‘I am pestered, plagued, teazed, tormented to death. I believe all the

cats in Christendom are assembled in Oxfordshire. I am obliged to hire a

clerk to pay the people, and the village where I live, is become a

constant fair. A fellow has set up the sign of the three Blind Kittens,

and has the impudence to tell the neighbours, that if my whims and my

money only hold out for one twelve-month, he shall not care a fig for

the king. I thought to prevent this inundation, by buying up all the old

cats, and secluding them in convents and monasteries of my own: but the

value of the breeders is increased to such a degree, that I do not

believe my whole fortune is capable of the purchase.—Besides, I am made

an ass of. A rascal, who is a known sharper in these parts, hearing of

the aversion I had to cruelty, bought an old, one-eyed horse, that was

going to the dogs, for five shillings. Then taking a hammer in his hand,

watched an opportunity of finding me alone, and addressed me in the

following manner: “Look you, master, I know that you don’t love to see

any dumb creature abused, and so, if you don’t give me ten pounds, why I

shall scoop out this old rip’s odd eye, with the sharp end of this here

hammer, now, before your face.” Aye, and the villain would have done it

too, if I had not instantly complied: but what was worse, the abominable

scoundrel had the audacity to tell me, when I wanted him to deliver the

horse first, for fear he should extort a farther sum from me, that he

had more honour than to break his word. A whelp of a boy had yesterday

caught a young hedgehog, and perceiving me, threw it into the water to

make it extend its legs; then with the rough side of a knotty stick,

sawed upon them till the creature cried like a child; and when I ordered

him to desist, told me he would not, till I had given him six-pence.

There is something worse than all this. The avaricious rascals, when

they can find nothing that they think will excite my pity, disable the

first animal which is not dignified with the title of Christian; and

then bring it to me as an object worthy of commiseration; so that in

fact, instead of protecting, I destroy. The women have entertained a

notion that I hate two-legged animals: and one of them called after me

the other day, to tell me I was an old rogue, and that I had better give

my money to the poor, than keep a parcel of dogs and cats that eat up

the village. I perceive it is in vain to attempt carrying on the scheme

much longer, and then my poor invalids will be worse off than they were

before.’

This account was probably intended by the author as an indirect satire

upon his friend Ritson’s arguments on the inhumanity of eating animal

food.

Mr Holcroft may now be considered as having commenced regular author; or

in other words, he now began to write constantly for the booksellers. He

was employed by them to write a pamphlet, under the name of Wm. Vincent,

Esq. of Gray’s Inn, containing an account of the riots in 1780. For this

purpose he had attended the trials at the Old Bailey, where he was the

means of saving the life of an innocent man, who was brought there as a

prisoner. I have heard Mr Holcroft mention this circumstance, with tears

of pleasure at the recollection. One of his most habitual feelings was a

strong sense of the value of human life; and his having been in more

than one instance an instrument in saving it, was a subject of the most

grateful reflection to him.

A young man was brought to the bar, and tried as one of the rioters. The

witness against him swore, that as he was standing in a shop, where he

had taken refuge, at the bottom of Holborn, he saw the prisoner coming

down Holborn Hill, at the head of a body of rioters, with a drawn sword

in his hand, which he brandished furiously in the air. The witness swore

positively to the facts, and there is little doubt that the prisoner

would have been found guilty, if by great good fortune Mr Holcroft, who

was taking notes of the evidence, had not recollected the prisoner’s

face. He felt himself much agitated while the evidence was giving; and

when it was over, he addressed the judge, and begged that he might be

admitted as an evidence, for that he had something very material to

depose to the prisoner’s innocence. He then declared that he had been

present at the real transaction; that he had been standing at the corner

of one of the streets near the bottom of Holborn, when the rioters

passed; that the prisoner was not one of them, but that some time after

they were gone by, he had seen the prisoner, who was walking quietly

along the street, pick up a sword, which had probably been dropped in

some scuffle by one of the rioters, and carry it away with him. This he

said was the whole of the transaction, and that the circumstances of his

marching at the head of the mob, and brandishing the sword in a

threatening manner, were utterly false. This evidence was so clear and

satisfactory, that the man was acquitted. Loughborough was the judge on

this occasion. Mr Holcroft used to mention another anecdote which

happened at the same time, when the prisoners were tried and convicted

in that wholesale way, and upon such slender evidence, that it was not

easy for them to escape, whether guilty or not. A man with a strong,

stern, sensible countenance, after sentence of condemnation had been

passed upon him, muttered to himself, in a scarcely audible voice, and

evidently without intending to excite any one’s notice; ‘Short and

sweet—innocent by G—d!’

CHAPTER II

Mr Holcroft’s first comedy, called Duplicity, was acted in October,

1781. It had been offered to Mr Harris, and came out at Covent Garden.

The prologue was written by Mr Nicholson. The applause it met with, both

on the first night and afterwards, was very great. Mr Holcroft’s

feelings on this occasion he has expressed in a manner honourable to

himself in a letter to Mr Greville, dated October 18, the day after it

was acted.

‘SIR, I received your very obliging letter last night, just as I was

going to the theatre, and had not time to answer it till to-day. Indeed,

Sir, I do not find myself so much flattered by the very favourable

opinion which, as far as I am able to come at the truth, the town

entertains of me, as I am by your friendship and kindness. It is true I

have had great difficulties to encounter, and the unhappy effects of a

narrow education to surmount: but to be thus distinguished is more than

a compensation for the labour I have taken, and the conflicts I have had

with poverty, obscurity, and their dismal attendants. I am successful—I

am happy—I shall acquire the means of making my father, my family, and

some of my friends happy. These are the purest sources of pleasure, and

which, as I have reason to know, both you and Mrs. Greville most

intimately feel. My greatest danger is the possibility of not supporting

the new character I have undertaken, with that equanimity, moderation,

and ease, which are so essential to real worth. Vanity is continually

spreading the net for pride, and those who are never entrapped, are

either very strong or very cunning. To be successful, I have now only to

be industrious: having escaped the Dog of Hell, the Elysian Fields are

before me, if I have but taste and prudence to select the sweets. But

this egotism is a species of the folly I have been declaiming against.’

Mr Greville, it may be necessary to add here, had perused Mr Holcroft’s

piece before it came out, and had suggested some alterations both in the

plot and language. Several were also made by Mr Holcroft in the course

of the rehearsals, and more by Mr Harris; some of them against the

author’s judgment.

Mr Holcroft now considered his fame as established, and his fortune as

already made. The author of a successful and admired comedy he thought

had a passport which would carry him securely through the world. In

these flattering hopes, he was unhappily deceived.

He also wrote on the same day to his father, in terms which his success

and the warmth of his affection dictated.

‘MY DEAR FATHER, I know that a short letter will be acceptable to you

rather than none, especially on this occasion. My piece is come out at

Covent Garden Theatre under the title of Duplicity. You may perhaps have

heard some account of its reception from the newspapers: its success has

been very flattering, and no circumstance relative to it gives me more

satisfaction than that I shall now be enabled to provide for my dear

father.’

Only three days after the date of the preceding letters, his brilliant

prospects were dissipated, and we find him addressing the following

letter to Mr Harris.

‘SIR, It is with reluctance I begin to write to you on the present

subject: but my feelings are too powerful to be resisted. My labours

have been great; my cares, hopes, and fears innumerable, and just at the

moment when I was to be rewarded, to see my golden dreams vanish, to

have the blessings I had so hardly earned snatched from me, is more than

I can support in silence. It is not now, Sir, vanity in me to say the

comedy is deserving of reward, every body says so, many say much more,

at least to me. Had it been brought out at a good time of the year, I

should not have gained less than five hundred pounds by it. But to be

played at the most barren of all seasons, and when the fineness of the

weather concurs to make it still worse, is certainly a severe fate; and

I appeal to you, Sir, whether it is a misfortune, the whole weight of

which should be borne by a man who has strained every faculty, and

endured every kind of mental torture to give others pleasure. Again,

though I have no doubt but you thought it best, yet it is the opinion of

every body that the playing the piece at intervals, so contrary to the

established mode, has thrown a damp upon it of the most stagnating kind.

There is not a person I meet, who does not ask the reason with a face of

wonder. This you know was not with my judgment, nay, I was exceedingly

vexed when I first saw another play advertised over its head. What added

still more to the surprise of the town, was to hear it given out for

Tuesday, and to see it put off till Wednesday, in order to give place to

an old piece, of which they therefore concluded you had greater

expectations than of the new comedy. They could not know your real

motive. The concluding stroke thus far finishes this melancholy tragedy.

You told me my night should be on the Friday or Saturday; I objected to

the first, and you agreed to the other: but circumstances alter—you

allege the business of the theatre—I am obliged to take the Friday, and

King Arthur, with every force of novelty, dress, decoration, etc. etc.

is opposed to me at a time when there is scarcely one full audience of

play-going people in town. The consequence is, the profits of my first

and best night are twenty pounds. I appeal to you, Sir, whether I have

not a claim to some reparation. I wish you to allow me a certain sum for

my nights; what, I leave to your candour. My hopes are so lowered that

my views now are not very extravagant. If you think I have reason, you

will be kind enough to inform me what you think proper to give; and

then, Sir, you will do with the piece whatever you think fit.’

The next night that the comedy was played for the author’s benefit, it

did not clear the expenses of the house; and Mr Harris then said, that

unless it was commanded by the king, he should not think of playing it

any more; but, at the same time, desired Mr Holcroft to draw on the

theatre for a hundred pounds. This sum, with the price which he got for

it from the booksellers, was all that he cleared by this his first

comedy. It was shortly after published with a very well written preface.

Mr Harris appears to have behaved in a liberal and friendly manner on

this occasion. Mr Holcroft afterwards called on him, and he proposed

that the play should be laid by for a time, till he had a strong

afterpiece to play with it. This set Mr Holcroft’s imagination at work

again, and he conceived the idea of writing a pastoral, and laying the

scene in Ireland, so as to have an opportunity of introducing all the

good Irish music. I do not know whether he ever executed this idea.

After the appearance of Duplicity, Mr Holcroft wrote to Mr Linley to

decline singing in the choruses and oratorios. His salary had been

raised by Mr Sheridan to two pounds a week, but still Mr Holcroft seems

to have been dissatisfied with not being brought forward in considerable

parts; and he entertained thoughts of going to Ireland as an actor,

unless a more respectable class of characters was assigned him at the

theatre. He seems to have thought it inconsistent, not only with his

dignity, but with his interest, as an author, to appear only in the

lowest and most insignificant parts. I ought to have mentioned above,

that when his own play of Duplicity was acted at the other house, Mr

Wewitzer being taken ill, he had played the part of Vandervelt at an

hour’s notice, which he continued to do afterwards. He also tried to

procure an engagement with Mr Colman this year at the Haymarket, but I

believe ineffectually.

A project, which about this time engaged a good deal of Mr Holcroft’s

attention, and excited very sanguine hopes in him, was the pretended

discovery of the polygraphic art. The person who set this plan on foot,

as we have before noticed, was Booth, the manager of one of the

theatrical companies to which Mr Holcroft had belonged. He undertook, by

some mechanical process, to produce copies of the old masters, such as

Titian and Rubens, which, both in colour and execution, should not be

distinguishable from the originals, and which were to be sold as cheap,

or cheaper, than a common coloured print. This certainly was promising

great things, if the performance had been answerable. Mr Holcroft was so

full of this scheme, and of the golden advantages it held out, that

Booth having applied to him to assist him in it, and become a partner in

the profits, he wrote to Mr Greville, informing him of his sudden good

fortune; and indeed offering him a share in so lucrative an undertaking.

Mr Greville, however, seems to have thought the success not so certain;

and it was not long before Mr Holcroft began to incline to his opinion.

