UNFINISHED PLAYS AND POEMS.
Before I enter upon the sketch of Mr. Sheridan's political life, I shall
take this opportunity of laying before the reader such information with
respect to his unfinished literary designs, both dramatic and poetic, as
the papers in my possession enable me to communicate.
Some of his youthful attempts in literature have already been mentioned,
and there is a dramatic sketch of his, founded on the Vicar of
Wakefield, which from a date on the manuscript (1768), appears to have
been produced at a still earlier age, and when he was only in his
seventeenth year. A scene of this piece will be sufficient to show how
very soon his talent for lively dialogue displayed itself:--
"SCENE II.
"THORNHILL _and_ ARNOLD.
"_Thornhill._ Nay, prithee, Jack, no more of that if you love me.
What, shall I stop short with the game in full view? Faith, I believe
the fellow's turned puritan. What think you of turning methodist, Jack?
You have a tolerable good canting countenance, and, if escaped being
taken up for a Jesuit, you might make a fortune in Moor-fields.
"_Arnold._ I was serious, Tom.
"_Thorn._ Splenetic you mean. Come, fill your glass, and a truce to
your preaching. Here's a pretty fellow has let his conscience sleep for
these five years, and has now plucked morality from the leaves of his
grandmother's bible, beginning to declaim against what he has practised
half his life-time. Why, I tell you once more, my schemes are all come
to perfection. I am now convinced Olivia loves me--at our last
conversation, she said she would rely wholly on my honor.
"_Arn._ And therefore you would deceive her.
"_Thorn._ Why no--deceive her?--why--indeed--as to that--but--but,
for God's sake, let me hear no more on this subject, for, 'faith, you
make me sad, Jack. If you continue your admonitions, I shall begin to
think you have yourself an eye on the girl. You have promised me your
assistance, and when you came down into the country, were as hot on the
scheme as myself: but, since you have been two or three times with me at
Primrose's, you have fallen off strangely. No encroachments, Jack, on my
little rose-bud--if you have a mind to beat up game in this quarter,
there's her sister--but no poaching.
"_Arn._ I am not insensible to her sister's merit, but have no such
views as you have. However, you have promised me that if you find in this
lady that real virtue which you so firmly deny to exist in the sex, you
will give up the pursuit, and, foregoing the low considerations of fortune,
make atonement by marriage.
"_Thorn._ Such is my serious resolution.
"_Arn._ I wish you'd forego the experiment. But, you have been so
much in raptures with your success, that I have, as yet, had no clear
account how you came acquainted in the family.
"_Thorn._ Oh, I'll tell you immediately. You know Lady Patchet?
"_Arn._ What, is she here?
"_Thorn._ It was by her I was first introduced. It seems that, last
year, her ladyship's reputation began to suffer a little; so that she
thought it prudent to retire for a while, till people learned better
manners or got worse memories. She soon became acquainted with this
little family, and, as the wife is a prodigious admirer of quality, grew
in a short time to be very intimate, and imagining that she may one day
make her market of the girls, has much ingratiated herself with them.
She introduced me--I drank, and abused this degenerate age with the
father--promised wonders to the mother for all her brats--praised her
gooseberry wine, and ogled the daughters, by which means in three days I
made the progress I related to you.
"_Arn._ You have been expeditious indeed. I fear where that devil
Lady Patchet is concerned there can be no good--but is there not a son?
"_Thorn._ Oh! the most ridiculous creature in nature. He has been
bred in the country a bumpkin all his life, till within these six years,
when he was sent to the University, but the misfortunes that have
reduced his father falling out, he is returned, the most ridiculous
animal you ever saw, a conceited, disputing blockhead. So there is no
great matter to fear from _his_ penetration. But come, let us
begone, and see this moral family, we shall meet them coming from the
field, and you will see a man who was once in affluence, maintaining by
hard labor a numerous family.
"_Arn._ Oh! Thornhill, can you wish to add infamy to their poverty?
"[Exeunt.]"
There also remain among his papers three Acts of a Drama, without a
name,--written evidently in haste, and with scarcely any correction,--
the subject of which is so wild and unmanageable, that I should not have
hesitated in referring it to the same early date, had not the
introduction into one of the scenes of "Dry be that tear, be hush'd that
sigh," proved it to have been produced after that pretty song was
written.
The chief personages upon whom the story turns are a band of outlaws,
who, under the name and disguise of _Devils_, have taken up their
residence in a gloomy wood, adjoining a village, the inhabitants of
which they keep in perpetual alarm by their incursions and apparitions.
In the same wood resides a hermit, secretly connected with this band,
who keeps secluded within his cave the beautiful Reginilla, hid alike
from the light of the sun and the eyes of men. She has, however, been
indulged in her prison with a glimpse of a handsome young huntsman, whom
she believes to be a phantom, and is encouraged in her belief by the
hermit, by whose contrivance this huntsman (a prince in disguise) has
been thus presented to her. The following is--as well as I can make it
out from a manuscript not easily decipherable--the scene that takes
place between the fair recluse and her visitant. The style, where style
is attempted, shows, as the reader will perceive, a taste yet immature
and unchastened:--
"_Scene draws, and discovers_ REGINILLA _asleep in the cave.
"Enter_ PEVIDOR _and other Devils, with the_ HUNTSMAN--_unbind
him, and exeunt._
"_Hunts._ Ha! Where am I now? Is it indeed the dread abode of
guilt, or refuge of a band of thieves? it cannot be a dream (_sees_
REGINILLA.) Ha! if this be so, and I _do_ dream, may I never wake--
it is--my beating heart acknowledges my dear, gentle Reginilla. I'll not
wake her, lest, if it be a phantom, it should vanish. Oh, balmy breath!
but for thy soft sighs that come to tell me it is no image, I should
believe ... (_bends down towards her_.) a sigh from her heart!--
thus let me arrest thee on thy way. (_kisses her_.) A deeper blush
has flushed her cheek--sweet modesty! that even in sleep is conscious
and resentful.--She will not wake, and yet some fancy calls up those
frequent sighs--how her heart beats in its ivory cage, like an
imprisoned bird--or as if to reprove the hand that dares approach its
sanctuary! Oh, would she but wake, and bless this gloom with her bright
eyes!--Soft, here's a lute--perhaps her soul will hear the call of
harmony.
