CHAPTER X.1782 TO 1798.
Mrs. Siddons’s life between the years 1785 to 1798 was passed in the professional treadmill, and her history during this period is best told by an account of the characters she personated.
After her appearance as Lady Macbeth on February 2nd, she chose to act Desdemona to her brother’s Othello, and, to everyone’s surprise, acted it with a tenderness, playfulness, and simplicity hardly to be expected of the majestic actress, who had terrified her audience by her representation of the Thane of Cawdor’s wife. Campbell tells us that even years after, when he saw her play this part at Edinburgh, not recognising at first who was acting, he was spellbound by her “exquisite gracefulness,” and thought it impossible “this soft, sweet creature could be the Siddons,” until by the emotion and applause of the audience he knew it could be no other.
Unfortunately, in her first representation of this part, she was carelessly given a damp bed to lie on in the death scene, and caught so severe a cold as almost to threaten rheumatic fever. From this time her delicacyseems to date, for we now find her continually complaining and incapacitated from appearing by ill-health.
After Desdemona she appeared in Rosalind, which we can dismiss with the criticism of Young, the actor: “Her Rosalind wanted neither playfulness nor feminine softness, but it was totally without archness—not because she did not properly conceive it; but how could such a countenance be arch?” Her dress, too, excited great amusement—“mysterious nondescript garments.” We have a letter of hers to Hamilton the artist, asking “if he would be so good as to make her a slight sketch for a boy’s dress to conceal the person as much as possible.” The woman who was capable of taking this view of the representation of Rosalind was not capable of acting the part.
Imogen, Ophelia, Catherine in theTaming of the Shrew, and Cordelia, all acted with her brother, followed in quick succession. This hard work entitled her to a salary of twenty-four pounds ten shillings weekly, while her brother drew ten pounds. Not contented with this, however, she made a tour in the provinces, Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, &c. These country tours were not only fatiguing in consequence of the amount of travelling to be done, but also in consequence of the unsympathetic audiences to be faced, and the discomfort of country theatres. The system, also, of absorbing all the profits of provincial actors made her very unpopular in the profession. Some ridiculous stories are related of these tours.
When playing the “sleeping scene” inMacbeth, at Leeds, a boy who had been sent for some porter appeared by mistake on the stage, and walking up, presented it to her. In vain she motioned him away,in vain he was called off behind the scenes; the house roared with laughter, and all illusion was dispelled for the rest of the evening. On another occasion at Leeds, when about to drink poison on the stage, one of the audience in the gallery howled out “Soop it oop, lass!” She endeavoured to frown down the interrupter, but her own solemnity gave way. She was also at country theatres often subjected to bearing the brunt of a local quarrel or facetiousness directed against a member or members of the audience. Once at Liverpool the play ofJane Shore, which had sent London audiences into fits of sobbing and hysterics, was announced. The house was full, and Miss Mellon, from whom we have the story, says the actors behind the scenes expected a repetition of the same emotion; but the people in the gallery, seeing the principal merchants with their families present, thought this a delightful opportunity of indulging their wit respecting the “soldiering.” Accordingly, they formed two bands, one on each side of the gallery, and, from the commencement of the play to the end, kept up a cross-dialogue of impertinence, about “charging guns with brown sugar and cocoanuts,” and “small arms with cinnamon powder and nutmegs.”
Miss Mellon was in agony for the object of her theatrical devotion. She cried, she ran about behind the wings as if she were going out of her senses. Mrs. Siddons, however, calm though deadly pale, merely said to her, with a slight tremor in her voice, “I will go through thetimerequisite for the scenes, but will not utter them.”
She went on the stage; said aloud, “It is useless to act,” crossed her arms, and merely murmured the speeches; and it is a fact that, on the first night oneof Mrs. Siddons’s masterpieces was acted in Liverpool, she went through the entire performance in dumb show.
