Mrs. Berkeley, (whom you know best as Betty Tickell,) was at the
point of death in a consumption.
"I hope in a very short time now to get into the country. The Duke of
Norfolk has lent us a house within twenty miles of London; and I am
impatient to be once more out of this noisy, dissipated town, where I do
nothing that I really like, and am forced to appear pleased with every
thing odious to me. God bless you. I write in the hurry of dressing for a
great ball given by the Duke of York to night, which I had determined not
to go to till late last night, when I was persuaded that it would be very
improper to refuse a Royal invitation, if I was not absolutely confined
by illness. Adieu. Believe me truly yours.
"You must pay for this letter, for Dick has got your last with the
direction; and any thing in his hands is _irrecoverable_!"
The health of Mrs. Sheridan, as we see by some of her letters, had been
for some time delicate; but it appears that her last, fatal illness
originated in a cold, which she had caught in the summer of the preceding
year. Though she continued from that time to grow gradually worse, her
friends were flattered with the hope that as soon as her confinement
should take place, she would be relieved from all that appeared most
dangerous in her complaint. That event, however, produced but a temporary
intermission of the malady, which returned after a few days with such
increased violence, that it became necessary for her, as a last hope, to
try the waters of Bristol.
The following affectionate letter of Tickell must have been written at
this period:--
"MY DEAR SHERIDAN,
"I was but too well prepared for the melancholy intelligence contained in
your last letter, in answer to which, as Richardson will give you this, I
leave it to his kindness to do me justice in every sincere and
affectionate expression of my grief for your situation, and my entire
readiness to obey and further your wishes by every possible exertion.
"If you have any possible opportunity, let me entreat you to remember me
to the dearest, tenderest friend and sister of my heart. Sustain
yourself, my dear Sheridan,
"And believe me yours,
"Most affectionately and faithfully,
"R. TICKELL."
The circumstances of her death cannot better be told than in the language
of a lady whose name it would be an honor to mention, who, giving up all
other cares and duties, accompanied her dying friend to Bristol, and
devoted herself, with a tenderness rarely equalled even among women, to
the soothing and lightening of her last painful moments. From the letters
written by this lady at the time, some extracts have lately been given by
Miss Lefanu [Footnote: The talents of this young lady are another proof
of the sort of _garet kind_ of genius allotted to the whole race of
Sheridan. I find her very earliest poetical work, "The Sylphid Queen,"
thus spoken of in a letter from the second Mrs. Sheridan to her mother,
Mrs. Lefanu--"I should have acknowledged your very welcome present
immediately, had not Mr. Sheridan, on my telling him what it was, run off
with it, and I have been in vain endeavoring to get it from him ever
since. What little I did read of it, I admired particularly, but it will
be much more gratifying to you and your daughter to hear that _he_
read it with the greatest attention, and thought it showed a great deal
of imagination."] in her interesting Memoirs of her grandmother, Mrs.
Frances Sheridan. But their whole contents are so important to the
characters of the persons concerned, and so delicately draw aside the
veil from a scene of which sorrow and affection were the only witnesses,
that I feel myself justified not only in repeating what has already been
quoted, but in adding a few more valuable particulars, which, by the
kindness of the writer and her correspondent, I am enabled to give from
the same authentic source. The letters are addressed to Mrs. H. Lefanu,
the second sister of Mr. Sheridan.
"_Bristol, June 1, 1792._
* * * * *
"I am happy to have it in my power to give you any information on a
subject so interesting to you, and to all that have the happiness of
knowing dear Mrs. Sheridan; though I am sorry to add, it cannot be such
as will relieve your anxiety, or abate your fears. The truth is, our poor
friend is in a most precarious state of health, and quite given over by
the faculty. Her physician here, who is esteemed very skilful in
consumptive cases, assured me from the first that it was a _lost
case_; but as your brother seemed unwilling to know the truth, he was
not so explicit with him, and only represented her as being in a very
critical situation. Poor man! he cannot bear to think her in danger
himself, or that any one else should; though he is as attentive and
watchful as if he expected every moment to be her last. It is impossible
for any man to behave with greater tenderness, or to feel more on such an
occasion, than he does.
