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The misgivings which he had at this time were well founded. He considered that the fact of his having obtained from Colman a promise to read any play that he might write constituted an obligation on his part to submit this piece to Colman rather than to Garrick. He accordingly placed it in Colman's hands; but it is impossible to say if the work of elaborate revision which Goldsmith began in the spring of 1772 was due to the comments made by this manager on the first draft or to the author's reconsideration of his work as a whole. But the amended version was certainly in Colman's hands in the summer of this year (1772). The likelihood is that Colman would have refused point-blank to have anything to do with the comedy after he had read the first draft had it not been that just at this time Goldsmith's reputation was increased to a remarkable extent by the publication of his Histories. It would be difficult to believe how this could be, but, as usual, we are indebted to Mr. Boswell for what information we have on this point. Boswell had been for some time out of London, and on returning he expressed his amazement at the celebrity which Goldsmith had attained. “Sir,” he cried to Johnson, “Goldsmith has acquired more fame than all the officers last war who were not generals!”
“Why, sir,” said Johnson, “you will find ten thousand fit to do what they did before you find one who does what Goldsmith has done”—a bit of dialogue that reminds one of the reply of the avariciousprima donnawhen the Emperor refused to accede to her terms on the plea that were he to pay her her price she would be receiving more than any of his marshals. “Eh bien, mon sire. Let your marshals sing to you.”
At any rate, Colman got the play—and kept it. He would give the author no straightforward opinion as to its prospects in his hands. He refused to say when he would produce it—nay, he declined to promise that he would produce it at all. Goldsmith was thus left in torment for month after month, and the effect of the treatment that he received was to bring on an illness, and the effect of his illness was to sink him to a depth of despondency that even Goldsmith had never before sounded. The story told by Cooke of his coming upon the unhappy man in a coffeehouse, and of the latter's attempt to give him some of the details of the plot of the comedy, speaks for itself. “I shook my head,” wrote Cooke, “and said that I was afraid the audience, under their then sentimental impressions, would think it too broad and farcical for comedy.” This was poor comfort for the author; but after a pause he shook the man by the hand, saying piteously: “I am much obliged to you, my dear friend, for the candour of your opinion, but it is all I can do; for alas! I find that my genius, if ever I had any, has of late totally deserted me.”
This exclamation is the most piteous that ever came from a man of genius; and there can be no doubt of the sincerity of its utterance, for it was during these miserable months that he began a new novel, but found himself unable to get further than a few chapters. And all this time, when, in order to recover his health, he should have had no worries of a lesser nature, he was being harassed by the trivial cares of a poor, generous man's life—those mosquito vexations which, accumulating, become more intolerable than a great calamity.
He had once had great hopes of good resulting from Colman's taking up the management of Covent Garden, and had written congratulations to him within the first week of his entering into possession of the theatre. A very different letter he had now to write to the same man. Colman had endeavoured to evade the responsibility of giving him a direct answer about the play. He clearly meant that the onus of refusing it should lie at the door of some one else.
“Dear Sir,” wrote the author in January, 1773, “I entreat you'll release me from that state of suspense in which I have been kept for a long time. Whatever objections you have made or shall make to my play I will endeavour to remove and not argue about them. To bring in any new judges either of its merits or faults I can never submit to. Upon a former occasion when my other play was before Mr. Garrick he offered to bring me before Mr. Whitehead's tribunal, but I refused the proposal with indignation. I hope I shall not experience as hard treatment from you as from him.... For God's sake take the play and let us make the best of it, and let me have the same measure at least which you have given as bad plays as mine.”
Upon receiving this letter, Colman at once returned to him the manuscript of the play, and on the author's unfolding it he found that on the back of almost every page, on the blank space reserved for the prompter's hieroglyphs, some sneering criticism was scrawled. To emphasise this insult Colman had enclosed a letter to the effect that if the author was still unconvinced that the piece would be a failure, he, Colman, would produce it.
Immediately on receipt of this contemptible effort at contempt Goldsmith packed up the play and sent it to Garrick at Drury Lane. That same evening, however, he met Johnson and told him what he had done; and Johnson, whose judgment on the practical side of authorship was rarely at fault, assured him that he had done wrong and that he must get the manuscript back without delay, and submit to Colman's sneers for the sake of having the comedy produced. Upon Johnson's promising to visit Colman, and to urge upon him the claims of Goldsmith to his consideration, the distracted author wrote to Drury Lane:
“Upon more mature deliberation and the advice of a sensible friend, I begin to think it indelicate in me to throw upon you the odium of confirming Mr. Colman's sentence. I therefore request that you will send my play by my servant back; for having been assured of having it acted at the other house, though I confess yours in every respect more to my wish, yet it would be folly in me to forgo an advantage which lies in my power of appealing from Mr. Colman's opinion to the judgment of the town.”
