Volume Ii Part 21 (1/2)
I have again seen our poor friend in Clarges Street [Mrs. Vesey]: her faculties decay rapidly, and of course she suffers less. She has not an acquaintance in town; and yet told me the town was very full, and that she had had a good deal of company. Her health is re-established, and we must now be content that her mind is not restless. My pity now feels most for Mrs. Hanc.o.c.k, whose patience is inexhaustible, though not insensible.
Mrs. Piozzi, I hear, has two volumes of Dr. Johnson's Letters ready for publication. Bruce is printing his travels, which I suppose will prove that his narratives were fabulous, as he will scarce repeat them by the press. These, and two more volumes of Mr. Gibbon's ”History,” are all the literary news I know. France seems sunk indeed in all respects. What stuff are their theatrical goods, their ”Richards,” ”Ninas,” and ”Tarares”! But when their ”Figaro”[1] could run threescore nights, how despicable must their taste be grown! I rejoice that their political intrigues are not more creditable. I do not dislike the French from the vulgar antipathy between neighbouring nations, but for their insolent and unfounded airs of superiority. In arms, we have almost always outshone them: and till they have excelled Newton, and come near to Shakspeare, pre-eminence in genius must remain with us. I think they are most ent.i.tled to triumph over the Italians; as, with the most meagre and inharmonious of all languages, the French have made more of that poverty in tragedy and eloquence, than the Italians have done with the language the most capable of both. But I did not mean to send you a dissertation.
I hope it will not be long before you remove to Hampton.--Yet why should I wish that? You will only be geographically nearer to London till February. Cannot you, now and then, sleep at the Adelphi on a visit to poor Vesey and your friends, and let one know if you do?
[Footnote 1: ”Le Mariage de Figaro” was a play by a man who a.s.sumed the name of Beaumarchais (as Poquelin had taken the name of Moliere and Arouet that of Voltaire); and the histories of both the author and the play are curious. The author's real name was Caron, and he had been bred a watchmaker. But he was ambitious; he gave up his trade, and bought a place about the Court, which was among those which conferred gentility, and which enabled him afterwards on one occasion to boast that he could establish a better claim to the rank of n.o.ble than most of that body, since he could produce a stamped receipt for it. He married two rich widows. He next obtained the place of music-master on the harp to the daughters of Louis XV., and conducted some of their concerts. He became involved in a law-suit, which he conducted in person against some of the most renowned advocates of the day, and gained great applause for the talent he had exhibited in his pleadings. He crossed over to England, where he made acquaintance with Wilkes and the agents of some of the North American colonies, and became a volunteer agent for them himself at the beginning of the American war, expending, according to his own statement, 150,000 francs in the purchase of arms and stores, which he sent out, when the President of Congress contented himself with thanking him for his liberality, but refused to pay his bill. He resolved to try his skill as a dramatist. His earlier plays were not particularly successful, but in 1781 he produced ”The Marriage of Figaro,” a sort of sequel to one of its predecessors, ”The Barber of Seville.” During the progress of its composition he had shown some of the scenes to his critical friends, who had p.r.o.nounced it witty, and prophesied its success. But it had also become known that it contained sarcasms on some of the exclusive privileges of the n.o.bles, and the officer who had charge of such matters in consequence refused to license it for performance, as a dangerous satire on the inst.i.tutions of the country.
He had by this time made friends enough to form a party to remonstrate against the hards.h.i.+p of the Censor's decision; till the King determined to judge for himself, and caused Mme. Campau to read it to himself and the Queen, when he fully agreed with the Censor, and expressed a positive determination not to permit its performance. Unluckily he was never firm in his resolutions; and Beaumarchais having secured the patronage of Louis's brother, the Comte d'Artois, and Mme. de Polignac, felt confident of carrying his point at last. His royal and n.o.ble patrons arranged parties for private readings of the play. He then declared, untruly, that he had altered all the pa.s.sages which had been deemed offensive, and Louis was weak enough to believe him without further examination, and to sanction a private performance of it at the country house of the Comte de Vandreuel. After this it was impossible to exclude it from the theatre in Paris; and in April, 1784, it was acted before an audience whom the long-continued contest had brought in unprecedented numbers to hear it. If it had not been for the opposition which had been made to it, it probably would never have attracted any particular attention; for, though it was lively, and what managers call a fair ”acting play,” it had no remarkable merit as a composition, and depended for its attraction more on some of its surprises and discoveries than on its wit. But its performance and the reception it met with were regarded by a large political party as a triumph over the Ministry; and French historical writers, to whatever party they belong, agree in declaring that it had given a death-blow to many of the oldest inst.i.tutions of the country, and that Beaumarchais proved at once the herald and the pioneer of the approaching Revolution. (See the Editor's ”Life of Marie Antoinette,” c. 19.)]
