The Memoirs of Mr. Charles J. Yellowplush
Page 18
SKIMMINGS FROM "THE DAIRY OF GEORGE IV."
CHARLES YELLOWPLUSH, ESQ, TO OLIVER YORKE, ESQ.*
DEAR WHY,--Takin advantage of the Crismiss holydays, Sir John and me(who is a member of parlyment) had gone down to our place in Yorkshirefor six wicks, to shoot grows and woodcox, and enjoy old Englishhospitalaty. This ugly Canady bisniss unluckaly put an end to oursports in the country, and brot us up to Buckly Square as fast as fourposterses could gallip. When there, I found your parcel, containing thetwo vollumes of a new book; which, as I have been away from the literaryworld, and emplied solely in athlatic exorcises, have been layingneglected in my pantry, among my knife-cloaths, and dekanters, andblacking-bottles, and bed-room candles, and things.
* These Memoirs were originally published in Fraser's Magazine, and itmay be stated for the benefit of the unlearned in such matters, that"Oliver Yorke" is the assumed name of the editor of that periodical.
This will, I'm sure, account for my delay in notussing the work. I seesefral of the papers and magazeens have been befoarhand with me, andhave given their apinions concerning it: specially the Quotly Revew,which has most mussilessly cut to peases the author of this Dairy of theTimes of George IV.*
* Diary illustrative of the Times of George the Fourth, interspersedwith Original Letters from the late Queen Caroline, and from variousother distinguished Persons.
"Tot ou tard, tout se scait."--MAINTENON.
In 2 vols. London, 1838. Henry Colburn.
That it's a woman who wrote it is evydent from the style of the writing,as well as from certain proofs in the book itself. Most suttnly a femailwrote this Dairy; but who this Dairy-maid may be, I, in coarse, can'tconjecter: and indeed, common galliantry forbids me to ask. I can onlyjudge of the book itself; which, it appears to me, is clearly trenchingupon my ground and favrite subjicks, viz. fashnabble life, as igsibitedin the houses of the nobility, gentry, and rile fammly.
But I bare no mallis--infamation is infamation, and it doesn't matterwhere the infamy comes from; and whether the Dairy be from thatdistinguished pen to which it is ornarily attributed--whether, I say,it comes from a lady of honor to the late quean, or a scullion to thatdiffunct majisty, no matter: all we ask is nollidge; never mind how wehave it. Nollidge, as our cook says, is like trikel-possit--it's alwaysgood, though you was to drink it out of an old shoo.
Well, then, although this Dairy is likely searusly to injur my pussonalintrests, by fourstalling a deal of what I had to say in my privatememoars--though many, many guineas, is taken from my pockit, bycuttin short the tail of my narratif--though much that I had to say insouperior languidge, greased with all the ellygance of my orytory, thebenefick of my classcle reading, the chawms of my agreble wit, is thusabruply brot befor the world by an inferior genus, neither knowing norwriting English; yet I say, that nevertheless I must say, what I ampuffickly prepaired to say, to gainsay which no man can say a word--yetI say, that I say I consider this publication welkom. Far from viewingit with enfy, I greet it with applaws; because it increases that mostexlent specious of nollidge, I mean "FASHNABBLE NOLLIDGE:" compayredto witch all other nollidge is nonsince--a bag of goold to a pare ofsnuffers.
Could Lord Broom, on the Canady question, say moar? or say what he hadtu say better? We are marters, both of us, to prinsple; and every bodywho knows eather knows that we would sacrafice anythink rather thanthat. Fashion is the goddiss I adoar. This delightful work is an offringon her srine; and as sich all her wushippers are bound to hail it.Here is not a question of trumpry lords and honrabbles, generals andbarronites, but the crown itself, and the king and queen's actions;witch may be considered as the crown jewels. Here's princes, andgrand-dukes and airsparent, and heaven knows what; all with blood-royalin their veins, and their names mentioned in the very fust page of thepeeridge. In this book you become so intmate with the Prince of Wales,that you may follow him, if you please, to his marridge-bed: or, ifyou prefer the Princiss Charlotte, you may have with her an hour'stator-tator.*
* Our estimable correspondent means, we presume, tete-a-tete.--O. Y.
Now, though most of the remarkable extrax from this book have been givenalready (the cream of the Dairy, as I wittily say,) I shall troubleyou, nevertheless, with a few; partly because they can't be repeatedtoo often, and because the toan of obsyvation with which they have beengenrally received by the press, is not igsackly such as I think theymerit. How, indeed, can these common magaseen and newspaper pipple knowanythink of fashnabble life, let alone ryal?
Conseaving, then, that the publication of the Dairy has done reel goodon this scoar, and may probly do a deal moor, I shall look through it,for the porpus of selecting the most ellygant passidges, and which Ithink may be peculiarly adapted to the reader's benefick.
For you see, my dear Mr. Yorke, that in the fust place, that this isno common catchpny book, like that of most authors and authoresses, whowrite for the base looker of gain. Heaven bless you! the Dairy-maid isabove anything musnary. She is a woman of rank, and no mistake; and isas much above doin a common or vulgar action as I am superaor to takingbeer after dinner with my cheese. She proves that most satisfackarily,as we see in the following passidge:--
"Her royal highness came to me, and having spoken a few phraseson different subjects, produced all the papers she wishes to havepublished: her whole correspondence with the prince relative to LadyJ---'s dismissal; his subsequent neglect of the princess; and, finally,the acquittal of her supposed guilt, signed by the Duke of Portland,&c., at the time of the secret inquiry: when, if proof could havebeen brought against her, it certainly would have been done; and whichacquittal, to the disgrace of all parties concerned, as well as to thejustice of the nation in general, was not made public at the time. Acommon criminal is publicly condemned or acquitted. Her royal highnesscommanded me to have these letters published forthwith, saying, 'You maysell them for a great sum.' At first (for she had spoken to mebefore concerning this business), I thought of availing myself of theopportunity; but upon second thoughts, I turned from this idea withdetestation: for, if I do wrong by obeying her wishes and endeavoringto serve her, I will do so at least from good and disinterested motives,not from any sordid views. The princess commands me, and I will obeyher, whatever may be the issue; but not for fare or fee. I own Itremble, not so much for myself, as for the idea that she is not takingthe best and most dignified way of having these papers published. Whymake a secret of it at all? If wrong, it should not be done; if rightit should be done openly, and in the face of her enemies. In her royalhighness's case, as in that of wronged princes in general, why dothey shrink from straightforward dealings, and rather have recourse tocrooked policy? I wish, in this particular instance, I could makeher royal highness feel thus: but she is naturally indignant at beingfalsely accused, and will not condescend to an avowed explanation."
Can anythink be more just and honrabble than this? The Dairy-lady isquite fair and abovebored. A clear stage, says she, and no favior! "Iwon't do behind my back what I am ashamed of before my face: not I!" Nomore she does; for you see that, though she was offered this manyscripby the princess FOR NOTHINK, though she knew that she could actially getfor it a large sum of money, she was above it, like an honest, noble,grateful, fashnabble woman, as she was. She aboars secrecy, and neverwill have recors to disguise or crookid polacy. This ought to be anansure to them RADICLE SNEERERS, who pretend that they are the equalsof fashnabble pepple; wheras it's a well-known fact, that the vulgarroagues have no notion of honor.
And after this positif declaration, which reflex honor on her ladyship(long life to her! I've often waited behind her chair!)--after thispositif declaration, that, even for the porpus of DEFENDING hermissis, she was so hi-minded as to refuse anythink like a peculiarlyconsideration, it is actially asserted in the public prints by abooxeller, that he has given her A THOUSAND POUND for the Dairy. Athousand pound! nonsince!--it's a phigment! a base lible! This womantake a thousand pound, in a matter where her dear mistriss, friend, andbenyfactriss was
concerned! Never! A thousand baggonits would be moreprefrabble to a woman of her xqizzit feelins and fashion.