"Oh yield, fair lids, the treasures of my heart,
Release those beams, that make this mansion bright;
From her sweet sense, Slumber! tho' sweet thou art,
Begone, and give the air she breathes in light.
"Or while, oh Sleep, thou dost those glances hide,
Let rosy slumbers still around her play,
Sweet as the cherub Innocence enjoy'd,
When in thy lap, new-born, in smiles he lay.
"And thou, oh Dream, that com'st her sleep to cheer,
Oh take my shape, and play a lover's part;
Kiss her from me, and whisper in her ear,
Till her eyes shine, 'tis night within my heart.
[Footnote: I have taken the liberty here of supplying a few rhymes and
words that are wanting in the original copy of the song. The last line
of all runs thus in the manuscript:--
"Till her eye shines I live in darkest night,"
which, not rhyming as it ought, I have ventured to alter as above.]
"_Reg._ (_waking_.) The phantom, father! (_seizes his
hand._) ah, do not, do not wake me then. (_rises._)
"_Hunts._ (_kneeling to her._) Thou beauteous sun of this dark
world, that mak'st a place, so like the cave of death, a heaven to me,
instruct me how I may approach thee--how address thee and not offend.
"_Reg._ Oh how my soul would hang upon those lips! speak on--and
yet, methinks, he should not kneel so--why are you afraid, Sir? indeed,
I cannot hurt you.
"_Hunts._ Sweet innocence, I'm sure thou would'st not.
"_Reg._ Art thou not he to whom I told my name, and didst thou not
say thine was--
"_Hunts._ Oh blessed be the name that then thou told'st--it has
been ever since my charm, and kept me from distraction. But, may I ask
how such sweet excellence as thine could be hid in such a place?
"_Reg._ Alas, I know not--for such as thou I never saw before, nor
any like myself.
"_Hunts._ Nor like thee ever shall--but would'st thou leave this
place, and live with such as I am?
"_Reg._ Why may not you live here with such as I?
"_Hunts._ Yes--but I would carry thee where all above an azure
canopy extends, at night bedropt with gems, and one more glorious lamp,
that yields such bashful light as love enjoys--while underneath, a
carpet shall be spread of flowers to court the pressure of thy step,
with such sweet whispered invitations from the leaves of shady groves or
murmuring of silver streams, that thou shalt think thou art in Paradise.
"_Reg._ Indeed!
"_Hunts._ Ay, and I'll watch and wait on thee all day, and cull the
choicest flowers, which while thou bind'st in the mysterious knot of
love, I'll tune for thee no vulgar lays, or tell thee tales shall make
thee weep yet please thee--while thus I press thy hand, and warm it thus
with kisses.
"_Reg._ I doubt thee not--but then my Governor has told me many a
tale of faithless men who court a lady but to steal her peace and fame,
and then to leave her.
"_Hunts._ Oh never such as thou art--witness all....
"_Reg._ Then wherefore couldst thou not live here? For I do feel,
tho' tenfold darkness did surround this spot, I could be blest, would
you but stay here; and, if it made you sad to be imprison'd thus, I'd
sing and play for thee, and dress thee sweetest fruits, and though you
chid me, would kiss thy tear away and hide my blushing face upon thy
bosom--indeed, I would. Then what avails the gaudy day, and all the evil
things I'm told inhabit there, to those who have within themselves all
that delight and love, and heaven can give.
"_Hunts._ My angel, thou hast indeed the soul of love.
"_Reg._ It is no ill thing, is it?
"_Hunts._ Oh most divine--it is the immediate gift of heaven, which
steals into our breast ... 'tis that which makes me sigh thus, look
thus--fear and tremble for thee.
"_Reg._ Sure I should learn it too, if you would teach me.
(_Sound of horn without--Huntsman starts._)
"_Reg._ You must not go--this is but a dance preparing for my
amusement--oh we have, indeed, some pleasures here--come, I will sing
for you the while.
"_Song._
"Wilt thou then leave me? canst thou go from me,
To woo the fair that love the gaudy day?
Yet, e'en among those joys, thou'lt find that she,
Who dwells in darkness, loves thee more than they.
For these poor hands, and these unpractised eyes,
And this poor heart is thine without disguise.
But, if thou'lt stay with me, my only care
Shall be to please and make thee love to stay,
With music, song, and dance
* * * * *
But, if you go, nor music, song, nor dance,
* * * * *
If thou art studious, I will read
Thee tales of pleasing woe--
If thou art sad, I'll kiss away
The tears.... that flow.
If thou would'st play, I'll kiss thee till I blush,
Then hide that blush upon thy breast,
If thou would'st sleep....
Shall rock thy aching head to rest.
"_Hunts._ My soul's wonder, I will never leave thee.
"(_The Dance.--Allemande by two Bears_.)
"_Enter_ PEVIDOR.
