Delphi Complete Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan
Page 56
That instinct was the law of Love; —
In short, that Nature gave us woman,
Like earth and air, to hold in common.
Then learned authors would he quote,
Philosophers of special note,
Who only thought their dames worth feeding
As long as they held out for breeding,
And when employ’d in studious courses,
Would let them out, as we do horses.
Last follow’d a facetious query,
To rank the sex naturœ ferœ.
The doctor when the speech was clos’d,
Confess’d he was a little pos’d.
Then looking impudently grave,
“And how would you,” said he, “behave?
Would you part freely with your wife,
To save a friend’s expiring life?”
“By Jove, I’d act as I advise.”
The father eagerly replies.
“Then,” cries the doctor, “I have done —
Entreat yourself to save your son.
He loves your girl — can you endure
To work the necessary cure?
If it were just that I should give
My wife to cause a friend to live,
You surely may bestow with joy
Your mistress, to preserve your boy.
He spoke with sense, he spoke with art:
Conviction touch’d the father s heart.
“’Tis hard,” he cried, “’tis passing hard,
To lose what I so much regard!
But when two dread misfortunes press,
’Tis wisdom sure to choose the less.
EPISTLE XXVIII — THE RIVAL FRIENDS
NICOSTRATUS TO TIMOCRATES
TYRANT O’ the heart! inconstant, faithless boy!
Source of these tears — as once dear source of joy! —
Inhuman trifler! whose delusive smile
Charms to ensnare, and soothes but to beguile —
Hence! tyrant, I renounce thy sway. And thou,
False goddess, who prepar’st the stripling’s bow,
Whose skill marks out the soft, the yielding heart,
Guides the boy’s arm, and barbs the madd’ning dart, —
Thou shalt no more my midnight vows receive,
To thee no more the votive fruits I’ll give,
No more for thee the festive altar raise,
Nor ever tune another note of praise.
This I have done. Witness, each sacred grove!
Where wand’ring lovers sing the maid they love;
Ye awful fanes! to this false goddess rais’d,
Fanes that have oft with my free incense blaz’d;
And chiefly thou, sweet solitary bird,
Bear witness to my vows, — for thou hast heard;
And many a night haft braved the dewy wind,
To soothe, with thy soft notes, my pensive mind:
But when the churlish blast has hush’d thy lays,
Have I not filled the interval with praise —
With praise still varied to the Cyprian queen,
And sighs, the heart’s best tribute, breath’d between;
Till slumb’ring Echo started from her cave,
Admiring at the late response she gave;
And thou, best warbler of the feather’d throng,
With double sweetness didst renew thy song.
— Nor were ye slow, ye gentle gales of night,
To catch such notes, and stop your silent flight,
Till on your dewy wings, with morrow’s rays,
To Cypria’s queen ye waft the song of praise.
— In vain! officious gales; — she heeds you not;
My vows are scorn’d, and all my gifts forgot:
A happier rival must her power defend; —
And in that rival I have loll a friend!
Thee, then, my friend — if yet a wretch may claim
A last attention by that once dear name —
Thee I address:— ‘the cause you must approve; —
I yield you — what I cannot cease to love.
Be thine the blissful lot, the nymph be thine: —
I yield my love — sure friendship may be mine.
Yet must no thought of me torment thy breast; —
Forget me, if my griefs disturb thy rest,
Whilst still I’ll pray that thou may’st never know
The pangs of baffled love, or feel my woe.
But sure to thee, dear charming — fatal maid!
(For me thou’st charm’d, and me thou hast betray’d,)
This last request I need not recommend —
Forget the lover thou, as he the friend.
Bootless such charge! for ne’er did pity move
A heart that mock’d the suit of humble love.
Yet in some thoughtful hour, if such can be,
Where Love, Timocrates, is join’d with thee,
In some lone pause of joy, when pleasure’s pall,
And fancy broods o’er joys it can’t recall,
Haply a thought of me, (for thou, my friend,
May’st then have taught thy stubborn heart to bend,)
A thought of him, whose passion was not weak,
May dash one transient blush upon her cheek;
Haply a tear — (for I shall surely then
Be past all power to raise her scorn again) —
Haply, I say, one self-dried tear may fall:
One tear she’ll give, — for whom I yielded all!
Then wanton on thy neck for comfort hang,
And soon forget the momentary pang;
Whilst thy fond arms — Oh down, my jealous soul!
What racking thoughts within my bosom roll I
How busy fancy kindles every vein,
Tears my burst heart, and fires my madd’ning brain.
Hush’d be the ill-timed storm — for what hast thou,
Poor outcast wretch, to do with passion now?
I will be calm; ’tis Reason’s voice commands,
And injur’d Friendship shakes her recent bands.
I will be calm; — but thou, sweet peace of mind,
That rock’d my pillow to the whistling wind;
Thou flatt’rer, Hope! thyself a cure for sorrow,
Who never show’d’st the wretch a sad to-morrow,
Thou coz’ner, ever whisp’ring at my ear
What vanity was ever pleased to hear —
Whither, ye faithless phantoms, whither flown!