* * * * *
"At times the dear creature suffers a great deal from weakness, and want
of rest. She is very patient under her sufferings, and perfectly
resigned. She is well aware of her danger, and talks of dying with the
greatest composure. I am sure it will give you and Mr. Lefanu pleasure to
know that her mind is well prepared for any change that may happen, and
that she derives every comfort from religion that a sincere Christian can
look for."
On the 28th of the same month Mrs. Sheridan died; and a letter from this
lady, dated July 19th, thus touchingly describes her last moments. As a
companion-picture to the close of Sheridan's own life, it completes a
lesson of the transitoriness of this world, which might sadden the hearts
of the beautiful and gifted, even in their most brilliant and triumphant
hours. Far happier, however, in her death than he was, she had not only
his affectionate voice to soothe her to the last, but she had one devoted
friend, out of the many whom she had charmed and fascinated, to watch
consolingly over her last struggle, and satisfy her as to the fate of the
beloved objects which she left behind.
"_July 19, 1792._
"Our dear departed friend kept her bed only two days, and seemed to
suffer less during that interval than for some time before. She was
perfectly in her senses to the last moment, and talked with the greatest
composure of her approaching dissolution; assuring us all that she had
the most perfect confidence in the mercies of an all-powerful and
merciful Being, from whom alone she could have derived the inward comfort
and support she felt at that awful moment! She said, she had no fear of
death, and that all her concern arose from the thoughts of leaving so
many dear and tender ties, and of what they would suffer from her loss.
Her own family were at Bath, and had spent one day with her, when she was
tolerably well. Your poor brother now thought it proper to send for them,
and to flatter them no longer. They immediately came;--it was the morning
before she died. They were introduced one at a time at her bed-side, and
were prepared as much as possible for this sad scene. The women bore it
very well, but all our feelings were awakened for her poor father. The
interview between him and the dear angel was afflicting and
heart-breaking to the greatest degree imaginable. I was afraid she would
have sunk under the cruel agitation:--she said it was indeed too much for
her. She gave some kind injunction to each of them, and said everything
she could to comfort them under this severe trial. They then parted, in
the hope of seeing her again in the evening, but they never saw her more!
Mr. Sheridan and I sat up all that night with her:--indeed he had done so
for several nights before, and never left her one moment that could be
avoided. About four o'clock in the morning we perceived an alarming
change, and sent for her physician. [Footnote: This physician was Dr.
Bain, then a very young man, whose friendship with Sheridan began by this
mournful duty to his wife, and only ended with the performance of the
same melancholy office for himself. As the writer of the above letters
was not present during the interview which she describes between him and
Mrs. Sheridan, there are a few slight errors in her account of what
passed, the particulars of which, as related by Dr. Bain himself, are as
follows:--On his arrival, she begged of Sheridan and her female friend to
leave the room, and then, desiring him to lock the door after them, said,
"You have never deceived me:--tell me truly, shall I live over this
night." Dr. Bain immediately felt her pulse, and, finding that she was
dying, answered, "I recommend you to take some laudanum;" upon which she
replied, "I understand you:--then give it me."
Dr. Bain fully concurs with the writer of these letters in bearing
testimony to the tenderness and affection that Sheridan evinced on this
occasion:--it was, he says, quite "the devotedness of a lover." The
following note, addressed to him after the sad event was over, does honor
alike to the writer and the receiver:--
"MY DEAR SIR,
"I must request your acceptance of the inclosed for your professional
attendance. For the kind and friendly attentions, which have accompanied
your efforts, I must remain your debtor. The recollection of them will
live in my mind with the memory of the dear lost object, whose sufferings
you soothed, and whose heart was grateful for it.
