The collected works of William Hazlitt, Vol. 2 (of 12)

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Title: The collected works of William Hazlitt, Vol. 2 (of 12)
Author: Hazlitt, William
Language: English
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THE
COLLECTED WORKS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT
IN TWELVE VOLUMES

VOLUME TWO

_All rights reserved_

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

_Thomas Holcroft._

_From the painting by John Opie, R.A. in the National Portrait
Gallery_
]

THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
WILLIAM HAZLITT

EDITED BY A. R. WALLER
AND ARNOLD GLOVER

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
W. E. HENLEY

❦

Memoirs of Thomas Holcroft

Liber Amoris

Characteristics

❦

1902
LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO.
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.: NEW YORK

Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, (late) Printers to Her Majesty

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CONTENTS

PAGE
MEMOIRS OF THOMAS HOLCROFT vii

LIBER AMORIS 283

CHARACTERISTICS 351

NOTES 421

MEMOIRS OF THE LATE THOMAS HOLCROFT

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

The _Memoirs of the late Thomas Holcroft, Written by Himself and
continued to the time of his death, from his diary, notes, and other
papers_, were published in three volumes (6⅜ × 3⅞), London, 1816,
_printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, Paternoster-row_, by
J. M’Creery, Black Horse Court, Fleet Street. The division of the work
is explained in Hazlitt’s _Advertisement_. Vol. I. contains Book I. (Mr
Holcroft’s Narrative) and Book II.; Vol. II. contains Book III. and
seven chapters of Book IV., in the last chapter of which Mr Holcroft’s
Diary begins (June 22nd-July 18th, 1798); Vol. III. opens without any
reference to a ‘Book’ and heads the conclusion of the Diary (July 19th,
1798–March 12th, 1799) ‘Chap. I.’ In the present edition it has seemed
well to ignore this arbitrary ‘Chap. I.’ heading, to run the Diary
straight on, and to head Chap. II. in the 3rd vol. Chap. VIII., thus
completing Book IV. The remainder of Vol. III. after this chapter is
occupied by _Letters to and from the author_.

It will be seen that a delay of six years took place between the date of
Hazlitt’s _Advertisement_ and the publication of the volumes. Mr W. C.
Hazlitt writes: ‘These _Memoirs_ were never, in spite of all the lapse
of time, completely printed; only three volumes out of four were
printed.’ Every endeavour to find this fourth volume has failed. The
_Memoirs_ were reprinted, abridged, in Longman’s ‘Travellers’ Library,’
1852. The present issue reproduces the first edition.

Mr Holcroft had intended, for several years before his death, to write
an account of his own life. It is now only to be regretted that he did
not begin to execute this design sooner. Few lives have been marked with
more striking changes; and no one possessed the qualities necessary for
describing them with characteristic liveliness in a greater degree than
he did. It often happens, that what we most wish done, we fail to do,
either through fear lest the execution should not answer our
expectations, or because the pleasure with which we contemplate a
favourite object at a distance, makes us neglect the ordinary means of
attaining it. This seems to have been the case with Mr Holcroft, who did
not begin the work he had so long projected, till within a short time of
his death. How much he had it at heart, may however be inferred from the
extraordinary pains he then took to make some progress in it. He told
his physicians that he did not care what severity of treatment he was
subjected to, provided he could live six months longer to complete what
he had begun. By dictating a word at a time, he succeeded in bringing it
down to his fifteenth year. When the clearness, minuteness, and
vividness of what he thus wrote, are compared with the feeble,
half-convulsed state in which it was written, it will be difficult to
bring a stronger instance of the exertion of resolution and firmness of
mind, under such circumstances. The whole of this account is given
literally to the public. This part comprises the first seventeen
Chapters, or Book I. The remainder of the Life has been compiled from Mr
Holcroft’s Letters; from Journals and other papers to which I had
access; from conversations with some of his early and most intimate
friends; and from passages in his printed works, relating to his own
history and adventures, pointed out to me by them. Some of the anecdotes
I have also heard mentioned by himself; but these are comparatively few.
I first became acquainted with Mr Holcroft about ten years ago; my chief
intercourse with him was within the last three or four years of his
life.

WILLIAM HAZLITT.

_January, 1810._

THE LIFE OF THOMAS HOLCROFT

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

[_This and the remaining Chapters of the first Book are in Mr Holcroft’s
own words._]

‘I was born in London, in Orange Court, Leicester Fields, on the 10th
day of December, 1745, old style; and was baptized and registered in St.
Martin’s church, where my name is erroneously written Howlcroft. In a
will of one of my uncle’s, which may be seen in Doctors’ Commons, the
name is spelt Houldecroft. From this it appears that our family did not
pay much attention to subjects of orthography, or think the manner in
which their name was spelt, a matter of importance.

‘Most persons, I believe, retain through life, a few strong impressions
of very early childhood. I have a recollection of being played with by
my parents, when very young, and of the extreme pleasure it gave me. On
another occasion, as I and one or two of my brothers or sisters were
playing in the court, and kneeling and peeping down a cellar window,
where there were some fowls, a shutter that belonged to the window, and
was fastened up, by some means or other got loose, and entirely cut off
one side of my sister Anne’s thumb;—a disaster never afterwards to be
forgotten. My father one day whipped me very severely for crying to go
to a school in the neighbourhood, where children were sent rather to
keep them out of the way, than to learn any thing. He afterwards ordered
an apprentice he had to take me to school. This apprentice was an
exceedingly hard-featured youth, with thick lips, wide mouth, broad
nose, and his face very much marked with the small-pox, but very kind
and good tempered. I perfectly remember his carrying me in my
petticoats, consoling me as we went, and giving me something nice to
eat. Perhaps I bear his features in mind the more accurately, because I
occasionally saw him afterwards, till I was seven or eight years old,
when he used to visit my father, who was then under misfortunes. He
seldom came without something kind to say, or good to give: but his last
and capital gift, too precious to be ever forgotten, consisted of two
small books. One was the History of Parismus and Parismenos, and the
other, of the Seven Champions of Christendom. These were to me an
inestimable treasure, that often brought the rugged, good natured Dick
to my remembrance, with no slight sense of obligation.

‘Till I was about six years old, my father kept a shoe-maker’s shop in
Orange Court; and I have a faint recollection that my mother dealt in
greens and oysters. After I became a man, my father more than once
pointed out the house to me: the back of it looks into the King’s Mews,
and it is now No. 13. My father was fond of speculation, and very
adventurous. I believe he had been set up in trade by my uncle John, who
lived several years, first as a helper, and afterwards as a groom in the
King’s stables; where, being an excellent economist, he saved money. For
a time, my father, through John’s influence, was admitted a helper in
the stables; but he did not continue there long, not having his
brother’s perseverance. How or when he procured the little knowledge of
shoe-making which he had, I do not recollect; though I have heard him
mention the fact. He was not bred to the trade. He and a numerous family
of his brothers and sisters all spent their infancy in _the field
country_; or, as I have heard him describe it, the most desolate part of
Lancashire, called Martin’s Muir, where my grand-father was a cooper; a
man, according to my father’s account, possessed of good qualities, but
passionate, and a dear lover of Sir John Barleycorn. My grandmother was
always mentioned by my father with very great respect.

‘At the period of which I speak, the west end of London swarmed with
chairmen; who, that they might tread more safely, had their shoes made
differently from those of other people; to which particular branch of
the trade my father applied himself with some success. But he was not
satisfied with the profits he acquired by shoe-making: he was very fond
of horses, and having some knowledge of them, he became a dealer in
them. Few persons but the great, at this time kept any sort of carriage.
It was common for those who wished to ride out, to hire a horse for the
day; and my father kept several horses for this purpose. If his word was
to be taken, they were such as were not very easily to be matched. The
praise he bestowed on them for their performances, and his admiration of
their make and beauty, were strong and continued. Young as I was, he
earnestly wished to see me able to ride. He had a beautiful poney (at
least so he called, and so I thought, it): but it was not more
remarkable for its beauty, than its animation. To hold it, required all
my father’s strength and skill; yet he was determined I should mount
this poney, and accompany him, whenever he took a ride. For this purpose
my petticoats were discarded; and as he was fonder of me than even of
his horses, nay, or of his poney, he had straps made, and I was buckled
to the saddle, with a leading rein fastened to the muzzle of the poney,
which he carefully held. These rides, with the oddity of our equipage
and appearance, sometimes exposed us to the ridicule of bantering
acquaintance; but I remember no harm that happened.

‘About the same time, my father indulged another whim; whether he was
led to it by any particular accident, I cannot tell. I must have been
about five years old, when he put me under the tuition of a player on
the violin, who was a public performer of some repute. Either parental
fondness led my father to believe, or he was flattered into the
supposition, that I had an uncommon aptitude for the art I had been put
to learn. I shall never forget the high praises I received, the
affirmation that I was a prodigy, and the assurances my teachers gave
that I should soon be heard in public. These dreams were never realized.

‘My father was under great obligations to my uncle John, and was afraid,
especially just at that time, of disobliging him. My uncle’s pride took
the alarm; and after marking his disapprobation, he asked with contempt,
“Do you mean to make a fiddler of the boy?” My practice on the violin
therefore ceased; and it is perhaps worth remarking, that, though I
could play so well before I was six years old, I had wholly forgotten
the art at the age of seven; for, after my master left me, I never
touched the instrument. In the days of my youthful distress, I have
sometimes thought, with bitter regret, of the absurd pride of my uncle.

CHAPTER II

‘Thus far my infantine life had passed under much more favourable
circumstances than are common to the children of the poor. But, when I
was about six years old, the scene suddenly changed, a long train of
increasing hardships began, and I have no doubt my sufferings were
rendered more severe from a consciousness of the little I had suffered
till then. This may therefore be properly considered as the first
remarkable era in my life.

‘How far the state of my father’s affairs might contribute to the steps
he took, is more than I now can tell: but on a sudden the house-keeping
broke up, the horses were sold, and we went into Berkshire, somewhere
beyond Ascot Heath, about thirty miles from London, where my father had
taken a house. What became of his effects, in what manner they were
sold, and of every circumstance of that kind, I am totally ignorant.