— Alas! these tears bear witness ye are gone.
Return! — In vain the call! ye cannot find
One blissful seat within the sullen mind;
Ye cannot mix with Pride and Surly Care;
Ye cannot brood with Envy and Despair.
My life has loft its aim! that fatal fair
Was all its object, all its hope or care;
She was the goal to which my course was bent,
Where every wish, where every thought was sent;
A secret influence darted from her eyes, —
Each look, attraction! and herself the prize.
Concenter’d there, I lived for her alone.
To make her glad, and to be blest, was one.
Her I have loft! — and can I blame this poor
Forsaken heart — sad heart that joys no more!
That faintly beats against my aching breast,
Conscious it wants the animating guest:
Then senseless droops, nor yields a sign of pain,
Save the sad sigh it breathes, to search in vain.
Adieu, my friend, ‘nor blame this sad adieu, —
Though sorrow guides my pen, it blames not you.
Forget me— ’tis my prayer; nor seek to know
The fate of him whose portion must be woe,
Till the cold earth outstretch her friendly arms,
And Death convince me that he can have charms.
E’en whe
re I write, with desert views around,
An emblem of my state has sorrow found:
I saw a little Stream full briskly glide,
Whilst some near spring renew’d its infant tide;
But when a churlish hand disturb’d its source,
How soon the panting riv’let flagg’d its course!
Awhile it skulk’d sad murm’ring through the grass,
Whilst whisp’ring rushes mock’d its lazy pace;
Then sunk its head, by the first hillock’s side,
And sought the covert earth, it once supplied.
INTRODUCTION
ON a list of Sheridan’s unpublished works, Mr. Sichel has this entry (Sheridan, vol. II, p. 458): — [?1773] “Heroic Epistle and Postscript.” [Mentioned in a letter to him from Linley, evidently of this date.] He comments elsewhere (vol. I, p. 401): —
“Linley, who seems to have exhorted him to do justice to his talents, dropped hints that An Heroic Epistle and Postscript (possibly a parody of Mason) proceeded from his young friend’s pen.”
Since An Heroic Postscript “to the Public, occasioned by their favourable reception of a late Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers” was not printed till 1774, the conjectural date is incorrect. That Sheridan was supposed to have written “an answer to the celebrated Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers” is proved by the “Account of Sheridan” in The European Magazine for February, 1782, which (mentioning The Epistles of Aristoænetus) added that “about the same period he printed several works, which are known only to his intimate friends; and some perhaps not even to them.” It noted this “Answer” as being attributed to him “without being able either to confirm or deny the report.” There is no doubt that the only poem which satisfies the descriptions given by Linley and The European Magazine is “A Familiar Epistle to the Author of The Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers and of The Heroic Epistle to the Public, London. Printed for J. Wilkie, 1774.” It must be remembered that John Wilkie, of St. Paul’s Churchyard, was then Sheridan’s publisher; he had issued The Love Epistles of Aristænetus in August, 1771, and was to issue The Rivals in February, 1775. There was no more likely publisher for any work of Sheridan’s. On November 17th, 1774, he wrote to Thomas Linley, that he was “just now sending to the press” a book which he thought would do him some credit, “if it leads to nothing else.” Evidently he had hopes that it might lead to “something else,” possibly (I suggest) political patronage. “It may be observed, however, that he had not at this juncture” said The European Magazine, “devoted himself to the measures of opposition, or connected himself with those who are at present adverse to government.”
A Familiar Epistle is an examen of Mason’s Heroic Postscript to the Public as Clio’s Protest, very much like it in style and plan, is an examen of The Bath Picture. It is an attack on “Patriotism,” as then construed in party politics:
The verse, tho’ grac’d with Fashion’s prize,
On Party built, with Party dies;
Thus your unfinish’d, feeble rhymes,
Form’d as you own, to catch the times...
Like insects in an early spring
Shall just have life to buz and sting.
It reprobates the continual charge of private vice against public
characters: —
They know how rare the lib’ral muse
Will stoop to personal abuse,
Or make the scandal of the day
The burthen of a factious lay.
It is in the same metre as Clio’s Protest, though a little less liberal in its double-endings. From its topical nature, a great deal of it is obscure in its allusions, but there are some pointed and lively passages: —
All petty rogues, to prove your strength —
You may attack with names at length;
But when you mean to maul your betters,
Choose Dashes, and Initial Letters.
Thus when of Scottish Home you speak,
You name him plump, without a break:
But a more cautious style assume
When you attack great D * * d H * e.
Thus, slurring on poor Mallet’s fame,
First boldly charge, then write the name.
But when your satire C s would vex
Best note him with an F and X.
— We treat the first, as cooks are thought
To dress small grigs, entire as caught.
But as large eels first lose their bowels
We gut our great names of their vowels.
Then, roasted well on Satire’s bars,
We serve them up with forc’d-meat stars.
