Part 14

No modern comedy, in my mind, equals those of the old writers. The former are altogether devoid of that high-bred, witty playfulness of dialogue so conspicuous in the works of the latter. Gaudy spectacle, common-place clap-traps, forced dialogue, and bad puns, together with ill-placed mongrel sentiment, _ad captandum vulgus_, have been substituted to “make the unskilful laugh,” and to the manifest sorrow of the “judicious.” Perhaps so much the better:—as, although there are now most excellent scene-painters and fire-workers, the London stage appears to be almost destitute of competent performers in the parts of the old genuine comedy, and the present London audiences seem to prefer gunpowder, resin, brimstone, musketry, burning castles, dancing ponies, and German hobgoblins, to any human or _Christian_ entertainments, evidently despising all those high-finished comic characters, which satisfy the understanding and owe nothing to the scenery.

In Paris the scenery and orchestra at the first theatre for _acting_ in the world (the Theatre François) are below mediocrity. But there is another species of theatrical representation extant in France—namely, _scriptural_ pieces; half burlesque, half melodrame. These are undoubtedly among the drollest things imaginable; mixing up in one unconnected mass, tragedy, comedy, and farce, painting, music, scenery, dress and undress, decency and indecency![32]

Footnote 32:

“Samson pulling down the hall of the Philistines” is the very finest piece of _spectacle_ that can be conceived!—“Susannah and the Elders” is rather too _naked_ a concern for the English ladies to look at, unless through their fans: _transparent_ ones have lately been invented, to save the expense of blushes, &c. But the most whimsical of their scriptural dramas is the exhibition of Noah as a _ship-builder_, preparatory to the deluge: it is a most splendid spectacle. He is assisted by large gangs of angels working as his _journeymen_, whose great solicitude is to keep their wings clear out of the way of their hatchets, &c. At length the whole of them _strike_ and turn out for wages, till the arrival of a body of _gens d’armes_ immediately brings them to order, by whom they are threatened to be sent back to _heaven_ if they do not _behave themselves_!

I have seen many admirable comedians on the continent. Nothing can possibly exceed Mademoiselle Mars (for instance) in many characters: but the French are _all_ actors and actresses from their cradles; and a great number of performers, even at the minor theatres, seem to me to _forget_ that they are playing, and at times nearly make the audience forget it too! Their spectacle is admirably good; their dancing excellent, and most of their dresses beautiful. Their orchestras are _well filled_, in every sense of the word, and the level of musical composition not so low as _some_ of Mr. Bishop’s effusions. The French singing however is execrable; their tragedy rant; but their _prose_ comedy nature itself!

In short, the French beyond doubt exceed all other people in the world with regard to theatrical matters: and as every man, woman, and child in Paris is equally attached to _spectacle_, every house is full, every company encouraged,—all tastes find some gratification. An Englishman can scarcely quit a Parisian theatre without having seen himself or some of his acquaintances characteristically and _capitally_ represented: the _Anglais_ supply certainly an inexhaustible source of French mimicry; and as we cannot help it, do what we will, our countrymen now begin to practise the good sense of laughing at themselves! John Bull thinks that roast beef is the finest dish in the whole world, and that the finest fellow in Europe is the man that eats it: on both points the Frenchman begs leave, _tout à fait_, to differ with John; and nothing can be sillier than to oppose opinions with a positive people, in their own country, and who never yet, right or wrong, gave up an argument.

No part of this world, I believe, combines corporeal and intellectual luxuries to an equal extent with Paris; and I am sure no place can afford them on such easy terms. There is a variety for the eye, the mind, and the palate quite inexhaustible, and within the reach of _all purses_.—However, no persons but those some time resident in the metropolis of France can even imagine its conveniences or its pleasures, and their _cheapness_: nor can there be any city where strangers are more kindly used, or more sedulously protected. In point of courtesy, sociability, animated good-nature, address and dress, I regret to say we cannot approach their well-bred females.

MRS. JORDAN.

Public mis-statements respecting that lady—The author’s long acquaintance with her—_Début_ of Mrs. Jordan, at the Dublin Theatre, as Miss Francis—Her incipient talents at that period—Favourite actresses then in possession of the stage—Theatrical jealousy—Mrs. Daly (formerly Miss Barsanti)—Curious inversion of characters in the opera of “The Governess,” resorted to by the manager to _raise the wind_—Lieut. Doyne proposes for Miss Francis—His suit rejected from prudential considerations—Miss Francis departs for England—Mr. Owenson, Lady Morgan’s father—Comparison between that performer and Mr. John (commonly called _Irish_) Johnstone—Introduction of the author to his Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence—Reflections on the scurrilous personalities of the English press—Mrs. Jordan in the green-room, and on the stage—Her remarks on the theatrical art, and on her own style of acting—Her last visit to Dublin, and curious circumstances connected therewith—Mr. Dwyer the actor and Mr. Serjeant Gold—Mrs. Jordan in private society—Extracts from her letters—Her retirement from Bushy and subsequent embarkation for France.