In his next letter to this gentleman, he confesses that he entertained

some doubts on the subject, especially since he had heard that the same

scheme had been tried before, and had failed; and farther, that there

were not half a dozen artists in the kingdom, _who could copy the best

pictures well enough to make it an object_. In fact, this last

observation betrayed the real secret: after an imperfect outline, or

rude sketch, had been struck off by a mechanical operation, any bungling

artist, who could be found to do it cheap enough, was employed to finish

the picture. So that, after all, this new mode of superseding the

necessity of copying the old masters, was nothing more than an attempt

to set up a cheap wholesale manufactory of bad copies of good

pictures.—Mr Holcroft, however, though his ardour very soon cooled, was

willing to wait till he had seen the specimens which Mr Booth was busy

in making of some famous picture, but which he was very backward in

producing. The subsequent fate of this polygraphic scheme is well known

to the public. To excuse Mr Holcroft’s credulity on this occasion, it

may be remarked, that it was long before he had paid any particular

attention to the subject of painting; that he was really and truly a

novice in the art; and, probably, would not have been much struck

himself with the difference between one of these polygraphic imitations

and a real Titian or Rubens.

CHAPTER III

In the years 1781 and 1782, Mr Holcroft published a poem called the

Sceptic, and the Family Picture,[5] a collection of tales, partly

compiled, and partly original. Neither of these works seems to have held

a very high place in his estimation. Of the former he says, in a letter

to a friend, that it was written in haste; that he believes it ought to

have been treated according to Horace’s maxim, ‘Prematur nonum in

annum’; and that though he was pleased with some parts in the writing,

he is afraid he should not be so in the reading of them. Of the _Tales_

he says, that he did not expect to increase his reputation by them,

though he hoped he should not lessen it.

About this time an offer was made him by Mr Greville to reside in his

house, which he had the good sense respectfully to decline. He observed,

that it was difficult for people with the best tempers and intentions,

and who are upon a perfect equality, to live together, without

harbouring little disgusts, or fancying supposed neglects; and that with

respect to himself, he was conscious of whims and peculiarities which it

was his duty to keep behind the curtain as much as possible. His sole

reason, therefore, for declining Mr Greville’s offer, he declared, was

the fear of declining in his good opinion by accepting it.

His mind now teemed with dramatic projects, plots, characters, and

incidents. His ambition was to write elegant comedy; and he was sensible

of the disadvantages under which he laboured in this respect, both from

education, and the sphere of life in which he had hitherto chiefly

moved. He wished to get a nearer and more intimate view of the manners

of high life, that he might be able to describe its refinements, or

ridicule its absurdities, with more effect. He also wished, for the same

reason, to acquaint himself, by actual observation, with foreign

manners. Both these ends would be answered by obtaining admission into

the Ambassador’s suite, which was then (1783) setting off for Paris; and

he made application to several persons of consequence for this purpose,

but without obtaining his immediate object. He however so far succeeded

as to obtain some respectable introductions abroad.

Lord Carmarthen was at first talked of as Ambassador; and Mr Holcroft,

by the interest of Mrs. Harcourt and Mrs. Greville, had an interview

with his lordship; in which he was informed, that another person had

been fixed upon to go to Paris. This was the Duke of Manchester; and he

now applied to the Duchess of Devonshire, I believe through Mrs.

Siddons, for a recommendation to the Duke to go out with him as

under-secretary, or in any other situation, in which he might be of

service as a literary man. He stated that a salary was not his object,

and that his only motive was to gain some little knowledge of the

manners of a court, and of foreign countries. The only advantage he

reaped from this application was, that he obtained the honour of some

commissions to execute for her Grace at Paris, and the notice of one or

two persons of consequence while he was there.[6]

Mr Holcroft being still determined on a visit to the continent, procured

an engagement with the editor of a newspaper, the Morning Herald, to

send over paragraphs, relating to the events of the day, public

amusements, fashions, etc. for which he was to have a guinea and a half

a week; and a similar engagement with a printer, Mr John Rivington, to

furnish him with notices of new works, translations, etc. It was so

arranged, that his salary from the newspaper office should be received

by Mrs. Holcroft in his absence, for the immediate use of the family,

and Rivington was to supply him with money for his expenses at Paris.

Mr Holcroft’s family consisted, at this time, of his wife and four

children, only one of whom, Fanny, was by his present wife. Ann, the

eldest, was by his first wife, and Sophy and William were by his second

wife, whom he lost just before he left the country.

The two children, after her death, were for some time under the care of

their uncle and aunt, Mr and Mrs. Tipler, at Nottingham. When Mr

Holcroft became settled in Southampton Buildings, they were sent for up

to town. The boy William was his greatest favourite: he was now (1783)

between nine and ten years old; he was a very forward and intelligent

child, could speak French with tolerable fluency, and his father, in

order to perfect him in the language, determined to take him with him,

and afterwards to leave him at a boarding-school in France.

Matters being thus arranged, Mr Holcroft set out for Paris in the

beginning of April, 1783, which place he reached a few days after. The

first appearance of this capital does not seem to have answered his

expectations. He complained of the narrowness and dirtiness of the

streets, of the meanness of the shops, and of the unfinished state of

the principal public buildings. His chief attention, however, was

directed to the discovery of new publications, of several of which he

proposed translations to Rivington, most of which he afterwards executed

for another bookseller. Among these were the Tales of the Castle, by

Madam Genlis, Caroline of Litchfield, The Amours of Peter the Long,

Memoirs of De Tott, Savary’s Travels in Egypt, An Account of the Manners

and Treatment of Animals, by D’Obsonville, etc. This last publication he

recommends as a curious work in a letter to Mr Greville; and observes,

that from the account there given, it is evident that the Newmarket

jockeys had learned the first principles of their art from the Arabs.

His translation of the Tales of the Castle went through several

editions, and introduced Mr Holcroft to a correspondence, and afterwards

to a personal acquaintance with the authoress. Most, if not all of these

translations, were done for the Robinsons.

Mr Holcroft made several friends at Paris, the chief of whom were

Mercier, and a Mr Bonneville, (the translator of the Theatre Allemand)

of whom he had a high opinion; but Bonneville afterwards came to

England, and they quarrelled. Of Mercier, the celebrated author of the

Dramas, and _The Year 2500_, there will be occasion to speak hereafter.

Either through these friends, or through the letters he brought with

him, he was introduced to several persons of rank and literary

pretension. Among them were the Duke and Duchess of Chartres, the Count

de Catuelan, the Chevalier Macdonald, the Marquis de Dampiere, and

others. He was desired by the Duke and Duchess of Chartres to read some

scenes of Shakspeare to themselves and friends, with which he says they

seemed more than satisfied. He appears afterwards to have entered into

some discussion with the Count de Catuelan with respect to the

comparative merits of Shakspeare and the French poets; for on the 24th

of June, he addressed a short note to the Count, with a poem enclosed,

on this subject. I shall here insert both, as well to shew the zeal with

which Mr Holcroft defended his great countryman while abroad, as for the

sake of the manner in which it is done.

‘SIR, The conversation we had on Sunday morning concerning Rousseau,

Voltaire, Shakspeare, etc. started an idea as I was returning home,

which I immediately put into the form you see. I would not have you

suppose, Sir, I mean to depreciate the talents of Voltaire; that is far

from my intention; I would only vindicate the poet who of all others

within my sphere of knowledge, and as far as my judgment extends, is

infinitely the greatest. I should have sent you the verses before,

because I know your reverence for my favourite bard,[7] but that I kept

them to see if after sleeping two or three nights I still thought them

fit to be read. I am yet in doubt; for any thing middling on such a

subject is contemptible. However, I have not yet shewn them to any

person, except you, Sir, and Mr Bonneville, at whose lodgings they were

written.

‘Clad in the wealthy robes his genius wrought,

In happy dreams was gentle Shakspeare laid;

His pleas’d soul wand’ring through the realms of thought,

While all his elves and fairies round him play’d.

‘Voltaire approach’d—strait fled the quaint-eyed band,

For Envy’s breath such sprites may not endure:

He pilfer’d many a gem with trembling hand;

Then stabb’d the bard to make the theft secure.

‘Ungrateful man! Vain was thy black design:

Th’ attempt and not the deed thy hand defiled.

Preserv’d by his own charms and spells divine,

Safely the gentle Shakspeare slept and smiled.’

The conception of this little allegorical fiction, is certainly a very

happy one, and the execution is no less spirited and elegant. With

respect however to the enthusiasm with which Englishmen generally

endeavour to persuade foreigners of the superlative excellence of our

great dramatist, unless where it is taken up in self-defence, it is

undoubtedly a species of quixotism, and of the most hopeless kind.

The remittances which Mr Holcroft was to receive from his employer, were

not so regular as he had expected. Indeed there seems to have been some

unaccountable neglect on the part of Rivington,[8] and Mr Holcroft would

have been reduced to very great distress, had it not been for the

generous assistance afforded him by his friend Bonneville, who was

himself in no very affluent circumstances. He was at last wearied out

with the state of suspense and dependence in which he was kept, and in

October he took the resolution of again returning to England. He however

left his son behind him at a school, in or near Paris.

Before Mr Holcroft went from England, he had left an opera, called the

Noble Peasant, in the hands of Mr Colman, then manager of the Haymarket

theatre. This had been accepted; and such was Mr Colman’s opinion of it,

that on his return, he advanced Mr Holcroft a hundred pounds, in the

expectation of its future success. This piece was acted the ensuing

season, (in 1784). The evening it was acted, Mr Holcroft had placed

himself behind the scenes, as authors generally do, to watch the

progress of the piece, or be of occasional assistance. At the end

however of the first act, the effect produced on the audience seemed so

discouraging, and disapprobation began to manifest itself so strongly,

that Mr Holcroft could no longer stand it. He left the theatre, quite

hopeless of success, and went and walked for an hour in St. James’s

Park. He had by this time so far mastered the agitation of his spirits,

that he returned to the Haymarket, tolerably resigned to his fate. He

got in just at the conclusion of the third act, and was most agreeably

surprised, when he heard the house resounding with applause, and saw

himself surrounded by the actors and others, who came to congratulate

him on the complete success of the piece.—It however only ran eleven

nights. It was then stopped by Mr Colman, in consequence of a

disagreement with the author, whom he had without reason suspected of

writing some paragraphs in the Morning Herald against The Connoisseurs.

Mr Holcroft soon after vindicated himself so fully from this charge,

that Mr Colman was satisfied.[9]

The success of this opera was not certainly equal to its merits, which

are considerable. It seems to have given rise to a succession of plays

of the same kind, the scene of which is laid in the ages of chivalry,

and which represent the costume, characters, and manners of remote

times. Such particularly have been the Battle of Hexham, The

Mountaineers, The Venetian Outlaw, etc. This opera is in fact a romance

dramatised.—A young peasant joins some outlaws, who are no other than

the famous archers, Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and Will Cloudesley;

and soon after, has an opportunity together with them, to defeat a band

of Danes, who were proceeding to attack the castle of Earl Walter, which

lies in the neighbourhood of Sherwood. The cause of this quarrel is,

that Anlaff the Dane had demanded Edwitha, the daughter of Earl Walter,

in marriage, and had been refused. On this he determines to enforce his

claim, and in the battle which ensues, Earl Walter’s men under his son

Harold are nearly vanquished, when they are unexpectedly joined by the

outlaws and Leonard, the noble peasant, who slays Alric, the brother of

the Danish chief. This youth who in addition to his warlike

achievements, is represented with all the grace and amiableness of an

Arcadian swain, is the first who by chance communicates the news of the

victory to Edwitha, and her cousin Adela, who had wandered to a little

distance from the castle. Edwitha is immediately smitten with the manly

appearance, and modest demeanour of Leonard, the peasant, and is rallied

a good deal on the subject, by her witty and merciless cousin, who puts

the reader somewhat in mind of the character of Beatrice. Adam Bell, and

his renowned compeers, in consequence of their service in the battle,

conceive a plan for being reconciled to Earl Walter; and for this

purpose, Adam Bell goes to the castle in the disguise of a Friar, to

watch for some favourable opportunity of obtaining a pardon. Harold and

his followers return, and one of these, Earl Egbert, a ridiculous,

cowardly braggart, pretends to have slain Anlaff, whose sword and armour

he has carried in a pompous manner before him by his Dwarf. This story

is contradicted by the pretended friar, who says that he had shrieved a

young peasant an hour before, who confessed that he had slain the Danish

warrior. However, on the strength of the boasted service he had done,

Earl Egbert lays claim to Earl Walter’s daughter; and his pretensions

are admitted by the father, in opposition to the most earnest

remonstrances of the young lady. The valiant Earl accordingly remains at

the castle, to court his froward mistress, while Harold, with his chosen

friends, sets out to hunt for a few days on Cheviot Hills. The Danes

hearing of his absence, and in revenge for the death of Alric, once more

attack the castle, through which the greatest terror prevails, and

particularly in the breast of Egbert; when Adam Bell takes the

opportunity to discover himself to Earl Walter, and on obtaining promise

of pardon, winds his bugle-horn, and is immediately joined by his

friends who had watched without the castle, and among the rest by

Leonard. A challenge is now sent from Anlaff, to the conqueror of his

brother, to meet him in single combat, on the conditions, that if

defeated, his followers are immediately to withdraw from the castle, but

that if victorious, he is to bear off Edwitha as his prize. This message

startles Earl Egbert, and he is going to disclaim his share in the death

of Alric; when Leonard persuades him to accept the challenge, by

offering to exchange armour privately with him, and meet the haughty

Dane in his stead. They fight, and victory declares in favor of Leonard.

