Part 20

MR. SHEPHERD. If you please, I will retire to rest--I heard your evening hymn, and interrupted your prayer in the hope of joining in it. Of whose devotions do you make use?

GOODMAN. Bishop Wilson's, sir--but you will be so good as to lead for us.

MR. SHEPHERD. If you please--but in general I know not that you can do better than make use of the pious bishop.

GOODMAN. George, bring the book.

MR. SHEPHERD. I will have it in my hand, if you please, but our own peculiar circumstances require our own peculiar thanks and petitions.

[_George brings the book, and gives it to Mr. S., and whilst they are looking at him, as if waiting for his kneeling first, the curtain drops._]

It is impossible not to feel such a scene deeply--its dramatic quality and the powerful effect that such a style of representation could not fail to have upon a thinking audience.

In the second act Goodman dispatches a leg of mutton to Lord Orwell's, and puts up a prayer--Mrs. Goodman inquires if the gentleman's shoes are cleaned, and mentions that she must go and look at the rolls in the camp oven: subsequently to which we are presented with a scene at his Lordship's, who desires the butcher to sit down, and enters into conversation about "Fiorin grass," which Goodman says will produce six ton per acre. His Lordship then recommends a work called "The Experienced Butcher," published by Darton and Harvey, Gracechurch Street, price 6s.--in return for which Goodman mentions the arrival of Mr. Shepherd, and recommends him for the curacy of Gladford, the new rector having refused to countenance him. Whereupon Lord Orwell says to the butcher (taking his hand), "Mr. Goodman, this, like every part of your conduct, raises you in my esteem; depend upon my services wherever they can be useful."

GOODMAN. Your Lordship is too condescending--too good--to _me_ too.

[_Exit, putting his hand to his eyes, to wipe away the tears._

LORD ORWELL. No profession, I see, however rude, can prevent the growth of humanity, where religion affords its kindly influence. Even conversation with this butcher I perceive to improve my humanity!

_Enter_ SIR WILLIAM RIGHTLY.

Good morning to you, Sir William; you rested well, I hope?

SIR W. Quite so, I thank you; your Lordship is well this morning, I hope? You have been sending your butcher away in tears, I see. I passed him in the hall; he gave me a look that spoke I know not what; I felt it at my heart.

* * * * *

LORD ORWELL. I think you must have heard me mention this butcher before; he is not only the best butcher for many miles round, but one of the best men!

His Lordship then characterises Goodman thus:--

I have a great regard for him. In addition to all I have said, there is a civility and gentleness in his manner--an ease and frankness--civil without servility--ease without familiarity, and gentle, with much animation!

SIR WILLIAM. It seems, then, that the butcher, if not a gentleman has much of the gentleman about him.

LORD ORWELL. Exactly so. But let us join the breakfast party.

[_Exeunt._

There is so much genuine nature in all this, that we certainly should have no hesitation in foretelling the reception it would meet with on the stage, if acted. The _dénoûment_ may easily be anticipated; Mr. Shepherd, instead of being continued as curate, gets the rectory at Gladford; and Lord Orwell and Sir William Rightly having walked down to the butcher's, there conclude the play thus:

[Lord Orwell and Sir William alternately shake hands with Mrs. Shepherd and Mrs. Goodman; Mr. Shepherd and Goodman then take each other cordially by the hand, in the centre, while Lord Orwell takes Goodman's hand and Mrs. Goodman's; Sir William takes Mrs. Shepherd's and Ruth's; Mrs. Goodman takes Muggins's, and Muggins George's; Ruth takes Crusty's, and Crusty his wife's. The curtain drops.]

As we have already said, the great charm of these pieces is the perfect representation which they give of _real life_. The intimate knowledge of human nature, and of society, which shines throughout all of them; and, above all, that consummate skill which, while it affords the richest dramatic treat, conveys the purest moral lesson.