But to proseed. It's been objected to me, when I wrote some of myexpearunces in fashnabble life, that my languidge was occasionallyvulgar, and not such as is genrally used in those exqizzit famlies whichI frequent. Now, I'll lay a wager that there is in this book, wrote asall the world knows, by a rele lady, and speakin of kings and queensas if they were as common as sand-boys--there is in this book morewulgarity than ever I displayed, more nastiness than ever I would dareTO THINK ON, and more bad grammar than ever I wrote since I was a boy atschool. As for authografy, evry genlmn has his own: never mind spellin,I say, so long as the sence is right.
Let me here quot a letter from a corryspondent of this charming lady ofhonor; and a very nice corryspondent he is, too, without any mistake:
"Lady O---, poor Lady O---! knows the rules of prudence, I fear me, asimperfectly as she doth those of the Greek and Latin Grammars: or shehath let her brother, who is a sad swine, become master of her secrets,and then contrived to quarrel with him. You would see the outline of themelange in the newspapers; but not the report that Mr. S--- is about topublish a pamphlet, as an addition to the Harleian Tracts, setting forththe amatory adventures of his sister. We shall break our necks in hasteto buy it, of course crying 'Shameful' all the while; and it is saidthat Lady O--- is to be cut, which I cannot entirely believe. Let hertell two or three old women about town that they are young and handsome,and give some well-timed parties, and she may still keep the societywhich she hath been used to. The times are not so hard as they oncewere, when a woman could not construe Magna Charta with anything likeimpunity. People were full as gallant many years ago. But the days aregone by wherein my lord-protector of the commonwealth of England waswont to go a lovemaking to Mrs. Fleetwood, with the Bible under his arm.
"And so Miss Jacky Gordon is really clothed with a husband at last, andMiss Laura Manners left without a mate! She and Lord Stair should marryand have children in mere revenge. As to Miss Gordon, she's a Venus wellsuited for such a Vulcan,--whom nothing but money and a title couldhave rendered tolerable, even to a kitchen wench. It is said that thematrimonial correspondence between this couple is to be published, fullof sad scandalous relations, of which you may be sure scarcely a wordis true. In former times, the Duchess of St. A---s made use of theseelegant epistles in order to intimidate Lady Johnstone: but that rusewould not avail; so in spite, they are to be printed. What a cargoof amiable creatures! Yet will some people scarcely believe in theexistence of Pandemonium.
"Tuesday Morning.--You are perfectly right respecting the hot roomshere, which we all cry out against, and all find very comfortable--muchmore so than the cold sands and bleak neighborhood of the sea; whichlooks vastly well in one of Vander Velde's pictures hung upon crimsondamask, but hideous and shocking in reality. H--- and his 'elle'(talking of parties) were last night at Cholmondeley House, but seemnot to ripen in their love. He is certainly good-humored, and I believe,good-hearted, so deserves a good wife; but his cara seems a genuineLondon miss made up of many affectations. Will she form a comfortablehelpmate? For me, I like not her origin, and deem many strange things torun in blood, besides madness and the Hanoverian evil.
"Thursday.--I verily do believe that I shall never get to the end ofthis small sheet of paper, so many unheard of interruptions have I had;and now I have been to Vauxhall, and caught the toothache. I was of LadyE. B---m and H---'s party: very dull--the Lady giving us all a supperafter our promenade--
'Much ado was there, God wot She would love, but he would not.'
He ate a great deal of ice, although he did not seem to require it: andshe 'faisoit les yeux doux' enough not only to have melted all the icewhich he swallowed, but his own hard heart into the bargain. The thingwill not do. In the meantime, Miss Long hath become quite cruel toWellesley Pole, and divides her favor equally between Lords Killeen andKilworth, two as simple Irishmen as ever gave birth to a bull. I wishto Hymen that she were fairly married, for all this pother gives one adisgusting picture of human nature."
A disgusting pictur of human nature, indeed--and isn't he who moralizesabout it, and she to whom he writes, a couple of pretty heads inthe same piece? Which, Mr. Yorke, is the wust, the scandle or thescandle-mongers? See what it is to be a moral man of fashn. Fust,he scrapes togither all the bad stoaries about all the people ofhis acquentance--he goes to a ball, and laffs or snears at everybodythere--he is asked to a dinner, and brings away, along with meat andwine to his heart's content, a sour stomick filled with nasty stories ofall the people present there. He has such a squeamish appytite, that allthe world seems to DISAGREE with him. And what has he got to say to hisdelicate female frend? Why that--
Fust. Mr. S. is going to publish indescent stoaries about Lady O---, hissister, which everybody's goin to by.
Nex. That Miss Gordon is going to be cloathed with an usband; and thatall their matrimonial corryspondins is to be published too.
3. That Lord H. is going to be married; but there's some thing rong inhis wife's blood.
4. Miss Long has cut Mr. Wellesley, and is gone after two Irish lords.
Wooden you phancy, now, that the author of such a letter, instead ofwritin about pipple of tip-top qualaty, was describin Vinegar Yard?Would you beleave that the lady he was a-ritin to was a chased, modistlady of honor, and mother of a famly? O trumpery! O morris! as Homersays: this is a higeous pictur of manners, such as I weap to think of,as evry morl man must weap.
The above is one pritty pictur of mearly fashnabble life: what followsis about families even higher situated than the most fashnabble. Herewe have the princessregient, her daughter the Princess Sharlot,her grandmamma the old quean, and her madjisty's daughters the twoprincesses. If this is not high life, I don't know where it is to befound; and it's pleasing to see what affeckshn and harmny rains in suchan exolted spear.
"Sunday 24th.--Yesterday, the princess went to meet the PrincessCharlotte at Kensington. Lady ---- told me that, when the latterarrived, she rushed up to her mother, and said, 'For God's sake, becivil to her,' meaning the Duchess of Leeds, who followed her. Lady---- said she felt sorry for the latter; but when the Princess of Walestalked to her, she soon became so free and easy, that one could nothave any FEELING about her FEELINGS. Princess Charlotte, I was told, waslooking handsome, very pale, but her head more becomingly dressed,--thatis to say, less dressed than usual. Her figure is of that full roundshape which is now in its prime; but she disfigures herself by wearingher bodice so short, that she literally has no waist. Her feet are verypretty; and so are her hands and arms, and her ears, and the shape ofher head. Her countenance is expressive, when she allows her passions toplay upon it; and I never saw any face, with so little shade, express somany powerful and varied emotions. Lady ---- told me that the PrincessCharlotte talked to her about her situation, and said, in a veryquiet, but determined way, she WOULD NOT BEAR IT, and that as soon asparliament met, she intended to come to Warwick House, and remain there;that she was also determined not to consider the Duchess of Leeds asher GOVERNESS but only as her FIRST LADY. She made many observationson other persons and subjects; and appears to be very quick, verypenetrating, but imperious and wilful. There is a tone of romance, too,in her character, which will only serve to mislead her.
"She told her mother that there had been a great battle at Windsorbetween the queen and the prince, the former refusing to give upMiss Knight from her own person to attend on Princess Charlotte assub-governess. But the prince-regent had gone to Windsor himself, andinsisted on her doing so; and the 'old Beguin' was forced to submit,but has been ill ever since: and Sir Henry Halford declared it was acomplete breaking up of her constitution--to the great delight of thetwo princesses, who were talking about this affair. Miss Knight was thevery person they wished to have; they think they can do as they likewith her. It has been ordered that the Princess Charlotte should not seeher mother alone for a single moment; but the latter went int
o her room,stuffed a pair of large shoes full of papers, and having given them toher daughter, she went home. Lady ---- told me everything was writtendown and sent to Mr. Brougham NEXT DAY."
See what discord will creap even into the best regulated famlies. Hereare six of 'em--viz., the quean and her two daughters, her son, and hiswife and daughter; and the manner in which they hate one another is acompleat puzzle.