In December 1785 her second son, George, was born. As soon as she was able to write, she communicated the fact to her friends, the Whalleys, in one of her lively, light-hearted letters:—
“I have another son, healthy and lovely as an angel, born the 26th Dec.; so, you see, I take the earliest opportunity of relieving the anxiety which I know you and my dear Mrs. Whalley will feel till you hear of me. My sweet boy is so like a person of the Royal Family, that I’m rather afraid he’ll bring me to disgrace. My sister jokingly tells me she’s sure ‘my lady his mother has played false with the prince,’ and I must own he’s more like him than anybody else. I will just hint to you that my father was at one time very like the King, which a little saves my credit. I rejoice that you are well, and have such pleasant society, but I wish to God you would return! I have no news for you, except that the prince is going to devote himself entirely to a Mrs. Fitzherbert, and the whole world is in an uproar about it. I know very little of her history more than that it is agreed on all hands that she is a very ambitious and clever woman, and that ‘all good seeming by her revolt will be thought put on for villany,’ for she was thought an example of propriety. I hear, too, that the Duchess of Devonshire is to take her by the hand, and to give her the first dinner when the preliminaries are settled; for it seems everything goes on with the utmost formality—provision made for children, and so on. Some people rejoice and some mourn at this event. I have not heard what his mother says to it. The RoyalFamily have been nearly all ill, but are now recovering, and they graciously intend to command me to play inThe Way to Keep Himthe first night I perform. They are gracious to me beyond measure on all occasions, and take all opportunities to show the world that they are so. How good and considerate is this! They know what a sanction their countenance is, and they are amiable beyond description. Since my confinement I have received the kindest messages from them; they make me of consequence enough to desire I won’t think of playing till I feel quite strong, and a thousand more kind things. I perceive a little shooting in my temples that tells me I have written enough.“I don’t take leave of you, however, without telling you that I am very much disappointed in Sherriffe’s picture of me, and am afraid to employ him about your snuff-box. I don’t know what to do about it, for that promised to be so well that I almost engaged him in the fulness of my heart to do it. I have not been in face these last four months; but now that I am growing as amiable as ever, I shall sit for it as soon as possible. God Almighty bless you both!“Yours,“S. Siddons.”
“I have another son, healthy and lovely as an angel, born the 26th Dec.; so, you see, I take the earliest opportunity of relieving the anxiety which I know you and my dear Mrs. Whalley will feel till you hear of me. My sweet boy is so like a person of the Royal Family, that I’m rather afraid he’ll bring me to disgrace. My sister jokingly tells me she’s sure ‘my lady his mother has played false with the prince,’ and I must own he’s more like him than anybody else. I will just hint to you that my father was at one time very like the King, which a little saves my credit. I rejoice that you are well, and have such pleasant society, but I wish to God you would return! I have no news for you, except that the prince is going to devote himself entirely to a Mrs. Fitzherbert, and the whole world is in an uproar about it. I know very little of her history more than that it is agreed on all hands that she is a very ambitious and clever woman, and that ‘all good seeming by her revolt will be thought put on for villany,’ for she was thought an example of propriety. I hear, too, that the Duchess of Devonshire is to take her by the hand, and to give her the first dinner when the preliminaries are settled; for it seems everything goes on with the utmost formality—provision made for children, and so on. Some people rejoice and some mourn at this event. I have not heard what his mother says to it. The RoyalFamily have been nearly all ill, but are now recovering, and they graciously intend to command me to play inThe Way to Keep Himthe first night I perform. They are gracious to me beyond measure on all occasions, and take all opportunities to show the world that they are so. How good and considerate is this! They know what a sanction their countenance is, and they are amiable beyond description. Since my confinement I have received the kindest messages from them; they make me of consequence enough to desire I won’t think of playing till I feel quite strong, and a thousand more kind things. I perceive a little shooting in my temples that tells me I have written enough.
“I don’t take leave of you, however, without telling you that I am very much disappointed in Sherriffe’s picture of me, and am afraid to employ him about your snuff-box. I don’t know what to do about it, for that promised to be so well that I almost engaged him in the fulness of my heart to do it. I have not been in face these last four months; but now that I am growing as amiable as ever, I shall sit for it as soon as possible. God Almighty bless you both!
“Yours,
“S. Siddons.”
Later she writes again to Whalley:—
“I have at last, my friend, attained theten thousand poundswhich I set my heart upon, and am now perfectly at ease with respect to fortune. I thank God who has enabled me to procure to myself so comfortable an income. I am sure my dear Mrs. Whalley and you will be pleased to hear this from myself. What a thing a balloon would be! but, the deuce take them, I do not find that they are likely to be broughtto any good. Good heaven! what delight it would be to see you for a few days only! I have a nice house, and I could contrive to make up a bed. I know you and my dear Mrs. Whalley would accept my sincere endeavours to accommodate you; but don’t let me be taken by surprise, my dear friend, for were I to see you first at the theatre, I can’t answer for what might be the consequence.“I stand some knocks with tolerable firmness, I suppose from habit; but those of joy being so infinitely less frequent, I conceive must be more difficultly sustained.“You will find I have been a niggard of my praise, when you see your Fanny. Oh! my beloved friend, you could not speak to one who understands those anxieties you mention better than I do. Surely it is needless to say no one more ardently prays that God Almighty, in His mercy, will avert the calamity; and surely, surely there is everything to hope for from such dispositions, improved by such an education. My family is well, God be praised! My two sisters are married and happy. Mrs. Twiss will present us with a new relation towards February. At Christmas I bring my dear girls from Miss Eames, or rather she brings them to me. Eliza is the most entertaining creature in the world; Sally is vastly clever; Maria and George are beautiful; and Harry, a boy with very good parts, but not disposed to learning.”