"_Pev._ So fond, so soon! I cannot bear to see it. What ho, within
(_Devils enter._) secure him. (_Seize and bind the Huntsman._)"
The Duke or sovereign of the country, where these events are supposed to
take place, arrives at the head of a military force, for the purpose of
investing the haunted wood, and putting down, as he says, those "lawless
renegades, who, in infernal masquerade, make a hell around him." He is
also desirous of consulting the holy hermit of the wood, and availing
himself of his pious consolations and prayers--being haunted with
remorse for having criminally gained possession of the crown by
contriving the shipwreck of the rightful heir, and then banishing from
the court his most virtuous counsellors. In addition to these causes of
disquietude, he has lately lost, in a mysterious manner, his only son,
who, he supposes, has fallen a victim to these Satanic outlaws, but who,
on the contrary, it appears, has voluntarily become an associate of
their band, and is amusing himself, heedless of his noble father's
sorrow, by making love, in the disguise of a dancing bear, to a young
village coquette of the name of Mopsa. A short specimen of the manner in
which this last farcical incident is managed, will show how wide even
Sheridan was, at first, of that true vein of comedy, which, on searching
deeper into the mine, he so soon afterwards found:--
"SCENE.--_The Inside of the Cottage_.--MOPSA, LUBIN _(her
father), and_ COLIN _(her lover), discovered_.
"_Enter_ PEVIDOR, _leading the Bear, and singing._
"And he dances, dances, dances,
And goes upright like a Christian swain,
And he shows you pretty fancies,
Nor ever tries to shake off his chain.
"_Lubin._ Servant, master. Now, Mopsa, you are happy--it is,
indeed, a handsome creature. What country does your bear come from?
"_Pev._ Dis bear, please your worship, is of de race of dat bear of
St. Anthony, who was the first convert he made in de woods. St. Anthony
bade him never more meddle with man, and de bear observed de command to
his dying day.
"_Lub._ Wonderful!
"_Pev._ Dis generation be all de same--all born widout toots.
"_Colin._ What, can't he bite? (_puts his finger to the Bear's
mouth, who bites him_.) Oh Lord, no toots! why you ----
"_Pev._ Oh dat be only his gum. (_Mopsa laughs_.)
"_Col._ For shame, Mopsa--now, I say Maister Lubin, mustn't she
give me a kiss to make it well?
"_Lub._ Ay, kiss her, kiss her, Colin.
"_Col._ Come, Miss. (_Mopsa runs to the Bear, who kisses
her_.)"
The following scene of the Devils drinking in their subterraneous
dwelling, though cleverly imagined, is such as, perhaps, no cookery of
style could render palatable to an English audience.
"SCENE.--_The Devils' Cave_.
"_1st Dev._ Come, Urial, here's to our resurrection.
"_2d Dev._ It is a toast I'd scarcely pledge--by my life, I think
we're happier here.
"_3d Dev._ Why, so think I--by Jove, I would despise the man, who
could but wish to rise again to earth, unless we were to lord there.
What! sneaking pitiful in bondage, among vile money-scrapers,
treacherous friends, fawning flatterers--or, still worse, deceitful
mistresses. Shall we who reign lords here, again lend ourselves to swell
the train of tyranny and usurpation? By my old father's memory, I'd
rather be the blindest mole that ever skulked in darkness, the lord of
one poor hole, where he might say, 'I'm master here.'
"_2d Dev._ You are too hot--where shall concord be found, if even
the devils disagree?--Come fill the glass, and add thy harmony--while we
have wine to enlighten us, the sun be hanged! I never thought he gave so
fine a light for my part--and then, there are such vile inconveniences--
high winds and storms, rains, &c.--oh hang it! living on the outside of
the earth is like sleeping on deck, when one might, like us, have a snug
berth in the cabin.
"_1st Dev._ True, true,--Helial, where is thy catch?
"In the earth's centre let me live,
There, like a rabbit will I thrive,
Nor care if fools should call my life infernal;
While men on earth crawl lazily about,
Like snails upon the surface of the nut,
We are, like maggots, feasting in the kernel.
"_1st Dev._ Bravo, by this glass. Meli, what say you?
"_3d Dev._ Come, here's to my Mina--I used to toast her in the
upper regions.
"_1st Dev._ Ay, we miss them here.
"_Glee._
"What's a woman good for?
Rat me, sir, if I know.
* * * * *
She's a savor to the glass,
An excuse to make it pass.
* * * * *
"_1st Dev._ I fear we are like the wits above, who abuse women only
because they can't get them,--and, after all, it must be owned they are
a pretty kind of creatures.
"_All._ Yes, yes.
"_Catch._
"'Tis woman after all
Is the blessing of this ball,
'Tis she keeps the balance of it even.
We are devils, it is true,
But had we women too,
Our Tartarus would turn to a Heaven!"
A scene in the Third Act, where these devils bring the prisoners whom
they have captured to trial, is an overcharged imitation of the satire
of Fielding, and must have been written, I think, after a perusal of
that author's Satirical Romance, "A Journey from this World to the
Next,"--the first half of which contains as much genuine humor and fancy
as are to be found in any other production of the kind. The
interrogatories of Minos in that work suggested, I suspect, the
following scene:--
"_Enter a number of Devils.--Others bring in_ LUDOVICO.
"_1st Dev._ Just taken, in the wood, sir, with two more.
"_Chorus of Devils_.
"Welcome, welcome
* * * * *
"_Pev._ What art thou?
"_Ludov._ I went for a man in the other world.
"_Pev._ What sort of a man?
"_Ludov._ A soldier at your service.
"_Pev._ Wast thou in the battle of--?
"_Ludov._ Truly I was.
"_Pev._ What was the quarrel?
"_Ludov._ I never had time to ask. The children of peace, who make
our quarrels, must be Your Worship's informants there.
"_Pev._ And art thou not ashamed to draw the sword for thou know'st
not what--and to be the victim and food of others' folly?
"_Ludov._ Vastly.
"_Pev._ (_to the Devils_.) Well, take him for to-day, and only
score his skin and pepper it with powder--then chain him to a cannon,
and let the Devils practise at his head--his be the reward who hits it
with a single ball.
"_Ludov._ Oh mercy, mercy!
"_Pev._ Bring Savodi.
"(_A Devil brings in_ SAVODI.)
"_Chorus as before_.
"Welcome, welcome, &c.
"_Pev._ Who art thou?
"_Sav._ A courtier at Your Grace's service.
"_Pev._ Your name?
"_Sav._ Savodi, an' please Your Highnesses.
