CHAPTER XVII

‘During these events and accidents, the trifling studies I might be said

to have, were, as far as I had the means, pursued. That is, whenever I

could procure a book, I did not fail to read it; I took pains to repeat,

that I might well understand my rules in arithmetic; and as for music,

Arnold was studied with increasing ardour. But the instructions of

Arnold were only vocal: nay, they had a stricter limitation, they were

confined to psalmody. Had I possessed any instrument, had I begun to

practise, and had the means of obtaining a livelihood suggested

themselves in this way, music would, most probably, have been my

profession.

‘Moral remarks do not escape the notice of boys whose minds are active,

nor the moral consequences of things, so much perhaps as is supposed.

They now and then discover how much they are themselves affected by

them; and therefore are not only led to re-consider their own, but begin

to ruminate on some of the practices of mankind. For myself, I looked up

with delight to angelic purity, and with awful reverence to the sublime

attributes of the Godhead. The first I considered as scarcely beyond the

attainment of man; the second I considered it as the grand reward of

saints and angels to be allowed to comprehend. Towards the future

attainment of any such angelic perfection, I could not discover the

least tendency in the manners of Newmarket, or the practices of the

people around me. When left to themselves, petty vulgar vices, such as

their means could afford, were common among them: and at the grand

periodical meetings of the place, I heard of nothing but cards, dice,

cock-fighting, and gambling to an enormous amount.

‘One anecdote which John Watson, who was no babbler, told his brother

Tom, and which Tom was eager enough to repeat, struck me for its

singularity and grandeur; as it appeared to me, who then knew nothing of

vast money speculations, and who know but little at present. In addition

to matches, plates, and other modes of adventure, that of a sweepstakes

had come into vogue: and the opportunity it gave to deep calculators to

secure themselves from loss by _hedging_ their bets, greatly multiplied

the bettors, and gave uncommon animation to the sweepstakes mode. In one

of these, Captain Vernon had entered a colt or filly; and as the prize

to be obtained was great, the whole stable was on the alert. It was

prophesied that the race would be a severe one; for, though the horses

had none of them run before, they were all of the highest breed; that

is, their sires and dams were in the first lists of fame. As was

foreseen, the contest was indeed a severe one; for it could not be

decided,—it was a dead heat: but our colt was by no means among the

first. Yet so adroit was Captain Vernon in hedging his bets, that if one

of the two colts that made it a dead heat had beaten, our master would,

on that occasion, have won ten thousand pounds: as it was, he lost

nothing, nor would in any case have lost any thing. In the language of

the turf, he stood ten thousand pounds to nothing.

‘A fact, so extraordinary to ignorance, and so splendid to poverty,

could not pass through a mind like mine without making a strong

impression, which the tales told by the boys of the sudden rise of

gamblers, their reverses, desperate fortunes, empty pockets at night,

and hats full of guineas in the morning, only tended to increase. With

my companions I repeated, _Never venture, never win_: and in this state

of puerile avarice, I made bets to the amount of more than half my

year’s wages, the very next day on the race ground, all to be decided

within the week. Concerning the event, however, when it was too late, my

mind began to misgive me. By each match, on which I had a venture, my

fears were increased; for I generally found myself on the wrong side. My

crowns and half-crowns were dwindling away; yet in the midst of my

despair, I looked with some degree of surprise at myself, and said, “How

can these boys with whom I betted, who are so very ignorant, and over

whom, even on the turf or in the stable, I feel my own superiority, have

so much more cunning in laying bets than I have?”

‘Like many of the tragical farces of life, this hastily formed scheme of

mine was without a basis, formed on confused suppositions, and ending in

total disappointment; for at the end of the week, the loss I had

sustained was somewhat either over or under a guinea and a half. To me,

who never before had ventured to bet sixpence, who now well remembered

that all the good books I had read, held gambling in abhorrence; and who

recollected, with unspeakable anguish, that the sin and folly must be

told to my father; that, face to face, I must avow what I had done (for

how else could I account for the expenditure of money, for which I could

find no equivalent?) to me, I say, these were excruciating thoughts, as

will be proved by the desperate remedy I attempted. Well was it for me

that the races were over, or my little purse would have been wholly

emptied. As it was not therefore possible for me to recover my loss in

this way, I began to consider whether there was no other, and despair at

length suggested another; a wild one, it is true, but no one could deny

its possibility. The race week was just over; thousands of pounds had

been betted; guineas and purses had passed in multitudes, from hand to

hand, and pocket to pocket, over a vast area, extending from the chair

to the Devil’s Ditch, and spreading to I know not what width: might not

some stray guinea, nay, perhaps some weighty purse, be now lying there

for the first fortunate comer? Or rather, was it not a thing exceedingly

likely? I could not suppose the seeds of this golden fruit to be sown

exceeding thick, or that it would not require a long search: but I must

not spare my labour: such good luck might befal me, and so eager was my

mind to rid itself of its present anguish, that I was willing to believe

I should be successful.

‘The next morning the horses were no sooner dressed and fed, and the

stables cleaned, than I hurried to execute my design. I began it by a

most careful examination of the betting chair, round which I slowly

walked a number of times, and finding nothing below, mounted, examined

its crevices, and after often attempting to go, and as often lingering

by some faint endeavour to renew hope, could not quit it at last, but

with painful reluctance. Where should I seek next? The whole heath was

before me; but which was the lucky spot? Groups of horsemen had

assembled here and there: but to find each individual place? Oh that I

had marks by which to discover!—Thus with my eyes fixed on the ground,

wandering eagerly in every direction, I slowly paced the ground, wholly

intent on the perplexing thoughts and fruitless pursuits, till

increasing disappointment, and inquiry into the time of day, sent me

back. This experiment of money-finding on Newmarket heath, might be

thought sufficient, but, no! I had an hour in the evening: it was a fine

moon-light night, and dejected as I was, I resolved again to try, and

forth I went, but it was indeed on the forlorn hope. The incident

however forcibly paints the nature of my feelings. I could not endure to

confess to my father both my guilt, and evident inferiority in cunning

to other boys; and to fabricate a lie, was perhaps equally painful. All

that remained was to put off the evil day, and come to my account as

late as might be. What I mean will be better understood, when it is

known I had determined to leave Newmarket, and return to my father, not

however without having first consulted him, and gained his approbation.

My mind having its own somewhat peculiar bias, circumstances had rather

occurred to disgust me, than to invite my stay. I despised my companions

for the grossness of their ideas, and the total absence of every

pursuit, in which the mind appeared to have any share. It was even with

sneers of contempt that they saw me intent on acquiring some small

portion of knowledge: so that I was far from having any prompter, either

as a friend or a rival. As far as I was concerned with horses, I was

pleased; but I saw scarcely a biped, John Watson excepted, in whom I

could find any thing to admire.

‘Having taken my resolution, I had to summon up my courage to give John

Watson warning; not that I in the least suspected he would say any thing

more than, very well: but he had been a kind master, had relieved me in

the day of my distress, had never imputed faults to me, of which I was

not guilty, had fairly waited to give my faculties time to shew

themselves, and had rewarded them with no common degree of praise when

accident brought them to light. It was therefore painful to leave such a

master. With my cap off, and unusual awkwardness in my manner, I went up

to him, and he perceiving I was embarrassed, yet had something to say,

began thus. “Well, Tom, what is the matter now?”—“Oh, Sir, nothing much

is the matter: only I had just a word to say.”—“Well, well, don’t stand

about it; let me hear.”—“Nay, Sir, it is a trifle; I only came to tell

you, I think of going to London.”—“To London?”—“Yes, Sir, if you

please.”—“When do you mean to go to London?”—“When my year is up,

Sir.”—“To London! What the plague has put that whim into your head?”—“I

believe you know my father is in London.”—“Well, what of that?”—“We have

written together, so it is resolved on.”—“Have you got a place?”—“I

don’t want one, Sir, I could not have a better than I have.”—“And what

are you to do?”—“I can’t tell that yet, but I think of being a

shoemaker.”—“Pshaw, you are a blockhead, and your father is a foolish

man.”—“He loves me very dearly, Sir; and I love and honour him.”—“Yes,

yes, I believe you are a good boy, but I tell you, you are both doing a

very foolish thing. Stay at Newmarket, and I will be bound for it, you

will make your fortune.”—“I would rather go back to my father, Sir, if

you please.”—“Nay, then, pray take your own way.”—So saying, he turned

from me with very visible chagrin, at which I felt some surprise; for I

did not imagine it would give him the least concern, should any one lad

in the stables quit his service.

‘Spring and summer kept passing away: Arnold continued to afford me

difficulties which I continued to overcome: my good-tempered, pleasant

friend, (for so he was) the breeches-maker, and I, used often to consult

together; and his surprise that I should so soon have gone beyond him

with respect to the theory of music, not a little flattered me. The

honest psalm-singers were told I was about to leave them, and owned they

were sorry to hear it, I gave them so much assistance. In short, such

friends as a poor boy of fifteen, wholly unrelated in the town could

have, all expressed a degree of regret at parting: my stable-companions

were the only persons who expressed no emotion one way or the other. I

must here, however, except poor Jack Clarke, who, as he was the first

that introduced me to Newmarket, so he was the last, of whom I took

leave.’

END OF MR. HOLCROFT’S NARRATIVE

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

At the expiration of his year, Mr Holcroft left John Watson and his

associates at Newmarket; and returned, as he had intended, to his

father, who then kept a cobbler’s stall in South-Audley Street. He was

at this time near sixteen. He continued to work in the stall with his

father, till the latter could afford to pay a journey-man shoe-maker, to

instruct him in the business of making shoes, which in time he learned

so well, as to obtain the best wages.

From his early childhood, however, he had eagerly read whatever books

came in his way, and this habit did not now leave him: so that, though

an exceedingly quick workman, it was rarely that he had a shilling to

spare, except for absolute necessaries; and when he had, it was spent at

an old book-stall, and _his time was again idled away in reading_.—Such

was the complaint continually made against him. At nineteen, he

travelled to Liverpool with his father, who seems still to have retained

his love of wandering, and who was most probably determined in this

excursion by a desire to revisit his native country. This happened in

the year 1764: and in the year following, Mr Holcroft married. While he

continued at Liverpool, he procured the humble office of teaching

children to read, at a small school in the town. But in less than a

year, he left the country, and came to London. Here he continued to work

at his trade as a shoe-maker, yet gleaning knowledge with all the

industry in his power. He had advanced as far as fractions in

Arithmetic, knew something of geometry, could write a legible hand, and

had made himself a complete master of vocal music. But the stooping

position required in making shoes brought on a return of his old

disorder, the asthma; and as he hated the trade, he made every effort to

find out some other employment.

Mr Holcroft had, through life, except during the time he was at

Newmarket, felt the effects of poverty very severely: but they now

preyed more upon his mind than his body. He continually ruminated on the

advantages that would have resulted from a good education; and the

consciousness that he had neither received one, nor could now pay for

instruction, gave him the utmost uneasiness. He was not aware that the

desultory materials which he had been at so much pains to collect, would

at last form themselves into a consistent mass.

It seems however, that at this period he could not resist the

inclination he occasionally felt to commit his thoughts to paper: he

even found an editor of a newspaper (the Whitehall Evening Post,) who so

far approved of his essays, as to pay him five shillings a column for

them. One of them was transcribed into the Annual Register: but,

according to his own account, it was much too jejune a performance to

deserve any such honour. About this time, Mr Holcroft attempted to set

up a day-school somewhere in the country, where for three months he

lived upon potatoes and buttermilk, and had but one scholar. At the

expiration of the first quarter, he gave up his school, and returned to

London. After this, he obtained admission into the family of Mr

Granville Sharpe, with whom he went to reside, partly in the character

of a servant, and partly I believe as a secretary. It is not certain,

whether he was introduced to the notice of this amiable but eccentric

man, by his literary efforts, or by accident. Both before and after he

went to live with Mr S. he had been accustomed to attend a reading-room,

or spouting-club, the members of which in turn rehearsed scenes and

passages out of plays. His master did not think this the best mode of

spending his time, and made some attempts to cure him of what he

considered as an idle habit. These, however, proved ineffectual, and he

was at length dismissed from the house of his patron.