Goldsmith got back the play, and Johnson explained to him, as he did some years later to Reynolds, that the solicitations which he had made to Colman to put it in rehearsal without delay amounted almost to force. At any rate, the play was announced and the parts distributed to the excellent company which Colman controlled. It was soon proved that he controlled some members of this company only too well. The spirit in, which he set about the discharge of his duties as a manager was apparent to every one during the earliest rehearsals. Johnson, writing to an American correspondent, mentioned that Colman made no secret of his belief that the play would be a failure. Far from it. He seems to have taken the most extraordinary trouble to spread his belief far and wide; and when a manager adopts such a course, what chance, one may ask, has the play? What chance, the players could not but ask, have the players?
This was possibly the only occasion in the history of the English drama on which such questions could be asked. If managers have a fault at all—a question which is not yet ripe for discussion—it has never been in the direction of depreciating a play which they are about to produce—that is, of course, outside the author's immediate circle. It is only when the play has failed that they sometimes allow that it was a bad one, and incapable of being saved even by the fine acting of the company and the sumptuous mounting.
But Colman controlled his company all too well, and after a day or two it was announced that the leading lady, the accomplished Mrs. Abington, had retired from the part of Miss Hardcastle; that Smith, known as Gentleman Smith, had refused to play Young Marlow; and that Woodward, the most popular comedian in the company, had thrown up the part of Tony Lumpkin.
Here, in one day, it seemed that Colman had achieved his aims, and the piece would have to be withdrawn by the author. This was undoubtedly the managerial view of the situation which had been precipitated by the manager, and it was shared by those of the author's friends who understood his character as indifferently as did Colman. They must all have been somewhat amazed when the author quietly accepted the situation and affirmed that he would rather that his play were damned by bad players than merely saved by good acting. One of the company who had the sense to perceive the merits of the piece, Shuter, the comedian, who was cast for the part of old Hardcastle, advised Goldsmith to give Lewes, the harlequin, the part of Young Marlow; Quick, a great favourite with the public, was to act Tony Lumpkin; and, after a considerable amount of wrangling, Mrs. Bulkley, lately Miss Wilford, who had been the Miss Richland ofThe Good-Natured Man, accepted the part which the capricious Mrs. Abington resigned.
Another start was made with the rehearsals of the piece, and further efforts were made by Colman to bring about the catastrophe which he had predicted. He refused to let a single scene be painted for the production, or to supply a single new dress; his ground being that the money spent in this way would be thrown away, for the audience would never allow the piece to proceed beyond the second act.
But happily Dr. Johnson had his reputation as a prophet at stake as well as Colman, and he was singularly well equipped by Nature for enforcing his views on any subject. He could not see anything of what was going on upon the stage; but his laugh at the succession of humorous things spoken by the company must have had an inspiring effect upon every one, except Colman. Johnson's laugh was the strongest expression of appreciation of humour of which the century has a record. It was epic. To say that Johnson's laugh at the rehearsals ofShe Stoops to Conquersaved the piece would perhaps be going too far. But can any one question its value as a counteracting agent to Colman's depressing influence on the stage? Johnson was the only man in England who could make Colman (and every one else) tremble, and his laugh had the same effect upon the building in which it was delivered. It was the Sirocco against a wet blanket. When one thinks of the feeling of awe which was inspired by the name of Dr. Johnson, not only during the last forty years of the eighteenth century, but well into the nineteenth, one begins to appreciate the value of his vehement expression of satisfaction upon the people on the stage. Goldsmith dedicated his play to Johnson, and assuredly the compliment was well earned. Johnson it was who compelled Colman to produce the piece, and Johnson it was who encouraged the company to do their best for it, in spite of the fact that they were all aware that their doing their best for it would be resented by their manager.
Reynolds also, another valuable friend to the author, sacrificed several of his busiest hours in order to attend the rehearsals. His sister's sacrifices to the same end were perhaps not quite so impressive, nor were those made by that ingenious “country gentleman,” Mr. Cradock, referred to by Walpole. Miss Horneck, his beautiful “Jessamy Bride,” and her sister, lately married to Mr. Bunbury, bore testimony to the strength of their friendship for the poet, by accompanying him daily to the theatre.