_GENTLEMEN WRITERS--HIS OWN REASONS FOR WRITING WHEN YOUNG--VOLTAIRE--”EVELINA”--MISS SEWARD--HAYLEY._
TO MISS HANNAH MORE.
Strawberry Hill, _July_ 12, 1788.
Won't you repent having opened the correspondence, my dear Madam, when you find my letters come so thick upon you? In this instance, however, I am only to blame in part, for being too ready to take advice, for the sole reason for which advice ever is taken,--because it fell in with my inclination.
You said in your last that you feared you took up time of mine to the prejudice of the public; implying, I imagine, that I might employ it in composing. Waving both your compliment and my own vanity, I will speak very seriously to you on that subject, and with exact truth. My simple writings have had better fortune than they had any reason to expect; and I fairly believe, in a great degree, because gentlemen-writers, who do not write for interest, are treated with some civility if they do not write absolute nonsense. I think so, because I have not unfrequently known much better works than mine much more neglected, if the name, fortune, and situation of the authors were below mine. I wrote early from youth, spirits, and vanity; and from both the last when the first no longer existed. I now shudder when I reflect on my own boldness; and with mortification, when I compare my own writings with those of any great authors. This is so true, that I question whether it would be possible for me to summon up courage to publish anything I have written, if I could recall time past, and should yet think as I think at present.
So much for what is over and out of my power. As to writing now, I have totally forsworn the profession, for two solid reasons. One I have already told you; and it is, that I know my own writings are trifling and of no depth. The other is, that, light and futile as they were, I am sensible they are better than I could compose now. I am aware of the decay of the middling parts I had, and others may be still more sensible of it. How do I know but I am superannuated? n.o.body will be so coa.r.s.e as to tell me so; but if I published dotage, all the world would tell me so. And who but runs that risk who is an author after seventy? What happened to the greatest author of this age, and who certainly retained a very considerable portion of his abilities for ten years after my age?[1] Voltaire, at eighty-four, I think, went to Paris to receive the incense, in person, of his countrymen, and to be witness of their admiration of a tragedy he had written, at that Methusalem age. Incense he did receive till it choked him; and, at the exhibition of his play, he was actually crowned with laurel in the box where he sat. But what became of his poor play? It died as soon as he did--was buried with him; and no mortal, I dare to say, has ever read a line of it since, it was so bad.
[Footnote 1: Voltaire had for several years been in disgrace at Court, and had been living in Switzerland; but in 1778 he returned to Paris to superintend the performance of a new tragedy, ”Irene.” He was, however, greatly mortified at the refusal of Marie Antoinette to allow him to be presented to her, and was but partly comforted by the enthusiasm of the audience at the theatre, who crowned him on the stage after the performance. Mme. du Deffand, who, in a letter to Walpole a few days before, had said that if the tragedy did not succeed it would kill him, says in a subsequent letter that its success had been very moderate--that the enthusiasm of the audience had been for Voltaire himself; and at all events her prophecy was fulfilled, for he died a few weeks afterwards.]
As I am neither by a thousandth part so great, nor a quarter so little, I will herewith send you a fragment that an accidental _rencontre_ set me upon writing, and which I find so flat, that I would not finish it.
Don't believe that I am either begging praise by the stale artifice of hoping to be contradicted; or that I think there is any occasion to make you discover my caducity. No; but the fragment contains a curiosity--English verses written by a French Prince[1] of the Blood, and which at first I had a mind to add to my ”Royal and n.o.ble Authors;”
but as he was not a royal author of ours, and as I could not please myself with an account of him, I shall revert to my old resolution of not exposing my pen's grey hairs.
