# Life of Edmond Malone/Chapter 11

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London: Smith, Elder & Co., pages 236–258
CHAPTER XI.
1797—1799.
Among his correspondents at this time on various, though unimportant topics, were Bindley, Cumberland, Sir George Beaumont, Lord Harrington, Duke of Portland, and a few others. Some obscure writers “pressed by difficulties” seek subscriptions for their distress, or opinions upon forthcoming works. Some have “high opinions of your learning, your worth, and your benevolent nature, which have been entertained by the ‘mighty dead,’ and by many of the most wise and virtuous of the living.” One is from an unfortunate Navy chaplain, who has sold off every book and rag he possessed for the means of subsistence:—“I have no resource, sir, for bread but in Providence and my pen. I possess no official or other stated income. I am old. Neither my age, my indigence, nor inclination allow of a return to a sea life. My few relations of fortune are far as India from me. My only alternative is to beg or to starve.”
I extract this specimen of prosaic misery in contrast to another from a rapt poet—flighty as the wildest who has trodden Parnassus—who seeks “an inheritance on the Elysian heights”—“an asylum in ​the arms of genius”—“while others are mad for a few weeds of fame and money!” We hear occasionally of the erratic and unworldly sons of song, but the specimen given below is worth preserving as a curiosity. ​From these and similar taxations he was glad seek refuge at the sea-side in a visit to his co-executor Metcalfe. Here a new scene opened in rank, ​gaiety, and female society. But there was nothing to win “a prepossessed mind.” The letter is to his favourite sister Catherine, October, 1797:—
“My excursion to Brighton was quite an impromptu. I stayed there three weeks, and had seventeen dips in a good sea bath, which is a hundred times better than the open sea on that coast. The mornings went off quick enough—the evenings rather tedious, as for want of my (illegible) candles I could not venture to read. Metcalfe generally went to Lady Jersey’s to whist—Mrs. Stratford and Lady Heron her only companions—and sometimes to the play, whither I accompanied him two or three times for want of something to do.
“We dined one day at Sir Godfrey Webster’s, who is not a bit depressed by the loss of his wife. . . . . We had some fine folks there—the Duke of Beaufort and his son, the Marquis of Worcester, who is married to a very pleasing woman, daughter of Lord Gower, and sister to her you met at Cheltenham. There were also Lord Lucan and his daughter, Lady Anne. . . . . Her sister, Lady Spencer, is an agreeable woman; very different in manners.
“I dined one day with the Prince of Wales (not at his own house) and had a great deal of talk with him. But this is an old story, as you have probably ​heard it all from D. (Lord Sunderlin.) His simple object is the payment of his debts; and as Pitt will not do that he has thrown himself upon Fox. . . . . Yet the latter and his party are not very willing to have anything to do with him. He retailed all the common cant about the grievances of the Irish Catholics with sufficient dexterity and address. But I did not let them pass, and fairly told him that they were merely imaginary, and that their people were worked up into discontent and clamour about grievances by wicked and artful men for factious purposes. I shall be, therefore, certainly no favourite at Carlton House.
“I was two or three times at the rooms, but I can scarcely see anything in large lighted apartments. It is surprising how little beauty or attraction there is in the world, at least to a prepossessed mind. I dined with three or four private families, friends of Metcalfe, where there were ladies—at Lord Lucan’s, &c. &c. (Several parties of female acquaintance are here mentioned.) And yet among all these various groups I did not see a single woman, gentle or simple, but Lady Worcester, that appeared to me to have the smallest attraction. How therefore should I ever get a wife? Or what ground have I to expect after all that has happened that any but a mere dowdy will accept my hand? Yet I still keep on hoping that something may happen—and unless it does, the new peerage will be quite thrown away.”
​To a sisterly caution on avoiding increase of debts, he enters into a full detail of pecuniary circumstances and resources, by which it appears he was by no means incautious. “When this mortgage is got rid of I shall be one hundred and fifty pounds a year richer, and then my first operation shall be to diminish the sad arrear I owe you. Afterwards, in case of peace, I think I can so manage the Cavan estate as to pay all my debts, and have a clear income of from nine hundred to one thousand pounds a year.”
