A warrant having according to report been issued against him, made it

probable that he should also be examined before the privy council; and

he therefore prepared for the event. The late John Hunter, and other

medical men, had prescribed sea-bathing for him; and he intended to have

gone out of town for this purpose. But on the first report of the

warrant, he determined not to go, and took care to appear publicly, that

he might not seem to evade inquiry. Many surmises and rumours prevailed

during the summer of 1794. One week the persons in custody were

immediately to be brought to trial: the next it was said the

crown-lawyers had declared that a case of treason could not be made out,

and that they would be tried for seditious practices. At length, when

the affair seemed almost to have sunk into forgetfulness, it was

suddenly revived; and a commission was appointed on the till then

supposed highly improbable charge of high-treason. The proceeding

astonished Mr Holcroft, as well as others; but he had no idea it was

intended that he should be involved in it.

Soon, however, assertions to the contrary were spread: and many serious

reflections suggested themselves to his mind. ‘Surely,’ said he, ‘this

age has more general information, and therefore more virtue, more

wisdom, than the past. There cannot be another meal-tub plot. No Titus

Oates could now impose his execrable fictions on mankind. Or is it

possible that sophistry may have convinced itself that it is better

twelve men, the partisans of reform, should die, than that Government

should seem to have disgraced itself by asserting the existence of a

treasonable conspiracy without any proof?’ At one moment he could not

believe himself in danger: at the next, the facts that stared him in the

face destroyed every ground of rational calculation, and left the mind

bewildered in suspense. It was at this period that Mr Holcroft addressed

the following letter to his daughter and her husband, who were in

Devonshire.[12]

‘MY DEAR FRIENDS AND CHILDREN, The reason of my writing to you at this

moment is to prevent any unnecessary alarm; to which, indeed, I hope you

would not have been very liable, even if I had not written, and if you

had previously heard the strange intelligence I am about to communicate,

through any other channel.

‘It is asserted in the Morning Post of to-day, and I have before

received the same information from various people, that a bill is to be

presented to the Grand Jury, containing a charge of high-treason against

thirteen persons, of whom I am one. As it is impossible that either this

or any other crime against the Government can be proved on me (my

principles and practice having been so totally opposite to such supposed

crimes) I hope, and most seriously recommend that you will feel the same

tranquillity I do. The charge is so false and so absurd, that it has not

once made my heart beat. For my own part, I feel no enmity against

those, who endeavour thus to injure me; being persuaded, that in this,

as in all other instances, it is but the guilt of ignorance. They think

they are doing their duty: I will continue to do mine, to the very

utmost of my power; and on that will cheerfully rest my safety. I must

again conjure you to feel neither alarm nor uneasiness. Remember the

most virtuous of men are liable to be misunderstood, and falsely

accused. But the virtuous man has no need to fear accusation. If it be

true that my name is in the indictment, it will oblige me again to defer

the happiness of seeing you, and the hope of recruiting my health by the

excursion. Of the latter it is true I have need, and to be a witness of

your happiness would give me no small pleasure: but the man of fortitude

knows how to submit to all necessities; and if he be wise, frequently to

turn events which others consider as most disastrous, to some beneficent

end. Shall I own to you, that though I could not wish to be falsely

accused, yet being so accused, I now feel an anxious desire to be heard?

Let my principles and actions be inquired into, and published: if they

have been erroneous, let them become moral lessons to others; if the

reverse, the instruction they will afford may more effectually answer

the same purpose. I hope, Sophy, you know something of me: endeavour to

communicate what you know to Mr Cole, and your mutual fears will then

surely be very few. Observe that, as I have yet received no notice

whatever from Government, I have the above intelligence only from

report. If it be false, I shall soon be with you: if the contrary, you

of course will hear from me the moment I have any thing to communicate.

Be happy, act virtuously, and disdain to live the slaves of fear.’

_Newman-street, Sept. 30th, 1794._

On the same day he sent the following letter to the Morning Post, which

was published the next day.

‘_To the Editor of the Morning Post._

‘SIR, In your paper of yesterday, my name is mentioned among those said

to be inserted in a bill to be presented to a Grand Jury on Thursday

next, containing charges of high-treason. If this be the fact, I have no

wish to influence the public opinion, by a previous affirmation of my

own innocence: I desire only to appear before my country. However, as I

have not been a day absent from home for more than twelve months, and

never received from any magistrate the least intimation of any suspicion

against me; till I have official notice, my own consciousness obliges me

to consider your intelligence as unfounded.

‘In either case, it is a duty I owe myself to declare that I am now, and

always shall be, ready to answer every accusation.’

The see-saw of contradictory reports continued for some days. A daily

paper asserted, and as it professed, with authority, that the rumour of

Mr Holcroft’s being included in the indictment was absolutely false: and

a friend, who had determined (should it prove true) to give him every

aid in his power, quitted town the very day before the bill was

returned. Mr Holcroft was preparing to do the same. Not only he indeed,

but all his friends had concluded that the report would prove false, it

being so excessively improbable. In this mistake he remained till

Monday, October 6th, at three in the afternoon; when another friend came

running to inform him that he had that moment come from Hickes’s Hall,

where he had heard an indictment for high-treason read against twelve

persons, of whom he was one. Mr Holcroft’s sensations were of a kind not

easily to be described; but he neither felt excessive indignation,

excessive alarm, nor any of those passions which might perhaps have been

excusable in his situation.

The friend who had brought the intelligence, felt less determined. He

was a man of an acute mind, but a lawyer; and knowing the equivocal

spirit of law, and the hazard incurred from the ignorance or prejudice

even of the best-intentioned jurymen, he advised immediate flight. Mr

Holcroft had, however, no great difficulty in convincing him that his

resolution was taken. He had now to communicate the event with as much

caution as possible to his family. And here he had a most painful scene

to undergo. His father (who was now with him) in a passionate burst of

tears, intreaties, and exclamations, conjured him to fly. His age, and

the circumstances in which he had lived, rendered him a very unfit

counsellor for such an occasion; and the only means Mr Holcroft had of

calming his agitated spirits, was by the firmness of his own behaviour,

his declared resolution to face his accusers, and, by appealing to his

own knowledge of him, how far it was possible he should be guilty.

The intrepidity of his behaviour inspired his parents and children with

courage. He thought it prudent however to leave them, that he might

consult with his own mind, and with some friends, concerning the

properest mode of surrendering himself; and learning that the court was

to meet the next day, at Hickes’s Hall, he went to the house of his

solicitor and friend, Mr Foulkes, where, with some other persons, he

supped. He did not return home, but slept here.

The next morning he appeared in court, accompanied by his solicitor and

another gentleman of the law; where, as soon as the business of the

court would permit, he thus addressed himself to Lord Chief Justice

Eyre.

_Mr Holcroft._ ‘My Lord, being informed that a bill for high-treason has

been preferred against me, Thomas Holcroft, by His Majesty’s Attorney

General, and returned a true bill by a Grand Jury of these realms, I

come to surrender myself to this court, and my country, to be put upon

my trial, that, if I am a guilty man, the whole extent of my guilt may

become notorious; and, if innocent, that the rectitude of my principles

and conduct may be no less public. And I hope, my Lord, there is no

appearance of vaunting in assuring your lordship, this court, and my

country, that, after the misfortune of having been suspected as an enemy

to the peace and happiness of mankind, there is nothing on earth, after

which, as an individual, I more ardently aspire than a full, fair, and

public examination.—I have further to request, that your lordship will

inform me, if it be not the practice in these cases, to assign counsel,

and to suffer the accused to speak in his own defence? Likewise, whether

free egress and regress be not allowed to such persons, books, and

papers, as the accused or his counsel shall deem necessary for

justification?’

_Chief Justice._ ‘With regard to the first, Sir, it will be the duty of

the court to assign you counsel, and also to order that such counsel

shall have free access to you at all proper hours. With respect, Sir, to

the liberty of speaking for yourself, the accused will be fully heard by

himself, as well as by his counsel; but with regard to papers, books,

and other things of that kind, it is impossible for me to say any thing

precisely, until the thing required be asked. However, Sir, you may

depend upon it, every thing will be granted to the party accused, so as

to enable him to make his defence.—If I understand you rightly, you now

admit that you are the person standing indicted by the name of Thomas

Holcroft.’

_Mr Holcroft._ ‘That, indeed, my Lord, is what I cannot affirm—I have it

only from report.’

_Chief Justice._ ‘You come here to surrender yourself; and I can only

accept of that surrender on the supposition that you are the person so

indicted. You know the consequence, Sir, of being indicted for

high-treason. I shall be under the necessity of ordering you into

custody. I would not wish to take any advantage of your coming forward

in person, indiscreetly, in this manner, without being called upon by

the ordinary processes of the law. You should have a moment to consider

whether you surrender yourself as that person.’

_Mr Holcroft._ ‘It is certainly not my wish, either to inflict upon

myself unnecessary punishment, or to put myself in unnecessary danger. I

come only as Thomas Holcroft, of Newman Street, in the county of

Middlesex; and I certainly do not wish to stand more forward than an

innocent person ought to stand.’

_Chief Justice._ ‘I cannot enter into this point. If you admit yourself

to be the person indicted, the consequence must be, that I must order

you to be taken into custody to answer this charge. I do not know

whether you are or are not Thomas Holcroft. I do not know you; and

therefore it is impossible for me to know whether you are the person

stated in the indictment.’

_Mr Holcroft._ ‘It is equally impossible for me, my Lord.’

_Chief Justice._ ‘Why then, Sir, I think you had better sit still.—Is

there any thing moved on the part of the crown with respect to this

gentleman?’

_Solicitor General._ ‘My lord, as I consider him to be the person

against whom a true bill is found, I move that he be committed.’

_Chief Justice._ ‘I do not know how many persons there may be of the

name of Thomas Holcroft: it would be rather extraordinary to commit a

person on this charge, if we do not know him.’

This produced a short consultation between the solicitor general, the

other counsel for the crown, and Mr White. They were evidently

surprised, and not pleased, at his appearance; and one of them, Mr

Knapp, began an argument to prove that he admitted himself to be the

person indicted. He was interrupted by the Chief Justice, who again

asked if the counsel for the crown thought fit to move that he should be

committed? which was accordingly moved by the Solicitor General; and he

was taken into custody by a Sheriff’s Officer, Mr Cawdron.

After naming Messieurs Erskine and Gibbs for his counsel, Mr Holcroft

asked the bench whether he might be allowed an amanuensis, while he was

preparing his defence; but this request was declined by the Chief

Justice, unless it was urged on the score of health. Mr Holcroft was

really in a state of ill-health; but as that was not his motive for

asking it, he would not take advantage of this circumstance.

The court then adjourned; but he was detained three quarters of an hour:

the reason assigned was, that the warrant was making out; but Mr

Holcroft believed the true reason to be, that the crown-lawyers were

consulting how he was to be treated, and sending to the higher powers

for instructions.

About half-past one o’clock the same day, a person came to Mr Holcroft’s

house, in Newman Street, inquired if he was at home, and seemed at first

unwilling to tell his business. He said he came from Mr Munden; but

afterwards owned he was not a friend of Mr Munden, but pretended that he

had been with him to inquire Mr Holcroft’s place of abode. He repeatedly

asked the Miss Holcrofts if they were sure he was not at home; and they

by this time suspecting him to be an officer, replied, he might search

the house, though he might be assured their father was not at home, for

that he had never taught them to tell untruths; and to prove their

sincerity, added, that he was gone to the Privy Council to surrender

himself. ‘No;’ answered he; ‘that he certainly is not; _for I am but

just come from the Privy Council_.’ He then shewed his watch, that they

might take notice it was half-past one o’clock. Mr Holcroft’s daughters

replied, that they might be mistaken, and if so, that he was gone to the

Old Bailey.—Being now understood to be a messenger, they asked if he

intended to come in and take their father’s papers; for, on shewing his

authority, he was at liberty to make any search. He replied, that _there

was quite sufficient without the papers_; after which, he went away,

saying, that if the accused had surrendered himself, it would save him

trouble.

These circumstances being related to Mr Holcroft, led him to believe

that a messenger had been despatched from Hickes’s Hall to the Privy

Council; and that to preserve the decorum of authority, this person had

then been sent to his house: for the effrontery of surrendering himself

was by his prosecutors and their partisans thought intolerable.

After waiting a considerable time, the warrant at length appeared, and

the prisoner was attended to Newgate by the officer and one of the

under-sheriffs; both of whom behaved to him with great politeness. Here,

instead of being committed to close confinement like the other persons

accused, he was allowed the same liberty of walking in the court-yard,

and visiting his fellow-prisoners, which is granted to persons confined

for inferior crimes.