The Familiar Epistle ridicules the claim of its author that his Heroic Epistle, from its attack on the Navy-Board, forced them to conduct the great Review of the Fleet at Portsmouth in 1773: —
One single dash of Sancho’s pen
Produc’d — .the Monarch — Ships — and Men!
Wond’rous! — great England’s naval line
Call’d forth, dread bard, by one of thine!
It ends curiously with a determination of the poet to relinquish ... its peevish tone, Tho’ aim’d at pride and spleen alone, and devote his muse to Love, to gain the smiles “of her, to whom my numbers speak,” or to tell some simple tale of woe:
While yet she reads, one sigh shall be
More precious far than fame to me,
And ending, let, uncheck’d, appear,
The silent plaudit of a tear.
This indeed fits the mood of Sheridan in 1774. All things considered, A Familiar Epistle seems to have been correctly attributed to him. If it were so, it throws a newlight upon his political beginnings.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
TO suppose that a Reformation can be effected, in the Political Principles of any set of men, by the pen of a Satirist, is as vain and ridiculous, as it would be to boast of commanding the English navy, and directing the motions of a K — g, by a couplet. If any thing comes peculiarly within the province of Ridicule, it is the vanity and. folly of such an attempt: and here the pen may be exercised with some success; for tho’ bad men are seldom to be ridiculed out of vices, which are founded in the Passions, — yet, bad Authors may be brought to see errors, which generally proceed from a disturbed Imagination; or, what is as good, tho’ they do not cease to write, they may cease to be read. I do not mean to infer, that the Hero of this Epistle is a bad writer; yet I do hope to convince him, that it were prudent in him, not to rely too much on his Muse’s fixt fame; nor, ‘till she “has nurs’d him up to man’s estate,” would I have him trust the vigour of her eagle wings, in flights, to which, I fear, she will prove unequal: Neither would I advise him, however warm’d with memory and public praise, to handle his energetic thunder in the great style which he proposes. This I hope to effect from his own conviction; for it is by no means improbable, that he may be brought to acknowledge some little trifling disqualifications for the char after he would assume when they are laid before him with temper; though it was very natural for him to overlook them during the fatigue of writing with such genuine carelessness, and the costive pains of producing such spontaneous-flowing rhymes. Or, if he be, indeed, the easy, genteel Writer he affects to be, he may, perhaps, be led to respect, that the genius which enables a man to fabricate an hundred lines, “stans pede in uno,” though wonderfully convenient to a polite Poet, is not always equal to the task of chastising a senate, stretching folks on racks, or converting them into garbage for hell-hounds. If he persists in the attempt, he must not expect, because his goddess of the song continues to write flying, that all ranks are bound to read running.
After all, if my familiar hints prove too weak and dull to make good my attack, there may, from their very failure, be drawn an argument again ft the careless and expeditious in Poetry; for my heroic Friend may be assured, that the Writer of this is as little addicted to spend time and trouble upon trifles as himself.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
IT hath been very entertaining to the writer of these idle lines to have heard them commented on with great accuracy of Criticism; and as little quarter given to the Poet as he hath appeared to show to Sancho: — it will, doubtless, be said that he should expect no more: — however, he will take the liberty to point out to these profound Judges the line by which they should judge of their several demerits. The first (The HEROIC POSTSCRIPT) is a performance confined to no particular subject: the author has, by a former Poem, established — as he himself modestly expresses it— “A Fame as fix’d as fate,” and his present one was announced as superior even to that (“ — paullo majora canamus” — ) treating us at the same time with a specimen of the grave and majestic air which he intended to assume in his next. As for these trifling comments on that performance the author can only say, that there is no one Reader of them who shall not be perfectly welcome to alter every line and expression in them, or expunge till the Poem become a non-entity: — provided only that, admitting the obvious defects of the other, he will sit down and point out those defects with truly elegant language, and in truly good verses. When he shall have done this — the vanquished Scribler of the Familiar Epistle shall own him possessed of a degree of critical Assiduity and patient Dulness, which shall command his highed veneration, without one particle of Envy.
Those who are real judges, having, no doubt, at a glance discovered what true ground for ridicule there is in Sancho’s lad performance, will immediately perceive that this Stricture on it, is entirely addressed to the Level of their understandings who look upon that Bard as a Genius of the first rate: — not scrupling to charge their memories with his smooth couplets with as much care and repetition as they would bestow on a bon mot of their own, or a Rondeau of Signor Mellico.
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE AUTHOR OF THE HEROIC EPISTLE
TO SIR WILLIAM CHAMBERS, AND OF THE HEROIC POSTSCRIPT TO THE PUBLIC
OF all the ways a man can choose
To introduce a youthful muse,
There is not one so sure to raise
A sudden burst of public praise,
As feigning well a Patriot’s call,
To dip the pen in party gall.
— A field so very fruitful this,
Dulness itself can’t write amiss.
First they who seek satiric fame,