‘I suppose the time of our residence in Berkshire to have been about
twelve months. The house where we lived, was situated at the corner of
the road, the last of a small Green, or Common, down which the road had
a descent. For I remember my father at first had a tall, high-boned
hack, on the bare back of which I used by his order to gallop down the
hill, though I felt great difficulty in keeping my seat. It was in this
retired spot that my father himself began to teach me to read. The task
at first I found difficult, till the idea one day suddenly seized me of
catching all the sounds I had been taught from the arrangement of the
letters; and my joy at this amazing discovery was so great, that the
recollection of it has never been effaced. After that, my progress was
so rapid, that it astonished my father. He boasted of me to every body;
and that I might lose no time, the task he set me was eleven chapters a
day in the Old Testament. I might indeed have deceived my father by
skipping some of the chapters, but a dawning regard for truth, aided by
the love I had of reading, and the wonderful histories I sometimes found
in the Sacred Writings, generally induced me to go through the whole of
my task. One day as I was sitting at the gate with my Bible in my hand,
a neighbouring farmer, coming to see my father, asked me if I could read
the Bible already? I answered, yes; and he desired me to let him hear
me. I began at the place where the book was open, read fluently, and
afterwards told him, that if he pleased, he should hear the tenth
chapter of Nehemiah. At this he seemed still more amazed, and wishing to
be convinced, bade me read. After listening till he found I could really
pronounce the uncouth Hebrew names so much better and more easily than
he supposed to be within the power of so young a child, he patted my
head, gave me a penny, and said I was an uncommon boy. It would be hard
to say whether his praise or his gift was most flattering to me. Soon
after, my father’s apprentice, the kind-hearted Dick, who came backward
and forward to my father on his affairs, brought me the two delightful
histories I have above-mentioned, which were among those then called
Chapman’s Books. It was scarcely possible for any thing to have been
more grateful to me than this present. Parismus and Parismenos, with all
the adventures detailed in the Seven Champions of Christendom, were soon
as familiar to me as my catechism, or the daily prayers I repeated
kneeling before my father. Oh, how I loved poor Dick!

‘My father was an excellent pedestrian, and would often walk to London
and back again, more than sixty miles, in the same day. Sometimes he
dined at home, and went to London in the afternoon; and even then, I
rather think, though I cannot be certain, that he made a point of
sleeping in his own house. In height he was about five feet four,
perfectly free from corpulency, sober, and satisfied with plain,
wholesome diet. He used to speak with great self-complacency of the
manner in which he overcame competitors in walking, with whom he
sometimes chanced to meet. “I have been overtaken by tall men,” he would
say, “with whom I could not keep pace, and they have bid me good bye,
and told me they should be in London at such a time before me: but they
were every one of them mistaken. They could not proceed without stopping
to rest, and taking their pint of beer, their bread and cheese, or
whatever they could get to eat and drink. I was never far behind them, I
wanted nothing to eat or drink, I was not weary, I passed the houses in
which they were sitting, and got forward sometimes more than a mile
before them; while they would make another call, perhaps, and another,
so that I always arrived before them.”

‘One afternoon, however, he was desirous of going to town at a later
hour than usual, and therefore, for expedition’s sake, he borrowed a
light grey horse of a neighbour, on condition that it should be returned
that evening. He then mounted, and placed me behind him, trusting to my
courage and good sense for finding my way home with the horse. I know
not how far he took me, except that we passed over some part of Ascot
Heath, if not all of it; and about an hour before it was dark, he
alighted, left me on horse-back, and carefully gave me such directions
as he supposed I could not mistake. In this he conjectured rightly; I
began to trot away, anxious to get home before it was too dark; but
unluckily for me, some time after we had parted, with no human being in
sight, nor any likelihood of meeting one, the horse stumbled among some
ruts, and threw my hat off. To have lost my hat would have been a
terrible misfortune; I therefore ventured to alight and pick it up. Then
it was that I perceived my distress. I found every attempt I made to
remount wholly ineffectual, and all I could do was to endeavour to drag
the sluggish animal along, and cry bitterly. Twilight was fast
approaching, and I alone on the heath, (I knew not how far from home),
and never expecting to reach that desired place that evening. At length,
however, the white railing of the Race Course on Ascot Heath came in
sight, and I conceived hopes of remounting. Accordingly I with great
difficulty prevailed on my grey nag to stand tolerably nigh the railing,
on which I clambered, and with almost unspeakable joy I found myself
once more seated on his back. I had another piece of good fortune; for,
before I had gone far, a neighbour happened to be passing, who, seeing a
child so circumstanced, came up, asked me some questions, heard the
story I had to tell, and not only conveyed me safe to the village, but
to his own house, where he gave me something comfortable to eat and
drink, sent the horse to its right owner, and put me into the charge of
some one, who took me home.[1]

‘I know nothing that tends so much as the anecdotes of childhood, when
faithfully recorded, to guide the philosopher through that very abstruse
but important labyrinth, the gradations that lead to the full stature,
peculiar form, temperament, character, and qualities of the man. I am
therefore anxious to recount all those concerning myself, which I
suppose may conduce to this purpose.

‘My father was very fond, and not a little vain, of me. He delighted to
shew how much I was superior to other children, and this propensity had
sometimes a good effect. One evening when it was quite dark, daylight
having entirely disappeared, and the night being cloudy, he was boasting
to a neighbour of my courage; and his companion seeming rather to doubt,
my father replied, he would put it immediately to the proof. “Tom,” said
he, “you must go to the house of Farmer such a one,” (I well remember
the walk, but not the name of the person,) “and ask whether he goes to
London to morrow.” I was startled, but durst not dispute his authority,
it was too great over me, besides that my vanity to prove my valor was
not a little excited: accordingly I took my hat, and immediately obeyed.

‘The house I was sent to, as far as I can remember, must have been
between a quarter and half a mile distant; and the road that led to it,
was by the side of the hedge on the left hand of the Common. However, I
knew the way well enough, and proceeded; but it was with many stops,
starts, and fears. It may be proper to observe here, that although I
could not have been without courage, yet I was really, when a child,
exceedingly apprehensive, and full of superstition. When I saw magpies,
it denoted good or ill luck, according as they did or did not cross me.
When walking, I pored for pins, or rusty nails; which, if they lay in
certain directions, foreboded some misfortune. Many such whims possessed
my brain—I was therefore not at all free from notions of this kind, on
the present occasion. However, I went forward on my errand, humming,
whistling, and looking as carefully as I could; now and then making a
false step, which helped to relieve me, for it obliged me to attend to
the road. When I came to the farm-house, I delivered my message. “Bless
me, child,” cried the people within, “have you come, this dark night,
all alone?” “Oh yes,” I said, assuming an air of self-consequence. “And
who sent you?” “My father wanted to _know_,” I replied equivocally. One
of them then offered to take me home, but of this I would by no means
admit. My whole little stock of vanity was roused, and I hastily
scampered out of the house, and was hidden in the dark. My return was
something, but not much less alarming than my journey thither. At last I
got safely home, glad to be rid of my fears, and inwardly not a little
elated with my success. “Did you hear or see any body, Tom,” said my
father, “as you went or came back?” “No,” said I, “it was quite dark;
not but I thought once or twice, I did hear something behind me.” In
fact, it was my father and his companion, who had followed me at a
little distance. This, my father, in fondly praising me for my courage,
some time after told me.

CHAPTER III

‘All that I now recollect more of this residence in Berkshire is, that
my father, after having been from home longer than usual, put a sudden,
and to me unexpected end to it—took me with him, and for some time
travelled round the country.

‘The first place I distinctly remember myself, was London, where I have
a faint notion of having been among boys with their schoolbooks. Whether
I was sent to school for a week or two, while my father and mother were
adjusting their affairs, and preparing for their new career, is more
than I can affirm or deny: though I have no recollection of acquiring
any knowledge, a thing which, before this, had begun to make a strong
impression on me. If I were really sent to school, it must have been for
a very short time, nor could I have been provided with books or other
means of improvement. And indeed my father was so straitened in his
circumstances, that my mother very soon after agreed to turn pedlar,
hung a basket with pins, needles, tape, garters, and other small
haberdashery, on her arm, and hawked them through the outskirts and
neighbourhood of London, while I trotted after her. I might at first
perhaps feel some disgust at this employment: but use soon reconciled me
to it, as the following anecdote will shew.

‘I cannot say what my father’s employment was, while I and my mother
were, what they emphatically called _tramping_ the villages, to hawk our
pedlary. It may be presumed, however, that it was not very lucrative,
for he soon after left it, and he and my mother went into the country,
hawking their small wares, and dragging me after them. They went first
to Cambridge, and afterwards, as their hopes of success led them,
traversed the neighbouring villages. Among these we came to one which I
thought most remarkably clean, well built, and unlike villages in
general: my father said it was the handsomest in the kingdom. We must
have been very poor, however, and hard-driven on this occasion; for here
it was that I was either encouraged, or commanded, one day to go by
myself, from house to house, and beg. Young as I was, I had considerable
readiness in making out a story, and on this day, my little inventive
faculties shone forth with much brilliancy. I told one story at one
house, another at another, and continued to vary my tale just as the
suggestions arose: the consequence of which was, that I moved the good
country people exceedingly. One called me a poor fatherless child:
another exclaimed, what a pity! I had so much sense! a third patted my
head, and prayed God to preserve me, that I might make a good man. And
most of them contributed either by scraps of meat, farthings, bread and
cheese, or other homely offers, to enrich me, and send me away with my
pockets loaded. I joyfully brought as much of my stores as I could
carry, to the place of rendezvous my parents had appointed, where I
astonished them by again reciting the false tales I had so readily
invented. My father, whose passions were easily moved, felt no little
conflict of mind as I proceeded. I can now, in imagination, see the
working of his features. “God bless the boy! I never heard the like!”
Then turning to my mother, he exclaimed with great earnestness—“This
must not be! the poor child will become a common place liar! A
hedge-side rogue!—He will learn to pilfer!—Turn a confirmed vagrant!—Go
on the high way when he is older, and get hanged. He shall never go on
such errands again.” How fortunate for me in this respect, that I had
such a father! He was driven by extreme poverty, restless anxiety, and a
brain too prone to sanguine expectation, into many absurdities, which
were but the harbingers of fresh misfortunes: but he had as much
integrity and honesty of heart as perhaps any man in the kingdom, who
had had no greater advantages. It pleases me now to recollect, that,
though I had a consciousness that my talents could keep my parents from
want, I had a still stronger sense of the justice of my father’s
remarks. As it happened, I had not only read and remembered the
consequences of good and evil, as they are pointed out in the
Scriptures, but I had also become acquainted with some of the renowned
heroes of fable; and to be a liar, a rogue, and get hanged, did not
square well with the confused ideas I had either of goodness or
greatness, or with my notions of a hero.

