Walpole, ‘seems to be the story of David and Goliath, worse told than
it would have been if Sternhold and Hopkins had put it to music!’
But the town really awoke to a new sensation when Goldsmith’s ‘She
Stoops to Conquer’ was produced on the stage, beginning a course in
which it runs as freshly now as ever. Yet the hyper-fine people of a
hundred years ago thought it rather vulgar. This was as absurd as the
then existing prejudice in France, that it was vulgar and altogether
wrong for a nobleman to write a book, or rather, to publish one!
There is nothing more curious than Walpole’s drawing-room criticism
of this exquisite and natural comedy. He calls it ‘the lowest of all
farces.’ He condemns the execution of the subject, rather than the
‘very vulgar’ subject itself. He could see in it neither moral nor
edification. He allows that the situations are well managed, and make
one laugh, in spite of the alleged grossness of the dialogue, the
forced witticisms, and improbability of the whole plan and conduct.
But, he adds, ‘what disgusts one most is, that though the characters
are very low, and aim at low humour, not one of them says a sentence
that is natural, or that marks any character at all. It is set up in
opposition to sentimental comedy, and is as bad as the worst of them.’
Walpole’s supercilious censure reminds one of the company and of the
dancing bear, alluded to in the scene over which Tony Lumpkin presides
at the village alehouse. ‘I loves to hear the squire’ (Lumpkin) ‘sing,’
says one fellow, ‘bekase he never gives us anything that’s low!’ To
which expression of good taste, an equally _nice_ fellow responds;
‘Oh, damn anything that’s low! I can’t bear it!’ Whereupon, the
philosophical Mister Muggins very truly remarks: ‘The genteel thing
is the genteel thing at any time, if so be that a gentleman bees in a
concatenation accordingly.’ The humour culminates in the rejoinder of
the bear-ward: ‘I like the maxim of it, Master Muggins. What though I’m
obligated to dance a bear? A man may be a gentleman for all that. May
this be my poison if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of
tunes--“Water parted,” or the minuet in “Ariadne”.’ All this is low,
in one sense, but it is far more full of humour than of vulgarity. The
comedy of nature killed the sentimental comedies, which, for the most
part, were as good (or as bad) as sermons. They strutted or staggered
with sentiments on stilts, and were duller than tables of uninteresting
statistics.
Garrick, who would have nothing to do with Goldsmith’s comedy except
giving it a prologue, was ‘in shadow’ this year. He improved ‘Hamlet,’
by leaving out the gravediggers; and he swamped the theatre with the
‘Portsmouth Review.’ He went so far as to rewrite ‘The Fair Quaker of
Deal,’ to the tune of ‘Portsmouth and King George for ever!’ not to
mention a preface, in which the Earl of Sandwich, by name, is preferred
to Drake, Blake, and all the admirals that ever existed! If Walpole’s
criticisms are not always just, they are occasionally admirable for
terseness and correctness alike. London, in 1773, was in raptures with
the singing of Cecilia Davies. Walpole quaintly said that he did not
love the perfection of what anybody can do, and he wished ‘she had
less top to her voice and more bottom.’ How good too is his sketch of
a male singer, who ‘sprains his mouth with smiling on himself!’ But to
return to Garrick, and an illustration of social manners a century ago,
we must not omit to mention that, at a private party--at Beauclerk’s,
Garrick played the ‘short-armed orator’ with Goldsmith! The latter
sat in Garrick’s lap, concealing him, but with Garrick’s arms advanced
under Goldsmith’s shoulders; the arms of the latter being held behind
his back. Goldsmith then spoke a speech from ‘Cato,’ while Garrick’s
shortened arms supplied the action. The effect, of course, was
ridiculous enough to excite laughter, as the action was often in absurd
diversity from the utterance.
In the present newspaper record of births a man’s wife is no longer
called his ‘lady;’ a hundred years ago there was plentiful variety
of epithet. ‘The Princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, spouse to the
Prince of that name, of a Princess,’ is one form. ‘Earl Tyrconnel’s
lady of a child,’ is another. ‘Wife’ was seldom used. One birth is
announced in the following words: ‘The Duchess of Chartres, at Paris,
of a Prince who has the title of Duke of Valois.’ Duke of Valois? ay,
and subsequently Duke of Chartres, Duke of Orléans, finally, Louis
Philippe, King of the French!
