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Memoirs of the Life of Rt. Hon. Richard Brinsley Sheridan Vol 2

T >> Thomas Moore >> Memoirs of the Life of Rt. Hon. Richard Brinsley Sheridan Vol 2




"My brother left us Wednesday morning, and we do not expect him to return
for some days. He meant only to stay at Margate long enough to attend the
last melancholy office, which it was my poor father's express desire
should be performed in whatever parish he died.

* * * * *

"_Sunday_.

"Dick is still in town, and we do not expect him for some time. Mrs.
Sheridan seems now quite reconciled to these little absences, which she
knows are unavoidable. I never saw any one so constant in employing every
moment of her time, and to that I attribute, in a great measure, the
recovery of her health and spirits. The education of her niece, her
music, books, and work, occupy every minute of the day. After dinner, the
children, who call her "Mamma-aunt," spend some time with us, and her
manner to them is truly delightful. The girl, you know, is the eldest.
The eldest boy is about five years old, very like his father, but
extremely gentle in his manners. The youngest is past three. The whole
set then retire to the music-room. As yet I cannot enjoy their
parties;--a song from Mrs. Sheridan affected me last night in a most
painful manner. I shall not try the experiment soon again. Mrs. S. blamed
herself for putting me to the trial, and, after tea, got a book, which
she read to us till supper. This, I find, is the general way of passing
the evening.

"They are now at their music, and I have retired to add a few lines. This
day has been more gloomy than we have been for some days past;--it is the
first day of our getting into mourning. All the servants in deep mourning
made a melancholy appearance, and I found it very difficult to sit out
the dinner. But as I have dined below since there has been only Mrs.
Sheridan and Miss Linley here, I would not suffer a circumstance, to
which I must accustom myself, to break in on their comfort."

These children, to whom Mrs. Sheridan thus wholly devoted herself, and
continued to do so for the remainder of her life, had lost their mother,
Mrs. Tickell, in the year 1787, by the same complaint that afterwards
proved fatal to their aunt. The passionate attachment of Mrs. Sheridan to
this sister, and the deep grief with which she mourned her loss, are
expressed in a poem of her own so touchingly, that, to those who love the
language of real feeling, I need not apologize for their introduction
here. Poetry, in general, is but a cold interpreter of sorrow; and the
more it displays its skill, as an art, the less is it likely to do
justice to nature. In writing these verses, however, the workmanship was
forgotten in the subject; and the critic, to feel them as he ought,
should forget his own craft in reading them.

"_Written in the Spring of the Year 1788._

"The hours and days pass on;--sweet Spring returns,
And whispers comfort to the heart that mourns:
But not to mine, whose dear and cherish'd grief
Asks for indulgence, but ne'er hopes relief.
For, ah, can changing seasons e'er restore
The lov'd companion I must still deplore?
Shall all the wisdom of the world combin'd
Erase thy image, Mary, from my mind,
Or bid me hope from others to receive
The fond affection thou alone could'st give?
Ah, no, my best belov'd, thou still shalt be
My friend, my sister, all the world to me.

"With tender woe sad memory woos back time,
And paints the scenes when youth was in its prime;
The craggy hill, where rocks, with wild flow'rs crown'd,
Burst from the hazle copse or verdant ground;
Where sportive nature every form assumes,
And, gaily lavish, wastes a thousand blooms;
Where oft we heard the echoing hills repeat
Our untaught strains and rural ditties sweet,
Till purpling clouds proclaimed the closing day,
While distant streams detain'd the parting ray.
Then on some mossy stone we'd sit us down,
And watch the changing sky and shadows brown,
That swiftly glided o'er the mead below,
Or in some fancied form descended slow.
How oft, well pleas'd each other to adorn,
We stripped the blossoms from the fragrant thorn,
Or caught the violet where, in humble bed,
Asham'd its own sweets it hung its head.
But, oh, what rapture Mary's eyes would speak,
Through her dark hair how rosy glow'd her cheek,
If, in her playful search, she saw appear
The first-blown cowslip of the opening year.
Thy gales, oh Spring, then whisper'd life and joy;--
Now mem'ry wakes thy pleasures to destroy,
And all thy beauties serve but to renew
Regrets too keen for reason to subdue.
Ah me! while tender recollections rise,
The ready tears obscure my sadden'd eyes,
And, while surrounding objects they conceal,
_Her_ form belov'd the trembling drops reveal.

