Memoirs of the Life of the Rt. Hon. Richard Brinsley Sheridan Volume II Part 3

"_Sunday_.

"d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.sing 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sumes, 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; a.s.sist 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 d.i.c.k, 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 hea.r.s.e, 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 ill.u.s.trious 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 p.r.o.nunciation 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 a.s.suredly 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 sh.o.r.e, 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:--