But, after all, these good friends had not many opportunities of showing their regard for him in the same way; for the play must have had singularly few rehearsals. Scarcely a month elapsed between the date of Colman's receiving the manuscript on its being returned by Garrick and the production of the piece. It is doubtful if more than ten rehearsals took place after the parts were recast. If the manager kept the author in suspense for eighteen months respecting the fate of his play, he endeavoured to make up for his dilatoriness now. It was announced for Monday, March 15th, and, according to Northcote, it was only on the morning of that day that the vexed question of what the title should be was settled. For some time the author and his friends had been talking the matter over. “We are all in labour for a name to Goldy's play,” wrote Johnson.The Mistakes of a Night, The Old House a New Inn, and The Belle's Stratagemwere suggested in turn. It was Goldsmith himself who gave it the title under which it was produced.
On the afternoon of this day, March 15th, the author was the guest at a dinner-party organised in his honour. It is easy to picture this particular function. The truth was that Colman's behaviour had broken the spirit not only of the author, but of the majority of his friends as well. They would all make an effort to cheer up poor Goldsmith; but every one knows how cheerless a function is one that is organised with such charitable intentions. It is not necessary that one should have been in a court of law watching the face of the prisoner in the dock when the jury have retired to consider their verdict in order to appreciate the feelings of Goldsmith when his friends made their attempt to cheer him up. The last straw added on to the cheerlessness of the banquet was surely to be found in the accident that every one wore black! The King of Sardinia had died a short time before, and the Court had ordered mourning to be worn for some weeks for this potentate. Johnson was very nearly outraging propriety by appearing in coloured raiment, but George Steevens, who called for him to go to the dinner, was fortunately in time to prevent such a breach of etiquette. “I would not for ten pounds have seemed so retrograde to any general observance,” cried Johnson in offering his thanks to his benefactor. Happily the proprieties were saved; but what must have been the effect of the appearance of these gentlemen in black upon the person whom they meant to cheer up!
Reynolds told his pupil, Northcote, what effect these resources of gaiety had upon Goldsmith. His mouth became so parched that he could neither eat nor drink, nor could he so much as speak in acknowledgment of the well-meant act of his friends. When the party after this entertainment set out for the theatre they must have suggested, all being in black, a more sombre procession than one is accustomed to imagine when conjuring up a picture of an eighteenth-century theatre party.
And Goldsmith was missing!
Unfortunately Boswell was not present, or we should not be left in doubt as to how it happened that no one thought of taking charge of Goldsmith. But no one seemed to think of him, and so his disappearance was never noticed. His friends arrived at the theatre and found their places, Johnson in the front row of the boxes; and the curtain was rung up, and Goldsmith was forgotten under the influence of that comedy which constitutes his greatest claim to be remembered by theatre-goers of to-day.
He was found by an acquaintance a couple of hours later wandering in the Mall of St. James's Park, and was only persuaded to go to the theatre by its being represented to him that his services might be required should it be found necessary to alter something at the last moment.
Now, among the members of that distinguished audience there was a man named Cumberland. He was the author ofThe West Indianand several other plays, and he was regarded as one of the leaders of the sentimental school, the demise of which was satirised in the prologue to this very play which was being performed. Cumberland was a man who could never see a particle of good in anything that was written by another. It was a standing entertainment with Garrick to “draw him on” by suggesting that some one had written a good scene in a play, or was about to produce an interesting book. In a moment Cumberland was up, protesting against the assumption that the play or the book could be worth anything. So wide a reputation had he for decrying every other author that when Sheridan producedThe Critic; or, the Tragedy Rehearsed, his portrait was immediately recognised in Sir Fretful Plagiary.
What must have been the feelings of this man when, from the first, the play, which he had come to wreck, was received by the whole house with uproarious applause? Well, we don't know what he felt like, but we know what he looked like. One of the newspapers described him as “looking glum,” and another contained a rhymed epigram describing him as weeping. Goldsmith entered the theatre by the stage door at the beginning of the fifth act, where Tony Lumpkin and his mother appear close to their own house, and the former pretends that the chaise has broken down on Crackscull Common. He had no sooner got into the “wings” than he heard a hiss. “What's that, sir?” he whispered to Colman, who was beside him. “Psha, sir! what signifies a squib when we have been sitting on a barrel of gunpowder all night?” was the reply. The story is well known; and its accuracy has never been im peached. And the next day it was well known that that solitary hiss came from Cumberland, the opinion that it was due to the malevolence of Macpherson, whose pretensions to the discovery ofOssianwere exposed by Johnson, being discredited.