“I have at last, my friend, attained theten thousand poundswhich I set my heart upon, and am now perfectly at ease with respect to fortune. I thank God who has enabled me to procure to myself so comfortable an income. I am sure my dear Mrs. Whalley and you will be pleased to hear this from myself. What a thing a balloon would be! but, the deuce take them, I do not find that they are likely to be broughtto any good. Good heaven! what delight it would be to see you for a few days only! I have a nice house, and I could contrive to make up a bed. I know you and my dear Mrs. Whalley would accept my sincere endeavours to accommodate you; but don’t let me be taken by surprise, my dear friend, for were I to see you first at the theatre, I can’t answer for what might be the consequence.
“I stand some knocks with tolerable firmness, I suppose from habit; but those of joy being so infinitely less frequent, I conceive must be more difficultly sustained.
“You will find I have been a niggard of my praise, when you see your Fanny. Oh! my beloved friend, you could not speak to one who understands those anxieties you mention better than I do. Surely it is needless to say no one more ardently prays that God Almighty, in His mercy, will avert the calamity; and surely, surely there is everything to hope for from such dispositions, improved by such an education. My family is well, God be praised! My two sisters are married and happy. Mrs. Twiss will present us with a new relation towards February. At Christmas I bring my dear girls from Miss Eames, or rather she brings them to me. Eliza is the most entertaining creature in the world; Sally is vastly clever; Maria and George are beautiful; and Harry, a boy with very good parts, but not disposed to learning.”
In spite of her statement that once she had made ten thousand pounds she would rest contented, we find her for the two next years working without intermission, going from York to Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to Liverpool. In 1788 Kemble succeeded King as manager of Drury Lane, and his sister returned toassist, first of all in his spectacular revival ofMacbeth, in which, among other innovations, he brought in the black, grey, and white spirits, as bands of little boys. One of these imps was insubordinate, and was sent away in disgrace; his name was “Edmund Kean.”
They then actedHenry VIII.together, Kemble contenting himself with “doubling” the characters of Cromwell and Griffith, Bensley having already possession of the part of Wolsey. The representation was a success in every way, and Mrs. Siddons’s Queen Katherine was henceforth ranked as equal to her Lady Macbeth.
On the 7th February following she played for the first time Volumnia to her brother’s Coriolanus. An eye-witness tells us:—
“I remember her coming down the stage in the triumphal entry of her son Coriolanus, when her dumb show drew plaudits that shook the building. She came alone, marching and beating time to the music; rolling (if that be not too strong a term to describe her motion) from side to side, swelling with the triumph of her son. Such was the intoxication of joy which flashed from her eye, and lit up her whole face, that the effect was irresistible. She seemed to me to reap all the glory of that procession to herself. I could not take my eye from her. Coriolanus, banner, and pageant, all went for nothing to me, after she had walked to her place.”
Many are the testimonies of actors and actresses that show her extraordinary personal power. Young relates that he was once acting Beverley with her at Edinburgh. They had reached the fifth act, when Beverley had swallowed the poison, and Bates comes in, and says to the dying man, “Jarvis found you quarrellingwith Jewson in the streets last night.” Mrs. Beverley says, “No, I am sure he did not!” to which Jarvis replies, “Or if I did?” meaning, it may be supposed, to add, “The fault was not with my master.” But the moment he utters the words “Or if I did?” Mrs. Beverley exclaims, “’Tis false, old man! They had no quarrel—there was no cause for quarrel!” In uttering this, Mrs. Siddons caught hold of Jarvis, and gave the exclamation with such piercing grief, that Young said his throat swelled and his utterance was choked. He stood unable to repeat the words which, as Beverley, he ought to have immediately delivered. The prompter repeated the speech several times, till Mrs. Siddons, coming up to her fellow-actor, put the tips of her fingers on his shoulders, and said in a low voice, “Mr. Young, recollect yourself.”
Macready relates an equally remarkable instance of her power. In the last act of Rowe’sTamerlane, when, by the order of the tyrant Moneses, Aspasia’s lover is strangled before her face, she worked herself up to such a pitch of agony that, as she sank a lifeless heap before the murderer, the audience remained for several moments awe-struck, then clamoured for the curtain to fall, believing that she was really dead; and only the earnest assurances of the manager to the contrary could satisfy them. Holman and the elder Macready were among the spectators, and looked aghast at one another. “Macready, do I look as pale as you?” inquired the former.
On another occasion, when performingHenry VIII.with a raw “supernumerary” who was playing Surveyor, when she warned him against giving false testimony against his master, her look was so terrific that the unfortunate youth came off perspiring withterror, and swearing that nothing would induce him to meet that woman’s eyes again.
Had Mrs. Siddons lived in our day, every shop-window would have been crowded with photographs of her classically beautiful face, in every pose and every costume. Mercifully she lived in the days of Gainsborough and Reynolds, and is, therefore, the original of two of the most beautiful female portraits ever painted. Sir Joshua is said to have borrowed his conception from a figure designed by Michael Angelo on the roof of the Sixtine Chapel. She is seated in a chair of state, with two figures behind holding the dagger and the bowl. The head is thrown back in an attitude of dramatic inspiration, the right hand thrown over an arm of the seat, the left raised, pointing upwards. A tiara, necklace, and splendid folds of drapery enhance the stateliness of the composition. It is, undoubtedly, the great painter’s masterpiece. “The picture,” Northcote says, “kept him in a fever.” The unfavourable reception his pictures of the year before had met with made him resolved to show the critics that he was not past his prime, while the grandeur and magnificence of the sitter stimulated him to the exertion of all his genius.