{his mother. The Prince hates... {his wife. {his daughter.
Princess Charlotte hates her father.
Princess of Wales hates her husband.
The old quean, by their squobbles, is on the pint of death; and her twojewtiful daughters are delighted at the news. What a happy, fashnabble,Christian famly! O Mr. Yorke, Mr. Yorke, if this is the way in thedrawin-rooms, I'm quite content to live below, in pease and charaty withall men; writin, as I am now, in my pantry, or els havin a quiet game atcards in the servants-all. With US there's no bitter, wicked, quarlingof this sort. WE don't hate our children, or bully our mothers, or wish'em ded when they're sick, as this Dairywoman says kings and queensdo. When we're writing to our friends or sweethearts, WE don't fillour letters with nasty stoaries, takin away the carricter of ourfellow-servants, as this maid of honor's amusin' moral frend does. But,in coarse, it's not for us to judge of our betters;--these great peopleare a supeerur race, and we can't comprehend their ways.
Do you recklect--it's twenty years ago now--how a bewtiffle princessdied in givin buth to a poar baby, and how the whole nation of Henglandwep, as though it was one man, over that sweet woman and child, in whichwere sentered the hopes of every one of us, and of which each was asproud as of his own wife or infnt? Do you recklect how pore fellowsspent their last shillin to buy a black crape for their hats, andclergymen cried in the pulpit, and the whole country through was nobetter than a great dismal funeral? Do you recklet, Mr. Yorke, whowas the person that we all took on so about? We called her the PrincisSharlot of Wales; and we valyoud a single drop of her blood more thanthe whole heartless body of her father. Well, we looked up to her as akind of saint or angle, and blest God (such foolish loyal English pippleas we ware in those days) who had sent this sweet lady to rule over us.But heaven bless you! it was only souperstition. She was no better thanshe should be, as it turns out--or at least the Dairy-maid says so. Nobetter?--if my daughters or yours was 1/2 so bad, we'd as leaf be deadourselves, and they hanged. But listen to this pritty charritable story,and a truce to reflexshuns:--
"Sunday, January, 9, 1814.--Yesterday, according to appointment, I wentto Princess Charlotte. Found at Warwick House the harp-player, Dizzi;was asked to remain and listen to his performance, but was talked toduring the whole time, which completely prevented all possibility oflistening to the music. The Duchess of Leeds and her daughter were inthe room, but left it soon. Next arrived Miss Knight, who remained allthe time I was there. Princess Charlotte was very gracious--showed meall her bonny dyes, as B---would have called them--pictures, and cases,and jewels, &c. She talked in a very desultory way, and it would bedifficult to say of what. She observed her mother was in very lowspirits. I asked her how she supposed she could be otherwise? ThisQUESTIONING answer saves a great deal of trouble, and serves twopurposes--i.e. avoids committing oneself, or giving offence by silence.There was hung in the apartment one portrait, amongst others, thatvery much resembled the Duke of D---. I asked Miss Knight whom itrepresented. She said that was not known; it had been supposed alikeness of the Pretender, when young. This answer suited my thoughts socomically I could have laughed, if one ever did at courts anything butthe contrary of what one was inclined to do.
"Princess Charlotte has a very great variety of expression in hercountenance--a play of features, and a force of muscle, rarely seen inconnection with such soft and shadeless coloring. Her hands and armsare beautiful; but I think her figure is already gone, and will soon beprecisely like her mother's: in short it is the very picture of her, andNOT IN MINIATURE. I could not help analyzing my own sensations duringthe time I was with her, and thought more of them than I did of her. Whywas I at all flattered, at all more amused, at all more supple to thisyoung princess, than to her who is only the same sort of person setin the shade of circumstances and of years? It is that youth, and theapproach of power, and the latent views of self-interest, sway the heartand dazzle the understanding. If this is so with a heart not, I trust,corrupt, and a head not particularly formed for interested calculations,what effect must not the same causes produce on the generality ofmankind?
"In the course of the conversation, the Princess Charlotte contrived toedge in a good deal of tum-de-dy, and would, if I had entered intothe thing, have gone on with it, while looking at a little picture ofherself, which had about thirty or forty different dresses to put overit, done on isinglass, and which allowed the general coloring of thepicture to be seen through its transparency. It was, I thought, a prettyenough conceit, though rather like dressing up a doll. 'Ah!,' said MissKnight, 'I am not content though, madame--for I yet should have likedone more dress--that of the favorite Sultana.'
"'No, no!' said the princess, 'I never was a favorite, and never can beone,'--looking at a picture which she said was her father's, but whichI do not believe was done for the regent any more than for me, butrepresented a young man in a hussar's dress--probably a former favorite.
"The Princess Charlotte seemed much hurt at the little notice that wastaken of her birthday. After keeping me for two hours and a half shedismissed me; and I am sure I could not say what she said, except thatit was an olio of decousus and heterogeneous things, partaking of thecharacteristics of her mother, grafted on a younger scion. I dinedtete-a-tete with my dear old aunt: hers is always a sweet and soothingsociety to me."
There's a pleasing, lady-like, moral extract for you! An innocent youngthing of fifteen has picturs of TWO lovers in her room, and expex agood number more. This dellygate young creature EDGES in a good deal ofTUMDEDY (I can't find it in Johnson's Dixonary), and would have GONE ONWITH THE THING (ellygence of languidge), if the dairy-lady would havelet her.
Now, to tell you the truth, Mr. Yorke, I doan't beleave a singlesyllible of this story. This lady of honner says, in the fust place,that the princess would have talked a good deal of TUMDEDY: which means,I suppose, indeasnsy, if she, the lady of honner WOULD HAVE LET HER.This IS a good one! Why, she lets every body else talk tumdedy to theirhearts' content; she lets her friends WRITE tumdedy, and, after keepingit for a quarter of a sentry, she PRINTS it. Why then, be so squeamishabout HEARING a little! And, then, there's the stoary of the twoportricks. This woman has the honner to be received in the frendlyestmanner by a British princess; and what does the grateful loyal creaturedo? 2 picturs of the princess's relations are hanging in her room, andthe Dairy-woman swears away the poor young princess's carrickter, byswearing they are picturs of her LOVERS. For shame, oh, for shame! youslanderin backbitin dairy-woman you! If you told all them things toyour "dear old aunt," on going to dine with her, you must have had very"sweet and soothing society" indeed.
I had marked out many more extrax, which I intended to write about; butI think I have said enough about this Dairy: in fack, the butler, andthe gals in the servants'-hall are not well pleased that I should goon reading this naughty book; so we'll have no more of it, only onepassidge about Pollytics, witch is sertnly quite new:--
"No one was so likely to be able to defeat Bonaparte as the CrownPrince, from the intimate knowledge he possessed of his character.Bernadotte was also instigated against Bonaparte by one who not onlyowed him a personal hatred, but who possessed a mind equal to his, andwho gave the Crown Prince both information and advice how to act. Thiswas no less a person than Madame de Stael. It was not, as some haveasserted, THAT SHE WAS IN LOVE WITH BERNADOTTE; for, at the time oftheir intimacy, MADAME DE STAEL WAS IN LOVE WITH ROCCA. But she used herinfluence (which was not small) with the Crown Prince, to make himfight against Bonaparte, and to her wisdom may be attributed much of thesuccess
which accompanied his attack upon him. Bernadotte has raised theflame of liberty, which seems fortunately to blaze all around. May itliberate Europe; and from the ashes of the laurel may olive branchesspring up, and overshadow the earth!"
There's a discuvery! that the overthrow of Boneypart is owing to MADAMEDE STAEL! What nonsince for Colonel Southey or Doctor Napier to writehistories of the war with that Capsican hupstart and murderer, when herewe have the whole affair explaned by the lady of honor!