Just before the battle, a letter conveyed by an arrow, had fallen at the

feet of Edwitha, conjuring her to pray for the success of Leonard the

peasant, which had occasioned some surprise. The riddle is now

explained, and Leonard, the conqueror of Anlaff and Alric, and the

preserver of her house, lays claim to the hand of Edwitha, as his

reward. To this there are insuperable obstacles in the meanness of his

origin; but this difficulty is soon removed by a discovery, that though

disguised as a peasant, he is the son of a noble warrior. Harold

returns, the marriage is celebrated, the outlaws are pardoned, and

nothing but happiness reigns through the castle of Earl Walter.

The story of this little piece is interesting, and natural, as far as a

romantic story can be so. The dialogue is well supported throughout,

particularly in the comic parts; and though there are frequent

imitations of Shakespeare, both in the incidents, characters, and

speeches, yet they are very happily executed, with much wit and fancy;

which shew that the author had imbibed the spirit of the poet, in whose

steps he treads. The songs, both the serious and humorous ones, have

great merit; and were most of them set by Shield, to whom Mr Holcroft,

in his preface to the opera, pays a very high and deserved compliment. I

should add here, for the sake of those who take an interest in dramatic

retrospections, that Parsons played Earl Egbert, and that the part of

the Fool was performed by Edwin.

Mr Holcroft’s next piece came out at Covent Garden, and was called The

Choleric Fathers. This opera is inferior to the last. The scene is

supposed to be in Spain, and the business of the play turns upon the

testy disposition of two fathers, who suddenly break off a match between

their children, just as they are going to sign the marriage-settlement.

The merit of the piece consists chiefly in the easy impudence and

vivacity of a valet, who forms a number of schemes, and acts different

characters, to out-wit the old gentlemen, and bring about a

reconciliation. The plot is formed after the manner of the Spanish

school, full of intrigue and difficulties: these are at last overcome

with a good deal of ingenuity; and the denouement is both natural and

unexpected.

Mr Holcroft had for some time been concerned in the Wit’s Magazine, for

which he wrote a number of amusing articles: but he now declined his

share in it, seeming determined to bend his mind wholly to works of

greater moment.

CHAPTER IV

In 1784, the marriage of Figaro, (_Mariage de Figaro_) by Beaumarchais,

came out at Paris, where it was acted with astonishing success. Mr

Holcroft no sooner received notice of this piece, than he formed the

instant resolution of going over to France to procure a copy of it, in

order to translate and adapt it to the English stage.

He arrived in Paris the latter end of September, 1784, and proceeded to

the lodgings of his friend Bonneville, to whom he immediately

communicated the object of his journey. They both set about the

accomplishment of it directly, but they found it attended with greater

difficulty than they had expected. The comedy had not been printed:

therefore their first plan was to procure a manuscript copy, either at

the theatre, or through some friend of the author. This attempt however

they found fruitless, from the jealousy with which the managers of the

French theatre prevented any copies from getting abroad. The only

resource now remaining was to commit it to memory. And for this purpose,

both Holcroft and his friend went to the theatre every night for a week

or ten days successively, till they brought away the whole with perfect

exactness. At night when they got home, each of them set down as much as

he could recollect of a scene, and they then compared notes; if any

difficulty occurred, it was determined the following evening. Another

scene was brought away from the next representation in like manner, and

the entire play was at length transcribed. It was necessary to proceed

in this deliberate and cautious manner, as if they had attempted to take

notes, or had continued to do so more than once, their design would

probably have been suspected, and defeated by the interference of the

police.

Mr Holcroft was not, it seems, quite confident of his success, till he

had his manuscript safely deposited in his portmanteau, with which he

immediately set out on his return home. No time was lost, and the

acquisition Mr Holcroft had made was the day after his arrival

communicated to Mr Harris, through the Robinsons. A meeting was

appointed, and it was agreed that Figaro should, with all possible

expedition, make his appearance in an English dress. The necessary

metamorphosis was completed in a few weeks, and Figaro was acted at

Covent Garden Theatre, under the title of the Follies of a Day, a little

before the Christmas holidays. The reception of the new piece was equal

to the sanguine expectations Mr Holcroft had formed, and the pains he

had taken to bring it forward. It continued to be acted without

intermission for a considerable length of time, and is still one of our

most popular entertainments. It is needless here to give any account, or

to speak of the merits of a piece so well known to the public, and for

which we are indebted more to Mr Holcroft’s industry and enterprise,

than to his genius as an author. It would be unjust, however, to

suppose, that it is a mere literal translation. Many alterations were

necessary to adapt it exactly to the taste of an English audience, and

these were executed with much skill and felicity. Of all the pieces

brought out by the author, this and the Road to Ruin have been the most

successful. He received six hundred pounds for it at the theatre,

besides a considerable sum for the copy-right, which was bought in at

the time.

Mr Holcroft himself played the part of Figaro the first night, in the

absence of Mr Bonner, for whom it was designed, and who afterwards took

it. Mr Holcroft had before this given up his engagement at Drury Lane,

but at what precise period I cannot tell.

The music of the only song in this piece, ‘Ah! well-a-day, my poor

heart,’ was by Shield. It became a great favourite; and Longman, coming

to treat for the purchase of the music with Shield, who hesitated what

price to ask, the other, half laughing, made him an offer of three and

twenty dozen of wine for it; which terms were readily acceded to by

Shield, it being more than he had at that time ever received for a song.

Mr Holcroft took the first opportunity of acquainting his friend

Bonneville with the success of the undertaking in which he had been of

such service to him. His letter is dated Dec. 28, 1784.

‘Dear Bonneville, I am sure you will pardon my apparent neglect, when

you remember how exceedingly hard I have been obliged to labour since my

arrival in England. Figaro has made his appearance, and is likely to be

as great a favourite in London as in Paris. I wish most sincerely you

were here to be a witness of his good fortune. I enclose a letter of

exchange for 480 livres, on Girard and Co. bankers, Paris. The many

obligations I have to your friendship, the pleasure I take in your

company, and the fears I entertain lest your very virtues should lead

you into irretrievable difficulties, make me earnestly desire to see you

in England. Fortune seems at present disposed to smile upon my efforts;

I only wish you were with me to participate her favours. I am sure you

would be happy. Why will you not come? Billy has written to you, as you

will see; you know he loves you, he has reason to do so; and though a

child, I hope he will not forget his obligation.[10] Pray do not fail to

tell M. and Madame Mercier, that though I do not write, I remember them

as they would wish to be remembered, that is, I remember their virtue

and their friendship, and shall do while I live.’

Mr Holcroft had about this time considerable intimacy with several

French literary characters; among others, with M. Berquin, the author of

“The Children’s Friend,” who came over here to inspect the translation

of his own work into English; and a Mr Floscel, an unfortunate but

worthy man, whose works he recommended to the public in a circular

proposal. Mr Floscel came over to England to procure some subscriptions

to a considerable literary undertaking, but was attacked by a disorder

which proved fatal to him soon after his arrival.

It may be proper to add here, that Mr Holcroft had offered the marriage

of Figaro to Drury Lane theatre, before he left England; but he had

clogged this proposal with other conditions, which probably prevented

its acceptance. This appears from a letter either to Mr Sheridan or Mr

Linley, which may be worth insertion; both as it contains the first

hints of a project of dramatic authorship, which has, I believe, been

since acted upon at the other house, and as it is characteristic of Mr

Holcroft’s unwearied industry in his different undertakings, and of the

sanguine temper with which he encouraged the most distant prospects of

success. It is necessary to observe in explanation of one part of the

letter, that he had while in Paris (in 1783), written a tragedy, the

heroine of which he very anxiously wished to see personated by Mrs.

Siddons, who was now in the height of her reputation.

‘SIR, Not having been able to see you on the subject of the tragedy

(Ellen, or the Fatal Cave) and being at present obliged to make a

journey to Paris, I take the liberty of submitting the following

proposals to your consideration. Besides the tragedy already presented,

I have a comedy begun, which will be ready in a month after my return;

that is, I will engage to give it in complete, some time in November.

‘My proposals then, Sir, are, instead of author’s rights, to receive a

salary, and that a very moderate one; for which, exclusive of the

tragedy and comedy already mentioned, I will engage to write any

recitatives, songs, or choruses, which may be wanted for pantomimes, or

other temporary occasions in the theatre. The terms I require are ten

pounds per week, under the following provisos. If either the tragedy or

comedy are condemned by the public, I will furnish an afterpiece; should

two out of the three miscarry, my salary shall be reduced to seven

pounds per week; and should all three be unfortunate, to five; and to be

in the receipt of only five pounds per week till one has succeeded, the

arrears to be then paid. By this proposal Mrs. Siddons’s nights will not

be encroached upon. I, as an author, shall have the interest of the

house at heart, and shall neglect no opportunity of promoting that

interest:—the terms are so moderate, the probabilities I presume are

greatly that the proprietors should gain, not lose. My own reputation

will make me exert myself to the utmost; and with respect to my

fulfilling the conditions proposed, I will enter into any forfeiture,

not exceeding the receipt of my whole salary, to fulfil them literally.

Indeed, whatever my talents may be, my industry and facility will not be

disputed. I set off for France to-morrow morning, where, Sir, there is

at present a most popular piece, ‘The Marriage of Figaro,’ which I shall

endeavour to procure; it will be to the advantage of the theatre to get

first what I know is thought an object, and which, if these terms are

agreeable to you, Sir, and the proprietors, I shall then be more earnest

and expeditious, concerning. I must, however, add, I am by no means

certain of obtaining it; on the contrary, I understand it will be

attended with great difficulties. I must intreat, Sir, that this

proposal remain totally a secret, if not acceded to; otherwise it might

injure me: and the fear lest it might by accident become known, was the

only motive that prevented me from making it sooner. Should this meet

your approbation, you will greatly oblige me to signify as much as soon

as possible, by sending a line directed to me at Paris.’

