Brinsley, and in the following year he extended his speculation by
buying the other moiety of Drury Lane. This theatre, which took its name
from the old Cockpit Theatre in Drury Lane, where Killigrew acted in the
days of Charles II. is famous for the number of times it has been
rebuilt. The first house had been destroyed in 1674; and the one in
which Garrick acted was built by Sir Christopher Wren and opened with a
prologue by Dryden. In 1793 this was rebuilt. In 1809 it was burnt to
the ground; and on its re-opening the Committee advertised a prize for a
prologue, which was supposed to be tried for by all the poets and
poetasters then in England.[7] Sheridan adding afterwards a condition
that he wanted an address without a Phoenix in it. Horace Smith and his
brother seized the opportunity to parody the style of the most
celebrated in their delightful 'Rejected Addresses.' Drury Lane has
always been grand in its prologue, for besides Dryden and Byron, it
could boast of Sam. Johnson, who wrote the address when Garrick opened
the theatre in 1747. No theatre ever had more great names connected with
its history.
[7: None of the addresses sent in having given satisfaction, Lord Byron
was requested to write one, which he did.]
It was in 1778, after the purchase of the other moiety of this property,
that Sheridan set on its boards 'The Critic.' Though this was denounced
as itself as complete a plagiarism as any Sir Fretful Plagiary could
make, and though undoubtedly the idea of it was borrowed, its wit, so
truly Sheridanian, and its complete characters, enhanced its author's
fame, in spite of the disappointment of those who expected higher things
from the writer of 'The School for Scandal.' Whether Sheridan would have
gone on improving, had he remained true to the drama, 'The Critic'
leaves us in doubt. But he was a man of higher ambition. Step by step,
unexpectedly, and apparently unprepared, he had taken by storm the
out-works of the citadel he was determined to capture, and he seems to
have cared little to garrison these minor fortresses. He had carried off
from among a dozen suitors a wife of such beauty that Walpole thus
writes of her in 1773:--
'I was at the ball last night, and have only been at the opera, where I
was infinitely struck with the Carrara, who is the prettiest creature
upon earth. Mrs. Hartley I find still handsomer, and Miss Linley is to
be the superlative degree. The king admires the last, and ogles her as
much as he dares in so holy a place as an oratorio, and at so devout a
service as Alexander's Feast'
Yet Sheridan did not prize his lovely wife as he should have done, when
he had once obtained her. Again he had struck boldly into the drama, and
in four years had achieved that fame as a play-writer to which even
Johnson could testify so handsomely. He now quitted this, and with the
same innate power--the same consciousness of success--the same readiness
of genius--took a higher, far more brilliant flight than ever. Yet had
he garrisoned the forts he captured, he would have been a better,
happier, and more prosperous man. Had he been true to the Maid of Bath,
his character would not have degenerated as it did. Had he kept up his
connection with the drama, he would not have lost so largely by his
speculation in Drury Lane. His genius became his temptation, and he
hurried on to triumph and to fall.
Public praise is a syren which the young sailor through life cannot
resist. Political life is a fine aim, even when its seeker starts
without a shred of real patriotism to conceal his personal ambition. No
young man of any character can think, without a thrill of rapture, on
the glory of having _his_ name--now obscure--written in capitals on the
page of his country's history. A true patriot cares nothing for fame; a
really great man is content to die nameless, if his acts may but survive
him. Sheridan was not really great, and it may be doubted if he had any
sincerity in his political views. But the period favoured the rise of
young men of genius. In former reigns a man could have little hope of
political influence without being first a courtier; but by this time
liberalism had made giant strides. The leaven of revolutionary ideas,
which had leavened the whole lump in France, was still working quietly
and less passionately in this country, and being less repressed,
displayed itself in the last quarter of the eighteenth century in the
form of a strong and brilliant opposition. It was to this that the young
men of ambition attached themselves, rallying under the standard of
Charles James Fox, since it was there only that their talents were
sufficient to recommend them.
To this party, Sheridan, laughing in his sleeve at the extravagance of
their demands--so that when they clamoured for a 'parliament once a
year, or oftener if need be,' he pronounced himself an
'Oftener-if-need-be' man--was introduced, when his fame as a literary
man had brought him into contact with some of its hangers on. Fox, after
his first interview with him, affirmed that he had always thought Hare
and Charles Townsend the wittiest men he had ever met, but that Sheridan
surpassed them both; and Sheridan was equally pleased with 'the Man of
the People.'