The chronicle of the marriages of the year seems to have been loosely
kept, unless indeed parties announced themselves by being married twice
over. There is, for example, a double chronicling of the marriage
of the following personages: ‘July 31st. The Right Hon. the Lady
Amelia D’Arcy, daughter of the Earl of Holdernesse, to the Marquis of
Carmarthen, son of his Grace the Duke of Leeds. Lady Amelia having
thus married my Lord in July, we find, four months later, my Lord
marrying Lady Amelia. ‘Nov. 29th. The Marquis of Carmarthen to Lady
Amelia D’Arcy, daughter of the Earl of Holdernesse.’ This union, with
its double chronology, was one of several which was followed by great
scandal, and dissolved under circumstances of great disgrace. But the
utmost scandal and disgrace attended the breaking up of the married
life of Lord and Lady Carmarthen. This dismal domestic romance is told
in contemporary pamphlets with a dramatic completeness of detail which
is absolutely startling. Those who are fond of such details may consult
these liberal authorities: we will only add that the above Lady Amelia
D’Arcy, Marchioness of Carmarthen, became the wife of Captain Byron;
the daughter of that marriage was Augusta, now better known to us as
Mrs. Leigh. Captain Byron’s second wife was Miss Gordon, of Gight,
and the son of that marriage was the poet Byron. How the names of the
half-brother and half-sister have been cruelly conjoined, there is here
no necessity of narrating. Let us turn to smaller people. Thus, we
read of a curious way of endowing a bride, in the following marriage
announcement: ‘April 13th. Rev. Mr. Morgan, Rector of Alphamstow, York,
to Miss Tindall, daughter of Mr. Tindall, late rector, who resigned in
favour of his son-in-law.’ In the same month, we meet with a better
known couple--‘Mr. Sheridan, of the Temple, to the celebrated Miss
Linley, of Bath.’
The deaths of the year included, of course, men of very opposite
qualities. The man of finest quality who went the inevitable way was he
whom some call the _good_, and some the _great_ Lord Lyttelton. When a
man’s designation rests on two such distinctions, we may take it for
granted that he was not a common-place man. And yet how little remains
of him in the public memory. His literary works are fossils; but, like
fossils, they are not without considerable value. Good as he was, there
are not a few people who jumble together his and his son’s identity.
The latter was unworthy of his sire. He was a disreputable person
altogether.
Lord Chesterfield was another of the individuals of note whose glass
ran out during this year. He was always protesting that he cared
nothing for death. Such persistence of protest generally arises from
a feeling contrary to that which is made the subject of protest. This
lord (as we have said) jested to the very door of his tomb. That must
have reminded his friends during those Tyburn days, how convicts on
their way up Holborn Hill to the gallows used to veil their terror
by cutting jokes with the crowd. It was the very Chesterfield of
highwaymen, who, going up the Hill in the fatal cart, and observing
the mob to be hastening onwards, cried out, ‘It’s no use your being
in such a hurry; there’ll be no fun till I get there!’ This was the
Chesterfield style, and its spirit also. But behind it all was the
feeling and conviction of Marmontel’s philosopher, who having railed
through a long holiday excursion, till he was thoroughly tired, was of
opinion, as he tucked himself up in a featherbed at night, that life
and luxury were, after all, rather pretty things.
Chesterfield was, nevertheless, much more of a man than his fellow
peer who crossed the Stygian ferry in the same year, namely, the
Duke of Kingston. The duke had been one of the handsomest men of his
time, and, like a good many handsome men, was a considerable fool. He
allowed himself, at all events, to be made the fool, and to become
the slave, of the famous Miss Chudleigh--as audacious as she was
beautiful. The lady, whom the law took it into its head to look upon
as _not_ the duke’s duchess--that is, not his wife--was resigned to
her great loss by the feeling of her great gain. She was familiar
with her lord’s last will and testament, and went into hysterics to
conceal her satisfaction. She saw his grace out of the world with
infinite ceremony. To be sure, it was nothing else. The physicians whom
she called together in consultation _consulted_, no doubt, and then
whispered to their lady friends, while holding their delicate pulses,
‘Mere ceremony, upon my honour!’ The widow kept the display of grief
up to the last. When she brought the ducal corpse up from Bath to
London, she rested often by the way. If she could have carried out her
caprices, she would have had as many crosses to mark the ducal stations
of death as were erected to commemorate the passing of Queen Eleanor.
