“Touching the tragedies you mention, if you speak of them merely as certain tragedies that may be had, I should think it impossible we could find the least room, as you know Garrick saddles us with one which we must bring out. But, if you have any particular desire that one of them should be done, it is another affair, and I should be glad to see them. Otherwise, I would much rather you would save the disagreeableness of giving my opinion to a fresh tragic bard, being already in disgrace with about nine of that irascible fraternity.
“Betsey has been alarmed about Tom, but without reason. He is in my opinion better than when you left him, at least to appearance, and the cold he caught is gone. We sent to see him at Battersea, and would have persuaded him to remove to Orchard Street; but he thinks the air does him good, and he seems with people where he is at home, and may divert himself, which, perhaps, will do him more good than the air, — but he is to be with us soon.
“Ormsby has sent me a silver branch on the score of the Duenna. This will cost me, what of all things I am least free of, a letter: and it should have been a poetical one, too, if the present had been any piece of plate but a candlestick! — I believe I must melt it into a bowl to make verses on it, for there is no possibility of bringing candle, candlestick, or snuffers, into metre. However, as the gift was owing to the muse, and the manner of it very friendly, I believe I shall try to jingle a little on the occasion; at least, a few such stanzas as might gain a cup of tea from the urn at Bath-Easton.
“Betsey is very well, and on the point of giving Tom up to feed like a Christian and a gentleman, or, in other words, of weaning, waining, or weening him. As for the young gentleman himself, his progress is so rapid, that one may plainly see the astonishment the sun is in of a morning, at the improvement of the night. Our loves to all.
“Yours ever, and truly,
“R. B. SHERIDAN.”
The first contribution which the dramatic talent of the new manager furnished to the stock of the theatre, was an alteration of Vanbrugh’s comedy, The Relapse, which was brought out on the 24th of February, 1777, under the title of “A Trip to Scarborough.”
In reading the original play, we are struck with surprise, that Sheridan should ever have hoped to be able to defecate such dialogue, and yet leave any of the wit, whose whole spirit is in the lees, behind. The very life of such characters as Berinthia is their licentiousness, and it is with them, as with objects that are luminous from putrescence, — to remove their taint is to extinguish their light. If Sheridan, indeed, had substituted some of his own wit for that which he took away, the inanition that followed the operation would have been much less sensibly felt. But to be so liberal of a treasure so precious, and for the enrichment of the work of another, could hardly have been expected from him. Besides, it may be doubted whether the subject had not already yielded its utmost to Vanbrugh, and whether even in the hands of Sheridan, it could have been brought to bear a second crop of wit. Here and there through the dialogue, there are some touches from his pen — more, however, in the style of his farce than his comedy. For instance, that speech of Lord Foppington, where, directing the hosier not “to thicken the calves of his stockings so much,” he says, “You should always remember, Mr. Hosier, that if you make a nobleman’s spring legs as robust as his autumnal calves, you commit a monstrous impropriety, and make no allowance for the fatigues of the winter.” Again, the following dialogue: —
“Jeweller. I hope, my lord, those buckles have had the unspeakable satisfaction of being honored with your lordship’s approbation?
“Lord F. Why, they are of a pretty fancy; but don’t you think them rather of the smallest?
“Jeweller. My lord, they could not well be larger, to keep on your lordship’s shoe.
“Lord F. My good sir, you forget that these matters are not as they used to be: formerly, indeed, the buckle was a sort of machine, intended to keep on the shoe; but the case is now quite reversed, and the shoe is of no earthly use but to keep on the buckle.”
About this time Mrs. Sheridan went to pass a few weeks with her father and mother at Bath, while Sheridan himself remained in town, to superintend the concerns of the theatre. During this interval he addressed to her the following verses, which I quote, less from their own peculiar merit, than as a proof how little his heart had yet lost of those first feelings of love and gallantry which too often expire in matrimony, as Faith and Hope do in heaven, and from the same causes —
“One lost in certainty, and one in joy.”
TO LAURA.
“Near Avon’s ridgy bank there grows
A willow of no vulgar size,
That tree first heard poor Silvio’s woes,
And heard how bright were Laura’s eyes.
Its boughs were shade from heat or show’r,
Its roots a moss-grown seat became;
Its leaves would strew the maiden’s bow’r,
Its bark was shatter’d with her name!
Once on a blossom-crowned day
Of mirth-inspiring May,
Silvio, beneath this willow’s sober shade,
In sullen contemplation laid,
Did mock the meadow’s flowery pride, —
Rail’d at the dance and sportive ring; —
The tabor’s call he did deride,
And said, it was not Spring.
He scorn’d the sky of azure blue,
He scorn’d whate’er could mirth bespeak;
He chid the beam that drank the dew,
And chid the gale that fann’d his glowing cheek.
Unpaid the season’s wanton lay,
For still he sigh’d, and said, it was not May.
“Ah, why should the glittering stream
Reflect thus delusive the scene?
Ah, why does a rosy-ting’d beam
Thus vainly enamel the green?
To me nor joy nor light they bring:
I tell thee, Phoebus, ’tis not Spring.
