Stuart’s firsthand memories of the time that parallel Henry Angelo’s playful attitude towards the Pic Nic society. She attempts a comic attitude, that really masks her antagonism. “Its partisans, “she wrote in her journal, “might have been pursued to the stake or the scaffold as rebels or tyrants, or heretics, or aristocrats, or democrats, or criminals. . .”
The entry places the Pic Nics in a historical context, and it is fun to read now for its glib -satirical style. The date of composition is uncertain, but probably sometime around 1803 when the Pic Nics dissolved.
the transient calm that followed the Peace of Amiens, a few French actors, stealing over, performed two or three plays very privately in London, so much
to the satisfaction of their audience that it excited a wish to have a small French theatre here, if such a thing could be managed without giving umbrage to our sovereign masters — the mob. To effect this, somebody proposed establishing subscription assemblies at the Argyll Street rooms upon the plan of those held at Almack’s long before, and, like them, under the direction of ladies, whose admission of only a limited number of subscribers should exclude indifferent company and guard against a crowd. With these regulations, it was hoped that Molière and Racine might furnish part of the evening’s entertainment, unknown to the populace. Vain were both the hopes and the precautions; the secret soon transpired and the theatres took alarm. There lay before them an obvious and easy method of crushing the whole scheme at once by setting up a genuine English hue and cry against encouraging foreigners, introducing French fashions, and so forth. Nor perhaps would such resistance have much displeased some thinking persons prone to disapprove of anything, however harmless in itself, that seemed to betoken or forerun a change in our national habits. But Mr. Sheridan, the rightful leader of the theatrical forces as manager of Drury Lane play-house, belonged to a political party, with whose views resistance upon this ground did not accord. Ever since the French Revolution his friends had been labouring to cure John Bull of all narrow national prejudices, and instead of Down with the French’ teach him to hollow ‘Reason, philosophy, peace, and fraternity’; and they knew very well that one syllable denouncing the ‘parly voos’ would operate as the squeak of a mouse did upon the cat transformed to a woman. There would be an end of fraternity and philosophy along with the French play. Yet, setting aside that main point, what was there to find fault with? — what harm, or novelty at least in a subscription ball and supper? Apparent difficulties produce the triumph of Genius. Mr. Sheridan’s masterly hand aimed a blow just at the place which common minds would have deemed unassailable; and the project was attacked on account (truly) of its being perfectly new under the sun, and profligate beyond all former examples. The people were called upon to combat this monstrous device, this unheard-of dissipation, this disgrace of our age and country. If the uncorrupted vulgar did not oppose and overthrow it, decency would abandon Britain. So said Vindex and Verax, and a Foe to quality-vices, and a Lover of decorum, and forty more correspondents of the Morning Chronicle. These serious invectives were aided by numberless witty paragraphs upon the refined pastimes of our virtuous nobility, and both faithfully copied into all the other papers. The stage meanwhile defending its interest with its own proper weapons, every new farce abounded with similar sarcasms; peals of applause followed, and nine-tenths of the audience went home faithful believers, not in a robe of light, but in one of darkness almost as extraordinary, directly imported from the dominions of Pluto. Reasoning from probability only, not from fact and experience, could we ever suppose that the influence of newspapers extended beyond the bar of an ale-house? Yet it does in reality both reach and govern the minds of many respectable people who live out of the world, swaying them more than we imagine, nay, more than they themselves are aware of. We wonder at the ancient heathens for not having suspected that the voice of the priest uttered the oracle. But I have some worthy acquaintances who, I am tempted to think, must unconsciously harbour a private notion that the newspaper writes itself. For should John or Thomas bring them a surprising account of what was passing in the next street, they would consult their own reason, and examine how he gained his intelligence before they gave him credit. Not so when the omniscient newspaper details a secret transaction or confidential conversation that took place last week between a foreign prince and his wife, or his confessor a thousand miles off. Every particle of that oracle is accepted with a faith so reverential that assuredly it cannot be in earnest believed to flow from certain mere mortals frequenting certain coffee-houses, and upon a fair average not much better or wiser than the Johns or Thomases whom we personally know.