‘From the vicinity of Cambridge, we passed on to the Isle of Ely,
hawking our different wares, pins, laces, tempting ribbons, and garters,
in every village we came to; arriving first at Peterborough, and
afterwards taking care to be present at Wisbeach fair. Markets, fairs,
and wakes, were indeed the great objects which regulated all our
motions.

‘The Isle of Ely, from its marshy nature, is much infested by the
reptile tribes. One day, as we were pushing forward through the grass by
the road side, I saw what I imagined to be a beautiful ribbon, striped
and spotted with various colours, but chiefly blue and white; and with
great surprise catching hold of my mother’s arm, I cried, “Look, mammy,
look!” No less admiring what she saw than myself, and equally
mistaken,—“Bless me,” said she, “how pretty!” Then stooping to take it
up, she touched it; but our surprise now greatly increased, when a large
snake uncoiled itself, darted forward, and in a moment was out of sight.
My father was much amused at the terror we felt. He had lived for some
time with a farmer, and knew the difference between the adder and common
snake tribes, with the harmless nature of the latter. For in summer and
autumn, whenever he could come upon a sleeping snake, he made it his
diversion to catch it by the tail, shake it when it attempted to rise,
and bring it with him wherever he was going. A country woman, with whom
we met shortly after, told us that the breed of snakes was so common in
those parts, that they could not be kept out of their cottages, where
they frequently took shelter, especially in the night.

‘The things of which I have the most distinct recollection as connected
with the Isle of Ely, are its marshy lands, multiplied ditches, long
broad grass, low and numerous draining mills; with the cathedral of
Peterborough, which I thought beautiful: but above all, those then dear
and delightful creatures, a quack doctor, peeping from behind his
curtain, and that droll devil his merry Andrew, apparitions first beheld
by me at Wisbeach fair. It was a pleasure so unexpected, so exquisite,
so rich and rare, that I followed the merry Andrew and his drummer
through the streets, gliding under arms and between legs, never long
together three yards apart from him; almost bursting with laughter at
his extreme comicality; tracing the gridirons, punchinellos, and
pantomime figures on his jacket; wondering at the manner in which he
twirled his hat in the air, and again caught it so dexterously on his
head. My curiosity did not abate, when he examined to see if there was
not some little devil hid within it, with a grotesque squint of his
eyes, twist of his nose, and the exclamation, “Oh, ho! have I caught
you, Mr Imp?”—making a snatch at the inside of his hat, grasping at
something, opening his hand, finding nothing in it, and then crying with
a stupid stare—“No, you see, good folks, the devil of any devil is
here!” Then again, when he returned to the stage, followed by an eager
crowd, and in an imperious tone was ordered by his master to mount,—to
see the comical jump he gave, alighting half upright, roaring with
pretended pain, pressing his hip, declaring he had put out his collar
bone, crying to his master to come and cure it, receiving a kick,
springing up and making a somerset; thanking his master kindly for
making him well; yet, the moment his back was turned, mocking him with
wry faces; answering the doctor, whom I should have thought extremely
witty, if Andrew had not been there, with jokes so apposite and
whimsical as never failed to produce roars of laughter. All this was to
me assuredly, “the feast of reason and the flow of soul!” As it was the
first scene of the kind I had ever witnessed, so it was the most
extatic. I think it by no means improbable, that an ardent love of the
dramatic art took root in my mind from the accidents of that day.

CHAPTER IV

‘There are short periods of my life, during which, when endeavouring to
retrace them, I am surprised to find I can scarcely recollect any thing
of what happened, and this was one of them. How we got from the Isle of
Ely,—where we went,—what we did,—the reasons that induced my father and
mother to forsake the business of pedlars,—whether he returned to London
for a short time, and again sat down to what he called his trade,
namely, that of making, or rather mending shoes,—are questions which I
cannot answer. This interval, though not very long, must have been of
some duration; for the first remarkable fact that presents itself to my
mind, is the strong recollection I have of being at Coventry, walking
with my little sister in my arms in a large desolate back yard, at the
outskirts of the city. Through this yard, a deep open common sewer ran,
into which my sister either sprang, or fell by accident, where she must
almost instantly have been suffocated, had not I, instead of being
terrified, and running to call for help, immediately thrown myself on
the ground, and dragged her safely out. I ran, at once terrified and
rejoiced, to tell my father and mother what had happened, and was
rewarded by the praises I received from them for the good sense and
intrepidity I had shewn. It has been my good fortune to have saved more
lives than one, but this was the first.

‘In and of Coventry itself, I remember several little traits and
incidents. I was much taken with the virtue, beauty, and magnanimity of
Lady Godiva:—the misfortune that befel peeping Tom, was a fine mark of
divine justice; and I was equally delighted to think that all the people
had bread enough, as I supposed, when the oppressive toll was taken off.
Coventry Cross was then standing, and though greatly dilapidated, made
no little impression on my imagination, as I walked round and round it,
and gazed at its spiral forms, commensurate proportions, numerous little
recesses and figures, though half destroyed, that suggested ideas of
beauty, sanctity, and the events of past times. Not that I would have it
supposed that these ideas passed individually and distinctly through the
mind of an uninstructed boy, little more than eight years old, but the
effect of them altogether was such as I have here described.

‘My father, though active and of a strong constitution, was short,
slight-built, and wholly unable to contend with men in general. But he
was passionate, and free-spoken if he thought himself ill-used, and had
thus given offence to a powerful, brutal rival in the market, by whom he
was treated with great contempt, and threatened with personal
chastisement. I well remember the grief and indignation I then felt that
my father should be thus degraded; and that he, I, and all belonging to
him, should be unable to redress his wrongs.

‘This happened on a market-day; and I believe it was on the same day
that my father, thinking me almost perished with the cold, gave me a
pint of ale to drink, which so far inebriated me, that I was quite
ashamed. My father himself was a man of such sobriety, that I had heard
him often declare that he had never in his life been overcome with
liquor. Besides, I loved religious books, and they all informed me,
drunkenness was a great sin. I therefore took it very much to heart that
I should so early have been guilty of a crime, of which he was entirely
innocent. However, he consoled me by taking the blame upon himself for
giving me more drink that I could be supposed able to bear.

‘It was here that I saw a person of a very odd and almost unaccountable
appearance. I could not discover whether he was young or old; for he
seemed to be both. The size of his limbs, the form of his body, the
colour of his hair and face, were such as might have belonged to a boy
of eighteen; and to correspond with these he had something of
sprightliness in his manner: but his gait and deportment were those of
old age: he stooped in the shoulders, and he had the greatest number of
small wrinkles in his face that I have ever seen. The reason why I
mention many of these (in themselves perhaps insignificant)
circumstances, is, that the inquiring reader may be able to trace the
bent and progress of my mind, and how far I was prone to observation.

CHAPTER V

‘Having been bred to an employment for which he was very ill-fitted,
both from his physical and mental powers and propensities, the habit
that became most rooted in, and most fatal to my father, was a
fickleness of disposition, a thorough persuasion, after he had tried one
means of providing for himself and family for a certain time, that he
had discovered another far more profitable and secure. Steadiness of
pursuit was a virtue at which he could never arrive: and I believe few
men in the kingdom had in the course of their lives been the hucksters
of so many small wares; or more enterprising dealers in articles of a
halfpenny value.

‘Different circumstances have fixed in my mind the recollection of many
of the towns to which we went, and a variety of the articles of my
father’s traffic, but in all probability not a tenth part of either. I
at this moment remember in particular, a market-day at Macclesfield in
Cheshire; not so much from what we sold, though I believe it was some
sort of wooden-ware, of which trenchers and spoons were in those days
staple articles, as from a person that caught my attention there. This
was a most robust and boisterous woman, more than middle-aged, with a
very visible beard, and a deep base voice. I was never weary of
listening to, looking at her, and watching all she said or did. I could
scarcely think it possible there was such a woman.

‘I should mention, that to carry on these itinerant trades, my father
had begun with purchasing an ass, and bought more as he could; now and
then increasing his store by the addition of a ragged poney, or a
worn-out, weather-beaten Rozinante. In autumn he turned his attention to
fruit, and conveyed apples and pears in hampers from villages to
market-towns; among the latter of which I remember, were Tamworth,
Newark-upon-Trent, and Hinckley. The bad nourishment I met with, the
cold and wretched manner in which I was clothed, and the excessive
weariness I endured in following these animals day after day, and being
obliged to drive creatures perhaps still more weary than myself, were
miseries much too great, and loaded my little heart with sorrows far too
pungent ever to be forgotten. Bye roads and high roads were alike to be
traversed, but the former far the oftenest, for they were then almost
innumerable, and the state of them in winter would scarcely at present
be believed.—Speaking of scantiness of diet, an incident happened to me
which shews the great power of taste, or rather of imagination, over the
appetite, and which ought to be treasured in the memory of those who
endeavour to force the appetites of children. I was travelling after my
father in Staffordshire near Wosely bridge, where a country-gentleman
had a seat. I went into the house, whether alone or for what purpose I
totally forget: but I well remember the fragrant steams of the kitchen,
and the longing wishes they excited. As I was going away, a good-natured
servant said, “Perhaps you are hungry, little boy?” To which, bashfully
hanging my head, I answered, “Yes.” “Well, then, stop a minute, I’ll
give you something very nice”: and accordingly, a large bason of rich
pease-soup was brought me, and a spoon. I had never eaten, nor perhaps
heard of such a thing before: but the moment I smelt it, and applied it
to my palate, I conceived such an excessive dislike to it, that though I
felt ashamed, and made every effort I could, I found it impossible to
swallow a spoonful. Some servants were by my side, and one of them
asked, “What! don’t you like it? Can’t you eat it?” To which, perfectly
abashed, and again hanging my head, I replied, “No.” “Ha!” said one of
them, “you are a dainty chap, however, I wonder who keeps you, or what
it is you do like!” I made no reply, but, hungry as I was, and
wretchedly disappointed, hurried away as fast as I could, to overtake my
father. I should remark, that since I have grown up, pease-soup has
always been a favourite dish with me: perhaps, accustomed as I had been
from childhood to the plainest food, and empty as my stomach then was,
this high-flavoured composition would unavoidably excite disgust.