[Footnote 1: He was the Duc d'Orleans, who was taken prisoner by Henry V. at Agincourt, and was detained in England for twenty-five years. The verses are published in ”Walpole's Works,” i. 564.]
Of one pa.s.sage I must take notice; it is a little indirect sneer at our crowd of auth.o.r.esses. My choosing to send this to _you_, is a proof that I think you an author, that is, a cla.s.sic. But, in truth, I am nauseated by the Madams Piozzi, &c., and the host of novel-writers in petticoats, who think they imitate what is inimitable, ”Evelina” and ”Cecilia.”[1] Your candour, I know, will not agree with me, when I tell you I am not at all charmed with Miss Seward[2] and Mr. Hayley[3] piping to one another: but _you_ I exhort, and would encourage to write; and flatter myself you will never be royally gagged and promoted to fold muslins, as has been lately wittily said on Miss Burney, in the List of five hundred living authors. _Your_ writings promote virtues; and their increasing editions prove their worth and utility. If you question my sincerity, can you doubt my admiring you, when you have gratified _my_ self-love so amply in your ”Bas Bleu”? Still, as much as I love your writings, I respect yet more your heart and your goodness. You are so good that I believe you would go to heaven, even though there were no Sunday, and only six _working_ days in the week. Adieu, my best Madam!
[Footnote 1: ”Evelina” and ”Cecilia” are novels by Miss Burney, afterwards Mme. d'Arblay. The former was extravagantly praised by Johnson and the Literary Club, and is probably a favourable specimen of the style of the conversation of the day.]
[Footnote 2: Miss Seward was the auth.o.r.ess of that most ingenious riddle on the letter _H_, and also of some volumes of poetry.]
[Footnote 3: Mr. Hayley was the author of several works in prose and verse; in the latter, of a poem called ”The Triumphs of Temper,” and ent.i.tled to the name, according to Byron, since ”at least they triumphed over his” (”English Bards and Scotch Reviewers”).]
_DIVISIONS IN THE ROYAL FAMILY--THE REGENCY--THE IRISH PARLIAMENT._
TO SIR HORACE MANN.
BERKELEY SQUARE, _Feb._ 12, 1789.
I now do believe that the King is coming to _him_self: not in the language of the courtiers, to his senses--but from their proof, viz., that he is returned to his _what! what! what!_ which he used to prefix to every sentence, and which is coming to his nonsense. I am corroborated in this opinion by his having said much more sensible things in his lunacy than he did when he was reckoned sane, which I do not believe he has been for some years.
Well! now, how will this new change of scene operate? I fancy if any one could win access to him, who would tell him the truth, he would be as little pleased with his Queen, and his or her Pitt, as they will take care he shall be with his sons. Would he admire the degradation of his family in the person of all the Princes? or with the tripart.i.te division of Royalty between the Queen, the Prince, and Mr. Pitt, which I call a _Trinity in disunity_? Will he be charmed with the Queen's admission to power, which he never imparted to her? Will he like the discovery of his vast private h.o.a.rd? Will he be quite satisfied with the codicil to his Will,[1] which she surrept.i.tiously obtained from him in his frenzy _in the first agony of her grief_? How will he digest that discovery of his treasure, which will not diffuse great compa.s.sion when he shall next ask a payment of his pretended debts? Before his madness he was indisposed towards Pitt; will he be better pleased with him for his new dictatorial presumption?
[Footnote 1: ”_His will._” This refers to a scandal propagated by some of the opposition newspapers, for which there was not the slightest foundation.]
Turn to the next page--to Ireland. They have chosen for themselves, it is believed, a Regent without restrictions,[1] in scorn of the Parliament of England, and in order further to a.s.sert their independence. Will they recede? especially when their courtiers have flown in the face of our domineering Minister? I do not think they will.
They may receive the King again on his recovery; but they have united interests with the Prince, and act in league with him, that he may pledge himself to them more deeply in future at least; they will never again acknowledge any superiority in our Parliament, but rather act in contradistinction.