CHAPTER V

The Comedy of Seduction appeared in the year 1787, and was received with

very great applause. Some few hints for this play were taken from _Les

Liaisons Dangereux_; but it was chiefly original, and possessed great

merit. In 1789, appeared the translation of the King of Prussia’s works,

in twelve or thirteen volumes, and also the translation of the Essays of

Lavater. For the former of these, Mr Holcroft received 1200l. from

Robinsons, the booksellers. He had worked almost night and day to get it

out soon, and to prevent the possibility of anticipation. He had, I

believe, very early, and before the publication of the original work,

procured a copy through the interest of the Prussian Ambassador. He

complains, in one of his letters about this time, of the difficulty he

had in translating the poetry of the great Frederic, for whom our

author, though he translated his works, seems to have had no great

predilection.[11] His translation of Lavater’s smaller work has

certainly been the means of making the English public acquainted with

the system of that ingenious and lively writer; but it was criticised

with unusual severity by the authors of the Analytical Review, and this

led to some disagreeable altercation between Mr Holcroft and the

Reviewers.

In 1790, the German Hotel appeared at Covent Garden, a play which is

little more than a translation from the German of Brandes. The plot is

very neat and lively, and sometimes interesting: but there is very

little besides plot and incident in the piece. Baron Thorck seems the

counterpart of Squire Thornhill, in the Vicar of Wakefield. The most

striking circumstance in this drama is the perfect preservation of the

unities of time and place. In the present instance, this peculiarity

adds to the natural effect of the scene by riveting the imagination to

one spot, and thus giving a sort of reality to it, and by making the

incidents follow one another in such quick succession, that the mind has

no time to question their probability. The events are some of them the

most improbable that can be supposed; yet such is the mechanical

construction of the plot, that they seem inseparably interwoven with

each other, and as if they could not happen otherwise. The whole play is

like a scene really passing in a hall of a large Hotel, in the course of

a few hours.

Mr Holcroft brought out the Comedy of The School for Arrogance, in the

beginning of 1791. In consequence of some disagreement between Mr

Holcroft and Mr Harris respecting former pieces, it was imagined it

would not be very graciously received if the author were known; and a

friend undertook for a time _to father_ the piece. After the comedy had

been twice performed, the author wrote the following letter to the

manager of the theatre. It is published in the preface.

‘SIR, I have patiently waited the proper moment in which to write to

you. That moment I hope is now come. I should be guilty of injustice,

were I any longer to delay expressing my sense of the propriety with

which you have acted relative to the School for Arrogance, after you had

every reason to suppose it mine. Such conduct, Sir, is highly

honourable; and is not only productive of the best effects, but must

secure the best and most permanent applause. That you had conceived

disadvantageous ideas of me, I knew; though I have no doubt, but I shall

ultimately convince you, that, even supposing me to be mistaken, my

motives have been laudable. With me you were irritated; but you had the

justice to forget the man, and promote the interests of the piece. This

I hold it my duty to say to the world at large. I am, Sir, etc.’

The School for Arrogance is, in its plan, founded on _Le Glorieux_ of

Destouches, but it is for the most part original. It is Mr Holcroft’s

best play, with the exception of the Road to Ruin, and, perhaps, even

this exception is doubtful. The last of these pieces is, no doubt, much

more adapted for stage-effect; but I question whether the former would

not be perused oftener, and with greater delight, in the closet. It is

less eventful, less interesting, less showy and dazzling; but it has

beauties more refined in the conception, and difficult in the execution.

Such is the whole of the character of Count Conolly Villars, which is

managed throughout with the nicest art. His pride of birth; the conflict

between the feelings of love, and a sense of the honour of his family;

and the rapid and delicate alternations of passion, arising from a

constant fear of degrading himself, either by resisting or indulging the

familiarity of others, are described without the violation of truth,

perhaps, in a single instance. On the other hand, the contrast between

the pride of wealth and that of ancestry, which the character of Lady

Peckham gives the author an opportunity to display, has an effect

equally forcible, whether we regard the immediate impression on the

audience, or the moral lesson it conveys. The other characters are

comparatively insignificant, though necessary and well supported. To

expose the weaknesses of pride, as it is founded on the prejudice either

of wealth or ancestry, may be said to form the whole business of the

piece. This, however, is not done by pompous, laboured declamation, or

satirical epigrams; but by shewing the effects of these prejudices on

real characters and in natural situations. As this play is less known

than some of Mr Holcroft’s other plays, we shall select the following

scene for the entertainment of the reader.

‘_Enter_ COUNT, _bowing_.

_Lady Peckham._ So, Sir! They tells me, Sir, that you and my foolish

husband are colloguing together, for to marry my daughter! Is this troo,

Sir?

_Count._ (_with his usual polite haughtiness_) If it were, Ma’am?

_Lady P._ Do you know who Miss Loocy Peckham is, Sir?

_Count._ Not very well, Ma’am.

_Lady P._ Sir?

_Count._ Except that she is your daughter.

_Lady P._ And do you know who I am, Sir?

_Count._ I have been told, Ma’am.

_Lady P._ Told, Sir! Told! Vhat have you been told? Vhat have you been

told, Sir?

_Count._ That your ladyship was an honest wax-chandler’s daughter.

_Lady P._ Yes, Sir! The debbidy of his vard, Sir! A common councilman,

and city sword-bearer! Had an Aldermand’s gownd von year, vus chosen

sheriff the next, and died a lord-mayor elect!

_Count._ With all his honours blooming on his brow!

_Lady P._ And do you know, Sir, that I designs, Sir Samooel Sheepy, Sir,

an English knight and barrow knight, for the spouse of my daughter! A

gentleman, that is a gentleman! A person of honour and purtensions, and

not a Papish Jesubite!

_Count._ Of his honours and pretensions I have yet to be informed,

Madam.

_Lady P._ Vhat, Sir! do you mean for to say, Sir, or to insinivate, Sir,

that Sir Samooel Sheepy is not your betters?

_Count._ If Sir Samuel himself, Madam, had put such a question to me, I

would have replied with my sword, or more properly, with my cane.

_Lady P._ Wery vell, Sir! I’ll let Sir Samooel know that you threatens

to cane him; I’ll take care to report you! Cane quotha! He shall talk to

you.

_Count._ Let him, Madam.

_Lady P._ Madam! Madam! At every vord—Pray, Sir, do you know that Sir

Paul Peckham has had the honour to be knighted by the king’s own hand?

_Count._ I have heard as much, Madam.

_Lady P._ Madam, indeed!—And for you for to think for to look up to my

daughter!

_Count._ Up, Madam!

_Lady P._ Yes, Sir—up, Sir!—Pray, Sir, vhat are your purtensions?

_Count._ (_with great agitation_) Madam!

_Lady P._ Who are you, Sir? Vhere do you come from? Who knows you? Vhat

parish do you belong to?

_Count._ Madam, I am of a family known to history, known to Europe,

known to the whole universe!

_Lady P._ Ah! I believes you are better known than trusted.

_Count._ The names of Conolly and Villars, Madam, never before were so

degraded as they have been in my person.

_Lady P._ Oh! I makes no doubt but you are a person that vould degurade

any name!

_Count._ Insult like what I have received from you, Madam, no man should

utter and escape death—But you are—

_Lady P._ Vhat, Sir? Vhat am I, Sir?

_Count._ A woman.

_Lady P._ A voman, indeed! Sir, I vould have you to know as how I am a

lady! A lady, Sir, of his Majesty’s own making! And moreover, Sir, don’t

you go for to flatter yourself that I shall bestow the hand and fortin

of Miss Loocy Peckham upon any needy outlandish Count somebody nobody!

My daughter, Sir, is for your betters!

_Count._ Madam, though scurril—[_Recollecting himself_] I say, Madam,

though such vul—, such accusations are beneath all answer, yet I must

tell you that by marrying your daughter, if after this I should sink

myself so low—I say, by marrying your daughter, Madam, I should confer

an honour on your family, as much superior to its expectations, as the

splendour of the glorious sun is to the twinkling of the worthless

glow-worm!

_Lady P._ Vhat! Vhat! [_Enter Edmund, son of Lady Peckham._] Marry come

up! An Irish French foriner! Not so good as von of our parish _porpers_!

And you! You purtend to compare yourself to the united houses of the

Peckhams and the Pringles! Your family indeed! Yourn! Vhere’s your

settlement? Yourn! Vus’nt my great uncle, Mr Peter Pringle, the

cheese-monger of Cateaton-street, a major in the Train Bands before you

vus born, or thought of?

_Edmund_ [_Aside._] So, so! I’m too late! [_Aloud_] Let me intreat your

ladyship—

_Lady P._ Vhat! Hasn’t I an ownd sister at this day married to Mr

Poladore Spraggs, the tip-toppest hot-presser in all Crutched Friars!

Isn’t my maiden aunt, Miss Angelica Pringle, vorth thirty thousand

pounds, in the South Sea funds, every morning she rises! And doesn’t I

myself get up and go to bed, the greatest lady in this here city! And

for to purtend for to talk to me of his family! His’n.

_Edmund._ The Count, Madam, is a man of the first distinction in his

native country!

_Lady P._ Vhat country is that, Sir? Who ever heard of any country but

England? A Count among beggars! How much is his Countship worth?

_Count._ I had determined to be silent, Madam, but I find it impossible!

[_With vehement volubility_] And I must inform you, my family is as

ancient, as exalted, and as renowned, as you have proved yours to

be—what I shall not repeat! That I am the heir to more rich acres than I

believe your Ladyship ever rode over! That my father’s vassals are more

numerous than your Ladyship’s vaunted guineas! That the magnificence in

which he has lived, looked with contempt on the petty, paltry strainings

of a trader’s pride! And that in his hall are daily fed—[_Stops short,

and betrays a consciousness of inadvertent falsehood, but suddenly

continues with increasing vehemence_] Yes, Madam, are daily fed; now, at

this moment, Madam, more faithful adherents, with their menials and

followers, than all your boasted wealth could for a single year supply!

_Edmund._ _Are?_ At this moment, say you, Count?

_Count._ Sir, I—I have said.

_Edmund._ I know you to be a man of honour, and that you cannot say what

is not.

_Count._ I—I—I have said, Sir! [_Walking with great perturbation._]

_Lady P._ You have said more in a minute than you can prove in a year!

_Edmund._ I will pledge my word for the Count’s veracity.

_Count._ [_Aside_] What have I done! [_With agony_] A lie!

_Lady P._ As for you, Sir, I doesn’t believe von vord you say! I knows

the tricks of such sham chevaliers as you, too vell!

_Count._ [_Walking away from her_] Torture!

_Lady P._ But I ‘ll take care to have you prognosticated.

_Count._ [_Aside_] I can support it no longer. [_Going._]

_Edmund._ [_Catching him by the hand_] My dear Count——

_Count._ Sir, I am a dishonoured villain

[_Exit._

_Lady P._ There! There! he tells you himself he is a willin? his

conscience flies in his face, and he owns it!

_Edmund._ [_With great ardour and feeling_] Madam, he is a noble-hearted

gentleman! His agonizing mind deems it villainy to suffer insults so

gross.

[_Exit._

_Re-enter the_ COUNT, _deep in thought, and much agitated._

_Lady P._ [_Seeing him_] Marry my daughter, indeed!—Faugh!

[_Exit Lady Peckham._

_Count._ Into what has my impetuous anger hurried me?—Guilty of

falsehood! I? To recede is impossible! What! Stand detected before this

city Madam!—whose tongue, itching with the very scrophula of pride,

would iterate liar in my ear! No! Falsehood itself is not so foul.’—ACT

III.

This is truth and nature. If it should be thought that the description

of Lady Peckham borders too much on caricature, it should be remembered

that grossness is the essence of the character, and it serves to set off

more forcibly the refinement of the Count. If, however, it should be

insisted that the scene which has been transcribed is a union of farce

and sentimental comedy, still it is farce worthy of Foote, and the

serious part is worthy of any one.