He now found himself once more in the streets of London, without money,

without a friend, that shame or pride would suffer him to disclose his

wants to, or a habitation of any kind to hide his head in. At last, as

he was wandering along wherever his feet led him, his eye accidentally

glanced on a printed paper pasted against the wall. This was an

invitation to all those spirited young fellows, who chose to make their

fortunes as common soldiers in the service of the East India Company. He

read it with the greatest satisfaction, and was posting away with all

haste to enrol his name in that honourable corps, when he was met by one

of the persons, whom he had known at the spouting-club. His companion,

seeing his bundle and rueful face, asked him where he was going; to

which Holcroft replied, that, had he inquired five minutes sooner, he

could not have told him; but that, at present, he was for the wars. At

this his spouting friend appeared greatly surprised, and told him he

thought he could put him upon a better scheme. He said, one Macklin, a

famous London actor, was going over to play in Dublin; that he had been

inquiring of him for a young fellow, who had a turn for the stage; and

that, if Holcroft pleased, he would introduce him; observing that it

would be time enough to carry the knapsack, if the sock did not succeed.

This proposal was too agreeable to our adventurer to be heard with

inattention. Accordingly, having thanked his acquaintance, and accepted

his offer, the next day was fixed upon for his introduction to Macklin.

The friend, on whom Holcroft had thus unexpectedly lighted was, in fact,

a kind of scout, employed by Macklin, to pick up young adventurers of

promising talents: it being one of this actor’s passions to make actors

of others; though he was in some respects the worst qualified for the

office of any man in the world.

The next morning they proceeded to the place of appointment, when they

found the great man seated on his couch, which stood by the fire; and on

which, whenever he felt himself tired or drowsy, he went to rest, both

day and night; so that he sometimes was not in bed for a fortnight

together. As they went in, they were followed by his wife, who brought

him a bason of tea and some toast, with each of which he found fifty

faults in the rudest manner. He afterwards called to her several times,

upon the most frivolous occasions, when she was dignified with the style

and title of Bess. His countenance, as it appeared to Mr Holcroft at

this interview, was the most forbidding he had ever beheld; and age,

which had deprived him of his teeth, had not added to its softness.

After desiring the young candidate to sit down, he eyed him very

narrowly for some time, and then asked him, _What had put it into his

head to turn actor?_ The abruptness of the question disconcerted him;

and it was some time before he could answer, in rather a confused

manner, that he had _taken it into his head_ to suppose it was genius,

but that it was very possible he might be mistaken. ‘Yes,’ said he,

‘that’s possible enough; and by G—d, Sir, you are not the first that I

have known so mistaken.’ Holcroft smiled at his satire, and the other

grinned ghastly with his leathern lips, for our tyro had not added to

the beauty of his visage by repeating his words. While Macklin was

drinking his tea, they talked on indifferent subjects; and as Holcroft

did not happen to differ with him, but on the contrary had opportunities

of saying several things which confirmed his opinions, he was pleased to

allow that he had the appearance of an ingenious young man. When his

beverage was finished, he desired him to speak a speech out of some

play, which being done, he remarked that he had never in his life heard

a young spouter speak naturally, and therefore he was not surprised that

Holcroft did not: but, as he seemed tractable, and willing to learn, if

he would call again on the morrow, he would hear and answer him further.

When they had descended into the street, Holcroft’s companion assured

him _it would do_, for that he had met with a very favourable reception;

which was indeed the case, considering the character of the person to

whom their visit had been paid.

According to the account Mr Holcroft has left of this extraordinary man,

the author of the comedy of the Man of the World, he was born in the

century before the last, yet at the time of Mr Holcroft’s application to

him (which was in the year 1770) his faculties did not seem in the least

impaired. He was said to have been bred in the interior parts of

Ireland, and in such utter ignorance, as not to be able to read at the

age of forty. The progress, therefore, which he made afterwards, was an

astonishing proof of his genius and industry. His body, like his mind,

was cast in a mould as rough as it was durable. His aspect and address

confounded his inferiors; and the delight he took in making others fear

and admire him gave him an aversion to the society of those whose

knowledge exceeded his own; nor was he ever heard to acknowledge

superiority in any man. He had no respect for the modesty of youth or

sex, but would say the most discouraging, as well as grossest things;

and felt pleasure in proportion to the pain he gave. It was common with

him to ask his pupils, why they did not rather think of becoming

bricklayers than players. He was impatient of contradiction to an

extreme; and when he found fault, if the person attempted to answer, he

stopped him without hearing, by saying, ‘Ha, you have always a reason

for being in the wrong!’ This impatience carried him still farther; it

often rendered him exceedingly abusive. He could pronounce the words

_scoundrel, fool, blockhead_, familiarly, without the least annoyance to

his nervous system. He indeed pretended to the strictest impartiality,

and while his passions were unconcerned, often preserved it: but these

were so extremely irritable, that the least opposition was construed

into an unpardonable insult; and the want of immediate apprehension in

his pupils subjected them to the most galling contempt, which excited

despair instead of emulation. His authority was too severe a climate for

the tender plant of genius ever to thrive in. His judgment was, however,

in general sound, and his instructions those of a master. ‘In short,’

says Mr H., ‘if I may estimate the sensations of others by my own, those

despots, who, as we are told, shoot their attendants for their

diversion, are not regarded with more awe than Macklin was by his pupils

and domestics.’ Such is the conclusion of his severe, but apparently

faithful portrait of this singular character; and it will be seen in the

sequel, that he had sufficient opportunity for rendering it accurate.

Having finished their visit, Holcroft and his friend adjourned to the

Black Lion, in Russell Street, which was at that time a place of resort

for theatrical people. He here learnt that Mr Foote was going to take a

company to Edinburgh, after the close of the summer season. Being now

anxious to secure himself an engagement, and the manner of Macklin

having neither prejudiced him much in his favour, nor given him any

certain hopes of success, he resolved to apply to Mr Foote. Accordingly,

making some slight excuse to his companion, he hastened into Suffolk

Street.

He had the good fortune to find the manager at breakfast with a young

man, whom he employed partly on the stage, and partly as an amanuensis.

‘Well,’ said he, ‘young gentleman, I guess your business by the

sheepishness of your manner; you have got the theatrical cacoethes, you

have rubbed your shoulder against the scene: hey, is it not so?’

Holcroft answered that it was. ‘Well, and what great hero should you

wish to personate? Hamlet, or Richard, or Othello, or who?’ Holcroft

replied, that he distrusted his capacity for performing any that he had

mentioned. ‘Indeed,’ said he, ‘that’s a wonderful sign of grace. I have

been teazed for these many years by all the spouters in London, of which

honourable fraternity I dare say you are a member; for I can perceive no

stage varnish, none of your true strolling brass lacker on your

face.’—‘No indeed, Sir.’—‘I thought so. Well, Sir, I never saw a spouter

before, that did not want to surprise the town in Pierre, or Lothario,

or some character that demands all the address, and every requisite of a

master in the art. But, come, give us a touch of your quality; a speech:

here’s a youngster,’ pointing to his secretary, ‘will roar Jaffier

against Pierre, let the loudest take both.’ Accordingly, he held the

book, and at it they fell: the scene they chose, was that of the

before-mentioned characters in Venice Preserved. For a little while

after they began, it seems that Holcroft took the hint Foote had thrown

out, and restrained his wrath: but this appeared so insipid, and the

ideas of rant and excellence were so strongly connected in his mind,

that when Jaffier began to exalt his voice, he could no longer contain

himself; but, as Nic. Bottom says, they both roared so, that it would

have done your heart good to hear them. Foote smiled, and after enduring

this vigorous attack upon his organs of hearing as long as he was able,

interrupted them.

Far from discouraging our new beginner, he told him, that with respect

to giving the meaning of the words, he spoke much more correctly than he

had expected. ‘But,’ said he, ‘like other novices, you seem to imagine

that all excellence lies in the lungs: whereas such violent exertions

should be used but very sparingly, and upon extraordinary occasions; for

(besides that these two gentlemen, instead of straining their throats,

are supposed to be in common conversation) if an actor make no reserve

of his powers, how is he to rise according to the tone of the passion?’

He then read the scene they had rehearsed, and with so much propriety

and ease, as well as force, that Holcroft was surprised, having hitherto

supposed the risible faculties to be the only ones over which he had any

great power.

Mr Holcroft afterwards displayed his musical talents, which also met

with the approbation of Foote; who, however, told him, that as he was

entirely inexperienced with respect to the stage, if he engaged him, his

salary at first would be very low. He said, it was impossible to judge

with certainty of stage requisites, till they had been proved; and that

if, upon consideration, he thought it expedient to accept of one pound

per week, he might come to him again a day or two before the theatre in

the Haymarket shut up; but that if he could meet with a more flattering

offer in the mean time, he begged he might be no obstacle.

Mr Holcroft came away from this celebrated wit, delighted with the ease

and frankness of his behaviour, and elated with his prospect of success.

But as he had promised Macklin to call again, he did not think it right

to fail in his engagement. Accordingly, on his second visit, he gave him

a part to read in a piece of which he himself was the author, and which

had met with great success. Having finished this task apparently to the

satisfaction of the author, the latter paid his visitor so high a

compliment, as to read to him some scenes of a comedy, which he was then

writing. They were characteristic and satirical, and met with Holcroft’s

sincere and hearty approbation, which, it may be supposed, did not a

little contribute to prejudice Macklin in his favour. He, however,

thought himself bound not to act with duplicity; and he therefore told

Macklin of the offer he had had from Foote, excusing this second

application from the necessity he was under of getting immediate

employment. Macklin allowed the force of his excuse, but thought he

might do better in Ireland. He inquired if Holcroft had any objection to

become a prompter, adding that the office was profitable, and one, for

which, from the good hand he wrote, and other circumstances, he might

easily qualify himself. Holcroft answered that Macklin was the best

judge of his fitness for the office, and that he had no objection to the

situation, except that it would be more agreeable to his inclination to

become an actor. This inclination the other said might be indulged at

the same time, which would render him so much the more useful. Little

parts would frequently be wanting; the going on for these would accustom

him to face the audience, and tread the stage, which would be an

advantage. Holcroft then demanded what salary would be annexed to this

office; and received for answer, that, as there was a good deal of

trouble in it, he could not have less than thirty shillings a week,

especially if he undertook to perform small parts occasionally. Macklin

also informed him, that he was not manager himself, he only went as a

performer: but that Mr ——, one of the managers, was in town, to whom he

would speak, and in two or three days return him a positive answer. In

the interim he desired his _protegé_ to call in the morning, and he

would give him instructions in the part he had read to him, for he had

some thoughts of letting him play it. After making proper

acknowledgments for these favours, our young adventurer took his leave,

much better pleased than at his first visit.

CHAPTER II

It was not long before everything was settled in the manner proposed by

Macklin, and Mr Holcroft was informed, that it was necessary for him to

set off for Dublin, it being the intention of the proprietors to open

the theatre about the beginning of October. In consequence of the desire

he had expressed to appear in some character, Macklin had promised not

only to procure him such an opportunity, but likewise to instruct and

become his patron: and on Holcroft’s representing to him his want of

cash for the journey, he lent him six guineas on the part of the

managers, and gave him a letter to Mr ——, who would, he said, provide

him with a lodging, and do him other trifling services, which would be

agreeable to a person in his situation.

Holcroft now rewarded his spouting friend with a guinea, redeemed his

clothes, which he had been forced to pawn, and left London, elated with

the most flattering hopes.—He arrived in Dublin about the latter end of

September, 1770. The novelty of the scene, and the vast difference in

the economy and manners of the people, made a strong impression on his

imagination. The bar at the mouth of the Liffy renders the entrance up

that river passable only to ships of small burthen, and to them only

when the tide serves. It was low water when the packet arrived at the

mouth of the river, and a boat came alongside of the vessel, into which

most of the passengers went, rather than wait another tide, and our

adventurer among the rest. The river divides the city, and the other

passengers were set on shore on the quay; but Holcroft, as directed by

his letter, inquired for Capel-Street, which was on the opposite side.

Thither, accordingly, he was carried; and his trunk and himself landed

in a beer-house. He was rather astonished, when the waterman demanded

five and five-pence, together with a quart of three-penny, for his

conveyance from the packet: and the more so, as he had seen the other

passengers give but a shilling each, and one or two of the meaner among

them only sixpence. He remonstrated against the imposition, and quoted

the precedent of the shilling; but in vain.