As this could not be, the widow took to screaming at every turn of
the road, and at night was carried into her inn kicking her heels and
screaming at the top of her voice.
Among the other deaths of the year 1773, the following are noteworthy.
At Vienna, of a broken heart, from the miseries of his country, the
brave Prince Poniatowski, brother to the King of Poland, and a general
in the Austrian service, in which he had been greatly distinguished
during the last war. The partition of Poland was then only a year old,
and the echoes of the assertions of the lying Czar, Emperor, and King,
that they never intended to lay a finger on that ancient kingdom,
had hardly died out of the hearing of the astounded world. England
is always trusting the words of Czars and their Khiva protestations,
always learning and never coming to the knowledge of the truth. A name
less known than Poniatowski may be cited for the singularity attached
to it. ‘Hale Hartson, Esq., the author of the “Countess of Salisbury”
and other ingenious pieces--a young gentleman of fine parts, and
who, though very young, had made the tour of Europe three times.’ An
indication of what a fashionable quarter Soho, with its neighbourhood,
was in 1773, is furnished by the following announcement: ‘Suddenly,
at her house in Lisle Street, Leicester Fields, Lady Sophia Thomas,
sister of the late Earl of Albemarle, and aunt of the present.’ Foreign
ambassadors then dwelt in Lisle Street. Even dukes had their houses
in the same district; and baronets lived and died in Red Lion Square
and in Cornhill. Among those baronets an eccentric individual turned
up now and then. In the obituary is the name of Sir Robert Price, of
whom it is added that ‘he left his fortune to seven old bachelors in
indigent circumstances.’ The death of one individual is very curtly
recorded; all the virtues under heaven would have been assigned to her,
had she not belonged to a vanquished party. In that case she would have
been a high and mighty princess; as it was, we only read, ‘Lately,
Lady Annabella Stuart, a relation of the late royal family, aged
ninety-one years, at St.-Omer.’ A few of us are better acquainted with
the poet, John Cunningham, whose decease is thus quaintly chronicled:
‘At Newcastle, the ingenious Mr. John Cunningham. A man little known,
but that will be always much admired for his plaintive, tender, and
natural pastoral poetry.’ Some of the departed personages seem to have
held strange appointments. Thus we find Alexander, Earl of Galloway,
described as ‘one of the lords of police;’ and Willes, Bishop of Bath
and Wells, who died in Hill Street when Mrs. Montague and her blue
stockings were in their greatest brilliancy, is described as ‘joint
Decypherer (with his son, Edward Willes, Esq.) to the king.’ We
believe that the duty of decypherer consisted in reading letters that
were opened, on suspicion, in their passage through the post-office.
Occasionally a little page of family history is opened to us in a few
words, as, for instance, in the account of Sir Robert Ladbroke, a rich
City knight, whose name is attached to streets, roads, groves, and
terraces in Notting Hill. After narrating his disposal of his wealth
among his children and charities, the chronicler states that ‘To his
son George, who sailed a short time since to the West Indies, he has
bequeathed three guineas a week during life, to be paid only to his own
receipt.’ One would like to know if this all but disinherited young
fellow took heart of grace, and, after all, made his way creditably in
the world. Such sons often succeed in life better than their brothers.
Look around you _now_. See the sons born to inherit the colossal
fortune which their father has built up. What brainless asses the most
of them become! Had they been born to little instead of to over-much,
their wits would perhaps have been equal to their wants, and they
would have been as good men as their fathers.
It was a son of misfortune, who, on a July night of 1773, entered the
_King’s Head_ at Enfield, weary, hungry, penniless, and wearing the
garb of a clergyman. He was taken in, poor guest as he was, and in
the hospitable inn he died within a few days. It was then discovered
that he was the Rev. Samuel Bickley. In his pockets were found three
manuscript sermons, and an extraordinary petition to the Archbishop of
Canterbury, dated the previous February. The prayer of the petition
was to this effect: ‘Your petitioner, therefore, most humbly prays,
that if an audience from your Grace should be deemed too great a
favour, you will at least grant him some relief, though it be only a
temporary one, in our deplorable necessity and distress; and,’ said the
petitioner with a simplicity or an impudence which may have accounted
for his condition, ‘let your Grace’s charity cover the multitude of
his sins.’ He then continues: ‘There never yet was anyone in England
doomed to starve; but I am nearly, if not altogether so; denied to
exercise the sacred functions wherein I was educated, driven from the
doors of the rich laymen to the clergy for relief; by the clergy,
denied; so that I may justly take up the speech of the Gospel Prodigal,
and say: ‘How many hired servants of my father have bread enough and
to spare, while I perish with hunger!’ Here was, possibly, an heir of
great expectations, who, scholar as he was, had come to grief, while,
only a little while before him, there died a fortunate impostor, as
appears from this record: ‘Mr. Colvill, in Old Street, aged 83. He was
much resorted to as a fortune-teller, by which he acquired upwards of
4,000_l._;’ at the same time, a man in London was quintupling that sum
by the invention and sale of peppermint lozenges.