‘My father became by turns, a collector and vender of rags, a
hardwareman, a dealer in buckles, buttons, and pewter-spoons; in short,
a trafficker in whatever could bring gain. But there was one thing which
fixed his attention longer than any other, and which therefore, I
suppose he found the most lucrative; which was, to fetch pottery from
the neighbourhood of Stone, in Staffordshire, and to hawk it through all
the North of England. Of all other travelling, this was the most
continual, the most severe, and the most intolerable. Derbyshire,
Cheshire, Leicestershire, Nottinghamshire, Warwickshire, the towns and
cities of Birmingham, Walsall, Wolverhampton, Coventry, Derby,
Burton-upon-Trent, Litchfield, Tamworth, Atherstone, Nuneaton,
Lutterworth, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, nay, as far up as Warwick,
Stratford-upon-Avon, Daventry, Northampton, Newport-Pagnell, Banbury, (I
well remember its delicious cakes); and on the east, Stamford in
Lincolnshire, Grantham, and in short every place within possible reach,
or where pottery might be sold, received visits from my father, the
asses, and poor me.

‘What became of my mother during these excursions, I do not accurately
recollect, except that she was with us occasionally, as at Macclesfield
for instance, where the woman with the beard and base voice so fixed my
attention. She was also with us at Litchfield and Coventry. Most
probably she was in general left at home, with her child or children.

‘By home, I mean an old house half in ruins, about two miles on the
north-east side of Rugeley, with a kitchen-garden, paddock, and croft,
which afforded some scanty supplies to man and beast, when my father
found it convenient, or thought proper to rest a little from his
labours; but to me this house often became a den of misery. I was not
yet nine years old, but I had a variety of employments. First, I was the
messenger of the family to Rugeley, whither I took money and brought
back delicious white bread, for which it was then famous, with such
minor articles as were wanted. But when trusted by myself, I could not
help loitering on the road, diverting myself with whatever caught my
attention, and examining every new object with an idle, boyish
curiosity, from which I derived little profit. So that a journey, which
ought to have been performed in less than two hours, generally took me
more than half a day. I knew the consequences, and had a kind of horror
of them, yet could not resist, could not prevail upon myself to go
strait forward; such was the united force of habit and curiosity.

‘My father was alike extreme in his anger, and in his compassion. He
used to beat me, pull my hair up by the roots, and drag me by the ears
along the ground, till they ran with blood. Indeed my repeated faults
were so unpardonable, that he could scarcely blame himself. Yet probably
within an hour after he had exercised his severity upon me, he would
break out into passionate exclamations of fondness, alarming himself
lest he should some time or other do me a serious mischief, and
declaring that rather than so, he would a thousand times prefer instant
death.

‘Chastisements like these were grievous, but they were by no means the
whole of what I had to encounter. I know not how it happened, but at
this early age I was entrusted with business rather like an adult than a
child.

‘Towards Litchfield, on the right, lay Cannock heath and town; and
adjoining to this heath, on the left, there were coal-pits situated in a
remarkably heavy clay country: (I speak from childish recollection, and
may therefore expect to be pardoned, should I in description commit any
local errors; as I have never been at Cannock, the coal-pits, or the
heath, since that period). Desirous of employing his asses, yet averse
to go himself (I know not for what reason) my father frequently sent me
to these coal-pits to get a single ass loaded, and to drive him over the
heath to Rugeley, there to find a customer for my coals. The article was
so cheap, and so near, that the profits could be but very small, yet
they were something. Had the weather been fine when I was sent on these
errands, the task would not have been so difficult, nor the wonder so
great; but at the time I was unfortunately sent there, I have a perfect
recollection of deep ruts, of cattle, both asses and horses, unable to
drag their legs through the clay, and of carts and waggons that were set
fast in it. I do not mean that these accidents happened every day, but
they were common to the place: and to poor helpless me, with a creature
that could scarcely stand under its burthen, they were not less frequent
than to others. When any body that could assist me happened to be near,
I thought myself in luck; but if I was obliged to run from coal-pit to
coal-pit, to request the man who turned the wheel to come and help me,
the chance of compliance was little. I often got nothing but a surly
curse and a denial; so till some unlooked-for accident brought me
relief, there my loaded ass, sometimes heaving a groan at what he
suffered, was obliged to stay.

‘The most remarkable instance of this kind of distress may perhaps
deserve recounting. One day, my ass had passed safely through the clay
ruts and deep roads, and under my guidance had begun to ascend a hill we
had to cross on Cannock heath on our way to Rugeley. The wind was very
high; though while we were on low ground, I had never suspected its real
force. But my apprehensions began to increase with our ascent, and when
on the summit of the hill, nearly opposite to two clumps of trees, which
are pictured to my imagination as they stood there at that time, it blew
gust after gust, too powerful for the loaded animal to resist, and down
it came. Through life I have always had a strong sense of the grief and
utter despair I then felt. But what a little surprises me is, that I
have no recollection whatever of the means by which I found relief, but
rather of the naked and desolate place in which I was, and my inability
to help myself. Could I have unloaded the ass, it would not have been
much matter; but the coals were brought from the pits in such masses,
that three of them were generally an ass-load; any one of which was
usually beyond my strength. I have no doubt, however, but I got them by
some means or other to Rugeley, and brought the money for them safe to
my father, whom I could not help secretly accusing of insensibility,
though that was the very reverse of his character.

‘The coal-pits were situated on the extremity of an old forest,
inhabited by large quantities of red deer. At these I always stopped to
look: but what surprised and delighted me most was the noble stag; for
to him the deer appeared insignificant. Him I often saw bounding along,
eying objects without fear, and making prodigious leaps over obstacles
that opposed his passage. In this free state, indeed, he cannot but
excite our admiration.

‘One little anecdote I must not omit. The reader will naturally suppose
that from the time I began to travel the country with my father and
mother, I had little leisure or opportunity to acquire any knowledge by
reading. I was too much pressed by fatigue, hunger, cold, and nakedness.
Still however I cannot but suppose, as well from my own propensity to
obey the will of God, as from my father’s wish to encourage my
inclinations of this kind, that I continued to repeat my prayers and
catechism morning and evening, and on Sundays to read the prayer-book
and bible. At any rate, I had not forgot to read; for while we were at
the house near Rugeley, by some means or other, the song of Chevy Chace
came into my possession, which I read over with great delight at our
fire-side. My father, who knew that my memory was tolerably retentive,
and saw the great number of stanzas the ballad contained, said to me,
“Well, Tom, can you get that song by heart?” To this question I very
readily answered, “yes.” “In how long a time?”—“Why, you know, father, I
have got such work for to-morrow, and what work you will set me for the
following days, I can’t tell; however, I can get it in three days.”
“What, perfectly?” “Yes.” “Well, if you do that, I’ll give you a
halfpenny.” Rejoiced at my father’s generosity, “Oh then, never fear,”
said I. I scarcely need add, that my task was easily accomplished, and
that I then had the valuable sum of a halfpenny at my own disposal.

CHAPTER VI

‘There was a single instance in which I travelled on foot thirty miles
in one day. Whether the miles were measured or computed, is a
circumstance which I now forget: but the roads were so heavy, owing to a
strong clay soil, that the last quarter of a mile I had to go, I was
obliged to confess I could walk no farther, and I was carried on a
countryman’s shoulders. All those who heard of this, and knew how young,
how slight of limb, and stunted in my growth I was, expressed their
astonishment, and some their doubts. I think this happened before I was
ten years of age.

‘My father broke up his little establishment near Rugeley, and took me
with him into Cheshire, but left me at a village two or three miles from
Haslem, where I was intrusted to the care of an old woman, who kept a
lodging-house; and whom from the whole of her appearance, as well as her
kindness to me, I always remembered with respect. On the evening of my
arrival, but later, two travelling Irishmen came in, and were admitted
as lodgers. My father had bargained with the old woman, that she was to
provide for me: travellers, of course, who come in at sun-set, and
depart at day-break, provide for themselves, or are obliged to be
satisfied with what such barren abodes can supply. The Irishmen had
provided a halfpenny roll between them; what they might have more I do
not know. But my good old dame they noticed to be mashing up a plentiful
supper of new milk and potatoes for me, a dish in which their hearts
delighted. Whether it was contrivance, accident, or according to rule, I
cannot say; we did not, however, sup in the presence of the old woman,
but in the room in which we all three slept. No sooner were we here, and
I had begun in imagination to devour my delicate mashed potatoes, than
the Irishmen came up to me, patted my cheeks, told me what a pretty
little boy I was, asked me my name, inquired who took care of me, and to
what country I was going; and swore by the holy father they never in all
their lives, saw so sweet a looking boy, and so compliant and
good-tempered. “Do now,” said one of them, “let me taste of your mashed
potatoes.” “Aye, and me too,” said the other—“I _warrand_ you don’t much
care about them! We now are a _dale_ more used to them in Ireland: I’m
sure you’ll be very glad to make an exchange. Here now, here is a very
fine half-penny roll, which is very nice _ating_, and which to be sure
we bought for our own supper. To be sure, we should be fond enough of
it, but we don’t care about trifles; and as we have been used to _ate_
potatoes all the days of our lives, and you English all like bread, why
if you _plase_, my sweet compliable _fillow_, we will just make a little
bit of a swap, and so we shall all _ate_ our suppers heartily.” The
action followed the word; they took my potatoes, and gave me the dry
roll: while I, totally disconcerted, and not a little overawed by the
wildness of my fellow-lodgers’ looks, the strangeness of their brogue,
their red whiskers, dark beards, carotty wigs, and sparkling black eyes,
said not a word, but quietly submitted, though I thoroughly regretted
the dainty supper I had lost, and saw them devour it with an aching
heart.