The first step to this political position was to become a member of a
certain club, where its leaders gambled away their money, and drank away
their minds--to wit, Brookes'. Pretty boys, indeed, were these great
Whig patriots when turned loose in these precincts. The tables were for
stakes of twenty or fifty guineas, but soon ran up to hundreds. What did
it matter to Charles James Fox, to the Man of the People, whether he
lost five, seven, or ten thousand of a night, when the one-half came out
of his father's, the other out of Hebrew, pockets--the sleek,
thick-lipped owners of which thronged his Jerusalem chamber, as he
called his back sitting-room, only too glad to 'oblige' him to any
amount? The rage for gaming at this pandemonium may be understood from a
rule of the club, which it was found necessary to make to interdict it
_in the eating-room_, but to which was added the truly British
exception, which allowed two members of Parliament in those days, or two
'gentlemen' of any kind, to toss up for what they had ordered.
This charming resort of the dissipated was originally established in
Pall Mall in 1764, and the manager was that same Almack who afterwards
opened a lady's club in the rooms now called Willis's, in King Street,
St. James's; who also owned the famous Thatched House, and whom Gilly
Williams described as having a 'Scotch face, in a bag-wig,' waiting on
the ladies at supper. In 1778 Brookes--a wine-merchant and money-lender,
whom Tickell, in his famous 'Epistle from the Hon. Charles Fox,
partridge-shooting, to the Hon. John Townsend, cruising,' describes in
these lines;--
'And know I've bought the best champagne from Brookes,
From liberal Brookes, whose speculative skill
Is hasty credit, and a distant bill:
Who, nurs'd in clubs, disdains a vulgar trade:
Exults to trust, and blushes to be paid--'
built and opened the present club-house in St. James's Street, and
thither the members of Almack's migrated. Brookes' speculative skill,
however, did not make him a rich man, and the 'gentlemen' he dealt with
were perhaps too gentlemanly to pay him. He died poor in 1782. Almack's
at first consisted of twenty-seven members, one of whom was C.J. Fox.
Gibbon, the historian, was actually a member of it, and says that in
spite of the rage for play, he found the society there rational and
entertaining. Sir Joshua Reynolds wanted to be a member of it too. 'You
see,' says Topham Beauclerk thereupon, 'what noble ambition will make a
man attempt. That den is not yet opened,' &c.
Brookes', however, was far more celebrated, and besides Fox, Reynolds,
and Gibbon, there were here to be found Horace Walpole, David Hume,
Burke, Selwyn, and Garrick. It would be curious to discover how much
religion, how much morality, and how much vanity there were among the
set. The first two would require a microscope to examine, the last an
ocean to contain it. But let Tickell describe its inmates:--
'Soon as to Brookes's thence thy footsteps bend
What gratulations thy approach attend!
See Gibbon rap his box--auspicious sign,
That classic compliment and wit combine;
See Beauclerk's cheek a tinge of red surprise,
And friendship give what cruel health denies;
* * * * *
Of wit, of taste, of fancy we'll debate,
If Sheridan for once be not too late.
But scarce a thought on politics we'll spare
Unless on Polish politics with Hare.
Good-natured Devon! oft shall there appear
The cool complacence of thy friendly sneer;
Oft shall Fitzpatrick's wit, and Stanhope's ease,
And Burgoyne's manly sense combine to please.
To show how high gaming ran in this assembly of wits, even so early at
1772, there is a memorandum in the books, stating that Mr. Thynne
retired from the club in disgust, because he had only won £12,000 in two
months. The principal games at this period were quinze and faro.
Into this eligible club Richard Sheridan, who ten years before had been
agreeing with Halhed on the bliss of making a couple of hundred pounds
by their literary exertions, now essayed to enter as a member; but in
vain. One black-ball sufficed to nullify his election, and that one was
dropped in by George Selwyn, who, with degrading littleness, would not
have the son of an actor among them. Again and again he made the
attempt; again and again Selwyn foiled him; and it was not till 1780
that he succeeded. The Prince of Wales was then his devoted friend, and
was determined he should be admitted into the club. The elections at
that time took place between eleven at night and one o'clock in the
morning, and the 'greatest gentleman in Europe' took care to be in the
hall when the ballot began. Selwyn came down as usual, bent on triumph.
The prince called him to him. There was nothing for it; Selwyn was
forced to obey. The prince walked him up and down the hall, engaging him
in an apparently most important conversation. George Selwyn answered him
question after question, and made desperate attempts to slip away. The
other George had always something more to say to him. The long finger of
the clock went round, and Selwyn's long white fingers were itching for
the black ball. The prince was only more and more interested, the wit
only more and more abstracted. Never was the young George more lively,
or the other more silent. But it was all in vain. The finger of the
clock went round and round, and at last the members came out noisily
from the balloting-room, and the smiling faces of the prince's friends
showed to the unhappy Selwyn that his enemy had been elected.