But the effect of Colman's brutality and falsehood into the bargain had not a chance of lasting long. The hiss was received with cries of “Turn him out!” and, with an addition to the tumultuous applause of all the house, Goldsmith must have been made aware in another instant of the fact that he had written the best comedy of the day and that Colman had lied to him. From the first there had been no question of sitting on a barrel of gunpowder. Such applause could never greet the last act of a play the first four acts of which had been doubtful. He must have felt that at last he had conquered—that he had by one more achievement proved to his own satisfaction—and he was hard to satisfy—that those friends of his who had attributed genius to him had not been mistaken; that those who, like Johnson and Percy and Reynolds, had believed in him before he had written the work that made him famous, had not been misled.
The next day all London was talking ofShe Stoops to Conquerand of Colman. Horace Walpole, who detested Goldsmith, and who found when he went to see the play that it was deplorably vulgar, mentioned in a letter which he wrote to Lady Ossory on the morning after the production that it had “succeeded prodigiously,” and the newspapers were full of epigrams at the expense of the manager. If Colman had had the sense to keep to himself his forebodings of the failure of the piece, he would not have left himself open to these attacks; but, as has been said, he took as much pains to decry the coming production as he usually did to “puff” other pieces. It would seem that every one had for several days been talking about nothing else save the coming failure of Dr. Goldsmith's comedy. Only on this assumption can one now understand the poignancy of the “squibs”—some of them partook largely of the character of his own barrel of gunpowder—levelled against Colman. He must have been quite amazed at the clamour that arose against him; it became too much for his delicate skin, and he fled to Bath to get out of the way of the scurrilous humourists who were making him a target for their pop-guns. But even at Bath he failed to find a refuge. Writing to Mrs. Thrale, Johnson said: “Colman is so distressed with abuse that he has solicited Goldsmith to take him off the rack of the newspapers.”
It was characteristic of Goldsmith that he should do all that was asked of him and that he should make no attempt, either in public or in private, to exult in his triumph over the manager. The only reference which he made to his sufferings while Colman was keeping him on the rack was in a letter which he wrote to his friend Cradock, who had written an epilogue for the play, to explain how it was that this epilogue was not used at the first representation. After saying simply, “The play has met with a success beyond your expectation or mine,” he makes his explanation, and concludes thus: “Such is the history of my stage adventure, and which I have at last done with. I cannot help saying that I am very sick of the stage, and though I believe I shall get three tolerable benefits, yet I shall on the whole be a loser, even in a pecuniary light; my ease and comfort I certainly lost while it was in agitation.”
Goldsmith showed that he bore no grudge against Colman; but the English stage should bear him a grudge for his treatment of one of the few authors of real genius who have contributed to it for the benefit of posterity. IfShe Stoops to Conquerhad been produced when it first came into the manager's hands, Goldsmith would certainly not have written the words just quoted. What would have been the result of his accepting the encouragement of its production it is, of course, impossible to tell; but it is not going too far to assume that the genius which gave the worldThe Good-Natured ManandShe Stoops to Conquerwould have been equal to the task of writing a third comedy equal in merit to either of these. Yes, posterity owes Colman a grudge.
FOR some time after the publication of my novelThe Jessamy Bridemy time was fully occupied by replying to correspondents—strangers to me—who were good enough to take an interest in Mary Horneck, the younger of the two charming sisters with whom Goldsmith associated for several years of his life on terms of the warmest affection. The majority of these communications were of a very interesting character. Only one correspondent told me I should not have allowed Oliver Goldsmith to die so young, though two expressed the opinion that I should have made Goldsmith marry Mary Horneck; nearly all the remaining communications which were addressed to me contained inquiries as to the origin of the sobriquet applied to Mary Horneck in Goldsmith's epistle. To each and to all such inquiries I have, alas! been compelled to return the humiliating reply that I have not yet succeeded in finding out what was the origin of the family joke which made Goldsmith's allusions to “The Jessamy Bride” and “Little Comedy” intelligible to the “Devonshire Crew” of Hornecks and Reynoldses. I have searched volume after volume in the hope of having even the smallest ray of light thrown upon this matter, but I have met with no success. I began to feel, as every post brought me a sympathetic inquiry as to the origin of the pet name, that I should take the bold step of confessing my ignorance to the one gentleman who, I was confident, could enlighten it. “If Dr. Brewer does not know why Mary Horneck was called 'The Jessamy Bride,' no one alive can know it,” was what I said to myself. Before I could write to Dr. Brewer the melancholy new's came of his death; and very shortly afterwards I got a letter from his daughter, Mrs. Brewer Hayman, in which she mentioned that her lamented father had been greatly interested in my story, and asked if I could tell her what was the meaning of the phrase.