The sentiments which are inculcated in the scene which precedes the one

just quoted, are such as have never been embodied with the prejudices of

any class of men, because it must be confessed they are much more

adapted to convince the reason than to flatter the passions or the

imagination! Lucy Peckham is a female philosopher, and lectures the

Count on his pretensions, in a manner scarcely less grating to his

feelings, than the personalities of her mother. The Count says, ‘Mankind

have agreed, Madam, to honour the descendants of the wise and the

brave.’ To this his mistress replies, ‘They have so,—But you have,

doubtless, too much native merit to arrogate to yourself the worth of

others! You are no jay, decked in the peacock’s feathers! You are not

idiot enough to imagine that a skin of parchment, on which are

emblazoned the arms and the acts of one wise man, with a long list of

succeeding fools, is any honour to you! Responsible to mankind for the

use and the abuse of such talents as you feel yourself endowed with, you

ought to think only how you may deserve greatly; and disdain to be that

secondary thing, that insignificant cypher, which is worthless, except

from situation!’

Whatever may be thought of the political tendency of this speech, the

morality of it is unquestionable; and though it may not be practicable

for society at large to act upon the standard here proposed, yet surely

every individual would do well to apply it to his own conduct, and to

the value which he sets upon himself in his own private esteem. However

necessary it may be that the vulgar should respect rank for its own

sake, it is desirable that the great themselves should respect virtue

more, and endeavour to make the theory, on which nobility is founded,

correspond with the practice—private worth with public esteem. The

sentiments of this kind, which Mr Holcroft has interspersed through his

different works, may therefore remain as useful moral lessons: their

noxious political qualities, if ever they had such, have long since

evaporated; though I shall take an opportunity to shew that Mr

Holcroft’s politics were never any thing more than an enlarged system of

morality, growing out of just sentiments, and general improvement.

The School for Arrogance is the first of the author’s pieces, in which

there appeared a marked tendency to political or philosophical

speculation. Sentiments of this kind, however, and at that time, would

rather have increased than diminished the popularity of any piece. A

proof of this is, that the very epilogue (which is seldom designed to

give offence), glances that way.

‘Such is the modern man of high-flown fashion!

Such are the scions sprung from Runny-Mead!

The richest soil, that bears the rankest weed!

Potatoe-like, the sprouts are worthless found;

And all that’s good of them _is under ground_.’

The wit and point of this satire, will not be disputed.

Mr Holcroft’s next play was The Road to Ruin, which carried his fame as

a dramatic writer into every corner of the kingdom, where there was a

play-house. Nothing could exceed the effect produced by this play at its

first appearance, nor its subsequent popularity. It not only became a

universal favourite, but it deserved to be so. Mr Holcroft, in sending

round one or two copies of it to his friends before it was acted, had

spoken of it as his best performance. He had hitherto been generally

dissatisfied with what he had written, as not answering his own wishes,

or what he thought himself capable of producing: but in this instance he

seems to have thought his muse had been as favourable to him as she was

likely to be. Authors are perhaps seldom deceived with respect to their

works, when they judge of them from their own immediate feelings, and

not out of contradiction to the opinions of others, or from a desire to

excel in something which the world thinks them incapable of. Mr

Holcroft’s predictions were at least verified by the appearance of the

Road to Ruin. It had a run greater than almost any other piece was ever

known to have, and there is scarcely a theatre in the kingdom, except

Drury-Lane, and the Haymarket, in which it has not been acted numberless

times. The profits he received from it were nine hundred pounds from Mr

Harris, and three or four hundred for the copy-right.

The Road to Ruin is so well known to the public, and its merits have

been so fully established, that it seems almost impertinent to make any

remarks upon it: yet as it is Mr Holcroft’s greatest dramatic effort, it

might be thought wrong to pass it over, without attempting to point out

its leading features, or ascertain its rank among similar productions.

The character of Goldfinch, though not the principal character, was

undoubtedly that which contributed most to the popularity of the piece.

Nine persons out of ten who went to see the Road to Ruin, went for the

sake of seeing Goldfinch; though the best parts of the play are those in

which he has no concern. The very great effect it produced was, in some

measure, owing to the inimitable acting of Lewis. But there are other

circumstances which would almost be sure to make it the favourite of the

public. In the first place, it is a most masterly delineation of the

character it pretends to describe; namely, that of a person of very

little understanding, but with very great animal spirits, in the

heigh-day of youth and thoughtlessness, and who is hurried away by all

the vulgar dissipation of fashionable life. There is not the smallest

glimmering of wit or sense in all that Goldfinch says; yet nothing can

exceed the life, the spirit, the extreme volubility, the restless

animation, which Mr Holcroft has thrown into this character. He has none

but the most mean and groveling ideas; his language consists entirely of

a few cant words; yet the rapidity with which he glances from object to

object, and the evident delight which he takes in introducing his

favourite phrases on all occasions, have all the effect of the most

brilliant wit. _That’s your sort_ comes in at least fifty times, and is

just as unexpected and lively the last time as the first, for no other

reason than because Goldfinch has just the same pleasure in repeating

it. This mechanical humour was so much the more striking in its effect,

because every person could make it his own. It was a very transferable,

and therefore a very convenient, commodity. It was a compendious receipt

for being witty, to go and see Goldfinch, and repeat after him, _That’s

your sort._ If the invention was not favourable to the increase, it was

at least calculated for the spread of wit. Mr Holcroft may in some sort

be considered as the author of this species of dramatic humour, of which

succeeding writers have fully availed themselves, and on which the

effect of many of our most popular modern pieces depends. Cant terms

have, it is true, always been the subject of ridicule on the stage; but

Mr Holcroft was, I believe, the first who made them interesting; or who

conceived the project of giving spirit and animation to a character by

the force of a single phrase. The two most important characters in the

piece, are those of old Dornton and his son; the former, an eminent

banker in the city, the latter, a wild, but high-minded and

noble-spirited young man, something like Charles, in The School for

Scandal. The serious interest of the piece arises chiefly from the

struggle between prudence and affection in the mind of the father, and

from the compunction and generous sacrifices of the youth to save his

father’s house from the ruin which he believes he has brought upon it.

He is in love with Sophia, the daughter of the widow Warren. This last

lady is described with a person and mind equally unprepossessing. She

is, however, supposed to be rich, and is violently in love with young

Dornton, who determines, rather than see his father ruined, to marry

her, and forsake his young and guileless Sophia. This match is prevented

by the timely interference of old Dornton.

Mr Sulky and Mr Silky are two very principal characters in the play,

whose names are happily adapted to their characters; the one being as

remarkable for a blunt kind of surly honesty, as the other is for

smooth, sleek, fawning knavery. It is, however, on the confusion of

these two names, that the contrivance of the plot depends. For the late

Mr Warren, not being well pleased with the conduct of his wife, and

suspecting her violent professions of a determination not to marry

again, had made a will, in which, in case such an event should happen,

he had left his property to his natural son, Milford, and to his wife’s

daughter, appointing Mr Sulky his executor. He died abroad; and the

person who brought over the will, being deceived by the name, leaves it

in the possession of Mr Silky, instead of Mr Sulky. Mr Silky, knowing

the widow’s amorous propensities, and willing to profit by them, informs

Goldfinch, who is besieging her for her money, that he has a deed in his

possession which puts the widow’s fortune, should she marry again,

entirely in his power; and exacts a promise from him of fifty thousand

pounds out of a hundred and fifty, as the price of secrecy, with respect

to himself. He then calls on the widow, shews her the conditions of the

will, and threatens to make it public unless she marries Goldfinch, and

assents to his proposal. She, however, governed by her passion for young

Dornton, and relying on the exhaustless wealth of his family, sets Mr

Silky and his secret at defiance; and on his next visit, treats Mr

Goldfinch with very little ceremony. But after she finds herself

disappointed of Dornton, and is in the height of her exclamations

against the whole sex, Goldfinch is announced. His name at this moment

has the effect of suddenly calming her spirits; he is admitted; received

with much affected modesty: he makes another offer; the bargain is

struck; Mr Silky is sent for, and Goldfinch sets off post haste for a

license. But just as he is going out, he meets Milford; and being more

fool than knave, he tells the latter of his marriage, and of the

hush-money to Silky, on account of some deed, by which he has the

widow’s fortune at his command, though he does not know how. This

excites suspicion in the mind of Milford, who, supposing it must be his

father’s will, goes immediately to Sulky to inform him of the

circumstance, and they conceal themselves in the widow’s apartment.

Goldfinch, Silky, and the widow, soon after come in; every thing is

settled; and the will is on the point of being committed to the flames,

when Milford and Sulky burst upon them, and their whole scheme is

unluckily defeated.

This sketch may be sufficient to give an idea of the bustle of the

scene, and the rapidity with which events follow one another. The story

never stagnates for a moment; the whole is full, crowded, and the wonder

seems to be how so many incidents, so regularly connected, and so

clearly explained, can be brought together in so small a compass. At the

same time, the hurry of events, and the intricacy of the plot, do not

interfere with the unfolding of the characters, or the forcible

expression of the passions. Some of the scenes are replete with the

truest pathos, which is expressed without exaggeration, or the least

appearance of art. Though the feelings of paternal affection, of terror,

generosity, etc. are often wrought up to the highest pitch, and

described with their full force, so that the reader finds nothing

wanting; yet it is in language so easy and natural, that not only might

it be uttered by the persons themselves, but they could scarcely use any

other.

Mrs. Holcroft died in the year 1790.

It was in the preceding year that Mr Holcroft met with the severest blow

that fortune had yet inflicted on him, the death of his son. This

unhappy event has been sometimes misrepresented by persons unacquainted

with the character and feelings of Mr Holcroft: the best answer to these

misrepresentations will be to state the circumstances as they happened,

without any other comment.

William Holcroft was his only son, and favourite child, and this very

circumstance perhaps led to the catastrophe, which had nearly proved

fatal to his father as well as to himself. He had been brought up, if

any thing, with too much care and tenderness. The greatest attention had

been paid to his education from the very first, not only by teaching him

to read and write, French, English, etc., but by daily instilling such

moral principles into his mind, as it was Mr Holcroft’s earnest wish,

and firm belief, would in the end make him a great and good man. Perhaps

it was a mistake to suppose that precept could anticipate the fruits of

experience, or that it was not a dangerous experiment to enable a child

to think and reason for himself on the propriety of his own actions,

before settled habits and a knowledge of consequences had provided a

sufficient counterpoise to the levity of youth, and the caprices of

fancy. Be this as it may, he was a boy of extraordinary capacity, and Mr

Holcroft thought no pains should be spared for his instruction and

improvement. From the first, however, he had shewn an unsettled

disposition, and his propensity to ramble was such from his childhood,

that when he was only four years old, and under the care of an aunt at

Nottingham, he wandered away to a place at some distance, where there

was a coffee-house, into which he went, and read the newspapers to the

company, by whom he was taken care of, and sent home. This propensity

was so strong in him, that it became habitual, and he had run away six

or seven times before the last. Once, for instance, in 1786, when he was

about thirteen, he had taken a little mare which belonged to his father,

and went to Northampton, where he was discovered by some respectable

persons in the place, and word being sent to Mr Holcroft, he went down,

and brought him home with him. On Sunday, November 8th, 1789, he brought

his father a short poem; a watch which had been promised as a reward,

was given him; his father conversed with him in the most affectionate

manner, praised, encouraged, and told him, that notwithstanding his

former errors and wanderings, he was convinced he would become a good

and excellent man. But he observed, when taking him by the hand to

express his kindness, that the hand of the youth, instead of returning

the pressure as usual, remained cold and insensible. This however at the

moment was supposed to be accidental. He seemed unembarrassed, cheerful,

and asked leave, without any appearance of design or hesitation, to dine

with a friend in the city, which was immediately granted. He thanked his

father, went down stairs, and several times anxiously inquired whether

his father were gone to dress. As soon as he was told that he had left

his room, he went up stairs again, broke open a drawer, and took out

forty pounds. With this, the watch, a pocket-book, and a pair of pistols

of his father’s, he hastened away to join one of his acquaintance, who

was going to the West-Indies. The name of this young person was G——. He

was immediately pursued to Gravesend, but ineffectually. It was not

discovered till the following Wednesday, that he had taken the money.