"Sunday, April 10, 1814.--The incidents which take place every hour aremiraculous. Bonaparte is deposed, but alive; subdued, but allowed tochoose his place of residence. The island of Elba is the spot he hasselected for his ignominious retreat. France is holding forth repentantarms to her banished sovereign. The Poissardes who dragged Louis XVI.to the scaffold are presenting flowers to the Emperor of Russia,the restorer of their legitimate king! What a stupendous field forphilosophy to expatiate in! What an endless material for thought! Whathumiliation to the pride of mere human greatness! How are the mightyfallen! Of all that was great in Napoleon, what remains? Despoiledof his usurped power, he sinks to insignificance. There was nomoral greatness in the man. The meteor dazzled, scorched, is putout,--utterly, and for ever. But the power which rests in those who havedelivered the nations from bondage, is a power that is delegated to themfrom heaven; and the manner in which they have used it is a guaranteefor its continuance. The Duke of Wellington has gained laurels unstainedby any useless flow of blood. He has done more than conquer others--hehas conquered himself: and in the midst of the blaze and flush ofvictory, surrounded by the homage of nations, he has not been betrayedinto the commission of any act of cruelty or wanton offence. He was ascool and self-possessed under the blaze and dazzle of fame as a commonman would be under the shade of his garden-tree, or by the hearth of hishome. But the tyrant who kept Europe in awe is now a pitiable object forscorn to point the finger of derision at: and humanity shudders as itremembers the scourge with which this man's ambition was permitted todevastate every home tie, and every heartfelt joy."
And now, after this sublime passidge, as full of awfle reflections andpious sentyments as those of Mrs. Cole in the play, I shall only quotone little extrak more:--
"All goes gloomily with the poor princess. Lady Charlotte Campbell toldme she regrets not seeing all these curious personages; but she says,the more the princess is forsaken, the more happy she is at havingoffered to attend her at this time. THIS IS VERY AMIABLE IN HER, andcannot fail to be gratifying to the princess."
So it is--wery amiable, wery kind and considerate in her, indeed. PoorPrincess! how lucky you was to find a frend who loved you for your ownsake, and when all the rest of the wuld turned its back kep steady toyou. As for believing that Lady Sharlot had any hand in this book,*heaven forbid! she is all gratitude, pure gratitude, depend upon it. SHEwould not go for to blacken her old frend and patron's carrickter, afterhaving been so outrageously faithful to her; SHE wouldn't do it, at noprice, depend upon it. How sorry she must be that others an't quiteso squemish, and show up in this indesent way the follies of her kind,genrus, foolish bennyfactris!
* The "authorized" announcement, in the John Bull newspaper, sets thisquestion at rest. It is declared that her ladyship is not the writer ofthe Diary.--O. Y.
EPISTLES TO THE LITERATI.
CH-S Y-LL-WPL-SH, ESQ., TO SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BT.
JOHN THOMAS SMITH, ESQ., TO C--S Y--H, ESQ.
NOTUS.
The suckmstansies of the following harticle are as follos:--Me andmy friend, the sellabrated Mr. Smith, reckonized each other in theHaymarket Theatre, during the performints of the new play. I was settnin the gallery, and sung out to him (he was in the pit), to jine usafter the play, over a glass of bear and a cold hoyster, in my pantry,the family being out.
Smith came as appinted. We descorsed on the subjick of the comady;and, after sefral glases, we each of us agreed to write a letter to theother, giving our notiums of the pease. Paper was brought that momint;and Smith writing his harticle across the knife-bord, I dasht off mineon the dresser.
Our agreement was, that I (being remarkabble for my style of riting)should cretasize the languidge, whilst he should take up with the plotof the play; and the candied reader will parding me for having holteredthe original address of my letter, and directed it to Sir Edwardhimself; and for having incopperated Smith's remarks in the midst of myown:--
MAYFAIR, Nov. 30, 1839. Midnite.
HONRABBLE BARNET!--Retired from the littery world a year or moar, Ididn't think anythink would injuice me to come forrards again: for Iwas content with my share of reputation, and propoas'd to add nothink tothose immortial wux which have rendered this Magaseen so sallybrated.
Shall I tell you the reazn of my re-appearants?--a desire for thebenefick of my fellow-creatures? Fiddlestick! A mighty truth with whichmy busm labored, and which I must bring forth or die? Nonsince--stuff:money's the secret, my dear Barnet,--money--l'argong, gelt, spicunia.Here's quarter-day coming, and I'm blest if I can pay my landlud, unlessI can ad hartificially to my inkum.
This is, however, betwigst you and me. There's no need to blacard thestreets with it, or to tell the British public that Fitzroy Y-ll-wpl-shis short of money, or that the sallybrated hauthor of the Y--- Papers isin peskewniary difficklties, or is fiteagued by his superhuman litterylabors, or by his famly suckmstansies, or by any other pusnal matter:my maxim, dear B, is on these pints to be as quiet as posbile. Whatthe juice does the public care for you or me? Why must we always, inprefizzes and what not, be a-talking about ourselves and our igstrodnarymerrats, woas, and injaries? It is on this subjick that I porpies, mydear Barnet, to speak to you in a frendly way; and praps you'll find myadvise tolrabbly holesum.
Well, then,--if you care about the apinions, fur good or evil, of uspoor suvvants, I tell you, in the most candied way, I like you, Barnet.I've had my fling at you in my day (for, entry nou, that last stoary Iroat about you and Larnder was as big a bownsir as ever was)--I've hadmy fling at you; but I like you. One may objeck to an immense deal ofyour writings, which, betwigst you and me, contain more sham scentiment,sham morallaty, sham poatry, than you'd like to own; but, in spite ofthis, there's the STUFF in you: you've a kind and loyal heart in you,Barnet--a trifle deboshed, perhaps; a kean i, igspecially for what'scomic (as for your tradgady, it's mighty flatchulent), and a readyplesnt pen. The man who says you are an As is an As himself. Don'tbelieve him, Barnet! not that I suppose you wil,--for, if I've formeda correck apinion of you from your wucks, you think your small-beear asgood as most men's: every man does,--and why not? We brew, and we loveour own tap--amen; but the pint betwigst us, is this stewpid, absudd wayof crying out, because the public don't like it too. Why shood they,my dear Barnet? You may vow that they are fools; or that the critix areyour enemies; or that the wuld should judge your poams by your critticlerules, and not their own: you may beat your breast, and vow you are amarter, and you won't mend the matter. Take heart, man! you're not somisrabble after all: your spirits need not be so VERY cast down; you arenot so VERY badly paid. I'd lay a wager that you make, with one thingor another--plays, novvles, pamphlicks, and little odd jobbs here andthere--your three thowsnd a year. There's many a man, dear Bullwig thatworks for less, and lives content. Why shouldn't you? Three thowsnd ayear is no such bad thing,--let alone the barnetcy: it must be a greatcomfort to have that bloody hand in your skitching.
But don't you sea, that in a wuld naturally envius, wickid, and fondof a joak, this very barnetcy, these very cumplaints,--this ceaselessgroning, and moning, and wining of yours, is igsackly the thing whichmakes people laff and snear more? If you were ever at a great school,you must recklect who was the boy most bullid, and buffited, andpurshewd--he who minded it most. He who could take a basting got butfew; he who rord and wep because the knotty boys called him nicknames,was nicknamed wuss and wuss. I recklect there was at our school, inSmithfield, a chap of this milksop, spoony sort, who appeared among theromping, ragged fellers in
a fine flanning dressing-gownd, that his mamahad given him. That pore boy was beaten in a way that his dear ma andaunts didn't know him; his fine flanning dressing-gownd was torn all toribbings, and he got no pease in the school ever after, but was abligedto be taken to some other saminary, where, I make no doubt, he was paidoff igsactly in the same way.