“Sweet tut’ress of music and love,
Sweet bird, if ’tis thee that I hear,
Why left you so early the grove,
To lavish your melody here?
Cease, then, mistaken thus to sing,
Sweet nightingale! it is not Spring.
“The gale courts my locks but to tease,
And, Zephyr, I call not on thee:
Thy fragrance no longer can please,
Then rob not the blossoms for me:
But hence unload thy balmy wing,
Believe me, Zephyr, ’tis not Spring.
“Yet the lily has drank of the show’r,
And the rose ‘gins to peep on the day;
And yon bee seems to search for a flow’r,
As busy as if it were May: —
In vain, thou senseless flutt’ring thing,
My heart informs me, ’tis not Spring.”
May pois’d her roseate wings, for she had heard
The mourner, as she pass’d the vales along;
And, silencing her own indignant bird,
She thus reprov’d poor Silvio’s song.
“How false is the sight of a lover;
How ready his spleen to discover
What reason would never allow!
Why, — Silvio, my sunshine and showers,
My blossoms, my birds, and my flow’rs,
Were never more perfect than now.
“The water’s reflection is true,
The green is enamell’d to view,
And Philomel sings on the spray;
The gale is the breathing of spring,
’Tis fragrance it bears on its wing,
And the bee is assur’d it is May.”
“Pardon (said Silvio with a gushing tear),
’Tis spring, sweet nymph, but Laura is not here.”
In sending these verses to Mrs. Sheridan, he had also written her a description of some splendid party, at which he had lately been present, where all the finest women of the world of fashion were assembled. His p
raises of their beauty, as well as his account of their flattering attentions to himself, awakened a feeling of at least poetical jealousy in Mrs. Sheridan, which she expressed in the following answer to his verses — taking occasion, at the same time, to pay some generous compliments to the most brilliant among his new fashionable friends. Though her verses are of that kind which we read more with interest than admiration, they have quite enough of talent for the gentle themes to which she aspired; and there is, besides, a charm about them, as coming from Mrs. Sheridan, to which far better poetry could not pretend.
TO SILVIO.
“Soft flow’d the lay by Avon’s sedgy side,
While o’er its streams the drooping willow hung
Beneath whose shadow Silvio fondly tried
To check the opening roses as they sprung.
In vain he bade them cease to court the gale,
That wanton’d balmy on the zephyr’s wing;
In vain, when Philomel renew’d her tale,
He chid her song, and said ‘It was not Spring.’
For still they bloom’d, tho’ Silvio’s heart was sad,
Nor did sweet Philomel neglect to sing;
The zephyrs scorned them not, tho’ Silvio had,
For love and nature told them it was Spring.
[Footnote: As the poem altogether would be too long, I have here omitted
five or six stanzas]
* * * * *
To other scenes doth Silvio now repair,
To nobler themes his daring Muse aspires;
Around him throng the gay, the young, the fair,
His lively wit the listening crowd admires.
And see, where radiant Beauty smiling stands,
With gentle voice and soft beseeching eyes,
To gain the laurel from his willing hands,
Her every art the fond enchantress tries.
What various charms the admiring youth surround,
How shall he sing, or how attempt to praise?
So lovely all — where shall the bard be found,
Who can to one alone attune his lays?
Behold with graceful step and smile serene,
Majestic Stella moves to claim the prize:
[Footnote: According to the Key which has been given me, the name of
Stella was meant to designate the Duchess of Rutland]
“’Tis thine,” he cries, “for thou art beauty’s queen.”
Mistaken youth! and sees’t thou Myra’s eyes?
[Footnote: The Duchess of Devonshire]
With beaming lustre see they dart at thee:
Ah I dread their vengeance — yet withhold thy hand, —
That deepening blush upbraids thy rash decree;
Hers is the wreath — obey the just demand.
“Pardon, bright nymph,”(the wond’ring Silvio cries)
“And oh, receive the wreath thy beauty’s due” —
His voice awards what still his hand denies,
For beauteous Amoret now his eyes pursue.
[Footnote: Mrs. (afterward Lady) Crewe]
With gentle step and hesitating grace,
Unconscious of her pow’r the fair one came;
If, while he view’d the glories of that face,
Poor Silvio doubted, — who shall dare to blame?
A rosy blush his ardent gaze reprov’d,
The offer’d wreath she modestly declined; —
“If sprightly wit and dimpled smiles are lov’d,
My brow,” said Flavia, “shall that garland bind.”
[Footnote: Lady Craven, afterwards Margravine of Anspach.]
With wanton gaiety the prize she seized —
Silvio in vain her snowy hand repell’d;
The fickle youth unwillingly was pleas’d,
Reluctantly the wreath he yet withheld.
But Jessie’s all-seducing form appears,
[Footnote: The late Countess of Jersey.]
Nor more the playful Flavia could delight;
Lovely in smiles, more lovely still in tears,
Her every glance shone eloquently bright.
Those radiant eyes in safety none could view,
Did not those fringed lids their brightness shade —
Mistaken youths! their beams, too late ye knew,
Are by that soft defence more fatal made.