After several days of the most distressing inquietude, there appeared

strong presumptive proofs that he, with his acquaintance, was on board

the Fame, Captain Carr, then lying in the Downs. The father and a friend

immediately set off, and travelled post all Sunday night to Deal. Their

information proved true, for he was found to be on board the Fame, where

he assumed a false name, though his true situation was known to the

Captain. He had spent all the money, except 15_l._, in paying for his

passage, and purchasing what he thought he wanted. He had declared he

would shoot any person who came to take him, but that if his father

came, he would shoot himself. His youth, for he was but sixteen, made

the threat appear incredible. The pistols, pocket-book, and remaining

money, were locked up in safety for him, by his acquaintance. But he had

another pair of pistols concealed. Mr Holcroft and his friend went on

board, made inquiries, and understood he was there. He had retired into

a dark part of the steerage. When he was called and did not answer, a

light was sent for, and as he heard the ship’s steward, some of the

sailors, and his father, approaching, conscious of what he had done, and

unable to bear the presence of his father, and the open shame of

detection, he suddenly put an end to his existence.

The shock which Mr Holcroft received was almost mortal. For three days

he could not see his own family, and nothing but the love he bore that

family could probably have prevented him from sinking under his

affliction. He seldom went out of his house for a whole year afterwards:

and the impression was never completely effaced from his mind.

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I

Mr Holcroft had been, for some years, imbibing principles, and forming a

system in his mind, relative to political and moral questions,

considerably different from those which are generally received, or at

least acted upon by the world.

The interest which he felt in the success of these speculations, will be

best expressed by extracting some part of a letter to a friend, written

in February, 1790. He says, ‘The great object I have in view, is not the

obtaining of riches, but the power of employing my time according to the

bent of my genius, in the performance of some works which shall remain

when I am no more—works that will promote the general good. This is a

purpose I have so strongly at heart, that I would with pleasure

sacrifice ease, peace, health, and life for its accomplishment: nay,

accomplish it I will, unless cut off in the midst of my labours. It has

been my pursuit for years, and you are my witness, I have never relaxed,

never been discouraged by disappointment, to which indeed I hold men of

real strength of mind to be superior.’ A clearer picture cannot be given

of the motives from which the writer appears to have engaged in and

prosecuted his task—the regard of good men hereafter, and a wish to

promote the general welfare of mankind, by diffusing a system of more

just and enlightened principles of action.

These rational and worthy motives are those which actuated Mr Holcroft’s

whole conduct in the part he took in such questions: they are the only

ones which he had at heart, and he never seems in a single instance to

have wavered in his pursuit, by flattering the prejudices, or soothing

the vices of any set of men, by cajoling or inflaming the multitude, or

by adapting his views or language to those of the ignorant, the rash, or

profligate. He was a man of too honest, and of too independent a turn of

mind to be a time-server, to lend himself as a tool to the violence of

any party; his habits and studies rendered him equally averse to

political intrigues or popular tumults; and he had no other desire than

to speak the truth, such as he saw it, with a conviction that its

effects must be beneficial to society. Whether his opinions were right

or wrong, is another question: I speak here of his intentions. But I am

anticipating the subject; and also deviating from my plan, which was not

to write a panegyric, but a history.

_Anna St. Ives_, a novel in 7 vols. appeared in 1792. It was much read

at the time, and excited considerable attention, both from the force

with which it is written, and from the singularity of the characters and

sentiments. As a mere novel, it is interesting, lively, and vigorous.

The natural or real characters it contains, are exhibited with great

truth of conception, with strong and vivid colouring, and often with a

great deal of whimsical eccentricity. The characters both of the proud,

daring, impetuous, revengeful, capricious Coke Clifton, and of the sly,

selfish, insinuating, cool, plodding, immovable Abimelech Henley, are

master-pieces. The invention of either of these characters would stamp

the author a man of genius. With respect to the first, however spirited

the execution, the invention is beyond all doubt due to Richardson: Coke

Clifton and Lovelace are the same being, and in fact are often placed in

situations so similar, that the resemblance must strike the most cursory

reader. Notwithstanding this, too much praise can hardly be given to Mr

Holcroft for the life, the enthusiasm, and glowing fancy with which he

has sustained this character, and applied it to a different purpose. As

to Abimelech, he is all his own; and he is a person of such quaint and

ill-sorted qualities, his humility and his insolence are so oddly

jumbled together, his knavery is so artfully disguised, and yet so

easily seen through, and he delivers all his purposes in such a strange

jargon of cant terms and phrases, every one of which has some end,

though their connexion is scarcely intelligible; in short there is such

a perfect consistence given to the most crude and shapeless mass, and

this in a manner so unlike any thing else, that it seems almost equal to

the invention of a new language. That class of men who get introduced

into gentlemen’s families; and who, by plodding, hoarding, fawning, and

flattering the follies of their masters, make fortunes themselves, ruin,

and then trample upon their employers, were never better represented

than in the person of Mr Abimelech Henley. The steward in Castle

Rackrent is not so very a knave by half.—The character of the Count de

Beaunoir, though short, is managed with a great deal of humour and

feeling. Mac Fane, the keeper of the madhouse, etc. are strong and real

portraits.

But the principal characters in the novel, (at least those which were

intended by the author to be the most prominent,) are not natural, but

ideal beings. In fact, they are not so properly characters (that is,

distinct individuals) as the vehicles of certain general sentiments, or

machines put into action, as an experiment to shew how these general

principles would operate in particular situations. Frank Henley, and

Anna St. Ives, are the philosophical hero and heroine of the work. They

are the organs through which the voice of truth and reason is to

breathe, and whose every action is to be inspired by the pure love of

justice.—Mr Holcroft, by embodying his general principles in individual

characters, no doubt, gained some advantages, which he could not

otherwise have done; such as shewing the possibility of his plan, by

actually reducing it to practice, and also pointing out how persons

convinced of the truths he wishes to impress, both may and ought to act

in the present state of society. For instance, duelling is held to be

criminal; and to shew that declining a duel is no proof of cowardice,

Frank Henley, who receives a blow from Coke Clifton, will not fight with

him, but the very next day leaps into the water after him, and saves his

life at the imminent hazard of his own: thus by an act of true heroism

rising superior to the prejudices of false honour.

But though the author has gained in point of argument by throwing his

reasonings into a narrative form, perhaps he has lost in point of the

general impression produced upon the mind. It was Mr Holcroft’s business

to make his characters not only consistent, but interesting and amiable:

and he has done nearly all that was possible to accomplish this end. But

it seems as if the difficulty of the undertaking, from the very nature

of it, was too great to be overcome. For in spite of all the appeals

that are made to reason, and though we strive ever so much to suspend

our invidious prepossessions, yet the old adage of ‘A faultless monster,

which the world ne’er saw,’ continually obtrudes itself upon us, and

poisons our satisfaction. It is true, our dislike may be irrational, but

still it is dislike. That which, if left in generals, we might believe

and admire, if brought to a nearer view, and exhibited in all its

circumstances of improbability, we begin to distrust, and for that

reason to hate: _quod sic mihi ostendis, incredulus odi_. Perfect

virtue, the pure disinterested love of justice, an unshaken zeal for

truth, regardless of all petty consequences, a superiority to false

modesty, a contempt for the opinion of the world, when reason and

conscience are on our side, all these are fine things, and easily

conceived, while they remain, what they are, the pure creatures of the

understanding, mere abstract essences, which cannot kindle too warm a

glow of enthusiasm in the breast. But when these airy nothings are made

reluctantly to assume a local habitation and a name, called Frank, or

Anna; when they are personified in the son of a knavish steward, or the

daughter of a foolish baronet; when they are petticoated, booted and

spurred; when they are mounted on horse-back, or seat themselves in a

post-chaise, or walk arm in arm through the streets of London, or

Paris,—the naked form of truth vanishes under all this pitiful drapery,

and the mind is distracted with mean and contradictory appearances which

it knows not how to reconcile. When familiarised to us by being brought

on the real stage of life, and ascribed to any supposed characters,

perfect virtue becomes little better than a cheat, and the pretension to

superior wisdom, looks like affectation, conceit, and pedantry. This

effect must in some measure take place, even though the most perfect

consistency and propriety were preserved: how much more then when the

mind eagerly catches hold of every little flaw, to prove that the whole

is a piece of acting, and to revert to its habitual feelings of nature

and probability?—It is not difficult to personify the passions, so as to

render them natural: that is a language which men readily understand.

But of the difficulty of exhibiting the passions entirely under the

control of reason, of virtue, religion, or any other abstract principle,

let those judge who have studied the romances of Richardson. To have

made Clarissa a natural character with all her studied attention to

prudence, propriety, etc. is the greatest proof of his genius: yet even

she is not free from affectation. In Sir Charles Grandison, he has

completely failed: he has exhibited him either as an automaton, a

puppet, or a self-complacent coxcomb, ‘ugly all over with affectation,’

whose own perfection, propriety of conduct, and fine qualities, are

never for a moment out of his sight. Rousseau’s Julia, again, is

something of a pedant, and cold, calculating, and insincere. I mention

these instances to shew, that though I do not think Mr Holcroft has

rendered his hero and heroine so attractive as he himself probably

thought they might be made, yet it was not for want of genius, but from

the impossibility of the undertaking. Frank Henley, though a much

nobler-minded being than Sir Charles Grandison, yet stands in general in

the same predicament. We admire his actions, but we do not love the man:

his motives we respect, but with his feelings we have little sympathy.

Indeed he is a character who does not stand in need of our sympathy; ‘A

reasoning, self-sufficient thing, an intellectual all in all.’ He is

himself a being without passions; and in order to feel with him, we must

ourselves be divested of passion.

I have made these remarks to shew the difficulty of embodying a

philosophic character in a dramatic form.

The dignity of truth is in some measure necessarily lowered by coming to

us ‘in so questionable a shape,’ and nothing but a very powerful mind

can prevent it from becoming quite ridiculous and contemptible. Mr

Holcroft himself was perfectly aware of the prejudices he had to

encounter, in order to exhibit his characters, so as not to be

misunderstood. He has not indeed been sparing of the most pointed

raillery upon the philosophic pretensions of Frank Henley, in the

letters of his rival, Coke Clifton. And the best proof of the strength

with which he has conceived, and pourtrayed his favourite character is,

that notwithstanding all the other’s wit and eloquence, Frank is never

once degraded in our esteem. He stands his ground firmly, and, upon the

whole, has the preference, though it is not exactly such a preference as

virtue ought to have over vice, wisdom over folly, or pure mind over

sensuality and selfishness. An extract from one of Clifton’s letters, in

which he describes Frank Henley, will give a tolerable idea of the

characters of both.

‘The youth has some parts, some ideas: at least he has plenty of words.

But his arrogance is insufferable. He does not scruple to interfere in

the discourse, either with me, Sir Arthur, or the angelic Anna! Nay sets

up for a reformer; and pretends to an insolent superiority of

understanding and wisdom. Yet he was never so long from home before in

his life; has seen nothing, but has read a few books, and has been

permitted to converse with this all-intelligent deity.

‘I cannot deny but that the pedagogue sometimes surprises me with the

novelty of his opinions; but they are extravagant. I have condescended

oftener than became me, to shew how full of hyperbole and paradox they

were. Still he has constantly maintained them, with a kind of congruity

that astonished me, and even rendered many of them plausible.

‘But, exclusive of his obstinacy, the rude, pot-companion loquacity of

the fellow is highly offensive. He has no sense of inferiority. He

stands as erect, and speaks with as little embarrassment, and as loudly

as the best of us; nay, boldly asserts, that neither riches, rank, nor

birth have any claim. I have offered to buy him a beard, if he would but

turn heathen philosopher. I have several times indeed bestowed no small

portion of ridicule upon him; but in vain. His retorts are always ready;

and his intrepidity, in this kind of impertinence, is unexampled.

