Delphi Complete Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

“With more of the tact of the man of the world than the ardour of a poet,” says Moore, Sheridan “dismissed the object of his heart with the mere passing gallantry of a compliment”:

  O! should your genius ever rise,

  And make you Laureate in the skies,

  I’d hold my life, in twenty years,

  You’d spoil the music of the spheres.

  — Nay, should the rapture-breathing Nine

  In one celestial concert join,

  Their sovereign’s power to rehearse,

  — Were you to furnish them with verse,

  By Jove, I’d fly the heavenly throng,

  Tho’ Phoebus play’d and Linley sung.

  But the finest lines in Clio’s Pro tell are those which embody the graceful anacreontic that was to become a favourite song, “Mark’d you her eye?”:

  But hark — Did not our Bard repeat

  The love-borne name of Margaret?

  And could you really discover,

  In gazing those sweet beauties over,

  No other charm, no winning grace,’

  Adorning either mind or face,

  But one poor dimple to express

  The quintessence of Loveliness?

  — ‘Marked you her cheek, of rosy hue?

  Marked you her eye of sparkling blue

  That eye in liquid circles moving!

  That cheek, abashed at man’s approving!

  The one... Love’s arrows darting round;

  The other... blushing for the wound:

  Did she not speak... did she not move....

  Now Pallas... now the Queen of Love!

  O that the Muse... I mean, that you,

  With such a model in your view,

  Should prove so weak, so very simple,

  To mock us with an idle dimple!

  Nor ought you, Pindar, to accuse

  The absence of your favourite Muse;

  Her flight is here no palliation:

  The ‘Theme itself was inspiration.

  Apparently The Bath Picture had been signed “Pindar,” and not as Mr. Sichel says “Clio” — a mistake which seems due to the presence of the catchword “Clio” at the foot of an edition. Sheridan used the pseudonym of “Asmodeo,” derived from Cumberland’s epilogue to The Maid of Bath, Foote’s play about Elizabeth Linley. The author of The Bath Picture is described in the edition of 1819 as “a wretched scribbler named Fitzpatrick” by which, despite the Editors, can scarcely have been supposed to mean so distinguished a person as General Richard Fitzpatrick, the author of the prologue to The Critic. Moore identified the author as Miles Peter Andrews. It would be kinder to leave the “Bath Pindar” to languish undetected in his chosen pseudonym.

  Clio’s Protest is essentially occasional verse, but it is well-turned, witty, and melodious, and memorable (at all events) for its well-known epigram: —

  You write with ease, to show your breeding;

  But easy writing’s vile bard reading,

  which is not less effective because of its echo of Pope’s contemptuous phrase, “the mob of gentlemen who writ with ease.”

  INTRODUCTION: TO THE EDITION OF 1819

  THE last four of the following Poems are submitted to the Public in the fullest confidence of their authenticity.

  Clio’s Protest, and the Ridotto were delivered by Mr. Sheridan himself, when a resident at Bath, to the late Mr. Crutwell, the proprietor of the Bath Chronicle, for the purpose of publication in that Journal, so far back as the year 1771.

  The former was written in answer to a wretched scribler, of the name of Fitzpatrick, who had published a Ballad, called The Bath Picture, in celebration of the principal local beauties of that period. This farrago is now prefixed simply from its rendering the public more competent judges of the admirable wit and humour of Mr. Sheridan’s satirical reply. Fitzpatrick (to whom although worsted, such an antagonist was preferment), wrote a very angry rejoinder; but as it is not clear that its republication would produce any other effect, beyond that of increasing the number of pages, it is omitted. The easy style of The Ridotto of Bath, hastily composed about the same time, in consequence of an entertainment of that kind given in the City, will not suffer by a comparison with the amusing vivacity of The Bath Guide.