"_Pev._ Your use?
"_Sav._ A foolish utensil of state--a clock kept in the waiting-
chamber, to count the hours.
"_Pev._ Are you not one of those who fawn and lie, and cringe like
spaniels to those a little higher, and take revenge by tyranny on all
beneath?
"_Sav._ Most true, Your Highnesses.
"_Pev._ Is't not thy trade to promise what thou canst not do,--to
gull the credulous of money, to shut the royal door on unassuming merit
--to catch the scandal for thy master's ear, and stop the people's
voice....
"_Sav._ Exactly, an' please Your Highnesses' Worships.
"_Pev._ Thou dost not now deny it?
"_Sav._ Oh no, no, no.
"_Pev._ Here--baths of flaming sulphur!--quick--stir up the
cauldron of boiling lead--this crime deserves it.
"_1st Dev._ Great Judge of this infernal place, allow him but the
mercy of the court.
"_Sav._ Oh kind Devil!--yes, Great Judge, allow.
"_1st Dev._ The punishment is undergone already--truth from him is
something.
"_Sav._ Oh, most unusual--sweet devil!
"_1st Dev._ Then, he is tender, and might not be able to endure--
"_Sav._ Endure! I shall be annihilated by the thoughts of it--dear
devil.
"_1st Dev._ Then let him, I beseech you, in scalding brimstone be
first soaked a little, to inure and prepare him for the other.
"_Sav._ Oh hear me, hear me.
"_Pev._ Well, be it so.
"(_Devils take him out and bring in_ PAMPHILES.)
"_Pev._ This is he we rescued from the ladies--a dainty one, I
warrant.
"_Pamphil._ (_affectedly_.) This is Hell certainly by the
smell.
"_Pev._ What, art thou a soldier too?
"_Pamphil._ No, on my life--a Colonel, but no soldier--innocent
even of a review, as I exist.
"_Pev._ How rose you then? come, come--the truth.
"_Pamphil._ Nay, be not angry, sir--if I was preferred it was not
my fault--upon my soul, I never did anything to incur preferment.
"_Pev._ Indeed! what was thy employment then, friend?
"_Pamphil._ Hunting--
"_Pev._ 'Tis false.
"_Pamphil._ Hunting women's reputations.
"_Pev._ What, thou wert amorous?
"_Pamphil._ No, on my honor, sir, but vain, confounded vain--the
character of bringing down my game was all I wished, and, like a true
sportsman, I would have given my birds to my pointers.
"_Pev._ This crime is new--what shall we do with him?" &c. &c.
This singular Drama does not appear to have been ever finished. With
respect to the winding up of the story, the hermit, we may conclude,
would have turned out to be the banished counsellor, and the devils, his
followers; while the young huntsman would most probably have proved to
be the rightful heir of the dukedom.
In a more crude and unfinished state are the fragments that remain of
his projected opera of "The Foresters." To this piece (which appears to
have been undertaken at a later period than the preceding one) Mr.
Sheridan often alluded in conversation--particularly when any regret was
expressed at his having ceased to assist Old Drury with his pen,--"wait
(he would say smiling) till I bring out my Foresters." The plot, as far
as can be judged from the few meagre scenes that exist, was intended to
be an improvement upon that of the Drama just described--the Devils
being transformed into Foresters, and the action commencing, not with
the loss of a son, but the recovery of a daughter, who had fallen by
accident into the hands of these free-booters. At the opening of the
piece the young lady has just been restored to her father by the heroic
Captain of the Foresters, with no other loss than that of her heart,
which she is suspected of having left with her preserver. The list of
the Dramatis Personae (to which however he did not afterwards adhere) is
as follows:--
Old Oscar.
Young Oscar.
Colona.
Morven.
Harold.
Nico.
Miza.
Malvina.
Allanda.
Dorcas.
Emma.
To this strange medley of nomenclature is appended a memorandum--
"_Vide_ Petrarch for names."
The first scene represents the numerous lovers of Malvina rejoicing at
her return, and celebrating it by a chorus; after which Oscar, her
father, holds the following dialogue with one of them:--
"_Osc._ I thought, son, you would have been among the first and
most eager to see Malvina upon her return.
"_Colin._ Oh, father, I would give half my flock to think that my
presence would be welcome to her.
"_Osc._ I am sure you have never seen her prefer any one else.
"_Col._ There's the torment of it--were I but once sure that she
loved another better, I think I should be content--at least she should
not know but that I was so. My love is not of that jealous sort that I
should pine to see her happy with another--nay, I could even regard the
man that would make her so.
"_Osc._ Haven't you spoke with her since her return?
"_Col._ Yes, and I think she is colder to me than ever. My
professions of love used formerly to make her laugh, but now they make
her weep--formerly she seemed wholly insensible; now, alas, she seems
to feel--but as if addressed by the wrong person," &c. &c.
In a following scene are introduced two brothers, both equally enamored
of the fair Malvina, yet preserving their affection unaltered towards
each other. With the recollection of Sheridan's own story fresh in our
minds, we might suppose that he meant some reference to it in this
incident, were it not for the exceeding _niaiserie_ that he has
thrown into the dialogue. For instance:--
"_Osc._ But we are interrupted--here are two more of her lovers--
brothers, and rivals, but friends.
"_Enter_ NICO _and_ LUBIN.
"So, Nico--how comes it you are so late in your inquiries after your
mistress?
"_Nico._ I should have been sooner; but Lubin would stay to make
himself fine--though he knows that he has no chance of appearing so to
Malvina.
"_Lubin._ No, in truth--Nico says right--I have no more chance than
himself.
"_Osc._ However, I am glad to see you reconciled, and that you live
together, as brothers should do.
"_Nico._ Yes, ever since we found your daughter cared for neither
of us, we grew to care for one another. There is a fellowship in
adversity that is consoling; and it is something to think that Lubin is
as unfortunate as myself.
