_Eminent Women Series_
EDITED BY JOHN H. INGRAM
MRS. SIDDONS.
(_All rights reserved_)
MRS. SIDDONS
BY
MRS. A. KENNARD.
LONDON:
W. H. ALLEN & CO., 13 WATERLOO PLACE, S.W.
1887.
(_All rights reserved._)
LONDON:
PRINTED BY W. H. ALLEN AND CO., 13 WATERLOO PLACE, S.W.
PREFACE.
In spite of Mrs. Siddons’s professed shrinking from the celebrity that
biographers would confer upon her, and her preference for the “still
small voice of tender relatives and estimable friends,” we know that she
bequeathed her Memoranda, Letters, and Diary to the poet Campbell—an
intimate friend during her latter years—with a request that he would
prepare them for publication. How, with the ample material at his
command, Campbell wrote so bad a life, it is difficult to conceive. He
seemed conscious himself that he was not doing justice to his subject.
The task of finishing it weighed on him like a nightmare. To secure
himself from interruption he would fix a placard on the door of his
chambers announcing that “Mr. Campbell was engaged with the biography of
Mrs. Siddons, and was not to be disturbed.”
Though performing the task unwillingly, he stubbornly refused to allow
anyone else to attempt it. When Mrs. Jameson contemplated writing a life
of the great actress he was most indignant, and expressed himself as
unable to understand how Mrs. Combe (Cecilia Siddons) could patronise a
life of her mother by Mrs. Jameson, knowing that he had been appointed
the biographer.
Boaden’s account of Mrs. Siddons is sketchy and meagre, and his style,
if possible, more pedantic and ponderous than Campbell’s. Crabb Robinson
declared it to be “one of the most worthless books of biography in
existence.”
In writing an account of a woman like Mrs. Siddons, or, indeed, of
anyone whose life has been passed entirely before the public, it is
necessary to divest the character as much as possible of the legendary
traditions adhering to it. It must be brought down into the regions of
ordinary life, and the only way to accomplish this is to transcribe her
actual words and expressions written without thought of publication. We
must therefore ask our readers to forgive us for quoting so many of her
letters in full. When we attempt to shorten or interpolate, all their
easy charm and freshness seems to evaporate.
Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, in his _Lives of the Kembles_, has incorporated
Mrs. Siddons’s history with that of her brother, John Kemble, and written
by far the best biography yet done of the great actress. To him we must
express our deep obligation, and almost our contrition, for venturing to
treat a subject already so ably handled in his interesting volumes. We
must also express our gratitude to Mr. Alfred Morrison and Mr. Thibaudeau
for allowing us to make use of the valuable documents contained in the
Morrison collection of autograph letters.
NINA A. KENNARD.
February, 1887.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.—PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD 1
CHAPTER II.—MARRIAGE 18
CHAPTER III.—“DAVEY” 33
CHAPTER IV.—WORK 48
CHAPTER V.—SUCCESS 67
CHAPTER VI.—DUBLIN AND EDINBURGH 81
CHAPTER VII.—CLOUDS 95
CHAPTER VIII.—LADY MACBETH 115
CHAPTER IX.—FRIENDS 130
CHAPTER X.—1782 TO 1798 149
CHAPTER XI.—SHERIDAN 172
CHAPTER XII.—HERMIONE 186
CHAPTER XIII.—SORROWS 202
CHAPTER XIV.—WESTBOURNE FARM 216
CHAPTER XV.—RETIREMENT 239
CHAPTER XVI.—OLD AGE 255
MRS. SIDDONS.
CHAPTER I.
PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD.
The lax morality prevailing in England at the time of the Restoration,
produced a literary and dramatic school of art suited to the taste of the
public. Congreve wrote _Love for Love_, and coolly remarked, when accused
of immorality, “that, if _it_ were an immodest play, he was incapable of
writing a modest one.”