“O God of Love!” with transport Silvio cries,
“Assist me thou, this contest to decide;
And since to one I cannot yield the prize,
Permit thy slave the garland to divide.
“On Myra’s breast the opening rose shall blow,
Reflecting from her cheek a livelier bloom;
For Stella shall the bright carnation glow —
Beneath her eyes’ bright radiance meet its doom.
“Smart pinks and daffodils shall Flavia grace,
The modest eglantine and violet blue
On gentle Amoret’s placid brow I’ll place —
Of elegance and love an emblem true.”
In gardens oft a beauteous flow’r there grows,
By vulgar eyes unnoticed and unseen;
In sweet security it humbly blows,
And rears its purple head to deck the green.
This flower, as nature’s poet sweetly sings,
Was once milk-white, and hearts-ease was its name;
Till wanton Cupid pois’d his roseate wings,
A vestal’s sacred bosom to inflame;
With treacherous aim the god his arrow drew,
Which she with icy coldness did repel;
Rebounding thence with feathery speed it flew,
Till on this lonely flow’r at last it fell.
Heart’s-ease no more the wandering shepherds found,
No more the nymphs its snowy form possess;
Its white now chang’d to purple by Love’s wound,
Heart’s-ease no more, ’tis “Love in Idleness.”
“This flow’r with sweet-brier join’d shall thee adorn,
Sweet Jessie, fairest ‘mid ten thousand fair!
But guard thy gentle bosom from the thorn,
Which, tho’ conceal’d, the sweet-brier still must bear.
“And place not Love, tho’ idle, in thy breast,
Tho’ bright its hues, it boasts no other charm —
So may thy future days be ever blest,
And friendship’s calmer joys thy bosom warm !”
But where does Laura pass her lonely hours?
Does she still haunt the grot and willow-tree?
Shall Silvio from his wreath of various flowr’s
Neglect to cull one simple sweet for thee?
“Ah, Laura, no,” the constant Silvio cries,
“For thee a never-fading wreath I’ll twine;
Though bright the rose, its bloom too swiftly flies,
No emblem meet for love so true as mine.
“For thee, my love, the myrtle, ever-green,
Shall every year its blossom sweet disclose,
Which, when our spring of youth no more is seen,
Shall still appear more lovely than the rose.”
“Forgive, dear youth,” the happy Laura said,
“Forgive each doubt, each fondly anxious fear,
Which from my heart for ever now is fled —
Thy love and truth, thus tried, are doubly dear.
“With pain I mark’d the various passions rise,
When beauty so divine before thee mov’d;
With trembling doubt beheld thy wandering eyes,
For still I fear’d; — alas! because I lov’d.
“Each anxious doubt shall Laura now forego,
No more regret those joys so lately known,
Conscious, that tho’ thy breast to all may glow,
Thy faithful heart shall beat for her alone.
“Then, Silvio, seize again thy tuneful lyre,
Nor yet sweet Beauty’s power forbear to praise;
&nb
sp; Again let charms divine thy strains inspire,
And Laura’s voice shall aid the poet’s lays.”
CHAPTER V.
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.
Mr. Sheridan was now approaching the summit of his dramatic fame; — he had already produced the best opera in the language, and there now remained for him the glory of writing also the best comedy. As this species of composition seems, more, perhaps, than any other, to require that knowledge of human nature and the world which experience alone can give, it seems not a little extraordinary that nearly all our first-rate comedies should have been the productions of very young men. Those of Congreve were all written before he was five-and-twenty. Farquhar produced the Constant Couple in his two-and-twentieth year, and died at thirty. Vanbrugh was a young ensign when he sketched out the Relapse and the Provoked Wife, and Sheridan crowned his reputation with the School for Scandal at six-and-twenty.
It is, perhaps, still more remarkable to find, as in the instance before us, that works which, at this period of life, we might suppose to have been the rapid offspring of a careless, but vigorous fancy, — anticipating the results of experience by a sort of second-sight inspiration, — should, on the contrary, have been the slow result of many and doubtful experiments, gradually unfolding beauties unforeseen even by him who produced them, and arriving, at length, step by step, at perfection. That such was the tardy process by which the School for Scandal was produced, will appear from the first sketches of its plan and dialogue, which I am here enabled to lay before the reader, and which cannot fail to interest deeply all those who take delight in tracing the alchemy of genius, and in watching the first slow workings of the menstruum, out of which its finest transmutations arise.
“Genius,” says Buffon, “is Patience;” or, (as another French writer has explained his thought)— “La Patience cherche, et le Genie trouve;” and there is little doubt that to the co-operation of these two powers all the brightest inventions of this world are owing; — that Patience must first explore the depths where the pearl lies hid, before Genius boldly dives and brings it up full into light. There are, it is true, some striking exceptions to this rule; and our own times have witnessed more than one extraordinary intellect, whose depth has not prevented their treasures from lying ever ready within reach. But the records of Immortality furnish few such instances; and all we know of the works, that she has hitherto marked with her seal, sufficiently authorize the general position, — that nothing great and durable has ever been produced with ease, and that Labor is the parent of all the lasting wonders of this world, whether in verse or stone, whether poetry or pyramids.
Delphi Complete Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan Page 108