Mrs Creagh was not the only person Sam managed to charm during his Irish excursion. His universally positive reception in Ireland was largely responsible for the enormous kiss of good fortune landed upon him in the following year. Undoubtedly, Derrick had been on his most refined behaviour, playing his best-known role as the silver-tongued gallant, the one that had won him such approbation in other circles. True to his more predictable nature, however, the promised History of Ireland, the raison d’être for his voyage, never manifested itself. Instead, the material he had assiduously gathered during his travels was put to use in the one work that earned him praise in the realm of respectable literature, his Letters Written from Leverpool, Chester, Corke, the Lake of Killarney, Dublin, Tunbridge Wells, and Bath. Although judged to be an elegant collection of correspondence between himself and members of the aristocracy, Derrick’s Letters was more of an exercise in the promotion of his image as a discerning gentleman than a feat of literary genius. It appeared in print seven years after his trusting patrons had advanced him funds for his intended publication. Nevertheless, those in high places who had enjoyed Sam’s company during his several-month sojourn across the sea continued to think and speak highly of him. The Earl of Shannon appeared to be so convinced of the deep-rooted gentility of Derrick’s character that he offered him a living in the Church. Sam had never before received such an accolade for his acting ability. The offer of the position, which he made a public show of declining as proof of his worthiness, caused him some embarrassment:
I am not hypocrite enough to sport with sacred matters for a livelihood; and I think it would be a little better, at least I should feel it so, If I accepted a living in the church, when my heart dictated my being unfit for it: unless I was certain I could by my example enforce the precepts of Christianity, I would not enroll myself amongst its pastors.
While the Earl of Shannon may have been the only member of the titled class to have believed the author of the Harris’s List worthy of holding a place within the Church, others thought him perfectly qualified to fill an important position elsewhere.
Outside of Covent Garden, the only other location in the eighteenth century as noted for its diversions and social interaction was Bath. Tucked into the verdant hills south of Bristol, Bath’s percolating hot springs, lively assembly rooms and fashionable crowd enticed the wealthy and titled from their London townhouses and country estates in the pursuit of pleasure. Bath was as much about excess and elegance, display and theatricality, as it was about curing gentlemen of their gout and women of their vapours. Like Covent Garden, it was a seat of frivolous fun, a place where the hours of the day were whiled away in parties and social occasions under the auspices of Bath’s Master of the Ceremonies. Until February 1761 it was Richard ‘Beau’ Nash who had lauded over the assemblies in this role, reprimanding inappropriately attired ladies and leading the evening’s first dances. As ‘King of Bath’, Nash, since the early years of the century, had been single-handedly responsible for maintaining Bath and its sister town, Tunbridge Wells, as resorts for the genteel. He had put in place a series of rules which governed with a clockwork-like regularity the etiquette and practices of the city’s social whirl. Although hardly a paragon of virtue, Nash, in his unmistakable white hat, cut a formidable and respected character as he trod the streets and crescents. By the end of 1760, however, the King of Bath was ailing, and who might succeed him was a question that no one seemed capable of answering.
As one who constantly chased the tails of potential patrons and felt compelled to keep in step with the movements of the fashionable set, Bath seemed as natural a home to Sam as Covent Garden. When the great patrons abandoned London for the green vistas of the spa town, Derrick followed closely behind, along with many theatrical, artistic and literary personalities. At certain times of the year, it was as if the entire West End with its assorted personages had been transplanted into the assembly rooms of Bath. Still riding on the crest of his favourable reception in Ireland, Sam had decamped to the resort in the hope of building on his successes elsewhere. With a clutch of letters of introduction from the Earls of Cork and Chesterfield, he once more plied the spa’s drawing rooms for potential benefactors. With the requisite seal of approval from such high-profile members of the landed class, Sam experienced an unrivalled success worming his way into the company of those who, just months earlier, would have turned the malodorous, malnourished poet away at the door. While the increasingly frail Nash had taken to surveying his kingdom from a wheelchair, Derrick was engaged in his most prolonged dramatic engagement to date, wooing with elaborate artifice the good graces of those who truly ruled Bath: the aristocracy.