The disorder of their looks, the smoothness of their tongues, and the

possession they had taken of his trunk, on which one of them seated

himself, while the other argued the case, induced our novice to comply

with their demands: but what gave him the greatest astonishment was,

that the landlord of the beer-house, who had sworn stoutly to their

honesty, while he was paying them, no sooner saw their backs turned,

than, according to his own phraseology, ‘he pitched them to the _divel_,

for a couple of cut-throat, _chating_ rascals, that _desarved_ hanging

worse than a murderer.’

The reflections to which this and similar scenes gave rise in Mr

Holcroft’s mind, though trite, are not the less worthy of attention. He

says, ‘During my short stay in Ireland, I had but too many occasions to

observe a shocking depravity of manners, which I attribute either to the

laws, or the want of a due enforcement of them. The Irish are

habitually, not naturally, licentious. They have all that warmth and

generosity which are the characteristics of the best dispositions; and

when properly educated, are an honour to mankind. Ireland has produced

many first-rate geniuses; and in my opinion, nothing but the foregoing

circumstance has prevented her from producing many more. It is the

legislature which forms the manners of a nation.’

When our traveller set out from London, he was assured that the house

would open in the beginning of October, but it was November before the

season commenced; so that his finances were once more exhausted, and he

was obliged to apply to the friend to whom Macklin had recommended him,

for a farther supply. The acting manager was one D——, a busy, bustling

fellow, void of all civility, who pretended to carry the world before

him.

Mr Holcroft soon discovered that there was an insurmountable antipathy

between this man’s disposition and his own. But the means of his

subsistence were at stake; he endeavoured, therefore, to accommodate

himself to the other’s temper as much as possible, and waited for the

arrival of Macklin with the utmost impatience. He understood that his

engagement had been permanently fixed at thirty shillings a week; but,

when he went to the treasury, he found it reduced to a guinea; and

whenever he pleaded his engagement, received the most mortifying and

insulting answers. He discovered the entire improbability of his

becoming a favourite. None were such but those who could administer the

grossest flattery, and who industriously listened to whatever was said

in the theatre concerning this petty despot and his management, in order

to repeat it in the ear of their employer.

Holcroft had vainly imagined that the presence of Macklin would put an

end to all his grievances: he looked up to him as his patron, as one who

had been the occasion of his leaving England, who had pledged himself to

be his friend, and was bound to protect him. Whether D—— had prejudiced

him against Holcroft, or whether Macklin himself was aware of his

deficiency in the honeyed arts of adulation, he could not determine; but

he found him very cold in his interest, and far more disposed to

browbeat than countenance him. He had, as we have seen, promised to

teach him a part, and bring him out in it; but when he ventured to

remind him of it, he received only sarcastic remarks on his incapacity.

Holcroft, however, persisted in asserting the positiveness of his

agreement with respect to his salary, concerning which Macklin had the

meanness to equivocate; but he succeeded in obtaining an addition of

four shillings a week.

Unable to extricate himself, he endured the insults of malice and

ignorance for five months, till the money which he had borrowed had been

deducted from his stipend, and then D—— immediately discharged him. It

would be no easy task to describe what he must have felt at this moment:

he was not possessed of five shillings in the world, was in a strange

country, and had no means, now that he was shut out from the theatre, of

obtaining a livelihood. He saw nothing but misery and famine before him,

and he uttered the bitterest exclamations against Macklin for the

perfidiousness of his conduct. This he felt so strongly, that though

Macklin by the severity of his manner had gained an almost entire

ascendancy over him, he went to his house, and with the utmost firmness,

after observing that he would rather starve than incur any further

obligations to him, displayed the impropriety and injustice of his

conduct in such animated terms, that all his wonted sternness fled, and

the cynic stood abashed before the boy.

There was another theatre open in Smock-Alley, under the direction of

Mossop: but he was insolvent, and none of his people were paid. Here,

however, as a last resource, Holcroft applied, and was engaged at the

same nominal salary that he had in Capel-Street.

It soon appeared that there was no probability of his being paid for his

performance at Mossop’s theatre: he was therefore forced to quit Dublin,

and went on board the Packet for Parkgate, in March, 1771.

The wind was fair till they had lost sight of the hill of Hoath; but

soon after sun-set, a hurricane came on, which in this narrow and rocky

sea, put their lives in imminent danger. Of this, however, from the

violent effects of the sea-sickness, Holcroft was insensible. They were

driven during the storm, considerably to the north; and such was the

ignorance of the master and his two or three superannuated mariners,

that he still continued sailing to the northward, having no knowledge of

navigation, but what he had gained by coasting between the two kingdoms.

He was therefore on the present occasion quite at a loss; so that in all

probability they might have made a voyage to Greenland, had not an

intelligent Scotchman among the passengers known some of the headlands

in his own country. The master would have contested the point, but that

the passengers perceived his want of skill, and joined the North-Briton,

who with a degree of warmth expressive of his attachment to his bleak

hills, exclaimed, ‘What the de’el, mon, d’ye think I dinna ken the craig

of Ailsa?’

They were eight days without putting into any port, except sending the

boat on shore on the evening of the seventh at the Isle of Man, to

procure some provisions for the passengers, who were almost starving,

having consumed the stock, which is usually provided for voyages of this

kind, in a day or two after the storm had abated. The reason of their

being kept so long from port was the dead calm which had succeeded; and

which the mariners, who are the most superstitious of all beings,

attributed to there being some Jonas on board. This opinion they

inculcated among the poor Irish who had paid half a crown for their

passage in the hold; who were as ignorant as themselves, and much more

mischievous. Unluckily, Holcroft was the person on whom their suspicions

lighted. They had discovered him to be a player, a profession, which was

at one time regarded by the universal consent of mankind as altogether

_profane_. The common Irish in the hold were chiefly catholics, and the

sixth day from their departure happened to be Easter-Sunday. Holcroft

had sauntered off the quarter-deck, with a volume of Hudibras in his

hand, and had walked to the other end of the vessel, when he found

himself encircled by two or three fellows with most ferocious

countenances, who were gazing earnestly at him, with looks expressive of

loathing and revenge. Most of the passengers were at breakfast, and

there was no one on deck but these men, and a couple of the sailors, who

joined them. The peculiarity of their manner excited his notice, and one

of them asked him, his lips quivering with rage, ‘If he had not better

be getting a prayer-book, than be reading plays upon that blessed day?’

Holcroft now perceived that the fellows were inebriated, and very

imprudently, instead of soothing them, asked them if they imagined there

was as much harm in reading a play as in getting drunk on that day, and

so early in the morning. ‘By the holy father,’ replied the spokesman, ‘I

know you. You are the Jonas, and by Jasus the ship will never see land

till you are tossed over-board, you and your plays along with you: and

sure it will be a great deal better that such a wicked wretch as you

should go to the bottom, than that all the poor innocent souls in the

ship should be lost.’ This speech entirely disconcerted him. The

fellow’s resolute tone, and the approbation which his companions

discovered, were alarming. He, however, preserved presence of mind

enough to assure them, it was not a play-book that he was reading, and

opened it to convince them, while he slunk away to the quarter-deck,

which he gained not without the greatest difficulty. Mr Holcroft arrived

at Chester without any farther accident.

CHAPTER III

Mr Holcroft had now the world once more before him; and he resolved to

write to such travelling companies as he could obtain any intelligence

of. His knowledge of music, his talents as a singer, and his recent

arrival from the Dublin theatre, were recommendations which procured him

the offer of several engagements. He closed with one, in a company that

was then at Leeds in Yorkshire. In this his evil fortune was again

predominant. He found the affairs of the company in a state of the

greatest disorder: the players were despised in the town, and

quarrelling with one another and the manager. Here, however, he

discovered how necessary practice is to the profession of a player; and

perceived that, though some of his new associates could scarcely read,

they could all, from the mere force of habit, speak better on the stage

than he could.

In a few weeks, in consequence of continual bickerings and jealousies,

most of the players deserted the manager; and no others coming to supply

their places, the company dissolved of itself. A letter had followed our

luckless hero from Chester, inviting him to join another set of actors,

then at Hereford: but this had been written nearly a month; it was a

hundred and sixty miles across the country, and he did not know, if he

set out, whether he should find them there; or if he did, whether they

might now stand in need of his assistance. But his money was by this

time reduced so low, that it was necessary to come to an immediate

determination. With a heavy heart, then, and a light purse, did he begin

another journey: and on the fifth day, entered an inn by the road-side,

which was eight-and-twenty miles from Hereford, with the sum of

nine-pence in his pocket; and in the morning made his exit pennyless.

The fatigue he had already undergone, and the scanty fare he had allowed

himself, had so reduced his spirits, that he found considerable

difficulty in performing this last day’s journey on an empty stomach:

but there was no remedy. About four o’clock he ascended the hill that

looks down upon that ancient city, at the sight of which a thousand

anxieties took possession of his bosom. He inquired of the first person

he met, with an emotion not easily to be expressed, if the comedians had

left Hereford; and to his great joy, was answered that they had not.

Faint, weary, and ready to drop with hunger, he traversed the town to

inquire for the manager: but it was one of the nights on which they did

not perform, and the manager was not to be found. He was then directed

to his brother, who was a barber in the place; and upon the family’s

observing his weakness, and desiring to know if he was not well, he

collected courage enough to tell them that he was greatly fatigued,

having come a long journey, and for the last day not having broken his

fast, except at the brook. Notwithstanding this confession, in making

which he had evidently done great violence to his feelings, they heard

it without offering him the least refreshment, or so much as testifying

either surprise or pity; and he left the house with tears in his eyes.

When the players understood that a fresh member was come to join them,

they, from sympathy, very soon discovered his situation; and were not a

little incensed at the story of the barber.

The company into which Mr Holcroft was now introduced was that of the

Kembles: the father of Mrs. Siddons was the manager. Mr H. continued

with this company some time; and in the course of their peregrinations

he visited Ludlow, Worcester, Leominster, Bewdly, Bromsgrove, and

Droitwitch; in all which places he acted inferior parts. One of the

actors in this company, of the name of Downing or Dunning, seems to have

made a pretty strong impression on Mr H.’s fancy, for he has left a very

particular description of him. This stage-hero had a large, red,

bottle-nose, with little intellect; but he was tall, looked passably

when made up for the stage, and had a tolerable voice, though

monotonous. To hide the redness of his nose, it was his custom to powder

it: but unluckily he drank brandy; the humour that flowed to his nose,

made it irritable, and in the course of a scene the powder was usually

rubbed off. His wife stood behind the scenes with the powder-puff ready,

and exclaimed when he came off—‘Lord! Curse it, George! how you rub your

poor nose! Come here, and let me powder it. Do you think Alexander the

Great had such a nose? I am sure Juliet would never have married Romeo

with such a bottle-nose. Upon my word, if your nose had been so red, and

large, when you ran away with me from the boarding-school, I should

never have stepped into the same chaise with you and your journeyman

captain, I assure you.’ George seldom made any reply to these harangues,

except ‘Pshaw, woman,’ or by beginning to repeat his part.

In the year 1798, when Mr Holcroft spent an evening with old Mrs.

Kemble, and talked over past times with her, she gave a whimsical

picture of this wife of Downing. Mrs. D. was addicted to drinking,

exceedingly nervous, and snuffled when she spoke. She used to tell her

own story as follows: ‘He calls himself Downing, Ma’am, but his name is

Dunning. I was a quaker, Ma’am, when he first knew me, and put to a

boarding-school. He and one Chalmers (I suppose you have heard of that

Chalmers, he gave himself the title of Captain)—Well, Ma’am, while I was

at the boarding-school, they came a courting to me. Dunning, my husband,

that you see there, was a tall, handsome fellow enough; he had not such

a bottle-nose then, Ma’am, nor such spindle legs; so he put on a coat

edged with gold lace, I don’t know where he got it, and gave himself the

airs of a gentleman. He thought I was a great fortune; but, God help me,

I had not a shilling; and I believed him to be what he pretended, when

all the while he was no better than a barber; and this Captain Chalmers

was his journeyman. So they persuaded me, innocent fool, to run away

with them, thinking they had got a prize, and I thought the same; so the

biter on both sides was bit. So that is the history, Ma’am, of me and Mr

Dunning.’