How he became introduced to the Prince does not appear—perhaps through Admiral Payne, whose brother, a general officer, was an occasional visitor at Lord Sunderlin’s seat in Ireland. The admiral figured a good deal in Brighton and Pall Mall; and few accustomed to stroll for amusement past Dighton’s shop at Charing Cross, more than half a century ago, but will remember one of his sketches: “Jack P———, the little Admiral; taken on the Steyne, at Brighton.” A reply of his to a visitor at Carlton House is still remembered. “I believe, sir,” said the inquirer, “you were bred to the sea?” “No, sir; the sea was bread to me, and d—d hard bread it has been!”
Mr. Metcalfe, then his host, writes from Brighton to him in Ireland, two or three years later: “Jack Payne, for so the admiral is always called, is here with the Prince, and he was pleased with the good account you give of his brother, who I have always heard is an excellent cavalry officer.” . . . .
“The Prince and Mrs. F. have been here all the season. He is making great alterations. . . The place is full, but not of the best company, for various ​reasons; and the balls and rooms badly attended, though they go to grace them. Your old friend Mr. (or Mrs.) Spencer is here; so is Baron Graham and his lady; but he has lost all taste for society.”
Another long letter from Lord Charlemont (October, 1797) greets him at Brighton, in which the present of a portrait from a grateful painter to his lordship, forms a more interesting portion of it than a lengthy dissertation on politics. These are no doubt honest, though strong and sadly one-sided. He writes, he says, as a Constitutional Royalist—“I hate the French. I detest their principles;”—but has an utter antipathy to the war, the Ministry, all their policy and proceedings at home and abroad. We shall quote him, however, on more appropriate subjects:—
So little selfish am I, my dear Malone, and so much do I prefer your advantage to my own pleasure, that though your abode at Brighthelmstone suspended for a long time that correspondence which in my present situation is one of my principal comforts, still I rejoice in your country residence, and even in your idleness, both of which I consider as relaxations absolutely necessary to your health and spirits—to your mind and body. And if I can persuade myself to be content with your having postponed a jaunt of amusement upon my account, it is only because my opinion of your friendship induces me to believe that chatting with me is pleasant, and consequently salutary to you.
Indeed, my dear friend, you lead too sedentary a life, and do not sufficiently diversify your occupations. For though I be thoroughly of opinion that constant employment is the most universal of all specifics to you in its full effects, it should be often varied. You think also too much and too ​deeply on politics; a subject of investigation which in the present state of affairs cannot fail of being extremely unwholesome to a man who, like you, loves his country, and loves mankind. In this, however, it must be confessed that, like other physicians, I do not follow my own prescriptions, being, Heaven help me! as much addicted as man can be to this detrimental exercise of the mind. And in truth, I am much the worse for it.
But to quit this Recipe stile, I will now proceed with pleasure to inform you that within these few days I have met with a gratification as great as it was unexpected. The case of books arrived from Liverpool; and with it another case containing a real treasure—no less than a portrait of you by Humphrey, as like as possible, and as well painted as I would wish him to paint. A letter from him immediately preceded it, requesting my acceptance of this, to me, inestimable acquisition, under the pressure of certain services which his grateful heart conceives I had done for him, but which in reality was nothing more than in not defrauding him in my general conversation of the applause so justly due to his merit. No person most assuredly was ever handed (?) with more gratifying circumstances. It is the exact resemblance of an absent friend whom I would wish never to lose sight of. It is an excellent picture, and as such must be highly pleasing to a lover of the arts. And it is a proof of gratitude which cannot fail to delight every man who wishes well to human nature: I have written to him, and beg you will tell him so, lest the miscarriage of my letter should make me appear negligent. . . . .
I long much to see your edition of Dryden’s prose works, as I know of no compositions in our language which better deserve such an editor. Of Aubrey I know nothing. And as for Chalmers, his petulance not having travelled to Ireland has never offended me. But I take it for granted he is scarcely worth an answer, which may probably counteract your purpose, by raising him into notice.