Mrs. Siddons was fond, in later years, of describing her sittings. “Ascend your undisputed throne,” said the painter, leading her to the platform. “Bestow on me some idea of the tragic muse.” And then, when it was ended, the great painter insisted on inscribing his name on her robe, saying that he could not lose the honour of going down to posterity on the hem of her garment. We, who only know of her greatness from hearsay, can form some idea of what she must have been from this magnificent conception.
Very nearly as noble and beautiful is the portrait by Gainsborough. The delicacy of a refined English complexion has never been so beautifully painted, while the tone and colour is as exquisite as anything Gainsborough ever did. The light transparent blue, cool yellow, crimson, brown, and black, forms an enchanting setting for the lovely head, which stands out clear and delicate. It is said, that while Gainsborough was painting her, after working in an absorbed silence for some time, he suddenly exclaimed, “Damn it, Madam, there is no end to your nose!” And, indeed, it does stand out a little sharply. But the great feature of the Kembles was the jaw-bone. The actress herself exclaimed, laughing, “The Kemble jaw-bone! Why, it is as notorious as Samson’s!” Mrs. Jameson declares that she saw Mrs. Siddons sitting near Gainsborough’s portrait two years before her death, and, looking from one to the other, she says, “It was like her still, at the age of seventy.”
Years after, Fanny Kemble, her grand-daughter, while walking through the streets of Baltimore, saw an engraving of Reynolds’s “Tragic Muse” and Lawrence’s picture of John Kemble’s “Hamlet.” “We stopped,” she says, “before them, and my father looked with a great deal of emotion at these beautiful representations of his beautiful kindred. It was a sort of sad surprise to meet them in this other world, where we are wandering aliens and strangers.”
From the numerous portraits extant of Mrs. Siddons we can form an idea of her appearance, of which such legendary accounts have been handed down. She was much above middle height; as a girl she was exceedingly thin and spare, and this remained her characteristic until she was about twenty-two or three.“Sarah Kemble would be a fine-looking woman one of these days,” a friend of her father remarked, “provided she could but add flesh to her bones, and provided her eyes were as small again.”
This is, in fact, what did occur. Her increasing plumpness rounded off all angles, making the eyes less prominent; and at the age of twenty-four or twenty-five she was in the very prime of her marvellous beauty. She had a singular energy and elasticity of motion. Her head was beautifully set on her shoulders. Her features were fine and expressive, the nose a little long, but counterbalanced by the height of the brow, and firmly-modelled chin. The eye-brows were marked, and ran straight across the brow; her eyes positively flamed at times. A fixed pallor overspread her features in later days, which was seldom tinged with colour. It is difficult, looking at the stately fine lady painted by Gainsborough, to imagine the bursts of passion that convulsed her on the stage. Her voice, as years matured its power, was capable of every inflection of feeling; while her articulation was singularly clear and exact. There was no undue raising of the voice, no overdoing of action; all was moderate and quiet until passion was demanded, and then swift and sudden it burst forth.
In Kemble’s manner at times there was a sacrifice of energy to grace. This observation, Braden tells us, was made by Mrs. Siddons herself, who admired her brother, in general, as much as she loved him. She illustrated her meaning by rising and placing herself in the attitude of one of the old Egyptian statues; the knees joined together, and the feet turned a little inwards. Placing her elbows close to her sides, she folded her hands, and held them upright, with thepalms pressed to each other. Having made those present observe that she had assumed one of the most constrained, and, therefore, most ungraceful positions possible, she proceeded to recite the curse of King Lear on his undutiful offspring, in a manner which madehair rise and flesh creep, and then called on us to remark the additional effect which was gained by the concentrated energy which the unusual and ungraceful posture in itself implied.
It is a characteristic trait, that by the Kemble family John should have been considered a finer player than Sarah. We know that he continually gave her directions and instructions, which she accepted with all humility, and followed, until she had made herselfsureof her ground. No one, however gifted, could then shake her conscientious adherence to her own views.
The subtle difference that lies between genius and talent separated the two. Kemble repeated beautiful words suitably; Mrs. Siddons was magnificent before she spoke, thrilling her audience with a silence more significant than all else in the development of human emotion. We can see how grand she was, independently of her author, by the miserable plays she made famous; when her genius was no longer present to breathe life and passion into them they passed into oblivion.