It certainly is not for us to prescribe to Mr. Elliston; but we do think that if the play, whence we have made the above extracts, were acted at Drury Lane, the effect produced would be extraordinary. To Mr. Plumptree we return our thanks for his volume, which having read with admiration, we lay down with infinite satisfaction; and if every author were to pursue _his_ plan and publish the piece, which managers have refused, it would very soon put an end to all doubts as to the cabals and intrigues which agitate, divide, and govern theatrical cabinets.

PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE OF PUBLIC MEN.

With considerable exertion, and at a great expense of capital and research, we have been fortunately enabled to gratify the prevalent taste for diaries and correspondence; a gentleman of the highest literary character, moving in the first circles as well of the political as fashionable world, has been kind enough to furnish us with no less than twenty-four volumes of MS. letters and memoranda, the production of all the leading personages of the last and present century.

It is from the unreserved communication of their thoughts and feelings that the characters of great men are to be justly appreciated; and with the addition of the notes, explanatory and critical, of our highly-gifted friend, we think we shall do the world a service, and our readers a pleasure, by submitting portions of the great collection entrusted to our care.

It must be observed that the whole of the correspondence of which we are possessed is strictly of a private nature, and certainly has never appeared in print before. We give a few specimens:--

No. I.

"FROM THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT TO MR. SMITH.

"Mr. Pitt will be glad to see Mr. Smith to-morrow at twelve.

"Downing-street, April 4, 1800."

I have not been able to ascertain precisely who this Mr. Smith was, and the envelope, which possibly might have shewn the address, has been unfortunately lost--the name of Smith is by no means an uncommon one; it is possible that this note might have been written to a relation of Lord Carrington, who was created a Baron on the 15th of July, 1796. His Lordship married a Miss Bernard, by whom he has had one son and eleven daughters.--ED.

No. II.

"FROM DAVID GARRICK, ESQ., TO DR. GOLDSMITH.

"Southampton-street, April 9, 1775.

"DEAR GOLDSMITH,--Mrs. Garrick will be glad to see you here at dinner to-day, at three o'clock.

"Yours, D. G."

The authenticity of this short letter is unquestionable; for although the initials of this British Roscius only are affixed to it, the date, and the known intimacy which existed between Garrick and Goldsmith, put all doubt at rest as to the real writer. It is a curious transcript of the times, as it marks the hour of dining in the year 1775, in what may be considered the best authority. Garrick retired from the stage in 1777, and died in 1779; his widow survived him nearly half a century. The house at Hampton was purchased by a Mr. Carr, Solicitor, as I believe, to the Excise, one of whose daughters was married to Dr. Lushington.--ED.

No. III.

"FROM MRS. LETITIA BARBAULD TO MISS HIGGINBOTHAM.

"Mrs. Barbauld will thank Miss Higginbotham to let her have the silk gown home by Saturday night at latest.

"Thursday evening."

This interesting remain is without date, but it bears the evidence of truth on its face. Mrs. Barbauld, who was the daughter of Dr. Aikin, was a highly-talented lady; her "Beggar's Petition" itself is enough to immortalize her. The desire to have home a new gown on Saturday night, in order that she might wear it at church the next day, has a naturalness in it which is quite refreshing--a feminine anxiety operating upon a masculine mind.

I have endeavoured by every possible means to ascertain who the Miss Higginbotham was, to whom the letter is addressed, but hitherto in vain. By reference to the files of newspapers kept at the Chapter Coffee House, in St. Paul's Churchyard, I see that in the year 1870, a Mrs. Hickenbotham kept a milliner's shop in Hanway-yard, as it was then called. But I can hardly fancy it the same person, because in the first place Mrs. Barbauld distinctly calls her Miss, whereas the person in question was married; and secondly, because the name of the milliner to whom the newspaper refers, is spelt Hickenbotham, whereas Mrs. Barbauld makes the Hick, Hig, and spells her _bottom_, _botham_, after the manner of the landlord of the Windmill Inn, at Salt-hill, near Eton in Buckinghamshire.

No. IV.

"FROM THE RIGHT HON. EDMUND BURKE TO MR. BURNS.