The death of Beau Nash on 3 February 1761 took no one by surprise; the Master of the Ceremonies had reached the supreme age of eighty-seven before retiring to his grave. After the stately progress of his funeral and interment in Bath Abbey, much of the leisured population was prepared to carry on under the rule of Nash’s hastily appointed replacement, who rather unfortunately is remembered only as ‘The Frenchman, Monsieur Collette’. Beyond his being French, there was not much in the character of Jacques Collette to which the general subscription-payers of Bath could object. He liked walking and a good game of shuttlecock. He also made an unusual show of dancing with children in the assembly rooms, although by virtue of his towering height he loomed over them rather menacingly. When compared with Nash, Collette did little to impress or annoy anyone other than the owners of the assembly rooms who, since the day of his appointment, had kicked up a storm of disapproval at the unfair practices employed in electing him to the office. The situation degenerated rapidly and soon, in order to soothe frayed tempers, the Corporation of Bath was forced to call a new election. ‘The Frenchman’ would be made to defend his title against another nominee, a dark horse who raised far more eyebrows than the long-legged Collette.
The strange turn of events during the spring of that year would be something that Derrick himself claimed as ‘an event most improbable and most unexpected’. As Sam told the story, sheer accident lay at the foundation of his unanticipated rise to a position of prominence. While engaged in broadening his spectrum of patrons in Bath that winter, he had the good fortune of attaching himself to the entourage of a certain unnamed Lady —. After several weeks of attending her levees and waxing lyrical about the beauty of her daughters, Lady—had grown fond of Derrick, who, like any necessitous poet, had made himself indispensable to his patroness. With his charm, impeccable manners and thoughtfulness, Sam had turned her into a devoted sponsor who sang his praises loudly to all who might listen.
Above the bickering between Bath’s grandees, each of whom had their list of favourites to promote for the disputed title of Master of the Ceremonies, came a lone but quite influential voice of support for the unlikely figure of Samuel Derrick. It had all occurred quite by chance. During a social gathering at which a number of individuals charged with solving the crisis of Nash’s succession were present, the talk turned to the current stalemate. The situation had reached breaking point. For weeks, lists of potential appointees had been presented and rejected, one after another. Exasperated at the mention of the last candidate’s name, the husband of Lady —, the eponymous Lord —, threw up his hands in dismay. The entire selection process was a shambles. It seemed as if every aspiring, macaroni-mannered dancing master in Bath had been put forward as a suitable candidate. The absurdity of it all! So many inferior suggestions! Why, they might as well nominate Samuel Derrick for the position!
At that moment, Lady—stepped forward ‘and seriously seconded this ludicrous motion’. The room, filled with gentlemen who knew better and ladies who didn’t, fell to murmuring. Derrick’s reputation among the wives and daughters of the gentry was immaculate: a friend of Lord Chesterfield, Lord Charlemont, Lord Orrery and Cork, all men of taste and breeding. His reputation was such that he had even been offered a living in the Church. He dressed well and spoke with heartfelt deference, he was a gentleman, a p
oetic man of sensibility: what was there not to like about him? For most of his adult life, Derrick had dedicated his efforts to the female sex, charming and flattering them, and in the end, it was the women of England who provided him with the opportunities. No gentleman worth his manners would venture to explain to these ladies of high birth why Samuel Derrick was not all that he seemed. There was no appropriate way to inform Lady—that the same hand that composed verses on the virtues of her daughters ascribed similar graces to the whores of Covent Garden. The humiliation of the situation would have been compounded by the revelation that the man whom she had come to favour as a charming, witty and talented poet had not only been disinherited for his profligacy but had made a habit of sleeping on the street like a beggar. Certainly, among the male contingent of Bath society, many would have witnessed or heard stories of his antics. The more lurid sexual tales might easily be brushed aside, along with accounts of his drinking and gaming habits, none of which were judged to be social sins among men of fashion. Providing gentlemen took their pleasures tempered with a degree of moderation and a helping of discretion, their public characters might remain untarnished. The problem was that Sam was neither moderate nor discreet in his enjoyments. As Boswell had so succinctly put it, Derrick was in the eyes of many gentlemen no better than ‘a little blackguard pimping dog’, a lewd, poorly washed, immoral, lowborn Irishman. If his character was not in itself enough to raise dissent, then the flames were surely fanned by the whispers that circulated among those who recognised Sam as the author of the Harris’s List. Although this may only have been a select few gentlemen, it nevertheless was enough to deposit Sam’s secret in the public domain. To women of Lady —’s gentle birth, even the title Harris’s List would never have so much as formed part of their comprehension. She couldn’t have possibly understood that by putting Derrick’s name forward, she had unwittingly nominated a pimp for Master of the Ceremonies.