The step which Mr Holcroft had taken, as soon as it was known, excited

the admiration of his friends, and probably of his enemies: though the

latter were careful to keep this feeling within their own bosoms. The

hireling prints of the day immediately began to pour out their dastardly

sneers and mechanical abuse against him, converting an act of true

fortitude, arising from conscious integrity, into the vapouring of a

hypocrite, who wished to gain the reputation of courage without the

risk. The following paragraph appeared two days after in the St. James’s

Chronicle.

‘Mr Holcroft, the play-wright and performer, pretty well known for the

democratical sentiments which he has industriously scattered through the

lighter works of literature, such as plays, novels, songs, etc.

surrendered himself on Tuesday at Clerkenwell Sessions House, requesting

to know if he was the person against whom the Grand Jury had found a

Bill for High Treason. After some little altercation, in which Mr

Holcroft seemed to affect some consequence, he was ordered into custody.

This gentleman seems so fond of speechifying, that he will probably

plead his own cause in part, though Counsel were assigned him. _We do

not understand he is in any imminent danger; and suppose, from his

behaviour, he has the idea of obtaining the reputation of a martyr to

liberty at an easy rate._ We have that respect for some efforts of his

talents, that we really hope his vanity will be gratified _with having

run the danger, without suffering the punishment, of a traitor_!’

What a pleasant kind of government that must be, which is so fond of

playing at this mock tragedy of indictments for high-treason, with any

person who wishes to gain popularity at their expense, that the danger

arising from their prosecutions is made a subject of jest and

buffoonery, even by their own creatures! This miserable scribbler seems

not to have been aware, that while he was accusing Mr Holcroft of vanity

and shallow cunning, he was bringing the most serious charge against the

Ministers; as if they trifled with the lives and characters of an

individual, on such absurd and improbable evidence, that not only the

person himself, but every one else, must laugh at his supposed danger.

It was, however, in consequence of this fine opportunity, thoughtlessly

afforded him by his prosecutors, for ensuring popularity ‘at an easy

rate,’ that Mr Holcroft was afterwards shunned by numbers of plain,

well-meaning people, who were persuaded that high-treason was a serious

thing; that he was branded as ‘an acquitted felon;’ that he became a

mark for venal pens and slanderous tongues; that he met with continued

unrelenting hostility in his attempts to succeed as a dramatic writer;

that he was at last driven from his country as a proscribed man; that

when abroad he was singled out, suspected, and pointed at as a spy; and

that after he returned home, harassed by repeated disappointment, he

closed a life of literary labour and active benevolence, with a fear

that his name might remain as a blot upon his family after his death.

And all this, because Mr Holcroft had, by some strange accident, through

sport or wantonness, been included in an indictment for high-treason:

for his innocence was so notorious, that at the time he delivered

himself up, he was insulted by the partisans of the Ministers for having

wished to purchase the reputation of a martyr at an easy rate; and that

he was afterwards acquitted without being even brought to a trial, there

not being the least evidence, or shadow of evidence, against him. Mr

Holcroft was not only not called upon to make any defence, but he was

prevented from making one, as altogether unnecessary and impertinent,

the prosecution against him having been withdrawn. Could a prosecution

of this kind reflect real disgrace on the person so accused and so

acquitted?

Locked within the walls of Newgate, Mr Holcroft had full time for

meditation. His first duty was to defend himself by shewing the

falsehood of the accusation: but it was a duty which at this time he

knew not how to discharge. He had no documents, nor could he tell of

what he was accused.

He had remained in this suspense a few days, when Mr Kirby, the keeper

of Newgate, one morning came, desired that he would follow him, and led

him through the otherwise impassable gates to an apartment in his own

house. Here he was introduced to Mr White, the Solicitor for the

Treasury, and his two clerks; and this gentleman presented him with the

indictment, a list of witnesses, and another list of the jurymen

summoned for these trials: informing him at the same time that the Crown

would grant as many subpœnas, without expense, as he should think proper

to demand. Mr Holcroft received the indictment, bowed, withdrew, and was

re-conducted to the place of confinement.

His eagerness to examine the charges brought against him, the list of

the witnesses who were his accusers, and the names of the persons by

some of whom he was to be tried, was great: so was the astonishment he

felt after examining the papers. He was indicted with eleven other

persons in the same bill, for whose actions he was to answer, when, or

wheresoever committed, though totally without his knowledge or

participation. There was not a specific statement of any one action of

the prisoner: but general affirmations concerning the collective actions

of twelve men, together with other unknown conspirators, which, with

regard to himself at least, he knew to be absolutely, and without

exception, false. A promiscuous list of 208 witnesses was also given

him, nine-tenths of whom were utter strangers to him, in person, abode,

and even name; and of whom not one had any possible charge to bring

against him. Yet he was left, out of all this inexplicable confusion, to

conjecture (if he could) who were his accusers; and of what they were to

accuse him. Mr Holcroft intended to have entered a protest to this

effect against the indictment, but he was overruled by his counsel.

The Tuesday following the trials began. ‘And perhaps this country,’ says

Mr Holcroft, ‘never witnessed a moment more portentous. The hearts and

countenances of men seemed pregnant with doubt and terror. They waited,

in something like a stupor of amazement, for the fearful sentence on

which their deliverance, or their destruction, seemed to depend. Never

surely was the public mind more profoundly agitated. The whole power of

Government was directed against Thomas Hardy: in his fate seemed

involved the fate of the nation, and the verdict of Not Guilty appeared

to burst its bonds, and to have released it from inconceivable miseries,

and ages of impending slavery. The acclamations of the Old Bailey

reverberated from the farthest shores of Scotland, and a whole people

felt the enthusiastic transport of recovered freedom.’

Though no person partook more largely than Mr Holcroft of the general

joy, it was not on his own account. It was a conviction which he could

not get from his mind, that his accusers had never any intention of

producing evidence against him. Yet knowing how dangerous it might be to

be found unprepared, he had laboured at his defence with the same ardour

as if he were sure of being brought to trial: and the belief that he

should not, was the only thought that gave him pain. To be thus publicly

accused, and not as publicly heard, to have it supposed through the

kingdom that he was involved in transactions, which though surely not

treasonable, were such as he could not but highly disapprove, and of

which he never heard till the reports of the Secret Committee were

published, this was an evil which he would have given his right hand to

have avoided. After the trial of Mr Tooke, he plainly foresaw that he

should not be called upon for his defence. He hoped, however, that he

should be permitted to state a few simple facts concerning himself in

the open court: but neither was this allowed him.

Mr Holcroft was committed to Newgate on the 7th of October, where he

remained eight weeks within a day. On Saturday, November the 29th, he

received the following notice.

‘The KING against THOMAS HARDY, and others.

‘I am directed, by Mr Attorney-General, to inform you that it is his

intention that you should be brought to the bar at the Old Bailey, on

Monday morning next; and that a jury should then be sworn for your

trial, but that he does not propose to give evidence against you upon

this indictment.

JOSEPH WHITE,

_Solicitor for the Crown,

29th Nov. 1794_.

‘_To Thomas Holcroft,

one of the defendants in

the above indictment._’

On Monday, December 1st, Mr Bonney, Mr Kyd, Mr Joyce, and Mr Holcroft,

were put to the bar; and in the language of the court, honourably

acquitted. The other gentlemen bowed, and retired: Mr Holcroft attempted

to speak, and the Chief Justice seemed at first willing that he should

go on, though a thing not customary; but Mr Holcroft having intimated

that he should detain the court nearly half an hour, he was immediately

ordered to withdraw. Whether he was not wrong in expecting such a

favour, and consequently in subjecting himself to a refusal, I will not

here pretend to determine; but I confess it was a mistake, which men in

general may safely blame, for it proceeded from motives which few

persons are capable of feeling.

The chief circumstances which Mr Holcroft meant to have stated in the

defence he had drawn up, were, that his prosecutors had proof, that,

instead of being a traitor, a mover of war and rebellion, and a killer

of kings, he was a man, whose principles and practice were the very

reverse. That evidence to this effect had been given before the Privy

Council; and that there was no evidence whatever that he was in any

instance a disturber of the public peace. That in the Constitutional

Society of which he was a member, and under pretence of which he had

been indicted for high-treason, he was theoretically the adversary of

all force whatever; and that practically he concurred with the members

who were most desirous of promoting reform, in urging that it must be by

the peaceable means of persuasion, by the conviction of the

understanding, not by force of arms. The proofs which Mr Holcroft had of

these particulars, were the evidence of Mr Sharp, the engraver, and Mr

Symmonds. Mr Holcroft having written to Mr Sharp, desiring an account of

his examination, received the following answer.

‘_Copy of my [that is, Mr Sharp’s] testimony, which I signed at the

Privy-Council._

‘The Society for Constitutional Information adjourned, and left the

delegates in the room. The most gentleman-like person (of the

Corresponding Society), took the chair, and talked about an equal

representation of the people, and of putting an end to war. Holcroft

talked about the Powers of the Human Mind.’

‘This’ [says Mr Sharp,] ‘is the whole that I signed. The other

particulars of the conversation before the Privy-Council are as follows.

‘Mr Holcroft talked a great deal about Peace, of his being against any

violent or coercive means, that were usually resorted to against our

fellow-creatures; urged the more powerful operation of Philosophy and

Reason, to convince man of his errors; that he would disarm his greatest

enemy by those means, and oppose his fury.—Spoke also about Truth being

powerful; and gave advice to the above effect to the delegates present,

who all seemed to agree, as no person opposed his arguments. This

conversation lasted better than an hour, and we departed. The next time

the delegates met, Holcroft was not present. This is the substance of

what I remember of that conversation.’

Mr Sharp was again examined before the Grand Jury; and this was his

evidence. ‘I mentioned Mr Holcroft’s disposition and conversation, when

we met, about reasoning men out of their errors, who was a sort of

natural Quaker, and was for the peaceable means that philosophy and

reason point out to convince mankind. He was _against violence of all

kinds_; but did not believe in the secret impulses of the Spirit, like

the Quakers.’

The evidence of Mr Symmonds was to the same purpose.—Mr Adams, also, the

secretary of the Constitutional Society, had several times declared his

utter astonishment that Mr Holcroft in particular could be indicted;

because of the repeated and ardent manner in which he, and every body

had heard him declare his sentiments in favour of peace and

non-resistance.

On evidence like this was Mr Holcroft indicted and committed to prison

as guilty of high-treason.

The only circumstance which seems to throw any light on this mysterious

transaction, which resembles a dream, or the extravagance of a

bewildered imagination, rather than any thing real, is the following.

Some months before the presenting the bill of indictment, Mr Holcroft

had called, with another friend, on Mr Sharp, who had been apprehended,

but was suffered to remain in his own house in the custody of an

officer. Mr Holcroft made some remarks intimating his dislike of

violence. This the officer, who was a King’s messenger, but of a lower

and more illiterate order, seemed to feel as an attack upon his

profession; and turning to Mr Holcroft, whom he no doubt conceived to be

a dangerous person, he affirmed that he had seen him at the meetings of

the Corresponding Society. This was denied; and he again asserted he had

seen him there. The man who could imagine and persist in one falsehood,

might imagine and persist in another. On his repeating his assertion, Mr

Holcroft said to him, ‘It is a wicked lie, Sir.’ The man afterwards

said, that if he had not seen him at the Corresponding Society, he had

seen him at Mr Thelwall’s lectures; to which Mr Holcroft replied, that

he had been present once, and never but once, at a lecture delivered by

Mr Thelwall. This short scene was, however, construed into a design to

affront the officer, produce violence, and favour the escape of Mr

Sharp; over whom, on the man’s reporting this tale at the Privy Council,

a double guard was placed the next day.

Such is the history of the share which Mr Holcroft had in the trials for

High Treason.[13]

CHAPTER IV

Mr Holcroft may be considered from this time as a public character; for

the remainder of his life in a great measure received its colour from

his conduct on this occasion, and from the opinion and feelings of the

public with respect to him. These were of course much divided. That he

had been accused of high-treason, was sufficient to draw forth the

hatred, execrations, and unqualified abuse of one party; that he was an

object of the open and rankling animosity of this party, was in like

manner the cause of the favour he received from the violent and vulgar

of the opposite party. But there was a third class of persons, inferior

in number, as they necessarily would be, of whom Mr Holcroft might

perhaps be considered as the head, namely, those, who being detached

either by inclination or situation, from the violence of either party,

admired him for the firmness and honesty of his behaviour, and for the

bold but benevolent tendency of his principles. His principles, indeed,

were of such a kind, that they could not but strike and win upon the

admiration of young and ingenuous minds, of those whose hearts are warm,

and their imaginations strong and active, and whose generous and

aspiring impulses seem almost to demonstrate the efficacy of

disinterested and enlightened motives over the human mind, till it is

hardened, depressed, distorted from its original direction, and bowed

down under the yoke of example and prejudice. In this view of the

subject, indeed, we should be tempted to assert, that men do not become

what by nature they are meant to be, but what society makes them. The

generous feelings, and higher propensities of the soul are, as it were,

shrunk up, seared, violently wrenched, and amputated, to fit us for our

intercourse with the world, something in the manner that beggars maim

and mutilate their children, to make them fit for their future situation

in life.