"Sometimes the lovely, blooming girl I view.
My youth's companion, friend for ever true,
Whose looks, the sweet expressions of her heart
So gaily innocent, so void of art,
With soft attraction whisper'd blessings drew
From all who stopp'd, her beauteous face to view.
Then in the dear domestic scene I mourn,
And weep past pleasures never to return!
There, where each gentle virtue lov'd to rest.
In the pure mansion of my Mary's breast,
The days of social happiness are o'er,
The voice of harmony is heard no more;
No more her graceful tenderness shall prove
The wife's fond duty or the parent's love.
Those eyes, which brighten'd with maternal pride,
As her sweet infants wanton'd by her side,
'Twas my sad fate to see for ever close
On life, on love, the world, and all its woes;
To watch the slow disease, with hopeless care,
And veil in painful smiles my heart's despair;
To see her droop, with restless languor weak,
While fatal beauty mantled in her cheek,
Like fresh flow'rs springing from some mouldering clay,
Cherish'd by death, and blooming from decay.
Yet, tho' oppress'd by ever-varying pain,
The gentle sufferer scarcely would complain,
Hid every sigh, each trembling doubt reprov'd,
To spare a pang to those fond hearts she lov'd.
And often, in short intervals of ease,
Her kind and cheerful spirit strove to please;
Whilst we, alas, unable to refuse
The sad delight we were so soon to lose,
Treasur'd each word, each kind expression claim'd,--
''Twas me she look'd at,'--'it was me she nam'd.'
Thus fondly soothing grief, too great to bear,
With mournful eagerness and jealous care.

"But soon, alas, from hearts with sorrow worn
E'en this last comfort was for ever torn:
That mind, the seat of wisdom, genius, taste.
The cruel hand of sickness now laid waste;
Subdued with pain, it shar'd the common lot.
All, all its lovely energies forgot!
The husband, parent, sister, knelt in vain,
One recollecting look alone to gain:
The shades of night her beaming eyes obscur'd,
And Nature, vanquished, no sharp pain endur'd;
Calm and serene--till the last trembling breath
Wafted an angel from the bed of death!

"Oh, if the soul, releas'd from mortal cares,
Views the sad scene, the voice of mourning hears,
Then, dearest saint, didst thou thy heav'n forego,
Lingering on earth in pity to our woe.
'Twas thy kind influence sooth'd our minds to peace.
And bade our vain and selfish murmurs cease;
'Twas thy soft smile, that gave the worshipp'd clay
Of thy bright essence one celestial ray,
Making e'en death so beautiful, that we,
Gazing on it, forgot our misery.
Then--pleasing thought!--ere to the realms of light
Thy franchis'd spirit took its happy flight,
With fond regard, perhaps, thou saw'st me bend
O'er the cold relics of my heart's best friend,
And heard'st me swear, while her dear hand I prest.
And tears of agony bedew'd my breast,
For her lov'd sake to act the mother's part,
And take her darling infants to my heart,
With tenderest care their youthful minds improve,
And guard her treasure with protecting love.
Once more look down, blest creature, and behold
These arms the precious innocence enfold;
Assist my erring nature to fulfil
The sacred trust, and ward off every ill!
And, oh, let _her_, who is my dearest care,
Thy blest regard and heavenly influence share;
Teach me to form her pure and artless mind,
Like thine, as true, as innocent, as kind,--
That when some future day my hopes shall bless,
And every voice her virtue shall confess,
When my fond heart delighted hears her praise,
As with unconscious loveliness she strays,
'Such,' let me say, with tears of joy the while,
'Such was the softness of my Mary's smile;
Such was _her_ youth, so blithe, so rosy sweet,
And such _her_ mind, unpractis'd in deceit;
With artless elegance, unstudied grace,
Thus did _she_ gain in every heart a place!'

"Then, while the dear remembrance I behold,
Time shall steal on, nor tell me I am old,
Till, nature wearied, each fond duty o'er,
I join my Angel Friend--to part no more!"

To the conduct of Mr. Sheridan, during the last moments of his father, a
further testimony has been kindly communicated to me by Mr. Jarvis, a
medical gentleman of Margate, who attended Mr. Thomas Sheridan on that
occasion, and whose interesting communication I shall here give in his
own words:--

"On the 10th of August, 1788, I was first called on to visit Mr.
Sheridan, who was then fast declining at his lodgings in this place,
where he was in the care of his daughter. On the next day Mr. R. B.
Sheridan arrived here from town, having brought with him Dr. Morris, of
Parliament street. I was in the bedroom with Mr. Sheridan when the son
arrived, and witnessed an interview in which the father showed himself to
be strongly impressed by his son's attention, saying with considerable
emotion, 'Oh Dick, I give you a great deal of trouble!' and seeming to
imply by his manner, that his son had been less to blame than himself,
for any previous want of cordiality between them.