"_Lub._ Yes, we are well matched--I think Malvina dislikes him, if
possible, more than me, and that's a great comfort.
"_Nico._ We often sit together, and play such woeful tunes on our
pipes, that the very sheep are moved at it.
"_Osc._ But why don't you rouse yourselves, and, since you can meet
with no requital of your passion, return the proud maid scorn for scorn?
"_Nico._ Oh mercy, no--we find a great comfort in our sorrow--don't
we, Lubin?
"_Lubin._ Yes, if I meet no crosses, I shall be undone in another
twelve-month--I let all go to wreck and ruin.
"_Osc._ But suppose Malvina should be brought to give you
encouragement.
"_Nico._ Heaven forbid! that would spoil all.
"_Lubin._ Truly I was almost assured within this fortnight that she
was going to relax.
"_Nico._ Ay, I shall never forget how alarmed we were at the
appearance of a smile one day," &c. &c.
Of the poetical part of this opera, the only specimens he has left are a
skeleton of a chorus, beginning "Bold Foresters we are," and the
following song, which, for grace and tenderness, is not unworthy of the
hand that produced the Duenna:--
"We two, each other's only pride,
Each other's bliss, each other's guide,
Far from the world's unhallow'd noise,
Its coarse delights and tainted joys,
Through wilds will roam and deserts rude--
For, Love, thy home is solitude.
"There shall no vain pretender be,
To court thy smile and torture me,
No proud superior there be seen,
But nature's voice shall hail thee, queen.
"With fond respect and tender awe,
I will receive thy gentle law,
Obey thy looks, and serve thee still,
Prevent thy wish, foresee thy will,
And, added to a lover's care,
Be all that friends and parents are."
But, of all Mr. Sheridan's unfinished designs, the Comedy which he
meditated on the subject of Affectation is that of which the abandonment
is most to be regretted. To a satirist, who would not confine his
ridicule to the mere outward demonstrations of this folly, but would
follow and detect it through all its windings and disguises, there could
hardly perhaps be a more fertile theme. Affectation, merely of
_manner_, being itself a sort of acting, does not easily admit of
any additional coloring on the stage, without degenerating into farce;
and, accordingly, fops and fine ladies--with very few exceptions--are
about as silly and tiresome in representation as in reality. But the aim
of the dramatist, in this comedy, would have been far more important and
extensive;--and how anxious he was to keep before his mind's eye the
whole wide horizon of folly which his subject opened upon him, will
appear from the following list of the various species of Affectation,
which I have found written by him, exactly as I give it, on the inside
cover of the memorandum-book, that contains the only remaining vestiges
of this play:--
"An Affectation of Business.
of Accomplishments,
of Love of Letters and "Wit
Music.
of Intrigue.
of Sensibility.
of Vivacity.
of Silence and Importance.
of Modesty.
of Profligacy.
of Moroseness."
In this projected comedy he does not seem to have advanced as far as
even the invention of the plot or the composition of a single scene. The
memorandum-book alluded to--on the first leaf of which he had written in
his neatest hand (as if to encourage himself to begin) "Affectation"--
contains, besides the names of three of the intended personages, Sir
Babble Bore, Sir Peregrine Paradox, and Feignwit, nothing but unembodied
sketches of character, and scattered particles of wit, which seem
waiting, like the imperfect forms and seeds in chaos, for the brooding
of genius to nurse them into system and beauty.
The reader will not, I think, be displeased at seeing some of these
curious materials here. They will show that in this work, as well as in
the School for Scandal, he was desirous of making the vintage of his wit
as rich as possible, by distilling into it every drop that the collected
fruits of his thought and fancy could supply. Some of the jests are far-
fetched, and others, perhaps, abortive--but it is pleasant to track him
in his pursuit of a point, even when he misses. The very failures of a
man of real wit are often more delightful than the best successes of
others--the quick-silver, even in escaping from his grasp, shines; "it
still eludes him, but it glitters still."
I shall give the memorandums as I find them, with no other difference,
than that of classing together those that have relation to the same
thought or subject.
"_Character_--Mr. BUSTLE.
"A man who delights in hurry and interruption--will take any one's
business for them--leaves word where all his plagues may follow him--
governor of all hospitals, &c.--share in Ranelagh--speaker every where,
from the Vestry to the House of Commons--'I am not at home--gad, now he
heard me and I must be at home.'--'Here am I so plagued, and there is
nothing I love so much as retirement and quiet.'--'You never sent after
me.'--Let servants call in to him such a message as 'Tis nothing but the
window tax,' he hiding in a room that communicates.--A young man tells
him some important business in the middle of fifty trivial
interruptions, and the calling in of idlers; such as fidlers, wild-beast
men, foreigners with recommendatory letters, &c.--answers notes on his
knee, 'and so your uncle died?--for your obliging inquiries--and left
you an orphan--to cards in the evening.'
"Can't bear to be doing nothing.--'Can I do anything for any body any
where?'--'Have been to the Secretary--written to the Treasury.'--'Must
proceed to meet the Commissioners, and write Mr. Price's little boy's
exercise.'--The most active idler and laborious trifler.
"He does not in reality love business--only the appearance of it. 'Ha!
ha! did my Lord say that I was always very busy? What, plagued to
death?'
"Keeps all his letters and copies--' Mem. to meet the Hackney-coach
Commissioners--to arbitrate between,' &c. &c.
"Contrast with the man of indolence, his brother.--'So, brother, just
up! and I have been,' &c. &c.--one will give his money from indolent
generosity, the other his time from restlessness--' 'Twill be shorter to
pay the bill than look for the receipt.'--Files letters, answered and
unanswered--'Why, here are more unopened than answered!'
* * * * *
"He regulates every action by a love for fashion--will grant annuities
though he doesn't want money--appear to intrigue, though constant; to
drink, though sober--has some fashionable vices--affects to be
distressed in his circumstances, and, when his new vis-a-vis comes out,
procures a judgment to be entered against him--wants to lose, but by
ill-luck wins five thousand pounds.
