as an orator rested on the splendid speeches which he made at the
impeachment of Warren Hastings. The first of these was made in the House
on the 7th of February, 1787. The whole story of the corruption,
extortions, and cruelty of the worst of many bad rulers who have been
imposed upon that unhappy nation of Hindostan, and who ignorant how to
_parcere subjectis_, have gone on in their unjust oppression, only
rendering it the more dangerous by weak concessions, is too well known
to need a recapitulation here. The worst feature in the whole of
Hastings' misconduct was, perhaps, his treatment of those unfortunate
ladies whose money he coveted, the Begums of Oude. The Opposition was
determined to make the governor-general's conduct a state question, but
their charges had been received with little attention, till on this day
Sheridan rose to denounce the cruel extortioner. He spoke for five hours
and a half, and surpassed all he had ever said in eloquence. The subject
was one to find sympathy in the hearts of Englishmen, who, though they
beat their own wives, are always indignant at a man who dares to lay a
little finger on those of anybody else. Then, too, the subject was
Oriental: it might even be invested with something of romance and
poetry; the zenanah, sacred in the eyes of the oppressed natives, had
been ruthlessly insulted, under a glaring Indian sun, amid the
luxuriance of Indian foliage, these acts had been committed, &c. &c. It
was a fertile theme for a poet; and how little soever Sheridan cared for
the Begums and their wrongs--and that he did care little appears from
what he afterwards said of Hastings himself--he could evidently make a
telling speech out of the theme, and he did so. Walpole says that he
turned everybody's head. 'One heard everybody in the street raving on
the wonders of that speech; for my part, I cannot believe it was so
supernatural as they say.' He affirms that there must be a witchery in
Mr. Sheridan, who had no diamonds--as Hastings had--to win favour with,
and says that the Opposition may be fairly charged with sorcery. Burke
declared the speech to be 'the most astonishing effort of eloquence,
argument, and wit united, of which there was any record or tradition.'
Fox affirmed that 'all he had ever heard, all he had ever read, when
compared with it, dwindled into nothing, and vanished like vapour before
the sun.' But these were partizans. Even Pitt acknowledged 'that it
surpassed all the eloquence of ancient and modern times, and possessed
everything that genius or art could furnish to agitate and control the
human mind.' One member confessed himself so unhinged by it, that he
moved an adjournment, because he could not, in his then state of mind,
give an unbiassed vote. But the highest testimony was that of Logan, the
defender of Hastings. At the end of the first hour of the speech, he
said to a friend, 'All this is declamatory assertion without proof.'
Another hour's speaking, and he muttered, 'This is a most wonderful
oration!' A third, and he confessed 'Mr. Hastings has acted very
unjustifiably.' At the end of the fourth, he exclaimed, 'Mr. Hastings is
a most atrocious criminal.' And before the speaker had sat down, he
vehemently protested that 'Of all monsters of iniquity, the most
enormous is Warren Hastings.'
Such in those days was the effect of eloquence; an art which has been
eschewed in the present House of Commons, and which our newspapers
affect to think is much out of place in an assembly met for calm
deliberation. Perhaps they are right; but oh! for the golden words of a
Sheridan, a Fox, even a Pitt and Burke.
It is said, though not proved, that on this same night of Sheridan's
glory in the House of Commons, his 'School for Scandal' was acted with
'rapturous applause' at Covent Garden, and his 'Duenna' no less
successfully at Drury Lane. What a pitch of glory for the dunce who had
been shamed into learning Greek verbs at Harrow! Surely Dr. Parr must
then have confessed that a man can be great without the classics--nay,
without even a decent English education, for Sheridan knew comparatively
little of history and literature, certainly less than the men against
whom he was pitted or whose powers he emulated. He has been known to say
to his friends, when asked to take part with them on some important
question, 'You know I'm an ignoramus--instruct me and I'll do my best.'
He had even to rub up his arithmetic when he thought he had some chance
of being made Chancellor of the Exchequer; but, perhaps, many a
statesman before and after him has done as much as that.