That love of truth and virtue which seems at all times natural to

liberal minded youth, was at this time carried to a pitch of enthusiasm,

as well by the extraordinary events that had taken place, as by the

romantic prospects of ideal excellence which were pictured in the

writings of philosophers and poets. A new world was opening to the

astonished sight. Scenes, lovely as hope can paint, dawned on the

imagination: visions of unsullied bliss lulled the senses, and hid the

darkness of surrounding objects, rising in bright succession and endless

gradations, like the steps of that ladder which was once set up on the

earth, and whose top reached to heaven. Nothing was too mighty for this

new-begotten hope: and the path that led to human happiness seemed as

plain—as the pictures in the Pilgrim’s Progress leading to Paradise.

Imagination was unable to keep pace with the gigantic strides of reason,

and the strongest faith fell short of the supposed reality. This

anticipation of what men were to become, could not but have an influence

on what they were. The standard of morality was raised high: and this

circumstance must excite an ardent emulation in the minds of many

persons to set an example of true and disinterested virtue, unshackled

by the prejudices or interests of those around them. The curb of

prudence was taken off; nor was it thought that a zeal for what was

right could be carried to an excess. There is no doubt that this system

would be taken advantage of by the selfish and hypocritical to further

their own views at the expense of others: but it is equally certain that

it would add new force to the practice of virtue in the liberal and

well-disposed mind.

Kind feelings and generous actions there always have been, and there

always will be, while the intercourse of mankind shall endure: but the

hope, that such feelings and such actions might become universal, rose

and set with the French revolution. That light seems to have been

extinguished for ever in this respect. The French revolution was the

only match that ever took place between philosophy and experience: and

waking from the trance of theory to the sense of reality, we hear the

words, _truth_, _reason_, _virtue_, _liberty_, with the same

indifference or contempt, that the cynic who has married a jilt or a

termagant, listens to the rhapsodies of lovers.[14]

The ‘Narrative of Facts,’ was shortly after followed by the ‘Letter to

Mr Windham,’ in consequence of the expression ‘acquitted felon,’ applied

by him to the persons lately tried. This letter is written in the spirit

of a philosopher addressing a philosopher. It is certainly one of the

best productions of the day. It is temperate, firm, acute, and forcible.

Of the spirit in which it is written, equally remote from insipid

affectation, or vulgar abuse, the introductory paragraph may be given as

an example. It is as follows.

‘SIR, The members of the House of Commons have arrogated to themselves

many customs and privileges; which they consider, some as rights to

indulge in parliamentary invective, and others, as limitations to those

rights. Personalities affecting members of that house, are contrary to

order; but men, unprotected by the sanctified walls of St. Stephen’s

chapel, may be the objects of assertions, which, if made any where else,

would subject the authors of them to such correction as the law affords;

or as honour, half idiot, half demon, demands. For my own part, I should

never attempt to unsheath the sword of the law, much less the sword of

the assassin: at least, if it were possible to oblige me to the former,

the case must indeed be extreme. Under such defence as the law affords,

I have been, and may again be obliged to shield myself against false

charges; for I have no better public protection. But that a man of keen

sensibility, and quick apprehension, whose distinctions and

discriminations are frequently so fine drawn, and so shaded, that like

colours in the rainbow, their mingled differences cannot be discerned;

that a man who labours to be so cautious in his logic, should so often

be hurried into the spleen of a cynic, the rashness of a boy, and the

petulance of a child, is something extraordinary. There may be many such

characters, but they are seldom so situated, as to obtrude themselves so

frequently and forcibly as you have done into public notice. However,

when they do, they are well worthy the attention of the politician and

the philosopher, the man of business and the man of science. My purpose

in this address, is not to write a libel, or to display my talents for

satire. It has a more worthy purpose. It is to warn you and the nation

against the effervescence of your passions. The intemperance of public

men is tremendously awful at all times; but when it plunges millions

into all the miseries of war, it rises into inexpressible horror. It is

strange, that from real benevolence of intention, mischiefs which fable

ascribes to fiends, should be the result. Yet this apparent paradox has

of late been too repeatedly, and too carefully proved. You, Sir, and

that extraordinary man, Mr Burke, whose kind, but erroneous heart, whose

splendid, but ill-employed talents, have led you astray, are among the

examples.’

It was not my intention to have troubled the reader with any farther

remarks on the subject of the trial; but there is one passage in Mr

Holcroft’s letter, which exposes the sophistry and the injustice of the

phrase, which is the subject of it, in so clear and masterly a manner,

that I cannot forbear quoting it.

‘Figure to yourself, Sir, the first on the list of these acquitted

felons, Hardy. What were his views? What his incitements? A man of no

learning, excellent in his morals, simple in his manners, and whether

they were wise or foolish, highly virtuous in his intentions. Do you

imagine he meant to make himself prime minister? Were these the marks of

a prime minister? Had he the daring spirit, the deep plans, and the

towering genius of a Cromwell? No one will affirm things so extravagant.

He was a good and an active man in his endeavour to procure a

parliamentary reform. This he thought, and I think, would have been the

greatest of public blessings. For this he was tried, and declared NOT

GUILTY. The whole country rang with the verdict, and the affections of

the people were divided between joy at his deliverance and their own,

and the contemplation of an innocent man, who had so long been in danger

of the most dreadful and barbarous death, the merciless law decrees.

Compare such a man to an “acquitted felon,” who has escaped by the means

you have enumerated: a man, who so far from exciting the benevolent

wishes of a whole people, keeps all who ever heard his name in a state

of dread, lest he should meet them on the highway, or break into their

houses by night, and murder them in their sleep. Some such action,

perhaps many such, he has already committed. At last he is taken; and

knowing no better mode, they hope by his death to be freed from their

fears. They are disappointed: a flaw in the indictment, a misnomer, or

some technical blunder is committed: he is set free, and they are again

subject to his depredations, and to all their former terrors. Will you

affirm, Sir, that there are any common qualities, any kindred

sympathies, any moral resemblance, between such a man and Thomas

Hardy?—Whatever the feelings of the people of England were before these

trials, be assured they cannot now endure a repetition of such odious

falsehoods. You could not be then ignorant of the public sentiment, and

in your burning haste to do right, you could not be guilty of this

intolerable wrong, were your imagination less heated, and your

intercourse with different ranks of people more general. You may perhaps

now and then hear a dissentient voice: but you usually mix with men,

who, like the parrot educated on-board a man-of-war, can only repeat the

same outrages, and the same insults. You hear nothing else, and nothing

else can you say. Would, Sir, you would keep better company!’

The very just distinction which Mr Holcroft draws between the errors of

such men as Pitt and Dundas, who were actuated almost entirely by

interest and ambition, and those of men, like Burke or Windham,[15] who

were actuated almost entirely by imagination, system, and reasoning,

shews that the letter-writer himself was not a vulgar politician;

joining in the common cry of a party.

CHAPTER V

‘Love’s Frailties’ came out in the beginning of 1794, at Covent-Garden.

This play met with indifferent success, of which the principal cause was

a supposed allusion to political subjects in some passages. One of these

in particular excited the most violent resentment: ‘A sentence in itself

so true,’ says Mr Holcroft, ‘as to have been repeated under a thousand

different modes; and under a variety of forms and phraseology, to have

been proverbial in all countries.’ This obnoxious passage was the one,

in which Craig Campbell, when insulted by a fashionable coxcomb, who

asks what profession he was bred to, says that ‘he was bred to the most

useless, and often the most worthless, of all professions, that of a

gentleman.’ In this comedy, the author has more pointedly than in any

other, set up the claims of worth and virtue, against the arrogant

assumptions of wealth and rank. That virtue alone confers true dignity,

has however been the common-place theme of teachers of morality and

religion, in all ages. But such at this time, was the irritation of

party feeling, that to exhibit the force of this trite maxim on the

stage, seems to have been regarded as an innovation on common sense, and

as big with the seeds of social disorganisation.

‘The Deserted Daughter,’ ‘The Man of Ten Thousand,’ ‘The Force of

Ridicule,’ and ‘Knave or Not,’ successively appeared in 1795, 1796,

1797, and 1798. The three last of these appeared at Drury-Lane. ‘The

Deserted Daughter,’ and ‘He’s much to Blame,’ were acted at

Covent-Garden.

Of all these ‘The Deserted Daughter’ was received with the greatest

applause, and it is perhaps the best of Mr Holcroft’s serious comedies.

The characters of Mordent, of Lady Ann, and particularly of the faithful

old servant, Donald, are drawn with great force and feeling. The

character of Mordent is that of a philosopher, moralizing on the

passions and vices of other men, and hurried away by his own. He has

abandoned, or refused to own a daughter, the offspring of a former

clandestine marriage, in order to avoid the sneers of the world, and the

contempt of the rich and powerful connexions of his second wife. He

maintains and brings her up as a natural daughter, but without seeing or

acknowledging her. This the girl, who has a high spirit and quick

sensibility, resents as an unmerited punishment; and determines either

to be suffered to cast herself at her father’s feet, and for once

receive his blessing, or to throw herself on the mercy of strangers. In

consequence of this, she is decoyed into a house of ill fame, by one of

the hoary priestesses of vice, under pretence of affording her

employment at her needle; and here she is in danger of falling into the

hands of one of Mordent’s profligate friends, who is himself accessary

to the plot for carrying her off, at the moment that, by the

indefatigable zeal of Donald, who had traced her to this abode of

infamy, she is discovered to be his daughter. The scenes which follow

this discovery are highly interesting; and through the whole of the

character of Mordent, the conflict between a sense of duty, pride, and

dissipation, is pourtrayed with strong touches of truth and nature.

Cheveril is a lively, amusing character, and represents with a good deal

of risible effect, one of those careless, good-natured young fellows,

who would be thought ‘sad wicked dogs,’ but cannot prevail on themselves

to do any harm.

Dorington, ‘The Man of Ten Thousand,’ may be considered as a benevolent

Timon. After living in the most splendid and profuse hospitality, he

suddenly loses his immense wealth, and with it his friends; but he does

not at the same time lose either his senses or his philosophy. He

preserves in the midst of the most mortifying reverses, the same calm

dignity, and evenness of mind. Great as this effort of heroism is, it is

managed in such a manner as not to appear unnatural or extravagant.

Olivia, his mistress, is by no means so interesting a character. She is

the blemish of the piece. Her notions of virtue are too fastidious by

half, and she exacts conformity to her standard of perfection, with a

dogmatical severity, which would scarcely sit well on a Stoic. Neither

is her behaviour explained to Dorington in so satisfactory a manner as

it ought to have been. The subordinate characters of Herbert and Annabel

are described with extreme tenderness and simplicity. They exhibit an

amiable picture of those qualities which often spring directly from a

guileless heart, without the artificial refinements of sentiment or

reason. Hairbrain is a character of the same school, and must have had a

very good effect in the hands of Bannister, who played it. Kemble and

Miss Farren were the representatives of Dorington and Olivia.

‘Knave or Not,’ as well as ‘The Man of Ten Thousand,’ was brought out at

Drury-Lane. Its success was not very flattering. The advertisement

prefixed by the author to the published play, will explain some of the

reasons of this, as well as describe the most striking features of the

play itself.

‘The unrelenting opposition, which the productions of the author of the

present comedy have experienced for several years, is well known to

those who pay attention to our public amusements. It is not for him to

pronounce how far this opposition has been merited by inability. Since

the appearance of the Road to Ruin, his comedy of the Deserted Daughter

only has escaped: and that, as he imagines, because it was not known on

the first night of its performance, by whom it was written. Love’s

Frailties, The Man of Ten Thousand, and Knave or Not, have sustained

increasing marks of hostility: so that the efforts made to afford

rational amusement to the public, emolument to the author, and

improvement to morals, have been rendered feeble, and almost

ineffectual. In the last instance, one mistake appears to have pervaded

the majority of the spectators. It was imagined that the author himself

was as unqualified a libeller of mankind as Monrose: in which character

the writer’s individual sentiments were supposed to have been

incorporated. Those who have read his other works cannot surely

attribute to him any such indiscriminate misanthropy. The accusation

that has been most generally made against him is, that he thinks men

capable of gradations of virtue, which others affirm they can never

attain. Persons, who have made the human mind their study, have

discovered that guilty men exert the whole force of their faculties to

justify their own course of action to themselves. To this principle the

writer was strictly attentive in pourtraying the character of Monrose.

