After having thus offered his resignation, he solemnly resumed his seat. Sheridan, however, undaunted, used all his arts of fascination to mitigate his wrath, and at an early hour of the morning both went away in perfect harmony.
Then we have Mrs. Siddons’s opinion of him:—
“Here I am,” she writes, “sitting close in a little dark room in a little wretched inn, in a little poking village called Newport Pagnell. I am on my way to Manchester, where I am to act for a fortnight, from whence I am to be whirled to Liverpool, there to do the same. From thence I skim away to York and Leeds; and then, when Drury Lane opens—who can tell? For it depends upon Mr. Sheridan, who is uncertainty personified. I have got no money from him yet, and all my last benefit, a very great one, was swept into his treasury, nor have I seen a shilling of it. Mr. Siddons has made an appointment to meet him to-day at Hammersley’s. As I came away very early, I don’t know the result of the conference; but unless things are settled to Mr. Siddons’s satisfaction, he is determined to put the affair into his lawyer’s hands.”
The affair was never put into any lawyer’s hands; she allowed herself to be mollified, and might well write of Sheridan in 1796:—
“Sheridan is certainly the greatest phenomenon that nature has produced for centuries. Our theatre is going on, to the astonishment of everybody. Very few of the actors are paid, and all are vowing to withdraw themselves; yet still we go on. Sheridan is certainly omnipotent. I can get no money from the theatre; my precious two thousand pounds are swallowed up in that drowning gulf, from which no plea of right or justice can save its victims.”
John Kemble remained manager of Drury Lane for some years, sometimes withdrawing for a time and refusing to manage the affairs any longer, and again wheedled back by Sheridan’s powers of persuasion. At last, wearied out, both brother and sister finally withdrew from Drury Lane in 1802, and took shares with Harris in Covent Garden Theatre. Harris was the direct opposite of Sheridan, punctual in his payments and honourable in his dealings. Mrs. Inchbald arranged all the monetary portion of the affair. The concern was valued at £138,000, of which Harris represented one half; the remainder being divided among four proprietors, of whom Lewis, the actor, was one. Lewis after a time became anxious to dispose of his share, and Kemble purchased it for the sum of £23,000; a friend of his, a Mr. Heathcote, advancing him a large amount to enable him to do so. The Kemble family all joined him in this venture. The company included Mrs. Siddons, Charles Kemble, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Siddons, and Cooke, the well-known actor. As soon as Kemble had completed his arrangements, he went abroad for some months, visiting Spain and France. On his return a dinner was given by the managers of Covent Garden to their Drury Lane rival, Sheridan, who made a sarcastic speech on the friendship of fellows who had hated each other all their lives. John Kemble then went abroad again, for a time, to recruit his strength after the anxiety and worry of his years of management.
Mrs. Kemble, in a letter written to her husband during his absence, describes a very smart party at the “Abercorn,” at which the Prince of Wales, and the Devonshire, Melbourne, Castlereagh, and Westmoreland families were present, and says significantly at the end: “Mrs. Sheridan came in a very elegant chariot, four beautiful black horses and two footmen. The Duchess had only one. Mrs. Sheridan had a fine shawl on, that he, Sheridan, said he gave forty-five guineas for, a diamond necklace, ear-rings, cross, cestus, and clasps to her shoulders, and a double row of fine pearls round her neck.” This was shortly after Mrs. Siddons’s last benefit, when the brilliant Brinsley had swept the proceeds into his own pocket.
The very “ravages of fire,” however, which they “scouted” by the help of “ample reservoirs” that were exhibited on the stage the night of the inauguration, by a “lake of real water,” and a “cascade tumbling down,” were the ravages that were destined to destroy the splendours of the new building. The misfortune of fire that ruined Kemble was destined, also, to ruin Sheridan, who had staked his all on this one enterprise. Drury Lane was destroyed as Covent Garden was rising from its ashes. The glare of the burning building lit up the Houses of Parliament during a late sitting. One of the members suggested an adjournment of the House. With a spice of the highly-flavoured bombast he had lately so frequently offered his theatrical audiences, Sheridan opposed the idea:—“Whatever may be the extent of the calamity to me personally, I hope it will not interfere with the public business of the country,” he said; and quitting the assembly, he betook himself to one of the coffee-houses in Covent Garden, where he was found swallowing port by the tumblerful a few hours later. One of the actors expressed his surprise and disgust at seeing him there. “Surely a man may be allowed to take a glass of wine by his own fireside?” was Sheridan’s ready answer.