‘Whenever I write dialogues like these, it is not to be supposed that I
pretend to repeat word for word what was said: after the lapse of so
many years, such a pretension would on the face of it be absurd. But I
do on all such occasions pretend to give a true picture of the
impressions that still remain on my mind, to express the tone and spirit
in which the words were spoken, and in general to repeat a part of the
words themselves.—I cannot too seriously declare that I write these
memoirs with a conscious desire to say nothing but the pure truth, the
chief intention of them being to excite an ardent emulation in the
breasts of youthful readers; by shewing them how difficulties may be
endured, how they may be overcome, and how they may at last contribute,
as a school of instruction, to bring forth hidden talent.

CHAPTER VII

‘Next morning early the Irishmen pursued their journey; and when my
father returned, I told him in the hearing of our well-meaning old
hostess how I had been tricked out of my supper. They immediately joined
in reviling the whole Irish nation, concluding as “the great vulgar and
the small” generally do on such occasions, that these two fellows, with
the cunning kind of robbery they had committed, exhibited a faithful
picture of Ireland and Irishmen. ’Till corrected either by great
experience, or conscientious inquiry, the human mind has an almost
invincible propensity, when any vice which most excites disgust or
contempt is remarked in an individual of a particular country, to affirm
that it could belong to no one else, and to ascribe it as a general
characteristic to the nation at large.

‘I believe that my father’s intentions, when we left Cheshire, were to
seclude himself for a time, by working at the shoe-making business; and
that for this purpose he took a circuitous route, with a determination
to settle at whatever market-town he should find there was a probability
of getting employment. This pursuit led us to Northwich, Knutsford,
Congleton, Macclesfield, Sheffield, Chappel in le Frith, in which
country the scenery astonished me, and where I was particularly struck
with three conic barren rocks, which, I remarked to my father, were like
three sugar-loaves. We also went to Buxton, Bakewell, Chesterfield, and
Mansfield, where sickness detained us for a time. This sickness was a
mutual and dangerous fever, which we caught, either by our being unable
to reach a lodging-house, or to pay for a lodging, and by our sleeping,
in consequence, under a damp hedge, an imprudence that had nearly proved
fatal to us; nor have I ever ceased at intervals to feel its effects.
Some time after our recovery from the fever, I was seized by an asthma,
which became so violent, that it was only occasionally I dared venture
from the house. I can give no account how we were maintained, while we
were at Mansfield, nor of the means by which we recovered; but I have a
perfect picture before me, of a decent, cleanly house, good attendance,
and countenances that were kind and cheerful. At the same time, I have
no recollection of conceiving ourselves indebted to charity, or of being
under any apprehensions of future want; so that I can hardly suppose
that the circumstance which first occasioned our illness, arose from
pecuniary distress.

‘After we had recovered sufficient strength, our next remove was to
Nottingham, where we lodged in a house not far from the Park, with the
Castle in view, and the brook that winds along the low grounds beneath
the height on which it is built. A game which I do not remember to have
seen played any where else, and which afforded me no little pleasure,
was that of two men having each a round bright ball of iron or steel, to
which they had the art of giving an elastic right-line direction along
the pathway through the Park; and which, if I am not mistaken, they
called playing at long bowls, he who could first attain the goal being
the winner. Spell and null, bandy, prison-bars, and other field games,
in the address or the activity of which my little heart delighted, long
before I was permitted to be a partaker in them, were here among the
diversions of the summer evening.

‘In many parts, Nottingham is, as I then thought it, a very fine town.
To me, who had seen so many, its market-place seemed to claim an
undoubted and high superiority. Situated on a gently rising ground, that
soon becomes dry after showers, surrounded by inns, shops, and other
buildings, and well supplied with almost every article, it is among the
largest, most convenient, and handsomest in England. A little beyond it
were two remarkable inns, the White Lion, and the Blackamoor’s Head;
each possessed of vast cellarage, wines of I know not what age, with
viands, beds, and other conveniences, such as it gave me the greatest
satisfaction to hear described.

‘One of our four principal rivers, the noble Trent, flows through the
meadows below the town, at no very great distance. The scenery round it,
to my boyish apprehension, was grand. When the day and the stream were
clear, I have often taken a particular pleasure in watching the shoals
of fish of the smaller kind in which it abounded, or in now and then
catching a glimpse of some of greater magnitude, or in seeing them
brought on shore by the dexterous angler. A village, called the
Hermitage, lay on its banks, and thither I delighted to walk, because it
was connected with circumstances, which interested my imagination.—Here,
as well as in other places in the outskirts of the town, there were
houses cut in the rock; and I could not but fancy them to have been
formerly inhabited by a venerable and holy brotherhood of Hermits. These
houses were indeed to me objects of the greatest curiosity. I could
never cease admiring that men should persevere in hewing themselves out
such habitations, and that they should turn a thing so barren to so much
use and profit; for these rocks were in fact high banks of sand-stone,
and on the top of them, that is, on the roofs of their houses, each man
had his garden.

‘I walked much about at Nottingham in company with my father, to whom I
was very eager to communicate all my juvenile pleasures, and of whom I
also made constant inquiries with respect to the objects we saw. He,
however, could oftener make conjectures than give information. I imagine
his reason for taking me thus into the air, was, as he hoped, to arrest
the progress of the asthma which daily increased, and became alarming;
for there were times when I could not walk above a few yards without
standing still to recover breath. Such medical people as my father could
obtain access to, were consulted; but the general opinion was that
unless youth and growth should relieve me, the disease was for life. An
intelligent surgeon happened to think otherwise: he entertained hopes,
he said, provided an issue was made, and carefully kept open on the
inside of each leg below the knee. My father accepted his offer to
perforate the skin, and direct me in dressing the issues; for to my
known prudence this care was readily committed. The success of the
remedy equalled the expectations of the surgeon. The cure, aided no
doubt by my youth and cheerful temperament, was progressively visible
from week to week, and my joy and thankfulness to my medical guide were
great. Whoever he was, I certainly owe him much; but I have forgotten
his name. This must have happened in the year 1756 or 7, but I believe
the latter.

CHAPTER VIII

‘Public sights, even though cruel, have been, through all ages, the
delight of the herd of mankind. The sessions were just over, and a
malefactor, who had been sentenced to death, was left by the judge for
execution. My father proposed that we should accompany the crowd, and
see what was to be seen. To this I consented; we followed the cart to
the gallows which stood at some distance from the town; and by talking
with each other, listening to remarks that were made, some of them
charitable, others tainted with a revengeful spirit, and by frequently
stopping to observe the agitation of the poor wretch whose life was so
soon to cease, I was thrown into a very pensive state of mind. However,
taking my father by the hand, I patiently waited the awful moment when
the cap was drawn over the culprit’s eyes, and he was suddenly lifted
into the air. Here his convulsive struggles, to my young and
apprehensive imagination, were intolerable: I soon turned my eyes away,
unable to look any longer; and my father seeing the pain I was in, said,
“Come, Tom, let us go.” “Oh yes, yes, father, as fast as we can,” was my
reply. The effect on my mind was such, that I made, as I suppose, the
first fixed resolution of my life, and declared it in a tone that
denoted how determined I was,—“Never again, while I live,” said I, “will
I go, and see a malefactor put to death.” Five or six and twenty years
afterwards, I thought it an act of duty to change this determination
when I was first at Paris in the year 1783. Through life, however, when
hanging, and the various ways in which men exterminate each other, have
been talked of, I have rarely, if ever, forgotten the poor dying culprit
of Nottingham.

‘It should seem that men have at all times had the good sense to
contrast their melancholy and often disgusting institutions, with others
of an opposite tendency; and that seldom fail in the very nature of them
to revive the sickening heart, and give it animation and delight.

‘The time of Nottingham Races drew near. My father was a great lover of
horses, as I have said; and from his discourse, as well as the little I
had seen of these noble animals, I was eager to become better acquainted
with them. My father recapitulated the different places at which he had
seen horses run, recounted the names of the famous winners he had known,
and filled up the picture with the accidents common on such occasions,
the amazing cunning of sharpers, the punishments inflicted on some of
their detected rogueries; the cries of the betting chair, the tumult of
the crowd when the horses were running, the danger of being too near the
course, with the difficulty of keeping it clear, the multitude of gaming
and drinking booths, and all that variety of delightful commotion which
was calculated to gratify my boyish fancy. The whole scene was like
enchantment; and all my wishes were now centered in its being realised.

‘Ten days or a fortnight before the time, straggling horses for the
different plates began to drop in; and of course to take their morning
and evening exercise on the course, where they might be seen. This was a
pleasure not to be neglected either by me or my father. I was delighted
with the fineness of their limbs, their glossy coats; and not a little
amused, when following them from exercise to the stable, if I were but
allowed to take a peep, and see how their body-clothes were managed, how
the currying and brushing of them was performed, their high straw beds
prepared, their long hay carefully chosen, and their oats sifted and
re-sifted. Every thing about a race-horse is precious: but I pitied them
for being so much stinted in their food, and especially when my father
told me it must daily decrease, and that the night before they started
they must fast.

‘But the great and glorious part which Nottingham held in the annals of
racing this year, arose from the prize of the King’s plate, which was to
be contended for by the two horses which every body I heard speak
considered as undoubtedly the best in England, and perhaps equal to any
that had ever been known, Childers alone excepted. Their names were,
Careless and Atlas. Careless, who had been bred by a worthy and popular
Baronet of the county (I forget his name) was the decided favourite of
every man in Nottingham, gentle or simple. The prowess and equal, if not
superior, merit of Atlas, were very boldly asserted by strangers, and
particularly by jockeys, betters, and men of the turf. If I do not
mistake, Atlas was the property of, and bred by the Duke of Devonshire.
However, he had received a previous defeat in running against Careless;
and this defeat the men of Nottingham considered as little less than a
certainty of future victory. The opposite party affirmed that Atlas,
being a remarkably powerful horse (I think seventeen hands high), had
not then attained his full force. There was a story in circulation
concerning him, which if true deserved to be remembered. He was a full
bred horse out of the Duke’s own stud, and consequently was intended for
training: but being unwieldy when foaled, and as he grew up becoming
still more so, he was rejected on account of his size and clumsiness,
and banished to the cart breed. Among these inferiors he remained, till
by some accident, either of playfulness or fright, several of them
started together, and the vast advantage of Atlas in speed happening to
be noticed, it was then thought proper by the grooms to restore him to
his blood companions.