No wonder that after such a speech in the House, the celebrated trial
which commenced in the beginning of the following year should have
roused the attention of the whole nation. The proceedings opened in
Westminster Hall, the noblest room in England, on the 13th of February,
1788. The Queen and four of her daughters were seated in the Duke of
Newcastle's box; the Prince of Wales walked in at the head of a hundred
and fifty peers of the realm. The spectacle was imposing enough. But the
trial proceeded slowly for some months, and it was not till the 3rd of
June that Sheridan rose to make his second great speech on this subject.
The excitement was then at its highest. Two-thirds of the peers with the
peeresses and their daughters were present, and the whole of the vast
hall was crowded to excess. The sun shone in brightly to light up the
gloomy building, and the whole scene was splendid. Such was the
enthusiasm that people paid _fifty guineas_ for a ticket to hear the
first orator of his day, for such he then was. The actor's son felt the
enlivening influence of a full audience. He had been long preparing for
this moment, and he threw into his speech all the theatrical effect of
which he had studied much and inherited more. He spoke for many hours on
the 3rd, 5th, and 6th, and concluded with these words:
'They (the House of Commons) exhort you by everything that calls
sublimely upon the heart of man, by the majesty of that justice which
this bold man has libelled, by the wide fame of your own tribunal, by
the sacred pledges by which you swear in the solemn hour of decision,
knowing that that decision will then bring you the highest reward that
ever blessed the heart of man, the consciousness of having done the
greatest act of mercy for the world that the earth has ever yet received
from any hand but heaven!--My Lords, I have done.'
Sheridan's valet was very proud of his master's success, and as he had
been to hear the speech, was asked what part he considered the finest.
Plush replied by putting himself into his master's attitude, and
imitating his voice admirably, solemnly uttering, 'My Lords, I have
done!' He should have added the word 'nothing.' Sheridan's eloquence had
no more effect than the clear proof of Hastings' guilt, and the
impeachment, as usual, was but a troublesome subterfuge, to satisfy the
Opposition and dust the eyeballs of the country.
Sheridan's great speech was made. The orator has concluded his oration;
fame was complete, and no more was wanted, Adieu, then, blue-books and
parties, and come on the last grand profession of this man of many
talents--that of the wit. That it was a profession there can be no
doubt, for he lived on it, it was all his capital. He paid his bills in
that coin alone: he paid his workmen, his actors, carpenters, builders
with no more sterling metal; with that ready tool he extracted loans
from the very men who came to be paid; that brilliant ornament
maintained his reputation in the senate, and his character in society.
But wit without wisdom--the froth without the fluid--the capital without
the pillar--is but a poor fortune, a wretched substitute for real worth
and honest utility. For a time men forgave to Mr. Sheridan--extravagant
and reckless as he was--what would long before have brought an honester,
better, but less amusing man to a debtor's prison and the contempt of
society; but only for a time was this career possible.
Sheridan has now reached the pinnacle of his fame, and from this point
we have to trace that decline which ended so awfully.
Whilst we call him a dishonest man, we must not be supposed to imply
that he was so in heart. It is pleaded for him that he tricked his
creditors 'for the fun of the thing,' like a modern Robin Hood, and like
that forester bold, he was mightily generous with other men's money.
Deception is deception whether in sport or earnest, and Sheridan, no
doubt, made it a very profitable employment. He had always a taste for
the art of duping, and he had begun early in life--soon after leaving
Harrow. He was spending a few days at Bristol, and wanted a pair of new
boots, but could not afford to pay for them. Shortly before he left, he
called on two bootmakers, and ordered of each a pair, promising payment
on delivery. He fixed the morning of his departure for the tradesmen to
send in their goods. When the first arrived he tried on the boots,
complaining that that for the _right_ foot pinched a little, and ordered
Crispin to take it back, stretch it, and bring it again at nine the next
morning. The second arrived soon after, and this time it was the boot
for the _left_ foot which pinched. Same complaint; same order given;
each had taken away only the pinching boot, and left the other behind.