Do you take the halligory, my dear Barnet? Mutayto nominy--you know whatI mean. You are the boy, and your barnetcy is the dressing-gownd. Youdress yourself out finer than other chaps and they all begin to saultand hustle you; it's human nature, Barnet. You show weakness, thinkof your dear ma, mayhap, and begin to cry: it's all over with you;the whole school is at you--upper boys and under, big and little; thedirtiest little fag in the place will pipe out blaggerd names at you,and takes his pewny tug at your tail.
The only way to avoid such consperracies is to put a pair of stowtshoalders forrards, and bust through the crowd of raggymuffins. A goodbold fellow dubls his fistt, and cries, "Wha dares meddle wi' me?" WhenScott got HIS barnetcy, for instans, did any one of us cry out? No, bythe laws, he was our master; and wo betide the chap that said neigh tohim! But there's barnets and barnets. Do you recklect that fine chapterin "Squintin Durward," about the too fellos and cups, at the siege ofthe bishop's castle? One of them was a brave warner, and kep HIS cup;they strangled the other chap--strangled him, and laffed at him too.
With respeck, then, to the barnetcy pint, this is my advice: brazen itout. Us littery men I take to be like a pack of schoolboys--childish,greedy, envius, holding by our friends, and always ready to fight. Whatmust be a man's conduck among such? He must either take no notis, andpass on myjastick, or else turn round and pummle soundly--one, two,right and left, ding dong over the face and eyes; above all, neveracknowledge that he is hurt. Years ago, for instans (we've no ill-blood,but only mention this by way of igsample), you began a sparring withthis Magaseen. Law bless you, such a ridicklus gaym I never see: a manso belaybord, beflustered, bewolloped, was never known; it was the laffof the whole town. Your intelackshal natur, respected Barnet, is notfizzickly adapted, so to speak, for encounters of this sort. You mustnot indulge in combats with us course bullies of the press: you have notthe STAMINY for a reglar set-to. What, then, is your plan? In the midstof the mob to pass as quiet as you can: you won't be undistubbed. Whois? Some stray kix and buffits will fall to you--mortial man is subjickto such; but if you begin to wins and cry out, and set up for a marter,wo betide you!
These remarks, pusnal as I confess them to be, are yet, I assure you,written in perfick good-natur, and have been inspired by your play ofthe "Sea Capting," and prefiz to it; which latter is on matters intirelypusnal, and will, therefore, I trust, igscuse this kind of ad hominam(as they say) disk-cushion. I propose, honrabble Barnit, to cumsidercalmly this play and prephiz, and to speak of both with that honistywhich, in the pantry or studdy, I've been always phamous for. Let us,in the first place, listen to the opening of the "Preface of the FourthEdition:"
"No one can be more sensible than I am of the many faults anddeficiencies to be found in this play; but, perhaps, when it isconsidered how very rarely it has happened in the history of ourdramatic literature that good acting plays have been produced, except bythose who have either been actors themselves, or formed their habits ofliterature, almost of life, behind the scenes, I might have looked fora criticism more generous, and less exacting and rigorous, than thatby which the attempts of an author accustomed to another class ofcomposition have been received by a large proportion of the periodicalpress.
"It is scarcely possible, indeed, that this play should not containfaults of two kinds, first, the faults of one who has necessarily muchto learn in the mechanism of his art; and, secondly, of one who, havingwritten largely in the narrative style of fiction, may not unfrequentlymistake the effects of a novel for the effects of a drama. I may add tothese, perhaps, the deficiencies that arise from uncertain health andbroken spirits, which render the author more susceptible than he mighthave been some years since to that spirit of depreciation and hostilitywhich it has been his misfortune to excite amongst the generalcontributors to the periodical press for the consciousness that everyendeavor will be made to cavil, to distort, to misrepresent, and, infine, if possible, to RUN DOWN, will occasionally haunt even the hoursof composition, to check the inspiration, and damp the ardor.
"Having confessed thus much frankly and fairly, and with a hope thatI may ultimately do better, should I continue to write for the stage(which nothing but an assurance that, with all my defects, I may yetbring some little aid to the drama, at a time when any aid, howeverhumble, ought to be welcome to the lovers of the art, could induce me todo), may I be permitted to say a few words as to some of the objectionswhich have been made against this play?"
Now, my dear sir, look what a pretty number of please you put forrardshere, why your play shouldn't be good.
First. Good plays are almost always written by actors.
Secknd. You are a novice to the style of composition.
Third. You MAY be mistaken in your effects, being a novelist by trade,and not a play-writer.
Fourthly. Your in such bad helth and sperrits.
Fifthly. Your so afraid of the critix, that they damp your arder.
For shame, for shame, man! What confeshns is these,--what painfulpewling and piping! Your not a babby. I take you to be some seven oreight and thutty years old--"in the morning of youth," as the flosofersays. Don't let any such nonsince take your reazn prisoner. What,you, an old hand amongst us,--an old soljer of our sovring quean thepress,--you, who have had the best pay, have held the topmost rank (ay,and DESERVED them too!--I gif you lef to quot me in sasiaty, and say, "IAM a man of genius: Y-ll-wpl-sh says so"),--you to lose heart, and crypickavy, and begin to howl, because little boys fling stones at you!Fie, man! take courage; and, bearing the terrows of your blood-red hand,as the poet says, punish us, if we've ofended you: punish us like a man,or bear your own punishment like a man. Don't try to come off with suchmisrabble lodgic as that above.
What do you? You give four satisfackary reazns that the play is bad (thesecknd is naught,--for your no such chicking at play-writing, this beingthe forth). You show that the play must be bad, and THEN begin to dealwith the critix for finding folt!
Was there ever wuss generalship? The play IS bad,--your right--a wuss Inever see or read. But why kneed YOU say so? If it was so VERY bad, whypublish it? BECAUSE YOU WISH TO SERVE THE DRAMA! O fie! don't lay thatflattering function to your sole, as Milton observes. Do you believethat this "Sea Capting" can serve the drama? Did you never intend thatit should serve anything, or anybody ELSE? Of cors you did! You wrote itfor money,--money from the maniger, money from the bookseller,--for thesame reason that I write this. Sir, Shakspeare wrote for the very samereasons, and I never heard that he bragged about serving the drama. Awaywith this canting about great motifs! Let us not be too prowd, my dearBarnet, and fansy ourselves marters of the truth, marters or apostels.We are but tradesmen, working for bread, and not for righteousness'sake. Let's try and work honestly; but don't let us be prayting pompislyabout our "sacred calling." The taylor who makes your coats (and verywell they are made too, with the best of velvit collars)--I say Stulze,or Nugee, might cry out that THEIR motifs were but to assert the eturnletruth of tayloring, with just as much reazn; and who would believe them?
Well; after this acknollitchmint that the play is bad, come sefral pagesof attack on the critix, and the folt those gentry have found with it.With these I shan't middle for the presnt. You defend all the characters1 by 1, and conclude your remarks as follows:--
"I must be pardoned for this disquisition on my own designs. When everymeans is employed to misrepresent, it becomes, perhaps, allowable toexplain. And if I do not think that my faults as a dramatic author areto be found in the study and delineation of character, it is preciselybecause THAT is the point on which all my previous pursuits inliterature and actual life would be most likely to preserve me from theerrors I own elsewhere, wh
ether of misjudgment or inexperience.
"I have now only to add my thanks to the actors for the zeal and talentwith which they have embodied the characters entrusted to them. Thesweetness and grace with which Miss Faucit embellished the part ofViolet, which, though only a sketch, is most necessary to the coloringand harmony of the play, were perhaps the more pleasing to the audiencefrom the generosity, rare with actors, which induced her to take apart so far inferior to her powers. The applause which attends theperformance of Mrs. Warner and Mr. Strickland attests their successin characters of unusual difficulty; while the singular beauty andnobleness, whether of conception or execution, with which the greatestof living actors has elevated the part of Norman (so totally differentfrom his ordinary range of character), is a new proof of his versatilityand accomplishment in all that belongs to his art. It would be scarcelygracious to conclude these remarks without expressing my acknowledgmentof that generous and indulgent sense of justice which, forgetting allpolitical differences in a literary arena, has enabled me to appeal toapproving audiences--from hostile critics. And it is this which aloneencourages me to hope that, sooner or later, I may add to the dramaticliterature of my country something that may find, perhaps, almost asmany friends in the next age as it has been the fate of the author tofind enemies in this."