‘Of those who in the least amused or busied themselves with such
affairs, Careless and Atlas occupied the whole discourse. Many people
who seemed to reason plausibly enough on the subject, affirmed that if
any thing lost the race to Careless, it would be the inferior skill of
his rider, by whom neither the ground nor the powers of the horse would
be well economized; he was merely the groom of a country gentleman. When
the race was over, these accusations were vociferated with wearisome
reiteration.

‘On the appointed day, however, they both started for the king’s plate;
and I believe there was scarcely a heart on the race-course, that did
not swell with hope and fear. As for my own little one, it was all in
rapture for Careless. He was so finely made, his coat was so bright, his
eye so beaming, his limbs so animated, and every motion seemed so
evidently to declare, “I can fly, if I please,” that I could not endure
the thought of his being conquered. Alas for the men of Nottingham,
conquered he was! I forget whether it was at two or three heats, but
there was many an empty purse on that night, and many a sorrowful heart.

CHAPTER IX

‘These different incidents had raised a strong desire in my mind to be
better acquainted with a subject that had given to me, and as I thought
to every body, so much emotion, and I began to consider what might be
done. At that time I was rather a burthen to my father than a help. I
believe I assisted him a little in the mending of shoes, but my asthma
till very lately, as well as my youth, had prevented my making much
progress. At one time indeed I had been persuaded, though much against
my will, to become apprentice to a stocking-weaver; but this, I forget
how, broke off, at which I was very glad: I did not like
stocking-weaving. The question now occurred to me, whether it would not
be possible to procure the place of a stable-boy, at Newmarket. I was at
this time in point of clothing in a very mean, not to say ragged
condition, and in other respects, was not much better off. The
stable-boys I saw at Nottingham, were healthy, clean, well fed, well
clothed, and remarkable rather for their impudence, than seeming to live
under any kind of fear or hardship. Except their impudence, I liked
every thing else I saw about them; and concluded that if I could obtain
so high a situation as this, I should be very fortunate.

‘These reflections preyed so much upon my mind, that I was at last
induced to mention them to my father; and he having a predilection for
every thing belonging to a horse, and therefore a high respect for this,
the noblest state of that animal’s existence, readily fell into my
views, and only feared they could not be accomplished. He resolved
however that trial should be made; and after inquiring among the
Jockeys, thought it advisable to apply to a Mr Woodcock, who kept
stables four or five miles from Newmarket, where he trained horses
entrusted to his care. Mr Woodcock examined me, asked my age, found I
was light of weight, and, as I suppose, liking the answers I gave to his
questions, to our very great joy, agreed to take me upon trial. In the
course of my life, there have been several changes, that each in their
turn, greatly affected my spirits, and gave me advantages far beyond
what I had ever before enjoyed: of these gradual elevations, this was
the first. I should now be somebody. I should be entrusted with the
management of one of that race of creatures that were the most admired
and beloved by me: I should be well clothed, wear a livery, which would
shew I belonged to one of the great: I should not only have food enough,
but of that kind which was highly relishing to the appetite of youth;
and, in addition to all this, should receive an annual stipend. I jumped
as it were, from a precarious and mean existence, where I could not tell
what worse might happen, into a permanent and agreeable employment. I
had only to learn to ride, and perform the duties of a stable-boy, of
which I had no fear, for I supposed them far less difficult than I
afterwards found they were.

‘The grooms that reside at, and in the vicinity of this famed town, are
all more or less, acquainted with each other; and on Mr Woodcock’s
recommendation, I was put under the care of Jack Clarke, who lived with
Captain Vernon, he having luckily a led horse, which I was to mount. The
day of parting with my father, and of beginning our journey, was an
anxious one. He could not too emphatically repeat the few well meant
precepts he had so often given me, nor I too earnestly assure him, I
would love and obey him all my life. Notwithstanding his severity, he
was passionately fond of me, my heart entered into the same feelings,
and there was great and unfeigned affection between us.

CHAPTER X

‘As is the custom in travelling with trained horses, we set off early,
and walked without hurry. When we stopped to breakfast, the plenty of
excellent cold beef, bread and cheese, with the best table-beer, and as
much as we pleased, gave me a foretaste of the fortunate change I had
made. This indeed exceeded my utmost expectations,—I was entering upon a
new existence,—was delighted, full of hope, and cheerful alacrity, yet
too timid to be presumptuous. Clarke, being a good-tempered lad, and
seeing me happy, attempted to play me no tricks whatever. On the
contrary, he gave me all the caution and advice he could, to guard me
against being drawn into the common-place deceptions, most of them
nasty, many of them unhealthy, and all of them tending to make the poor
tyro, a common laughing-stock, uniformly practised by the resident boys,
upon every new comer. I do not recollect one-half these tricks: but that
with which they begin, if I do not mistake, is to persuade their victim,
that the first thing necessary for a well-trained stable-boy, is to
borrow as many waistcoats as he can, and in the morning after he has
dressed and fed his horse, to put them all on, take a race of perhaps
two or three miles, return home, strip himself stark naked, and
immediately be covered up in the hot dung-hill; which, they assure him,
is the method the grooms take when they sweat themselves down to ride a
race. Should the poor fellow follow their directions, they conclude the
joke with pail-fulls of cold water, which stand ready, to throw over
him.

‘Another of their diversions used to be that of hunting the owl, which
is already very whimsically described in a book of much humour, and
tolerably well-known, called Tim Bobbin’s Lancashire dialect. To catch
the owl, is to persuade a booby that there is an owl found at roost in
the corner of a barn; that a ladder must be placed against a hole,
through which, when the persons within shall be pleased to hoot and hunt
him, he must necessarily fly, as the barn door is shut, and every other
outlet closed: that the boy chosen to catch the owl must mount this
ladder on the outside, and the purblind animal, they say, will fly
directly into his hat. When the owl-catcher is persuaded to all this,
and mounts to his post, the game begins: hallooing and absurd noises are
made; the fellows within divert themselves with laughing at what is to
come, and pretending to call to one another to drive the owl from this
place to that; while two or three of them approach nearer and nearer to
the hole, when they discharge the contents of their full tubs and pails
on the head of the expecting owl-catcher, who is generally precipitated
from his ladder to some soft, but not very agreeable preparation below.

‘Clarke warned me against several other of the games at which I should
be invited to play; in most of which there was some whim, but a great
deal more of that dirty wit in which ill-bred boys are known to delight.
Clarke, however, did me this essential service, that he not only taught
me to avoid all the snares he mentioned, but rendered me so wary, that
all the time I was among this mischievous crew, I was never once
entrapped by them. At this they occasionally expressed great wonder;
perhaps, had they known the secret, they would have taken their revenge
on Clarke.

‘The weather through the whole of our journey was fine, the ride highly
agreeable, and the instruction and information I received from Clarke,
made it still more pleasant to me. The only place I can distinctly
remember having passed through and made a short stay at, was Huntingdon.

CHAPTER XI

‘As I have said, Mr Woodcock resided in the vicinity of Newmarket, at
the distance of three or four miles; and to the house where he lived
Clarke immediately took me, gave up his charge, and we parted, I believe
with mutual good-will: at least my feelings towards him were grateful
and friendly. As a thing of course, there must have been stables
belonging to the house of Mr Woodcock, but I cannot recollect what train
he had under him; and to say the truth, I cannot fix upon any one
figure, man, boy, or animal, except a grey filly, on the back of which I
was put, and which I was entrusted with the care of.

‘I doubt if Mr Woodcock was at home on my arrival. His family was small,
and had the air of being genteel. It consisted of himself, his wife, and
their daughter, who was about eleven years old. All that I can now
recollect of Mrs. and Miss Woodcock, is, having seen them very neatly
dressed in white, that the mother assumed a very superior but obliging
manner, and that I stood much in awe of her. Trees were thinly scattered
to some distance round the house: the parlour was very neat, and rather
spacious. In this I received one of those early lessons in moral
honesty, which produce a greater effect on the mind of a child, or even
of a youth, than is generally supposed. One afternoon, the tea-things
and sugar-bason being set out in the parlour before Mrs. and Miss
Woodcock had come down, I was passing the door, and that delicious bait
of boyhood, a fine lump of sugar, caught my eye. I looked, considered,
looked again, saw nobody, found it irresistible, and venturing step by
step on tiptoe, seized the tempting prize, thinking myself secure: but
as I turned back to hasten away with it, the first object that struck me
was a young gentleman, stretched either on a chair or sopha behind the
door, with a book in his hand, a look directed to me, and a smile on his
countenance. I cannot express the shame I felt: but I immediately
returned the sugar to its place, cast down my eyes, and slunk away, most
heartily mortified, especially when the young gentleman’s smile broke
out into a laugh.

‘I forgot to mention, though it will easily be supposed, that when I
entered on my new profession, my dress was changed, and I was made to
look something like a stable-boy.

‘Miss Woodcock was a very neat little girl, and it somehow happened,
though I know not by what means, that I soon got rather in favour with
her. She would whisper with me when we met near the house, chide me if
she saw what she thought an impropriety, and once or twice condescended
to be half or quite angry with me, while I did all in my power to please
her. These trifling advances, however, which spoke rather the innocence
of the age, than the intention of the mind, were soon put an end to by
an accident that had nearly proved fatal to me.