For the Argyll rooms once more. The precise cause that rendered them so dangerous and detestable remained all this while in awful obscurity, shadowed by a cloud of mysterious horror. No particular species of wickedness had ever been pointed out, no explanation
vouchsafed of what was to be done in Argyll Street which was not done in Hill Street or Harley Street, or Pall Mall, or Whitechapel. Therefore several well-meaning people could not but conclude it something too flagitious to be expressly named, and were ready to cry, ‘Avaunt!’ and ‘Avoid thee, Satan!’ without investigation. It is true that a rumour had gone forth of Picnic Suppers. Picnic as expounded by the learned signifies a custom prevalent in Germany when familiar friends have a festive meeting. To avoid ceremony and expense, each furnishes his quota of provisions towards the entertainment. ‘You send in a cold ham, I a couple of chickens.’ An injudicious plan possibly for a large company, because likely to produce a bitter bad supper, but with what offence to God or man it would be difficult to determine judging in cool blood. However, as the Cardinal de Retz told us long ago, in all party-work fixing upon a name is half the battle; and Picnic was a precious one for the purpose, being at that time quite new, uncouth, unintelligible, and of a ridiculous sound. The most opprobrious which we were used to and understood
would not have done near so well. It fitted all the regular commonplaces to a hair. Queen Bess and Queen Anne encouraged no Picnics. Archbishop Tillotson never heard of a Picnic. Picnics were unknown to our immortal Lockes and Miltons, to Algernon Sydney, John Duke of Marlborough, and General Wolfe. For which reason, if masters of families
could tamely sit still and let their wives and daughters mingle in Picnic society, it was vain for the baffled moralist to contend. The doctors and the proctors at the Commons might rejoice and cry ‘Picnic for ever.’ The greatest lawyers, it is said, acknowledge it difficult to prove a negative: if so, how much more difficult must it become where there is no specific affirmative to disprove. The promoters of the Picnic stood in this
predicament. They might have defended themselves against a charge of gaming, gallantry, or treason; but being arraigned for the Lord knows what, found hardly a possibility of pleading ‘Not Guilty.’ Had Mr. Sheridan been counsel on their side instead of the other, he could have taught them that nonsense should always be refuted with greater nonsense, and the cabbage as big as a house encountered by the porridge-pot bigger than a temple. Blessed with no such advice, for want of it they did nothing but blunder. They passed by the fictitious objection, and foolishly combated the real one; alledging that their scheme could not injure the regular theatres, because the French play was not to begin till an hour when the English one would be over. Now had they said that
the proposed amusement would be of too serious a nature to clash with any prophane diversion, and maintained that they should frequent Argyll Street to hear sacred music or to say their prayers, their antagonists might have been puzzled how to reply. But the unlucky truth was a club instantly snatched out of their hands and laid about their own ears without mercy. ‘How! Were they then sufficiently audacious to avow their design of turning night into day? Let the public judge what would be the tendency of such
scandalous assemblings.
Some of us could remember having even in our youth regularly repaired to
Almack’s at the very witching time of twelve. We had afterwards extinguished poor Ranelagh by not chusing to go to it till one o’clock in the morning. And previous to the commencement of the present dispute, it was a favourite assertion with all croakers over the degeneracy of the age that the hours grew later and later every year. But this on a sudden enchanted us back to those good days when the House of Commons used to meet after an early breakfast, and, according to Lord Clarendon, once, for a great wonder, happened to be ‘still sitting at three of the clock in the afternoon.’ Had the zealous Anti-Picnickians been asked during the beat of the controversy whether they ever before heard of such a thing as dancing all night, I verily believe they would have answered, ‘Oh no! never in our lives.’ One circumstance attending the affair was wonderfully humorous. The foremost and loudest in making the outcry were the very people who piqued themselves upon their virtuous abhorrence of its concealed instigator — those termed (for lack of a more definite phrase) good sort of women. They are perhaps always prone to regard Wit with suspicion as akin to something sinful, if not itself a sin; but they infallibly think much the worse of any other sin for being caught in its company; and as Sheridan had more of it than his neighbours, and led no very strict life, he was what the French would have called their béte noire. Little did they dream that he drew them, one and all, in a
string; that they were going about busily publishing what he, like the mover of a puppet show, chose to put in their mouths. No absurd stuff could be grafted upon the reports originally sown by his emissaries, but they were ready to take it for gospel, while at the same time, if be in his own person had attested any fact upon oath in a court of justice, they would have sighed, shaken their heads, and hoped that even Mr. Sheridan would not perjure himself — by way of charitably hinting that it was extremely probable he would.
More than once did I happen to be questioned by some of these grave ladies whether I belonged to the Picnic? No, Madam, not I.’ ‘Ah, I thought not’ (brightening).
I was sure that such a project could never obtain your ladyship’s approbation; your principles are too well known.’ Principles!!! The first opening of old deceased Ranelagh, as I learned from my elders, produced almost as great a combustion; possibly with much more reason, such promiscuous assemblies being really an innovation in that less dissipated age. As usual, however, the clamour soon grew nonsensical; strange stories were circulated; people renounced their creed and stood upon their heads the moment they got into Ranelagh; Ranelagh would corrupt the morals and destroy the peace of the country; the clergy ought to exert themselves, the magistracy to interfere, and, in short, everybody was in such a bustle that the then Chief Justice (Ryder, I believe) resolved to go himself and be eyewitness of the enormities practised there, before he issued his warrant for their suppression. After taking half a dozen turns he stopped short, and looking round, said to his friends, ‘Well, now, I profess I can see no harm in this place — but the folly of it.’ I expected to be like him, to see no harm in Argyll Street but the dullness of it. French plays I despaired of, and I well knew what kind of dissolute scene would be presented in lieu of them — to wit, misses and their mammas sitting upright ranged upon benches, young men lounging up and down, too lazy to dance, and the fiddles vainly playing the same tiresome tune over and over again to provoke a beginning. Such, in fact, were the worst orgies performed. But the renewal of war diverting men’s thoughts, the Argyll Rooms were left to go on as they would, and the whole business sank into oblivion.
See Lady Louisa Stuart. Lady Louisa Stuart, Selections From Her Manuscripts
James A. Home, ed. Edinburgh, David Douglas 1899; http://books.google.com/books?id=S75YKIPTTlIC&pg=PA189&lpg=PA189&dq=%22remaining+the+very+picnic+it+was%22&source=bl&ots=JGdmvxpG6b&sig=3VK96v9oa4MTg3KOf77fIBuE4K0&hl=en&sa=X&ei=H4zVUrqHEbXKsQTr8oD4DQ&ved=0CC0Q6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=%22remaining%20the%20very%20picnic%20it%20was%22&f=false