See, now, what a good comfrabble vanaty is! Pepple have quarld with thedramatic characters of your play. "No," says you; "if I AM remarkabblefor anythink, it's for my study and delineation of character; THAT ispresizely the pint to which my littery purshuits have led me." Have youread "Jil Blaw," my dear sir? Have you pirouzed that exlent tragady, the"Critic?" There's something so like this in Sir Fretful Plaguy, and theArchbishop of Granadiers, that I'm blest if I can't laff till my sidesake. Think of the critix fixing on the very pint for which you arefamus!--the roags! And spose they had said the plot was absudd, or thelangwitch absudder still, don't you think you would have had a word indefens of them too--you who hope to find frends for your dramatic wuxin the nex age? Poo! I tell thee, Barnet, that the nex age will bewiser and better than this; and do you think that it will imply itself areading of your trajadies? This is misantrofy, Barnet--reglar Byronism;and you ot to have a better apinian of human natur.
Your apinion about the actors I shan't here meddle with. They all actedexlently as far as my humbile judgement goes, and your write in givingthem all possible prays. But let's consider the last sentence of theprefiz, my dear Barnet, and see what a pretty set of apiniuns you laydown.
1. The critix are your inymies in this age.
2. In the nex, however, you hope to find newmrous frends.
3. And it's a satisfackshn to think that, in spite of politticlediffrances, you have found frendly aujences here.
Now, my dear Barnet, for a man who begins so humbly with what my friendFather Prout calls an argamantum ad misericorjam, who ignowledges thathis play is bad, that his pore dear helth is bad, and those cussidcritix have played the juice with him--I say, for a man who beginns insuch a humbill toan, it's rather RICH to see how you end.
My dear Barnet, DO you suppose that POLITTICLE DIFFRANCES prejudicepepple against YOU? What ARE your politix? Wig, I presume--so are mine,ontry noo. And what if they ARE Wig, or Raddiccle, or Cumsuvvative? Doesany mortial man in England care a phig for your politix? Do you thinkyourself such a mity man in parlymint, that critix are to be angry withyou, and aujences to be cumsidered magnanamous because they treat youfairly? There, now, was Sherridn, he who roat the "Rifles" and "Schoolfor Scandle" (I saw the "Rifles" after your play, and, O Barnet, ifyou KNEW what a relief it was!)--there, I say, was Sherridn--he WAS apolitticle character, if you please--he COULD make a spitch or two--doyou spose that Pitt, Purseyvall, Castlerag, old George the Thirdhimself, wooden go to see the "Rivles"--ay, and clap hands too, andlaff and ror, for all Sherry's Wiggery? Do you spose the critix wouldn'tapplaud too? For shame, Barnet! what ninnis, what hartless raskles, youmust beleave them to be,--in the fust plase, to fancy that you are apolitticle genus; in the secknd, to let your politix interfear withtheir notiums about littery merits!
"Put that nonsince out of your head," as Fox said to Bonypart. Wasn'tit that great genus, Dennis, that wrote in Swiff and Poop's time,who fansid that the French king wooden make pease unless Denniswas delivered up to him? Upon my wud, I doan't think he carridhis diddlusion much further than a serting honrabble barnet of myaquentance.
And then for the nex age. Respected sir, this is another diddlusion;a gross misteak on your part, or my name is not Y--sh. These playsimmortial? Ah, parrysampe, as the French say, this is too strong--thesmall-beer of the "Sea Capting," or of any suxessor of the "SeaCapting," to keep sweet for sentries and sentries! Barnet, Barnet! doyou know the natur of bear? Six weeks is not past, and here your lastcasque is sour--the public won't even now drink it; and I lay a wagerthat, betwigst this day (the thuttieth November) and the end of theyear, the barl will be off the stox altogether, never, never to return.
I've notted down a few frazes here and there, which you will do well doigsamin:--
NORMAN.
"The eternal Flora Woos to her odorous haunts the western wind; While circling round and upwards from the boughs, Golden with fruits that lure the joyous birds, Melody, like a happy soul released, Hangs in the air, and from invisible plumes Shakes sweetness down!"
NORMAN.
"And these the lips Where, till this hour, the sad and holy kiss Of parting linger'd, as the fragrance left By ANGELS when they touch the earth and vanish."
NORMAN.
"Hark! she has blessed her son! I bid ye witness, Ye listening heavens--thou circumambient air: The ocean sighs it back--and with the murmur Rustle the happy leaves. All nature breathes Aloud--aloft--to the Great Parent's ear, The blessing of the mother on her child."
NORMAN.
"I dream of love, enduring faith, a heart Mingled with mine--a deathless heritage, Which I can take unsullied to the STARS, When the Great Father calls his children home."
NORMAN.
"The blue air, breathless in the STARRY peace, After long silence hushed as heaven, but filled With happy thoughts as heaven with ANGELS."
NORMAN.
"Till one calm night, when over earth and wave Heaven looked its love from all its numberless STARS."
NORMAN.
"Those eyes, the guiding STARS by which I steered."
NORMAN.
"That great mother (The only parent I have known), whose face Is bright with gazing ever on the STARS-- The mother-sea."
NORMAN.
"My bark shall be our home; The STARS that light the ANGEL palaces Of air, our lamps."
NORMAN.
"A name that glitters, like a STAR, amidst The galaxy of England's loftiest born."
LADY ARUNDEL.
"And see him princeliest of the lion tribe, Whose swords and coronals gleam around the throne, The guardian STARS of the imperial isle."
The fust spissymen has been going the round of all the papers, as real,reglar poatry. Those wickid critix! they must have been laffing in theirsleafs when they quoted it. Malody, suckling round and uppards from thebows, like a happy soul released, hangs in the air, and from invizableplumes shakes sweetness down. Mighty fine, truly! but let mortial mantell the meannink of the passidge. Is it MUSICKLE sweetniss that Malodyshakes down from its plumes--its wings, that is, or tail--or somepekewliar scent that proceeds from happy souls released, and which theyshake down from the trees when they are suckling round and uppards? ISthis poatry, Barnet? Lay your hand on your busm, and speak out boldly:Is it poatry, or sheer windy humbugg, that sounds a little melojous, andwon't bear the commanest test of comman sence?
In passidge number 2, the same bisniss is going on, though in a morecomprehensable way: the air, the leaves, the otion, are fild withemocean at Capting Norman's happiness. Pore Nature is dragged in to
partisapate in his joys, just as she has been befor. Once in a poem,this universle simfithy is very well; but once is enuff, my dear Barnet:and that once should be in some great suckmstans, surely,--such as themeeting of Adam and Eve, in "Paradice Lost," or Jewpeter and Jewno, inHoamer, where there seems, as it were, a reasn for it. But sea-captingsshould not be eternly spowting and invoking gods, hevns, starrs, angels,and other silestial influences. We can all do it, Barnet; nothing inlife is esier. I can compare my livry buttons to the stars, or theclouds of my backopipe to the dark vollums that ishew from Mount Hetna;or I can say that angels are looking down from them, and the tobaccosilf, like a happy sole released, is circling round and upwards, andshaking sweetness down. All this is as esy as drink; but it's notpoatry, Barnet, nor natural. People, when their mothers reckonize them,don't howl about the suckumambient air, and paws to think of the happyleaves a-rustling--at least, one mistrusts them if they do. Takeanother instans out of your own play. Capting Norman (with his eternilSLACK-JAW!) meets the gal of his art:--
"Look up, look up, my Violet--weeping? fie! And trembling too--yet leaning on my breast. In truth, thou art too soft for such rude shelter. Look up! I come to woo thee to the seas, My sailor's bride! Hast thou no voice but blushes? Nay--From those roses let me, like the bee, Drag forth the secret sweetness!