‘Perfectly a novice as I was, though I could sit with seeming safety on
a quiet horse, I neither knew how to keep a firm seat, nor suddenly to
seize one, and I was almost certain of being thrown if any thing that
was but a little violent or uncommon happened. I was walking the dark
grey filly quite a foot-pace in the forest, when in an instant something
startled her, and made her spring aside: by which I was not only
unseated and thrown, but unfortunately for me, my foot hung in the
stirrup; her fright was increased, she began to kick and plunge
violently, and I received a blow in the stomach, which, though it freed
me from the stirrup, left me, as was supposed, for no inconsiderable
time, dead. Somebody, I imagine, was riding with me, for the alarm was
soon given: I was taken up, carried home, treated with great humanity,
and by bleeding and other medical means, signs of life at length became
visible. All that I myself recollect of a circumstance so very serious,
and so very near being mortal, was, that I was thrown, kicked, and
dreadfully frightened; that some time afterwards I found myself very ill
in bed, in a very neat chamber, and that I was spoken to and attended
with great kindness till my recovery.

‘This accident, however, put an end to my jockeyship in the service of
Mr Woodcock: he discovered a little too late, that the dark grey filly
and I could not be trusted safely together. But though he turned me
away, he did not desert me. He recommended me to the service of a little
deformed groom, remarkably long in the fork, I think of the name of
Johnstone, who was esteemed an excellent rider, and had a string of no
less than thirteen famous horses, the property of the Duke of Grafton,
under his care. This was acknowledged to be a service of great repute:
but the shrewd little groom soon discovered that I had all my trade to
learn, and I was again dismissed.

‘After this new disappointment, I felt perhaps a more serious alarm than
is usual with boys at such an age. For, independently of natural
sensibility, I had seen so much of the world, had so often been
intrusted with its petty affairs, depended so much upon my ability to
act for myself, and had been so confident in my assurances to my father
that I ran no risk in venturing alone into the world, that my fears were
not trifling when I found myself so far from him, thrown out of place,
and convicted of being unable to perform the task I had so
inconsiderately undertaken. Mr Johnstone told me I must endeavour to get
a place, but that for his part he could say little in my favour;
however, he would suffer me to remain a few days among the boys. My
despondency was the greater, because, the morning before, when a horse
that I was riding shook himself in his saddle, as horses are sometimes
observed to do, I fell from his back as much terrified as if he had been
rearing, plunging, and kicking. To hardy grooms, and boys that delight
in playing the braggart, this was a truly ridiculous instance of
cowardice, and was repeated with no little malignity and laughter.

CHAPTER XII

‘The unforeseen relief, that has been given to misfortune under
circumstances apparently quite hopeless, has frequently been remarked,
and not seldom affirmed to be an incontestible proof of a particular
providence.

‘I know not where I got the information, nor how, but in the very height
of my distress, I heard that Mr John Watson, training and riding groom
to Captain Vernon, a gentleman of acute notoriety on the turf, and in
partnership with the then Lord March, the present Duke of Queensbury,
was in want of, but just then found it difficult to procure a
stable-boy. To make this pleasing intelligence still more welcome, the
general character of John Watson was, that, though he was one of the
first grooms in Newmarket, he was remarkable for being good-tempered:
yet the manner in which he disciplined his boys, though mild, was
effectual, and few were in better repute. One consequence of this,
however, was, that, if any lad was dismissed by John Watson, it was not
easy for him to find a place.

‘With him Jack Clarke lived, the lad with whom I came from Nottingham:
this was another fortunate circumstance, and contributed to inspire me
with confidence. My present hopes were so strongly contrasted with my
late fears, that they were indeed enviable. To speak for once in
metaphor, I had been as one of those who walk in the shadow of the
valley of death: an accidental beam of the sun broke forth, and I had a
beatific view of heaven.

‘It was no difficult matter to meet with John Watson: he was so
attentive to stable-hours, that, except on extraordinary occasions, he
was always to be found. Being first careful to make myself look as much
like a stable-boy as I could, I came at the hour of four (the summer
hour for opening the afternoon stables, giving a slight feed of oats,
and going out to evening exercise), and ventured to ask if I could see
John Watson. The immediate answer was in the affirmative. John Watson
came, looked at me with a serious, but good-natured, countenance, and
accosted me first with, “Well, my lad, what is your business? I suppose
I can guess; you want a place?”—“Yes, Sir.”—“Who have you lived
with?”—“Mr Woodcock, on the forest: one of your boys, Jack Clarke,
brought me with him from Nottingham.” “How came you to leave Mr
Woodcock?”—“I had a sad fall from an iron grey filly, that almost killed
me.”—“That is bad indeed!—and so you left him?”—“He turned me away,
Sir.”—“That is honest: I like your speaking the truth. So you are come
from him to me?” At this question I cast my eyes down, and hesitated,
then fearfully answered, “No, Sir.”—“No! what, change masters twice in
so short a time?”—“I can’t help it, Sir, if I am turned away.” This last
answer made him smile. “Where are you now, then?”—“Mr Johnstone gave me
leave to stay with the boys a few days.” “That is a good sign. I suppose
you mean little Mr Johnstone at the other end of the town?”—“Yes,
Sir.”—“Well, as you have been so short a time in the stables, I am not
surprised he should turn you away: he would have every body about him as
clever as himself, they must all know their business thoroughly. However
they must learn it somewhere. I will venture to give you a trial, but I
must first inquire your character of my good friends, Woodcock and
Johnstone. Come to-morrow morning at nine, and you shall have an
answer.”

‘It may well be supposed I did not forget the appointment; and a
fortunate one I found it, for I was accepted on trial at four pounds or
guineas a year, with the usual livery clothing. My station was
immediately assigned me. Here was a remarkably quiet three years old
colt, lately from the discipline of the breaker; and of him I was
ordered to take charge, instructed by one of the upper boys in every
thing that was to be done, and directed to back him and keep pace with
the rest, when they went to exercise, only taking care to keep a strait
line, and to walk, canter, and gallop the last. Fortunately for me his
temper appeared to be so quiet (for he had been put into full training
at an early age), that I found not the least difficulty in managing him.
My reputation, therefore, among the boys, which is an essential
circumstance, suffered no stain.

‘I ought to mention, that though I have spoken of Mr Johnstone, and may
do of more Misters among the grooms, it is only because I have forgotten
their christian names: for, to the best of my recollection, when I was
at Newmarket, it was the invariable practice to denominate each groom by
his christian and surname, unless any one happened to possess some
peculiarity that marked him. For instance, I remember a little man in
years, grown timid from age, but otherwise supposed to be the best rider
in England, and remarkable for his knowledge of almost every
race-course, whose name, I think, was William Cheevers; and of whom it
was the custom to speak, by calling him Old Will, The Old One, and the
like. I mention this, as it may be now or hereafter, a distinctive mark
of the changes of manners. I know not what appellations are given to
grooms at Newmarket at the present day, but at the time I speak of, if
any grooms had been called Misters, my master would certainly have been
among the number; and his constant appellation by every body, except his
own boys who called him John, was simply John Watson.

‘With respect to me, his conduct seems to shew that he understood my
character better than the grooms who had judged of it before: as I did
not long ride a quiet colt at the tail of the string (on whose back he
soon put a new-comer), but had a dun horse, by no means a tame or safe
one, committed to my care. Instead of timidity, he must have remarked
various traits of courage in me, before he would have ventured on this
step. In corroboration of this I may cite the following proof. I
continued to ride the dun horse through the winter. It was John Watson’s
general practice to exercise his horses over the flat, and up Cambridge
hill on the west side of Newmarket; but the rule was not invariable. One
wintry day he ordered us up to the Bury hills. It mizzled a very sharp
sleet, the wind became uncommonly cutting, and Dun, the horse I rode,
being remarkable for a tender skin, found the wind and the sleet, which
blew directly up his nostrils, so very painful, that it suddenly made
him outrageous. He started from the rank in which he was walking, tried
to unseat me, endeavoured to set off full speed, and when he found he
could not master me so as to get head, began to rear, snorted most
violently, threw out behind, plunged, and used every mischievous
exertion, of which the muscular powers of a blood horse are capable. I,
who felt the uneasiness he suffered before his violence began, being
luckily prepared, sat firm, as steady and upright, as if this had been
his usual exercise. John Watson was riding beside his horses, and a
groom, I believe it was old Cheevers, broke out into an exclamation—“By
God, John, that is a fine lad!” “Aye, aye,” replied Watson, highly
satisfied, “you will find some time or other there are few in Newmarket
that will match him.” To have behaved with true courage, and to meet
with applause like this, especially from John Watson, was a triumph,
such as I could at this time have felt in no other way with the same
sweet satisfaction. My horsemanship had been seen by all the boys,—my
praises had been heard by them all.

‘It will not be amiss here to remark that boys with strait legs, small
calves, and knees that project but little, seldom become excellent
riders. I, on the contrary, was somewhat bow-legged, I had then the
custom of turning in my toes, and my knees were protuberant. I soon
learned that the safe hold for sitting steady was to keep the knee and
the calf of the leg strongly pressed against the side of the animal that
endeavours to unhorse you: and as little accidents afford frequent
occasions to remind the boys of this rule, it becomes so rooted in the
memory of the intelligent, that their danger is comparatively trifling.

‘Of the temperaments and habits of blood horses there are great
varieties, and those very strongly contrasted. The majority of them are
playful, but their gambols are dangerous to the timid or unskilful. They
are all easily and suddenly alarmed, when any thing they do not
understand forcibly catches their attention, and they are then to be
feared by the bad horseman, and carefully guarded against by the good.
Very serious accidents have happened to the best. But, besides their
general disposition to playfulness, there is a great propensity in them
to become what the jockeys call vicious. High-bred, hot in blood,
exercised, fed, and dressed so as to bring that heat to perfection,
their tender skins at all times subject to a sharp curry-comb, hard
brushing, and when they take sweats, to scraping with wooden
instruments, it cannot be but that they are frequently and exceedingly
irritated. Intending to make themselves felt and feared, they will watch
their opportunity to bite, stamp, or kick; I mean those among them that
are vicious. Tom, the brother of Jack Clarke, after sweating a grey
horse that belonged to Lord March, with whom he lived, while he was
either scraping or dressing him, was seized by the animal by the
shoulder, lifted from the ground, and carried two or three hundred yards
before the horse loosened his hold. Old Forester, a horse that belonged
to Captain Vernon all the while I remained at Newmarket, was obliged to
be kept apart, and being foundered, to live at grass, where he was
confined to a close paddock. Except Tom Watson, a younger brother of
John, he would suffer no lad to come near him: if in his paddock, he
would run furiously at the first person that approached, and if in the
stable, would kick and assault every one within his reach. Horses of
this kind seem always to select their favourite boy. Tom Watson, indeed,
had attained to man’s estate, and in his brother’s absence, which was
rare, acted as superintendent. Horses, commonly speaking, are of a
friendly and generous nature; but there are anecdotes of the malignant
and savage ferocity of some, that are scarcely to be credited: at least
many such are traditional at Newmarket.