This maudlin lady was often employed to receive the money at the

play-house door, and was suspected of petty embezzlements to supply

herself with liquor. Mr Holcroft used sometimes to rally her a little

unmercifully on her love of the bottle, and the adventure of the

Captain. The dialogue is somewhat coarse, but it may serve as a sample

of the tone of conversation which prevailed in provincial companies at

that time. ‘It is very cold to-night, Mrs. Downing.’—‘Yes, sir.’—‘I hope

you take care to keep yourself warm.’—‘What do you mean, sir?’—‘Flannel

and a little comfort.’ ‘What comfort, sir!’—‘You know what I mean.’—‘I

know nothing about you, sir!’—‘A drop of cordial; lamb’s wool is a good

lining.’—‘Gods curse your linings, sir; I know nothing about

linings.’—‘Nay, don’t be angry; I have not said you are tipsy.’ ‘Gods

curse your sayings, sir, I don’t care for your sayings. Mr Downing shall

never set foot, after this night, on the same boards with such an

impertinent puppy.’—‘Nay, my dear Mrs. Downing.’—‘Yes, sir, you are no

better; and if George Downing was a man, he would soon teach you good

manners.’—‘He is well qualified, my dear Mrs. D., for he practised upon

many a _block-head_ before he came to mine.’—‘And what of that, sir. I

understand you; but a barber is as good as a cobbler at any time.’

Now it must be allowed, that though there is not much wit or humour in

all this, it is very easy and free spoken. Mr Holcroft was young at the

time, and probably ready enough to give into any joke, which he found

the common practice of the place.—It may be remarked by the way, that

there is a peculiar tone of banter and irony, bordering on ribaldry,

which seems almost inseparable from the profession of strolling players.

For this many reasons might be given: 1. The contempt (often most

undeserved, no doubt) in which they are held by the world, and which

they naturally reflect back on one another; for they must soon learn to

despise a profession which they see despised by every one else, at least

with that single exception which self-love contrives to reserve for us

all. 2. The circumstance that they live by repeating the wit of others,

and that they must naturally ape what they live by. In nine instances

out of ten, however, this habitual temptation must produce impertinence

instead of wit. 3. The custom of repeating things without meaning or

consequence on the stage, must lead to the same freedom of speech when

they are _off_. It is only acting a part. 4. They have not much else to

do, and they assume a certain levity of manner as a resource against

_ennui_, as well as to hide a sense of the mortifications and hardships

they so often meet with. Lastly, their mode of life, which is always in

companies, and in situations where they have an opportunity of becoming

acquainted every moment with one another’s weak sides, gives rise to a

propensity to _quizzing_, as it does in all other open societies; such

as of boys at school, of collegians, among lawyers, etc.—But to return

to our narrative.

The company of which old Mr Kemble was the manager, was more respectable

than many other companies of strolling players; but it was not in so

flourishing a condition as to place the manager beyond the reach of the

immediate smiles or frowns of fortune. Of this the following anecdote

may be cited as an instance. A benefit had been fixed for some of the

family, in which Miss Kemble, then a little girl, was to come forward in

some part, as a juvenile prodigy. The taste of the audience was not, it

seems, so accommodating as in the present day, and the extreme youth of

the performer disposed the gallery to noise and uproar instead of

admiration. Their turbulent dissatisfaction quite disconcerted the

child, and she was retiring bashfully from the stage, when her mother,

who was a woman of a high spirit, and alarmed for the success of her

little actress, came forward, and leading the child to the front of the

house, made her repeat the fable of the Boys and the Frogs, which

entirely turned the tide of popular opinion in her favour. What must the

feelings of the same mother have been, when this child (afterwards Mrs.

Siddons), became the admiration of the whole kingdom, the first seeing

of whom was an event in every person’s life never to be forgotten!

It may not be improper to remark in this place, that Mrs. Siddons first

appeared in London about the year 1778, without exciting any great

notice or expectation. She had acquired her fame in the country, before

she was received in 1783 with such unbounded applause on the London

theatres. There is a playful and lively letter from Mr Holcroft to Miss

Kemble (most probably Mrs. Siddons), dated, 12th Feb., 1779, returning

her thanks for the favour of her late visit to him while in town, and

desiring his remembrances to theatrical friends in the country, and

among others, his _Baises Mains_ to a Mr Davis.

A difference with the manager (old Mr Kemble), occasioned Mr Holcroft to

leave this company; from which he went to that of Stanton, which

performed at Birmingham and in the neighbourhood, and sometimes made

excursions to the north of England. A memorandum of Mr Holcroft, dated

1799, gives some account of himself, and of one of his fellow-actors

while in this company. ‘A person called on me of the name of F——, who

began by asking if I knew him. I answered no. He replied that it was

likely enough, but that we had been acquainted when I was an actor in

Walsal, where he played the second fiddle, and doubted not but I should

remember that we had often played at billiards together. I answered that

I recollected nothing of his person, though I played at billiards with

several people, and probably with him. I then asked, which was the best

player of the two? He replied that, because he squinted, people thought

he could not play; but that, to the best of his recollection, he had won

six or seven pounds of me, which greatly distressed me. Yes, said I, the

loss of such a sum at that time (in 1773), would have so distressed me,

that though I do forget multitudes of things and persons, I think I

should not have forgotten such an incident. I was therefore persuaded he

was much mistaken in the sum. In answer to this, he said, he had

remarked to me at the time we were both upon the same _lay_; and finding

I took offence at the expression, he had softened it by saying, we

neither of us _wished to lose our money_. He therefore proposed that I

should pay him by going halves with him, when he played and betted

again. What degree of truth there was in all this, I cannot now exactly

tell, only I know that I had a high spirit, and a detestation of all

gambling conspiracies, though at that time I played for money and wished

to win. I was poor, neither did I then conceive it to be wrong. The man

said, he should not have taken the liberty to come to a gentleman _so

high in the world_ (at this I could not but smile,) as I now was, had

not Mr Clementi told him I was without pride, and entirely free of

access. He is a stout man, nearly six feet high, and lives at

Birmingham, where he teaches the violin, has daughters, whom he has

taught to fiddle, play the harpsichord, etc., and sells music among his

scholars. His business in London, he tells me, is to bring up his wife

and daughters, and leave them here, the latter for instruction; and that

one great motive for visiting me was, to hear Fanny (Miss Holcroft)

play. In addition to ungain size, awkwardness, and squinting, he has a

clownish gesticulation, and makes such strange contortions of face, as,

were it not to avoid giving offence, would excite continual laughter. In

talking of billiards, he spoke of a gentleman at Walsal, with whom he

used to play, who came with his pockets full of guineas, and that the

chinking of these excited in him the most extraordinary desire to win.

Here he got up, and gave a picture by gesticulating, squinting, and

drawing his muscles awry, of the agitation he used to be in when going

to strike the balls. Nothing could exceed the effect of his _naïveté_.

The conclusion of his history of Walsal was, that playing at billiards

with Stanton, the manager, the latter complained of the largeness of the

pockets; to which F—— replied, yes, they were very large, large indeed,

as unconscionably large as his four dead shares, added to the five

shares he received for the acting of his wife and children; which so

affronted Stanton, that he discharged him the next week. He said he left

Walsal with thirty pounds in his pocket, which he had won at billiards,

promising his wife never to play more, and that he had kept his word. As

he appeared to have been the industrious father of a family, I invited

him to bring his daughters, and hear Fanny, who did not then happen to

be at home; but his left-handed country breeding, or some other motive,

made him decline fixing any time.’[2]

To enable the reader to understand the satirical allusion to the

manager’s shares, which cost poor F—— his situation as second fiddler in

the company, it may be necessary to give a short account of the economy

of a provincial theatre. This I cannot do better than by citing Mr

Holcroft’s own words. ‘A company of travelling comedians then is a small

kingdom, of which the manager is the monarch. Their code of laws seems

to have existed with few material variations since the days of

Shakespeare, who is, with great reason, the god of their idolatry.—The

person who is rich enough to furnish a wardrobe and scenes, commences

manager, and has his privileges accordingly: if there are twenty persons

in the company, for instance, the manager included, the receipts of the

house, after all incidental expenses are deducted, are divided into four

and twenty shares, four of which are called _dead_ shares, and taken by

the manager as payment for the use of his dresses and scenes; to these

is added the share to which he is entitled as a performer. Our manager

(Stanton), has five sons and daughters all ranked as performers; so that

he sweeps eleven shares, that is, near half the profits of the theatre,

into his pocket every night. This is a continual subject of discontent

to the rest of the actors, who are all, to a man, disaffected to the

higher powers. They are, however, most of them in debt to the manager,

and of course chained to his galley; a circumstance which he does not

fail to remind them of, whenever they are refractory.

‘They appear to be a set of merry, thoughtless beings, who laugh in the

midst of poverty, and who never want a quotation or a story to recruit

their spirits. When they get any money, they seem in haste to spend it,

lest some tyrant, in the shape of a dun, should snatch it from them.

They have a circuit or set of towns, to which they resort when the time

comes round; so that there are but three or four in our company who are

not well known in *****. I observe that the town’s-people are

continually railing at them: yet are exceedingly unhappy, if they fail

to return at the appointed time. It is a saying among us, that a

player’s six-pence does not go as far as a town’s-man’s groat;

therefore, though the latter are continually abusing them for running in

debt, they take good care to indemnify themselves, and are no great

losers, if they get ten shillings in the pound.’

This patriarchal manager, with his wife, sons, and daughters, seems to

have been not only an object of envy, but from his blunders and

stupidity, the butt of the whole company. Among other instances, which

are related of his talent for absurdity, he wished to have Shylock in

the Merchant of Venice played in the dialect of Duke’s Place, and was

positive Shakespeare intended it so. He once told the duke in Othello, a

messenger was arrived from the _gallows_, instead of the _galleys_; and

in playing the part of Bardolph, where that worthy person, descanting on

the fieriness of his nose, says, ‘Behold these meteors, these

exhalations,’ he used to lift his hands to heaven with a solemn

flourish, as if he had really seen ‘the heavens on fire.’

CHAPTER IV

While Mr Holcroft was in this company, or a short time before he entered

it, he married again. His second wife was the sister of a Mr Tipler, of

Nottingham: by her he had two children, William, born in 1773, and

Sophy, born at Cockermouth, in 1775. Her mother either died in child-bed

of her, or shortly after. This marriage would have been a very happy

one, had it not been embittered by scenes of continual distress and

disappointment, which Mrs. H. bore with a resignation and sweetness of

temper, which could not but endear her to a husband of Mr Holcroft’s

character. There is a sort of Shandean manuscript of his, written at

this time, and in which he gives an account of his own situation,

crosses, poverty, etc. In this there are several passages expressive of

the tenderest attachment to his wife; and which, from the amiable

character he has drawn of her, she seems to have deserved. One of these

will, I think, strongly paint the amiableness of his own heart. After

describing a series of misfortunes, he breaks out into the following

beautiful address to his wife.

‘Oh Matilda! shall I ever forget thy tenderness and resignation? Or when

in the bitterness of despair, beholding thee pregnant, wan with watching

thy sick infant, and sitting assiduously at thy needle to earn a morsel

of bread,—when thou hast beheld the salt rheum of biting anguish scald

my agonizing cheek, with what tender love, what mild, what sweet

persuasive patience, thou hast comforted my soul, and made even misery

smile in hope, and fond forgetfulness! Richer than all the monarchs of

the east, Matilda, has thy kindness made me: the world affords not thy

equal!’

Mr Holcroft afterwards removed with his wife into Booth’s company. She

had a good figure, and her husband had taught her to sing, and

instructed her sufficiently in the business of the stage to render her

serviceable to the theatre. When at Cockermouth in 1775, Mr Holcroft

addressed a letter and a poem to David Garrick, which I shall here

insert; both as they are curious in themselves, and are characteristic

of the state of his feelings at the time. For the romantic extravagance

of his appeal to Garrick’s generosity, no other apology seems necessary,

than the old adage, that drowning men catch at straws.