The reaction from the almost overstrained energy and chivalry of the
Elizabethan age, which a century of Stuart rule effected in the minds of
Englishmen, had brought them thus low. Manners were looked upon as better
than morals. Scepticism as better than belief, as well when it concerned
the tenets of the Bible as the honour of their neighbours’ wives.
The stage—especially when the public has no other intellectual outlet—is
invariably the test by which we can discover the moral condition of a
country. When that condition is unnatural and feverish, proportionally
artificial and stimulating must be the mental food presented to it, until
the audience gradually becomes incapable of digesting any other. The
want at the end of the seventeenth century produced the supply. A drama
arose which was polished, dainty, finished in detail, but from the stage
of which virtue was excluded like a poor relation, who, clad in fustian,
and shod with hob-nail boots, is not supposed to be fit company for
profligate gentlemen in gold-embroidered coats and lace ruffles.
Shakespeare was too strong food for the digestive capacities of an age
whose poets preferred falsehood to truth. Pepys speaks of _Henry VIII._
as a simple thing made up “of a great many patches.” _The Tempest_, he
thinks, “has no great art, but yet good above ordinary plays.” _Othello_
was to him “a mean thing,” compared to the last new comedy. He is good
enough, however, to allow that he liked or disliked _Macbeth_, according
to the humour of the hour, but there was a “_divertissement_” in it,
which struck him as being a droll thing in tragedy.
The fiery energy of Pitt was needed to galvanise the paralysed
enthusiasm, the fanatical earnestness of John Wesley was needed to
arouse the deadened moral sense of England. Religion and patriotism come
first as important factors in the education of a people, but they are
closely followed by poetry and the drama. If Pitt and Wesley did much to
elevate the political and religious tone, as much was done to elevate the
literary and dramatic by Samuel Johnson, Oliver Goldsmith, David Garrick,
and Sarah Siddons.
Our readers may be inclined to think we exaggerate the importance of the
stage, by thus classing poets and players together; but if we wish to
appreciate the influence wielded by players a hundred years ago, we have
but to examine the careers of these last two great artists; and if we
wish to appreciate the moral reform effected, we have but to turn to a
list of the plays in vogue at the time of the Restoration and the plays
in vogue twenty years after Garrick had been acting, and ten years after
Sarah Siddons’s first appearance.
The reaction came, as do all reactions, with too great intensity; vice
was not only punished in its own person, but the sins of the father
were visited on the children, with a harshness almost Semitic. Through
the fine-spun sentiment of _The Fatal Marriage_, and the melodramatic
heroism of _The Grecian Daughter_, two of Mrs. Siddons’ greatest parts,
we trace the high moral tone that cleared away eventually the foul and
noisome atmosphere hanging over the theatrical world. Gloomy morality and
dramatic pathos paved the way for the return of the _Winter’s Tale_ and
_Hamlet_.
Justly are the memories of David Garrick and Sarah Siddons revered
by Englishmen, not only because they devoted their genius to the
reinstatement of England’s greatest dramatist, but that, also, by their
strict adherence to an almost rigid decorum in public behaviour and
private life, they raised a profession that had hitherto been despised
and looked upon as one unbefitting a modest woman, or an honourable man,
into a position of respectability and consideration.
That these two great artists had faults, who can wonder? No reformation
was ever yet accomplished by the flaccid-minded ones, and we must
remember that many of the stories told of his vanity and meanness and her
hardness and reserve, were circulated by their enemies on and off the
stage, because of their very rigidity and morality. In spite, however, of
some passing clouds, never was there a career so admired, a personality
so adored in public life, as that of Mrs. Siddons. Whenever she appeared,
enthusiastic applause rang through the house, not only on account of her
pre-eminent genius, but because of her untarnished private character.
Step by step we propose to trace the career of this wonderful woman,
who, dowered with singular beauty and genius, and placed amid all the
temptations of a profession in which so few of her sex remain pure, has
shown an example of unswerving rectitude and religious fervour, unusual
in any walk of life, keeping her to the last a “great simple being,”
direct and truthful, noble and industrious. She had faults, as we have
said, but they were so far outbalanced by her virtues that we can
well afford to forgive them; always remembering that, though only the
daughter of a strolling actor, born amidst the lowliest surroundings, she
conceived an ideal of her art which enabled her to raise the stage of
her country, from consisting simply in the delineation of the coarsest
gallantry, into a source of the highest moral and artistic instruction.
