CHAPTER VII.
UNFINISHED PLAYS AND POEMS.
Before I enter upon the sketch of Mr. Sheridan’s political life, I shall take this opportunity of laying before the reader such information with respect to his unfinished literary designs, both dramatic and poetic, as the papers in my possession enable me to communicate.
Some of his youthful attempts in literature have already been mentioned, and there is a dramatic sketch of his, founded on the Vicar of Wakefield, which from a date on the manuscript (1768), appears to have been produced at a still earlier age, and when he was only in his seventeenth year. A scene of this piece will be sufficient to show how very soon his talent for lively dialogue displayed itself: —
“SCENE II.
“THORNHILL and ARNOLD.
“Thornhill. Nay, prithee, Jack, no more of that if you love me. What, shall I stop short with the game in full view? Faith, I believe the fellow’s turned puritan. What think you of turning methodist, Jack? You have a tolerable good canting countenance, and, if escaped being taken up for a Jesuit, you might make a fortune in Moor-fields.
“Arnold. I was serious, Tom.
“Thorn. Splenetic you mean. Come, fill your glass, and a truce to your preaching. Here’s a pretty fellow has let his conscience sleep for these five years, and has now plucked morality from the leaves of his grandmother’s bible, beginning to declaim against what he has practised half his life-time. Why, I tell you once more, my schemes are all come to perfection. I am now convinced Olivia loves me — at our last conversation, she said she would rely wholly on my honor.
“Arn. And therefore you would deceive her.
“Thorn. Why no — deceive her? — why — indeed — as to that — but — but, for God’s sake, let me hear no more on this subject, for, ‘faith, you make me sad, Jack. If you continue your admonitions, I shall begin to think you have yourself an eye on the girl. You have promised me your assistance, and when you came down into the country, were as hot on the scheme as myself: but, since you have been two or three times with me at Primrose’s, you have fallen off strangely. No encroachments, Jack, on my little rose-bud — if you have a mind to beat up game in this quarter, there’s her sister — but no poaching.
“Arn. I am not insensible to her sister’s merit, but have no such views as you have. However, you have promised me that if you find in this lady that real virtue which you so firmly deny to exist in the sex, you will give up the pursuit, and, foregoing the low considerations of fortune, make atonement by marriage.
“Thorn. Such is my serious resolution.
“Arn. I wish you’d forego the experiment. But, you have been so much in raptures with your success, that I have, as yet, had no clear account how you came acquainted in the family.
“Thorn. Oh, I’ll tell you immediately. You know Lady Patchet?
“Arn. What, is she here?
“Thorn. It was by her I was first introduced. It seems that, last year, her ladyship’s reputation began to suffer a little; so that she thought it prudent to retire for a while, till people learned better manners or got worse memories. She soon became acquainted with this little family, and, as the wife is a prodigious admirer of quality, grew in a short time to be very intimate, and imagining that she may one day make her market of the girls, has much ingratiated herself with them. She introduced me — I drank, and abused this degenerate age with the father — promised wonders to the mother for all her brats — praised her gooseberry wine, and ogled the daughters, by which means in three days I made the progress I related to you.
“Arn. You have been expeditious indeed. I fear where that devil Lady Patchet is concerned there can be no good — but is there not a son?
“Thorn. Oh! the most ridiculous creature in nature. He has been bred in the country a bumpkin all his life, till within these six years, when he was sent to the University, but the misfortunes that have reduced his father falling out, he is returned, the most ridiculous animal you ever saw, a conceited, disputing blockhead. So there is no great matter to fear from his penetration. But come, let us begone, and see this moral family, we shall meet them coming from the field, and you will see a man who was once in affluence, maintaining by hard labor a numerous family.
“Arn. Oh! Thornhill, can you wish to add infamy to their poverty?
“[Exeunt.]”
There also remain among his papers three Acts of a Drama, without a name, — written evidently in haste, and with scarcely any correction, — the subject of which is so wild and unmanageable, that I should not have hesitated in referring it to the same early date, had not the introduction into one of the scenes of “Dry be that tear, be hush’d that sigh,” proved it to have been produced after that pretty song was written.