‘_To David Garrick, Esq._

‘SIR, I know of no excuse that I can make for the impertinence of this

address, but my feelings. They press hard upon me, they are not to be

withstood. They have told me your sympathetic heart sighs for the

distressed, and weeps with the child of sorrow. I believe they told me

truth.

‘I am a strolling comedian, have a wife and family, for whom I would

fain provide, but have sometimes, notwithstanding the strictest economy,

found the task a very difficult one. I am now near three hundred miles

from London, in a company that must, in all human probability, soon be

dispersed; my wife lying-in at an inn, and in circumstances that I

cannot describe. I do not wish to eat the bread of idleness; I neither

know, nor wish to know any thing of luxury; and a trifling salary would

make me affluent. I have played in the country with applause, and my

friends, I am afraid, have flattered me: some of them have ranked me

among the sons of genius, and I have, at times, been silly enough to

believe them. I have succeeded best in low comedy and old men. I

understand music very well, something of French and fencing, and have a

very quick memory, as I can repeat any part under four lengths at six

hours’ notice. I have studied character, situation, dress, deliberation,

enunciation, but above all, the eye and the manner; and have so far

succeeded, as to be entirely at the head of my profession here in all

those characters which nature has any way qualified me for. I am afraid,

Sir, you think by this time that I have undertaken to write my own

panegyric. That, however, is far from my intention; neither do I wish

for employment in any but a very subordinate situation. My wife is a

good figure, but her timidity would always place her behind a Queen at

your theatre. If you were to find me capable of any thing better than an

attendant, to your judgment would I cheerfully accede. If you do not

chuse to employ my wife, but would only engage me, I think we should

_both_ remember it with that enthusiasm of gratitude, with which good

minds are oppressed when they receive favours which they have no

possible means of returning.

‘I am, Sir,

‘Your very humble Servant, etc.

‘_Cockermouth, in Cumberland,

June 1st, 1775, at the house

of George Bowes, hatter._

‘P.S. With respect to the trifling Poem inclosed, I meant only to ease

my own heart by it: should it reach yours, it will be more than I can

expect.’

HOPE;

OR,

THE DELUSION.

‘Advance, soft soother of the mind,

Oh! hither bend, a welcome guest:

Sweet Hope! stray hither, here thou’lt find

Those sanguine thoughts, that please thee best.

Fair Fancy bring, thy darling child,

Deck’d in loose robes of Alpine white:

With thee, her happy Parent, wild

She wings her bold, romantic flight.

Blest pair! I’ll sing, inspir’d by you,

Of wealth bestow’d to noble ends,

Of sweet enchanting scenes in view,

Of future times and faithful friends.

Tho’ my sweet William, prattling youth,

For bread oft begs in accents meek;

Matilda, fairest flower of truth,

Droops on my breast her dew-dipt cheek.

Tho’ the big tears run down my face

To see her aspect wan and mild,

And hear her lov’d affection trace

My care-mark’d features in our child.

Tho’ fortune lowly bows my neck,

And cares not for the wretch’s groan,—

Yet smile but Hope, or Fancy beck,

And I’ll ascend her star-built throne.

Now, now, I mount! Behold me rise!

Hope lends me strength, and Fancy wings,

Oh! listen to the magic lies,

Which fleeting, faithless Fancy sings!

With Independence truly blest,

Of some neat cot she styles me lord,

Where Age and Labour love to rest,

Where healthy viands press the board.

Now lay me down, kind nymph, at ease

Beneath yon verdant mountain’s brow,

Where wanton zephyrs fan the trees,

Where violets spring, and waters flow.

What joys—delusive charmer, hold!

Despair has seiz’d my thick’ning blood:

Her lips how pale! Her cheek how cold!

Matilda faints for want of food!’

The foregoing stanzas have been given less for the poetry than the

history they contain. The distress which they paint did not, it seems,

reach Garrick’s heart: at least Mr Holcroft left Cockermouth some time

after without having received an answer to his letter. Whether his wife

died before or after he left Cockermouth, I do not know; but there is an

epitaph on Mrs. Holcroft, written about this period, in which he

feelingly laments her loss.

Beauty, Love, and Truth lie here:

Passenger, a moment stay!

Breathe a sigh, and drop a tear,

O’er her much-lamented clay.

Death! thy dart is harmless now,

Widow’d griefs thy stroke defy:

Weak the terrors of thy brow

To the wretch who longs to die.

At the time that Mr Holcroft was at Cockermouth, he was in Booth’s

company, which he had joined at Carlisle in the autumn of 1774. He had

just then left Stanton’s company, who were performing at Kendal. He was

recommended to Booth by a friend of the name of Hatton, who was an

excellent comedian, and the hero of the company. He had spoken in high

terms of Holcroft’s talents, who himself sent off a letter as his

_avant-courier_, in which he undertook to do a great deal for very

little. He engaged to perform all the old men, and principal low-comedy

characters; he was to be the _music_, that is, literally the sole

accompaniment to all songs, etc., on his fiddle in the orchestra; he

undertook to instruct the younger performers in singing and music, and

to write out the different casts or parts in every new comedy; and,

lastly, he was to furnish the theatre with several new pieces, never

published, but which he brought with him in manuscript, among the rest

Dr. Last in his Chariot, which character he himself performed. Here was

certainly enough for one man to do; and for all these services, various

and important as they were, he stipulated that he should be entitled to

a share and a half of the profits of the theatre, which generally

amounted to between four and five pounds a night whenever it opened,

that is, three times a week. This proposed salary could not, therefore,

amount to more than seventeen or eighteen shillings weekly.

In the above list of employments, which Mr Holcroft undertook to fulfil,

the capital attraction, and that which he believed no country manager

could resist, was the character of Dr. Last, which he did in imitation

of the London performers. The scene in which he produced the most effect

was that of the doctor’s examination. This, as I have heard it

described, was a very laughable, if not a very pleasing performance. Mr

Holcroft was naturally rather long-backed; and in order to give a

ridiculous appearance to the doctor, he used to lean forwards, with his

chin raised as high as possible into the air, and his body projecting

proportionably behind; and in this frog-like attitude, with his eyes

staring wide open, and his teeth chattering, he answered the questions

that were put to him, in a harsh, tremulous voice, sometimes growling,

and sometimes squeaking, and with such odd starts and twitches of

countenance, that the effect produced upon the generality of spectators

was altogether convulsive. The person who gave me this description said

he thought the part a good deal overdone, but that it was a very

entertaining caricature. Mr Holcroft himself went through this part to

gratify a friend, a very short time before his death. He said, it always

produced a very great effect, whenever he acted it; but that the chief,

or only merit it had, was that of being a close imitation of Weston’s

manner of doing it.[3]

The history of the company in which Mr Holcroft was now engaged,

deserves notice from its singularity. The name of the original founder

of the company was Mills, a Scotchman. He and his family had formerly

travelled the country, playing nothing but Allan Ramsay’s Gentle

Shepherd. This they continued to do for several years without either

scenery or music. As the younger branches of the family grew up, one of

them became a scene-painter, and some of the others learned to fiddle.

They now, therefore, added scenes and music to the representation of

their favourite pastoral. They afterwards enlarged their circuit, and

made excursions into the North of England: and though the loves of Patie

and Peggy were a never-failing source of delight on the other side of

the Tweed, their English auditors grew tired of this constant sameness.

They therefore, after the performance of the _Gentle Shepherd_, which

was still the business of the evening, introduced a farce occasionally,

as a great treat to the audience. Mills’s daughters married players.

This brought an accession of strength into the family, so that they were

now able to act regular plays; and by degrees, Allan Ramsay, with his

shepherds and shepherdesses, and flocks of bleating sheep, was entirely

discarded. Still, however, during the life-time of Mills, the whole

business of the theatre, even to the shifting of the scenes, or making

up of the dresses, was carried on in the circle of his own family. At

his death, the property of the theatre was purchased by a Mr Buck

(formerly of Covent Garden theatre), who kept an inn at Penrith, and it

was by him let out to Booth.

Mrs. Sparks, of Drury Lane Theatre, was an actress in this company, at

the time Mr Holcroft belonged to it, and the youngest daughter of Mills,

the late manager. Mrs. Inchbald was playing in the same company, at

Inverness, in Scotland, in 1773, or the winter of 1774. The company

afterwards went to Glasgow, where not being permitted to play, they were

all in the utmost distress. The whole stock was detained for rent and

board, etc., at an inn. From this awkward situation they were liberated

by a young Scotchman, who had just joined the company in a kind of

frolic, and who paid their score, and set them off to Kilmarnock, and

from thence to Ayr, where they had a very brilliant run of good fortune.

Booth, the manager, was the same person who has since been well known as

the inventor of the polygraphic art, and of the art of making cloth

without spinning or weaving. He appears to have been always a man of

much versatility of enterprise; and at this time added to his

employments of manager and actor, the profession of a portrait-painter.

The first thing he did when he came to any town, was to wait on the

magistrate, to ask leave for his company to play; or if this was

refused, that he might have the honour of painting his picture. If his

scenes and dresses were lying idle, he was the more busy with his

pencil: and that tempting bait hung out at the shop-windows, _Likenesses

taken in this manner for half-a-guinea_, seldom failed to fill his

pockets, while his company were starving.

CHAPTER V

Mr Holcroft continued in Booth’s company about a year and a half. He

next joined Bates’s company, which made the circuit of the principal

towns on the east side of the north of England, including Durham,

Sunderland, Darlington, Scarborough, Stockton-upon-Tees, etc.

It was sometime in the year 1777, that Mr Holcroft walked with Mr Shield

(the celebrated composer, who was then one of the band in the same

company) from Durham to Stockton-upon-Tees. Mr Holcroft employed himself

on the road in studying Lowth’s Grammar, and reading Pope’s _Homer_.—The

writers that we read in our youth are those, for whom we generally

retain the greatest fondness. Pope always continued a favorite with Mr

Holcroft, and held the highest place in his esteem after Milton,

Shakspeare, and Dryden. He used often, in particular, to repeat the

character of Atticus, which he considered as the finest piece of satire

in the language. Moral description, good sense, keen observation, and

strong passion, are the qualities which he seems chiefly to have sought

in poetry. He had therefore little relish even for the best of our

descriptive poets, and often spoke with indifference, approaching to

contempt, of Thomson, Akenside, and others. He was, however, at this

time, exceedingly eager to make himself acquainted with all our English

poets of any note; and he was seldom without a volume of poetry in his

pocket.

At the time that Bates’s company were at Scarborough, Fisher, the late

celebrated Oboe player, gave concerts there, which were led by Dance,

and in which a Miss Harrop, (afterwards Mrs. Bates) was the principal

vocal performer. Holcroft used to sing in the choruses.—He at this time

practised a good deal on the fiddle, which he continued ever after to do

occasionally; but he never became a good performer. It was Bates, who

conducted the commemoration of Handel at Westminster Abbey.

Among the parts which Mr Holcroft played most frequently, were—Polonius,

which he did respectably; Scrub, in the Beaux’ Stratagem; Bundle, in the

Waterman; and Abel Drugger. He acted this last character after he came

to London, one night when Garrick happened to be present.

At Stockton-upon-Tees, Mr Holcroft first became acquainted with Ritson,

the antiquarian, and author of the Treatise on animal food, who was

afterwards one of his most intimate friends. He was at that time

articled to an attorney in the town; but was, like most other young men

of taste or talents, fonder of poetry than the law. The poet Cunningham

was an actor in the same company. He was the intimate friend of Shield.

He was, it seems, a man of a delicate constitution, of retired habits,

and extreme sensibility, but an amiable and worthy man. The parts in

which he acted with most success were mincing fops and pert

coxcombs,—characters the most opposite to his own. He played Garrick’s

character of Fribble, in Miss in her Teens. He also excelled in Comus.

He was often subject to fits of absence; as a proof of which, he once

forgot that he had played the Duke of Albany in King Lear, and had

returned to the door of the theatre for the second time, before he

recollected himself.—Besides his descriptive poems, he wrote several

prologues; and an opera called “The Lass with Speech,” which was offered

to the theatres, but never acted, and from which the Lying Valet was

taken. He dedicated his poems to Garrick, who sent him two guineas on

the occasion, which he returned, begging that they might be added to the

theatrical fund. It seems he either did not want pecuniary remuneration

for the compliment he had paid to Garrick, or he thought this a very

inadequate one. When he was writing anything, his room was strewed with

little scraps of paper, on which he wrote down any thought as it

occurred; and afterwards he had some difficulty in connecting these

scattered, half-forgotten fragments together, before he could make out a

fair copy.