VIOLET.
"Oh what thoughts Were kept for SPEECH when we once more should meet, Now blotted from the PAGE; and all I feel Is--THOU art with me!"
Very right, Miss Violet--the scentiment is natral, affeckshnit,pleasing, simple (it might have been in more grammaticle languidge, andno harm done); but never mind, the feeling is pritty; and I can fancy,my dear Barnet, a pritty, smiling, weeping lass, looking up in a man'sface and saying it. But the capting!--oh, this capting!--this windy,spouting captain, with his prittinesses, and conseated apollogies forthe hardness of his busm, and his old, stale, vapid simalies, and hiswishes to be a bee! Pish! Men don't make love in this finnikingway. It's the part of a sentymentle, poeticle taylor, not a galliantgentleman, in command of one of her Madjisty's vessels of war.
Look at the remaining extrac, honored Barnet, and acknollidge thatCapting Norman is eturnly repeating himself, with his endless jabberabout stars and angels. Look at the neat grammaticle twist of LadyArundel's spitch, too, who, in the corse of three lines, has made herson a prince, a lion, with a sword and coronal, and a star. Why jumbleand sheak up metafors in this way? Barnet, one simily is quite enuff inthe best of sentenses (and I preshume I kneedn't tell you that it's aswell to have it LIKE, when you are about it). Take my advise, honrabblesir--listen to a humble footmin: it's genrally best in poatry tounderstand puffickly what you mean yourself, and to ingspress yourmeaning clearly afterwoods--in the simpler words the better, praps. Youmay, for instans, call a coronet a coronal (an "ancestral coronal," p.74) if you like, as you might call a hat a "swart sombrero," "a glossyfour-and-nine," "a silken helm, to storm impermeable, and lightsome asthe breezy gossamer;" but, in the long run, it's as well to call ita hat. It IS a hat; and that name is quite as poetticle as another. Ithink it's Playto, or els Harrystottle, who observes that what we call arose by any other name would smell as sweet. Confess, now, dear Barnet,don't you long to call it a Polyanthus?
I never see a play more carelessly written. In such a hurry you seem tohave bean, that you have actially in some sentences forgot to put in thesence. What is this, for instance?--
"This thrice precious one Smiled to my eyes--drew being from my breast-- Slept in my arms;--the very tears I shed Above my treasures were to men and angels Alike such holy sweetness!"
In the name of all the angels that ever you invoked--Raphael, Gabriel,Uriel, Zadkiel, Azrael--what does this "holy sweetness" mean? We're notspinxes to read such durk conandrums. If you knew my state sins I cameupon this passidg--I've neither slep nor eton; I've neglected my pantry;I've been wandring from house to house with this riddl in my hand, andnobody can understand it. All Mr. Frazier's men are wild, looking gloomyat one another, and asking what this may be. All the cumtributors havebeen spoak to. The Doctor, who knows every languitch, has tried andgiv'n up; we've sent to Docteur Pettigruel, who reads horyglifics adeal ezier than my way of spellin'--no anser. Quick! quick with afifth edition, honored Barnet, and set us at rest! While your about it,please, too, to igsplain the two last lines:--
"His merry bark with England's flag to crown her."
See what dellexy of igspreshn, "a flag to crown her!"
"His merry bark with England's flag to crown her, Fame for my hopes, and woman in my cares."
Likewise the following:--
"Girl, beware, THE LOVE THAT TRIFLES ROUND THE CHARMS IT GILDS OFT RUINS WHILE IT SHINES."
Igsplane this, men and angels! I've tried every way; backards, forards,and in all sorts of trancepositions, as thus:--
The love that ruins round the charms it shines, Gilds while it trifles oft;
Or,
The charm that gilds around the love it ruins, Oft trifles while it shines;
Or,
The ruins that love gilds and shines around, Oft trifles where it charms;
Or,
Love, while it charms, shines round, and ruins oft, The trifles that it gilds;
Or,
The love that trifles, gilds and ruins oft, While round the charms it shines.
All which are as sensable as the fust passidge.
And with this I'll alow my friend Smith, who has been silent all thistime, to say a few words. He has not written near so much as me (beingan infearor genus, betwigst ourselves), but he says he never had suchmortial difficklty with anything as with the dixcripshn of the plott ofyour pease. Here his letter:--
To CH-RL-S F-TZR-Y PL-NT-G-N-T Y-LL-WPL-SH, ESQ., &c. &c.
30th Nov. 1839.
MY DEAR AND HONORED SIR,--I have the pleasure of laying before you thefollowing description of the plot, and a few remarks upon the style ofthe piece called "The Sea Captain."
Five-and-twenty years back, a certain Lord Arundel had a daughter,heiress of his estates and property; a poor cousin, Sir Maurice Beevor(being next in succession); and a page, Arthur Le Mesnil by name.
The daughter took a fancy for the page, and the young persons weremarried unknown to his lordship.
Three days before her confinement (thinking, no doubt, that periodfavorable for travelling), the young couple had agreed to run awaytogether, and had reached a chapel near on the sea-coast, from whichthey were to embark, when Lord Arundel abruptly put a stop to theirproceedings by causing one Gaussen, a pirate, to murder the page.
His daughter was carried back to Arundel House, and, in three days, gavebirth to a son. Whether his lordship knew of this birth I cannot say;the infant, however, was never acknowledged, but carried by Sir MauriceBeevor to a priest, Onslow by name, who educated the lad and kept himfor twelve years in profound ignorance of his birth. The boy went by thename of Norman.
Lady Arundel meanwhile married again, again became a widow, but had asecond son, who was the acknowledged heir, and called Lord Ashdale. OldLord Arundel died, and her ladyship became countess in her own right.
When Norman was about twelve years of age, his mother, who wished to"WAFT young Arthur to a distant land," had him sent on board ship. Whoshould the captain of the ship be but Gaussen, who received a smartbribe from Sir Maurice Beevor to kill the lad. Accordingly, Gaussen tiedhim to a plank, and pitched him overboard.
. . . . . .
About thirteen years after these circumstances, Violet, an orphan nieceof Lady Arundel's second husband, came to pass a few weeks with herladyship. She had just come from a sea-voyage, and had been saved from awicked Algerine by an English sea captain. This sea captain was no otherthan Norman, who had been picked up off his plank, and fell in lovewith, and was loved by, Miss Violet.
A short time after Violet's arrival at her aunt's the captain came topay her
a visit, his ship anchoring off the coast, near Lady Arundel'sresidence. By a singular coincidence, that rogue Gaussen's ship anchoredin the harbor too. Gaussen at once knew his man, for he had "tracked"him, (after drowning him,) and he informed Sir Maurice Beevor that youngNorman was alive.
Sir Maurice Beevor informed her ladyship. How should she get rid of him?In this wise. He was in love with Violet, let him marry her and be off;for Lord Ashdale was in love with his cousin too; and, of course, couldnot marry a young woman in her station of life. "You have a chaplain onboard," says her ladyship to Captain Norman; "let him attend to-nightin the ruined chapel, marry Violet, and away with you to sea." By thismeans she hoped to be quit of him forever.
But unfortunately the conversation had been overheard by Beevor, andreported to Ashdale. Ashdale determined to be at the chapel and carryoff Violet; as for Beevor, he sent Gaussen to the chapel to kill bothAshdale and Norman; thus there would only be Lady Arundel between himand the title.
Norman, in the meanwhile, who had been walking near the chapel, had justseen his worthy old friend, the priest, most barbarously murdered there.Sir Maurice Beevor had set Gaussen upon him; his reverence was comingwith the papers concerning Norman's birth, which Beevor wanted in orderto extort money from the countess. Gaussen was, however, obliged to runbefore he got the papers; and the clergyman had time, before he died,to tell Norman the story, and give him the documents, with which Normansped off to the castle to have an interview with his mother.