Derrick’s rise to this position of prominence was assisted on the one hand by those ignorant of his unsavoury reputation, and on the other by those who were fully apprised of it. Those buckish comrades who had shared his Covent Garden secrets alongside bottles of wine found the prospect of his appointment novel, if not amusingly delightful. Additionally, his supporters among the Irish aristocracy, whom he had so successfully seduced with his well-mannered demeanour only a year earlier, stood resolutely behind his nomination and influenced others of their class to do the same. As Samuel Johnson sagely explained to Boswell, Derrick had owed his triumph to the contacts he had cultivated as a patron-hunting author, adding that ‘Had he not been a writer, he might have been sweeping the crosses in the streets and asking half-pence from everyone that passed’. In the minds of another group of Bath society, however, the fine line that existed between Derrick and a mendicant street-sweeper was negligible. Collette, for one, was incensed that he should be made to stand down in favour of one who bore such an ignoble name. For support in his indignation, the Frenchman turned to a rather unlikely ally.
James Quin had been a titan of the stage in the days before David Garrick rendered his stiff, recitative style of acting virtually laughable. Like Derrick, Quin was an Irishman, although more senior in years than Sam. He had come to Bath, like many of the thespian set, to settle into a peaceful retirement while still enjoying the veneration of numerous admirers who looked to him as one of the resort’s resident celebrities. As Bath housed a large and highly esteemed theatre, which hosted performances of top London plays, Quin placed himself at the centre of this sphere, making pronouncements and passing judgments on productions with Doge-like authority. He had come to view himself as a kind of alternative ‘King of Bath’. Collette therefore saw fit to air his grievances at the foot of Quin’s throne. Perhaps Quin and Derrick were too similar in disposition, or Quin believed it necessary for fashion’s sake to cultivate a rival, but the veteran actor never much cared for ‘the little Irish poet’. So when Collette came to him venting his spleen on the injustice and ‘impropriety of choosing Derrick’, he found a sympathetic ear. According to Town and Country Magazine, ‘… After expatiating upon all the errors of his conduct, and his want of knowledge in polite life’, and ultimately ‘concluding with an observation on the insignificancy of his figure and the disagreeableness of his smell’, Collette turned to the aged actor for a word of advice. Quin memorably responded with the damning phrase, ‘If you have a mind to put Derrick out, do it at once, and clap an extinguisher over him’. The battle lines had been drawn.