It does certainly seem extraordinary that no biographer of Goldsmith, of Reynolds, or of Burke, should have thought it worth while writing a letter to the “Jessamy Bride” herself to ask her why she was so called by Goldsmith. The biographers of Goldsmith and the editors of Boswell seem to have had no hesitation in stating that Mary Horneck was the “Jessamy Bride,” and that her elder sister was “Little Comedy”; but they do not appear to have taken a wider view of their duties than was comprised in this bare statement. The gossipy Northcote was surely in the secret, and he might have revealed the truth without detracting from the interest of the many inaccuracies in his volume. Northcote had an opportunity of seeing daily the portrait of Mary which Sir Joshua painted, and which hung in his studio until the day of his death, when it passed into the possession of the original, who had become Mrs. Gwyn, having married Colonel, afterwards General, Gwyn.
But although up to the present I have not obtained even as much evidence as would be termed a clue by the sanguine officers of Scotland Yard, as to the origin of the sobriquet, I am not without hope that some day one of my sympathetic correspondents will be able to clear up the matter for me. I am strengthened in this hope by the fact that among those who were kind enough to write to me, was a lady who can claim relationship to Mary Horneck, and who did not hesitate to send to me a bundle of letters, written in the early part of the century by the “Jessamy Bride” herself, with permission to copy and print any portion of the correspondence that I might consider of interest. Of this privilege I gladly avail myself, feeling sure that the interest which undoubtedly attaches to many portions of the letters will exculpate me for the intrusion of a personal note into these papers.
The grandfather of my correspondent (Mrs. Cor-ballis, of Ratrath, co. Meath, Ireland) was first cousin to the Hornecks. He was the Rev. George Mangles, chaplain to George III when Mrs. Gwyn (Mary Horneck) was Woman of the Bedchamber to the Queen. As General Gwyn was Equerry to the King it can easily be understood that the two families should be on terms of the most intimate friendship. My correspondent mentions that her mother, who only died thirteen years ago, was almost every year a visitor at the house of Mrs. Gwyn, at Kew, and said that she retained her beauty up to the very last. Confirmation of this statement is to be found in a passage in the “Jerningham Letters.” Lady Bedingfeld's Journal contains the following entry opposite the date “September 19th, 1833”:
“When the Queen returned to the drawing-room we found several ladies there. I observed a very old lady with striking remains of beauty, and whose features seemed very familiar to me. I felt to know her features by heart, and at last I heard her name, Mrs. Gwyn, the widow of a General, and near ninety! I had never seen her before, but when I was a girl my uncle the Poet, gave me a portrait of her, copied from Sir Jos. Reynolds, small size in a Turkish costume and attitude. This picture is still at Cossey, and of course must be very like her since it led me to find her out.”
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The picture referred to must certainly have been “very like” the original, for it was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds in 1772, sixty-one years before. The engraving of it cannot but make one feel how exquisite must have been the charm of Goldsmith's young friend, who survived him by sixty-six years; for Mrs. Gywn did not die until 1840.
Very pathetic indeed it is to look at the sweet girlish face, which appears in this portrait and also in that of the two sisters done in chalk by the same master-hand, and then to read some of the passages in the letters in which the writer refers to her old age and feebleness. Happily, with Lady Bedingfeld's diary before us, our imagination is not largely drawn on for a picture of the “Jessamy Bride” broken down by age and infirmity. The woman who can be easily recognised by a stranger at seventy-nine by her likeness to a portrait painted at the age of eighteen, would make Ninon de l'Enclos envious.
The letters are written to Mrs. Mangles, the widow of the Chaplain to George III, and the majority touch upon private matters with sprightliness, and occasionally a delicate humour, such as Goldsmith would certainly have appreciated. We seem to hear, while reading these passages, faint echoes of the girlish laughter which must have rung through that room in the inn at Calais, when Goldsmith paced up and down in a mock fury because two officers passing the window looked more eagerly at the girls than at him.
It is obvious, however, that the Queen's Woman of the Bedchamber would write occasionally to her friend on some topic of public interest; consequently we find, in the course of the correspondence, many passages which throw a flood of light upon the incidents of the day. In a letter dated April 10th, 1818,
Mrs. Gwyn describes with great sprightliness the wedding of the Princess Elizabeth, the third daughter of George III, with Prince Hesse-Hombourgh, which took place three days before:
“I delayed to write till after the marriage to tell you about it, as you seemed to wish it. We were all appointed at seven o'clock in the evening, when I went as smart as I could make myself. I wore the lavender sattin robe, the same you saw me wear at Court, as the shape was the same, and itsaved buying, trimmed with silver, a new white sattin petticoat, with a white net and silver over it, no hoop, but a Court head dress, and lappets down. The Company consisting of the great officers of state, and ambassadors and their wives, and the different households were the Company.