The same afternoon Sheridan left in his new boots for town, and when the
two shoemakers called at nine the next day, each with a boot in his
hand, we can imagine their disgust at finding how neatly they had been
duped.
Anecdotes of this kind swarm in every account of Richard Sheridan--many
of them, perhaps, quite apocryphal, others exaggerated, or attributed to
this noted trickster, but all tending to show how completely he was
master of this high art. His ways of eluding creditors used to delight
me, I remember, when an Oxford boy, and they are only paralleled by
Oxford stories. One of these may not be generally known, and was worthy
of Sheridan. Every Oxonian knows Hall, the boat-builder at Folly Bridge.
Mrs. Hall was, in my time, proprietress of those dangerous skiffs and
nutshell canoes which we young harebrains delighted to launch on the
Isis. Some youthful Sheridanian had a long account with this elderly and
bashful personage, who had applied in vain for her money, till, coming
one day to his rooms, she announced her intention not to leave till the
money was paid. 'Very well, Mrs. Hall, then you must sit down and make
yourself comfortable while I dress, for I am going out directly.' Mrs.
H. sat down composedly, and with equal composure the youth took off his
coat. Mrs. H. was not abashed, but in another moment the debtor removed
his waistcoat also. Mrs. H. was still immoveable. Sundry other articles
of dress followed, and the good lady began to be nervous. 'Now, Mrs.
Hall, you can stay if you like, but I assure you that I am going to
change _all_ my dress.' Suiting the action to the word, he began to
remove his lower garments, when Mrs. Hall, shocked and furious, rushed
from the room.
This reminds us of Sheridan's treatment of a female creditor. He had for
some years hired his carriage-horses from Edbrooke in Clarges Street,
and his bill was a heavy one. Mrs. Edbrooke wanted a new bonnet, and
blew up her mate for not insisting on payment. The curtain lecture was
followed next day by a refusal to allow Mr. Sheridan to have the horses
till the account was settled. Mr. Sheridan sent the politest possible
message in reply, begging that Mrs. Edbrooke would allow his coachman to
drive her in his own carriage to his door, and promising that the matter
should be satisfactorily arranged. The good woman was delighted, dressed
in her best, and, bill in hand, entered the M.P.'s chariot. Sheridan
meanwhile had given orders to his servants. Mrs. Edbrooke was shown up
into the back drawing-room, where a slight luncheon, of which she was
begged to partake, was laid out; and she was assured that her debtor
would not keep her waiting long, though for the moment engaged. The
horse-dealer's wife sat down and discussed a wing of chicken and glass
of wine, and in the meantime her victimizer had been watching his
opportunity, slipped down stairs, jumped into the vehicle, and drove
off. Mrs. Edbrooke finished her lunch and waited in vain; ten minutes,
twenty, thirty, passed, and then she rang the bell: 'Very sorry, ma'am,
but Mr. Sheridan went out on important business half an hour ago.' 'And
the carriage?'--'Oh, ma'am, Mr. Sheridan never walks.'
He procured his wine in the same style. Chalier, the wine-merchant, was
his creditor to a large amount, and had stopped supplies. Sheridan was
to give a grand dinner to the leaders of the Opposition, and had no port
or sherry to offer them. On the morning of the day fixed he sent for
Chalier, and told him he wanted to settle his account. The importer,
much pleased, said he would go home and bring it at once. 'Stay,' cried
the debtor, 'will you dine with me to-day; Lord----, Sir----, and
So-and-so are coming.' Chalier was flattered and readily accepted.
Returning to his office, he told his clerk that he should dine with Mr.
Sheridan, and therefore leave early. At the proper hour he arrived in
full dress, and was no sooner in the house., than his host despatched a
message to the clerk at the office, saying that Mr. Chalier wished him
to send up at once three dozen of Burgundy, two of claret, two of port,
&c., &c. Nothing seemed more natural, and the wine was forwarded, just
in time for the dinner. It was highly praised by the guests, who asked
Sheridan who was his wine-merchant. The host bowed towards Chalier, gave
him a high recommendation, and impressed him with the belief that he was
telling a polite falsehood in order to secure him other customers.