From Lord Charlemont’s impressions, and those of others less influenced by the politics of the moment, ​our Critic felt serious misgivings about the state of Ireland; and in case of disturbance, the probable fate of those he loved. No condition could be more alarming—seething with the principles of rebellion,—ready at any moment to burst forth into that open insurrection which speedily ensued; while invasion was likewise hourly expected. Those of the gentry who had influence, or means, raised and led corps of yeomanry; others sought the towns to avoid nocturnal violence or murder. Catherine tells him they had adopted the latter course; but even in Dublin Theatre so decided and fearless were the predilections of the mob, that calls and clapping of hands were made for “Buonaparte,” “Arthur O’Conner,” and others not less offensive to loyalty and order. Previous to this removal the tone of his sister’s letters had been so gloomy that he attributed it to the too diligent perusal of religious books, of which he had transmitted some, especially Wilberforce on Christianity. This idea Catherine controverts at great length. No present, she says, could have been more gratifying than that volume—none more soothing, refreshing, and cheering—“The best thoughts expressed in the most elegant language. It is written more to the heart than any book I ever read in my life.” They found improvement by the perusal, even amid the alarms which everywhere prevailed, and the distractions experienced in every family circle of their acquaintance.
But the danger went far beyond even feminine apprehension. Statesmen saw the impending reality not far distant; and prepared as they best could to meet ​those terrible emergencies where passions of the most violent and painful nature are evolved, and where in war among brethren success is little less painful than defeat.
Nothing within the range of public duty can so much try the capacity of rulers as the judicious suppression of domestic rebellion. Foreign enemies may be met, foiled, and disposed of. But with our countrymen, our townsmen, even our acquaintance, in arms against authority, we scarcely know how to deal. Our wisdom and humanity are equally at stake; our decision, judgment, discretion, put upon the stretch to draw the line between what is just and what is vindictive, between mercy and resentment; to subdue, but not wholly destroy; to punish the leader rather than the follower; to save the loyal from the traitor, property from the plunderer, life from the murderer, age and infancy from the ruffian—all these, exercised with the forbearance of a good man, yet the firmness of a wise one, form one of the severest tests of human capacity. And who is he who may pass through such an ordeal, and wholly escape censure? Who, if he errs a little on one side or on the other, is not entitled to be considerately judged?
One of the Irish rulers devoted to obloquy on this occasion, and a youthful friend of Malone, was John Fitzgibbon, Earl of Clare. Chetwood, we have seen, alludes to him as conspicuous for dress; and I find one of his letters to Malone written early in life. Descended from a Romanist family which had conformed to Protestantism, and bred to the law, he early entered Parliament as the main stepping-stone ​to professional honours. Without perhaps commanding talents, he was busy, quick, bold, a prompt speaker, careless of the higher order of oratory, who being deemed useful in the House became Attorney-General under Lord Northington. A duel with Curran showed that, like so many other Irish members, he fought as well as talked his way into eminence. The regency question made him Lord Chancellor and a peer, but rent asunder all former political ties. An earldom followed when revolutionary principles took root in that country, and when a strong, daring, perhaps even unscrupulous hand became necessary to restrain their progress. These qualities he possessed, and nowhere was their exercise more required.
He appears to have had little sympathy with popular opinions. When unimportant things were started, he took no trouble to identify himself with the general voice. When doubtful, they encountered effectual opposition. He saw peace, order, security of person and property risked by men of little weight or wisdom in the country for love of the fanciful theory of republicanism, and as he hated the principle as well as the race that approved it, stood on no ceremony in putting down both with a strong hand. The scene was cut out for the man, and the man for the scene. As head of the law he was said to have attempted to stretch law beyond its limits under the plea of preserving the constitution from conspirators and traitors. Devoted to what he considered duty, he was willing in its exercise to brave any amount of odium. Influence, and the vigour by which it was exercised, gave the impression of ​his being less the organ of Government than the Government itself. Through life he was attached, like most other sound judging men, to the tie with England; for through that channel alone could the advancement of Ireland in commerce, knowledge, and the higher order of civilization be accomplished. Whether this attachment was disinterested has been doubted. In Ireland it is yet scarcely forgiven. It made him unpopular while living among her ephemeral and disloyal writers; and no pen of historical value has since appeared to balance merits against defects, and award fairly that approbation which there is little doubt is due to his energy at least, if not to his judgment.
His early association with Malone probably ceased from dissimilarity of pursuits and change of abode. How it revived does not appear; but three communications were received from him during this year on the critical state of the country. Two were written in March. The first refers to a speech in the Lords in reply to Lord Moira, which “he is ashamed to say consumed three hours and a half in the delivery.” This he has been induced by Lord ​Camden (the Viceroy) to retrace and publish,—“which has proved the most difficult and laborious task I have ever undertaken,”—which, as he was usually considered an extemporaneous speaker, or nearly so, is probably true.