The number of indifferent plays she was entreated to appear in were legion. All her friends seemed to think they could write plays, and that she was the one and only person who could appear in them. We find her piteously writing to a friend who had sent her a tragedy:—
“It is impossible for you to conceive how hard it isto say thatAstartewill not do as you and I would have it do. Thank God, it is over! It has been so bitter a sentence for me to pronounce, that it has wrung drops of sorrow from the very bottom of my heart. Let me entreat, if you have any idea that I am too tenacious of your honour, that you will suffer me to ask the opinion of others, which may be done without naming the author. I must, however, premise that what is charming in the closet often ceases to be so when it comes into consideration for the stage.”
Conceited Fanny Burney must needs write a tragedy,Edwin and Elgitha. Her stumbling-block was “Bishops.” At that time there was a popular drink called “Bishop,” composed of certain intoxicating ingredients. When, therefore, in one of the earlier scenes the King gave the order “Bring in the Bishop,” the audience went into roars of laughter. The dying scene seemed to have no effect in damping their mirth. A passing stranger, in a tragic tone, proposed to carry the expiring heroine to the other side of a hedge. This hedge, though remote from any dwelling, proved to be a commodious retreat, for, in a few minutes afterwards, the wounded lady was brought from behind it on an elegant couch, and, after dying in the presence of her husband, was removed once more to the back of the hedge. The effect proved too ridiculous for the audience, and Mrs. Siddons was carried off amidst renewed roars of laughter.
Dr. Whalley must then needs press a tragedy of his own upon her,The Castle of Mowal, which was yawned at for three nights. It is said that when the author went down to Mr. Peake, the treasurer, to know what benefit might have accrued to him, itamounted to nothing. “I have been,” said the doctor, an old picquet-player, “piqued and repiqued”; and so he retired from the scene of his discomfiture to Bath, where he plumed himself on the fact of having “run for three nights.”
Her next essay in the cause of friendship was in Bertie Greatheed’s tragedy ofThe Regent. She writes in reference to it:—
“The plot of the poor young man’s piece, it strikes me, is very lame, and the characters very—very ill-sustained in general; but more particularly the lady, for whom the author had me in his eye. This woman is one of those monsters (I think them) of perfection, who is an angel before her time, and is so entirely resigned to the will of Heaven, that (to a very mortal like myself) she appears to be the most provoking piece of still life one ever had the misfortune to meet. Her struggles and conflicts are so weakly expressed, that we conclude they do not cost her much pain, and she is so pious that we are satisfied she looks upon her afflictions as so many convoys to Heaven, and wish her there, or anywhere else but in the tragedy. I have said all this, and ten times more, to them both, with as much delicacy as I am mistress of; but Mr. G. says that it would give him no great trouble to alter it, provided I will undertake the milksop lady. I am in a very distressed situation, for, unless he makes her a totally different character, I cannot possibly have anything to do with her.”
The piece was eventually performed for twelve nights, and then consigned to oblivion; but the author was so satisfied that he gave a supper, which was followed by a drinking-bout at the “Brown Bear” in Bow Street, at which a subordinate actor named Phillimorewas sufficiently tipsy to have courage enough to fight his lord and master, John Kemble, who was elevated enough to defend himself, and generous enough to forget the affair next morning.
Other parts were declined by her for other reasons. Colman had written an epilogue to Mr. Jephson’sJulia, which she refused to speak because she declared it to be “coarse;” and the part of Cleopatra, she said she never would act, because “she would hate herself if she were to play it as she thought it should be played.” And there she was right; the “Serpent of Old Nile” was not within her range.
One of her admirers tells us that her majestic and imposing person, and the commanding character of her beauty, militated against the effect she produced in the part of Mrs. Haller. “No man alive or dead,” said he, “would have dared to take a liberty with her; wicked she might be, but weak she could not be, and when she told the story of her ill-conduct in the play nobody believed her.” Another eye-witness, speaking of “the fair penitent,” said that it was worth sitting out the piece for her scene with Romont alone, to see “such a splendid animal in such a magnificent rage.”
And yet, what a kind heart it was to an erring sister! “Charming and beautiful Mrs. Robinson,” she writes, referring to Perdita Robinson, “I pity her from the bottom of my soul.” And what a generous helping hand she stretched out to her younger colleagues. When Miss Mellon, twenty years her junior, was acting with her at Liverpool, Mrs. Siddons one morning at rehearsal turned to an actor, a friend of hers, who had known her for years, and said:
“There is a young woman here whom I am sure I have seen at Drury Lane.”
He told her it was Miss Mellon, who had just come out.
“She seems a nice, pretty young woman,” returned the great actress, “and I pity her situation in that hotbed of iniquity, Drury Lane; it is almost impossible for a young, pretty, and unprotected female to escape. How has she conducted herself?”
The person she addressed, who relates the story, replied:
“With the greatest propriety.”
“Then please present her to me.”
The young lady, colouring highly and looking very handsome, came forward. The Queen of Tragedy took her by the hand, and, after a few kind encouraging words, led her forward among the company and said:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I am told by one I know very well that this young lady has always conducted herself with the utmost propriety. I, therefore, introduce her as my young friend.”