Far from the strife of political parties or the vagaries of fashionable
dramatists, both she and Garrick, with whose name we have coupled hers,
were born in the romantic country of Wales: he at Hereford; she in the
small town of Brecon, by the shores of the river Usk. The following copy
of her certificate of baptism, from the register-book in St. Mary’s,
Brecon, is given in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ in 1826: “Baptism, 1755,
July 14th, Sarah, daughter of George Kemble, a commedian (_sic_), and
Sarah, his wife, was baptised. Thomas Bevan, curate.” Her father’s name
was “Roger,” not “George,” as given above. The young couple’s theatrical
wanderings happened to bring them, at the time of Mrs. Kemble’s
confinement, to the little Welsh town, where they had put up in the High
Street at a public-house familiarly called “The Shoulder of Mutton.” In
1755 the inn was a picturesque gable-fronted old house, with projecting
upper storey, exhibiting as sign-board a large shoulder of mutton. It
was much frequented by the farmers on market-day for its good ale and
its legs of mutton, which might regularly in those days be seen roasting
before the kitchen fire, on a spit turned by a dog in a wheel.
Brecon is not without dramatic and historic interest, and, as Mrs.
Siddons afterwards was fond of pointing out, is several times mentioned
by Shakespeare. Buckingham, in _Richard III._, says:
Oh! let me think on Hastings, and begone
To Brecon whilst my fearful head is on.
Sir Hugh Evans also, that “remnant of Welsh flannel,” in the _Merry Wives
of Windsor_, was curate of the priory of Brecon in the days of Queen
Elizabeth; and from the intimacy which existed between Shakespeare and
the priors of the priory, Campbell tells us, “an idea prevails that he
frequently visited them at their residence in Brecon, and that he not
only availed himself of the whimsicalities of old Sir Hugh, but that he
was indebted for much of the romantic setting of the _Midsummer Night’s
Dream_ to the surrounding scenery, where Puck and his fairy companions
are familiar household words, one of the glens in the neighbourhood
being named Cwm Pwca, or the Valley of Puck.” Be this as it may, we
cannot wonder at Mrs. Siddons’ desire to connect the places that played
important parts in her fortunes with the name of the great poet whom she
honoured so devotedly and so well.
Roger Kemble, father of the little girl, was the manager of a strolling
company of actors, his theatrical “circuit” including the counties of
Staffordshire, Gloucestershire, and Warwickshire. He was born in Hereford
in the year 1721, and it was said that he began life as a “barber.” John
Kemble, when convivial, would sometimes allude to this fact; but, indeed,
in those days many actors are said to have been “barbers,” the fact being
that, when strolling, it was sometimes found convenient for one of the
company to combine the two professions. He was a Roman Catholic, and
was fond of tracing his descent from an old English family, claiming as
ancestors a Captain Kemble, who fought at Worcester in the camp of the
Stuarts, and a Father Kemble, who died for the faith a few years later.
Her mother was a Miss Ward, daughter also of an actor and manager of
a strolling company. Peg Woffington, when only fifteen, played at his
theatre in Auniger Street, until Mr. Ward’s strait-laced severity drove
the wild young Irish girl away. The Wards seem, indeed, to have been
almost Methodistical in their strict religious views. The following
inscription may be seen on their tomb at Leominster:
Here, waiting for the Saviour’s great assize,
And hoping through His merits hence to rise
In glorious mode, in this dark closet lies
JOHN WARD, GENT.,
Who died Oct. 30th, 1773, aged 69 years;
Also
SARAH, HIS WIFE,
Who died Jan. 30th, 1786, aged 75 years.