The second letter, which continues the subject, was sent a week afterward. “Nothing should have induced me to undertake the task (of re-collection and publication) but the conviction that it is essential to open the eyes of the English people to the state of this country, which I am sorry to say gets worse every day. Within the last week two magistrates have been shot at noon-day. One of them, Sir Henry Maurice, you may have known. The assassination took place (1798) on the high road within half a mile of his house. . . . I think a crisis is at hand. The rebels have assumed an unusual air of confidence, and they have I am sorry to say succeeded completely in stirring up the savages in every part of the country, and reviving the spirit of 1641. . . . . Sir Lawrence Parsons chose to play second fiddle to Lord Moira, on Monday last, in the House of Commons, where he found eighteen fools to join him.”
The third letter is dated 20th June. As his opinions here are more full, and expressed with that characteristic bluntness and decision which never for a moment hesitated to call what he considered questionable actions by the strongest names, it may be given at length. Few of his remains are extant; and notices of the outrages in daily perpetration show that at such a moment such a man was in his proper place.
Dublin, June 20th, 1798.
My dear Malone,—I am not surprised at any act of profligacy in Mr. Sheridan, or of knavery and folly in the Duke of Leinster; but I own I was not prepared for the cooperation of the Dukes of Leeds and Devonshire with the Irish rebels. The latter of these worthies has more than twenty thousand pounds a year in Ireland; and neither he nor any of his mentors has thought it necessary to contribute by personal exertion, or by pecuniary aid in any manner, to the relief or defence of this kingdom. Nor is the one or the other acquainted with the internal situation or economy of it, so well as he may be with that of the most remote corner of the world.
The truth is that this rebellion has grown out of the corrupt interposition of individuals in Great Britain with Irish politics, and the strange and preposterous experiments which have been made upon Ireland by the British Cabinet for the last six years, against the strong and repeated remonstrances of every kind friend of British government in this country. And it is plain that the desperate gang of opposition in England have determined to play the game out. We expect every hour to hear of some decisive action with the rebels in the comity of Wexford, where a force of more than ten thousand men has marched against them. They have heretofore fought with incredible fury and enthusiasm, to which they have been brought by their priests, who attend all their camps in great numbers. One of them was killed at Arklow fighting at the head of a rebel column.
Poor Lord Mountjoy was a sacrifice to the cowardice of his sergeant-major, who prevented the privates of his regiment from advancing to his support. Lord O’Neil, I fear, cannot recover. He was murdered in his chaise by his own tenants in the town of Antrim. I have often said, for the last three years, that the spirit of 1641 had revived again in Ireland, and the scene now too fatally verifies my assertion. There are very strong dispositions in the Houses of Lords and Commons to animadvert (?) on the proceedings of the Duke of Leinster and Mr. Sheridan. Whenever his grace shall ven​ture to make his appearance amongst us, he will be treated very roughly.
Yours always very truly, my dear Malone,
Clare.
A letter has just been received by Lord Camden from Lake (General), stating that all the columns of his army had advanced, and that the rebels are completely surrounded. Poor O'Neil is dead.
Irish politicians of other opinions, at this moment seemed desirous of enlisting Malone in their views—probably from his known friendship with Mr. Windham. The topic indeed was a great and exciting one—the union with England; for while it mortified the national pride of the patriotic and really honest class, on the other hand it threatened the happy extinction of that corruption and jobbing, of which public men whether truly or not loudly accused each other. Letters to him against it came from Mr. Foster, Speaker of the House of Commons; four from Mr. James Fitzgerald; and three or four from others who evidently held high office, whose names are not traceable in their communications. Two of the number during this correspondence, were dismissed from employment—one of them with this explicit intimation to the critic—"Your opinion decided me. Ready to do anything to bind the countries, but to reserve the right of a separate legislature." From this stirring theme, if he really recommended a negative to his friends, he soon returned to more congenial studies.