This electrified the parties in the green-room, who had not looked for such a flattering distinction for the young actress; but, of course, they were all too glad to follow Mrs. Siddons in anything, and Miss Mellon was overwhelmed with attention. Afterwards, on the return of Mrs. Siddons and Miss Mellon to their duties in London for the succeeding season, the former repeated the compliment she had paid her at Liverpool, making the same statement regarding her excellent conduct; and by thus bringing her forward under such advantageous circumstances, procured her admission to the first green-room, where her inferior salary did not entitle her to be, except on such a recommendation as that of Mrs. Siddons.
In the summer of 1790, being in delicate health,and disgusted at Sheridan’s treatment of her, she went with her husband to France, accompanied by Miss Wynn. They first stopped at Calais, where their daughters, Sarah and Maria, were at a boarding-school, and then went on to Lisle. The letter she wrote to Lady Harcourt on her return is so characteristic in its energetic, outspoken sincerity, that it seems unjust not to quote every word of it:—
“Sandgate, near Folkestone, Kent. August 2nd.“My dear Lady Harcourt,“After so long a silence, your good nature will exalt itself to hear a long letter full of egotism, and I will begin with Streatham, where you may remember to have heard me talk of going with no great degree of pleasurable expectation, supposing it impossible that I should ever feel much more for Mrs. P.[2]than admiration of her talents; but, after having very unexpectedly stayed there more than three weeks, during which time every moment gave me fresh instances of unremitting kindness and attention to me, and, indeed, a very extraordinary degree of benevolence and forbearance towards those who have not deserved much lenity at her hands (and it is wonderful how many there are of that description), I left them with great regret; and between their very great kindness, their wit, and their music, they made me love, esteem, and admire them very much. In a few days I set out with Mr. S., Miss Wynn, and her brother, for Calais, and, after a very rough passage, arrived at Calais, and found my dear girls quite welland improved in their persons, and (I am told) in their French. I was very much struck with the difference of objects and customs when I reflected how small a space divides one nation from the other, like true English. We saw all we could, and I thoughtofmy dear Lord Harcourt, though notwithhim, in their churches. I own (though I blame myself at the same time for it) I was disgusted with all the pomp and magnificence of them, when I saw the priests ‘playing such fantastic tricks before high Heaven as (I think) must make the angels weep’; and the people gabbling over their prayers, even in theact of gaping, to have it over as quick as might be. Alas! said I to myself, in the pitifulness, and perhaps vanity, of my heart, how sorry I am for these poor deluded people, and how much more worthy the Deity (‘who does prefer before all temples the upright heart and pure’) are the sublime and simple forms ofourreligion. Indeed, my dear Madam, I am better satisfied with the ideas and feelings that have been excited in my heart inyourgarden atNuneham, than ever I have been in those fine gewgaw places, and believe Mr. Haggitt, by his plain and sensible sermons, has done more good than a legion of these priests would do if they were to live to the age of Methusalem. I am willing to own that all this may be prejudice, and thatwemay notmeanbetter than ourneighbours; butfireshall not burn my opinion out of me, and soGod mend all. Now, to turn to ourgreat selves. We took our little folks to Lisle; it is a very fine town, and, though I know nothing of the language, the acting was so really good that it gave me very great pleasure. The language of true genius, like that of Nature, is intelligible to all. We stayed there a few days, andyou would have laughed to have seen my amazement at the valet of the inn assisting thefemme de chambrein the making of our beds. Thebedsare the best I ever slept upon; but the valet’s kind offices I could always, I think, dispense with, good heavens! Well, we returned to Calais, where I would have stayed a few months, and have employed myself in acquiring a few French phrases with the dear children, if Mrs. Temple would have taken me in; but she said she had not room to accommodate me, and I unwillingly gave up the point. In a day or two we set sail, after seeing the civic oath administered on the fourteenth. It was a fine thing even at Calais. I was extremely delighted and affected, not, indeed, at thesensible objects, though a great multitude is often a grand thing, but the idea of so many millions throughout that great nation, with one consent, at one moment (as it were by Divine Inspiration), breaking their bonds asunder, filled one with sympathetic exultation, good-will, and tenderness. I rejoiced with them from my heart, and most sincerely hope they will not abuse the glorious freedom they have obtained. We were nearly twenty hours on the sea on our return, and arrived at Dover fatigued and sick to death. Dr. Wynn was obliged to make the best of his way to London on account of a sermon he was engaged to preach, and took his charming sister with him.Wemade haste here, and it is the most agreeable sea-place, excepting those on the Devonshire coast, I ever saw. Perhapsagreeableis a bad word, for the country is much more sublime than beautiful. We have tremendous cliffs overhanging and frowning on the foaming sea, which is very often so saucy and tempestuous as todeservefrowning on; from whence, when the weather is clear, we see the land of France,and the vessels cross from the Downs to Calais. Sometimes, while youstandthere, it is amazing with what velocity they skim along. Here are little neat lodgings, and good wholesome provisions. Perhaps they would not suit a greatcountess, as our friend Mr. Mason has it, but a little great actress is more easily accommodated. I’m afraid it will grow larger, though, and then adieu to the comforts of retirement. At present the place cannot contain above twenty or thirty strangers, I should think. I have bathed four times, and believe I shall persevere, for Sir Lucas Pepys says my disease is entirely nervous. I believe I am better, but I get on so slowly that I cannot speak as yet with much certainty. I still suffer a good deal. Mr. Siddons leaves me here for a fortnight while he goes to town upon business, and my spirits are so bad that I live in terror of being left alone so long. We have been here nearly three weeks, and I propose staying here, if possible, till September, when I shall go to town to my brother’s for some days, and then set off for Mr. Whalley’s at Bath. I shall hope to see you at Nuneham, though, before you leave it.“Now, my dear Lady Harcourt, let me congratulate you upon having almost got to the end of this interesting epistle andmyself, in the honour of your friendship, which has flattered me into the comfort of believing that you will not be tired of your prosing, but always very affectionate and faithful servant,“S. Siddons.“Pray offer my love, and our united compliments, to all.”