"On my making my last call for the evening, Mr. R. B. Sheridan, with
delicacy, but much earnestness, expressed his fear that the nurse in
attendance on his father, might not be so competent as myself to the
requisite attentions, and his hope that I would consent to remain in the
room for a few of the first hours of the night; as he himself, having
been travelling the preceding night, required some short repose. I
complied with his request, and remained at the father's bed-side till
relieved by the son, about three o'clock in the morning:--he then
insisted on taking my place. From this time he never quitted the house
till his father's death; on the day after which he wrote me a letter, now
before me, of which the annexed is an exact copy:

'SIR,

'_Friday Morning_,

'I wished to see you this morning before I went, to thank you for your
attention and trouble. You will be so good to give the account to Mr.
Thompson, who will settle it; and I must further beg your acceptance of
the inclosed from myself.

'I am, Sir,

'Your obedient Servant,

'R. B. SHERIDAN.

'I have explained to Dr. Morris (who has informed me that you will
recommend a proper person), that it is my desire to have the hearse, and
the manner of coming to town, as respectful as possible.'

"The inclosure, referred to in this letter, was a bank-note of ten
pounds,--a most liberal remuneration. Mr. R. B. Sheridan left Margate,
intending that his father should be buried in London; but he there
ascertained that it had been his father's expressed wish that he should
be buried in the parish next to that in which he should happen to die. He
then, consequently, returned to Margate, accompanied by his
brother-in-law, Mr. Tickell, with whom and Mr. Thompson and myself, he
followed his father's remains to the burial-place, which was not in
Margate church-yard, but in the north aisle of the church of St. Peter's."

Mr. Jarvis, the writer of the letter from which I have given this
extract, had once, as he informs me, the intention of having a cenotaph
raised, to the memory of Mr. Sheridan's father, in the church of Margate.
[Footnote: Though this idea was relinquished, it appears that a friend of
Mr. Jarvis, with a zeal for the memory of talent highly honorable to him,
has recently caused a monument to Mr. Thomas Sheridan to be raised in the
church of St. Peter.] With this view he applied to Dr. Parr for an
Inscription, and the following is the tribute to his old friend with
which that learned and kind-hearted man supplied him:--

"This monument, A. D. 1824, was, by subscription, erected to the memory
of Thomas Sheridan, Esq., who died in the neighboring parish of St. John,
August 14, 1788, in the 69th year of his age, and, according to his own
request, was there buried. He was grandson to Dr. Thomas Sheridan, the
brother of Dr. William, a conscientious non-juror, who, in 1691, was
deprived of the Bishopric of Kilmore. He was the son of Dr. Thomas
Sheridan, a profound scholar and eminent schoolmaster, intimately
connected with Dean Swift and other illustrious writers in the reign of
Queen Anne. He was husband to the ingenious and amiable author of Sidney
Biddulph and several dramatic pieces favorably received. He was father of
the celebrated orator and dramatist, Richard Brinsley Sheridan. He had
been the schoolfellow, and, through life, was the companion, of the
amiable Archbishop Markham. He was the friend of the learned Dr. Sumner,
master of Harrow School, and the well-known Dr. Parr. He took his first
academical degree in the University of Dublin, about 1736. He was honored
by the University of Oxford with the degree of A. M. in 1758, and in 1759
he obtained the same distinction at Cambridge. He, for many years,
presided over the theatre of Dublin; and, at Drury Lane, he in public
estimation stood next to David Garrick. In the literary world he was
distinguished by numerous and useful writings on the pronunciation of the
English language. Through some of his opinions ran a vein of singularity,
mingled with the rich ore of genius. In his manners there was dignified
ease;--in his spirit, invincible firmness;--and in his habits and
principles, unsullied integrity."




CHAPTER III.

ILLNESS OF THE KING.--REGENCY.--PRIVATE LIFE OF MR. SHERIDAN.


Mr. Sheridan had assuredly no reason to complain of any deficiency of
excitement in the new career to which he now devoted himself. A
succession of great questions, both foreign and domestic, came, one after
the other, like the waves described by the poet;--


"And one no sooner touched the shore, and died,
Than a new follower rose, and swell'd as proudly."