"BURNS,--Get something for dinner by four o'clock to-morrow, and tell Simmons to have a fire lighted in my bed-room early in the day."

"E. B."

The Right Hon. Edmund Burke, one of the most distinguished of our British worthies, was born at Limerick on New Year's Day, 1730; he was educated by a Quaker, got into Parliament in 1765, and died at Beaconsfield, July 8, 1797. Burns I imagine to have been a servant of his, but I have no particular reason for believing it, beyond the evidence of the letter before us. The direction to get dinner ready, comes evidently in the way of a command; and the unadorned style of address quite justifies my suspicions. Simmons is unquestionably a domestic servant, and a female. In the registry of marriages in Beaconsfield church, I find an entry of a marriage between Thomas Hopkins and Mary Anne Simmons, spinster; which Mary Anne I take to be the individual referred to by Burke. The date of that marriage is June 15, 1792. Now, although this letter is without date, it is fair to infer from the reference to "making a fire in his bed-room," that it was written much earlier in the year than the month of June; so that even if we were able to fix the date of the letter in the same year, it is quite within the range of possibility that the marriage did not take place till several months after the servant was spoken of, by her maiden name of Simmons. I took occasion to visit Beaconsfield twice, concerning this little doubt, and I think it but justice to make my acknowledgments to Mr. Thomas Fagg, the deputy-sexton of the parish, for his urbane attention to me, and the readiness with which he afforded me all the information of which he was possessed.--ED.

No. V.

"FROM SIR PHILIP FRANCIS TO MR. PERKINS.

"MY DEAR SIR,--The weather is so hot, and town so dull, that I intend flying from all its ills and inconveniences to-morrow; I shall be happy, therefore, to join your pleasant party.--Yours,

"P. F."

This very curious letter is not more valuable on account of the matter it contains, than as conducing to throw additional light upon the mystery of Junius--it would occupy too much space in a note to enter into a disquisition concerning the various conflicting opinions upon this subject, but as far as a comparison of hand-writing with some portions of the MS. of Junius's Letters, which I had an opportunity of seeing, and a strong similarity of style in the writing, go, I have no hesitation in settling the authorship upon Sir Philip--there is such vigorous imagination displayed in the description, in nine words, of the state of the weather and the metropolis, and such a masculine resolution evinced in the declared determination to "fly from all its ills and inconveniences" the very next day, that one cannot but pause to admire the firmness which could plan such a measure, and the taste which could give such a determination in such language. The cautious concealment of the place to which the supposed party of pleasure was to go, is another evidence of the force of habit--I have reason to believe it to have been Twickenham, or as Pope spells it, Twitnam, but I have no particular datum whereon to found this suspicion, except, indeed, that I think it quite as probable to have been Twickenham, or Twitnam, as any other of the agreeable villages round London.--ED.

No. VI.

"FROM SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS TO CALEB WHITEFOORD, ESQ.

"Leicester Fields, Saturday.

"MY DEAR SIR,--I have received your witty note, and am extremely obliged to you for your present of venison. I trust you will favour me with your company on Tuesday, to meet some of your friends, to join them in discussing it.--Yours, very truly,

"J. REYNOLDS."

There can be little doubt that the note referred to by Sir Joshua was full of those quibbles and quaintnesses for which Whitefoord was so well known. Whitefoord was a man of considerable attainments, and was distinguished by the peculiarity of his dress; a French grey coat with black frogs, a small cocked hat and an umbrella--he was the constant frequenter of auctions, and has the credit of being the inventor of the now hacknied concit called "Cross readings." It is certain, that in his note sent with the venison, he called Sir Joshua his deer friend, hoped it would suit his pallate, recommended him to take some cuts from it and transfer them to plates, spoke of the current sauce being jelly, and perhaps signed himself his Buck friend (for at that period the words Buck and Maccaroni were the distinctive appellations of two classes of persons in London). I surmise this, because he was a confirmed punster, a character somewhat prized in those days. Goldsmith said it was impossible to keep company with him without being infected with the itch of punning. He is celebrated in the postscript to "Retaliation:"--

"Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I'd almost said, wit. This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, Thou best-temper'd man, with the worst-temper'd muse."--ED.