The foregoing short and superficial sketches of the Dublin stage in my juvenile days bring me to a subject more recent and much more interesting to my feelings. I touch it nevertheless with pain, and must ever deeply regret the untimely catastrophe of a lady who was at once the highest surviving prop of her profession and a genuine sample of intrinsic excellence: had her fate descended, whilst filling her proper station, and in her own country; or had not the circumstances which attended some parts of that lady’s career been entirely mistaken;—had not the cause of her miseries been grossly misrepresented, and the story of her desertion and embarrassed state at the time of her dissolution altogether false;—I probably should never have done more (under the impression of its being intrusive, perhaps indelicate) than mention her professional excellences.

But so much of that lady, and so much relating to her death, has been recently mis-stated in the public prints, (not for the purpose of doing her justice, but of doing another injustice,) that I feel myself warranted in sketching some traits and incidents of Mrs. Jordan’s character and life—which I know to be true, and a proportion whereof I was personally acquainted with.—Some degree of mystery has doubtless rested, and will probably continue to rest, on the cause which led that lady to repair to a foreign country, where she perished; all I shall say, however, on that score is, that this cause has been known to a very limited number of individuals, and never had, in any shape or degree, bearing or connexion with her former situation. The reports current on this head I know to be utterly unfounded, and many of them I believe to be altogether malicious.

I am not Mrs. Jordan’s biographer; my observations only apply to abstract portions of her conduct and abstract periods of her life. I had the gratification of knowing, for some time intimately, that amiable woman and justly celebrated performer. Her public talents are recorded; her private merits are known comparatively to few. I enjoyed a portion of her confidence on some very particular subjects, and had full opportunity of appreciating her character.

It was not by a mere cursory acquaintance Mrs. Jordan could be known:—confidence alone could develope her qualities, and I believe few of them escaped my observation. I have seen her in the busy bustling exercise of her profession:—I have seen her in the tranquil lap of ease, of luxury, and of magnificence;—in a theatre, surrounded by a crowd of adulating dramatists—and when surrounded by a numerous, interesting, and beloved offspring. I have seen her happy:—I have seen her _miserable_: and I could not help participating in all her feelings.

At the point of time when I first _saw_ Mrs. Jordan, she could not be much more I think than sixteen or seventeen years of age; and had made her _début_ as Miss Francis, at the Dublin Theatre. It is worthy of observation, that her early appearances in Dublin were not in any of those characters (save one) wherein she afterward so eminently excelled; though such as, being more girlish, were better suited to her spirits and age. I was at that time, of course, somewhat less competent than now to form a judgment; yet could not _then_ but observe, that in these parts she was _perfect_ even on her first appearance: she had no art to study;—Nature was her sole instructress. Youthful, joyous, animated, and droll, her laugh arose from her heart, her tear started ingenuously from her feeling. Her countenance was all expression, without being all beauty:—her form, then light and elastic—her flexible limbs—the juvenile graces of her every movement impressed themselves, as I perceived, deeply upon those who attended even her earliest performances.

Her expressive features and eloquent action at all periods harmonised blandly with each other—not by skill, but by intellectual _sympathy_: when her figure was adapted to the part she assumed, she had only to speak the words of an author to become the very person he delineated. Her voice was clear and distinct, modulating itself with natural and winning ease; and when exerted in song, its gentle flute-like melody formed the most captivating contrast to the convulsed and thundering _bravura_. She was throughout the untutored child of Nature: she sang without effort, and generally without the accompaniment of instruments; and whoever heard her _Dead of the Night_, and her _Sweet Bird_, either in public or private, if they had any soul, must have surrendered at discretion.

In playful genteel comic characters, such as _Belinda_, &c., she was excellent: but in the _formal, dignified, high-bred_ parts of comedy, her superiority was not so decided:—her line, indeed, was distinctly marked out; within its extent she stood altogether unrivalled—nay, unapproached.

At the commencement of Mrs. Jordan’s theatrical career she had difficulties to encounter which nothing but superiority of talent could so suddenly have surmounted. Both of the Dublin theatres were filled with performers of high popular reputation, and thus every important part in her line of acting was ably preoccupied. The talent of the female performers, matured by experience and disciplined by practice, must yet have yielded to the fascinating powers of her natural genius, had it been suffered fairly to expand. But the jealousy which never fails to pervade all professions was powerfully excited to restrain the development of her mimic powers; and it was reserved for English audiences to give full play and credit to that extraordinary comic genius, which soon raised her to the highest pitch, at once of popular and critical estimation.