Mrs. Siddons was, therefore, 31 before her grandmother died. Tough,
vigorous races, both Kembles and Wards, full of religion and prejudices,
which they kept intact until they died. On one side we see the great
actress inherited Irish blood. John Ward was an Irishman, and Sally, his
daughter, was born in Clonmel. Roger Kemble, a member of Ward’s company,
aided by his good looks, courteous manners, and fine black eyes, won the
heart of Sally Ward. The father strongly objected to the match; but,
finding opposition of no avail, at last reluctantly consented, making
the hackneyed joke—afterwards attributed to Roger Kemble himself, on
the occasion of Sarah’s marriage with Siddons—that “he wished her not
to become the wife of an actor, and she had certainly complied with his
request.”
The young couple were married at Cirencester in the year 1753. Sarah was
their first child. John Philip, the second, was born two years after his
sister, at Prescott in Lancashire. They had ten brothers and sisters,
and, although all of them—except those who died in very early youth—went
on the stage, none reached the pre-eminence of the two eldest. They were
an intelligent, industrious family, blossoming into genius in one member
and very remarkable talent in another. As Roger Kemble was a Catholic and
his wife a Protestant, it was agreed that the girls were to be brought up
in the mother’s faith, the boys in their father’s.
The accounts given us of Mrs. Siddons’ childhood are meagre; but, from
numerous memoirs and racy theatrical reminiscences, we can see what the
life of the travelling actor in England a hundred years ago was like,
with all its accompaniments of squalor and humiliation. In these days,
when actors and actresses of no very great eminence are whirled about
in first-class express carriages or in special trains from place to
place, it is difficult, in spite of accurate information, to realise the
hardships attending the profession then. The travelling from town to town
in all weathers, in carts little better than those constituting a gipsy
caravan; the parading through the streets, offering play-bills and puffs.
A resident of Warwick—Walter Whiter, the commentator on Shakespeare—when
Mrs. Siddons had “become known all the world over,” recalled as one
of the sights of his boyhood in the town, the daylight procession of
old Roger Kemble’s company, advertising and giving a foretaste of the
evening’s entertainment. A little girl, the future Queen of Tragedy,
marched with them in white and spangles, her train held by a handsome boy
in black velvet, John Philip Kemble, of the “all hail hereafter.”
It is almost impossible to conceive the ignominy the company was
subjected to, when either the mayor of the town—which was often the
case—had forbidden theatrical representation, or when, owing to
the pranks of some rowdy members of the troupe, the feeling of the
inhabitants was aroused against them collectively, and they were obliged
to cringe and supplicate for a renewal of the favour of the changeable
and narrow-minded provincials.
Enough of the Puritan spirit still remained to induce Government to
frequently place restrictions on the representations of the “Servants
of Belial.” A story is told of the Kemble company evading the tax
on unlicensed houses, introduced by Sir Robert Walpole, by selling
tooth-powder at a shilling a box, and giving the ticket; a proceeding
which reminds one of the old smuggling trick of selling a sham sack of
corn, and making a present of the keg of brandy placed within it.
The representations of these strolling actors, FitzGerald tells us,
took place sometimes in a coach-house or barn, or sometimes in a room
of an inn; even the open inn-yard, with its galleries running round,
was now and then converted into a theatre. All sorts of old clothes and
decorations were borrowed, a few candles stuck in bottles in front, and
then the play began. Very often the proceeds did not cover expenses, and
either debts were made or the owner of the inn let them go scot-free in
consideration of the amusement they had afforded his guests.
The shifts and tribulations, related later by the Kembles themselves,
seem almost incredible. Stephen Kemble, the wittiest of the family,
described with great humour a season of privation in a wretched village,
where the unfortunate actors could not muster a farthing, and were
in consequence dunned and abused by their landladies. To avoid their
persecution he lay in bed two days, suffering the pangs of hunger, and
then was obliged to take refuge in a distant turnip-field, where he
persuaded a fellow-actor to accompany him by boasting of the hospitality
and size of the establishment.