The chief personages upon whom the story turns are a band of outlaws, who, under the name and disguise of Devils, have taken up their residence in a gloomy wood, adjoining a village, the inhabitants of which they keep in perpetual alarm by their incursions and apparitions. In the same wood resides a hermit, secretly connected with this band, who keeps secluded within his cave the beautiful Reginilla, hid alike from the light of the sun and the eyes of men. She has, however, been indulged in her prison with a glimpse of a handsome young huntsman, whom she believes to be a phantom, and is encouraged in her belief by the hermit, by whose contrivance this huntsman (a prince in disguise) has been thus presented to her. The following is — as well as I can make it out from a manuscript not easily decipherable — the scene that takes place between the fair recluse and her visitant. The style, where style is attempted, shows, as the reader will perceive, a taste yet immature and unchastened: —
“Scene draws, and discovers REGINILLA asleep in the cave.
“Enter PEVIDOR and other Devils, with the HUNTSMAN — unbind him, and exeunt.
“Hunts. Ha! Where am I now? Is it indeed the dread abode of guilt, or refuge of a band of thieves? it cannot be a dream (sees REGINILLA.) Ha! if this be so, and I do dream, may I never wake — it is — my beating heart acknowledges my dear, gentle Reginilla. I’ll not wake her, lest, if it be a phantom, it should vanish. Oh, balmy breath! but for thy soft sighs that come to tell me it is no image, I should believe … (bends down towards her.) a sigh from her heart! — thus let me arrest thee on thy way. (kisses her.) A deeper blush has flushed her cheek — sweet modesty! that even in sleep is conscious and resentful. — She will not wake, and yet some fancy calls up those frequent sighs — how her heart beats in its ivory cage, like an imprisoned bird — or as if to reprove the hand that dares approach its sanctuary! Oh, would she but wake, and bless this gloom with her bright eyes! — Soft, here’s a lute — perhaps her soul will hear the call of harmony.
“Oh yield, fair lids, the treasures of my heart,
Release those beams, that make this mansion bright;
From her sweet sense, Slumber! tho’ sweet thou art,
Begone, and give the air she breathes in light.
“Or while, oh Sleep, thou dost those glances hide,
Let rosy slumbers still around her play,
Sweet as the cherub Innocence enjoy’d,
When in thy lap, new-born, in smiles he lay.
“And thou, oh Dream, that com’st her sleep to cheer,
Oh take my shape, and play a lover’s part;
Kiss her from me, and whisper in her ear,
Till her eyes shine, ’tis night within my heart.
[Footnote: I have taken the liberty here of supplying a few rhymes and words that are wanting in the original copy of the song. The last line of all runs thus in the manuscript: —
“Till her eye shines I live in darkest night,”
which, not rhyming as it ought, I have ventured to alter as above.]
“Reg. (waking.) The phantom, father! (seizes his hand.) ah, do not, do not wake me then. (rises.)
“Hunts. (kneeling to her.) Thou beauteous sun of this dark world, that mak’st a place, so like the cave of death, a heaven to me, instruct me how I may a
pproach thee — how address thee and not offend.
“Reg. Oh how my soul would hang upon those lips! speak on — and yet, methinks, he should not kneel so — why are you afraid, Sir? indeed, I cannot hurt you.
“Hunts. Sweet innocence, I’m sure thou would’st not.
“Reg. Art thou not he to whom I told my name, and didst thou not say thine was —
“Hunts. Oh blessed be the name that then thou told’st — it has been ever since my charm, and kept me from distraction. But, may I ask how such sweet excellence as thine could be hid in such a place?
“Reg. Alas, I know not — for such as thou I never saw before, nor any like myself.
“Hunts. Nor like thee ever shall — but would’st thou leave this place, and live with such as I am?
“Reg. Why may not you live here with such as I?
“Hunts. Yes — but I would carry thee where all above an azure canopy extends, at night bedropt with gems, and one more glorious lamp, that yields such bashful light as love enjoys — while underneath, a carpet shall be spread of flowers to court the pressure of thy step, with such sweet whispered invitations from the leaves of shady groves or murmuring of silver streams, that thou shalt think thou art in Paradise.