Scarcely had the impulse, which his own genius had given to the
prosecution of Hastings, begun to abate, when the indisposition of the
King opened another field, not only for the display of all his various
powers, but for the fondest speculations of his interest and ambition.

The robust health and temperate habits of the Monarch, while they held
out the temptation of a long lease of power, to those who either enjoyed
or were inclined to speculate in his favor, gave proportionally the grace
of disinterestedness to the followers of an Heir-Apparent, whose means of
rewarding their devotion were, from the same causes, uncertain and
remote. The alarming illness of the Monarch, however, gave a new turn to
the prospect:--Hope was now seen, like the winged Victory of the
ancients, to change sides; and both the expectations of those who looked
forward to the reign of the Prince, as the great and happy millennium of
Whiggism, and the apprehensions of the far greater number, to whom the
morals of his Royal Highness and his friends were not less formidable
than their politics, seemed now on the very eve of being realized.

On the first meeting of Parliament, after the illness of His Majesty was
known, it was resolved, from considerations of delicacy, that the House
should adjourn for a fortnight; at the end of which period it was
expected that another short adjournment would be proposed by the
Minister. In this interval, the following judicious letter was addressed
to the Prince of Wales by Mr. Sheridan:--

"SIR,

"Prom the intelligence of to-day we are led to think that Pitt will make
something more of a speech, in moving to adjourn on Thursday, than was at
first imagined. In this case we presume Your Royal Highness will be of
opinion that we must not be wholly silent. I possessed Payne yesterday
with my sentiments on the line of conduct which appeared to me best to be
adopted on this occasion, that they might be submitted to Your Royal
Highness's consideration; and I take the liberty of repeating my firm
conviction, that it will greatly advance Your Royal Highness's credit,
and, in case of events, lay the strongest grounds to baffle every attempt
at opposition to Your Royal Highness's just claims and right, that the
language of those who may be, in any sort, suspected of knowing Your
Royal Highness's wishes and feelings, should be that of great moderation
in disclaiming all party views, and avowing the utmost readiness to
acquiesce in any reasonable delay. At the same time, I am perfectly aware
of the arts which will be practised, and the advantages which some people
will attempt to gain by time: but I am equally convinced that we should
advance their evil views by showing the least impatience or suspicion at
present; and I am also convinced that a third party will soon appear,
whose efforts may, in the most decisive manner, prevent this sort of
situation and proceeding from continuing long. Payne will probably have
submitted to Your Royal Highness more fully my idea on this subject,
towards which I have already taken some successful steps. [Footnote: This
must allude to the negotiation with Lord Thurlow.] Your Royal Highness
will, I am sure, have the goodness to pardon the freedom with which I
give my opinion;--after which I have only to add, that whatever Your
Royal Highness's judgment decides, shall be the guide of my conduct, and
will undoubtedly be so to others."

Captain (afterwards Admiral) Payne, of whom mention is made in this
letter, held the situation of Comptroller of the Household of the Prince
of Wales, and was in attendance upon His Royal Highness, during the early
part of the King's illness, at Windsor. The following letters, addressed
by him to Mr. Sheridan at this period, contain some curious particulars,
both with respect to the Royal patient himself, and the feelings of those
about him, which, however secret and confidential they were at the time,
may now, without scruple, be made matters of history:--

"MY DEAR SHERIDAN,

"_Half past ten at night_.

"I arrived here about three quarters of an hour after Pitt had left it. I
inclose you the copy of a letter the Prince has just written to the
Chancellor, and sent by express, which will give you the outline of the
conversation with the Prince, as well as the situation of the King's
health. I think it an advisable measure, [Footnote: Meaning, the
communication to the Chancellor] as it is a sword that cuts both ways,
without being unfit to be shown to whom he pleases,--but which he will, I
think, understand best himself. Pitt desired the longest delay that could
be granted with propriety, previous to the declaration of the present
calamity. The Duke of York, who is looking over me, and is just come out
of the King's room, bids me add that His Majesty's situation is every
moment becoming worse. His pulse is weaker and weaker; and the Doctors
say it is impossible to survive it long, if his situation does not take
some _extraordinary_ change in a few hours.