At the time that Mr Shield was most with him, he had been long in ill

health, apparently in a decline; and this had given a deeper tinge of

melancholy to the natural thoughtfulness of his disposition. A little

before his death, he wrote the following lines, which seem to convey a

presentiment of his fate.

‘Sweet object of the zephyr’s kiss,

Come rose, come, courted by the hours,

Queen of the banks, the garden’s bliss,

Come, and abash yon tawdry flow’rs.

“Why call us to revokeless doom,”

With grief the op’ning buds reply,

“Scarce suffer’d to expand our bloom,

Scarce born, alas! before we die.”

‘Man, having pass’d appointed years,

(Years are but days) the scene must close:

And when Fate’s messenger appears,

What is he but a withering rose?’

These lines can hardly fail of being acceptable to the reader, when he

is told, they were the last ever written by a man, to whom we are

indebted for some of the most pleasing and elegant pastoral descriptions

in the language.—It must abate something of the contempt with which we

are too apt to mention the name of a strolling player, when we recollect

that Cunningham was one.

Mr Holcroft had never been satisfied with his employment as a strolling

actor in the country. He sighed for the literary advantages, and

literary intercourse which London afforded. He was indeed the whole time

labouring hard to cultivate his mind, and acquire whatever information

was within his reach. But his opportunities were very confined. He had

studied Shakespeare with the greatest ardour, and with some advantage to

himself in his profession. Polonius was the character in which he was

most successful: he also played Hamlet, and other parts, of which he was

but an indifferent representative. I have been told, that Mr Holcroft’s

acting, both in its excellences and defects, more resembled Bensley’s

than any other person’s. The excellent sense and judgment of that able

actor were almost entirely deprived of their effect, by his

disadvantages of voice and manner. Mr Holcroft, in the performance of

grave parts, had the same distinct, but harsh articulation, and the same

unbending stiffness of deportment.

After wandering for seven years as an itinerant actor, with no very

brilliant success, he resolved upon trying his fortune in London, and

arrived there early in the latter end of 1777. His stay with the last

company, which he joined, must therefore have been short. His separation

from this company was I believe in some measure hastened by little

disagreeable circumstances, but it was no doubt chiefly owing to the

general bias of his inclination, to the desire and expectation of fame

of some sort or other, either theatrical or literary, on which his mind

had for some years been brooding. It is not likely that his success on

the stage, though it might in time have ensured him a livelihood in

inferior parts, would ever have been such as to satisfy the ambition of

an aspiring and vigorous mind. It was, however, on his talents as an

actor, that he first rested his hopes of pushing his fortune in London,

and of recommending himself to the favour of the public. But before we

follow him up to town, it may not be improper to take a retrospect of

the path we have already trod. There are some persons of nice tastes,

who may perhaps be disgusted with the meanness of his adventures; and

who may think the situation in which he embarked in life, and the

society into whose characters and manners he seems to have entered with

so much relish, unworthy of a man of genius.

But it should be recollected, first, that men of genius do not always

chuse their own profession or pursuit. In Mr Holcroft’s case, the

question was, whether he should turn strolling player, or starve.

Secondly, there are in this very profession, which is held in such

contempt, circumstances which must make a man of genius, not very averse

to enter into it. In spite of the real misery, meanness, ignorance, and

folly, often to be found among its followers, the player as well as the

poet, lives in an ideal world.

The scenes of petty vexation, poverty, and disappointment, which he has

to encounter, are endless; so are the scenes of grandeur, pomp, and

pleasure, in which he is as constantly an actor. If his waking thoughts

are sometimes disagreeable, his dreams are delightful, and the business

of his life is to dream. This may be a reason why every one else should

shun this profession as a pest, but it is for this very reason that the

man of genius may pass his time pleasantly and profitably in it. But let

us hear Mr Holcroft’s apology for his former way of life, which seems to

have been dictated with a view to his own feelings. ‘Know then,’ he

says,[4] ‘there is a certain set or society of men, frequently to be met

in straggling parties about this kingdom, who by a peculiar kind of

magic, will metamorphose an old barn, stable, or out-house, in such a

wonderful manner, that the said barn, stable, or out-house, shall

appear, according as it suits the will or purpose of the said magicians,

at one time a prince’s palace; at another, a peasant’s cottage; now the

noisy receptacle of drunken clubs, and wearied travellers, called an

inn; anon the magnificent dome of a Grecian temple. Nay, so vast is

their art, that, by pronouncing audibly certain sentences, which are

penned down for them by the head, or master magician, they transport the

said barn, stable, or out-house, thus metamorphosed, over sea, or land,

rocks, mountains, or deserts, into whatsoever hot, cold, or temperate

region the director wills, with as much facility as my lady’s squirrel

can crack a nut-shell. What is still more wonderful, they carry all

their spectators along with them, without the witchery of broom-sticks.

These necromancers, although whenever they please they become princes,

kings, and heroes, and reign over all the empires of the vast and

peopled earth; though they bestow governments, vice-royalties, and

principalities, upon their adherents, divide the spoils of nations among

their pimps, pages, and parasites, and give a kingdom for a kiss, for

they are exceedingly amorous; yet, no sooner do their sorceries cease,

though but the moment before they were revelling and banqueting with

Marc Antony, or quaffing nectar with Jupiter himself, it is a safe wager

of a pound to a penny that half of them go supperless to bed. A set of

poor, but pleasant rogues! miserable, but merry wags! that weep without

sorrow, stab without anger, die without dread, and laugh, sing, and

dance, to inspire mirth in others, while surrounded themselves with

wretchedness. A thing still more remarkable in these enchanters is, that

they completely effect their purpose, and make those, who delight in

observing the wonderful effects of their art, laugh or cry, condemn or

admire, love or hate, just as they please; subjugating the heart with

every various passion: more especially when they pronounce the charms

and incantations of a certain sorcerer, called Shakespeare, whose

science was so powerful, that he himself thus describes it:

——I have oft be-dimm’d

The noon-tide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, etc.’

CHAPTER VI

Mr Holcroft arrived in London, just at the time that Mr Sheridan came

into the management of Drury-Lane. He endeavoured to procure an

engagement at this, and at the other house; but in vain. As a last

desperate resource, when his money was nearly exhausted, he sat down and

wrote a farce, called The Crisis, or Love and Famine which Mrs. Sheridan

was prevailed on to read; and this, with his musical knowledge (as he

was able to sing in all choruses), procured him an engagement at twenty

shillings a week. On his being engaged, Mr Holcroft was desired by Mr

Sheridan to give in his cast of parts to Mr Hopkins, the prompter; and

they were as follow:

Don Manuel, Kind Impostor.

Hardcastle, She Stoops to Conquer.

Justice Woodcock, Love in a Village.

Hodge, Ditto.

Giles, Maid of the Mill.

Ralph, Ditto.

Sir Harry Sycamore, Ditto.

Scrub, Beaux’ Stratagem.

Sir Anthony Absolute, Rivals.

General Savage, School for Wives.

Colin Macleod, Faithless Lover.

Mortimer, Ditto.

Sir Benjamin Dove, Brothers.

Major O’Flaherty, West-Indian.

Fulmer, Ditto.

Varland, Ditto.

Colonel Oldboy, Lionel and Clarissa.

It was in this last part that Mr Holcroft particularly wished to have

made his first appearance. The manner in which he procured a

recommendation to Mrs. Sheridan, was through his cousin, Mrs. Greville.

In consequence of this connexion, he also obtained introductions to Mrs.

Crewe, and several other persons of fashion, who interested themselves

in his behalf; and an epistolary intercourse commenced between him and

Mr Greville on subjects of taste and the theatre, which continued for

some years.

His farce of the Crisis was, I believe, played but once, for the benefit

of Hopkins, the prompter, when it was favourably received. This Mr

Hopkins, who had the regulation of the inferior parts in the theatre,

entertained a very low opinion of Mr Holcroft’s powers as an actor; and

he remained unnoticed, till Mr Sheridan by chance saw him in the part of

Mungo, with which he was so much pleased as to order his weekly salary

to be raised to five and twenty shillings. Both his salary and his

reputation in the theatre seem now to have remained stationary during

this and the following season, though he constantly attended the theatre

to perform the most menial parts. The following extract from a letter

addressed to Mr Sheridan, will sufficiently explain both his situation

and feelings at this time:—

‘Depressed, dejected, chained by Misfortune to the rock of Despair,

while the vultures Poverty and Disappointment are feasting with increase

of appetite upon me, I have no chance of deliverance but from you. You,

Sir, I hope, will be my Alcides! Mr Evans says, he must increase the

deductions he already makes from my salary (9s. per week), unless I can

obtain your order to the contrary. It is scarcely possible I should

maintain my family, which will shortly be increased, upon my present

income. Were I not under deductions at the office, my receipts would

very little exceed sixty pounds a year; and this I enjoy more through

your favour than any consequence I am of to the theatre, though

continually employed. But then it is either to sit in a senate or at a

card-table, or to walk in a procession, or to sing in a chorus, which is

all that the prompter, who has the direction of this kind of business,

thinks me capable of. Nay, in so little esteem am I held by Mr Hopkins,

that he took the part of a dumb steward in Love for Love from another

person, and made me do it; and when by your permission I played Mawworm,

he said, had he been well and up, it should not have been so. I do not

mention this as a subject of accusation against Mr Hopkins, but merely

to shew that if I am consigned to his penetration, I am doomed to

everlasting oblivion.

‘Unhappily for me, when I performed Mawworm, you were not at the

theatre. Interest rather than vanity makes me say, I was more successful

than I had any reason to expect. The audience were in a continual laugh.

I played Jerry Sneak for my own benefit last year, and with the same

success; and if I could only be introduced to the town in old men and

burletta singing, I know from former experience how soon I should be

held in a very different estimation from what I am at present. You do

not know, Sir, how useful I could be upon a thousand emergencies in the

theatre, if I were but thought of; but this I shall never be till your

express mandate is issued for that purpose.

‘You have frequently been pleased to express a partiality towards me, as

well as a favourable opinion of my abilities. But, sir, if you do not

immediately interest yourself in my behalf, I may grow grey, while I

enjoy your favour without a possibility of confirming or increasing it.

“Who’s the Dupe” prevented the Crisis from being played last year: now

you tell me you will talk to me after Christmas; in the meantime “the

Flitch of Bacon” and a new pantomime are preparing. I told those to whom

I am indebted, I should have a chance of paying them soon, for that the

Crisis would come out before the holidays. When I said so, I believed

that it would; but they will think I meant to deceive them.’

The concluding sentence of this letter is remarkable, when we recollect

the character of the celebrated man to whom it is addressed.

‘In short, I am arrived at the labyrinth of delays, where suspense and

all his busy imps are tormenting me—_You alone, Sir, hold the clue that

can guide me out of it._’

Mr Sheridan, in spite of Mr Holcroft’s entreaties, was not inclined on

this occasion to perform the part of Theseus; for he was still left to

the mercy of the remorseless prompter, and had no opportunity of

exerting his talents till the Camp came out (in 1780) when he

endeavoured, as he expresses himself, _to make a part_ of a foolish

recruit, and succeeded; in consequence of which his salary was raised to

thirty shillings weekly.

During the summer recesses of the years 1778 and 1779, Mr Holcroft had

not been idle, but had made excursions to the Canterbury, Portsmouth,

and Nottingham theatres, where he moved in a higher range of parts, and

escaped from the drudgery of choruses and processions. The state of his

health appears to have been one inducement for his leaving town in 1779;

for he says in a letter, dated from Nottingham, in June, that but for

this consideration, he believes it would have been more profitable for

him to have remained in London. In these excursions he seems to have

established a pretty intimate correspondence with a Mr Hughes, the

Portsmouth or Plymouth manager; for we find the latter writing to him

for a supply of performers, and Mr Holcroft in answer complaining of his

being able only to meet with a Mrs. Hervey, of whom he gives a very

satirical portrait, and a Mr Cubit, a singer, who, he observes, had

already been with Mr Hughes, and who never visited a company twice.