“Sandgate, near Folkestone, Kent. August 2nd.
“My dear Lady Harcourt,
“After so long a silence, your good nature will exalt itself to hear a long letter full of egotism, and I will begin with Streatham, where you may remember to have heard me talk of going with no great degree of pleasurable expectation, supposing it impossible that I should ever feel much more for Mrs. P.[2]than admiration of her talents; but, after having very unexpectedly stayed there more than three weeks, during which time every moment gave me fresh instances of unremitting kindness and attention to me, and, indeed, a very extraordinary degree of benevolence and forbearance towards those who have not deserved much lenity at her hands (and it is wonderful how many there are of that description), I left them with great regret; and between their very great kindness, their wit, and their music, they made me love, esteem, and admire them very much. In a few days I set out with Mr. S., Miss Wynn, and her brother, for Calais, and, after a very rough passage, arrived at Calais, and found my dear girls quite welland improved in their persons, and (I am told) in their French. I was very much struck with the difference of objects and customs when I reflected how small a space divides one nation from the other, like true English. We saw all we could, and I thoughtofmy dear Lord Harcourt, though notwithhim, in their churches. I own (though I blame myself at the same time for it) I was disgusted with all the pomp and magnificence of them, when I saw the priests ‘playing such fantastic tricks before high Heaven as (I think) must make the angels weep’; and the people gabbling over their prayers, even in theact of gaping, to have it over as quick as might be. Alas! said I to myself, in the pitifulness, and perhaps vanity, of my heart, how sorry I am for these poor deluded people, and how much more worthy the Deity (‘who does prefer before all temples the upright heart and pure’) are the sublime and simple forms ofourreligion. Indeed, my dear Madam, I am better satisfied with the ideas and feelings that have been excited in my heart inyourgarden atNuneham, than ever I have been in those fine gewgaw places, and believe Mr. Haggitt, by his plain and sensible sermons, has done more good than a legion of these priests would do if they were to live to the age of Methusalem. I am willing to own that all this may be prejudice, and thatwemay notmeanbetter than ourneighbours; butfireshall not burn my opinion out of me, and soGod mend all. Now, to turn to ourgreat selves. We took our little folks to Lisle; it is a very fine town, and, though I know nothing of the language, the acting was so really good that it gave me very great pleasure. The language of true genius, like that of Nature, is intelligible to all. We stayed there a few days, andyou would have laughed to have seen my amazement at the valet of the inn assisting thefemme de chambrein the making of our beds. Thebedsare the best I ever slept upon; but the valet’s kind offices I could always, I think, dispense with, good heavens! Well, we returned to Calais, where I would have stayed a few months, and have employed myself in acquiring a few French phrases with the dear children, if Mrs. Temple would have taken me in; but she said she had not room to accommodate me, and I unwillingly gave up the point. In a day or two we set sail, after seeing the civic oath administered on the fourteenth. It was a fine thing even at Calais. I was extremely delighted and affected, not, indeed, at thesensible objects, though a great multitude is often a grand thing, but the idea of so many millions throughout that great nation, with one consent, at one moment (as it were by Divine Inspiration), breaking their bonds asunder, filled one with sympathetic exultation, good-will, and tenderness. I rejoiced with them from my heart, and most sincerely hope they will not abuse the glorious freedom they have obtained. We were nearly twenty hours on the sea on our return, and arrived at Dover fatigued and sick to death. Dr. Wynn was obliged to make the best of his way to London on account of a sermon he was engaged to preach, and took his charming sister with him.Wemade haste here, and it is the most agreeable sea-place, excepting those on the Devonshire coast, I ever saw. Perhapsagreeableis a bad word, for the country is much more sublime than beautiful. We have tremendous cliffs overhanging and frowning on the foaming sea, which is very often so saucy and tempestuous as todeservefrowning on; from whence, when the weather is clear, we see the land of France,and the vessels cross from the Downs to Calais. Sometimes, while youstandthere, it is amazing with what velocity they skim along. Here are little neat lodgings, and good wholesome provisions. Perhaps they would not suit a greatcountess, as our friend Mr. Mason has it, but a little great actress is more easily accommodated. I’m afraid it will grow larger, though, and then adieu to the comforts of retirement. At present the place cannot contain above twenty or thirty strangers, I should think. I have bathed four times, and believe I shall persevere, for Sir Lucas Pepys says my disease is entirely nervous. I believe I am better, but I get on so slowly that I cannot speak as yet with much certainty. I still suffer a good deal. Mr. Siddons leaves me here for a fortnight while he goes to town upon business, and my spirits are so bad that I live in terror of being left alone so long. We have been here nearly three weeks, and I propose staying here, if possible, till September, when I shall go to town to my brother’s for some days, and then set off for Mr. Whalley’s at Bath. I shall hope to see you at Nuneham, though, before you leave it.