"Believe me,
"Dear Sir,
"Very sincerely yours,
"_Friday night_.
"R. B. Sheridan."] She said to him, 'If you can relieve me, do it
quickly;--if not do not let me struggle, but give me some laudanum.' His
answer was, 'Then I will give you some laudanum.' She desired to see Tom
and Betty Tickell before she took it, of whom she took a most affecting
leave! Your brother behaved most wonderfully, though his heart was
breaking; and at times his feelings were so violent, that I feared he
would have been quite ungovernable at the last. Yet he summoned up
courage to kneel by the bed-side, till he felt the last pulse of expiring
excellence, and then withdrew. She died at five o'clock in the morning,
28th of June.
"I hope, my dear Mrs. Lefanu, you will excuse my dwelling on this most
agonizing scene. I have a melancholy pleasure in so doing, and fancy it
will not be disagreeable to you to hear all the particulars of an event
so interesting, so afflicting, to all who knew the beloved creature! For
my part, I never beheld such a scene--never suffered such a
conflict--much as I have suffered on my own account. While I live, the
remembrance of it and the dear lost object can never be effaced from my
mind.
"We remained ten days after the event took place at Bristol; and on the
7th instant Mr. Sheridan and Tom, accompanied by all her family (except
Mrs. Linley), Mr. and Mrs. Leigh, Betty Tickell and myself, attended the
dear remains [Footnote: The following striking reflection, which I have
found upon a scrap of paper, in Sheridan's handwriting, was suggested, no
doubt, by his feelings on this occasion--
"The loss of the breath from a beloved object, long suffering in pain and
certainly to die, is not so great a privation as the last loss of her
beautiful remains, if they remain so. The victory of the Grave is sharper
than the Sting of Death."] to Wells, where we saw her laid beside her
beloved sister in the Cathedral. The choir attended; and there was such a
concourse of people of all sorts assembled on the occasion that we could
hardly move along. Mr. Leigh read the service in a most affecting manner.
Indeed, the whole scene, as you may easily imagine, was awful and
affecting to a very great degree. Though the crowd certainly interrupted
the solemnity very much, and, perhaps, happily for us abated somewhat of
our feelings, which, had we been less observed, would not have been so
easily kept down.
"The day after the sad scene was closed we separated, your brother
choosing to be left by himself with Tom for a day or two. He afterwards
joined us at Bath, where we spent a few days with our friends, the
Leighs. Last Saturday we took leave of them, and on Sunday we arrived at
Isleworth, where with much regret, I left your brother to his own
melancholy reflections, with no other companions but his two children, in
whom he seems at present entirely wrapped up. He suffered a great deal in
returning the same road, and was most dreadfully agitated on his arrival
at Isleworth. His grief is deep and sincere, and I am sure will be
lasting. He is in very good spirits, and at times is even cheerful, but
the moment he is left alone he feels all the anguish of sorrow and
regret. The dear little girl is the greatest comfort to him:--he cannot
bear to be a moment without her. She thrives amazingly, and is indeed a
charming little creature. Tom behaves with constant and tender attention
to his father:--he laments his dear mother sincerely, and at the time was
violently affected;--but, at his age, the impressions of grief are not
lasting; and his mind is naturally too lively and cheerful to dwell long
on melancholy objects. He is in all respects truly amiable and in many
respects so like his dear, charming mother, that I am sure he will be
ever dear to my heart. I expect to have the pleasure of seeing Mr.
Sheridan again next week, when I hope to find him more composed than when
I took leave of him last Sunday."
To the mention which is made, in this affecting letter, of the father of
Mrs. Sheridan, whose destiny it had been to follow to the grave, within a
few short years, so many of his accomplished children, [Footnote: In 1778
his eldest son Thomas was drowned, while amusing himself in a
pleasure-boat at the seat of the Duke of Ancaster. The pretty lines of
Mrs. Sheridan to his violin are well known. A few years after, Samuel, a
lieutenant in the navy, was carried off by a fever. Miss Maria Linley
died in 1785, and Mrs. Tickell in 1787.