It is impossible for us to spare more room to-day, but we think we have offered a specimen of a work which will be found at least equal to many others whose pretensions are much more formidable, and which, after all, do not exhibit so faithfully the peculiar characteristics of the private lives of public men.

THE COCKNEY'S LETTER.

The following letter has been transmitted to us, as written by a Cockney gentleman late in the train of Lord Byron,[50] but now discarded--we are not sufficiently acquainted with the style of the writer to vouch for its genuineness, but we give it as we have received it:--

My dear ----, --I am astonished at what you write me. So then, notwithstanding all the strong articles in our last Liberal Magazine, neither Government nor people has made a stir; England is still a monarchy, England is still a monarchy, and not even a single change in the ministry has been effected! Jeffrey, (Byron's new friend,) who is always sanguine, thinks the next Number must do it, but I begin to despair; and the worry-one's soul-out, as it were, effect of the disappointment on my health is very visible. I pine, and grow thinner and paler every day. My appearance, by the way, is very interesting and Tasso-like, and I think an engraving of me would sell well in England, where a "how-does-he-look" sort of inquiry must be in everybody's mouth just now. But let that pass for the present, I have matter of still greater moment for you.

The only subject of conversation now in England, and indeed in all those parts of Europe where tyrants are not as _yet_ allowed to send in fellows with bayonets to stop people's mouths whenever they mention my name, must be the coolness between me and Byron, and it is proper the rights of it should be known, which is better than folks going about with a he-said-this--and then-he-said-t'other sort of report of it. The fact is, that Byron is the aggressor, for he began first, as the children say, and all about a piece of patrician pride, very unbecoming among us radicals. Some time ago, seeing him in conversation with the Earl of----, at the end of the Strada di----, I hopped down the street, and, just to shew the intimacy which subsisted between us, slapped him on the back with a "Ha! Byron, my boy!" He darted at me one of his look-you-through sort of glances, and turned from me without speaking; and it was not till after a decided cut of eight or ten days that, wanting something done, he sent for me. I went; he began by a tread-you to-dirtish, as it were taking of me to task, said something about the "coarse familiarity of your radicals;" and then told me that I might stop and dine with him that day, which I did. You will gather from this that these lords are not to be depended upon, they are but a half and half sort of radicals--the cloven foot of nobility is perpetually peeping out, they won't give altogether into that hail-fellow-well-metishness, which we expect from them. Again: at dinner that day, happening to say to him, "I and you, Byron, who are called the Satanic School:" he cut me short unceremoniously, and said, "Who the h--ll ever called _you_ Satanic?--Cockney, if you please and reminded me of the fable of the apples swimming. Now, putting radicalism out of the question, this was very ungenteel from one great poet to another--then he is jealous of me. We have had a disagreement about which of us should have the most room to write in the Liberal Magazine. He wanted all; which (though I never contradict him, or he'd have cut me long ago.) I almost remonstrated against, so he allowed me a corner here and there, as it were. Thus he flatly attributes our slow sale to my poetry--then to my prose--and in short, he was lately so insulting that I had "ever such a mind" (as we used to say at school) to tell him the fault was all his own; for between ourselves he has grown as stupid and as vulgar as the best of us. But worst of all, I find he has been making a mere tool of me, and he quizzes me to my very face. Some weeks ago I told him I had thoughts of writing his life, to which he replied with a smile, "Do;" but when I added that he ought in return to write mine, he exclaimed with a sneer "Pooh!" and went away in a turn-on-the-heel sort of fashion. But this is of a piece with his refusing to call me Tasso and Ariosto in exchange for my calling him Dante in our next poems.

Doubtless you have heard of the verses I addressed to him; I suppose there is an I-wish-I-could-get-'em sort of anxiety about them in England, so I send you a copy:--

"LINES TO MY FRIEND BYRON.