In one town the theatre was said to have been built, the stage in
Sussex, the audience in Kent, the two being divided by a ditch, so as
to enable the players to evade their bailiffs by escaping into another
county. There is a certain humour and tragedy running through all
these theatrical histories, that makes us laugh at one moment at the
comical incidents related, and makes us sad the next to think of men of
talent—often men of genius—being subjected to such degradation.
It is difficult to understand how Sarah and John Kemble can have emerged
from it so untainted by its associations, and so far above its social and
artistic aims and ideals; or how their stately manners and stem ideas
of morality and decorum can have been fostered in such an atmosphere.
In blaming them, perhaps, later, for what their detractors called their
“closeness” about money matters, we must remember that the years of
suffering and privation they had been through, and the very laxity they
saw around them, was likely to crystallise strong natures like theirs
into hardness and rigidity, exaggerating, perhaps, their ideas of
theatrical dignity and self-respect.
There can be no doubt, in spite of all its drawbacks, that, from a
professional point of view, the Bohemian existence of the strolling
comedian was a valuable discipline for artistic perception. The intimate
communion in which all lived together, gave much more chance of expansion
to rising genius than the artificial barriers now erected between the
leader of a company and his subordinates. Not only was the freemasonry
existing between underling and superior invaluable, but also the course
of probation before country audiences, who, uninfluenced by prestige or
fashion, spoke their mind without reserve. Young recruits, who arrived
ignorant and raw, thus obtained the necessary ease of deportment and
knowledge of stage effects, uninfluenced by preconceived ideas. The very
fact, also, of so much depending on the individual excellence of the
actor, independently of scenery and accessories, was a valuable stimulus.
His expression, his action, had to tell the story.
In passing his earliest years upon the stage, the strolling actor
obtained a power of identification with theatrical representation only to
be thus acquired. The atmosphere he breathed from his earliest years was
dramatic. When quite a child, Sarah Kemble was announced as an “Infant
phenomenon,” at an entertainment the company gave. As she appeared, some
confusion arose in the gallery which overpowered all her attempts. Her
mother immediately led her down to the footlights, and made her recite
the fable of _The Boys and Frogs_, which at once lulled the tumult and
restored good humour. Thus early was the actress taught to dominate her
audience, an art that stood her in good stead in after life.
Besides this early theatrical training, Sarah received as good an
education in the ordinary rudiments of learning as it was possible for
her energetic mother to obtain for her. Mrs. Kemble sent her child to
respectable day schools, we are told, in the country towns to which their
various wanderings brought the troupe. At Worcester, a schoolmistress
of the name of Harris received her among her pupils at Thornloe House,
refusing to accept any payment. An old lady, living not long ago,
recalled perfectly the contempt of the young girls in the establishment
for the “play actors’ daughter,” until, some private theatricals being
set on foot, her histrionic taste and experience made her services
extremely valuable. She won universal popularity by exhibiting a device
for imitating a “sack back” with thick sugar-loaf paper procured from the
grocer. But this education must have been desultory, for Roger Kemble
could not afford to dispense with the girl’s assistance.
Besides the appearance mentioned above, we hear of her acting as a
child, in a barn at the back of the “Old Bell Inn,” at Stourbridge,
Worcestershire, when some officers quartered in the neighbourhood gave
their services. It is said that she burst into laughter at the most
tragic moment, and inflamed to fury the military tragedian who acted with
her. The play was _The Grecian Daughter_. Another tradition tells us that
her first appearance in a regular five-act piece was as Leonora in _The
Padlock_.
A play-bill of one of these early performances was found not long ago,
pasted on a brick wall in a shoemaker’s shop, in one of the country towns
of the Kemble circuit.