So early as the completion of the edition of Shakspeare, he had formed the design of republishing, ​with such additions as could be gleaned, the lives and portions of the works of some of our poets. He had Dryden more especially, and Pope in view. Inquiries were therefore commenced among literary friends without explicitly disclosing his aims excepting to Lord Claremont, who thus replies so early as June, 1794:—
If a new edition be wanted of Dryden’s critical prose works, I know of nothing better worth republishing. The matter is for the most part excellent; the manner incomparable throughout. There cannot be a better antidote against our modern innovations in style than his compositions—perspicuous, graceful, elegant, humorous, and easy. His life will also be very acceptable, as nothing of the kind worth reading has hitherto been written.
A still greater authority in eloquence, that of Burke, held his pieces in high estimation, not only for the criticism, but for the richness and freedom of his style and language. He was also considerate enough to offer an apology for the manner of the poet’s address to his patrons.
In a conversation, says Malone, which I had a few years ago with the late Mr. Burke, talking of Dryden’s dedications, he observed that the extravagant panegyrics which they contain were the vice of the time, not of the man; that the dedications of almost every other writer of that period were loaded with flattery, and that no disgrace was annexed to such an exercise of men’s talents, the contest being who should go farthest in the most graceful way, and with the best turns of ​expression. He added that Butler had well illustrated the principle on which they went, where he compares their endeavours to those of the archer who draws his arrow to the head whether his object be a swan or a goose. The plays, poems, and other productions that issued from the press from the time of the Restoration to the reign of Queen Anne, fully confirm this remark.
A previous application on this subject had been made to Lord Hailes of the Court of Session in Scotland—eminent for historical and biographical research—for such materials as he possessed. But no facts on the subject could be supplied. He had once formed similar projects, but found—alas! what man of letters does not find?—that life and health are too limited for their completion. His reply however is worth transcribing. It is dated October 1791; is introduced by Malone into his memoranda evidently for future use of some description; but being copied by another hand is in a few places illegible.
It would give me great pleasure, sir, to be able to aid you in any of your literary plans. But I am afraid that my assistance can go but a little way. I have hardly looked into Pope these twenty years past, having been immersed in business and in prose.
Pope was not a conscientious satirist. When an incident did not suit his purpose, he mended it. Of this there is a remarkable example in a publication called Opinions of the Duchess Dowager of Marlborough, where the poet converts an elegant bequest into a capricious lavishing of money. I am apt to believe that “If where I am going I could serve you, sir,” is a true story perverted with still more malevolence. The late Lord Elibank told me, but I do not vouch the authority, that the dying man who would not leave a favourite ​manor with the rest of his estates was “the rich Duncombe.” But the jest has been supposed to allude to Sir Godfrey Kneller. He is also the justice of peace who committed the man who exposed his watch in view of the thief. Yet to the same Sir Godfrey, Pope inscribed “eternal nonsense graved in Parian stone.” “Stars other far than [illegible] bear,” i.e., Kent and Essex; the first the constant butt of the Tories, as I remember, in the Examiner. I recollect to have seen him, a very mean-looking man. But, party set aside, I know not why he became the subject of satire.
I formerly imagined that Bufo meant G. Bubb Dodington; but I have been since assured that it meant Charles Montagu, Earl of Halifax. “Rosamond’s bowl” I think respects Lady Lechmere, of the Carlisle family, of whom you will see enough on a marble tablet in the Westminster Abbey. “Each widow asks it for the best of men” was Mrs. Rowe, the sorrowful relict of the poet, who married a Colonel Dean. It may well be supposed that the sin of Wilmington was his apostasy from the Tories.
As to the “unfortunate lady,” it can serve no good purpose were one able to deterre her. Your MS. memorandum seems the most consistent story that I have heard concerning her, and there it may rest. Sir John Hawkins’ story seems to be Fanny Bradock’s end grafted on some other anecdote. You know it may be presumed that “poor Narcissa” is Mrs. Oldfield, though here the poet has, according to custom, added “a little red.” Betty is Mrs. Charlotte Sanderson, an inferior player. There is a curious letter from her in Curle’s Life of Mrs. Oldfield. Pope calls Dr. Middleton a schoolmaster, who, if I mistake not, quitted his party as Wilmington did—but never was a schoolmaster.