“Now, my dear Lady Harcourt, let me congratulate you upon having almost got to the end of this interesting epistle andmyself, in the honour of your friendship, which has flattered me into the comfort of believing that you will not be tired of your prosing, but always very affectionate and faithful servant,
“S. Siddons.
“Pray offer my love, and our united compliments, to all.”
Michael Kelly gives an account of the landlady’s opinion ofLa grande actrice Anglaiseat the hotelat St. Omer, where he stopped shortly after Mrs. Siddons had been there. She considered her handsome, declared she was trying to imitate French women, but fell very far short of them.
She was induced to return to Drury Lane about the end of 1790, and in April we find Horace Walpole writing to tell Miss Berry that he had supped with Kemble and Mrs. Siddons “t’other night at Miss Farren’s, at the bow-window house in Green Street, Grosvenor Square.” He pronounces the actress to be “leaner.” We can see the party: cynical, sneering Walpole; beautiful Miss Farren, afterwards Countess of Derby, the hostess; Mrs. Siddons, “august” and matronly; and solemn John, who had just made a hit as Othello.
It was the last year of old Drury’s existence, and, for her brother’s sake, she bore her part bravely, acting when called upon; but she soon flagged, and could only act a few nights. Her reappearance was welcomed with wild enthusiasm; she seemed as popular as ever. One night over four hundred pounds was paid by the public to see her in Mrs. Beverley.
About 1792 or 3 she seems to have taken a house at Nuneham, near the Harcourts—the Rectory, we presume, for we find her writing to Lord Harcourt, devising little comforts for their summer residence at Nuneham, thanking him for his “neighbourly” attention; and one or two letters she writes to John Taylor are dated Nuneham Rectory. One is on the subject of a Life of herself which he wished to undertake; the other refers to her modelling, and an accident which happened to her husband and children.
“I am in no danger of being too much occupied by my ‘favorite clay,’ for it is not arriv’d—how provokingand vexatious! particularly as I am dying to attempt a Bust of my sweet little George, and his Holidays will be over, I fear, before I am able to finish it. Apropos to George, the dear little Soul has escapd being dangerously hurt, if not kill’d (my blood runs cold at the thought), by almost a miracle. Mr. Siddons and Maria have not been so fortunate, they are both cripples at present with each a wounded Leg, but I hope they are in a fair way to get better. The accident (so these things are called, but not byme; I know you’ll deride mySuperstition, but this kind of Superstition has not unfrequently afforded me great aid and consolation, and I hate to discard an old friend because she happens to be a little out of Fashion, so Laugh on, I dont care) happen’d from their being forcd to jump out of a little Market Cart which Mr. Siddons had orderd to indulge the children in a drive. Thank God I did not see it and that they have escapd so well!!! This is the Sweetest Situation in England, I believe. I wish you would come and see it. If I had a Bed to offer you I should be more pressing, but I could get you one at the Inn in the Village, if you should be disposd to go to those fine doings at Oxford, where all the world will be, except such Stupid Souls as myself. Mr. Combe is at Lord Harcourt’s; I understand he is writing a History of the Thames, and his Lordships House is the present Seat of his observations. I have not the pleasure to know him, but am to Dine with him at Lord H⸺’s to-morrow. [This is the Combe of Wolverhampton memory, whom Mrs. Kemble had refused as instructor for her daughter. The stately “I have not the pleasure to know him” is so like Mrs. Siddons.] Give my kind love to Betsey when you See her, and I earnestly entreat you (if it benot too much vanity to Suppose you wᵈwishto preserve them a moment beyond reading them) that you will burn all my Letters; tell me Seriously you will do so! for there is nothing I dread like having all one’s nonsense appear in print by some untoward accident—not accident neither, but wicked orinterested design, pray do me the favʳ to ask at our House why my precious Clay has not been Sent, and tell me Something about it when you write again. Adieu.”