* * * * *
"One who changes sides in all arguments the moment any one agrees with
him.
"An irresolute arguer, to whom it is a great misfortune that there are
not three sides to a question--a libertine in argument; conviction, like
enjoyment, palls him, and his rakish understanding is soon satiated with
truth--more capable of being faithful to a paradox--'I love truth as I
do my wife; but sophistry and paradoxes are my mistresses--I have a
strong domestic respect for her, but for the other the passion due to a
mistress.'
"One, who agrees with every one, for the pleasure of speaking their
sentiments for them--so fond of talking that he does not contradict only
because he can't wait to hear people out.
"A tripping casuist, who veers by others' breath, and gets on to
information by tacking between the two sides--like a hoy, not made to go
straight before the wind.
"The more he talks, the further he is off the argument, like a bowl on a
wrong bias.
* * * * *
"What are the affectations you chiefly dislike?
"There are many in this company, so I'll mention others.--To see two
people affecting intrigue, having their assignations in public places
only; he affecting a warm pursuit, and the lady, acting the hesitation
of retreating virtue--'Pray, ma'am, don't you think,' &c.--while neither
party have words between 'em to conduct the preliminaries of gallantry,
nor passion to pursue the object of it.
"A plan of public flirtation--not to get beyond a profile.
* * * * *
"Then I hate to see one, to whom heaven has given real beauty, settling
her features at the glass of fashion, while she speaks--not thinking so
much of what she says as how she looks, and more careful of the action
of her lips than of what shall come from them.
* * * * *
"A pretty woman studying looks and endeavoring to recollect an ogle,
like Lady ----, who has learned to play her eyelids like Venetian
blinds. [Footnote: This simile is repeated in various shapes through his
manuscripts--"She moves her eyes up and down like Venetian blinds"--
"Her eyelids play like a Venetian blind," &c &c.]
"An old woman endeavoring to put herself back to a girl.
* * * * *
"A true-trained wit lays his plan like a general--foresees the
circumstances of the conversation--surveys the ground and contingencies
--detaches a question to draw you into the palpable ambuscade of his
ready-made joke.
* * * * *
"A man intriguing, only for the reputation of it--to his confidential
servant: 'Who am I in love with now?'--'The newspapers give you so and
so--you are laying close siege to Lady L., in the Morning Post, and have
succeeded with Lady G. in the Herald--Sir F. is very jealous of you in
the Gazetteer.'--'Remember to-morrow the first thing you do, to put me
in love with Mrs. C.'
"'I forgot to forget the billet-doux at Brooks's'--'By the bye, an't I
in love with you?'--'Lady L. has promised to meet me in her carriage to-
morrow--where is the most public place?'
"'You were rude to her!'--'Oh, no, upon my soul, I made love to her
directly.'
"An old man, who affects intrigue, and writes his own reproaches in the
Morning Post, trying to scandalize himself into the reputation of being
young, as if he could obscure his age by blotting his character--though
never so little candid as when he's abusing himself.
* * * * *
"'Shall you be at Lady ----'s? I'm told the Bramin is to be there, and
the new French philosopher.'--'No--it will be pleasanter at Lady ----'s
conversazione--the cow with two heads will be there.'
* * * * *
"'I shall order my valet to shoot me the very first thing he does in the
morning.'
"'You are yourself affected and don't know it--you would pass for
morose.'
"He merely wanted to be singular, and happened to find the character of
moroseness unoccupied in the society he lived with.
"He certainly has a great deal of fancy and a very good memory; but with
a perverse ingenuity he employs these qualities as no other person does
--for he employs his fancy in his narratives, and keeps his recollections
for his wit--when he makes his jokes you applaud the accuracy of his
memory, and 'tis only when he states his facts that you admire the
flights of his imagination. [Footnote: The reader will find how much
this thought was improved upon afterwards.]
* * * * *
"A fat woman trundling into a room on castors--in sitting can only lean
against her chair--rings on her fingers, and her fat arms strangled with
bracelets, which belt them like corded brawn--rolling and heaving when
she laughs with the rattles in her throat, and a most apoplectic ogle--
you wish to draw her out, as you would an opera-glass.
* * * * *
"A long lean man with all his limbs rambling--no way to reduce him to
compass, unless you could double him like a pocket rule--with his arms
spread, he'd lie on the bed of Ware like a cross on a Good Friday bun--
standing still, he is a pilaster without a base--he appears rolled out
or run up against a wall--so thin that his front face is but the moiety
of a profile--if he stands cross-legged, he looks like a caduceus, and
put him in a fencing attitude, you will take him for a piece of chevaux-
de-frise--to make any use of him, it must be as a spontoon or a fishing-
rod--when his wife's by, he follows like a note of admiration--see them
together, one's a mast, and the other all hulk--she's a dome and he's
built like a glass-house--when they part, you wonder to see the steeple
separate from the chancel, and were they to embrace, he must hang round
her neck like a skein of thread on a lace-maker's bolster--to sing her
praise you should choose a rondeau, and to celebrate him you must write
all Alexandrines.
"I wouldn't give a pin to make fine men in love with me--every coquette
can do that, and the pain you give these creatures is very trifling. I
love out-of-the-way conquests; and as I think my attractions are
singular, I would draw singular objects.
"The loadstone of true beauty draws the heaviest substances--not like
the fat dowager, who frets herself into warmth to get the notice of a
few _papier mache_ fops, as you rub Dutch sealing-wax to draw
paper.
* * * * *
"If I were inclined to flatter I would say that, as you are unlike other
women, you ought not to be won as they are. Every woman can be gained by
time, therefore you ought to be by a sudden impulse. Sighs, devotion,
attention weigh with others; but they are so much your due that no one
should claim merit from them....