His design was to draw a man of genius, misled by his passions,

reasoning on his actions, systematising them, condemning them in

principle, but justifying them in practice, and heating his imagination

by contemplating the crimes of others; that he might still retain that

respect for himself, of which the strongest minds, even in the last

stages of vice, are so tenacious. How far that spirit of faction,

commotion, and anarchy, of which the author has long been, and is still,

so vehemently accused, is to be traced in the present comedy, may now be

seen. Sincerely desirous of giving no offence, the passages which were

most disapproved, or to speak more accurately, reprobated, on the first

night, have since been omitted in representation; but they are printed

between inverted commas, that the cool judgment may decide whether the

author could have been so insane as actually to intend to inflame the

spectators, and increase a spirit of enmity between men of different

sentiments: whom could he reconcile, he would account it the most

heart-consoling action of his life.

‘Before the comedy appeared, all parties were anxious that no sentence

or word should be spoken, which could be liable to misrepresentation.

Some few passages, therefore, are committed to the press, which never

were spoken on the stage; particularly the passage, where Monrose

inquires into his qualifications for being a lord. A few years ago, this

would have been common-place satire; and it is a subject of no little

regret, that at present local and temporary applications are so liable

to be made where none are intended.’

The jealousy which was thus manifested of sentiments, either of liberty

or public virtue, was perhaps as inconsiderate as it was unjust. When

the tragedy of Cato was first played, at a time when party zeal ran

high, the Whigs applauded all the strong passages in the play, as a

satire on the Tories; and the Tories were as loud in their applause as

the Whigs, to shew that the satire was unfelt. But the ‘horrors’ of the

French Revolution were, it seems, to become a Medusa’s shield to screen

every species of existing vice or folly from the glance even of

ridicule, and to render them invulnerable and incorrigible. To stickle

obstinately for the abuses to which any system is liable is tacitly to

identify the system with the abuse.

In the characters of Susan and Jonas in this play, Mr Holcroft has been

guilty of that common vice among the authors of the present day, of

trusting less to the characters themselves, than to the persons who were

to act them. They are well adapted to shew the powers of acting in Mrs.

Jordan, and Bannister, who might probably make them amusing or

interesting; but they certainly stand in need of this foreign aid to

produce such an effect.

‘He’s much to Blame’ was acted at Covent-Garden in 1798, with great and

deserved success. It is a truly elegant comedy. The characters,

particularly that of Sir George Versatile, are amusing and original; and

the situations, which arise in the progress of the story, give birth to

some of the most natural and delicate strokes of passion. The scene at

the masquerade, where Maria is discovered by Sir George, is perhaps the

most striking; the unaffected and artless expression of her feelings

produces an effect which is irresistible. The easiness of Sir George’s

temper, and the facility with which he accommodates himself to other

people’s humours, without any design or hypocrisy, are admirably

described. The passions are less strongly moved in this comedy than in

the Deserted Daughter, but they are moved with less effort, and with

more pleasure to the reader. Neither has it any thing like the same

bustle and broad effect as the Road to Ruin: but in ease, lightness, and

a certain graceful simplicity, neither sinking into insipidity on the

one hand, nor ‘o’erstepping the modesty of nature’ on the other, it is

superior to almost every other modern production. It is the finest

specimen Mr Holcroft has left of his powers for writing what is commonly

understood by _genteel comedy_.

The comedy of ‘He’s much to Blame’ was offered to the theatre in the

name of a friend; an artifice to which the author, notwithstanding his

dislike to every species of insincerity, was obliged to resort more than

once.

He informs us in a short advertisement that he was indebted for some

hints in this play to _Le Complaisant_, a French Comedy, and the Clavigo

of Goethe.

‘The Inquisitor,’ brought out soon after at the Haymarket, and ‘The Old

Clothesman,’ an afterpiece, at Covent-Garden, were unsuccessful.

CHAPTER VI

Having brought Mr Holcroft’s literary history down to the time when he

left England, I shall throw together, in the present chapter, such

private incidents as occurred within this period, and as have not been

already noticed.

After the appearance of the comedy of Duplicity, in 1782, Mr Holcroft

left his house, in Southampton Buildings, and went to live in

Mary-le-bone Street. He afterwards hired a house, for a short time, in

Margaret-Street, in conjunction with his friend, Bonneville. In 1789, or

the beginning of 1790, he removed into Newman-Street, where he continued

till a short time before his going abroad, in 1799, when he took

lodgings in Beaumont-Street, near the New Road.

In the year 1786, Mr Holcroft first became acquainted with Mr Godwin.

This friendship lasted for near twenty years. It was broken off by an

unhappy misunderstanding, some time after Mr Holcroft’s return from the

continent; and they did not see each other, in consequence of the

coolness that took place, till they met for the last time a little

before Mr Holcroft’s death.

It was Mr Holcroft who reviewed Mr Godwin’s celebrated work on Political

Justice, in the Monthly Review, 1793. It may be supposed that the Review

was a favourable one. Mr Holcroft at this time constantly wrote articles

in the Monthly Review, and was on friendly terms with Griffiths, the

proprietor. But it seems the latter was considerably alarmed at the

boldness of some of Mr Godwin’s principles, and still more staggered at

the accounts he had heard of them. He threw himself on Mr Holcroft’s

known attachment to the interest of the Review not to commit its

character by undeserved praise. Griffiths, however, probably found soon

after that the _common place_ character of the Review had been

endangered; and the first opportunity was seized to retrieve the

mistake, by retracting their opinion _hautement_ in the Review of Mr

Malthus’s publication.

The marriage of Mr Holcroft’s eldest daughter with Colonel Harwood took

place in the year 1796.

Immediately after his release from prison, in 1794, he hurried into

Devonshire to see his daughter (Sophy), whom he believed to be dying.

His apprehensions, however, were groundless. While he remained in the

country, he had a fall from a tree, which had nearly proved fatal to

him, and which brought on an occasional palpitation of the heart; to

which he was ever after subject, on using any sudden or violent

exertion.—Mr Holcroft had, some years before, shortly after the

appearance of the Road to Ruin, been attacked by a paralytic affection,

which he believed to have been the effect of too severe and constant

application. Indeed, when we recollect the number and variety of Mr

Holcroft’s productions, it is evident that either his facility or

industry must have been wonderful. Perhaps there is no instance of a

man, who passed through so much literary drudgery in voluminous

translations, &c. and who was at the same time continually employed in

the most lively efforts of the imagination. His resolute perseverance in

pursuits so opposite, and apparently incompatible with each other, is a

proof both of the activity and steadiness of his mind.

The relaxations in which Mr Holcroft indulged, were few and regular. He

was fond of riding; and, for some years, kept a horse, which had

generally high blood in its veins. In 1787, he bought a poney of his

father, which he valued so highly, that he refused to part with it for

forty guineas. The French are not great equestrians; and Mr Holcroft one

day amused himself rather maliciously, in making a friend from Paris

mount this poney, who was extremely alarmed at the tricks he began to

play, though he was really in no danger.

Mr Holcroft also belonged to a musical club, of which Shield, Villeneux,

Crompton, Clementi, and Solomon, were members. From this he afterwards

withdrew on account of the expense attending it.

His love for the arts sometimes subjected him to temptations which were

not consistent with strict economy. He once gave a considerable sum of

money for a couple of Cremona fiddles at a sale; one of which he

afterwards presented to his friend Shield.

It may be supposed that that part of Mr Holcroft’s time which he could

spare from his studies, was chiefly devoted to the society of literary

friends. He, however, gave few dinner-parties, and those were not

ostentatious, and consequently not expensive. When a friend dined with

him, a bottle of wine was usually produced after dinner; but with

respect to himself, he was extremely abstemious in the use of liquor,

and the habits of his friends were rather those of philosophers than

Bacchanalians. A little story, which the mention of this subject has

brought to my recollection, paints the characteristic simplicity of Mr

Holcroft’s father in an amusing light. Shortly after Mr Godwin’s first

acquaintance with Holcroft, he was invited to dine with him one day,

when the old gentleman was on a visit to his son. After dinner Mr

Holcroft happened to go out of the room; and during his absence, Mr

Godwin helped himself to a glass of wine. This was remarked as a

flagrant breach of the rights of hospitality by the old man, and he took

the first opportunity to caution his son against Mr Godwin ‘as a very

bad man; for that while he was out of the room, he, Mr Godwin, had taken

the bottle, and without saying any thing, poured himself out a glass of

wine.’—This laughable discovery would hardly have been made, if

considerable care and economy had not generally characterised Mr

Holcroft’s table. He seems indeed to have observed through his whole

life, the greatest moderation, even to a degree of parsimony, in his

mode of living. The only extravagance with which he could reproach

himself was in the occasional gratification of that inordinate love

which he had for every thing connected with learning, or the fine arts.

A fine-toned instrument, a curious book, or a masterly picture, were the

baits which luxury always held out to him, and to which he sometimes

imprudently yielded. He once bought a complete set of the _Fratres

Poloni_, though he did not understand the language in which they wrote.

Books and pictures were his chief articles of expense: the former he

might think necessary to his own pursuits as an author; and the latter

he looked upon as a lucrative speculation; for it is not to be supposed

that he often bought pictures unless he considered them as a bargain.

The worst of it was, that the ardour of his mind for whatever he engaged

in, and that confidence in his own judgment, which is common to men of

strong feelings and active minds, too frequently deceived him. Among the

purchases which Mr Holcroft at this time made, was one which he supposed

to be the original picture of Sion House, painted by Wilson. He was

eager to show this prize to his friends; and to one in particular, who

expressed some doubt of its genuineness. To this Mr Holcroft replied, by

pointing to a touch in one part of the picture, which he said no copyist

could imitate. A few days after, however, he came to the same friend,

and told him that he had been right in his conjecture, for that he had

now got the real original, and that the other was but a copy. He

afterwards sold the copy to Bannister for five guineas. The second

purchase was a real Wilson, and one of the finest landscapes he ever

painted.

Mr Holcroft occasionally made excursions into different parts of

England, and once or twice went to see his father, who seldom remained

long in the same place. In 1788 he made a journey of this kind to visit

him at Haslington in Cheshire. Of the particulars of this journey Mr

Holcroft has left an amusing sketch in a memorandum-book, which I shall

here transcribe.

‘May 24th, 1788. Received a letter from my father, alarmed, supposed him

dying. Went immediately to take coach. Set out on the 25th, in the

Manchester Commercial Coach for Haslington. An ignorant Cambridge

scholar, a boorish country attorney, a pert travelled officer, a vain,

avaricious, rheumatic old woman, and a loving young widow. Dined at

Holkliff in company with outside passengers. Pride of inside ones. Tea

at Chapel Brompton. A sandwich at Lutterworth. Widow leaves the coach.

Quaker taken up at Hinckliff, but four and twenty, conceived himself a

wit, rude to the old woman. Breakfast at Litchfield. Resign my place to

a distressed damsel, and ride outside to Stafford. Cankwood coal-pits.

Village of Slade. Remembrance of former times, youthful distresses, ass

and coals blown down, white bread of Rugely, pottery journeys, &c.

Pleasant banks of the Trent. Various seats, parks, pleasure-grounds, &c.

Quaker takes his glass at Stafford, becomes more talkative and rude,

which he supposes witty. Is told he is carnally inclined, and becomes

suddenly abashed. Such is the force of habit and education. Lose the

lawyer, dine at Newcastle. Quaker listens to learned poetical discourse

on unities, Shakspeare, Moliere, Boileau, Pope, Gresset, Rousseau,

Voltaire, Milton, etc. in raptures. Old woman displays her whole stock

of great discernment, _i.e._ vanity. Stop at Talk. Waggon blown up:

concussion felt several miles. Ostler of Talk o’ the Hill going to see

his sweetheart, drove down the hill for the waggoner: smith at work saw

the gunpowder running out, and called to lock the wheel, or the waggon

would be blown up. Was not heard, or it was impossible to stop the

waggon. Horse’s shoe supposed to have struck fire, and caught the train.

Body of the ostler dismembered, and blown with one of the horses through

the wall of a house; his leg and arm found some days after under the

rubbish of a blown-down wall. All the horses killed. Many women and

children killed, others maimed—the glass of the windows shivered into

their faces and breasts—their shrieks terrible. Deep sands of Cheshire.

New-built village of Wheelock, between Haslington and Sandbach. Joy at

finding my father in no danger. Simple hospitality of farmer Owen. News

of my arrival spread through the village. Bashful, boorish curiosity.

Village scandal. Informed of the character of each individual; one

accused of pride, another of selfishness, drunkenness, &c. A brutal

broken butcher, who had spent a good fortune, the pest and terror of the

place. Runs naked at prison-bars in Crewe Park, is horse-whipped by the

Squire’s order. Informs against his brother Fox and farmer Owen;

confuted, and punished for having killed hares himself, though unable to

substantiate his own charge. Maims cattle, &c. Is the terror of my

father. Tricks of my father’s landlord. Promises portions with his

daughters, and when married, tells the husbands he will pay them the

interest. Clerk of the parish, the barber, cobbler, ostler, and musician

of the village. Lady’s maid returned from her travels, visits the

village and her friends, speaks gibberish, is reported to understand

language better than myself. Psalm-singing vanity of the clerk humbled.