Mrs. Daly (formerly Miss Barsanti) and Mrs. Leyster were foremost among the successful occupants of those buoyant characters to which Miss Francis was peculiarly adapted:—others had long filled the remaining parts to which she aspired, and thus scarcely one was left open to engage her talents.

Mr. Daly, about this time, resorted to a singular species of theatrical entertainment, by the novelty whereof he proposed to rival his competitors of Smock-Alley; namely, that of _reversing characters_, the men performing the female, and the females the male parts in comedy and opera. The opera of “The Governess” was played in this way for several nights, the part of _Lopez_ by Miss Francis. In this singular and unimportant character the versatility of her talent rendered the piece attractive, and the season concluded with a strong anticipation of her future celebrity.

The company then proceeded to perform in the provinces, and at Waterford occurred the first grave incident in the life of Mrs. Jordan. Lieutenant Charles Doyne, of the third regiment of heavy horse (Green’s), was then quartered in that city; and, struck with the _naïveté_ and almost irresistible attractions of the young performer, his heart yielded, and he became seriously and honourably attached to her. Lieutenant Doyne was not handsome, rather the reverse, but he was a gentleman and a worthy man. He had been my friend and companion some years at the university; I therefore knew him intimately, and he entrusted me with his passion. (Miss Francis’s mother was then alive, and sedulously attended her.) Wild and thoughtless myself, I told him, if he could win the young lady, to marry her; adding, that no doubt Fortune _must_ smile, whether she chose or not, on so disinterested a union; he being no beauty himself, and having no chance of getting a moneyed wife by his attractions, as young ladies seldom fall in love with the unsophisticated goodness of a lover: an ordinary picture without either frame or gilding is seldom seen in a fashionable drawing-room.

Her mother, however, was of a different opinion; and as she had no fortune but her talent, the exercise of which was to be relinquished with the name of Francis, it became matter of serious consideration whence they were to draw their support—with the probability too of a family! Here was a real enigma. His commission was altogether inadequate, and his private fortune small.—This, in short, was insurmountable. Mrs. Francis, also anticipating the future celebrity of her child, and unwilling to extinguish in obscurity all chance of fame and fortune by means of the profession she had adopted, worked upon her daughter to decline the proposal. The treaty accordingly ended, and Lieut. Doyne appeared to me for a time almost inconsolable. Miss Francis I did not see afterward; she accompanied her mother, soon after, to England, and soon commenced her ascent toward the pinnacle of fame. Lieut. Doyne lately died collector of the Queen’s County. His esteem for Mrs. Jordan was never obliterated.

Mr. Owenson, the father of Lady Morgan, was at that time highly celebrated in the line of Irish characters, and never did an actor exist so perfectly calculated, in my opinion, to personify that singular class of people. Considerably above six feet in height;—remarkably handsome and brave-looking,—vigorous and well-shaped,—he was not vulgar enough to disgust, nor was he genteel enough to be _out of character_: never did I see any actor so entirely identify himself with the peculiarities of those Irish parts he assumed. In the higher class of Irish characters (old officers, &c.) he looked well, but did not exhibit sufficient formal dignity; and in the _lowest_, his humour was scarcely quaint and original enough; but in what might be termed the “_middle class of Paddies_,” no man ever combined the look and the manner with such felicity as Owenson. Scientific singing was not an Irish quality; and he sang well enough.—I have heard Mr. Jack Johnstone warble so sweetly and so very skilfully, and act some parts so very like a man of education, that I almost forgot the nation he was mimicking: that was not the case with Owenson; he acted as if he had not received too much schooling, and sang like a man whom nobody had instructed. He was, like most of his profession, careless of his concerns, and grew old without growing rich. His last friend was old Fontaine, a very celebrated French dancing-master, many years domiciliated and highly esteemed in Dublin. He aided Owenson and his family whilst he had means to do so, and they both died nearly at the same time—instances of talent and improvidence.

This digression I have ventured on, because in the first place it harmonises with the theatrical nature of my subject, and may be interesting—because it relates to the father of an eminent and amiable woman; and most particularly, because I was informed that Mr. Owenson took a warm interest in the welfare of Miss Francis, and was the principal adviser of her mother in rejecting Mr. Doyne’s addresses.

After a lapse of many years I chanced to acquire the honour of a favourable introduction to His Royal Highness the Duke of C——, who became the efficient friend of me and of my family—not with that high and frigid mien which so often renders ungracious even the favours of upstart authorities in the British government, but with the condescending frankness and sincerity of a royal prince. He received at an early age, and educated, my only son with his own, and sent him, as lieutenant of the fifth dragoon guards, to make his campaigns in the Peninsula. This introduction to His Royal Highness gave me unerring opportunities of knowing, appreciating, and valuing, Mrs. Jordan. In her there was no guile; her heart was conspicuous in every word—her feelings in every action; and never did I find, in any character, a more complete concentration of every quality that should distinguish a mother, a friend, and a gentlewoman.