"So far I had got when your servant came, meaning to send this by the
express that carried the Chancellor's letter; in addition to which, the
Prince has desired Doctor Warren to write an account to him, which he is
now doing. His letter says, if an amendment does not take place in
twenty-four hours, it is impossible for the King to support it:--he adds
to me, he will answer for his never living to be declared a lunatic. I
say all this to you in confidence, (though I will not answer for being
intelligible,) as it goes by your own servant; but I need not add, your
own discretion will remind you how necessary it is that neither my name
nor those I use should be quoted even to many of our best friends, whose
repetition, without any ill intention, might frustrate views they do not
see.

"With respect to the papers, the Prince thinks you had better leave them
to themselves, as we cannot authorize any report, nor can he contradict
the worst; a few hours must, every individual says, terminate our
suspense, and, therefore, all precaution must be needless:--however, do
what you think best. His Royal Highness would write to you himself; the
agitation he is in will not permit it. Since this letter was begun, all
articulation even seems to be at an end with the poor King: but for the
two hours preceding, he was in a most determined frenzy. In short, I am
myself in so violent a state of agitation, from participating in the
feelings of those about me, that if I am intelligible to you, 'tis more
than I am to myself. Cataplasms are on his Majesty's feet, and strong
fomentations have been used without effect: but let me quit so painful a
subject. The Prince was much pleased with my conversation with Lord
Loughborough, to whom I do not write, as I conceive 'tis the same,
writing to you.

"The Archbishop has written a very handsome letter, expressive of his
duty and offer of service; but he is not required to come down, it being
thought too late.

"Good night.--I will write upon every occasion that information may be
useful.

"Ever yours, most sincerely,

"J. W. PAYNE.

"I have been much pleased with the _Duke's_ zeal since my return,
especially in this communication to you."

"DEAR SHERIDAN,

"_Twelve o'clock, noon._

"The King last night about twelve o'clock, being then in a situation he
could not long have survived, by the effect of James's powder, had a
profuse stool, after which a strong perspiration appeared, and he fell
into a profound sleep. We were in hopes this was the crisis of his
disorder, although the doctors were fearful it was so only with respect
to one part of his disorder. However, these hopes continued not above an
hour, when he awoke, with a well-conditioned skin, no extraordinary
degree of fever, but with the exact state he was in before, with all the
gestures and ravings of the most confirmed maniac, and a new noise, in
imitation of the howling of a dog; in this situation he was this morning
at one o'clock, when we came to bed. The Duke of York, who has been twice
in my room in the course of the night, immediately from the King's
apartment, says there has not been one moment of lucid interval during
the whole night,--which, I must observe to you, is the concurring, as
well as _fatal_ testimony of all about him, from the first moment of
His Majesty's confinement. The doctors have since had their consultation,
and find His Majesty calmer, and his pulse tolerably good and much
reduced, but the most decided symptoms of insanity. His theme has been
all this day on the subject of religion, and of his being inspired, from
which his physicians draw the worst consequences, as to any hopes of
amendment. In this situation His Majesty remains at the present moment,
which I give you at length, to prevent your giving credit to the thousand
ridiculous reports that we hear, even upon the spot. Truth is not easily
got at in palaces, and so I find here; and time only slowly brings it to
one's knowledge. One hears a little bit every day from somebody, that has
been reserved with great costiveness, or purposely forgotten; and by all
such accounts I find that the present distemper has been very palpable
for some time past, previous to any confinement from sickness; and so
apprehensive have the people about him been of giving offence by
interruption, that the two days (viz. yesterday se'nnight and the Monday
following) that he was five hours each on horseback, he was in a
confirmed frenzy. On the Monday at his return he burst out into tears to
the Duke of York, and said, 'He wished to God he might die, I for he was
going to be mad;' and the Queen, who sent to Dr. Warren, on his arrival,
privately communicated her knowledge of his situation for some time past,
and the melancholy event as it stood exposed. I am prolix upon all these
different reports, that you may be completely master of the subject as it
stands, and which I shall continue to advertise you of in all its
variations. Warren, who is the living principle in this business, (for
poor Baker is half crazed himself,) and who I see every half hour, is
extremely attentive to the King's disorder. The various fluctuations of
his ravings, as well as general situation of his health, are accurately
written down throughout the day, and this we have got signed by the
Physician every day, and all proper inquiry invited; for I think it
necessary to do every thing that may prevent their making use hereafter
of any thing like jealousy, suspicion, or mystery, to create public
distrust; and, therefore, the best and most unequivocal means of
satisfaction shall be always attended to.

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