Village ideas of London. Cheshire dairies. Excursion to Crewe Cottage.

Poetic ideas. Returned to write down some lines, nearly extempore. Crewe

and Sheridan. The first a great man among the neighbouring boors, and

his own footmen; the latter in the House of Commons, among the first men

in the nation, or in the world. Welch manners. Red woollen shirts.

Sunday mirth. The women till the earth, the men sit and smoke. Goat’s

milk rich. Went to Nantwich. Inscription on a house curiously built.

“Thomas Clease made this house in the XVIII yeare of the reane of our

noble Queene Elezabeth.” Thomas Holcroft, a white-cooper at Boscow, near

Ormskirk. Richard Fairhurst, farmer in the same neighbourhood, my

father’s first cousin. Dobson, his uncle. My father born on Martin’s

Muir, removed to Sheepcote hills, went to school at Rudderford.’

Mr Holcroft’s father lived in the latter part of his life near

Knutsford, where he had married again. Mr Holcroft allowed him 20l. _per

annum_, which, with a little shop and garden that he kept, maintained

him comfortably. He allowed 12_l._ a year to his widow after his death,

which happened in 1797. A tomb-stone was erected to his memory by his

son’s desire, with the following inscription: ‘Here lies the body of

Thomas Holcroft, who departed this life—1797, aged 80. He was a careful

father, a kind husband, and an honest man.’ He was buried in Peavor

church-yard, near Knutsford.

Mr Holcroft’s affairs soon after became considerably involved, partly

through the failure of the polygraphic scheme in which he had foolishly

embarked several hundred pounds, but chiefly from a run of ill fortune

at the theatre. He was obliged to sell his effects, books, and pictures.

These it may be supposed did not fetch near their value; and the parting

with the two last, particularly his books, Mr Holcroft felt almost as

the severing of a limb from the body. His plan was to retire to the

Continent, both for the sake of economy, and with a view to establish a

literary correspondence, and send over translations of such works as it

might be advantageous either to the theatres or the booksellers to

accept. Mr Holcroft left England for Hamburgh in May, 1799. Whether it

was just that a man who had unremittingly devoted his whole life to

literary and philosophical pursuits, who had contributed highly to the

public amusement, who had never entered into the intrigues or violent

feelings of any party, and whose principles necessarily rendered him an

inoffensive and peaceable member of society, whose end was the good of

mankind, and whose only weapon for promoting it was reason; whether it

was just that such a man should become the victim of political

prejudice, and because he had been once made the subject of a false

accusation, should be exposed to unrelenting persecution afterwards from

those who seemed to think that unprovoked injury could only be expiated

by repeated insult, is a question which may at least admit of doubt in

the minds of most thinking persons.

Before Mr Holcroft left England, he married Louisa, the daughter of his

friend Mercier. Of his marriage with this lady it is needless to say

more at present, than that Mr Holcroft found all that happiness in it

which he had promised himself from a union with a young, sensible,

accomplished, and affectionate wife.

CHAPTER VII

Of that part of our author’s life, which includes the last two years he

spent in England before his going abroad, I am enabled to give the

reader a more satisfactory account from his own papers. During almost

the whole of this time, he kept a diary, and though this diary is not

filled with great events, or striking reverses of fortune, it exhibits a

perfect picture of the life, habits, and amusements of a literary man.

It is my wish to bring the reader as nearly acquainted as I can with the

subject of these memoirs; and I know no better way of doing this, than

by exhibiting in his own words almost every thought or circumstance

which passed through his mind during the above period. From hence we may

form some notion of the rest. This diary will occupy a very

disproportionate space to the rest of the work; but if it should be

found tedious, I shall have erred grievously in judgment. There are some

personalities in the original which are omitted; and others which may

still be thought improper. But I believe no greater liberties are taken

with the names of living characters, than are to be found in Boswell’s

Life of Johnson, and other sources of literary anecdote.

Mr Holcroft began his Diary in June, 1798.—It is as follows.

‘I have long felt a desire to keep memorandums of the common occurrences

of life, and have now made a determination which I think will not easily

be shaken, to keep a

DIARY. 1798.

JUNE _22nd._—Called on Mr Armstrong, relative to my disease; advises me

to take oil of almonds, and rhubarb. Called on Mr Shield, saw him—On Mr

and Mrs. Opie, both ill.—Wrote to Mr Reynolds, bookseller, to settle the

account—Wrote to Mr Colman, who called when I was out.—Went to

Debrett’s: the opinion of Mr Weld is, that the force sent over by

government will be sufficient to quell the Irish insurrection _for the

present_: believes Dundas averse to the coercion used in that country,

and to the Beresfords, &c. R. Ad—says Windham, out of the house rails at

the Irish system, that Lord Fitz—the D— D— &c. are averse to it; that

the D— P— is for it, as well as that part of the cabinet, called the

King’s friends. Professor Porson dined with me: made as usual numerous

amusing quotations, and among the rest cited the following passage from

Middleton’s preface, as one of the most manly, beautiful, and full of

genius that he had ever read. “I persuade myself that the life and

faculties of man, at the best but short and limited, cannot be employed

more rationally or laudably than in the search of knowledge; and

especially of that sort which relates to our duty, and conduces to our

happiness. In these inquiries, therefore, wherever I perceive any

glimmering of truth before me, I readily pursue and endeavour to trace

it to its source, without any reserve or caution of pushing the

discovery too far, or opening too great a glare of it to the public. I

look upon the discovery of any thing which is true, as a valuable

acquisition to society; which cannot possibly hurt or obstruct the good

effect of any other truth whatsoever: for they all partake of one common

essence, and necessarily coincide with each other; and like the drops of

rain, which fall separately into the river, mix themselves at once with

the stream, and strengthen the general current.”—It is indeed a noble

and admirable passage.—Porson maintained that women are by nature and of

necessity inferior to men; and that whipping is beneficial to youth: on

both which points, I to a very considerable degree, differed with

him—But we rather declared an opinion, than argued a question. Having

drunk about a pint of wine, he refused any more; which determination I

was pleased to see. Mentioned the letters to Travis, and the orgies of

Bacchus. Quoted Foote (Smirk in the Minor) and spoke of him, as he well

deserves, with rapture—Went in the evening to the billiard table, but

did not play. I go for exercise, because I find that walking without a

motive wearies, not recruits the spirits: but my rule is never to play

for more than a shilling, and never to bet, as I hold gaming to be a

detestable vice. I am obliged to play for something in compliance with

the custom. Returned and read a few pages of Pennant’s tour in Scotland,

which I began this day.

_23rd._—Wrote a scene in “Old Clothesman”; walked to see Mr Godwin;

conversed of my disease; he wished me to consult Carlisle—Returned;

wrote a letter to Mrs. Jordan, in behalf of Mr Watts—Conversed with Mr

Webb at Debrett’s, on the moral progress of mankind—Returned and saw Mr

Colman, from whom I now first learnt that the prologue and epilogue to

the Inquisitor, advertised without my knowledge, and to be played this

very night, were written by the prompter, Mr Waldron—Accompanied Fanny

two lessons, and went to billiards, played about a dozen games; felt

internal pains that warned me; felt my pulse, and found it extremely

quick; left off immediately, applied my thoughts to calm the arterial

action, walked gently home; giddy, and considerably affected: took

medicine, and went to bed. Soon after received accounts, that the

Inquisitor was in part highly disapproved of, and ridiculed. Mr —— was

of opinion that the story, notwithstanding, made a considerable

impression upon the audience, which he considered as an impartial one;

and that, on the whole, the feelings of the people were more for than

against the play. In the course of the day, read more of Pennant; the

facts he collects are useful, and some of them curious; but his manner

is disjointed, confused, and therefore dull.

_24th._—Worked about an hour at my opera, [Old Clothesman]—Read

Pennant—Went to Colman, who seems fearful I should wish him to play the

Inquisitor to his own disadvantage. Agreed to omit certain passages the

next night: when he first read the play, his opinion was warmly in its

favor, he then thought it perfectly safe. The ludicrous reception it met

with from the audience has changed his opinion. I have found the same

effect produced on others, on various occasions. My opinion is, that it

was not the play which occasioned the laughter, but the manner of

performing it, aided by the gratification which the flippancy of

criticism finds in flattering its own discrimination and superiority.

The play will be printed with the passages retained (except one, which

is trifling) that the reader of it may judge how far it was in itself

calculated to produce, or to deserve laughter. Our theatres at present,

(and from its smallness this theatre in particular) are half filled with

prostitutes and their paramours: they disturb the rest of the audience;

and the author and common sense, are the sport of their caprice and

profligacy. Met Perry for the first time since his release from Newgate;

then Dr. Moore, who shewed me the list of the special jury, summoned to

try Cuthell, or Johnson, for publishing Wakefield’s pamphlet.—Dined,

Godwin and R—ce present. Godwin mentioned a Mr —— whom he and Mr

Fawcett,[16] on a pedestrian ramble, went to visit at Ipswich: Godwin

saying, that perhaps he would give them beds; if not, he would ask them

to supper, and besides they should have the pleasure of seeing the

beautiful Cicely, his daughter. They went, stayed some time, but

received no invitation. When they came away, Mr Fawcett said he had

three questions to ask Mr Godwin—How he liked his supper, how he liked

his bed, and how he liked Miss Cicely (who had not appeared)? This

occasioned me to remark, that the fault was probably not in the host,

but in the hypocrisy of our manners; and that they ought to have freely

said they wanted a supper, beds, and to see Miss Cicely. Spoke to Mr

R—ce on the morality of eating animal food: he said we had no right to

kill animals, and diminish the quantity of sensation. I answered that

the quantity of sensation was greatly increased; for that the number of

living animals was increased, perhaps ten, perhaps a hundred fold, by

the care which man bestowed on them; and that as I saw no reason to

suppose they meditated on, or had any fore-knowledge of death, the pain

of dying to them is scarcely worth mentioning. I ought however to have

added, that the habit of putting them to death, probably injures that

class of men (butchers) whose office it is, and that they communicate

the injury in part to society. This evil I think might be greatly

remedied. Ritson joined our party in the evening.

_25th._—Took my medicine as usual. Sent orders to Marshall, and others.

Read the papers at Debrett’s: they were uniform in decrying the

Inquisitor. One critic, whom I believe to be a man of taste and candor,

accused it of fustian, and various other vile defects.—Went to

Tattersall’s—the usual group there of horse-dealers, jockeys, and

gentlemen: played three games at billiards, in Sharrard-Street—Saw Mr

S——, who thought but indifferently of the Inquisitor; alleging, however,

that he could not hear, &c.—Went to Colman at the theatre, the

Inquisitor then performing to the satisfaction of the audience; he

therefore agreed to play it the next night; but was anxious, if the

house was thin, that it should be laid aside. We agreed to wait the

event, and confer on Wednesday. Returned. Mr S——, came to me from the

play-house, to inform me, that the piece had on this second performance,

been well received; that the actors, who played vilely the first night,

were greatly improved, and that his opinion of it was very much changed.

_26th._—Went to Paternoster-Row; conferred with Robinson on publishing

the Inquisitor. He promised to consider the proposals I had made,

concerning the sale of the whole of my copy-rights. Returned and sent

the Inquisitor to press. Went to King’s sale—bought the bible in Welsh,

Polish, Danish and Swedish: likewise Novelle di Salernitano (scarce) and

other books. Saw D’Israeli there, and Rogers, the poet, but did not

notice the first. Went to Debrett’s: numbers there, Lords Townshend,

Thanet, &c. Messrs. Francis, St. John, &c. The expedition of Buonaparte,

and the news of the defeat of the Irish at Wexford, the chief topics.

The Irish, it was supposed, must for the present be quelled. Met Perry,

and conversed with him on the Inquisitor; blamed by him for writing too

fast. Called at Opie’s in the evening; sat near two hours.—Much

difference of sentiment between us, but little or no ill humour.

_27th._—Read Pennant, and Bower’s Life of Pope Alexander the Sixth. The

general system of morals at that time in Italy must have been wretchedly

depraved; or this pope, and his active, but wicked son, Cæsar Borgia,

might have been admirable characters. They seem but to have excelled

their contemporaries in wickedness. Saw Parson —— at Debrett’s, who

described the sandy roads of the north of Germany as invariably heavy

and bad. A nobleman, who travelled post, was eighteen days in going to

Vienna; a journey of little more than 400 English miles.—Praised the

wines of Hungary as the best in the world: those of the common inns in

Germany as very bad. I read the three gazettes relative to Irish

affairs, the defeat of the Insurgents, the capture of Wexford, the

haughty answer of Lake to the terms proposed, and the evacuation of part

of St. Domingo by the British troops. Returned to meet Colman, who broke

his appointment. Wrote to him. Accompanied Fanny in a lesson after

dinner. Mr Geiseveiler played chess, and drank tea with us.