Mr Holcroft’s business at the theatre, did not hinder him from pursuing

his literary avocations. Besides the Crisis, he had already written two

other after-pieces, the Shepherdess of the Alps, and the Maid of the

Vale.

The following letter to Mrs. Sheridan, gives an account of the first of

these:

‘MADAM, It is with a peculiar pleasure that I have, by Mr Sheridan’s

desire, an opportunity of addressing you. I am indebted to your

benevolence and interposition, for my first obtaining admission in the

theatre, and shall ever remember it with respect and gratitude. Give me

leave, Madam, to intrude upon your patience for a moment, while I

explain the motive of this address.—Mrs. Greville, Mrs. Crewe, and some

other ladies of fashion and consequence, have kindly undertaken to

patronize, and recommend the Shepherdess of the Alps. Mrs. Crewe has

spoken to Mr Sheridan concerning it, as he informed me last night,

desiring me at the same time, to send it to you, who he said would not

only read it yourself, but put him in mind of it. I believe myself

almost certain of your good wishes, when you read the beginning, and

recollect that your late dear and worthy brother pointed out the subject

to me, encouraged me to pursue it, and had not only undertaken to set

it, but had actually composed two songs. Pardon me, Madam, for

introducing so melancholy a reflection. His esteem for me, I might

almost say his friendship, shall never be forgotten, let my condition in

life hereafter be what it may; it does me too much honour. You likewise,

Madam, have some share in the work: it was in consequence of your advice

and observations, that the comic part was introduced: it was at first

intended only to affect the nobler passions, and to have been entirely

serious.—I would not willingly appear too urgent: yet cannot forbear

expressing some anxiety about the fate of my poor Shepherdess. I spent

all the summer about it, (certain as I thought then) of its coming out

immediately.—I am, Madam,’ etc.

The Maid of the Vale was a translation from the Italian comic opera of

La Buona Figliola, which Mr Arne, the son of Dr. Arne, employed him to

alter and adapt to the English stage.

A good deal of altercation seems to have taken place between the author

and musician respecting the division of the future profits of the piece;

Mr Holcroft claiming one half, to which his employer did not think him

by any means entitled. In consequence, I believe, of these

disagreements, the piece was not brought forward.

Mr Holcroft afterwards offered his translation of this opera to Mr King,

the late actor, at that time manager of Sadler’s Wells, by whom it was

rejected. Mr Holcroft, however, wrote several little pieces for Mr King,

which were brought out at this theatre. The Noble Peasant (which

afterwards came out at the Haymarket,) was originally intended to have

been acted here. Mr Holcroft always experienced from this gentleman the

most liberal and friendly treatment, and was under considerable

pecuniary obligations to him. Mr Foote died in October, 1777, a few

weeks before Mr Holcroft came to town. In the spring of the following

year, he published an Elegy on his Death, which was the first

composition of his, that had appeared in print, (since his essays in the

Whitehall Evening Post). It met with a favourable reception. He had

always respected the character of Foote, had been personally known to

him, and lamented his death in terms dictated by real feeling, as much

as by the inspiration of the muse. At the same time, he published a

short poem on Old Age, which was bound up with the elegy. In April 1779,

I find him desiring his father, who lived at Bath, to make inquiries

respecting the prizes given at the Bath Easton Vase, the subjects

proposed, and the length of the poems. ‘I have an inclination,’ he says,

‘to become a candidate for fame at that temple of Apollo, _not so much

from a supposition that I shall gain the laurel, as because I think the

plan deserves encouragement_.’ The little deceptions of self-love,

cannot but sometimes excite a smile.—It may be proper to notice here,

that Mr Holcroft kept up at this period a constant correspondence with

his father, whose wife rented a small house and garden, either at or in

the neighbourhood of Bath. The letters that passed between them, do

honour to the feelings of both parties. Mr Holcroft was always eager to

communicate the news of any good fortune that had befallen him, and

ready to lend every assistance in his power to his father, who was still

frequently in pecuniary difficulties. From one of these letters, it

appears that Mr Holcroft, among other employments, had engaged to write

a paper, called the Actor, for the Westminster Magazine, and that he was

secretary to a society, (the theatrical fund,) for which he received ten

pounds a year. He also found time to write songs for Vauxhall, several

of which became very popular. Among these, the greatest favourite was

the ballad, beginning, ‘Down the Bourne and through the Mead,’ which was

set to music by Shield. This song, which is written in the Scottish

dialect, has often been taken for an old Scotch ballad, and has been

actually printed in a collection of Scotch songs.—Mr Holcroft was one

evening drinking tea with some friends at White-Conduit House, when the

organ was playing the tune of Johnny and Mary. After they had listened

some time, a person in the next box began to descant rather learnedly on

the beauty of the Scotch airs, and the tenderness and simplicity of

their popular poetry, bringing this very ballad as an illustration of

his argument, neither the words nor music of which, he said, any one now

living was capable of imitating. Mr Holcroft on this, took occasion to

remark the strange force of prejudice, and turning to the gentleman,

interrupted his argument by informing him, that he himself was the

author of the song in question, and that the tune was composed by his

friend, Mr Shield, who I believe was also there present.—This song had

been composed for, and was originally sung at Vauxhall, by the

celebrated Nan Catley. An Irish music-seller, at the St. Paul’s Head in

the Strand, had procured the words and music, and had advertised them in

his window to be sold. Mr Shield was accidentally passing, saw the music

in the window, and went in to demand by what right the advertiser meant

to publish his property. To this he received for answer, ‘By a very good

right, for that the music was composed by him (the vender,) and that the

words had been written by a friend, for Miss Catley, whom he very well

knew.’ It was with difficulty that Mr Shield by informing him that he

was the author of the music, prevailed on the pretended composer to

relinquish his claim.

Mr Holcroft, almost on his coming to town, married his third wife; and

soon after, she and Mr Holcroft determined upon taking a small house,

and furnishing it. They were, however, diverted from this plan by a Mr

Turner, an upholsterer, in Oxford Road, who persuaded them that it would

be much more advantageous to take a large house, which he would furnish,

and give them credit for any length of time they demanded. He said, that

many persons by letting the upper part of their houses, not only cleared

their rent, but were often gainers. These arguments, and the additional

motive of making a more creditable appearance, induced Mr Holcroft to

take a house in Southampton Buildings, which Mr Turner furnished as he

had promised, to the value of 240l. But scarcely were the goods lodged

in the house, before the upholsterer became a bankrupt, and his effects

and bills were consigned over to his creditors, who immediately came on

Mr Holcroft for 160l., 80l. having been at first advanced to Mr Turner

for the furniture. This unexpected stroke completely ruined the

prospects of our young house-keepers, and they were obliged to apply to

several persons to prevent an execution, which was threatened. Mr

Holcroft might indeed have sold his goods for nearly the amount of the

debt against him: but it seems that he was unwilling to see his property

melt away under the hands of an auctioneer, and to have to begin the

world again, after having, in a manner, realized all his hopes, by

attaining a permanent and respectable establishment in life. He wrote to

several persons to assist him in this emergency, with a degree of

importunity which can only be excused by the severity of his

disappointment, and a sense that it was undeserved on his part. He wrote

to Mr Greville, to a Mr Laurel, to Mr Sheridan, to the Proprietors of

Drury-Lane, to persons whom he had never seen or known, with a kind of

wild desperation. These applications indeed shewed no great knowledge of

the world; but the abrupt appeals which he thus made to the humanity and

generosity of others, at least proved that Mr Holcroft was not without a

strong sense of these qualities in his own breast, which made him

believe they might be found to a romantic degree in others. His friend,

Mr King, at length relieved him from his immediate embarrassments by a

loan of 80 or 100l. This, however, was to be repaid; and at no great

distance of time, the same difficulties, and the same struggles to

extricate himself from them returned. At one time, great hopes were

entertained from the expected arrival of a Mr Marsac, a near relation of

his wife, who had a handsome appointment in India; and who, in their

present situation, it was thought, would be willing to assist them. But

he did not arrive within the time which had been fixed. Mr Holcroft then

wrote to a lady, high in rank and literary pretension, but a stranger to

him, stating the circumstances of his case, and inclosing a comedy,

which he had written as a voucher for the justice of his claims: she had

been the laborious patroness of departed genius, and he thought might be

the friend of living merit. But it seems, the inference was not

justified by the event. The comedy was returned unread: and, indeed, if

she had read it, a very favourable verdict could scarcely have been

expected, under the annexed penalty of a hundred pounds. Mr Holcroft has

recorded this extravagance and its result among the adventures of

Wilmot, the usher, in Hugh Trevor. Mr Holcroft now looked forward, as a

last resource, to the success of the comedy itself (Duplicity) which was

afterwards acted with applause; but such was the author’s untoward fate,

that even his success was attended with little advantage, and relieved

his necessities but in part.

Mr Holcroft had, at this time, few friends or acquaintance in London,

and those few were very little able to afford him any material

assistance. The oldest were Shield and P——, both of whom he had known in

strolling companies in the North: they had separated, had come to London

about the same time, and met by chance. Shield first discovered Holcroft

poring over an old book-stall, in Goodge-Street: they immediately

recognized each other with a good deal of pleasure, and a friendly

intercourse commenced, which was uninterrupted to the last. When the

place of composer of the birth-day minuets at court became vacant by the

death of Mr Weideman, Mr Holcroft applied to Mr Greville to procure the

place for Mr Shield; with what success I do not know.

Mr Shield at the period we are speaking of, had an engagement at the

Opera-house. It was winter, and in consequence of some new piece, they

had very long rehearsals every morning. One day he was detained longer

than usual, his dinner-hour was over, he felt himself very cold when he

came out, and his attendance for so many hours had sharpened his

appetite. He therefore proceeded up the Hay-market with a determination

to get some refreshment at the first place that offered. He had strolled

into St. Martin’s-lane, without meeting with any thing that he liked:

till he came to a little bye-court, called Porridge Island; at the

corner of which, in a dark, dirty-looking window, he discovered a large

round of beef smoking, which strongly seconded the disposition he

already felt in himself to satisfy his hunger. He did not, however, much

like the appearance of the place: he looked again, the temptation grew

stronger, and at last he ventured in. Having asked for dinner, he was

shewn into a room up one pair of stairs, not very large, but convenient

and clean, where he found several persons already set down to dinner. He

was invited to join them, and to his great joy found both the fare and

the accommodation excellent. But his attention was shortly much more

powerfully arrested by the conversation which took place at the table.

Philosophy, religion, politics, poetry, the belles lettres were talked

of, and in such a manner, as to shew that every person there was

familiar with such subjects, and that they formed the ordinary topics of

conversation. Mr Shield listened in a manner which denoted his surprise

and pleasure. The conversation at one time began to take rather a free

turn, when a grave, elderly looking man, who sat at the head of the

table, addressed the new guest, telling him that he seemed a young man,

and by his countenance shewed some signs of grace; that he would not

have him mind what was said by persons who scarcely believed their own

sophisms; that he himself when young had been attacked and staggered by

the same objections; that he had examined them all, and found them all

false and hollow. This diverted the discourse to other subjects which

were more agreeable. The name of the person who had thus addressed Mr

Shield, and who thus assumed the office of a censor, was Cannon: he was

the son of an Irish bishop. He was advanced in years, and presided in

the company with an air of authority that was partly submitted to in

earnest, and partly humoured for the joke’s sake. He regularly dined

here every day. On entering the room, he first pulled off his great

coat, and fastened it with two long pins to the back of a tall

cane-worked old chair with knobs behind: and after disposing of his

umbrella, which in those days was a great singularity, he used to pay

his respects to the company with much formality, and then sat down. He

had one place, which was always kept for him; and for this privilege it

seems he paid double price. If any stranger came in by chance, and took

possession of his seat, he would never sit down in any other, but walked

up and down the room in a restless way, till the person was gone. It was

his constant custom to carry with him a small pocket volume of Milton,

or Young’s Night Thoughts, in which he had made a great number of

marginal notes; and as soon as dinner was over, he regularly took out

one of his favourite authors, and opening the book at random, requested

the person who sat next him, whether a stranger, or one of the usual

company, to read aloud a certain passage which he thought very

beautiful. This offer was of course declined by those who knew him, who

in return begged that he would favour the company with it himself, which

he did, at the same time repeating the remarks which he had made in the

margin. He then very deliberately closed the book, and put it into his

pocket again. Cannon was a man of letters, and had travelled. He spoke a

very florid language, full of epithets and compound words, and professed

to be engaged in an edition of Tibullus. Mr Shield was so much amused

with this old gentleman, and interested in the general conversation,

(not to say that the commons were excellent), that he was determined he

would in future dine no where else: he was also eager to inform Holcroft

of the discovery he had made, whom he invited to go along with him the

next day, and who also became a very constant visitor. The persons who

were generally present were Messieurs Shield, Nicholson, Holcroft,

Cannon, etc., who formed themselves into a little society, which in

compliment to the last mentioned person, was called ‘The Cannonian.’ The

president was rather tenacious of his opinions, and impatient of

contradiction; and frequently some very warm altercations took place in

consequence between him and Mr Holcroft.