Bland, Master, and then Provost of Eton, and Dean of Durham, was the schoolfellow of Sir Robert Walpole, wrote for him in some of the party newspapers, and was well beneficed. His name occurs more than once in Pope’s Satires. Good is Burnbain Good, under-master of Eton, also a schoolfellow of Sir Robert, and one of his writers. His memory was fresh at Eton in my time as an oddity, but beloved by the boys. Some of the older Etonians, as Mr. ​Bryant or Mr. Cambridge, will be able to tell you more about him. Alsop was of Westminster; so out of my way, though I have heard little stories of him. He was a companion of my Lord of Yorke. He being a Whig does not fare so well as Alsop, though he could have "joked like Horace" as well as Alsop. "Steeped in port," when applied to Dr. Bentley, alludes to his drinking too much port in his later days. This is all that I can remember at present. Perhaps, if you put queries to me, I could remember more.
Let me be allowed to say this for my old friend Bishop Warburton, that he avows he left undone what he thought it unfit for him to have done. As to his finding out meanings which his author never meant, I suppose you allude to the Essay on Man, which Dr. Warburton wished Pope to make less exceptionable than it seemed to be—but he was under the guidance of Bolingbroke. I forgot to mention the famous couplet concerning Sir Thomas Burnet, which Pope was at last prevailed upon to omit, while he ridiculously preserved the line, "This shines a comet, &c." By that time Sir Thomas Burnett was one of the twelve judges of England, and high in the public favour. I never could learn whether Pope had a personal or political quarrel with Judge Burnett. The tract by Sir Thos. [illegible] Doggrel has nothing to do with Pope's Homer; so far as, after a long space from reading it, I can recollect. It is a ridicule on the Tory members of the House of Commons.
In former days, when I read without selection, I studied the State poems, &c. It is very possible that upon recollection I might be able to fill up many of the initial letters. But in such party collections, little is to be learnt beside the personal appearance of the parties satirized. I remember that I had formed to myself an idea of Dryden being a man of good height, such as in England is colloquially called a personable man. This notion was formed on his head, by Kneller, which I saw in Mr. West's dining-room, and which has been well engraved by Edylynck, Vertue, and Houbraken. But from the State poems I learnt not to put my faith in painters; for there it is uniformly Poet-Squab, a short, thick man.
​Five-and-forty years ago I read a very dull dramatic piece called the Temple of Dullness, or some such thing. It is valuable by reason of a letter to the author from Mr. Southerne, giving an account of the poets of the day, and particularly of Dryden. I recollect that he censured Bishop Burnett for saying that Dryden was a “monster of impurity”—which respects his plays, not his morals; and in that sense the bishop is not far from his mark; for Limberham is more indecent than Etheredge’s She would if she could, was hooted from the stage in the reign of Charles II., and is now, as we know it in the (present) edition, freed from all obscenity. Such as it is in its purified state, I suppose that no British audience, even in the Haymarket during the summer, would hear it to an end.
Southerne says, “Dryden was a very modest man. Often have I ate cheese-cakes with him and Mrs. Ann Reeves.” Such, from my recollection, is what Southerne says. Your plan of memoirs is a good one. But I, as a much older man than you, say, “Quid brevi fortes . . . . I have felt the truth of this opera interrupta . . . . [illegible] ingentes hang over me on every side. I have projected more than enough for a century, and no part of it will be performed. Should you choose the plan of memoirs [illegible] I can help you. My old correspondent, Guthrie, was very innocent. By talking on a subject he thought he understood it. I do not believe the anecdote of the [illegible] and I am sure that no vestige of it will be found in the Advocates’ Library.
A few more replies to applications appear in this year among his letters. Two of length from Lady Dryden; from Rev. Mr. Blakeway; John Kemble, who had been looking over Powell’s plays for an attack upon Dryden and tells him not to forget half-past five—the dinner-hour; from Bishop Percy, as to Dryden’s letters to Walsh; from Mr. Caldwell, and several others. None however were able to commu​nicate the information literary or personal of which he was in pursuit.
In the club, occasional difficulties occurred in the election of new members, often not unusual in such associations. The friends of some, with or without cause, find opponents in others; and to some gentle mediating spirit is given the task of soothing asperities and explaining away misunderstandings. This office often fell to the lot of Malone. Mr. Windham, Sir Joseph Banks, Boswell, and a bishop or two, on former occasions, sought his kind offices when their friends were in danger of rejection by adverse votes, and succeeded. Sometimes his popularity ensured a call to fulfil more social duty, as appears by the following note of Mr. Canning:—
Spring Gardens, Monday Night, March 12, 1799.