So, at least, runs one story. The other, told by Sir Nathaniel Wraxall,
is perhaps more probable. It appears that the Earl of Besborough was no
less opposed to his election than George Selwyn, and these two
individuals agreed at any cost of comfort to be always at the club at
the time of the ballot to throw in their black balls. On the night of
his success, Lord Besborough was there as usual, and Selwyn was at his
rooms in Cleveland Row, preparing to come to the club. Suddenly a
chairman rushed into Brookes' with an important note for my lord, who,
on tearing it open, found to his horror that it was from his
daughter-in-law, Lady Duncannon, announcing that his house in Cavendish
Square was on fire, and imploring him to come immediately. Feeling
confident that his fellow conspirator would be true to his post, the
earl set off at once. But almost the same moment Selwyn received a
message informing him that his adopted daughter, of whom he was very
fond, was seized with an alarming illness. The ground was cleared; and
by the time the earl returned, having, it is needless to say, found his
house in a perfect state of security, and was joined by Selwyn, whose
daughter had never been better in her life, the actor's son was elected,
and the conspirators found they had been duped.
But it is far easier in this country to get into that House, where one
has to represent the interests of thousands, and take a share in the
government of a nation, than to be admitted to a club where one has but
to lounge, to gamble, and to eat dinner; and Sheridan was elected for
the town of Stafford with probably little more artifice than the old and
stale one of putting five-pound notes under voters' glasses, or paying
thirty pounds for a home-cured ham. Whether he bribed or not, a petition
was presented against his election, almost as a matter of course in
those days, and his maiden speech was made in defence of the good
burgesses of that quiet little county-town. After making this speech,
which was listened to in silence on account of his reputation as a
dramatic author, but which does not appear to have been very wonderful,
he rushed up to the gallery, and eagerly asked his friend Woodfall what
he thought of it. That candid man shook his head, and told him oratory
was not his forte, Sheridan leaned his head on his hand a moment, and
then exclaimed with vehement emphasis, 'It is in me, however, and, by
Heaven! it shall come out.'
He spoke prophetically, yet not as the great man who determines to
conquer difficulties, but rather as one who feels conscious of his own
powers, and knows that they must show themselves sooner or later.
Sheridan found himself labouring under the same natural obstacles as
Demosthenes--though in a less degree--a thick and disagreeable tone of
voice; but we do not find in the indolent but gifted Englishman that
admirable perseverance, that conquering zeal, which enabled the Athenian
to turn these very impediments to his own advantage. He did, indeed,
prepare his speeches, and at times had fits of that same diligence which
he had displayed in the preparation of 'The School for Scandal;' but his
indolent, self-indulgent mode of life left him no time for such steady
devotion to oratory as might have made him the finest speaker of his
age, for perhaps his natural abilities were greater than those of Pitt,
Fox, or even Burke, though his education was inferior to that of those
two statesmen.
From this time Sheridan's life had two phases--that of a politician, and
that of a man of the world. With the former, we have nothing to do in
such a memoir as this, and indeed it is difficult to say whether it was
in oratory, the drama, or wit that he gained the greatest celebrity.
There is, however, some difference between the three capacities. On the
mimic stage, and on the stage of the country, his fame rested on a very
few grand outbursts--some matured, prepared, deliberated--others
spontaneous. He left only three great comedies, and perhaps we may say
only one really grand. In the same way he made only two great speeches,
or perhaps we may say only one. His wit on the other hand--though that
too is said to have been studied--was the constant accompaniment of his
daily life, and Sheridan has not left two or three celebrated bon-mots,
but a hundred.
But even in his political career his wit, which must then have been
spontaneous, won him almost as much fame as his eloquence, which he
seems to have reserved for great occasions. He was the wit of the House.
Wit, ridicule, satire, quiet, cool, and easy sneers, always made in good
temper, and always therefore the more bitter, were his weapons, and they
struck with unerring accuracy. At that time--nor at that time only--the
'Den of Thieves,' as Cobbett called our senate, was a cockpit as vulgar
and personal as the present Congress of the United States. Party-spirit
meant more than it has ever done since, and scarcely less than it had
meant when the throne itself was the stake for which parties played some
forty years before. There was, in fact a substantial personal centre for
each side. The one party rallied round a respectable but maniac monarch,
whose mental afflictions took the most distressing form, the other round
his gay, handsome, dissolute--nay disgusting--son, at once his rival and
his heir. The spirit of each party was therefore personal, and their
attacks on one another were more personal than anything we can imagine
in the present day in so respectably ridiculous a conclave as the House
of Commons. It was little for one honourable gentleman to give another
honourable gentleman the lie direct before the eyes of the country. The
honourable gentlemen descended--or, as they thought, ascended--to the
most vehement invective, and such was at times the torrent of personal
abuse which parties heaped on one another, while good-natured John Bull
looked on and smiled at his rulers, that, as in the United States of
to-day, a debate was often the prelude to a duel. Pitt and Fox, Tierney,
Adam, Fullarton, Lord George Germain, Lord Shelburne, and Governor
Johnstone, all 'vindicated their honour,' as the phrase went, by 'coffee
and pistols for four.' If Sheridan had not to repeat the Bob Acres scene
with Captain Matthews, it was only because his wonderful good humour
could put up with a great deal that others thought could only be
expiated by a hole in the waistcoat.