Campbell tells that Roger Kemble determined not to allow his children to
follow his vocation; we think, however, this statement must be bracketed
with the legend of the ancestor at the battle of Worcester, for we
find him, as we have seen, making Sarah appear when almost a baby, and
taking John away from a day school at Worcester, while still in frock
and pinafores, to act in Havard’s tragedy of _Charles the First_. The
characters were thus cast: James, Duke of Richmond, by Mr. Siddons, who
was now an actor in Kemble’s company; James, Duke of York, by Master John
Kemble, who was then eleven years old; the young princess by Miss Kemble,
then about thirteen; Lady Fairfax, by Mrs. Kemble. Singing between the
acts by Mr. Fowler and Miss Kemble. In the April following, we again
find “Mr. Kemble’s company of Comedians” appearing in “a celebrated
comedy,” called _The Tempest, or the Enchanted Island_, with all the
scenery, machinery, music, monsters, and the decorations proper to be
given, entirely new. “The performance will open with a representation
of a tempestuous sea (in perpetual agitation), and storm, in which
the usurper’s ship is wrecked; the wreck ends with a beautiful shower
of fire; and the whole to conclude with a calm sea, on which appears
Neptune, poetick god of the ocean, and his royal consort, Amphitrite,
in a chariot drawn by sea-horses, &c. &c.” It was in this performance,
as Ariel, Chief Spirit, that, at the age of thirteen, Sarah made her
first success. “She darted hither and thither,” we are told, “with such
airy grace; there was something so sprite-like in her free swiftness of
motion, she seemed to be so entirely a creature born of the loves of a
breeze and a sunbeam, that the whole audience broke into frantic applause
at the end of the play, and her proud happy father began dimly to foresee
his daughter’s future.”
Later, we find a performance by the company of _Love in a Village_
announced, the names printed thus:—
Sir William Meadows, by Mr. K—mb—le.
Young Meadows, by Mr. S—dd—ns.
Rosetta, by Miss K—mb—le.
Madge, by Mrs. K—mb—le.
Housemaid, by Miss F. K—mb—le.
In the November following, John Philip was sent to Sedgely Park near
Wolverhampton, a Catholic seminary. A short entry has been discovered
in the College books, stating that “John and (_sic_) Philip Kemble came
Nov. 3rd 1767, and brought 4 suits of clothes, 12 shirts, 12 pairs of
stockings, 6 pairs of shoes, 4 hats, 2 _Daily Companions_, a Half Manual,
knives, forks, spoons, _Æsop’s Fables_, combs, 1 brush 8 handkerchiefs, 8
nightcaps.”
“Jack abiit, July 28, 1771.”
After four years’ residence here, his father sent him to the English
College at Douai, to pursue a regular divinity course, his intention
being to put the future Coriolanus into the priesthood.
Sarah still continued her studies, such as they were, at the various
towns at which the “comedians” pitched their tent in their wanderings to
and fro. She was taught vocal and instrumental music, and her father,
remarking that she had fine natural powers of elocution, wished them
cultivated by regular tuition as a part of her education, with no view
to the stage; for this purpose he was tempted to enter into an agreement
with an individual named William Combe, to give her a course of lessons.
The itinerant players were generally looked upon as a valuable addition
to the inn parlour, and were welcome to a supper or a pot of ale in
return for their society and amusing talk. It was on one of these
occasions that Roger Kemble, who was a jovial and popular companion, met
Combe, and was so attracted by his clever conversation, as to engage
him as instructor to his daughter. Mrs. Kemble, evidently a woman
of considerable common sense and penetration, refused to ratify the
appointment, however, and Roger was obliged to get out of his promise by
giving a performance for the benefit of the adventurer, who, having run
through a fortune, was perfectly penniless.
To the last day of his life William Combe entertained a rancorous
dislike to the great actress, and took pleasure in telling his friends
maliciously how sordid her early life had been, and how he himself
remembered her, when a girl, standing at the wing of a country theatre,
beating snuffers against a candlestick to represent the sound of a
windmill, in some rude pantomime.