Little did he think that he was drinking his own wine, and that it was
not, and probably never would be, paid for!
In like manner, when he wanted a particular Burgundy an innkeeper at
Richmond, who declined to supply it till his bill was paid, he sent for
the man, and had no sooner seen him safe in the house than he drove off
to Richmond, saw his wife, told her he had just had a conversation with
mine host, settled everything, and would, to save them trouble, take the
wine with him in his carriage. The condescension overpowered the good
woman, who ordered it at once to be produced, and Sheridan drove home
about the time that her husband was returning to Richmond, weary of
waiting for his absent debtor. But this kind of trickery could not
always succeed without some knowledge of his creditor's character. In
the case of Holloway, the lawyer, Sheridan took advantage of his
well-known vanity of his judgment of horse-flesh. Kelly gives the
anecdote as authentic. He was walking one day with Sheridan, close to
the churchyard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, when, as ill-luck would
have it, up comes Holloway on horseback, and in a furious rage,
complains that he has called on Mr. Sheridan time and again in Hertford
Street, and can never gain admittance. He proceeds to violent threats,
and slangs his debtor roundly. Sheridan, cool as a whole bed of
cucumbers, takes no notice of these attacks, but quietly exclaims: 'What
a beautiful creature you're riding, Holloway!' The lawyer's weak point
was touched.
'You were speaking to me the other day about a horse for Mrs. Sheridan;
now this would be a treasure for a lady.'
'Does he canter well?' asks Sheridan, with a look of business.
'Like Pegasus himself.'
'If that's the case, I shouldn't mind, Holloway, stretching a point for
him. Do you mind showing me his paces?'
'Not at all,' replies the lawyer, only too happy to show off his own:
and touching up the horse, put him to a quiet canter. The moment is not
to be lost; the churchyard gate is at hand; Sheridan slips in, knowing
that his mounted tormentor cannot follow him, and there bursts into a
roar of laughter, which is joined in by Kelly, but not by the returning
Holloway.
[Illustration: "A TREASURE FOR A LADY"--SHERIDAN AND THE LAWYER.]
But if he escaped an importunate lawyer once in a way like this, he
Required more ingenuity to get rid of the limbs of the law, when they
came, as they did frequently in his later years. It was the fashionable
thing in bygone novels of the 'Pelham' school, and Even in more recent
comedies, to introduce a well-dressed sheriff's officer at a dinner
party or ball, and take him through a variety of predicaments, ending,
at length, in the revelation of his real character; and probably some
such scene is still enacted from time to time in the houses of the
extravagant: but Sheridan's adventures with bailiffs seem to have
excited more attention. In the midst of his difficulties he never ceased
to entertain his friends, and 'why should he not do so, since he had not
to pay?' 'Pay your bills, sir? what a shameful waste of money!' he once
said. Thus, one day a young friend was met by him and taken back to
dinner, 'quite in a quiet way, just to meet a very old friend of mine, a
man of great talent, and most charming companion.' When they arrived
they found 'the old friend' already installed, and presenting a somewhat
unpolished appearance, which the young man explained to himself by
supposing him to be a genius of somewhat low extraction. His habits at
dinner, the eager look, the free use of his knife, and so forth, were
all accounted for in the same way, but that he was a genius of no slight
distinction was clear from the deep respect and attention with which
Sheridan listened to his slightest remarks, and asked his opinion on
English poetry. Meanwhile Sheridan and the servant between them plied
the genius very liberally with wine: and the former, rising, made him a
complimentary speech on his critical powers, while the young guest, who
had heard nothing from his lips but the commonest platitudes in very bad
English, grew more and more amused. The wine told in time, the 'genius'
sang songs which were more Saxon than delicate, talked loud, clapped his
host on the shoulder, and at last rolled fairly under the table. 'Now,'
said Sheridan, quite calmly to his young friend, 'we will go up stairs:
and, Jack,' (to his servant) 'take that man's hat and give him to the
watch.' He then explained in the same calm tone, that this was a bailiff
of whose company he was growing rather tired, and wanted to be freed.