He lays his white cloak and hat on the table, and begs to be left alonewith her ladyship. Lord Ashdale, who is in the room, surlily quits it;but, going out, cunningly puts on Norman's cloak. "It will be dark,"says he, "down at the chapel; Violet won't know me; and, egad! I'll runoff with her!"
Norman has his interview. Her ladyship acknowledges him, for she cannothelp it; but will not embrace him, love him, or have anything to do withhim.
Away he goes to the chapel. His chaplain was there waiting to marry himto Violet, his boat was there to carry him on board his ship, and Violetwas there, too.
"Norman," says she, in the dark, "dear Norman, I knew you by your whitecloak; here I am." And she and the man in a cloak go off to the innerchapel to be married.
There waits Master Gaussen; he has seized the chaplain and the boat'screw, and is just about to murder the man in the cloak, when--
NORMAN rushes in and cuts him down, much to the surprise of Miss, forshe never suspected it was sly Ashdale who had come, as we have seen,disguised, and very nearly paid for his masquerading.
Ashdale is very grateful; but, when Norman persists in marrying Violet,he says--no, he shan't. He shall fight; he is a coward if he doesn'tfight. Norman flings down his sword, and says he WON'T fight; and--
Lady Arundel, who has been at prayers all this time, rushing in, says,"Hold! this is your brother, Percy--your elder brother!" Here is somerestiveness on Ashdale's part, but he finishes by embracing his brother.
Norman burns all the papers; vows he will never peach; reconcileshimself with his mother; says he will go loser; but, having ordered hisship to "veer" round to the chapel, orders it to veer back again, for hewill pass the honeymoon at Arundel Castle.
As you have been pleased to ask my opinion, it strikes me that there areone or two very good notions in this plot. But the author does not fail,as he would modestly have us believe, from ignorance of stage-business;he seems to know too much, rather than too little, about the stage; tobe too anxious to cram in effects, incidents, perplexities. There isthe perplexity concerning Ashdale's murder, and Norman's murder, and thepriest's murder, and the page's murder, and Gaussen's murder. There isthe perplexity about the papers, and that about the hat and cloak, (asilly, foolish obstacle,) which only tantalize the spectator, and retardthe march of the drama's action: it is as if the author had said,"I must have a new incident in every act, I must keep tickling thespectator perpetually, and never let him off until the fall of thecurtain."
The same disagreeable bustle and petty complication of intrigue you mayremark in the author's drama of "Richelieu." "The Lady of Lyons" was amuch simpler and better wrought plot; the incidents following each othereither not too swiftly or startlingly. In "Richelieu," it always seemedto me as if one heard doors perpetually clapping and banging; onewas puzzled to follow the train of conversation, in the midst of theperpetual small noises that distracted one right and left.
Nor is the list of characters of "The Sea Captain" to be despised. Theoutlines of all of them are good. A mother, for whom one feels a propertragic mixture of hatred and pity; a gallant single-hearted son, whomshe disdains, and who conquers her at last by his noble conduct; adashing haughty Tybalt of a brother; a wicked poor cousin, a prettymaid, and a fierce buccaneer. These people might pass three hours verywell on the stage, and interest the audience hugely; but the authorfails in filling up the outlines. His language is absurdly stilted,frequently careless; the reader or spectator hears a number of loudspeeches, but scarce a dozen lines that seem to belong of nature to thespeakers.
Nothing can be more fulsome or loathsome to my mind than the continualsham-religious clap-traps which the author has put into the mouth ofhis hero; nothing more unsailor-like than his namby-pamby starlitdescriptions, which my ingenious colleague has, I see, alluded to. "Thyfaith my anchor, and thine eyes my haven," cries the gallant captain tohis lady. See how loosely the sentence is constructed, like a thousandothers in the book. The captain is to cast anchor with the girl's faithin her own eyes; either image might pass by itself, but together, likethe quadrupeds of Kilkenny, they devour each other. The captain tellshis lieutenant to BID HIS BARK VEER ROUND to a point in the harbor. Wasever such language? My lady gives Sir Maurice a thousand pounds to WAFThim (her son) to some distant shore. Nonsense, sheer nonsense; and whatis worse, affected nonsense!
Look at the comedy of the poor cousin. "There is a great deal of game onthe estate--partridges, hares, wild-geese, snipes, and plovers (SMACKINGHIS LIPS)--besides a magnificent preserve of sparrows, which I can sellTO THE LITTLE BLACKGUARDS in the streets at a penny a hundred. But I amvery poor--a very poor old knight!"
Is this wit or nature? It is a kind of sham wit; it reads as if it werewit, but it is not. What poor, poor stuff, about the little blackguardboys! what flimsy ecstasies and silly "smacking of lips" about theplovers. Is this the man who writes for the next age? O fie! Here isanother joke:--
"Sir Maurice. Mice! zounds, how can I Keep mice! I can't afford it! They were starved To death an age ago. The last was found Come Christmas three years, stretched beside a bone In that same larder, so consumed and worn By pious fast, 'twas awful to behold it! I canonized its corpse in spirits of wine, And set it in the porch--a solemn warning To thieves and beggars!"
Is not this rare wit? "Zounds! how can I keep mice?" is well enough fora miser; not too new, or brilliant either; but this miserable dilutionof a thin joke, this wretched hunting down of the poor mouse! It ishumiliating to think of a man of esprit harping so long on such a mean,pitiful string. A man who aspires to immortality, too! I doubt whetherit is to be gained thus; whether our author's words are not too looselybuilt to make "starry pointing pyramids of." Horace clipped and squaredhis blocks more carefully before he laid the monument which imber edax,or aquila impotens, or fuga temporum might assail in vain. Even oldOvid, when he raised his stately, shining heathen temple, had placedsome columns in it, and hewn out a statue or two which deserved theimmortality that he prophesied (somewhat arrogantly) for himself. Butlet not all be looking forward to a future, and fancying that, "incertispatium dum finiat aevi," our books are to be immortal. Alas! the way toimmortality is not so easy, nor will our "Sea Captain" be permitted suchan unconscionable cruise. If all the immortalities were really to havetheir wish, what a work would our descendants have to study them all!
Not yet, in my humble opinion, has the honorable baronet achieved thisdeathless consummation. There will come a day (may it be long distant!)when the very b
est of his novels will be forgotten; and it is reasonableto suppose that his dramas will pass out of existence, some time orother, in the lapse of the secula seculorum. In the meantime, my dearPlush, if you ask me what the great obstacle is towards the dramaticfame and merit of our friend, I would say that it does not lie so muchin hostile critics or feeble health, as in a careless habit of writing,and a peevish vanity which causes him to shut his eyes to his faults.The question of original capacity I will not moot; one may think veryhighly of the honorable baronet's talent, without rating it quite sohigh as he seems disposed to do.
And to conclude: as he has chosen to combat the critics in person, thecritics are surely justified in being allowed to address him directly.
With best compliments to Mrs. Yellowplush, I have the honor to be, dear Sir, Your most faithful and obliged humble servant, JOHN THOMAS SMITH.
And now, Smith having finisht his letter, I think I can't do better thanclothes mine lickwise; for though I should never be tired of talking,praps the public may of hearing, and therefore it's best to shut upshopp.
What I've said, respected Barnit, I hoap you woan't take unkind. Aplay, you see, is public property for every one to say his say on; andI think, if you read your prefez over agin, you'll see that it ax as adirect incouridgment to us critix to come forrard and notice you. Butdon't fansy, I besitch you, that we are actiated by hostillaty; fustwrite a good play, and you'll see we'll prays it fast enuff. Waitingwhich, Agray, Munseer le Chevaleer, l'ashurance de ma hot cumsideratun.
Voter distangy,
Y.