In the administration of the Marquis of Rockingham the dramatist enjoyed
the pleasures of office for less than a year as one of the Under
Secretaries of State in 1782. In the next year we find him making a
happy retort on Pitt, who had somewhat vulgarly alluded to his being a
dramatic author. It was on the American question, perhaps the bitterest
that ever called forth the acrimony of parties in the House. Sheridan,
from boyhood, had been taunted with being the son of an actor. One can
hardly credit this fact, just after Garrick had raised the profession of
an actor to so great an eminence in the social scale. He had been called
'the player boy' at school, and his election at Brookes' had been
opposed on the same grounds. It was evidently his bitterest point, and
Pitt probably knew this when, in replying to a speech of the
ex-dramatist's he said that 'no man admired more than he did the
abilities of that right honourable gentleman, the elegant sallies of his
thought, the gay effusions of his fancy, his _dramatic_ turns, and his
epigrammatic point; and if they were reserved for the _proper stage,_
they would, no doubt, receive what the hon. gentleman's abilities always
did receive, the plaudits of the audience; and it would be his fortune
_sui plausu gaudere theatri_. But this was not the proper scene for the
exhibition of those elegancies.' This was vulgar in Pitt, and probably
every one felt so. But Sheridan rose, cool and collected, and quietly
replied:--
'On the particular sort of personality which the right hon. gentleman
has thought proper to make use of, I need not make any comment. The
propriety, the taste, the gentlemanly point of it, must have been
obvious to the House. But let me assure the right hon. gentleman that I
do now, and will at any time he chooses to repeat this sort of allusion,
meet it with the most sincere good humour. Nay, I will say more:
flattered and encouraged by the right hon. gentleman's panegyric on my
talents, if ever I again engage in the compositions he alludes to, I may
be tempted to an act of presumption--to attempt an improvement on one of
Ben Jonson's best characters, the character of the _Angry Boy_, in the
"Alchemist."'
The fury of Pitt, contrasted with the coolness of the man he had so
shamefully attacked, made this sally irresistible, and from that time
neither 'the angry boy' himself, nor any of his colleagues, were anxious
to twit Sheridan on his dramatic pursuits.
Pitt wanted to lay a tax on every horse that started in a race. Lord
Surry, a _turfish_ individual of the day, proposed one of five pounds on
the winner. Sheridan, rising, told his lordship that the next time he
visited Newmarket he would probably be greeted with the line:--
'Jockey of Norfolk, be not so bold--.'
Lord Rolie, the butt of the Opposition, who had attacked him in the
famous satire, 'The Rolliad,' so popular that it went through twenty-two
editions in twenty-seven years, accused Sheridan of inflammatory
speeches among the operatives of the northern counties on the cotton
question. Sheridan retorted by saying that he believed Lord Rolle must
refer to 'Compositions less prosaic, but more popular' (meaning the
'Rolliad'), and thus successfully turned the laugh against him.
It was Grattan, I think, who said, 'When I can't talk sense, I talk
metaphor.' Sheridan often talked metaphor, though he sometimes mingled
it with sense. His famous speech about the Begums of Oude is full of it,
but we have one or two instances before that. Thus on the Duke of
Richmond's report about fortifications, he said, turning to the duke,
that 'holding in his hand the report made by the Board of Officers, he
complimented the noble president on his talents as an _engineer_, which
were strongly evinced in planning and constructing that very paper....
He has made it a contest of posts, and conducted his reasoning not less
on principles of trigonometry than of logic. There are certain
assumptions thrown up, like advanced works, to keep the enemy at a
distance from the principal object of debate; strong provisos protect
and cover the flanks of his assertions, his very queries are his
casemates,' and so on.
When Lord Mulgrave said, on another occasion, that any man using his
influence to obtain a vote for the crown _ought_ to lose his head,
Sheridan quietly remarked, that he was glad his lordship had said
'_ought_ to lose his head,' not _would_ have lost it, for in that case
the learned gentleman would not have had that evening '_face_ to have
shown among us.'