The other friend of Mr Holcroft, mentioned above, was a young Scotchman,

who had been in Booth’s company with him, but soon quitted it, and came

up to London two or three years before him. They had had a violent

quarrel while they were in this company, but meeting again in London,

with new objects before them, and where they were both to a considerable

degree strangers, former disagreements were forgotten, and a friendly

intercourse commenced. He strenuously advised Holcroft to turn his

thoughts to writing, or reporting for the newspapers, which he himself

had found a lucrative employment, which Holcroft declined, being more

bent on pushing his way at the theatre.

The manner in which this friend of our author began his career in life,

deserves a place in a work which is little else than a history of the

difficulties and successes which attend the efforts of men of talents

and literature.

Mr P——, whose connexions were respectable, came to town, with

recommendations to a banking-house in the city, and with an intention to

get a place as clerk in some counting-house, or public office. He

delivered his letters, and his friends promised they would be on the

look-out for him. He called once or twice to no purpose, and as his time

hung rather idly on his hands, he had employed himself in writing one or

two anonymous letters on the politics of the day, which were inserted in

the General Advertiser. It so happened that one of the partners in the

house to which he had been recommended, had a principal share in this

very paper: and when he called, he told him that he had heard of nothing

in the way that he wished; but taking out the Advertiser, and shewing

him his own letter in it, ‘If now,’ said he, ‘you could do something of

this kind, I might possibly be of service to you.’ Mr P—— replied, with

some eagerness, that he was the author of the letter. ‘Aye, indeed,’

says the other, ‘then come with me; we must have some farther talk

together.’ So saying, he took our young politician with him into another

room; and after being closeted some time, it was arranged that P——

should be immediately employed as a writer and reporter for this paper,

at a guinea and half a week. The very next night there was to be an

important debate in the house, and our young gentleman was to make his

_coup d’essai_. As however he was entirely ignorant of the forms and

rules of reporting, it was thought necessary to give him some previous

instructions; and he was told, that he should place himself so as to be

able to hear the speakers distinctly; that he should provide himself

with a pencil and pocket-book, in which he must note down the speeches

as privately as he could; but that as he was a stranger, and might be

noticed the more on that account, if any one came to interrupt him, he

was to say nothing, but put half a guinea into his hand. Thus equipped

and instructed, Mr P—— went early to his post, and planted himself in

the middle of the gallery, directly in front of the speaker. He had his

pencil and pocket-book ready in his hand, and the instant the debate

opened, began to take notes with so much eagerness, and so little

precaution, that a messenger came to him, and said, ‘Sir, you must give

over writing.’ As he had been prepared for this event, he took the

half-guinea out of his pocket, and bending his hand behind him, offered

the half-guinea, which was lodged in the palm of it, to the door-keeper,

who took it without saying a word, and the other went on with his

writing as before. But no sooner had he begun, than the man very quietly

tapped him on the shoulder again, and said, ‘Sir, you must give over

writing.’ This second rebuff was quite unexpected, and completely

disconcerted our zealous reporter. He put his pencil and paper in his

pocket, and sat during the remainder of the debate in a state of the

utmost confusion, not expecting to remember a single sentence. He went

home and related his ill-success; professing his inability to give any

account of what he had heard. ‘But,’ said his employer, ‘you may at

least try: you must surely recollect something of what passed.’ He said,

‘no: he had been in such a state of agitation the whole time, that it

would be in vain to attempt it.’ As no one else had gone from the same

office, and it was absolutely necessary to give some account of the

debate the next morning, he was again urged to make the attempt, and at

length complied. He was left in the room by himself, and scarcely

knowing what he did, began an account of the speech of Lord Nugent, who

had opened the question. He was surprised to find that he could

recollect the few first sentences. Still he despaired of being able to

proceed; but by degrees, one thing recalled another, he still kept

writing on without knowing what was to follow, and when he had finished

one page, sent it down to the press. His hopes now began to revive, he

returned to the charge, and writing under an apprehension that the words

might every minute escape from his memory, he despatched sheet after

sheet so vigorously, that the press could hardly keep pace with him.

They had now printed two columns and a half, and Lord Nugent was still

speaking. At last, the proprietor, who had at first dreaded a dearth of

information, and whose fears were now alarmed the contrary way, came up

to him, and said, ‘My G—d, when will this Lord Nugent’s speech be done?

Was there no other speaker the whole evening?’ ‘Oh yes, there are seven

or eight more to come.’ The other laughed, and told P—— that he had

quite mistaken the business; that in his way of going on, he would fill

a volume instead of a newspaper, and that he must begin again entirely,

and instead of giving every word and sentence, merely repeat the heads

of each speech, and a few of the most striking arguments. ‘Oh, is that

all you want,’ exclaimed P——, at once relieved from his terrors, ‘then

I’m your man.’ Accordingly he set to work afresh, cut down Lord Nugent

into half a column, and the other speakers had a proportionable space

allotted them: and the report, thus curtailed, was the next day noticed

as the ablest and fullest that had been given of the debate. The person,

to whom this anecdote relates, has been long known to the public as the

editor and proprietor of the only constitutional paper that remains.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

Mr Holcroft, as he had intended, let part of his house, in Southampton

Buildings, to lodgers. Among other inmates, were Miss Kemble (afterwards

Mrs. Whitelocke) and his friend N——. Holcroft used to take frequent

opportunities of urging this gentleman to devote his talents to works of

taste and imagination, and his mind teemed with the plots of comedies

and subjects of novels, which he wished his friend to write. But as Mr

N——’s pursuits were of a totally different kind, it generally happened

that Holcroft himself, in the end, executed the works which he had

planned for another. Of this kind was his first novel, entitled Alwyn,

or, the Gentleman Comedian, which it was originally intended that Mr N.

should compile from materials to be furnished by Holcroft, but of which

he, in fact, only wrote a few short letters, evidently very much

_against the grain_.

This novel came out in the year 1780, in two small volumes, and was

printed for Fielding and Walker. What terms he procured for it with the

bookseller, I do not know: its success was very moderate; and it was to

his own novel that Mr Holcroft alludes, when he complains, in Hugh

Trevor, that Wilmot’s novel had been characterized in the Monthly

Review, as ‘a vulgar narrative of uninteresting occurrences.’

The most curious part of it is the account which Mr Holcroft has

inserted of some of his own adventures as a strolling actor; for he

himself is not the _Gentleman Comedian_. He has disguised his own name

under that of Hilkirk, and Alwyn is the hero of the piece. The story is

as follows: Alwyn, a young man, who is patronized by a Mr Stamford, in

consequence of the friendship which had subsisted between him and

Alwyn’s father, who had saved his life, falls in love with Maria, the

daughter of his guardian or master. His passion preys upon his health;

and, in order to conceal it from the family, and to try what absence may

do towards effecting a cure, he determines to leave his patron’s house,

and commence comedian. Young Stamford, Maria’s brother, is alone in the

secret, and is the person to whom Alwyn addresses the account of his

subsequent adventures. Mr Hilkirk, on whose story our author has chosen

to ingraft his own, in like manner, falls in love with his master’s

niece, is on this account, and for his frequenting sporting clubs and

billiard rooms, discarded from his service as a clerk, and betakes

himself to the stage. These two romantic youths correspond together, and

endeavour to console one another, by comparing their mutual mishaps,—the

pains of absence, poverty, and hopeless love. Alwyn proceeds to Kendal,

where he is received by the inhabitants with extraordinary marks of

attention; is supposed to be a gentleman in disguise; is envied by the

players; and being invited to the assembly (a distinction never before

allowed to any comedian), dances with a young, rich, lively widow, a

West-Indian, who falls in love with him, and makes him an offer of her

hand and fortune. This the youth politely declines, his affections being

irrevocably engaged to another; and, in consequence of this, the lady

being piqued by his refusal, enters into a plot against him in concert

with one of the players (a veteran in the corps, who was offended that

the part of Romeo, which he had played _for fifty years_, should be

taken from him, and given to Alwyn). His pocket-book is searched; the

name of the lady’s rival is discovered; and a letter is dispatched to

old Stamford, informing him of the liberties which Mr Alwyn is said to

have taken with his daughter’s name, and the equal presumption he had

shewn in paying his addresses to the anonymous writer of the epistle.

This letter, which is believed, gives a death-blow to his hopes. Maria

Stamford, who had secretly returned his passion, is ashamed of her

folly; the father is shocked; and the brother is incensed at the

baseness and ingratitude of his friend. Another lover is now provided

for Alwyn’s mistress, the son of a Mr Maitland, a rattling, thoughtless

young fellow, who is not half sentimental enough for the young lady; and

is accordingly rejected by her. The father of young Maitland is

represented as an odd character, a half-crazy humourist, who, like the

people of Laputa, makes every thing a subject of mathematical

demonstration. He calculates the height and size of meteors, and is made

to follow every _ignis fatuus_ that he sees, through bog and briar. His

graceless son ties a lantern to the house-dog’s tail, and sends his

father on a bootless chase after it: the dog escapes from his keeper,

gets in at the library window with his meteorological apparatus about

him, and sets fire to the house. Maitland-Hall is converted into a heap

of ruins; and what is worse, Mr Maitland’s strong-box, containing nearly

all his property, is lost. Mr Stamford, his son, and daughter, are on a

visit there at the time; and Maria Stamford must have perished in the

flames, but that Alwyn, the ungrateful, the supposed worthless Alwyn,

who had left the Kendal company, and was travelling homeward, happens,

at that instant, to be passing by, and comes in time to rescue his

lovely mistress from the flames. He however remains unknown, and pursues

his journey. Tom Maitland’s fortune being thus dissipated by his frolic,

it becomes a point of honour that Maria should give up her scruples, and

join her hand to his; when this, now almost inevitable event, is put a

stop to by a discovery,—that it was not the dog Pompey that had set fire

to the house, but a gang of thieves, who had committed this flagrant act

in order to carry off old Maitland’s strong box: that they had been

detected, and their prize secured by the vigilance and activity of

Alwyn’s friend, Hilkirk, who now appears to be the son of his former

master, Seldon, and who is rewarded with the hand of his old

sweet-heart, Julia Gowland, for the difficulties he has had to

encounter, and to which he was purposely exposed by his father to enable

him to bear adversity, and make a man of him. At the same time, Alwyn is

recognized by a rich uncle, who adopts him as his heir; the story of the

anonymous letter, and of his pretended treachery, is cleared up, and the

whole ends happily in marriage.

There is in this story neither much probability nor much invention. The

characters, such as they are, are tolerably supported: but some of the

attempts at humour which are inserted, shock all common sense. Such are

the accounts of the school-master, the methodist parson, the

mathematical calculation of the reasons for marrying, etc. These however

were not written by Holcroft, but by his friend. The reason, why men of

real and great abilities do not succeed in different kinds of writing,

is perhaps, less for want of power, than of industry and inclination.

They naturally set the highest value on that department of taste or

genius, to which they have devoted themselves, and they have not respect

enough for any other to take the pains necessary to excel in it. Thus

the philosopher and man of science is apt to think he pays a sufficient

compliment to the efforts of humour or fancy, if he only unbends his

mind to engage in them; that any thing is good enough for a novel, or

poem; and that the absence of wisdom is wit.

The character of Handford, Alwyn’s uncle, is the most amusing and

original in the work: let it speak for itself.

This gentleman had conceived the idea of establishing a humane asylum

for animals, the consequences of which he describes thus: