Part 14
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 of _The West Indian_ and 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 produced _The 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 of _Ossian_ were 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 of _She Stoops to Conquer_ and 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. If _She Stoops to Conquer_ had 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 world _The Good-Natured Man_ and _She Stoops to Conquer_ would have been equal to the task of writing a third comedy equal in merit to either of these. Yes, posterity owes Colman a grudge.
THE JESSAMY BRIDE
A PERSONAL NOTE
FOR some time after the publication of my novel _The Jessamy Bride_ my 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.”
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 it _saved 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 the _Hero_, 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 his _English 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 besides _it is over_. Dr. Crofts thought he was doing for the best no doubt--It comes to what _I_ always 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 some _little_ time 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 to _all_ was good and benevolent, and ever ready to forgive.”
THE AMAZING ELOPEMENT
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 diversions _à 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 painted _à 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.”