"You should not be swayed by common motives--how heroic to form a
marriage for which no human being can guess the inducement--what a
glorious unaccountableness! All the world will wonder what the devil you
could see in me; and, if you should doubt your singularity, I pledge
myself to you that I never yet was endured by woman; so that I should
owe every thing to the effect of your bounty, and not by my own
superfluous deserts make it a debt, and so lessen both the obligation
and my gratitude. In short, every other woman follows her inclination,
but you, above all things, should take me, if you do not like me. You
will, besides, have the satisfaction of knowing that we are decidedly
the worst match in the kingdom--a match, too, that must be all your own
work, in which fate could have no hand, and which no foresight could
foresee.
* * * * *
"A lady who affects poetry.--'I made regular approaches to her by
sonnets and rebusses--a rondeau of circumvallation--her pride sapped by
an elegy, and her reserve surprised by an impromptu--proceeding to storm
with Pindarics, she, at last, saved the further effusion of ink by a
capitulation.'
* * * * *
"Her prudish frowns and resentful looks are as ridiculous as 'twould be
to see a board with notice of spring-guns set in a highway, or of Steel-
traps in a common--because they imply an insinuation that there is
something worth plundering where one would not, in the least, suspect
it.
"The expression of her face is at once a denial of all love-suit, and a
confession that she never was asked--the sourness of it arises not so
much from her aversion to the passion, as from her never having had an
opportunity to show it.--Her features are so unfortunately formed that
she could never dissemble or put on sweetness enough to induce any one
to give her occasion to show her bitterness.--I never saw a woman to
whom you would more readily give credit for perfect chastity.
"_Lady Clio._ 'What am I reading?'--'have I drawn nothing lately?--
is the work-bag finished?--how accomplished I am!--has the man been to
untune the harpsichord?--does it look as if I had been playing on it?
"'Shall I be ill to-day?--shall I be nervous?'--'Your La'ship was
nervous yesterday.'--'Was I?--then I'll have a cold--I haven't had a
cold this fortnight--a cold is becoming--no--I'll not have a cough;
that's fatiguing--I'll be quite well.'--'You become sickness--your
La'ship always looks vastly well when you're ill.'
"'Leave the book half read and the rose half finished--you know I love
to be caught in the fact.'
* * * * *
"One who knows that no credit is ever given to his assertions has the
more right to contradict his words.
"He goes the western circuit, to pick up small fees and impudence.
* * * * *
"A new wooden leg for Sir Charles Easy.
* * * * *
"An ornament which proud peers wear all the year round--chimneysweepers
only on the first of May.
* * * * *
"In marriage if you possess any thing very good, it makes you eager to
get every thing else good of the same sort.
* * * * *
"The critic when he gets out of his carriage should always recollect,
that his footman behind is gone up to judge as well as himself.
* * * * *
"She might have escaped in her own clothes, but I suppose she thought it
more romantic to put on her brother's regimentals."
The rough sketches and fragments of poems, which Mr. Sheridan left
behind him, are numerous; but those among them that are sufficiently
finished to be cited, bear the marks of having been written when he was
very young, and would not much interest the reader--while of the rest it
is difficult to find four consecutive lines, that have undergone enough
of the _toilette_ of composition to be presentable in print. It was
his usual practice, when he undertook any subject in verse, to write
down his thoughts first in a sort of poetical prose,--with, here and
there, a rhyme or a metrical line, as they might occur--and then,
afterwards to reduce with much labor, this anomalous compound to regular
poetry. The birth of his prose being, as we have already seen, so
difficult, it may be imagined how painful was the travail of his verse.
Indeed, the number of tasks which he left unfinished are all so many
proofs of that despair of perfection, which those best qualified to
attain it are always most likely to feel.
There are some fragments of an Epilogue apparently intended to be spoken
in the character of a woman of fashion, which give a lively notion of
what the poem would have been, when complete. The high carriages, that
had just then come into fashion, are thus adverted to:--
"My carriage stared at!--none so high or fine--
Palmer's mail-coach shall be a sledge to mine.
* * * * *
No longer now the youths beside us stand,
And talking lean, and leaning press the hand;
But ogling upward, as aloft we sit,
Straining, poor things, their ankles and their wit,
And, much too short the inside to explore,
Hang like supporters, half way up the door."
The approach of a "veteran husband," to disturb these flirtations and
chase away the lovers, is then hinted at:--
"To persecuted virtue yield assistance,
And for one hour teach younger men their distance,
Make them, in very spite, appear discreet,
And mar the public mysteries of the street."
The affectation of appearing to make love, while talking on different
matters, is illustrated by the following simile:
"So when dramatic statesmen talk apart,
With practis'd gesture and heroic start,
The plot's their theme, the gaping galleries guess,
While Hull and Fearon think of nothing less."
The following lines seem to belong to the same Epilogue:--
"The Campus Martius of St. James's Street,
Where the beau's cavalry pace to and fro,
Before they take the field in Rotten Row;
Where Brooks' Blues and Weltze's Light Dragoons
Dismount in files and ogle in platoons."
He had also begun another Epilogue, directed against female gamesters,
of which he himself repeated a couplet or two to Mr. Rogers a short time
before his death, and of which there remain some few scattered traces
among his papers:--
"A night of fretful passion may consume
All that thou hast of beauty's gentle bloom,
And one distemper'd hour of sordid fear
Print on thy brow the wrinkles of a year.
[Footnote: These four lines, as I have already remarked, are taken--with
little change of the words, but a total alteration of the sentiment--from
the verses which he addressed to Mrs. Sheridan in the year 1773. See page
83.]
* * * * *
Great figure loses, little figure wins.
* * * * *
Ungrateful blushes and disorder'd sighs,
Which love disclaims nor even shame supplies.
* * * * *
Gay smiles, which once belong'd to mirth alone,
And startling tears, which pity dares not own."