But his finest tricks were undoubtedly those by which he turned,
harlequin-like, a creditor into a lender This was done by sheer force of
persuasion, by assuming a lofty indignation, or by putting forth his
claims to mercy with the most touching eloquence over which he would
laugh heartily when his point was gained. He was often compelled to do
this during his theatrical management, when a troublesome creditor might
have interfered with the success of the establishment. He talked over an
upholsterer who came with a writ for £350 till the latter handed him,
instead, a cheque for £200. He once, when the actors struck for arrears
of wages to the amount of £3,000, and his bankers refused flatly to
Kelly to advance another penny, screwed the whole sum out of them in
less than a quarter of an hour by sheer talk. He got a gold watch from
Harris, the manager, with whom he had broken several appointments, by
complaining that as he had no watch he could never tell the time fixed
for their meetings; and, as for putting off pressing creditors, and
turning furious foes into affectionate friends, he was such an adept at
it, that his reputation as a dun-destroyer is quite on a par with his
fame as comedian and orator.
Hoaxing, a style of amusement fortunately out of fashion how, was almost
a passion with him, and his practical jokes were as merciless as his
satire. He and Tickell, who had married the sister of his wife, used to
play them off on one another like a couple of schoolboys. One evening,
for instance, Sheridan got together all the crockery in the house and
arranged it in a dark passage, leaving a small channel for escape for
himself, and then, having teased Tickell till he rushed after him,
bounded out and picked his way gingerly along the passage. His friend
followed him unwittingly, and at the first step stumbled over a
washhand-basin, and fell forwards with a crash on piles of plates and
dishes, which cut his face and hands in a most cruel manner, Sheridan
all the while laughing immoderately at the end of the passage, secure
from vengeance.
But his most impudent hoax was that on the Honourable House of Commons
itself. Lord Belgrave had made a very telling speech which he wound up
with a Greek quotation, loudly applauded. Sheridan had no arguments to
meet him with; so rising, he admitted the force of his lordship's
quotation (of which he probably did not understand a word), but added
that had he gone a little farther, and completed the passage, he would
have seen that the context completely altered the sense. He would prove
it to the House, he said, and forthwith rolled forth a grand string of
majestic gibberish so well imitated that the whole assembly cried,
'Hear, hear!' Lord Belgrave rose again, and frankly admitted that the
passage had the meaning ascribed to it by the honourable gentleman, and
that he had overlooked it at the moment. At the end of the evening, Fox,
who prided himself on his classical lore, came up to and said to him,
'Sheridan, how came you to be so ready with that passage? It is
certainly as you say, but I was not aware of it before you quoted it.'
Sheridan was wise enough to keep his own counsel for the time, but must
have felt delightfully tickled at the ignorance of the would-be savants
with whom he was politically associated. Probably Sheridan could not at
any time have quoted a whole passage of Greek on the spur of the moment;
but it is certain that he had not kept up his classics, and at the time
in question must have forgotten the little he ever knew of them.
This facility of imitating exactly the sound of a language without
introducing a single word of it is not so very rare, but is generally
possessed in greater readiness by those who know no tongue but their
own, and are therefore more struck by the strangeness of a foreign one,
when hearing it. Many of us have heard Italian songs in which there was
not a word of actual Italian sung in London burlesques, and some of us
have laughed at Levassor's capital imitation of English; but perhaps the
cleverest mimic of the kind I ever heard was M. Laffitte, brother of
that famous banker who made his fortune by picking up a pin. This
gentleman could speak nothing but French, but had been brought by his
business into contact with foreigners of every race at Paris, and when
he once began his little trick, it was impossible to believe that he was
not possessed of a gift of tongues. His German and Italian were good
enough, but his English was so splendidly counterfeited, that after
listening to him for a short time, I suddenly heard a roar of laughter
from all present, for I had actually unconsciously _answered him_,
'Yes,' 'No,' 'Exactly so,' and 'I quite agree with you!'