Let us look into the newspapers for January 1773, that our readers may
compare the events of that month with January 1873, a hundred years
later. We find the laureate Whitehead’s official New Year Ode sung at
court to Boyce’s music, while king, queen, courtiers and guests yawned
at the vocal dulness, and were glad when it was all over. We enter a
church and listen to a clergyman preaching a sermon; on the following
day we see the reverend gentleman drilling with other recruits
belonging to a regiment of the Guards, into which he had enlisted.
The vice of gambling was ruining hundreds in London, the suburbs of
which were infested by highwaymen, who made a very pretty living of
it--staking only their lives. We go to the fashionable noon-day walk in
the Temple Gardens, and encounter an eccentric promenader who is thus
described: ‘He wore an old black waistcoat which was quite threadbare,
breeches of the same colour and complexion; a black stocking on one
leg, a whitish one on the other; a little hat with a large gold button
and loop, and a tail, or rather club, as thick as a lusty man’s arm,
powdered almost an inch thick, and under the club a quantity of hair
resembling a horse’s tail. In this dress he walked and mixed with
the company there for a considerable time, and occasioned no little
diversion.’ The style of head-decoration then patronised by the ladies
was quite as nasty and offensive as that which was in vogue about
ten years ago. It was ridiculed in the popular pantomime ‘Harlequin
Sorcerer.’ Columbine was to be seen in her dressing-room attended by
her lover, a macaroni, and a hairdresser. On her head was a very high
tower of hair, to get at which was impossible for the _friseur_ till
Harlequin’s wand caused a ladder to rise, on the top rung of which
the _coiffeur_ was raised to the top surface of Columbine’s chignon;
having dressed which they all set off for the Pantheon. While pantomime
was thus triumphant at Covent Garden there was something like cavalry
battles close to London; that is to say, engagements between mounted
smugglers and troops of Scots Greys. The village Tooting in this
month was a scene of a fight, in which both parties shot and cut down
antagonists with as much alacrity as if they were foreign invaders,
where blood, and a good deal of it, was lavishly spilt. Sussex was a
favourite battle-field; a vast quantity of tea and brandy, and other
contraband, was drunk in Middlesex and neighbouring counties where
there was sympathy for smugglers, who set their lives on a venture and
enabled people to purchase articles duty free.
At this time the union of Ireland with the other portions of the
British kingdom was being actively agitated. The project was that each
of the thirty-two Irish counties should send one representative to the
British Parliament. Forty-eight Irish Peers were to be transferred to
the English Upper House. One very remarkable feature in the supposed
government project was, that Ireland should retain the shadow of a
parliament, to be called ‘The Great Council of the Nation.’ The Great
Council was to consist of members sent by the Irish boroughs, each
borough to send one representative, ‘their power not to apply further
than the interior policy of the kingdom.’ The courts of law were to
remain undisturbed. It will be remembered that something like the above
council is now asked for by those who advocate Home Rule; but as some
of those advocates only wish to have the council as the means to a
further end, the Irish professional patriot now, as ever, stands in the
way to the real improvement and the permanent prosperity of that part
of the kingdom.
In many other respects the incidents of to-day are like the echoes of
the events a hundred years old. We find human nature much the same, but
a trifle coarser in expression. The struggle to live, then as now, took
the guise of the struggle of a beaten army, retreating over a narrow
and dangerous bridge, where each thought only of himself, and the
stronger trampled down the weaker or pushed him over into the raging
flood. With all this, blessed charity was not altogether wanting. Then,
as in the present day, charity appeared on the track of the struggle,
and helped many a fainting heart to achieve a success, the idea of
which they had given up in despair.
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