_28th._—Considered my opera, but did not write. Read Middleton’s

dedication and preface to Life of Cicero; a man of uncommonly sound head

and heart. Walked to Debrett’s; nothing stirring. Colman came to me. The

third night of the play under-charges: promises, if he can, to perform

it again with the new farce, that is, if the farce brings money. Played

a lesson with Fanny after dinner. Visited Mr Geiseveiler, and met there

Dr. ——, chaplain to the Austrian Embassy, and Mr ——, an emigrant, native

of Brussels. The Doctor had the most literature, but the emigrant the

most logic. The Doctor is a chemist, known to Mr Nicholson, who, the

Doctor says, has written the best chemical book in our language, meaning

his “First Elements.” They both reasoned on the expedition of

Buonaparte, and both seemed inclined to think him gone to the

East-Indies, either up the Red Sea, and from thence across the Little

Desert, and by sea to the Carnatic, or down the Euphrates into the

Persian Gulph, &c. Both were convinced, it could be no such trifling

object as the capture of Malta, or any Mediterranean Island. The blow,

they supposed, was meditated against the whole of the power of England

in India. The Doctor thinks with me, that Kant, who is at present so

much admired in Germany, is little better than a jargonist. Returned;

made some good notes for the character of Morgan [in “The Old

Clothesman”], and went to bed; but my imagination being awakened, I

could not get to sleep till nearly one o’clock.

_29th._—Worked at my opera.—At Debrett’s,—Conjectures were made on

Buonaparte’s expedition, and the difficulties attending it. Weld of

opinion that he would cross the Great Desert as the least difficult. The

transportation of artillery, ammunition, cavalry, &c. over this tract,

supposed by Mr Godfrey to be impracticable. The march of Alexander was

of a very different kind. Walked with the two Parrys, who were stopped

by O’Bryan and Maxwell concerning Fenwick’s publication. The Bow-Street

people, on a late trial, were affirmed to have perjured themselves. Ford

was supposed by O’Bryan to have been exempt from this guilt. It was

allowed he had behaved kindly to Arthur, but not uprightly in court. For

my own part, I know nothing of these matters.

_30th._—Went, after breakfast, to Mr Stodart, but did not go in. Met

Opie on my return. Thought myself recovering strength and activity

apace. Sent into the city for proofs of the play, which were brought

back. Corrected them. Wrote notes for a short preface. Received 17_l._

16_s._ 10_d._ for my mare, which was knocked down on Wednesday for

nineteen guineas at Aldridge’s. In the course of this day’s business,

about two o’clock, leaning the pit of my stomach hastily over the edge

of a desk, I was again seized with excruciating pains in my stomach;

cold sweats and debility immediately followed, though the fit was, I

believe, the least violent of the four, that I have now had. When it was

somewhat assuaged, I was under the necessity of writing my short

preface, my second note to W., and of correcting more proof sheets.

JULY _1st._—Read Boswell’s Life of Johnson: the writer weak, vain, a

sycophant, overflowing with worldly cunning: yet, owing to the industry

with which he collected his materials, the book abounds in facts, and is

amusing.

_2nd._—Went to Mr S——, paid him the hundred pound bill on Mr Harris at

six months, and received the balance: all accounts clear between him and

me. Worked at my opera. Wrote scene 8 and 9, as far as “Do you hear how

lottery tickets sell?” Satisfied at present with my alterations in the

character of Morgan. Read the last proof of the Inquisitor. Read Boswell

after dinner. Visited by Messrs. Watts and B——, and Mrs. Revely. Music,

Mozart and Haydn, till ten, Fanny the principal performer. I retired to

rest in some pain, which increased in bed: dreamed that my body was

severed above the hips, and again joined in a surprising manner;

astonished to think I was alive; afraid of being struck or run against,

lest the parts should be dissevered. Very angry at the thoughtlessness

of a boy that gave me a blow, and again surprised that it had no ill

consequences. This dream appears to be the result of the pain, and the

waking thoughts I have had on the probabilities of life or death.

_3rd._—Wrote to the Rev. G. Smith, under frank given me by Lord Thanet,

containing two bank notes, value six pounds, for my father’s widow.

Worked at my opera a very short time. Informed by Mr Weld that Dr.

Pitcairne had been cured of my complaint. Characterised him as our

ablest physician since the death of Warren. Related that the Doctor and

Sir George Baker were present in Warren’s last moments; that Sir George

wished Warren to take an opiate, which he refused. Sir George desired

him to give his reasons, and Warren, turning to the Doctor, said, “Tell

Baker why I ought not to take an opiate to-day.” Immediately after which

he clapped his hand to his breast and exclaimed “it is come again,” then

presently expired. Read the Reviews and Monthly Magazine. In the evening

called at Opie’s: they not returned from Southgate! Sat with Mr

Nicholson till ten. One game at chess: conversed of my disease; of the

present vicious enunciation of thought, and its evils to society: of a

universal character which Nicholson is persuaded must soon be invented,

and come into general use: he himself inclined to execute the task,

which he does not consider as very difficult: of Bramhead at

Devonshire-House, and Arkwright: of Tooke, and the misapplication of his

powers, the sacrifice of wisdom and virtue to the pitiful triumph of the

moment.

_4th._—Sent in Shepperson and Reynold’s account, the balance 24_l._

4_s._ in my favor. Worked an hour or better at my opera. No news at

Debrett’s, except Buonaparte said to have taken Malta.

_5th._—Reading Boswell’s Life of Johnson at breakfast, was highly

gratified by the following assertion of Johnson: “I find myself under

the necessity of observing that this learned and judicious writer (Lord

Kaimes), has not accurately distinguished the deficiencies and demands

of the different conditions of human life; which, from a degree of

savageness and independence, in which all laws are vain, _passes, or may

pass_, by innumerable gradations, to a state of reciprocal benignity _in

which laws shall be no longer necessary_.” Visited C——, profuse in his

display of chirurgical knowledge, an acute and thinking mind, disliking

contradiction, tenacious of system, and generally systematizing: thought

the mind ought not to endeavour to regulate disease, its influence being

great, but, as he affirmed, prejudicial. Instanced, that people having

wounds, by a close attention to their feelings in the affected part,

increased its sensibility to a noxious degree; and that the bones which,

he said (I think erroneously,) have themselves no feeling, had, by the

attention of patients, fixed upon them when diseased, become entirely

sensitive. He spoke of these as facts within his own knowledge. From my

own experience I believe them to be true, and think with him, that the

attention so fixed upon parts diseased, may be prejudicial; but from

experiments made upon myself, if the attention be fixed with a tranquil,

pacifying, and cheerful temper of mind, I am persuaded they highly

benefit the sufferer. This I urged; but his opinion seemed fixed.

Advised me to consult Pitcairne, but did not lead me to hope, either

from himself or others, any degree of medical knowledge that should be

efficient. What is called nature, that is, the changes that are

continually taking place, is trusted to as the chief operator. Received

the third volume of Ireland’s Hogarth Illustrated. Clementi dined with

us.

_6th._—Read Hogarth, J. Ireland, vol. 3. Some valuable information, but

wretchedly put together. Hogarth too irascible, and pushing his

favourite points to extremes: a man of uncommon genius, and though

highly admired by some, most unjustly treated by others. If it be true,

which I doubt, that he did not excel in the higher parts of his art,

i.e. in the beautiful and sublime, what he has written, and what he has

done, sufficiently prove, it was not want of power, but want of

practice. He felt his wrongs too indignantly, and, in resenting them,

wanted liberality. Manners are undergoing a great change; and though

just at present, an intolerant and acrimonious spirit prevails, yet

there is much less ruggedness, asperity, and undisguised insult, than

there was in his time. Saw B—— at Debrett’s; the health of Porson

precarious. Called at Opie’s; he gone to see Hogarth’s March to

Finchley.

_7th._—Gillies, B—ll, S——, called before dinner. Worked nearly one hour

at the opera; the scene of Frank and Morgan for and against speculation;

but as I grew warm with the subject, felt a pain similar to preceding

sensations, which warned me to desist.—Read Middleton’s Life of Cicero,

and the pain went. Reports of the day, that Buonaparte and four or five

sail of the line are taken: but disbelieved at Lloyd’s: and that the

insurgents in Wicklow have surprised and totally cut off the Ancient

Britons, a corps hated by the Irish for the mischief done them. Affairs

of Boyd and Benfield deranged; both, it is said, from mean beginnings,

had attained the utmost splendour of wealth. Boyd had been successively

the chief money dealer in France at the commencement of the Revolution;

then in England, and for the Emperor: something like the cashier of

Europe; compared to Law for enterprise and capacity, and for proving the

facility of an impossible scheme. Read Boswell’s Life of Johnson after

dinner.

_8th._—My spirits more cheerful, and my strength increasing. Read

Boswell’s Life of Johnson; practised a little music. Purcel, a flowing,

impassioned composer—his harmonies original, yet natural; and his

melodies the best of his day. Is it true, as Boswell affirms, that

Corelli came to England to visit him, and that Purcel being dead,

Corelli immediately returned? Mr Foulkes, before dinner, gave me an

account of Coigley, as well previous to his trial, as when sentence was

passed, and at the place of execution: his sentiments generous, his mind

undaunted, and his behaviour heroic. Mr Godwin’s conversation, as usual,

was acute, and his ideas comprehensive.

_9th._—Read Boswell. Wrote notes for the opera, with song, “Old Clothes

to sell,” and other alterations and additions to the first exit of

Morgan. Dined with Phillips (Monthly Magazine). Present F. the Cambridge

man, Signor Damiani, Dr. Geddes, Pinkerton (Heron’s Letters), and S——;

the three last, Scotchmen. S—— rattled, but had read and remembered.

Pinkerton said little. The Doctor rather fond of dull stories; a man of

information, irascible, and pertinacious. Maintained that a gentleman

who, following the common path through an orchard, plucked apples, put

them in his pocket, and left a shilling for them at the house of the

owner, committed so heinous an offence, that he might justly have been

shot as a robber. He scoffed at the argument and possibility of the

apples being more necessary to the happiness of the man who took them,

than of the legal owner. The argument is indeed hypothetical, and should

be cautiously admitted. He treated the plea of benevolence, in the

depredator’s behalf, with equal contempt; and affirmed, he did not argue

as a lawyer, but from principles of indubitable justice. I was his chief

opponent, and for a moment caught some of his heat and obstinacy. One of

his stories was of a Romish priest, who sent up to town to Coghlan, a

Catholic bookseller, for three hundred asparagus, which the man mistook

for Asperges, an instrument used to sprinkle holy water with. The joke

was the bookseller’s distress at not being able to procure more than

forty or fifty in the time, and promising the rest. I forgot to mention

Mr B——, a teacher, who informed us the wife of Petion remains still

persuaded that her husband is not dead, and that he will again appear as

soon as he can with safety. I related that Petion, when in England, had

once dined with me, that he was so full of his own oratory, as to turn

his back to the mantel-piece, as soon as he came in, and make a speech,

which lasted till the dinner was on table; that as soon as eating gave

him leave, he again harangued, and would with difficulty suffer himself

to be interrupted, till he took his leave; and that, for my own part, I

saw no marks of a man of great abilities, to which B—— assented. George

Dyer came in after dinner. Except myself, I have reason to believe, that

all the persons at table have been occasional writers for the Monthly

Magazine. I walked slowly, and fed cautiously. The foolish question of

whether the next century will begin the first of January, 1800, or 1801,

was mentioned by F. with as much pleasure as his imagination seems

capable of; for he had been present at two sumptuous dinners, and was

likely to enjoy several others. He revelled in the idea of disputes

which produced wagers of eating and drinking, said they were very

proper, and the more uncertain and confused the better. He, as a

mathematician, had been appealed to, and had decided in favour of the

year 1800. Geddes remarked, that there were pamphlets which shewed the

same question was agitated at the beginning of the last century. To be

sure, said F., it always will be a question, and it is fit it should be.

Geddes was still more incomprehensible; for if I understood him, the

century begins with the year 99. I asked him to explain: he said he

could only do it by a diagram; but added, that after Christ was born,

the year 1 was not completed till he was one year old; to which I

answered, this I believed nobody would dispute. As I found they either

did not understand themselves, or at least were unintelligible to me, I

dropped the question.