"Dear Byron, while you're out walking, I'll just say Something about ourselves in my off-hand way, Easy and Chaucer-like; in that free rhyme They used to warble in the olden time, And which you so chucklingly listen to when I Pour out a strain of it, as 'twere, chirpingly; Full of all sorts of lovely, graceful things, Smacking of fancy, pretty imaginings, Which I trick out with a Titian-like sort of air, And a touch of Michael Angelo here and there; For though the graceful's wherein I excel, I dash off the sublime, too, pretty well.

"Now, let me see--I have it--I'll suppose, (Though you're there in the garden plucking a rose,) That, after travelling many and many a day, You are wandering in some country far away, When, being tired, you stretch beneath a tree, And take from your pocket my Rimini, And read it through and through, and think of me; And then you take some other work of mine, And con it daintily, tasting it line by line, Pausing 'tween whiles, as one does drinking port, And smack your lips, saying, 'This is your right sort.' And when it has grown too dark for you to see, You close the book and wish for your dear Leigh: Then comes a little bird, fluttering near, And perches, fairy like, on the tip of your ear; Then up you jump and would hunch it away; But, spite of all, the little bird will stay, And then----(But what I'm writing all this while Is a fancy in my wild Ariosto style)-- And thus this little bird turns into me, And you rush forward to me in ecstasy, And grasp my hand, as it were, clutchingly, And call me your 'dear Leigh;' while I, e'en bolder, Cry, 'Ah, my dear Byron!' clapping you on the shoulder, E'en just as I might be supposed to do, If this were not a Poet's dream, but true."

Now, I expected this would have procured me a sonnet at least in return, but he did not even deign ever once to notice it, spite of all my attempts to draw him out about it. You, who know what an excessively sensitive creature I am, will easily conceive the heart-in-one's-mouthishness of my sensations, when I found out his real opinion of me. It happened one day that he left me alone in his study. He had no sooner turned his back than I began to fumble among his books and papers. What I most earnestly sought was the copy I gave him of my "Story of Rimini," thinking to find it full of notes in his own hand-writing. It was not even half cut open! A proof he had not half read it. Against "my dear Byron," in the dedication (for you know I dedicated it to him) I found written "Familiar Cockney," and in the last leaf cut--that is as far as I presume he had read,--was written the following critique:--

"O! Crimini, Crimini! What a mimini, pimini, Story of Rimini!"

This you will say was sufficiently cut-one-to-the-heartish, but this was little compared with what follows. Among other things, I found the MS. of the Twelfth Canto of Don Juan, which will shortly appear. By the way, it is rather unfair in him, to say no less of it, to throw "Cockney" in my teeth at every turn, considering that I have now quite given up talking of Highgate and Primrose Hill, ever since I have seen the Apennines--and to a friend, too! But it is my friend Byron's way; he calls and uncalls all his friends round, once in every four or five years, or so. But to my extract from his next canto:--

"Filthy scum! These Hunts, Hones, Despards, Thistlewoods, and Ings! These worms with which we politicians angle, We leave at last on Ketch's line to dangle.

Poor drivelling dupes! and can they think that we By birth ennobled, and no little proud Of our nobility, would stoop to be Companion'd with the base, plebeian crowd; Or that the crack-brain'd Bysshe, or Cockney Leigh, Or Gentle Johnny[51] e'er had been allow'd To sicken us with their familiarity, Forgetful of their distance and disparity, But that we turn'd them to our dirty uses?

My tool I've lately placed upon the shelf, So patronize my Cockney now who chooses; I've ta'en to do my dirty work myself. I find, too, that in fashion my abuse is, And brings--not that I value it--the pelf; But, let me hint, there's need of cash to victual ye E'en in this cheapest of all countries--Italy.

I've turn'd him off! He's gone! I've made the ninny stir His stumps! For on my stomach his pathetic, His Cockney rurals, drivellings, phrases sinister, And affectations act as an emetic. Besides, he thinks he's fit to be prime minister! The whimpering, simpering, Horsemonger ascetic![52] And there, he's grown so horribly familiar, And paws and 'dears' one so--I vow 'twould kill you."