Undoubtedly much of Sheridan's depravity must be attributed to his
intimacy with a man whom it was a great honour to a youngster then to
know, but who would probably be scouted even from a London club in the
present day--the Prince of Wales. The part of a courtier is always
degrading enough to play; but to be courtier to a prince whose favour
was to be won by proficiency in vice, and audacity in follies, to
truckle to his tastes, to win his smiles by the invention of a new
pleasure and his approbation by the plotting of a new villany, what an
office for the author of 'The School for Scandal,' and the orator
renowned for denouncing the wickednesses of Warren Hastings! What a life
for the young poet who had wooed and won the Maid of Bath--for the man
of strong domestic affections, who wept over his father's sternness, and
loved his son only too well! It was bad enough for such mere worldlings
as Captain Hanger or Beau Brummell, but for a man of higher and purer
feelings, like Sheridan, who, with all his faults, had some poetry in
his soul, such a career was doubly disgraceful.
It was at the house of the beautiful, lively, and adventurous Duchess of
Devonshire, the partizan of Charles James Fox, who loved him or his
cause--for Fox and Liberalism were often one in ladies' eyes--so well,
that she could give Steele, the butcher, a kiss for his vote, that
Sheridan first met the prince--then a boy in years, but already more
than an adult in vice. No doubt the youth whom Fox, Brummell, Hanger,
Lord Surrey, Sheridan, the tailors and the women, combined to turn at
once into the finest gentleman and greatest blackguard in Europe, was at
that time as fascinating in appearance and manner as any one, prince or
not, could be. He was by far the handsomest of the Hanoverians, and had
the least amount of their sheepish look. He possessed all their taste
and capacity, for gallantry, with apparently none of the German
coarseness which certain other Princes of Wales exhibited in their
amorous address. _His_ coarseness was of a more sensual, but less
imperious kind. He _had_ his redeeming points, which few of his
ancestors had, and his liberal hand and warm heart won him friends,
where his conduct could win him little else than contempt. Sheridan was
introduced to him by Fox, and Mrs. Sheridan by the Duchess of
Devonshire. The prince had that which always takes with Englishmen--a
readiness of conviviality, and a recklessness of character. He was ready
to chat, drink, and bet with Sheridan, or any new comer equally well
recommended, and an introduction to young George was always followed by
an easy recognition. With all this he managed to keep up a certain
amount of royal dignity under the most trying circumstances, but he had
none of that easy grace which made Charles II. beloved by his
associates. When the George had gone too far, he had no resource but to
cut the individual with whom he had hobbed and nobbed, and he was as
ungrateful in his enmities as he was ready with his friendship. Brummell
had taught him to dress, and Sheridan had given him wiser counsels: he
quarrelled with both for trifles, which, if he had had real dignity,
would never have occurred, and if he had had real friendship, would
easily have been overlooked.
Sheridan's breach with the prince was honourable to him. He could not
wholly approve of the conduct of that personage and his ministers, and
he told him openly that his life was at his service, but his character
was the property of the country. The prince replied that Sheridan 'might
impeach his ministers on the morrow--that would not impair their
friendship;' yet turned on his heel, and was never his friend again.
When, again, the 'delicate investigation' came off, he sent for
Sheridan, and asked his aid. The latter replied, 'Your royal highness
honours me, but I will never take part against a woman, whether she be
right or wrong.' His political courage atones somewhat for the want of
moral courage he displayed in pandering to the prince's vices.
Many an anecdote is told of Sheridan and 'Wales'--many, indeed, that
cannot be repeated. Their bets were often of the coarsest nature, won by
Sheridan in the coarsest manner. A great intimacy sprang up between the
two reprobates, and Sheridan became one of the satellites of that
dissolute prince. There are few of the stories of their adventures which
can be told in a work like this, but we may give one or two specimens of
the less disgraceful character:--