The outlines of Mrs. Jordan’s public life during her connexion of twenty-three years with a royal personage are too well known to require recital here. But with respect to her memoirs after that period, so much falsehood and exaggeration have gone abroad—so many circumstances have been distorted, and so many _invented_—some of the latter possessing sufficient plausibility to deceive even the most wary—that, if not a duty, it appears at least not wrong to aid in the refutation of malicious calumnies.

I have ever felt a great abhorrence of the system of defamation on hearsay. Public men, _as such_, may properly be commented on. It is the birthright of the British people to speak fairly their sentiments of those who rule them; but libel on private reputation is a disgusting excrescence upon the body of political freedom, and has latterly grown to an extent so dangerous to individuals, to families, and to society in general, and so disgraceful to the press at large, that it may hereafter afford plausible pretences for curtailing the liberty of that organ—the pure and legal exercise of which is the proudest and surest guardian of British freedom. The present lax, unrestrained, and vicious exuberance of the periodical press, stamps the United Kingdom as the very focus of libel and defamation in all their ramifications. No reputation—no rank—no character, public or private, neither the living nor the dead,—can escape from its licentiousness. One comfort may be drawn from the reflection—that it can proceed no further; its next movement must be a retrograde one, and I trust the legislature will not permit this retrogression to be long deferred.

That spirit of licentiousness I have been endeavouring to stigmatise was never more clearly instanced than by the indefatigable and reiterated attempts (for several years persevered in) to disparage a royal personage, whose domestic habits, and whose wise and commendable abstinence from political party and conflicting factions, should have exempted him from the pen and from the tongue of misrepresentation, and rendered sacred a character which only requires development to stand as high in the estimation of every man who regards the general happiness and power of the empire, as that of any other member of the same illustrious house. On this point I speak not lightly: that which I state is neither the effusion of gratitude nor the meanness of adulation: the royal personage I allude to would not commend me for the one, and would despise me for the other.

I cannot conclude this digression without reprobating in no measured terms that most dangerous of all calumnious tendencies which endeavours systematically to drag down the highest ranks to the level of the lowest, and by labouring to excite a democratic contempt of royal personages, attempts gradually to sap the very foundation of constitutional allegiance: such, however, has been a practice of the day, exercised with all the rancour, but without any portion of the ability, of Junius.[33]

Footnote 33:

I rather think that a very good man, and one of the first advocates of Ireland, carried this observation of mine and its bearings rather beyond the point I here intended, in his speech (as _reported_) in the Court of Chancery, on the arrival of the present chancellor. The reply of Sir Anthony Hart appeared to me to be the wisest, the most dignified, effective, and honest, that could possibly be pronounced by a lord chancellor so circumstanced, and coming after his noble predecessor.

It is deeply to be lamented that this system has been exemplified by some individuals whose literary celebrity might have well afforded them the means of creditable subsistence, without endeavouring to force into circulation works of mercenary penmanship containing wanton slander of the very highest personage in the United Empire. I specify no name: I designate no facts;—if they exist not, it is unimportant; if they are notorious, the application will not be difficult. It is true that a libeller cannot fully atone—yet he may repent; and even that mortification would be a better penance to any calumniator of distinguished talent than to run the risk of being swamped between the Scylla and Charybdis of untruth and disaffection.

But to return to the accomplished subject of my sketch:—I have seen her, as she called it, _on a cruise_, that is, at a provincial theatre (Liverpool); having gone over once from Dublin for that purpose: she was not then in high spirits: indeed her tone, in this respect, was not uniform; in the mornings she usually seemed depressed; at noon she went to rehearsal—came home fatigued, dined at three, and then reclined in her chamber till it was time to dress for the performance. She generally went to the theatre low-spirited.

I once accompanied Mrs. Jordan to the green-room at Liverpool: Mrs. Alsop, and her old maid, assiduously attended her. She went thither languid and apparently reluctant; but in a quarter of an hour her very nature seemed to undergo a metamorphosis: the sudden change of her manner appeared to me, in fact, nearly miraculous; she walked spiritedly across the stage two or three times, as if to measure its extent; and the moment her foot touched the scenic boards her spirit seemed to be regenerated; she cheered up, hummed an air, stepped light and quick, and every symptom of depression vanished! The comic eye and cordial laugh returned to their mistress, and announced that she felt herself moving in her darling element. Her attachment to the practice of her profession, in fact, exceeded any thing I could conceive.

Mrs. Jordan delighted in talking over past events. She had strong impressions of every thing; and I could perceive was sometimes influenced rather by her feelings than her judgment.