The following stray couplet would seem to have been intended for his
description of Corilla:--
"A crayon Cupid, redd'ning into shape,
Betrays her talents to design and scrape."
The Epilogue, which I am about to give, though apparently finished, has
not, as far as I can learn, yet appeared in print, nor am I at all aware
for what occasion it was intended.
"In this gay month when, through the sultry hour,
The vernal sun denies the wonted shower,
When youthful Spring usurps maturer sway,
And pallid April steals the blush of May,
How joys the rustic tribe, to view displayed
The liberal blossom and the early shade!
But ah! far other air our soil delights;
_Here_ 'charming weather' is the worst of blights.
No genial beams rejoice our rustic train,
Their harvest's still the better for the rain.
To summer suns our groves no tribute owe,
They thrive in frost, and flourish best in snow.
When other woods resound the feather'd throng,
Our groves, our woods, are destitute of song.
The thrush, the lark, all leave our mimic vale,
No more we boast our Christmas nightingale;
Poor Rossignol--the wonder of his day,
Sung through the winter--but is mute in May.
Then bashful spring, that gilds fair nature's scene,
O'ercasts our lawns, and deadens every green;
Obscures our sky, embrowns the wooden shade,
And dries the channel of each tin cascade!
Oh hapless we, whom such ill fate betides,
Hurt by the beam which cheers the world besides!
Who love the ling'ring frost, nice, chilling showers,
While Nature's _Benefit_--is death to ours;
Who, witch-like, best in noxious mists perform,
Thrive in the tempest, and enjoy the storm.
O hapless we--unless your generous care
Bids us no more lament that Spring is fair,
But plenteous glean from the dramatic soil,
The vernal harvest of our winter's toil.
For April suns to us no pleasure bring--
Your presence here is all we feel of Spring;
May's riper beauties here no bloom display,
Your fostering smile alone proclaims it May."
A poem upon Windsor Castle, half ludicrous and half solemn, appears,
from the many experiments which he made upon it, to have cost him
considerable trouble. The Castle, he says,
"Its base a mountain, and itself a rock,
In proud defiance of the tempests' rage,
Like an old gray-hair'd veteran stands each shock--
The sturdy witness of a nobler age."
He then alludes to the "cockney" improvements that had lately taken
place, among which the venerable castle appears, like
"A helmet on a Macaroni's head--
Or like old Talbot, turn'd into a fop,
With coat embroider'd and scratch wig at top."
Some verses, of the same mixed character, on the short duration of life
and the changes that death produces, thus begin:--
"Of that same tree which gave the box,
Now rattling in the hand of FOX,
Perhaps his coffin shall be made.--"
He then rambles into prose, as was his custom, on a sort of knight-
errantry after thoughts and images:--"The lawn thou hast chosen for thy
bridal shift--thy shroud may be of the same piece. That flower thou hast
bought to feed thy vanity--from the same tree thy corpse may be decked.
Reynolds shall, like his colors, fly; and Brown, when mingled with the
dust, manure the grounds he once laid out. Death is life's second
childhood; we return to the breast from whence we came, are weaned,...."
There are a few detached lines and couplets of a poem, intended to
ridicule some fair invalid, who was much given to falling in love with
her physicians:--
"Who felt her pulse, obtained her heart."
The following couplet, in which he characterizes an amiable friend of
his, Dr. Bain, with whom he did not become acquainted till the year
1792, proves these fragments to have been written after that period:--
"Not savage ... nor gentle BAIN--
She was in love with Warwick Lane."
An "Address to the Prince," on the exposed style of women's dress,
consists of little more than single lines, not yet wedded into couplets;
such as--"The more you show, the less we wish to see."--"And bare their
bodies, as they mask their minds," &c. This poem, however, must have
been undertaken many years after his entrance into Parliament, as the
following curious political memorandum will prove:--"I like it no better
for being from France--whence all ills come--altar of liberty, begrimed
at once with blood and mire."
There are also some Anacreontics--lively, but boyish and extravagant.
For instance, in expressing his love of bumpers:--
"Were mine a goblet that had room
For a whole vintage in its womb,
I still would have the liquor swim
An inch or two above the brim."
The following specimen is from one of those poems, whose length and
completeness prove them to have been written at a time of life when he
was more easily pleased, and had not yet arrived at that state of glory
and torment for the poet, when
"_Toujours mecontent de ce qu'il vient de faire,
Il plait a tout le monde et ne scaurait se plaire:_"--
"The Muses call'd, the other morning,
On Phoebus, with a friendly warning
That invocations came so fast,
They must give up their trade at last,
And if he meant t' assist them all,
The aid of Nine would be too small.
Me then, as clerk, the Council chose,
To tell this truth in humble prose.--
But Phoebus, possibly intending
To show what all their hopes must end in,
To give the scribbling youths a sample,
And frighten them by my example,
Bade me ascend the poet's throne,
And give them verse--much like their own.
"Who has not heard each poet sing
The powers of Heliconian spring?
Its noble virtues we are told
By all the rhyming crew of old.--
Drink but a little of its well,
And strait you could both write and spell,
While such rhyme-giving pow'rs run through it,
A quart would make an epic poet," &c. &c.
A poem on the miseries of a literary drudge begins thus promisingly:--
"Think ye how dear the sickly meal is bought,
By him who works at verse and trades in thought?"
The rest is hardly legible; but there can be little doubt that he would
have done this subject justice;--for he had himself tasted of the
bitterness with which the heart of a man of genius overflows, when forced
by indigence to barter away (as it is here expressed) "the reversion of
his thoughts," and
"Forestall the blighted harvest of his brain."
It will be easily believed that, in looking over the remains, both
dramatic and poetical, from which the foregoing specimens are taken, I
have been frequently tempted to indulge in much ampler extracts. It
appeared to me, however, more prudent to rest satisfied with the
selections here given; for, while less would have disappointed the
curiosity of the reader, more might have done injustice to the memory of
the author.