I have erroneously stated, in a former part of this work, that Mr.
William Linley is the only surviving branch of this family;--there is
another brother, Mr. Ozias Linley, still living.] I must add a few
sentences more from another letter of the same lady, which, while they
increase our interest in this amiable and ingenious man, bear testimony
to Sheridan's attaching powers, and prove how affectionate he must have
been to her who was gone, to be thus loved by the father to whom she was
so dear:--
"Poor Mr. Linley has been here among us these two months. He is very much
broke, but is still a very interesting and agreeable companion. I do not
know any one more to be pitied than he is. It is evident that the
recollection of past misfortunes preys on his mind, and he has no comfort
in the surviving part of his family, they being all scattered abroad. Mr.
Sheridan seems more his child than any one of his own, and I believe he
likes being near him and his grandchildren." [Footnote: In the Memoirs of
Mrs. Crouch I find the following anecdote:--"Poor Mr. Linley after the
death of one of his sons, when seated at the harpsichord in Drury-Lane
theatre, in order to accompany the vocal parts of an interesting little
piece taken from Prior's Henry and Emma, by Mr. Tickell, and excellently
represented by Paduer and Miss Farren,--when the tutor of Henry, Mr.
Aikin gave an impressive description of a promising young man, in
speaking of his pupil Henry, the feelings of Mr. Linley could not be
suppressed. His tears fell fast--nor did he weep alone."
In the same work Mrs. Crouch is made to say that, after Miss Maria Linley
died, it was melancholy for her to sing to Mr. Linley, whose tears
continually fell on the keys as he accompanied her; and if, in the course
of her profession, she was obliged to practise a song which he had been
accustomed to hear his lost daughter sing, the similarity of their
manners and their voices, which he had once remarked with pleasure, then
affected him to such a degree, that he was frequently forced to quit the
instrument and walk about the room to recover his composure.]
Towards the autumn, (as we learn from another letter of this lady,) Mr.
Sheridan endeavored to form a domestic establishment for himself at
Wanstead.
"_Wanstead, October_ 22, 1792.
"Your brother has taken a house in this village very near me, where he
means to place his dear little girl to be as much as possible under my
projection. This was the dying request of my beloved friend; and the last
effort of her mind and pen [Footnote: There are some touching allusions
to these last thoughts of Mrs. Sheridan, in an Elegy, written by her
brother, Mr. William Linley, soon after the news of the sad event reached
him in India:--
"Oh most beloved! my sister and my friend!
While kindred woes still breathe around thine urn,
Long with the tear of absence must _I_ blend
The sigh, that speaks thou never shall return.
* * * *
"'Twas Faith, that, bending o'er the bed of death,
Shot o'er thy pallid cheek a transient ray,
With softer effort soothed thy laboring breath,
Gave grace to anguish, beauty to decay.
"Thy friends, thy children, claim'd thy latest care;
Theirs was the last that to thy bosom clung;
For them to heaven thou sent'st the expiring prayer,
The last that falter'd on thy trembling tongue."]
was made the day before she expired, to draw up a solemn promise for
both of us to sign, to ensure the strict performance of this last awful
injunction: so anxious was she to commit this dear treasure to my care,
well knowing how impossible it would be for a father, situated as your
brother is, to pay that constant attention to her which a daughter so
articularly requires. * * * You may be assured I shall engage in the task
with the greatest delight and alacrity:--would to God that I were in the
smallest degree qualified to supply the place of that angelic,
all-accomplished mother, of whose tender care she has been so early
'deprived. All I _can_ do for her I _will_ do; and if I can
succeed so far as to give her early and steady principles of religion,
and to form her mind to virtue, I shall think my time well employed, and
shall feel myself happy in having fulfilled the first wish of her beloved
mother's heart.