As many of Derrick’s critics had noticed, once ‘the Little King of Bath’ had been crowned with Beau Nash’s white hat, any remaining vestiges of humility in Sam’s character vanished. ‘Vanity had no small share in the composition of our master of the ceremonies’, wrote the author of his obituary. If he could not prove to the world that he was ‘a man of the most gallantry, the most wit and the most politeness of any in Europe’, then he also ‘insisted upon … keeping the best company’. Sam had spent much of his life having to endure the insults and disdain of those who regarded him as nothing better than a bottom-feeding hack, an indigent lowlife bereft of breeding and morality. Enough was enough. As he had done so many years earlier when contending with his rival Tracy, Derrick chose to voice his emotions through his pen, this time exerting ‘his talents in ridiculing those who had been instrumental in … [attempting] to dethrone him’. Unable to forgive his enemy for his vitriolic attacks or to ‘forget the advice Quin had given others’, the King of Bath ‘wrote the following epigram upon that gentleman’:
When Quin of all grace and dignity void,
Murder’d Cato, the censor, and Brutus destroy’d;
He strutted, he mouth’d – you no passion cou’d trace
In his action, delivery, or plumb-pudding face;
When he massacred Comus, the gay god of mirth,
He was suffer’d because we of actors had dearth,
But when Foote, with strong judgement and genuine wit,
Upon all his peculiar absurdities hit;
When Garrick arose, with those talents and fire
Which nature and all the nine muses inspire,
Poor GUTS1 was neglected, or laugh’d off the stage;
So bursting with envy, and tortur’d with rage,
He damn’d the whole town in a fury, and fled,
Little Bayes2 an extinguisher clapp’d on his head
Yet we never shall Falstaff behold so well done
With such character, humour, such spirit and fun,
So great that we knew not which most to admire,
Glutton, parasite, pander, pimp, letcher, or liar –
He felt as he spoke; – nature’s dictates are true;
When he acted the part, his own picture he drew.3
Derrick’s poem had its desired effect: he had offended Quin enough to make him a sworn enemy. Theirs was a mutual disgust that lasted until shortly before the actor’s death in 1766, when all was forgiven over a rift-healing dinner of John Dory, Quin’s favourite fish.
Upon his election as Master of the Ceremonies, Sam seemed determined to establish himself once and for all in the eyes of society as a man of importance and gentility. He sought to recast his character and invent a public persona flawless in his knowledge of propriety. Many of those whom he had duped about his moral fibre remained none the wiser, but others who knew Sam Derrick for Sam Derrick saw the transparency of his charade and found it hilarious. Not only was Sam ‘very fond of pomp and show’, as John Taylor wrote in his Records of My Life, but when his position at last enabled him to acquire a household of servants, Derrick ensured that ‘he kept a footman almost as fine as himself’. In order to demonstrate to the world that he was a gentleman of consequence, ‘his footman always walked behind him, and to show that he was his servant, he generally crossed the street several times, that the man might be seen to follow him’. Derrick now lived more extravagantly than ever, boasting of an enormous wardrobe and a luxurious ‘modern’ Bath t
ownhouse filled with expensive furnishings. He travelled between his regular engagements at Bath, Tunbridge Wells and London in his own coach, drawn by his own horses. In spite of being in receipt of an income that amounted to ‘upwards of £800 per annum’, a very comfortable sum, Derrick had refused to change in one crucial respect: he continued to live well above his means. With his usual bravado, he gambled for significantly high stakes at the card tables. The gifts he made to friends were more lavish than ever, and the loans he issued more indulgent.
But Derrick’s proud displays of puffed-up plumage served as a mask to hide something else. The more absurdly polite he became, the more mannered airs he assumed, the more lavish equipage he acquired, the less likely it was that those whose respect he needed to maintain would be inclined to believe any uncomplimentary tales concerning his underlying character, should they come to light. In truth, Sam juggled two diametrically opposed personas, an acceptable and an unacceptable face – a situation which must have provided him with no end of trouble. Some of his friends, including his naïve correspondent Tom Wilson, believed that his position as Master of the Ceremonies meant that Sam would pack in the slightly grubby practice of writing. ‘The happiest circumstance in your affairs is to be released from the vile drudgery of authorship, to be subject to the clamorous demands of devils and booksellers’, he sighed in sympathetic relief. But Sam had no intention of giving up his unshakable desire to become a renowned poet. If anything, his role provided him with virtually unlimited access to the drawing rooms of every patron of consequence in the British Isles as they came to sojourn on his doorstep. Sadly, when at last provided with a scenario ideal for creating his magnum opus, the reality of Derrick’s abilities was made perfectly apparent. In the eight years of his reign, Sam did manage to produce a handful of works which might loosely be described as his most respectable: edited collections of verse by recognised poets, as well as his own letters and an attempt at epic Irish poetry, The Battle of Lora, but none of these publications gathered enough interest to construct a reputation of literary greatness. Of all his attempts, only one volume continued to sell year upon year at the kiosks in Covent Garden and the bookstalls that cluttered Fleet Street.
The Covent Garden Ladies: The Extraordinary Story of Harris's List Page 25