Curiously enough, Milton’s poetry more than Shakespeare’s was the object
of Sarah’s admiration in her youth. When but ten years old, Campbell
tells us, she pored over _Paradise Lost_ for hours together. The long,
tiresome speeches between Adam and his wife, Satan’s address to the
sun—most children’s despair—were her delight. The stately, ponderous
verse suited her genius. The poet also gives us a story which, he tells,
Mrs. Siddons left amongst her memoranda.
One day her mother promised to take her out with a party of friends
picnicking in the neighbourhood. She was to wear a new pink dress, if the
weather were fine. On going to bed the evening before the great event,
she took her prayer-book with her, and opening it, as she supposed, at
the prayer for fine weather, fell asleep with the book folded in her
arms. At daybreak the child found, to her dismay, that she had been
holding the prayer for rain to her breast, and that the rain—Heaven
having taken her at her word—was pelting against the windows. She went to
bed again, with the book opened at the right place, and found the mistake
remedied. When she awoke the morning was as rosy as the dress she was to
wear.
Croker thinks it necessary, with all the weight of his authority, to
refute this childish reminiscence, by pointing out that the prayers for
rain and fine weather are on the same page of the prayer-book. We repeat
the story principally because it shows the quaint methodistical piety and
almost childish superstition which dwelt with Mrs. Siddons all through
her chequered career. There is little doubt this piety was greatly owing
to the principles inculcated by her mother.
Mrs. Kemble was a stately, austere woman, with a certain amount of
genius and much force of character, and energetic and brave in her
humble sphere of life, in most difficult circumstances. She fought by
the side of her husband a hard battle with poverty, and maintained and
educated a family of twelve children. Spartan in her views of training
youth, her imperious despotism of character has often been described
as absolutely awful. It was the custom of the time to rule a household
with some sternness, but her children trembled in her presence. In later
days she addressed a characteristic reproof to her son John: “Sir, you
are as proud as Lucifer.” He and that majestic mother of his must indeed
have been a Coriolanus and Volumnia in every-day life. Her voice had
much of the measured emphasis of her daughter’s, and her portrait, the
only one we know of, that always hung in Mrs. Siddons’ sitting-room,
had an intellectual, almost grand expression, reminding us more of a
good-looking Elizabeth Fry, with the tight-fitting frilled cap, and soft
muslin handkerchief crossed around the throat, than what one might have
pictured Sally Kemble, the strolling actress. Though extremely handsome
when Roger Kemble first married her, and subjected to all the temptations
of an actress’s life, she never wavered in wifely devotion, and would
maintain to the last day of her life that in some parts her Roger was
“unparalleled.” Hers is the only testimony to that effect, and we rather
imagine him to have been a very indifferent actor, but a handsome
good-tempered man with the manners of a gentleman, and views of life
beyond his humble profession.
Proud, reserved, John Kemble paid, years after, the best tribute to his
memory, when, on hearing of his death, he wrote to his brother from
Madrid, on 31st December 1802: “How sincerely I always loved my father
and respected his sound understanding, you know too well for it to be
necessary that I should even mention what I feel this moment, on opening
your letter. God Almighty receive him into His everlasting happiness,
and teach me to be resigned and resolute, to deserve to follow him
when my appointed hour is come. My poor mother, though I know she will
exert becoming firmness of mind in this, and every passage of her life,
cannot but feel a melancholy void in losing the companion of her youth,
the associate of her advancing years, and the father of her children.
I regret from the very bottom of my heart that I cannot, with the most
dutiful affection, assure her, at her feet, that what a grateful son
can offer and do shall never be wanting from me to promote her content
and ease and happiness. How, in vain, have I delighted myself in
thousands of inconvenient occurrences on this journey, with the thought
of contemplating my father’s cautious incredulity while I related them
to him! Millions of things, uninteresting maybe to anybody else, I had
treasured up for his surprise and scrutiny! It is God’s pleasure that he
is gone from us. The resignation I had long observed in him to the will
of Heaven, and his habitual piety, are no small consolation to me; yet I
cannot help feeling a dejected swelling at my heart, that keeps me in a
flood of tears for him, in spite of all I can do to stop them.”