* * * * *
"To return to your brother, he talks of having his house here immediately
furnished and made ready for the reception of his nursery. It is a very
good sort of common house, with an excellent garden, roomy and fit for
the purpose, but will admit of no show or expense. I understand he has
taken a house in Jermyn-street, where he may see company, but he does not
intend having any other country-house but this. Isleworth he gives up,
his time being expired there. I believe he has got a private tutor for
Tom--somebody very much to his mind. At one time he talked of sending
him abroad with this gentleman, but I know not at present what his
determinations are. He is too fond of Tom's society to let him go from
him for any time; but I think it would be more to his advantage if he
would consent to part with him for two or three years. It is impossible
for any man to be more devotedly attached to his children than he is and
I hope they will be a comfort and a blessing to him, when the world loses
its charms. The last time I saw him, which was for about five minutes, I
thought he looked remarkably well, and seemed tolerably cheerful. But I
have observed in general that this affliction has made a wonderful
alteration in the expression of his countenance and in his manners.
[Footnote: I have heard a Noble friend of Sheridan say that, happening
about this time to sleep in the room next to him, he could plainly hear
him sobbing throughout the greater part of the night.] The Leighs and my
family spent a week with him at Isleworth the beginning of August, where
we were indeed most affectionately and hospitably entertained. I could
hardly believe him to be the same man. In fact, we never saw him do the
honors of his house before; _that,_ you know, he always left the
dear, elegant creature, who never failed to please and charm every one
who came within the sphere of her notice. Nobody could have filled her
place so well:--he seemed to have pleasure in making much of those whom
she loved, and who, he knew, sincerely loved her. We all thought he never
appeared to such advantage. He was attentive to every body and every
thing, though grave and thoughtful; and his feelings, poor fellow, often
ready to break forth in spite of his efforts to suppress them. He spent
his evenings mostly by himself. He desired me, when I wrote, to let you
know that she had by will made a little distribution of what she called
'her own property,' and had left you and your sister rings of
remembrance, and her _fausse montre,_ containing Mr. Sheridan's
picture to you, [Footnote: This bequest is thus announced by Sheridan
himself in a letter to his sister, dated June 3, 1794:--"I mean also to
send by Miss Patrick a picture which has long been your property, by a
bequest from one whose image is not often from my mind, and whose memory,
I am sure, remains in yours."]--Mrs. Joseph Lefanu having got hers. She
left rings also to Mr. and Mrs. Leigh, my sister, daughter, and myself,
and positively forbids any others being given on any pretence, but these
I have specified,--evidently precluding all her _fine friends_ from
this last mark of her esteem and approbation. She had, poor thing, with
some justice, turned from them all in disgust, and I observed, during her
illness, never mentioned any of them with regard or kindness."
The consolation which Sheridan derived from his little daughter was not
long spared to him. In a letter, without a date, from the same amiable
writer, the following account of her death is given:--
"The circumstances attending this melancholy event were particularly
distressing. A large party of young people were assembled at your
brother's to spend a joyous evening in dancing. We were all in the height
of our merriment,--he himself remarkably cheerful, and partaking of the
amusement, when the alarm was given that the dear little angel was dying.
It is impossible to describe the confusion and horror of the scene:--he
was quite frantic, and I knew not what to do. Happily there were present
several kind, good-natured men, who had their recollection, and pointed
out what should be done. We very soon had every possible assistance, and
for a short time we had some hope that her precious life would have been
spared to us--but that was soon at an end!
"The dear babe never throve to my satisfaction:--she was small and
delicate beyond imagination, and gave very little expectation of long
life; but she had visibly declined during the last month. * * * Mr.
Sheridan made himself very miserable at first, from an apprehension that
she had been neglected or mismanaged; but I trust he is perfectly
convinced that this was not the case. He was severely afflicted at first.