  It is only necessary to add, that at that day there existed on the spot no dispute as to these Poems being Mr. Sheridan’s, — no secrecy being observed with regard to the Author, who, in a confined circle was more easily ascertained; and who, besides, had not then attained his subsequent and well-earned celebrity; and that they were constantly repeated and quoted by his contemporaries as his undoubted produirions. This question is, however, willingly left to the judgment and discrimination of the Reader; who, in these irregular and early efforts, will readily discern much of the brilliancy, that afterwards illuminated the Author s later and more mature compositions.

  The Verses to Laura were addressed to Miss Ogle (laterly Mrs. Sheridan), on the death of her former admirer, Col. M. who was killed in the battle at the Helder, during the British expedition to Holland, under his R. H. the Duke of York. They will be found pointedly to express the well-known sentiments of the writer on the justice and policy of the war consequent upon the French Revolution; and though manuscript copies were then in circulation, it is believed they were never before printed.

  The Epilogue to Capt. Ayscough’s tragedy of Semiramis is differently circumstanced, having been printed in 1776; but as that play was only performed seven or eight nights, and has never been heard of since, the Epilogue is now included, both on account of its own intrinsic merit, and of its hitherto very limited and imperfect circulation.

  The Editor is well aware that the Public require no apology for being presented with any works really proceeding from Mr. Sheridan’s pen; and it is solely the anxiety to State the grounds of a firm belief in the legitimacy of his early but unknown offspring, that has occasioned their being troubled with the foregoing observations.

  THE BATH PICTURE

  COME exert yourself, Clio, I pray;

  Such a theme sure was never before;

  But acquit yourself well of the lay,

  And I never will pester you more.

  Tho’ no verse can with justice describe

  The sweet Beauties which Bath now may boast,

  Yet I wish — must I speak it aside —

  You’d descant on each favourite toast.

  I’d not have you to beauty of face,

  To manners or form be confin’d;

  But display ev’ry charm, ev’ry grace,

  And each excellence too of the mind.

  Tho’ the beauty that’s maiden, ’tis true,

  Stands mod commonly foremost in fame;

  Yet give that to each wife which is due,

  — Wou’d their husbands but practise the same!

  Now my fair ones, you’ve nothing to fear,

  No ill-natur’d satirical style;

  When the Graces with beauty appear,

  Envy can’t but look pleasant the while.

  When the elegant Jennings appears,

  What a buz through the room do they raise,

  Tho’ her beauty’s the subject she hears,

  Not one scrap of conceit she betrays.

  What eyes! and what lips! and what hair!

  Such a mouth too! what pleasure to kiss!

  When I look, I can scarcely forbear

  Rushing on to such heavenly bliss.

  I’d pronounce him a snarling poor wight,

  Void of taste too in ev’ry degree,

  Who would dare, my sweet girl, for to write

  Or e’en speak with detraction of thee.

  Mark the graceful fine figure of Moore,

  Who with ease and gentility moves;

  Her eyes are delightful, that’s sure —

  They must rapture whomever she loves.

  When Calder too trips down the dance,

  All croud the sweet maid to observe;

  She’s
distinguish’d by great complaisance,

  Good sense, and a prudent reserve.

  For your life don’t the Seymours forget,

  Who so rival each other all day,

  That you’d not decide, should you bet,

  The most lively, good-humour’d, and gay.

  Remark too the dimpling sweet smile,

  Lady Marg’ret’s fair countenance wears;

  And Lady Ann, whom so beauteous we Style,

  As quite free of affected fine airs.

  Gentle Nappier deserves to be nam’d:

  She’s cautious — yet pleasing withal:

  And Drax too must ever be fam’d —

  As a wife she’s a pattern to all.

  Pretty Cheshire you must not pass o’er,

  Who’s so joyous and arch in her look:

  You might mention at least fifty more,

  But your ballad would swell to a book.

  How my Clio you now will rejoice!

  For I’m come to your favourite name;

  And our Waller’s as sweet in her voice,

  As your bard of poetical fame.