_10th._—Left my card for C.—Mr B. called. Has adopted the cant which

from Germany has spread to England, of affirming Mozart to be a greater

man than Haydn. In Germany, his theatrical pieces have given Mozart his

great popularity: he was undoubtedly a man of uncommon genius, but not a

Haydn. His life indeed was too short. Stoddart left his translation of

Don Carlos. He has executed his task reputably: the fourth and fifth

acts of the play are greatly confused. The first interview of Philip II.

and the Marquis of Posa, is a masterly scene. The whole is unequal; in

some parts, feeble; in others, tedious: and yet a performance of which

none but a man of genius could be capable. It reminds the reader of

Hamlet and Othello, and of various passages in Shakespeare.

_11th._—Read Boswell. Handel returned from the binders. Wrote Act I of

the opera, but had some notes. Heard at Debrett’s that when Pitt went to

the levee, after his illness and duel, the king shook him by the hand, a

thing unprecedented, and violating etiquette.

_12th._—Called on C—. He supposes electricity and the human will to be

the same; gave high praise to Count Rumford’s experiments on heat. His

imagination luxuriant, incautious, and daring. Dalrymple and the most

scientific geographers, whom he met at the house of Sir Joseph Banks,

are convinced of the practicability of conveying armies to India, by the

way of Cairo, Suez, &c. This supposed scheme of the French still

continues to be the common-place gossip of the day. Revised and copied

part of Scene 18. Dr. Black said at Debrett’s, that Father le Roche was

hanged twice, the rope breaking when he was half strangled, and that he

cursed and swore violently at being so treated. Met G—— and O—— at

Geiseveiller’s. G—— characterised Laudohn as a practical rather than

theoretical general; and Lacy as the reverse. Said, Laudohn was a severe

and despotic disciplinarian; instanced a Colonel, at the attack of Novi,

whose regiment was engaged, and he behind. Laudohn coming up, asked him

if that was his proper place, and commanded him immediately to hasten

and head his regiment. The Colonel obeyed. Laudohn, however, passing the

same regiment some time after, again found the Colonel in the rear; and

not waiting for any court-martial, or form of trial, shot him through

the head. On another occasion, during the war with the Turks, he sent

orders to General Clairfait, who commanded a corps about thirty miles

distant, to attack the enemy. Clairfait, a man of skill and courage,

considered the superior numbers of the enemy, and their strong position,

and disobeyed: but immediately dispatched a letter stating his reasons.

Laudohn read the letter in presence of the officer who brought it; then

tore it, and threw it on the ground. The officer asked with some

surprise, what answer he was to take back. Laudohn replied, “You have

witnessed my answer.” The officer returned, related what had passed, and

Clairfait immediately attacked the Turks, whom he routed. Laudohn when

not in the field, nor employed in military duties, lived silent,

reserved, and penuriously. At the beginning of the Turkish war, Lacy and

others were employed; and the Emperor, according to G——, lost the

greatest part of an army composed of 200,000 men. Laudohn was at length

sent as commander in chief; and the moment he was thus employed, he

became cheerful, pleasant, and generous; and in about a year, so

frequently triumphed over the Turks, that he compelled them to make

peace. During the public rejoicings for one of these victories, at

Vienna, his name was emblazoned and repeated in a variety of ways; and

the Emperor Joseph II. walking with Marshal Lacy to see the

illuminations, said to the Marshal, “My dear Marshal, they don’t mention

a word of you or me.” After the peace of Teschen, Frederick II., Joseph,

and the Generals in Chief, dined together; and it was remarked, that

whenever Frederick addressed Lacy, or the other Austrian Field Marshals,

he never gave them that title, but said Monsieur Lacy, &c.; and when he

addressed Laudohn, who had not been honoured with that rank, he always

called him Field Marshal Laudohn. The Emperor understood the reproof;

and a few weeks afterwards, created him a Field Marshal. These

particulars were told by G——. I do not know whether they are common

stories; but they agree with the character of Laudohn, and are probably

true. When G—— went, I conversed with O—— on Shakspeare, of whom he had

no great opinion. Corneille, Racine, Crebillon, and Voltaire, he

supposed the most perfect writers of tragedy. He held verse, that is,

rhyme, to be essential to the French theatre; and urged the hexameters

of Greece and Rome, and English blank verse. He was unwilling to allow

it was much more probable, when the tone of passion is raised, for men

to speak in hexameters than in rhyme, or in alexandrines. I affirmed,

they might still more easily speak in the blank verse of Shakspeare,

which in reality is only an harmonious and measured prose. P. at

Debrett’s, when he had done with Lords and M.P.’s spoke to me.

Cornfactors are beginning to speculate on a bad harvest. After dinner,

sat half an hour at Opie’s. G. Dyer there.

_14th._—Saw in the newspaper another of Garat’s speeches at the court of

Naples. Read one yesterday, which, for its pedantry and foppery, was

highly ridiculous. Garat compares France to the ancient republics; and

says she imitates them in sending out her philosophy and philosophers

(himself one) to kings and states, and subjugated lands. There is

something extremely offensive in the vapouring of this great nation, or,

rather, of the persons who take upon them to govern and be the

mouthpiece of the nation, which certainly has the character of grandeur,

both of virtue and vice; but which yet has a strange propensity, in

certain points of view, to render itself contemptible.

_15th._—Sir William B——, with his young son, called: he was lately

knighted. Speaks best on painting, the subject on which we chiefly

conversed: said that a notion prevailed in Italy, that pictures having a

brown tone, had most the hue of Titian, and that the picture-dealers of

Italy smeared them over with some substance, which communicates this

tone; and added, that my Castiglione landscape had been so smeared. Of

this I doubt. Repeated a conversation, at which he was present, when

Burke endeavoured to persuade Sir Joshua Reynolds to alter his picture

of the dying Cardinal, by taking away the devil, which Burke said was an

absurd and ridiculous incident, and a disgrace to the artist. Sir Joshua

replied, that if Mr Burke thought proper, he could argue as well _per

contra_; and Burke asked if he supposed him so unprincipled as to speak

from any thing but conviction? No, said Sir Joshua, but had you happened

to take the other side, you could have spoken with equal force. Burke

again urged him to obliterate this blemish, saying, Sir Joshua had heard

his arguments (which B—— did not repeat), and desired to know if he

could answer them. Sir Joshua replied, it was a thought he had conceived

and executed to the satisfaction of himself and many others; and having

placed the devil there, there he should remain. B—— praised my portrait,

painted by Opie; but said the colouring was too foxy; allowed Opie great

merit, especially in his picture of crowning Henry VI. at Paris; agreed

with me that he had a bold and determined mind, and that he nearest

approached the fine colouring of Rembrandt. Spoke in high terms of a

picture by Fuseli for Comus, the subject (if I understood him) the

entrance of the brothers to the release of the lady: and also of a

landscape now painting by Sir F. Bourgeois. Played chess with Mr Du Val.

Conceived three scenes for the opera, and sketched two of them: one was

suggested by hearing a man and woman wrangle.

_16th._—Mr P—— called, wishes me to read a manuscript tragedy written by

himself. Wolcott lodges near him at Hampstead. P—— formerly attacked

Steevens in his Heron’s Letters, therefore they are not acquainted.

Steevens quarrelled with the Hampstead Stage several years ago for not

having kept him a place, declared he would not ride in it again, has

kept his word, and daily walks to town at seven in the morning, and

returns to dinner at three in the afternoon; keeps no company, except

that he has an annual miser’s dinner, that is, a very sumptuous one. P——

is now forty, reads much at the British Museum, which is four miles, all

but a quarter, from his house, and is an hour, all but five minutes,

regularly in walking that distance. Nothing at Debrett’s. Mr Godwin

returned the first act of the opera with remarks, dictated evidently by

the fear, that ill-success will attend me in future, as it has in some

late attempts. The strongest minds cannot shake off the influence which

the opinion of a multitude produces. Louisa Merrier dined with us. Read

Boswell. Still the same loquacious parasite: to whom we are highly

indebted for the facts he has preserved relative to Johnson, and I had

almost said for the laughter he has excited at himself. He is indeed, a

most solemn, pompous, and important coxcomb. I never was in his company,

but have frequently seen him in the streets. His grave strut and

elevated head, with a peculiar self-important set of his face, entirely

corresponded with the character he unintentionally draws of himself in

his writings.

_17th._—Read Boswell. The French at Turin: their thirst of dominion

insatiable. It is a duty to calculate what will be the moral

consequences of their vicious actions. I am sorry I have not the time

(most men have more or less the abilities) for such calculations. Met Mr

Marshal, who did not much like the Inquisitor on the stage. Told me

Robinson lamented, in a friendly manner, that I was not more careful of

my fame. Perhaps I am mistaken, but though the Inquisitor was certainly

no more than a trifling effort, I still do not think it a contemptible

one. The audience, Marshal says, were but little attentive to the story.

Surely this was the fault of the performers. But the piece is printed,

and if I am partial, will detect my folly. The topic at Debrett’s was

the two Sheares’s, who have been executed for treason in Dublin. They

were brothers, both in the law, but had little practice, because of

their open and passionate declarations against government: were in Paris

during some epoch of great conflict, mounted guard, wore the red cap,

&c. as many or most other of the English did for their own safety, and

are the sons of a wealthy banker, who I hear once was member for the

city of Cork. In the course of the day I walked to Mr Godwin’s, King’s,

Covent Garden, Debrett’s, and (after three games of chess in the

evening), up Oxford Road and back to the billiard-table with Mr

Geiseveiller, in all nine or ten miles, after which I played sixteen

games at billiards. I imagine I confided too much in my strength, and

took an excess of exercise, for I awoke between two and three in the

morning, after getting to sleep with great difficulty, and found my

sensations, or spirits, as they are called, considerably in a flutter,

and my pulse very quick. I rose, threw up the window, and walked in the

stream of air; a short time after which I again went to bed and slept,

but had very vivid dreams; in one of them I was riding a race horse full

speed over dangerous and steep places. This and other experiments seem

to confirm the opinion of Dr. Parry, that there is an undue action of

the arterial system. Sketched a short scene between Frank and Clara, and

considered the arrangement of the second act of the opera.

_18th._—Corrected and transcribed the first scene, and wrote the duet

Act 2. Met Brown of Norwich, and promised him a letter of recommendation

to Hamburg. Parry, jun. at Debrett’s, told him that the Emperor had

issued a decree, by which persons having money in the bank of Vienna

were required to advance 30 per cent. as a loan, for which the whole,

bearing at present four per cent., should be advanced to five; but that

persons refusing the further loan of 30 per cent. should receive no

interest for the money already in the bank. Went to Hampstead, rode

about a mile and a half. Pinkerton pleasant in manner, and apparently

not ill-tempered. Professes to avoid metaphysical inquiry—his memory

tolerably retentive of historical facts and biographical anecdotes.

_19th._—Debrett read a philippic by Francis, from his parliamentary

debates, against Thurlow, delivered I think in 1784, on the India Bill.

It had greater strength and a better style than I supposed Francis

capable of. Went for the first time to the fruit-shop next door but one

to Debrett’s, and eat an ice. A notorious gambler, billiard player, and

thief, called the Diamond, after a thousand escapes, has been detected

in stealing stockings; is taken, and will probably be transported for

life. Should I hereafter find time, some of his pranks, as part of the

history of the human mind, might be worth recording. Sastres, an

Italian, mentioned by Boswell in his Life of Johnson, was at the fruit

shop. I asked him if he knew Boswell. The name excited his indignation;

he spoke of Boswell as a proud, pompous, and selfish blockhead, who

obtruded himself upon every one, and by his impudent anxiety lost what

would otherwise have been willingly granted. As an instance, Johnson did

not once mention him in his will, after their pretended intimate and

sincere friendship; while S—— himself had that honour. This account did

but confirm the internal evidence of Boswell’s own book. Notwithstanding

Johnson’s professions, which were but efforts to be kind to him, I think

it impossible he should either feel esteem or affection for such a man.

I drank one cup of strong tea, and another half water; to this I

attribute a second restless night; I went to sleep with difficulty after

twelve, awoke before three, as on the 17th, threw up the window, walked

in the air, and went to bed. By an effort I had a doze of a few minutes,

but was soon perfectly awake, and went into the library, where I sat

undressed, pointing and correcting the opera till about five. I then

went to bed and slept till nine, but it was not sound and healthful

sleep. Johnson complains in one of his letters, Vol. iii. of Boswell’s

Life, of having had but one sound night’s rest during twenty years.

Johnson drank tea to excess. To some persons I have no doubt it is a

wholesome beverage, to others I suspect it is highly pernicious.

_20th._—Called on Foulkes and Robinson, neither at home. Mr Armstrong

informs me that several persons have been afflicted like myself with

hemorrhage, told me that in Ruspini’s cases of cures performed by his

styptic, was one of a mathematical instrument-maker, of Dean-street, who

really had, as Ruspini asserts, a hemorrhage of the nose stopped by the

styptic, but who died ten days afterwards in an apoplectic fit. We both

conjectured such discharges of blood were frequently beneficial. Read

the papers at Debrett’s as usual, the same sanguinary measures and modes

of revenge mutually practised in Ireland. Played chess and billiards

with Geiseveiller: drank no tea, yet had another restless night little

better than the last.