“Reg. Indeed!
“Hunts. Ay, and I’ll watch and wait on thee all day, and cull the choicest flowers, which while thou bind’st in the mysterious knot of love, I’ll tune for thee no vulgar lays, or tell thee tales shall make thee weep yet please thee — while thus I press thy hand, and warm it thus with kisses.
“Reg. I doubt thee not — but then my Governor has told me many a tale of faithless men who court a lady but to steal her peace and fame, and then to leave her.
“Hunts. Oh never such as thou art — witness all….
“Reg. Then wherefore couldst thou not live here? For I do feel, tho’ tenfold darkness did surround this spot, I could be blest, would you but stay here; and, if it made you sad to be imprison’d thus, I’d sing and play for thee, and dress thee sweetest fruits, and though you chid me, would kiss thy tear away and hide my blushing face upon thy bosom — indeed, I would. Then what avails the gaudy day, and all the evil things I’m told inhabit there, to those who have within themselves all that delight and love, and heaven can give.
“Hunts. My angel, thou hast indeed the soul of love.
“Reg. It is no ill thing, is it?
“Hunts. Oh most divine — it is the immediate gift of heaven, which steals into our breast … ’tis that which makes me sigh thus, look thus — fear and tremble for thee.
“Reg. Sure I should learn it too, if you would teach me.
(Sound of horn without — Huntsman starts.)
“Reg. You must not go — this is but a dance preparing for my amusement — oh we have, indeed, some pleasures here — come, I will sing for you the while.
“Song.
“Wilt thou then leave me? canst thou go from me,
To woo the fair that love the gaudy day?
Yet, e’en among those joys, thou’lt find that she,
Who dwells in darkness, loves thee more than they.
For these poor hands, and these unpractised eyes,
And this poor heart is thine without disguise.
But, if thou’lt stay with me, my only care
Shall be to please and make thee love to stay,
With music, song, and dance
* * * * *
But, if you go, nor music, song, nor dance,
* * * * *
If thou art studious, I will read
Thee tales of pleasing woe —
If thou art sad, I’ll kiss away
The tears…. that flow.
If thou would’st play, I’ll kiss thee till I blush,
Then hide that blush upon thy breast,
If thou would’st sleep….
Shall rock thy aching head to rest.
“Hunts. My soul’s wonder, I will never leave thee.
“(The Dance. — Allemande by two Bears.)
“Enter PEVIDOR.
“Pev. So fond, so soon! I cannot bear to see it. What ho, within (Devils enter.) secure him. (Seize and bind the Huntsman.)”
The Duke or sovereign of the country, where these events are supposed to take place, arrives at the head of a military force, for the purpose of investing the haunted wood, and putting down, as he says, those “lawless renegades, who, in infernal masquerade, make a hell around him.” He is also desirous of consulting the holy hermit of the wood, and availing himself of his pious consolations and prayers — being haunted with remorse for having criminally gained possession of the crown by contriving the shipwreck of the rightful heir, and then banishing from the court his most virtuous counsellors. In addition to these causes of disquietude, he has lately lost, in a mysterious manner, his only son, who, he supposes, has fallen a victim to these Satanic outlaws, but who, on the contrary, it appears, has voluntarily become an associate of their band, and is amusing himself, heedless of his noble father’s sorrow, by making love, in the disguise of a dancing bear, to a young village coquette of the name of Mopsa. A short specimen of the manner in which this last farcical incident is managed, will show how wide even Sheridan was, at first, of that true vein of comedy, which, on searching deeper into the mine, he so soon afterwards found: —
“SCENE. — The Inside of the Cottage. — MOPSA, LUBIN (her father), and COLIN (her lover), discovered.
“Enter PEVIDOR, leading the Bear, and singing.
“And he dances, dances, dances,
And goes upright like a Christian swain,
And he shows you pretty fancies,
Nor ever tries to shake off his chain.