“At 8 all were assembled when the Royal family in procession according to their rank, went into the great drawing-room in the Queen's house. The Duke of York led the Queen, the Prince Regent not being quite recovered of his gout, and it is said the remembrance of his poor daughter's marriage was too painful to him to undertake it. Before the state canopy was set a fine communion table, red velvet and gold, all the gold plate belonging to that service arranged behind it, and 3 Bishops and other clergymen standing behind the table, it looked very magnificent. Then came theHero, the Prince Hesse Hombourgh, he went up to the table and stood there, I believe 10 minutes alone, he looked well a manly unembarassed figure, then walked in the Bride glittering with silver and diamonds, and really looked very handsome, and her behaviour and manner was as well as possible, grace and quiet, when she knelt she wept, and then he approached nearer her in case her emotion would require his care, which happily was not the case. The Duke of York gave her away, and behaved very bad. The Prince Hombourgh thought when he had said I will very loud and distinct, all was done, but the Arch Bishop desired him to repeat after him, which he was therefore obliged to do. He cannot speak English and made such works of it, it was then the Duke of York laughed so, he was obliged to stuff his handkerchief in his mouth to conceal it. He promised to love her. When all was over he saluted his bride on each side the face, and then her hand, with a good-natured frank manner, then led her to the Queen, whose hand only he kissed, the rest of the Royal family he embraced after his own fashion, and he led her off with a very good air, and did not seem to trouble his head about hisEnglish performance.” The Princess Elizabeth—the shy young bride who was so overcome with emotion—had scarcely more than passed her forty-ninth year when she was borne to the altar, and the hero of the hour was, we learn from other sources than Mrs. Gwyn's letters, most unheroically sick when driving away in a close carriage with his bride.
The Prince Regent's daughter, the Princess Charlotte, had died the previous year, hence the marrying panic which seized all the other members of the Royal Family, lest the dynasty should become extinct. It is pleasing to reflect that such gloomy apprehensions have since been amply averted.
Regarding the death of the Princess Charlotte Mrs. Gwyn writes:
“... While I was at Oatlands the Prince Leopold came to see the Duchess and staid there 3 hours, no one but the Duchess saw him—she told me he is more composed in his manners now when seen by people in general but with her alone his grief seems the same and he is gratified by being allowed to vent it to one who feels for him and knows how to soothe his mind. I can not doubt the Princess's life and his child's were thrown away, by mismanagement—she was so bled and starved she had no strength left—her own fortitude and energy supported her till nature could no more. I could tell you much on the subject but it would take up too much in a letter and besidesit is over. Dr. Crofts thought he was doing for the best no doubt—It comes to whatIalways say of them—they can't do much and are very often wrong in their opinions as you can vouch....”
In another letter Mrs. Gywn's adopted daughter was her amanuensis. It contains many paragraphs of interest, especially to present-day readers. The girl writes:
“Mamma was of course summoned to attend the Duke of Cambridge's Wedding, but she was not in the room when the Ceremony was performed as before, on account of the Queen having been ill. Mamma admires the Duchess of Cambridge very much: though she is not exactly handsome, she is very pleasing, and a pretty figure, but I understand she must have a new stay maker to set her up etc. The Duke of Kent and his bride are now expected. The Duke of Clarence it is expected will be married shortly afterwards. We hear the Duchess of Kent is a little woman with a handsome face, and the Duchess of Clarence uncommonly ugly. We went to Windsor about a month ago to see Princess Sophia as the Queen was not there, and Princess Sophia has a small party every night. We were there three days, and Mamma went to the party every evening, and indeed it was very very dull for her as they play one pool of Commerce, and then they go to a game called Snip, Snap, Snorum, and which Mamma could not play at well without a great deal of trouble to herself, therefore she was obliged to look on for perhaps an hour and half which you may imagine was terrible for her not hearing a word. I was much pleased in one respect while I was there by seeing Dear Prince Leopold whom I had never seen before, and who must be to every body an object of so much interest. He looked to me the picture of grief and melancholy, but those who have seen him repeatedly since his misfortune say he improves every time they see him. Mrs. C.... went one day to see Claremont and was very much pleased. All remains as Princess Charlotte left it, but nobody sees her room in which she died but himself, even her combs and brushes are untouched, and her hat and cloak are where she laid them the day before she died. There are models of her hand and arm one in particular as it is his hand clasped in hers. I suppose you have often heard she had a very beautiful hand and arm, but I will not go on, on so melancholy a subject; yet I am sure it must interest you.”