‘From some anecdotes which are told of him, I find he is not without

personal courage: but he has no claim to chastisement from a gentleman.

Petty insults he disregards; and has several times put me almost beyond

my forbearance by his cool and cutting replies. His oratory is always

ready; cut, dry, and fit for use; and d——d insolent oratory it

frequently is.

‘The absurdity of his tenets, can only be equalled by the effrontery

with which they are maintained. Among the most ridiculous of what he

calls first principles is that of the equality of mankind. He is one of

your levellers! Marry! His superior! Who is he? On what proud eminence

can he be found? On some Welsh mountain, or the peak of Teneriffe?

Certainly not in any of the nether regions! Dispute his prerogative who

dare! He derives from Adam; what time the world was all “hail fellow

well met!” The savage, the wild man of the woods, is his true

liberty-boy; and the ourang-outang, his first cousin. A lord is a merry

andrew, a duke a jack-pudding, and a king a tom-fool: his name is man!

‘Then, as to property, ’tis a tragic farce; ’tis his sovereign pleasure

to eat nectarines, grow them who will. Another Alexander he; the world

is all his own! Aye, and he will govern it as he best knows how. He will

legislate, dictate, dogmatise, for who so infallible? Cannot Goliah

crack a walnut?

‘As for arguments, it is but ask and have: a peck at a bidding, and a

good double handful over. I own I thought I knew something; but no, I

must to my horn-book. Then, for a simile, it is sacrilege; and must be

kicked out of the high court of logic! Sarcasm too is an ignoramus, and

cannot solve a problem; wit a pert puppy, who can only flash and bounce.

The heavy walls of wisdom are not to be battered down with such popguns

and pellets. He will waste you wind enough to set up twenty millers, in

proving an apple is not an egg-shell; and that _homo_ is Greek for a

goose. Duns Scotus was a school-boy to him. I confess he has more than

once dumb-founded me with his subtleties. But, pshaw! it is a mortal

waste of words and time to bestow them on him.’—Vol. II.

With respect to Mr Holcroft’s principles as they are delivered in Anna

St. Ives, I shall here attempt to give a short sketch of them, of the

train of events in which they originated, and of the seductiveness of

the prospects which they held out to a mind not perfectly callous to the

interests of humanity. Even could it be shewn that they were disgraceful

to his penetration, yet they were certainly honourable to his heart, and

they were highly honourable to human nature. It is indeed a little

singular, that those who have augured most highly of the powers of our

nature, and have entertained the most sanguine hopes of the future

virtue and happiness of man, should so often have been considered as the

worst enemies of society. But it seems that our self-love is not so much

flattered by the idea of the progress we might hereafter make, as

offended by that of the little we have already made. Reformers

imprudently compliment mankind on what they might become, at the expense

of what they are.

Mr Holcroft was a purely speculative politician. He constantly

deprecated force, rashness, tumult, and popular violence. He was a

friend to political and moral improvement, but he wished it to be

gradual, calm, and rational, because he believed no other could be

effectual. All sanguinary measures, all party virulence, all provocation

and invective he deplored: all that he wished was the free and

dispassionate discussion of the great principles relating to human

happiness, trusting to the power of reason to make itself heard, and not

doubting but that the result would be favourable to freedom and virtue.

He believed that truth had a natural superiority over error, if it could

only be heard; that if once discovered, it must, being left to itself,

soon spread and triumph; and that the art of printing would not only

accelerate this effect, but would prevent those accidents, which had

rendered the moral and intellectual progress of mankind hitherto so

slow, irregular, and uncertain.

This opinion of the progress of truth, and its power to crush error, had

been gaining ground in this country ever since the Reformation; the

immense improvements in natural and mechanical knowledge within the last

century had made it appear nearly impossible to limit the discoveries of

art and science; as great a revolution (and it was generally supposed as

great improvements) had taken place in the theory of the human mind in

consequence of the publication of Mr Locke’s Essay; and men’s attention

having been lately forcibly called to many of the evils and abuses

existing in society, it seemed as if the present was the era of moral

and political improvement, and that as bold discoveries and as large

advances towards perfection would shortly be made in these, as had been

already made in other subjects. That this inference was profound or

just, I do not affirm: but it was natural, and strengthened not only by

the hopes of the good, but by the sentiments of the most thinking men.

As far as any practical experiment had been tried, the result was not

discouraging. Of two revolutions that had taken place, one, that of

America, had succeeded, and a more free and equal government had been

established without tumult, civil discord, animosity or bloodshed,

except what had arisen from the interference of the mother country. The

other Revolution, that of France, was but begun: but it had at this time

displayed none of those alarming features which it afterwards

discovered. Whether the difference of the result in the latter case was

owing to the external situation of the country, which exposed it to the

inroads of a band of despots; or to the manners of the people, which had

been depraved by a long course of slavery, which while it made freedom

the more desirable, rendered them the more incapable of it; whether, I

say, the French Revolution might not have succeeded, had not every means

been employed to destroy and crush the good that might have been

expected from it, is a question not to be discussed here: but at the

period of which I am speaking, I believe I may say there were few real

friends of liberty who did not augur well of it. A tyranny, which all

our most esteemed writers had been endeavouring for the last hundred

years to render odious and contemptible to the English people, had been

overthrown; and this was hailed by all those who had been taught to

value the principles of liberty, or the welfare of nations, as an event

auspicious to France and to the world. The emancipation of thirty

millions of people (so I remember it was considered at the time) was a

change for the better, as great as it was unexpected: the pillars of

oppression and tyranny seemed to have been overthrown: man was about to

shake off the fetters which had bound him in wretchedness and ignorance;

and the blessings that were yet in store for him were unforeseen and

incalculable. Hope smiled upon him, and pointed to futurity.

With these feelings, and with these encouragements from the state of the

public mind, reasoning men began to inquire what would be the ruling

principles of action in a state of society, as perfect as we can

suppose, or the general diffusion of which would soonest lead to such a

state of improvement. And the answer was found, not so much in any real

novelties, or heretofore unheard-of paradoxes, as in the most pure and

simple principles of morality, differing from the common and received

ones, no otherwise than in the severity with which they are insisted on,

and in their application to a state of things in which the same

indulgences, precautions, and modifications of our higher and paramount

obligations, which are at present inseparable from the imperfection of

our nature, would no longer be necessary. The whole of the _modern_

philosophy (as far as relates to moral conduct), is nothing more than a

literal, rigid, unaccommodating, and systematic interpretation of the

text, (which is itself pretty old and good authority) ‘Thou shalt love

thy neighbour as thyself,’ without making any allowances for the

weaknesses of mankind, or the degree to which this rule was practicable;

and the answer to the question, ‘Who is our neighbour,’ is the same,

both in the sacred records, and in the modern paraphrase, ‘He who most

wants our assistance.’ I have mentioned this coincidence (I hope without

offence), to shew that the shock occasioned by the extreme and naked

manner of representing the doctrine of universal benevolence, did not,

and could not, arise from the principle itself, but from the supposition

that this comprehensive and sublime principle was of itself sufficient

to regulate the actions of men, without the aid of those common

affections, and mixed motives, which our habits, passions, and vices,

had taught us to regard as the highest practicable point of virtue. If,

however, it be granted, not only that it is in itself _right_ and

_best_, but that a period might come, in which it would be _possible_

for men to be actuated by the sole principles of truth and justice, then

it would seem to follow that the subordinate and auxiliary rules of

action might be dispensed with, being superseded by the sense of higher

and more important duties.

Mr Holcroft was among the foremost and most ardent of those who indulged

their imaginations, in contemplating such an Utopian, or ideal state of

society, and in reasoning on the manner in which the great leading

principle of morality would then be reduced to practice. In such a state

of things, he believed that wars, bloodshed, and national animosities,

would cease; that peace and good-will would reign among men; and that

the feeling of patriotism, necessary as it now is to preserve the

independence of states, and repel the ravages of unprincipled and

ambitious invaders, would die away of itself with national jealousies

and antipathies, with ambition, war, and foreign conquest. Family

attachments would also be weakened or lost in the general principle of

benevolence, when every man would be a brother. Exclusive friendships

could no longer be formed, because they would interfere with the true

claims of justice and humanity, and because it would be no longer

necessary to keep alive the stream of the affections, by confining them

to a particular channel, when they would be continually refreshed,

invigorated, and would overflow with the diffusive soul of mutual

philanthropy, and generous, undivided sympathy with all men. Another

feeling, no less necessary at present, would then be forgotten, namely,

gratitude to benefactors; but not from a selfish, hateful spirit, or

hardened insensibility to kind offices; but because all men would in

fact be equally ready to promote one another’s welfare, that is, equally

benefactors and friends to each other, without the motives either of

gratitude or self-interest. Promises, in like manner, would no longer be

binding, or necessary: not in order that men might take advantage of

this liberty to consult their own whims or convenience, and trick one

another, but that by being free from every inferior obligation, they

might be enabled more steadily and directly to pursue the simple

dictates of reason and conscience. False honour, false shame, vanity,

emulation, etc. would upon the same principle give way to other and

better motives. It is evident that laws and punishments would cease with

the cause that produces them, the commission of crimes. Neither would

the distinctions of property subsist in a society, where the interests

and feelings of all would be more intimately blended than they are at

present among members of the same family, or among the dearest friends.

Neither the allurements of ease, or wealth, nor the dread of punishment,

would be required to excite to industry, or to prevent fraud and

violence, in a state (such as has been supposed), where all would

cheerfully labour for the good of all; and where the most refined

reason, and inflexible justice actuating a whole community, could

scarcely fail to ensure the same effects which at present result from

the motives of honesty and honour. The labour, therefore, requisite to

produce the necessaries of life, would be equally divided among the

members of such a community, and the remainder of their time would be

spent in the pursuit of science, in the cultivation of the noblest arts,

and in the most refined social and intellectual enjoyments.

However wild and visionary this scheme may appear, it is certain that

its greatest fault is in expecting higher things of human nature than it

seems at present capable of, and in exacting such a divine or angelic

degree of virtue and wisdom, before it can be put in practice, as

without a miracle in its favour must for ever prevent its becoming any

thing more than a harmless dream, a sport of the imagination, or ‘an

exercise in the schools.’ But to consider a man as an immoral character,

or a political delinquent, for having indulged in such speculations, is

no less false or absurd, than to stigmatise any one as a bad member of

the community for having written a treatise on the Millennium. Yet with

respect to Mr Holcroft, this appears to have been ‘the very head and

front of his offending.’

CHAPTER II

The first part of Hugh Trevor, a novel, appeared in 1794, and the

remainder in 1797. This novel is a work of less genius than Anna St.

Ives, but it is characterised by much sound sense, by a clear and

vigorous style, by acute observation, and by many satirical, but

accurate portraits of modern manners. As a political work, it may be

considered as a sequel to Anna St. Ives; for as that is intended to

develope certain general principles by exhibiting imaginary characters,

so the latter has a tendency to enforce the same conclusions, by

depicting the vices and distresses, which are generated by the existing

institutions of society. A Lord and a Bishop are among the most

prominent figures. That such characters exist in fact, there cannot be a

doubt: that the satire is applied in too general and unqualified a

manner, is an objection which may also be readily admitted; but it

certainly is not necessary, in order to enforce the _imperfection_ of

existing institutions and manners, that the profligacy which he has

ascribed to these characters should be universal. A very little of it is

enough, and too much—were there any real and substantial remedy for the

evil.