“Lubin. Servant, master. Now, Mopsa, you are happy — it is, indeed, a handsome creature. What country does your bear come from?
“Pev. Dis bear, please your worship, is of de race of dat bear of St. Anthony, who was the first convert he made in de woods. St. Anthony bade him never more meddle with man, and de bear observed de command to his dying day.
“Lub. Wonderful!
“Pev. Dis generation be all de same — all born widout toots.
“Colin. What, can’t he bite? (puts his finger to the Bear’s mouth, who bites him.) Oh Lord, no toots! why you ——
“Pev. Oh dat be only his gum. (Mopsa laughs.)
“Col. For shame, Mopsa — now, I say Maister Lubin, mustn’t she give me a kiss to make it well?
“Lub. Ay, kiss her, kiss her, Colin.
“Col. Come, Miss. (Mopsa runs to the Bear, who kisses her.)”
The following scene of the Devils drinking in their subterraneous dwelling, though cleverly imagined, is such as, perhaps, no cookery of style could render palatable to an English audience.
“SCENE. — The Devils’ Cave.
“1st Dev. Come, Urial, here’s to our resurrection.
“2d Dev. It is a toast I’d scarcely pledge — by my life, I think we’re happier here.
“3d Dev. Why, so think I — by Jove, I would despise the man, who could but wish to rise again to earth, unless we were to lord there. What! sneaking pitiful in bondage, among vile money-scrapers, treacherous friends, fawning flatterers — or, still worse, deceitful mistresses. Shall we who reign lords here, again lend ourselves to swell the train of tyranny and usurpation? By my old father’s memory, I’d rather be the blindest mole that ever skulked in darkness, the lord of one poor hole, where he might say, ‘I’m master here.’
“2d Dev. You are too hot — where shall concord be found, if even the devils disagree? — Come fill the glass, and add thy harmony — while we have wine to enlighten us, the sun be hanged! I never thought he gave so fine a light for my part — and then, there are such vile inconveniences — high winds and storms, rains, &c. — oh hang it! living on the outside of the earth is like sleeping on deck, when one might, like us, have a snug berth in the cabin.
“1st Dev. True, true, — Helial, where is thy catch?
“In the earth’s centr
e let me live,
There, like a rabbit will I thrive,
Nor care if fools should call my life infernal;
While men on earth crawl lazily about,
Like snails upon the surface of the nut,
We are, like maggots, feasting in the kernel.
“1st Dev. Bravo, by this glass. Meli, what say you?
“3d Dev. Come, here’s to my Mina — I used to toast her in the upper regions.
“1st Dev. Ay, we miss them here.
“Glee.
“What’s a woman good for?
Rat me, sir, if I know.
* * * * *
She’s a savor to the glass,
An excuse to make it pass.
* * * * *
“1st Dev. I fear we are like the wits above, who abuse women only because they can’t get them, — and, after all, it must be owned they are a pretty kind of creatures.
“All. Yes, yes.
“Catch.
“’Tis woman after all
Is the blessing of this ball,
’Tis she keeps the balance of it even.
We are devils, it is true,
But had we women too,
Our Tartarus would turn to a Heaven!”
A scene in the Third Act, where these devils bring the prisoners whom they have captured to trial, is an overcharged imitation of the satire of Fielding, and must have been written, I think, after a perusal of that author’s Satirical Romance, “A Journey from this World to the Next,” — the first half of which contains as much genuine humor and fancy as are to be found in any other production of the kind. The interrogatories of Minos in that work suggested, I suspect, the following scene: —
“Enter a number of Devils. — Others bring in LUDOVICO.
“1st Dev. Just taken, in the wood, sir, with two more.
“Chorus of Devils.
“Welcome, welcome
* * * * *
“Pev. What art thou?
“Ludov. I went for a man in the other world.
“Pev. What sort of a man?
“Ludov. A soldier at your service.
“Pev. Wast thou in the battle of — ?
“Ludov. Truly I was.
“Pev. What was the quarrel?
“Ludov. I never had time to ask. The children of peace, who make our quarrels, must be Your Worship’s informants there.
Delphi Complete Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan Page 116