  We can boast of one other beside,

  Who’s a mistress of harmony too;

  She’s well-temper’d, and void of all pride;

  The whole family’s equally so.

  ’Twould be wrong, and one could not excuse,

  If your song was not happily grac’d

  With Matthews’s name; whom my Muse

  Deserves with the first to be plac’d:

  She’s agreeable, courteous, and kind;

  Loves good-humour I’m sure to her heart;

  And so blest with an amiable mind,

  She can’t fail every bliss to impart.

  Both the sisters for sense too we prize;

  With the Sharps, their conversable friends;

  Milly, faith, has most excellent eyes,

  Which speaks more than, perhaps, she intends.

  Give smart-looking fair Hankie a verse;

  She’s always neat dress’d, and well bred;

  And remember soft-speaking Miss Nourse,

  Who must look quite delicious in bed.

  The last I shall name to you now,

  Is a beauty that all must admire;

  She’s just to a tittle, I vow,

  The thing one would wish and desire.

  Her comedy-looking sweet face

  Spreads a joy round wherever she goes;

  And vivacity chose it her place

  For to dwell with good-natur’d repose:

  Affability marks her address,

  She with cheerfulness ever appears;

  And Pauncefort — we all must confess,

  Wou’d rouse passion, tho’ bury’d in years.

  CLIO’S PROTEST

  WHEREAS a certain Poetast’er,

  Pretending Phœbus was his Master,

  Has modestly made up the Trio,

  By lugging in the name of Clio,

  To grace a fine descriptive Stricture,

  Which he is pleased to call the Picture —

  I, in behalf of Muse aforesaid,

  (By Phœbus, secund leg indorsed)

  Present to all who chuse to have it,

  Enclos’d, the Muse’s affidavit:

  By which it plainly will appear,

  (As sworn ‘fore Justice ‘Jupiter’)

  That Clio never did assist

  That daubing Panegyrist’s fist;

  Who lays his praise so thickly on,

  That ev’ry Goose with him’s a Swan:

  Nor did she ever see the Piece

  Which so be-swans these motley Geese.

  And I too, for the Muse’s sake,

  Though uninspired, will undertake

  To prove that ‘Stead of aid divine,

  True Dullness breathes in ev’ry line.

  First then — (your Ancients will aver it)

  This Clio was a girl of spirit;

  Could point her periods to a tittle,

  And was allow’d to spell a little:

  Then being sister to Apollo,

  I think it probably will follow,

  That she could rhyme at least at pleasure;

  And had some little skill in measure.

  But our great Bard, whose genius tow’rs

  Above such low mechanic powers;

  Whose Pegasus, as bold as thunder,

  All bonds of metre breaks asunder;

  Kicks simple adverbs into fractions,

  Snorting out furious interjections!

  On concords and agreements tramples —

  (Vide each stanza for examples)

  This bard forsooth ’twas Clio fir’d!

  O wonderful! how he’s inspir’d! —

  But as I would not seem to write

  From idle prejudice or spite,

  If there be faults, ’tis fit I shew ’em,

  So let us just review the Poem.

  He first begins, as Poets use,

  To pay his devoirs to the Muse;

  Then vows, if now she’ll mend his pen,

  He’ll never peter her again.

  (And no bad argument it was

  To bribe her to befriend his cause.)

  Ladies, it seems you’ve nought to fear;

  The Poet will not be severe:

  Alas! poor Bard, you little knew

  The fear was — being prais’d by you.

  If e’er by wine or fancy fir’d,

  A witling thinks that he’s inspir’d;

  Mistaking, for a Poet’s vein,

  The itching of a rhyme-fed brain,

  His pen he grasps, his subject chuses,

  Then whips me down a brace of Muses;

  Scales all Parnassus with his rhymes,

  And wonders with what ease he climbs!