Dear Sir,—You must not infer that I am likely to become an inattentive member (however I may be an unworthy one) of the club, from the circumstance of being unable to attend to-morrow and to take the chair, which, I find, I am called upon to fill. But I am not my own master on a post night; and a post night, after the arrival of fifteen mails at once, will confine me too strictly to the Foreign Office to allow me to partake of the convivialities of the Thatched House.
Will you permit me to request, if a substitute is necessary, that you will have the goodness to take the chair for me; and if any apology can be required for my most unwilling abdication of so high an office, that you will have the goodness to make that apology in my behalf, by stating the occasion which prevents my attendance?
I beg your pardon for giving you this trouble, but I know not to whom I could apply with so confident a reliance upon their good nature and good offices.
I am, dear Sir,
Your very sincere and faithful humble servant,
Geo. Canning.
​A humble and once useful visitor from the country found a ready reception from his hospitality. This was “good Mr. Jordan” of Stratford, who in many notes and messages of kindness sent thither, was not forgotten. In 1797 Malone directs one of his inmates, being too busy himself on the works of Reynolds, to send Jordan a print of himself and of Lord Southampton. Another honour appears likewise to have been in store for him—for it is added, “Mr. Harding has not yet engraved your portrait. When he has, I will endeavour to fulfil your request.”
Two years afterward (July 1799) Jordan found his way to London. Thence he describes to Mr. Peyton, one of the assistants in the hunt after Shakspearian affairs, his reception by the critic, whose kindness gratified, while his skill in working out ancient materials for his purpose appears to have puzzled him.
According to promise before I left Stratford, I write this to inform you that I breakfasted, dined, drank tea, and supped at Mr. Malone’s last Thursday; and am happy to inform you that I was treated in the most respectable and genteel manner by that truly great, good, and honourable gentleman, who very politely acknowledged the receipt of my letter from Stratford; and made a very satisfactory apology for not returning me an answer while I was at Stratford, by both assuring and showing me that his time is wholly employed in the publication of the works of Dryden.
He has postponed the life and works of our immortal poet till the others are published, but he has not declined or given it up, as he convinced me by showing me the manuscript copy of the Genealogy of the Shakspeare Family, in which he has already proved to a demonstration that they resided at Rowington at a very early period. By what means he pro​cured his materials it is out of my power to inform you. But you will probably hear from him before he begins to print the work, and the corporation may be assured that all their papers will be faithfully restored, and that the work, when it is published, will certainly confer an additional lustre on the town of Stratford.
* ↑ To you singularly; and if not acceptable, will never be heard of more.
* ↑ “Be so good as to excuse the freedom of a pen that springs forward in the present airy epoch, from the pinion which never cut the fantastic winds of fortune or of fame; a pen guided by the fingers of one who has been so happy as to enjoy himself serenely to the present moment in the pleasing circles of science and the Muses, careless of fame and the volant revolutionary system of interest—unknown to the world individually. “I could not have ventured, I presume, to have taken upon me the liberty of writing to you under any other idea than that you delighted in the beauteous regions and temples of the Muses, wherein, also, I love to ramble. And, notwithstanding it was with much reluctance (fearful of offending) that I at length mustered courage enough to spring forward in laying this fragment before you. Since I have had the pleasure of knowing your name (which I esteem reciprocally), while being kept back by the potent arm of timidity, I thought, time after time, of sending you pieces, some written in rhyme, others in blank verse, which have since (as customary with most of my writings) been obliterated in the flames. The fire is the general repository of my Muse. “And now, sir, since I have so far ventured upon your leisure, permit me to leave the piece, of which you have only a part, with these few encomiums, to battle through, and bring me clear from, the storms and shouts of impropriety in so doing. “Sir, this (namely, the Thunderstorm, containing between eight and nine hundred lines) I have lately written for the purpose of entertaining myself through a secluded hour. But, after pondering over my papers, reflecting on the want of a friendly remark, and entertaining an opinion of the regard which perhaps you may have for a picture of this character, I extracted for you the first canto, wishing to have your opinion thereon. Meantime, I believe I have written, and may venture to recollect with little attention, better pieces, both in rhyme and blank verse; thinking, sir, that my pen is capable of altering what may be found deficient,—not, surely, that