_21st._—I daily but slowly proceed with my opera. Saw Banks of K. at

Debrett’s, and M. the ——’s, member in the last parliament, who very

characteristically told me, (somebody having sent him the translation of

Schiller’s Don Carlos) that he accepted every thing which was given him.

I looked, and he endeavoured to correct himself, by adding, if it did

not exceed the value of an octavo volume. A great gossip with little

understanding, and I am almost surprised that a look should excite in

him a temporary feeling of his habitual selfishness. Played chess and

billiards with Geiseveiller. The marker, a garrulous old Irishman;

affirmed that Irish wafers were better than English: the reason he gave

was, that after a letter was sealed, you might open it, with an Irish

wafer, but not with an English. He pretended to talk philosophy, said

there was but one colour, and that the way to prove it was to produce

total darkness, and then a brown dog would be white. The sun, he said,

regulated the tides, and it is the moon, and not the sun, that is the

cause of light. His own absurd manner of explaining his blunders is

highly ludicrous.

_22nd._—Wrote the chief part of scene 7, act ii. Called on Sir F. B—— to

see a landscape he is painting. It is one of his best, the tone is

admirable, the composition and execution spirited. After pointing out

what I supposed to be its merits, I added, that the head of the cow in

the fore-ground was in my opinion too large. The wide open mouth of a

dog barking was overcharged: his clouds likewise, I said, were not

sufficiently floating, too much in mass, and not tinted as clouds on

such a day always are. We conversed of B—— who had made a favourable

report to him of the reception I gave him, and of my pictures.

On the subject of standing in the royal presence, Sir F. said that Mr

Kemble seemed to doubt that this was so severely exacted: for when he

and Mrs Siddons were commanded to read a play to the Royal Family, and a

splendid circle was assembled to hear them, the Lord Chamberlain came

and informed them that they had permission to be seated. But this is a

confirmation of the etiquette, and the exception may be accounted for in

a variety of ways. He that does not fear to be invidious may begin. Sir

F. told me, that in the new edition of Pilkington’s Dictionary of

Painters, there is a life of Sir Joshua Reynolds, which some attribute

to Dr. Wolcott, others, to Opie. Returned, read the life of Johnson.

Isaac Read there mentioned as a man superior to all others, in his

knowledge of English literature. I have heard Ritson say much the same;

if so, it does not make him vain at least. His name, as a commentator on

Shakspeare, is added to those of Johnson, Steevens, and Malone; yet I

remember one day seeing him walk with seemingly great humility at the

tail of the two latter; they attentive to each other, or perhaps, each

to himself, and Read wholly overlooked. Boswell likewise prates (for I

think the term appropriate) of Dr. Towers, who though a whig, is in his

class of good writers. Let the works of Towers testify. As a man, when

he is in a society where speeches are to be made, he is pragmatical,

verbose, and overflowing with a vapid kind of rage. He too was the

tail-piece and butt of the late Dr. Kippis, who, when called a man of

moderate talents, is not injured.

_23rd._—Read P——’s tragedy. Contains some poetry and passion, presents a

picture of the manners of the distant age, in which the scene is laid,

superior to any thing I remember to have read: but is occasionally

verbose. Has not enough of soul, and is deficient in plot. Is much

better, however, than many things which pass current; wrote the

Mariners’ Glee, and the short scene 8, song excepted. Nothing at

Debrett’s except Irish affairs, and contradiction of the reports which

for some days have been floating, of the capture of Buonaparte, &c. Ate

little meat at dinner, took half a pint of milk and bread between six

and seven o’clock, which served for tea and supper, and slept soundly.

Mr Birch came, and restored the chilled varnish of the pictures, by

damping, then gently rubbing them dry with a cloth, and afterward with

flannel.

_24th._—Sketched scene 9 of opera. Attended picture-sale in the

Haymarket: W. the auctioneer, late a bankrupt, paying eighteen-pence in

the pound. The best pictures, all or most of them, the property of W——,

a picture-dealer, notorious for practising the worst tricks of that

tricking trade. He bought his own pictures at high prices, the

auctioneer running them up as if he had a room full of bidders, when he

had not one: which artifice, I imagine, was for the purpose of asserting

to his customers, that each picture fetched such and such a sum, even at

an auction. A man ought not to throw away his property, and a picture

not fetching its worth, may be honestly bought in; but I do not imagine

there was a hope of selling good pictures at this season of the year. No

news at Debrett’s. Observed the same regimen at dinner and tea, with the

same success.

_25th._—Went with Geiseveiller to see the picture of the siege of

Valenciennes, by Loutherbourg. He went to the scene of action

accompanied by Gillray, a Scotchman, famous among the lovers of

caricature; a man of talents, however, and uncommonly apt at sketching a

hasty likeness. One of the merits of the picture is the portraits it

contains, English and Austrian. The Duke of York is the principal figure

as the supposed conqueror; and the Austrian General, who actually

directed the siege, is placed in a group, where, far from attracting

attention, he is but just seen. The picture has great merit,—the

difference of costume, English and Austrian, Hulan, &c. is picturesque.

The horse drawing a cart in the fore-ground has that faulty affected

energy of the French school, which too often disgraces the works of

Loutherbourg. Another picture by the same artist, as a companion to

this, is the Victory of Lord Howe on the 1st of June: both were painted

at the expense of Mechel, printseller at Basle, and of V. and R. Green,

purposely for prints to be engraved from them. For the pictures they

paid 500_l._ each, besides the expenses of Gillray’s journeys to

Valenciennes, Portsmouth, &c. Saw Mr E—— at Debrett’s, who told me he

had it from one of the treasury people, that the present King of

Prussia, intending to celebrate his accession by a festival at Berlin,

caused preparations to be made, and scaffolding to be raised, on which

was a throne with an ascent of steps. This was noticed by the citizens,

who gave the K. to understand, the steps were too numerous, and the

throne too elevated. They afterwards thought further of the matter, and

announced their opinion, that such a festival was unnecessary, on which

the hint was taken, the preparations were discontinued, and the money

set apart for that purpose, was distributed among the poor. It was

observed by ——, the Quidnunc apothecary, that the Government of Spain

exhibited tokens of dissolution, he referring to the loan and voluntary

contributions at present petitioned for there. I remarked if this

argument were true, there was but an ill augury for Austria, with its

forced loan of the bank of Vienna. Lord Thanet came in, and was

questioned concerning a prosecution which, it is said, government have

instituted against him and others, for an attempt to rescue O’Connor in

the Court at Maidstone. He answered he heard this prosecution was begun,

but had yet received no official notice of it. The coachman of Judge

Buller, he said, was knocked down in Court, and ready to swear he, the

Earl, was the assailant, though he sat with the counsel, and was never

out of the eye of the Judge. The company affirmed Buller’s faculties are

decayed, (he has had a paralytic stroke.) As a proof, he tells different

stories at different times concerning this riot. Another adduced by

Thanet is, that, in summing up the evidence, instead of saying the

second prisoner, to whom he was referring, he repeatedly said the second

witness, till Garrow at length got up in a pet, and called, “You mean

the second prisoner, my Lord.” M—— and Lady W——, with her boy, were at

Debrett’s, the only persons when I first went. She talking her usual

masculine rhodomontade concerning Fullarton’s abuse of the Queen, in his

speech on the regency business, which M—— searched for in Debrett’s

Parliamentary Register, but she could not point out the passage, or at

least find the language which she had imputed to him. M——, anxious I

should know he was so familiar with a lady of rank, three times repeated

her title. I kept my eye on the paper I was reading. Was this malice, or

a proper treatment of petty vanity? His being once in Parliament gave

him an introduction to various persons whose rank he affects to despise,

but whose notice he most spaniel-like courts. A part of his gossip is,

always carefully to tell what lord informed him of this, and what

baronet or lady made such and such a remark. He appears to live with

true Scotch economy, except that he is a great feeder and drinker. He

hunts for invitations to dinner. Drank tea with Geiseveiller. G——, F——,

and Gessner; F—— a man of very confined intellect; being a Bavarian, he

is so prejudiced as to imagine Bavaria superior to other countries in or

out of Germany. Three other persons called after tea, two of them

English continental traders: the third, a German from Frankfort, who has

executed contracts for government, and is come to England to solicit

payment, which, after three years petitioning and dunning, he is still

unable to obtain. So G—— tells me, who has it, I suppose, from himself.

_26th._—Read Boswell. Worked at the opera. Bought books at King’s. Went

to Debrett’s. The news there, that Buonaparte and his whole fleet were

taken: it was communicated by Lord H—— to the horse volunteers that were

reviewing in Hyde Park; they immediately gave three huzzas, and it ran

from mouth to mouth through the crowd. It was false. Such scenes are

tragically ridiculous. An officer of note had arrived from Lord St.

Vincent; conjecture immediately knew his business: Lords were the first

to believe what conjecture affirmed, and men shouted and rejoiced at the

imaginary destruction of their fellow beings. Buonaparte has thus been

captured at least a dozen times. On one of these occasions Lord L——, as

I hear, communicating the news to one of the B——’s, began his letter

with three hurrahs.

_27th._—Concluded corrections and additions to the second act of the

opera. Read the papers at Debrett’s. The same sanguinary measures still

pursued in Ireland. The prevailing party there seem to contemplate the

temporary success of Robespierre, but not his catastrophe. Bought more

books at King’s. Went with Geiseveiller to see a pretended picture by

Correggio, and another by Paul Potter. The latter, I believe, is a true

picture; the sky and trees excellent; the composition detestable: a view

of some public walk in Holland, with cows and strait-lined railing, like

St. James’s Park before the alterations. Of Correggio having perhaps

never seen a picture, I cannot pretend to judge; but this sketch, for it

is no more, produces too feeble an effect to be his, if we may decide

from internal evidence. The owner modestly asks nine hundred guineas for

it, or ninety-five paid down, and the same sum annually for nine years

on good security. The wild expectations that men form to themselves are

pitiably ridiculous.

_28th._—Reconsidered the two first acts of the opera before proceeding

with the third. Nothing at Debrett’s. Read the first act of “——”

carefully, making pencil marks. Walked to Hampstead; dined with

Pinkerton; and after some pleasant literary conversation, relating to

the venerable Bede, &c., made my remarks to him on his tragedy. He

received them with great candour, but was much more desirous that I

should correct than that he should. Requested me to take the tragedy

back, and go through the four succeeding acts with the same freedom of

criticism used in the first. I have promised to perform the task within

three weeks. My sleep remarkably sound after my exercise. P—— told me

that when he was at Edinburgh during the American war, the Governor of

the Castle received despatches. Lady ——, his friend, in the French sense

of the word, was with him, and he was half drunk. Unfit for the task

himself, he gave her the despatches to read. The lady has a warm

imagination, and is delighted by a grand display; something that she

read inflamed her fancy, and she exclaimed, “Governor, here is great

news; you must order the castle guns to be fired directly.” The Governor

took her word for it, and gave orders accordingly: but the great news,

like the capture of Buonaparte in Hyde Park on Thursday, was wholly

ideal. The guns were fired, the city was alarmed, crowds came running to

know the reason, and the maudlin governor was disgraced and laughed at.

_29th._—Monsieur Julien, the assistant of Colnaghi, the print-seller,

came with Geiseveiller to see my pictures. He formerly was an auctioneer

in Paris; where he sold some famous collections. He praised quite

enough; but the French and Italians think that is what politeness

requires. Wrote additional verses to songs in the first act of the

opera. Clementi and Geiseveiller to dinner. Conversed on health: I

maintaining that exercise and moderate feeding were absolutely necessary

for people of and after middle age.

_30th._—Third act still under consideration. Nothing at Debrett’s, but

the respite of Bond in Dublin. The papers state Farmer’s library to have

sold for ——, and his pictures for 500_l._—King, the auctioneer, informs

me the first sum is accurate, but the pictures brought only 50_l._ I saw

them. They were select rubbish: unauthenticated portraits by unknown

painters. The sale of Farmer’s library astonished every body. His rule

was not to exceed three shillings for any book; except once, when he

paid three and six-pence for a pamphlet, which brought fifteen guineas

in the sale. This anecdote I understood to be on the authority of Dr.

Gosset, who is the most constant attendant at book sales of any man in

England, booksellers not excepted.—Farmer collected all old pamphlets

and black letter books, whenever he could pick them up cheap, and these

were resold at enormous prices, not for the value of the information

they conveyed, but their scarcity. I viewed them as they lay in the

auction-room, and books and pictures seemed to be the very refuse of the

stalls.