  — But O! defend me from the praise

  Of such! and let them wear the bays:

  Their coarse good-will proves right ill-nature;

  For ill-judg’d praise is worse than satire.

  But tell me, lofty Bard, I pray,

  What’s this acquitting of a lay?

  Or who, I beg, from prince to peasant,

  E’er heard of Envy looking-pleasant}

  But Panegyrick’s now the plan —

  So enter Jennings in the van:

  Behold she comes in beauty’s state;

  (The hobbling verse proclaims her gait)

  Hark, what a general buz is spread!

  (Tho’ only with a single z)

  The nymph, unconscious that we raise

  This buzzing buzz to buzz her praise;

  Or, skill’d that consciousness to hide,

  Ne’er shews the smallest scrap of pride.

  But we still buzz her noble size,

  Her pretty hair, and pretty eyes,

  And pretty brows those eyes to suit,

  And pretty — God knows what to boot;

  ‘Till echo, charm’d at beauty’s reign,

  With double buzz repeats the strain.

  — But here, to drop all quaint allusion,

  How grand and new is the conclusion!

  When all her other charms are past,

  The Poet’s bonne Bouche comes at last: —

  This, literatim, would be truth: —

  What think ye of her kissing mouth?

  Nor does he here with flatt’ry treat her;

  (I only wish it had been metre.)

  Well, next in rank, you may be sure,

  Comes in so pat the name of Moore;

  Or had the surname been Moresco,

  ’Tis ten to one he’d lugg’d in fresco:

  For when a proper name will chime,

  It has a fine effect in rhyme.

  Here now, to judge by vulgar law,

  A scrup’lous drudge might find a flaw;

  Might doubt if ‘twere a lawful capture,

  Boldly to make a verb of rapture.

  But shall the stanza-teeming mind,

  By pal
try syntax be confin’d?

  Shall Inspiration, wild and free,

  Be cramp’d by laws of prosody?

  Shall He, whose soul perspires with feeling,

  Be interrupted by the spelling?

  Or when enraptur’d, Stop to hammer

  Those raptures into dirty grammar?

  Never! — Let others dully beat

  The common track with shackled feet,

  Our Pindar Still disdains the road,

  By prejudice ignobly trod:

  There’s not a hackney’d scribbling sot,

  But coins you beauties where they’re not:

  — But our great bard extends his reach,

  And nobly coins us parts of speech!

  But soft — brisk Calder’s next in Station,

  Jigging it down to admiration:

  But jigging how — perhaps you’ll say —

  O fear not, in the common way!

  No — she’s distinguish’d in the Dance

  By her prodigious complaisance!

  Reserv’d and prudent as she goes,

  With good sense waiting on her toes.

  — A pretty mode of dancing this! —

  And yet for my part, gentle Miss,

  I hope thy real feet are fleeter

  Than those you halt upon in metre;

  And pay too more regard to time

  Than He, who made you dance in rhyme.

  The Rival Sillers next appear! —

  (At least we find them rivals here);

  But wherefore? — Didst thou never see

  Beauty’s twin-sisters yet agree?

  Pause here, then, Trifler, and you’ll find

  Less parity of charms than mind:

  For when true sense and mild good-nature,

  Scarce ask the aid of youth and feature;

  When the fair mind, and inborn grace,

  Are but denoted by the face;

  What need great Nature’s band to move

  The twin possessors hearts to love?

  — Form’d in the self-same mould of heav’n,

  To each the same attractions given;

  Like polish’d mirrors they unite,

  And lend each other mutual light —

  What Nature’s tie can farther do,

  Sweet Seymours, we behold in you.

  But hark — did not our Bard repeat

  The love-borne name of Margaret?

  Attention seizes ev’ry ear;

  We pant for the description here.

  “If ever Dullness left thy brow,

  “Pindar, we say, ‘twill leave thee now.”

  — But O! old Dullness’ son anointed

  His mother never disappointed!

  And here we all were left to seek