I ever care anything for the press, but to entertain a friend so well myself, sometimes with a view reflected from gloom, from the dawn, or from the angry plains of wars; for my delight is in the epic system. “I cannot wander into a commenting region of redundance, or to darken the paper with a cloud of words does not become me. But, sir, permit me to observe (after, young as I am, being in many parts of the world, abroad and at home, in most kinds of weather, and knowing well the plains of Salisbury) that there is nothing represented but what may be within the boundaries of nature. That I think it necessary for you to transport your soul into the very body of a scene, since the piece is entirely in action, in order to see and enjoy every object in its true colour (for if it cannot withstand such, it will be unworthy of me); that, after being brought to the depth of the scene by this first canto, I have a second to introduce you therefrom, and I think with more pleasing and change of variety. “In the second canto are seen the clouds, the lightning, the rain, and the wind to pass away by degrees, the village getting lighter, &c, &c.; clouds, in patches, floating in the heavens; with several other representations. The whole ending with a view of Emma, dead, by the side of her weeping lover, and the plains, &c, &c.; the sun shining, and the clouds level, reclined on the horizon; which canto, containing about five hundred lines, remains among my papers, and to your service. “Such lines, sir, have dropped almost spontaneously from my pen, and you have them nearly as they fell. But, notwithstanding, be so good, if such be entertaining to you, as not to excuse but point me my errors and imperfections; for I can freely submit to your advice, and calmly guide my pen amidst either censure or praise. Criticism is an ornament worthy of a bosom. “The following section, sir, I will extract for you immediately on receiving a few lines from you by post or otherwise; tending to entertain you in the vacant time—a piece entirely novel, written in rhyme, which likely you will be more partial to. Otherwise, if not agreeable, I will call and receive, begging pardon for the liberty taken. “And now, after stretching out my hand to present you this extract, I once more return to the fields and society of the Muses, while others are mad with a few weeds of fame and money. An inheritance on the Elysian heights, the fields of Nature, with an asylum in the arms of Genius, is the only desire and wish of, Sir, Your most humble and obedient servant (while to you and all a stranger), John Phelps Tucker.” “At Mr. Kendricks,  Little Bath Street,  Cold Bath Square,  No. 5, ———n, 1797.
* ↑ Little of this gentleman appears to have been recorded, excepting that he valued and sought the best literary society, and kept—one of its pleasant accompaniments—a good table. He was in the House of Commons several years; his name appears in the round robin attached to the epitaph on Goldsmith. He gave Dr. Johnson the occasional use of his carriage, and on one occasion took him in it on an excursion through the county of Sussex. His being, with Burke and Malone, an executor of Reynolds, speaks sufficiently for the respect entertained for his character.
* ↑ Afterwards Lady Holland.
* ↑ His brother, who had no children, had received in 1797 a new patent as Baron Sunderlin of Baronston, “with remainder to his brother, Edmond Malone, Esq., of Shinglas.”
* ↑ Probably the lady or her daughter, to whom he appears to have given refuge at a future day in mental derangement, besides leaving her an annuity.
* ↑ Rumour, indeed, says that no materials exist for the purpose; that his papers, in short, have been destroyed from delicacy to many reputations, which would be most seriously damaged by the exposure of written documents to the public eye. This story, if true, tells not against the Chancellor, but rather against his countrymen who could thus descend to solicit favours from one whom they probably afterwards maligned, because he would not or could not accomplish their wishes. But it is another proof of the correctness of his judgment, which, in accomplishing the Union, carried the influence of the Sectional—as we may call it—to the Imperial Parliament, and thus extinguished those sources of corruption almost inseparable from all local legislatures, particularly that of Ireland—if we may believe all her politicians.
* ↑ His lordship here, of course, means the facts of his life. Dr. Johnson acknowledged to Malone that he had failed in procuring such as he wished. Neither was he young or perhaps zealous enough for such pursuits when he wrote the Lives of the Poets.
* ↑ I have been informed by Mr. Halliwell that Jordan was accused, in Stratford, of some inventions, rather than facts, in statements to Malone. This certainly could not be in matters of moment, as we find nothing suspicious in the first edition; neither in the second. Malone was too keen in such inquiries to take anything of the smallest importance upon trust from almost any quarter; and, from the concluding passage in the above letter, it would seem that Malone surprised Jordan—not Jordan, Malone—by the nature of his materials.
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