The story of Hugh Trevor is less connected and interesting than that of

Anna St. Ives: the excellence of the work is to be judged of from

detached scenes and passages, rather than from considering it as a

whole. Among the most striking passages are the description of Oxford,

Wakefield’s conversations with Hugh Trevor, the disputes with Trotman on

the study of the law, the character of Olivia’s aunt, which is in the

best style of the old novels, the scene in the stage-coach between the

aunt, Olivia, and Hugh Trevor, the description given by Glibly of the

characters at the playhouse, and some of the scenes which occur in the

history of Wilmot. The dialogues in Hugh Trevor are almost all of them

highly spirited, and full of character, and the language exactly that of

animated conversation. Mr Holcroft would (as it might be expected,) have

an advantage in this respect over novel-writers in general, from his

habit of writing for the stage. Perhaps the finest things in Hugh

Trevor, are, the account of an author, found in Wilmot’s pocket, after

he had attempted to drown himself, and the song of Gaffer Gray. Both

these I shall extract, as they are short and detached, and, in my

opinion at least, exquisite pieces of writing.

The paper found in Wilmot’s pocket, after the rash, and almost fatal,

act, to which he has been driven by repeated disappointment, and extreme

distress, is as follows.

‘This body, if ever it should be found, was once a thing, which, by way

of reproach among men, was called an author. It moved about the earth

despised and unnoticed; and died indigent and unlamented. It could hear,

see, feel, smell, and taste, with as much quickness, delicacy, and

force, as other bodies. It had desires and passions like other bodies,

but was denied the use of them by such as had the power and the will to

engross the good things of this world to themselves. The doors of the

great were shut upon it; not because it was infected with disease, or

contaminated with infamy; but on account of the fashion of the garments

with which it was cloathed, and the name it derived from its

forefathers; and because it had not the habit of bending its knee where

its heart owed no respect, nor the power of moving its tongue to gloze

the crimes, or flatter the follies of men. It was excluded the

fellowship of such as heap up gold and silver; not because it did, but

for fear it might, ask a small portion of their beloved wealth. It

shrunk with pain and pity from the haunts of ignorance, which the

knowledge it possessed could not enlighten, and from guilt, that its

sensations were obliged to abhor. There was but one class of men with

whom it was permitted to associate, and those were such as had feelings

and misfortunes like its own, among whom it was its hard fate frequently

to suffer imposition, from assumed worth and fictitious distress. Beings

of supposed benevolence, capable of perceiving, loving, and promoting

merit and virtue, have now and then seemed to flit and glide before it.

But the visions were deceitful. Ere they were distinctly seen, the

phantoms vanished. Or, if such beings do exist, it has experienced the

peculiar hardship of never having met with any, in whom both the purpose

and the power were fully united. Therefore, with hands wearied with

labour, eyes dim with watchfulness, veins but half nourished, and a mind

at length subdued by intense study, and a reiteration of unaccomplished

hopes, it was driven by irresistible impulse to end at once such a

complication of evils. The knowledge was imposed upon it that, amid all

these calamities, it had one consolation—Its miseries were not

eternal—That itself had the power to end them. This power it has

employed, because it found itself incapable of supporting any longer the

wretchedness of its own situation, and the blindness and injustice of

mankind: and as, while it lived, it lived scorned and neglected, so it

now commits itself to the waves; in expectation, after it is dead, of

being mangled, belied, and insulted.’

* * * * *

The song of Gaffar-Gray is written in a less sombrous style, with a

mixture of banter and irony. But it is distinguished by the same fulness

of feeling, and the same simple, forcible, and perfect expression of it.

There is nothing wanting, and nothing superfluous. The author has

produced exactly the impression he intended.

‘Ho! Why dost thou shiver and shake,

Gaffar-Gray!

And why doth thy nose look so blue?

“’Tis the weather that’s cold,

’Tis I’m grown very old,

And my doublet is not very new,

Well-a-day!”

Then line thy worn doublet with ale,

Gaffar-Gray;

And warm thy old heart with a glass.

“Nay, but credit I’ve none;

And my money’s all gone;

Then say how may that come to pass?

Well-a-day!”

Hie away to the house on the brow,

Gaffar-Gray;

And knock at the jolly priest’s door.

“The priest often preaches

Against worldly riches;

But ne’er gives a mite to the poor,

Well-a-day!”

The lawyer lives under the hill,

Gaffar-Gray;

Warmly fenc’d both in back and in front.

“He will fasten his locks,

And will threaten the stocks,

Should he ever more find me in want,

Well-a-day!”

The ‘Squire has fat beeves and brown ale,

Gaffar-Gray;

And the season will welcome you there.

“His fat beeves and his beer,

And his merry new year

Are all for the flush and the fair,

Well-a-day!”

My keg is but low, I confess,

Gaffar-Gray;

What then? While it lasts, man, we’ll live.

“The poor man alone,

When he hears the poor moan,

Of his morsel a morsel will give,

Well-a-day!”’

CHAPTER III

We have hitherto beheld Mr Holcroft only in the light of an author, or

as a private man: we have at present to consider him in that part of his

history, which was the most interesting to the public, and the most

honourable to himself, of any of the circumstances of his life;—his

behaviour under that most unaccountable, unjust, and groundless

prosecution, which was instituted against him for high-treason, in the

year 1794. The account of this transaction will be given nearly

literally from Mr Holcroft’s own ‘Narrative of Facts,’ published soon

after. I shall only observe of this work, which is written in a style of

manly and nervous eloquence, that it not only contains the most

undeniable proofs of the author’s innocence of the charge brought

against him, and of the knowledge which the prosecutors themselves had

of his innocence, but that it farther shews Mr Holcroft’s character in a

most amiable and respectable point of view. His regard to his family and

friends, the steady uprightness of his mind, his ardent love of liberty,

his utter abhorrence of all violent and sanguinary measures, and the

sincerity, and even enthusiasm with which he acted up to the principles

he professed, are evident in every line of his narrative.

It was in the month of November, 1792, that he first became a member of

the Society for constitutional information. The multitude of

extraordinary events which at that period happened in France, excited

people of all ranks to political inquiry; and men were roused to a

conviction, which, though obvious, yet seemed a recent discovery, that

the political institutions of all nations essentially influence the

morals and happiness of the people, and that these institutions are

capable of improvement. The good was no sooner conceived than an

eagerness to enjoy it was begotten; and this eagerness was frequently so

impatient, as to excite a dread, that even if it did not defeat, it

might lamentably retard its own purpose.

At length, the apprehensions of those, who thought it their interest to

prevent any kind of change, were awakened. Their numbers considerable,

their wealth immense, their influence universal, their prejudices

strong, and their appetites and passions almost their only means of

enjoyment, they no sooner saw danger, than they conceived disgust for

the supposed authors of it: and this disgust rapidly quickened into

hatred. Animosity once conceived is generally mutual; and the passions

of both parties seemed every day to become more and more inflamed, and

to be pregnant with pernicious consequences.

Under such circumstances, it became (in Mr Holcroft’s opinion) the duty

of every man to think seriously and act with vigour. Passengers in a

storm labour at the pump, are upbraided if they linger, and in danger of

being thrown overboard. Individual and general safety are the same; and

the man who is not trusted with the helm, may yet aid to heave the lead,

or cast the anchor.

Mr Holcroft, believing that all men, and all actions contribute more or

less to the general good, had long been accustoming himself to keep that

good in view. Stimulated by the considerations just mentioned, and by

the events that pressed with daily astonishment on the mind; he ardently

applied himself to the study of man, and the means of promoting his

welfare, and lessening the evils that result from his present vices and

imperfections. The chief of the principles, to which this inquiry led,

were that man is happy, in proportion as he is truly informed; that his

ignorance, which is the parent of his misery and vices, is not a fault,

but a misfortune, which can only be remedied by infusing juster

principles, and more enlightened notions into his mind; that punishment,

violence, and rancour, only tend to inflame the passions, and perpetuate

the mistakes they are meant to cure; and that therefore, the best and

only effectual means of ameliorating the condition of mankind, is by the

gentleness of instruction, by steady inquiry, and by a calm, but

dauntless reliance on the progressive power of truth.

These principles being firmly rooted in his mind, Mr Holcroft naturally

became the opponent of all violence, and a determined friend to the

publication of truth; since by that alone, he thought the well-being of

mankind could be promoted. With respect to the Society for

constitutional information, of which he had become a member, he did not

approve of many of their proceedings, nor was he altogether satisfied

with the authority they seemed to assume of peremptorily deciding

questions by a majority of votes, which he thought could only be decided

by reason: but still he conceived that this was not a sufficient ground

to absent himself from their meetings, as such an over-scrupulousness

would exclude all those who were best calculated to prevent such

societies, in their too great ardour to do good, from doing ill; since

if he refused to act with men so long as they were guilty of mistake, he

must banish himself wholly from their intercourse.

He entered this Society then with a firm determination to use every

endeavour to prevent violence and acrimony, to communicate the truth he

knew, or imagined he knew, and to stimulate others to do the same.

Accordingly, while he remained a member of it, he never interfered with

the framing of a single resolution: when questions were put, he

sometimes voted; and sometimes spoke to declare his opinion, but was

much oftener silent; either because he thought them frivolous, or such a

mixture of right and wrong, as to leave him undecided. He little

imagined that it would be possible to accuse their insignificant

proceedings as treasonable: much less that he should be selected as one

of the most wicked of the conspirators.

The apprehensions of ministry had been first publicly announced in the

proclamation of the 21st of May, 1792: and the coercive measures on

which they had determined, immediately appeared in parliamentary

addresses, and the measures of the magistrates and municipal officers,

throughout the kingdom. Associations were formed, and the danger of the

constitution, from the wicked attempts of republicans and levellers,

became the cry of what was called the aristocratic party. So active were

these self-declared friends of government, and so loud in their

asseverations of approaching ruin, the destruction of property,

insurrection, and anarchy, that quiet people began to partake of the

fears of these agitators; and ministry, by more proclamations, asserted

that insurrections did actually exist, which the militia was called out

to quell, when not a hand or foot was stirring on any such pretences

within the confines of Great-Britain. Men even of respectable characters

and honest intentions now thought it an heroical act of duty, to watch

the conduct of their intimate friends, excite them to utter violent or

seditious expressions, and afterwards to turn informers against the

intemperance they had provoked. To avoid giving any opinion was

impossible. Language the most outrageous, was employed to make those who

were in the least suspected declare their creed; and if it were not

entirely accommodating, the peaceable citizen, after being entrapped,

was insulted, and turned, or frequently kicked, out of tap-rooms,

coffee-houses, and public places. The impotence of the obnoxious party

was every where demonstrated; yet the outcry of alarm increased.

Church-and-king-mobs were proved, in courts of justice, to have been

encouraged by the very men whose office it was to keep the peace: while

no insurrection, or shade of insurrection, appeared on the part of the

people, wishing for reform. In the same spirit, printers and booksellers

all over the kingdom were hunted out for prosecution; and the tempest of

insurrection and anarchy was so confidently affirmed to be rising and

raging, that the House of Commons voted the suspension of the Habeas

Corpus bill, on the ground that dangerous and treasonable conspiracies

did actually exist.

The Society, of which Mr Holcroft was a member, seemed with the progress

of these events to increase in amazement; and it might almost be said,

in stupefaction. This was visible in the thinness of its meetings, its

feeble resolutions, and long adjournments. Each man saw himself the butt

of obloquy. Each man knew that Mr Reeves’s association was sitting in a

room of the same tavern immediately over his head; and that this

association was the focus of the opprobrium cast on them all. They

supposed themselves to be watched by the very waiters. Thus wantonly and

unjustly set up as a mark for public reproach, it is not much to be

wondered at, that some petulant ebullitions occasionally burst forth.

But was this guilt so enormous? Was it high-treason?

When Mr Holcroft first heard that a few of its members had been taken

into custody, he felt the greatest astonishment. ‘Surely,’ he said,

‘either there have been practices of which I am totally ignorant, or men

are running mad!’ The persons apprehended were severally, and some of

them repeatedly examined before the privy council. The three estates of

the kingdom had declared the existence of treason and conspiracy; and

the nation seemed generally to credit the assertion. Mr Holcroft had

been told more than once, that a warrant was issued against him.

Incredible as the rumour would have been at any other time, he now

believed it to be true.