The Princess Sophia, who instituted the fascinating game referred to in this letter, was, of course, the fifth daughter of George III.
In another letter reference is made to a certain scandal, which Mrs. Gwyn contradicts most vehemently. Even nowadays this particular bit of gossip is remembered by some persons; but at the risk of depriving these pages of the piquancy which attaches to a Court scandal, I will not quote it, but conclude this Personal Note with what seems to me a most pathetic account of the dying king:
“We continue in a state of great anxiety about our dear King, whose state is distressing. Certainly no hope of recovery, and the chances of his continuance very doubtful. His death may be any day, any hour, or he may continue somelittletime longer, it depends on nature holding out against sore disease, which afflicts him universally, and occasions great suffering, this is heartbreaking to hear! and his patience and courage and sweet and kind behaviour to all about him is most touching, so affectionate to his friends and attendants, and thankful for their attention and feeling for him. He will hold the hand of the Duchess of Gloster or S. H. Halford for an hour at a time out of tenderness, till excessive suffering ends it. He wishes to die in peace and charity with all the world, and has reconciled himself to the Duke of Sussex. He hopes his people have found him a merciful King. He says he never hurt anyone, and that, he may truly say as his first wish toallwas good and benevolent, and ever ready to forgive.”
ON a certain evening in March, 1772, the fashionable folk of Bath were as earnestly on pleasure bent as they were wont to be at this season—and every other. The Assembly Rooms were open, a performance was going on at the theatre, the Cave of Harmony was as musical as Pyrrha's Grotto, a high-class concert was taking place under the conductorship of the well-known Mr. Linley, and the Countess of Huntingdon was holding a prayer meeting. For people who took their diversionsà la carte, there was a varied and an abundant menu. Chairs containing precious structures of feathers, lace, and jewels towering over long faces powdered and patched and paintedà la mode, were swinging along the streets in every direction, some with a brace of gold-braided lackeys by each of the windows, but others in charge only of the burly chairmen.
Unobtrusive among the latter class of conveyance was one that a young gentleman, a tall and handsome lad, called from its rank between Pierrepont Street and the South Parade. He gave the bearers instructions to hasten to the house of Mr. Linley in the Crescent, and to inquire if Miss Linley were ready.
If she were not, he told them that they were to wait for her and carry out her directions. The fellows touched their hats and swung off with their empty chair.
The young man then went to a livery stable, and putting a few confidential inquiries to the proprietor, received a few confidential replies, accentuated by a wink or two, and a certain quick uplifting of a knuckly forefinger that had an expression of secretiveness of its own.
“Mum's the word, sir, and mum it shall be,” whispered the man. “I stowed away the trunk, leaving plenty of room for the genuine luggage—lady's luggage, Mr. Sheridan. You know as well as I can tell you, sir, being young but with as shrewd knowingness of affairs in general as might be looked for in the son of Tom Sheridan, to say nought of a lady like your mother, meaning to take no liberty in the world, Mr. Dick, as they call you.”
“I'm obliged to you, Denham, and I'll not forget you when this little affair is happily over. The turn by the 'Bear' on the London Road, we agreed.”
“And there you'll find the chaise, sir, and as good a pair as ever left my stable, and good luck to you, sir!” said the man.
Young Mr. Sheridan then hastened to his father's house in King's Mead Street, and was met by an anxious sister in the hall.
“Good news, I hope, Dick?” she whispered.
“I have been waiting for you all the evening. She has not changed her mind, I hope.”
“She is as steadfast as I am,” said he. “If I could not swear that she would be steadfast, I would not undertake this business on her behalf. When I think of our father——”
“Don't think of him except as applauding your action,” said the girl. “Surely every one with the least spark of generosity will applaud your action, Dick.”
“I wouldn't like to say so much,” said Dick, shaking his head. “Mathews has his friends. No man could know so much about whist as he does without having many friends, even though he be a contemptible scoundrel when he is not employed over a rubber.”
“Who will dare to take the part of Mr. Mathews against you, Dick?” cried his sister, looking at him proudly as the parlour candles shone upon him. “I would that I could go with you as far as London, dear, but that would be impossible.”
“Quite impossible; and where would be the merit in the end?” said Dick, pacing the room as he believed a man of adventure and enterprise would in the circumstances. “You may trust to me to place her in safety without the help of any one.”
“I know it, Dick, I know it, dear, and I am proud of you,” said she, putting her arms about his neck and kissing him. “And look you here, Dick,” she added, in a more practical tone. “Look you here—I find that I can spare another five pounds out of the last bill that came from Ireland. We shall live modestly in this house until you return to us.”
He took the coins which she offered to him wrapped up in a twist of newspaper; but he showed some hesitation—she had to go through a form of forcing it upon him.
“I hope to bring it back to you unbroken,” he murmured; “but in affairs of this sort it is safest to have a pound or two over, rather than under, what is barely needful. That is why I take your coins,—a loan—a sacred loan. Good-bye, I returned only to say good-bye to you, my dearest sister.”
“I knew your good heart, Dick, that was why I was waiting for you. Good-bye, Dick, and God bless you.”
He was putting on his cloak in the hall. He saw that the pistols were in its pockets, and then he suffered his sister to give him another kiss before he passed into the dark street.
He felt for his pistols, and with a hand on each he felt that he was indeed fairly launched upon a great adventure.
He made his way to the London road, and all the time he was wondering if the girl would really come to him in the Sedan chair which he had sent for her. To be sure she had promised to come upon this evening, but he knew enough of the great affairs of this world to be well aware of the fact that the sincerest promise of a maid may be rendered worthless by the merest freak of Fate. Therefore, he knew that he did well to be doubtful respecting the realisation of her promise. She was the beautiful Miss Linley—every one in Bath knew her, and this being so, was it not likely that some one—some prying person—some impudent fellow like that Mathews who had been making love to her, although he had a wife of his own in Wales—might catch a glimpse of her face through the glass of the chair when passing a lamp or a link, and be sufficiently curious to follow her chair to see whither she was going?
That was a likely enough thing to happen, and if it did happen and the alarm of his flight with her were given, what chance would he have of carrying out his purpose? Why, the chaise would be followed, and even if it was not overtaken before London was reached, the resting-place of the fugitives would certainly be discovered in London, and they should be ignominiously brought back to Bath. Yes, unless Mathews were the pursuer, in which case——
Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan grasped more firmly the butt of the pistol in the right-hand pocket of his cloak. He felt at that moment that should Mathews overtake them, the going back to Bath would be on the part only of Mathews.
But how would it be if Mr. Linley had become apprised of his daughter's intention to fly from Bath? He knew very well that Mr. Linley had the best of reasons for objecting to his daughter's leaving Bath. Mr. Linley's income was increased by several hundred pounds by reason of the payments made to him on account of his daughter's singing in public, and he was—very properly, considering his large family—fond of money. Before he had to provide for his family, he took good care that his family—his eldest daughter particularly—helped to provide for him.
Doubtless these eventualities were suggested to him—for young Mr. Sheridan was not without imagination—while on his way through the dark outskirts of the beautiful city to the London Road. The Bear Inn was just beyond the last of the houses. It stood at the junction of the London Road and a narrower one leading past a couple of farms. It was here that he had given instructions for the chaise to wait for him, and here he meant to wait for the young lady who had promised to accompany him to London—and further.
He found the chaise without trouble. It was under the trees not more than a hundred yards down the lane, but the chair, with Miss Linley, had not yet arrived, so he returned to the road and began to retrace his steps, hoping to meet it, yet with some doubts in his mind. Of course, he was impatient. Young gentlemen under twenty-one are usually impatient when awaiting the arrival of the ladies who have promised to run away with them. He was not, however, kept in suspense for an unconscionably long time. He met the chair which he was expecting just when he had reached the last of the lamps of Bath, and out of it stepped the muffled form of Miss Linley. The chairmen were paid with a lavish hand, and Dick Sheridan and Betsy Linley walked on to the chaise without exchanging any but a friendly greeting—there was nothing lover-like in their meeting or their greeting. The elopement was not that of a young woman with her lover; it was, we are assured, that of a young woman anxious to escape from the intolerable position of being the most popular person in the most fashionable city in England, to the peaceful retreat of a convent; and the young man who was to take charge of her was one whom she had chosen for her guardian, not for her lover. Dick Sheridan seems to have been the only young man in Bath who had never made love to Elizabeth Linley. His elder brother, Charles by name, had discharged this duty on behalf of the Sheridan family, and he was now trying to live down his disappointment at being refused, at a farmhouse a mile or two away. The burden was greater than he could bear when surrounded by his sisters in their father's house in King's Mead Street.