The dear babe's resemblance to her mother after her death was so much
more striking, that it was impossible to see her without recalling every
circumstance of that afflicting scene, and he was continually in the room
indulging the sad remembrance. In this manner he indulged his feelings
for four or five days; then, having indispensable business, he was
obliged to go to London, from whence he returned, on Sunday, apparently
in good spirits and as well as usual. But, however he may assume the
appearance of ease or cheerfulness, his heart is not of a nature to be
quickly reconciled to the loss of any thing he loves. He suffers deeply
and secretly; and I dare say he will long and bitterly lament both mother
and child."
The reader will, I think, feel with me, after reading the foregoing
letters, as well as those of Mrs. Sheridan, given in the course of this
work, that the impression which they altogether leave on the mind is in
the highest degree favorable to the characters both of husband and wife.
There is, round the whole, an atmosphere of kindly, domestic feeling,
which seems to answer for the soundness of the hearts that breathed in
it. The sensibility, too, displayed by Sheridan at this period, was not
that sort of passionate return to former feelings, which the prospect of
losing what it once loved might awaken in even the most alienated
heart;--on the contrary, there was a depth and mellowness in his sorrow
which could proceed from long habits of affection alone. The idea,
indeed, of seeking solace for the loss of the mother in the endearments
of the children would occur only to one who had been accustomed to find
happiness in his home, and who therefore clung for comfort to what
remained of the wreck.
Such, I have little doubt, were the natural feelings and dispositions of
Sheridan; and if the vanity of talent too often turned him aside from
their influence, it is but another proof of the danger of that "light
which leads astray," and may console those who, safe under the shadow of
mediocrity, are unvisited by such disturbing splendors.
The following letters on this occasion, from his eldest sister and her
husband, are a further proof of the warm attachment which he inspired in
those connected with him:--
"MY DEAREST BROTHER,
"Charles has just informed me that the fatal, the dreaded event has taken
place. On my knees I implore the Almighty to look down upon you in your
affliction, to strengthen your noble, your feeling heart to bear it. Oh
my beloved brother, these are sad, sad trials of fortitude. One
consolation, at least, in mitigation of your sorrow, I am sure you
possess,--the consciousness of having done all you could to preserve the
dear angel you have lost, and to soften the last painful days of her
mortal existence. Mrs. Canning wrote to me that she was in a resigned and
happy frame of mind: she is assuredly among the blest; and I feel and I
think she looks down with benignity at my feeble efforts to soothe that
anguish I participate. Let me then conjure you, my dear brother, to
suffer me to endeavor to be of use to you. Could I have done it, I should
have been with you from the time of your arrival at Bristol. The
impossibility of my going has made me miserable, and injured my health,
already in a very bad state. It would give value to my life, could I be
of that service I think I _might_ be of, if I were near you; and as
I cannot go to you, and as there is every reason for your quitting the
scene and objects before you, perhaps you may let us have the happiness
of having you here, and my dear Tom; I will write to him when my spirits
are quieter. I entreat you, my dear brother, try what change of place can
do for you: your character and talents are here held in the highest
estimation; and you have here some who love you beyond the affection any
in England can feel for you.
"_Cuff-Street, 4th July_.
"A. LEFANU."
"MY DEAR GOOD SIR,
"_Wednesday, 4th July, 1792._
"Permit me to join my entreaties to Lissy's to persuade you to come over
to us. A journey might be of service to you, and change of objects a real
relief to your mind. We would try every thing to divert your thoughts
from too intensely dwelling on certain recollections, which are yet too
keen and too fresh to be entertained with safety, at least to occupy you
too entirely. Having been so long separated from your sister, you can
hardly have an adequate idea of her love for you. I, who on many
occasions have observed its operation, can truly and solemnly assure you
that it far exceeds any thing I could ever have supposed to have been
felt by a sister towards a brother. I am convinced you would experience
such soothing in her company and conversation as would restore you to
yourself sooner than any thing that could be imagined. Come, then, my
dear Sir, and be satisfied you will add greatly to her comfort, and to
that of your very affectionate friend,
"J. LEFANU."