‘Of their friendly disposition towards their keepers, there is a trait
known to every boy that has the care of any one of them, which ought not
to be omitted. The custom is to rise very early, even between two and
three in the morning, when the days lengthen. In the course of the day,
horses and boys have much to do. About half after eight, perhaps, in the
evening, the horse has his last feed of oats, which he generally stands
to enjoy in the centre of his smooth, carefully made bed of clean long
straw, and by the side of him the weary boy will often lie down: it
being held as a maxim, a rule without exception, that were he to lie
even till morning, the horse would never lie down himself, but stand
still, careful to do his keeper no harm. I should add, however, that the
boy must keep awake, not for fear of the horse, but of the mischievous
disposition of his comrades. Should sleep happen to overcome him, some
lad will take one of those tough ashen plants with which they ride, and
measuring his aim, strike him with all his force, and endeavour to make
the longest wale he possibly can, on the leg of the sleeper. I remember
to have been so punished once, when the blow, I concluded, was given by
Tom Watson, as I thought no other boy in the stable could have made so
large a wale: it reached from the knee to the instep, and was of a
finger’s breadth.

CHAPTER XIII

‘There are few trades or professions, each of which has not a uniform
mode of life peculiar to it, subject only to such slight variations as
are incidental and temporary. This observation is particularly
applicable to the life of a stable-boy.

‘All the boys in the stable rise at the same hour, from half-past two in
spring, to between four and five in the depth of winter. The horses hear
them when they awaken each other, and neigh, to denote their eagerness
to be fed. Being dressed, the boy begins with carefully clearing out the
manger, and giving a feed of oats, which he is obliged no less carefully
to sift. He then proceeds to dress the litter; that is, to shake the bed
on which the horse has been lying, remove whatever is wet or unclean,
and keep the remaining straw in the stable for another time. The whole
stables are then thoroughly swept, the few places for fresh air are kept
open, the great heat of the stable gradually cooled, and the horse,
having ended his first feed, is roughly cleaned and dressed. In about
half an hour after they begin, or a little better, the horses have been
rubbed down, and re-clothed, saddled, each turned in his stall, then
bridled, mounted, and the whole string goes out to morning exercise; he
that leads being the first: for each boy knows his place.

‘Except by accident, the race-horse never trots. He must either walk or
gallop; and in exercise, even when it is the hardest, the gallop begins
slowly and gradually, and increases till the horse is nearly at full
speed. When he has galloped half a mile, the boy begins to push him
forward, without relaxation, for another half-mile. This is at the
period when the horses are in full exercise, to which they come by
degrees. The boy that can best regulate these degrees among those of
light weight, is generally chosen to lead the gallop; that is, he goes
first out of the stable, and first returns.

‘In the time of long exercise, this is the first _brushing gallop_. A
brushing gallop signifies that the horses are nearly at full speed
before it is over, and it is commonly made at last rather up hill.
Having all pulled up, the horses stand some two or three minutes, and
recover their wind; they then leisurely descend the hill and take a long
walk; after which they are brought to water. But in this, as in every
thing else (at least as soon as long exercise begins), every thing to
them is measured. The boy counts the number of times the horse swallows
when he drinks, and allows him to take no more gulps than the groom
orders, the fewest in the hardest exercise, and one horse more or less
than another, according to the judgment of the groom.—After watering, a
gentle gallop is taken, and after that, another walk of considerable
length; to which succeeds the second and last brushing gallop, which is
by far the most severe. When it is over, another pause thoroughly to
recover their wind is allowed them, their last walk is begun, the limits
of which are prescribed, and it ends in directing their ride homewards.

‘The morning’s exercise often extends to four hours, and the evening’s
to much about the same time. Being once in the stable, each lad begins
his labour. He leads the horse into his stall, ties him up, rubs down
his legs with straw, takes off his saddle and body clothes; curries him
carefully, then with both curry-comb and brush, never leaves him till he
has thoroughly cleaned his skin, so that neither spot nor wet, nor any
appearance of neglect may be seen about him. The horse is then
reclothed, and suffered to repose for some time, which is first employed
in gratifying his hunger, and recovering from his weariness. All this is
performed, and the stables are once more shut up, about nine o’clock.

‘Accustomed to this life, the boys are very little overcome by fatigue,
except that early in the morning they may be drowsy. I have sometimes
fallen slightly asleep at the beginning of the first brushing gallop.
But if they are not weary, they are hungry, and they make themselves
ample amends for all they have done. Nothing perhaps can exceed the
enjoyment of a stable-boy’s breakfast: what then may not be said of
mine, who had so long been used to suffer hunger, and so seldom found
the means of satisfying it? Our breakfast consisted of new milk, or milk
porridge, then the cold meat of the preceding day, most exquisite
Gloucester cheese, fine white bread, and concluded with plentiful
draughts of table-beer. All this did not overload the stomach, or in the
least deprive me of my youthful activity, except that like others I
might sometimes take a nap for an hour, after so small a portion of
sleep.

‘For my own part, so total and striking was the change which had taken
place in my situation, that I could not but feel it very sensibly. I was
more conscious of it than most boys would have been, and therefore not a
little satisfied. The former part of my life had most of it been spent
in turmoil, and often in singular wretchedness. I had been exposed to
every want, every weariness, and every occasion of despondency, except
that such poor sufferers become reconciled to, and almost insensible of
suffering, and boyhood and beggary are fortunately not prone to despond.
Happy had been the meal where I had enough; rich to me was the rag that
kept me warm; and heavenly the pillow, no matter what, or how hard, on
which I could lay my head to sleep. Now I was warmly clothed, nay,
gorgeously, for I was proud of my new livery, and never suspected that
there was disgrace in it; I fed voluptuously, not a prince on earth
perhaps with half the appetite, and never-failing relish; and instead of
being obliged to drag through the dirt after the most sluggish,
obstinate, and despised among our animals, I was mounted on the noblest
that the earth contains, had him under my care, and was borne by him
over hill and dale, far outstripping the wings of the wind. Was not this
a change, such as might excite reflection even in the mind of a boy!

‘Boys, when at full liberty, and thus kept in health and exercise, are
eager at play. The games most common at Newmarket, were fives, spell and
null, marbles, chuck-farthing, and spinning tops, at which, as well as
marbles and fives, I excelled. Another game called holes, was
occasionally played by a few of the boys. This was a game of some little
study, and was much delighted in by the shepherd boys and men, who
tended their flocks on that vast plain (as then it was) on which
Newmarket stood. Three squares were cut in the earth, one within the
other, in each side of which were three holes. Each antagonist had nine
warriors or bits of stick to combat the opposing nine. What the rules of
the game were, I have forgotten; but I believe the most essential of
them was, that he was the victor who could imprison his adversary’s men,
or leave them no further space to move in. If the choice of the move
were given, I, and other good players, knew how to win at this game with
certainty. Till I discovered the secret, I was greatly devoted to the
game.

‘In order to have fair play allowed me at these different games, I had
my little infant labours of Hercules to perform; or, to speak more
properly and plainly, to fight my way, and convince all the boys of my
own age, I was not to be cowed by them. All boys are wranglers; and out
of this propensity the elder boys at Newmarket take pleasure in creating
themselves diversion. Jack Clarke, who was about seventeen, was a very
good natured, peaceable lad: but all the others in our stable were very
assiduous in exciting the little ones to quarrel, and persuading him,
who would have wished to remain at peace, to believe he must certainly
be a coward. This stigma I was not willing to be loaded with: the
consequence was, that battle after battle was fought, first between me
and Jack, and then between me and Tom, for two of us were so named. Jack
had been a shepherd boy, was older by some months than myself, preceded
me as a jockey, was a most inveterate, obstinate, and unfair antagonist,
for he would bite, kick, or do any thing to gain the victory, was quite
as strong as myself, and excessively hardy. However, he entirely wanted
method and presence of mind; and after three or four desperate contests,
he was obliged fairly to own he was not my equal. Tom, who came into the
service after me, was likewise older, larger-limbed, and had more
strength; but my conquest of him was much more easy. He had bones,
sinews, and thews, as Shakspeare says, but little heart; he was
prevailed on to venture a second combat, but not a third. I had the good
fortune also to face and outface those among Lord March’s boys, who
lived opposite to us, and with whom we had continual intercourse; so
that, though I was but thirteen, I became the acknowledged hero among
the boys of both stables, under fifteen years of age. Thus much for the
footing on which I stood with my rivals within the first half-year after
I came to live with John Watson. It must be remembered, that all the
tricks of which Jack Clarke had warned me, had been tried upon me in
vain. These things, together with my aptitude at play, soon placed me as
the leading boy of the young fry.

‘From nine o’clock in the morning till four, the whole time is at the
boy’s own disposal, except that of breakfasting and dining, which he is
seldom apt to think ill employed. But in summer, spring, and autumn, the
stables are again opened at four, and woe to him who is absent! I never
was but once, when unfortunately Captain Vernon himself happened to
arrive at Newmarket. I never saw John Watson so angry with me before or
afterwards; though even then, after giving me four or five strokes
across the shoulders with an ashen plant, he threw it away in disgust,
and exclaimed, as he turned from me—“Damn the boy! On such a day!”

‘The business to be done in the afternoon is but a repetition, with
little or no variety, of that which I have described for the morning,
except that they return to stables at seven, or rather earlier, again
dress their horses, give them a first feed, go to supper themselves,
give a second feed, prepare the horses’ beds, pick and prepare the hay
with which they sup, and by nine o’clock the stables are once more shut
up, containing both horses and boys.

CHAPTER XIV

‘The time I remained at Newmarket, was upwards of two years and a half;
during which many things occurred worthy of remembrance; and though in
their nature dissimilar, yet all tending to have that influence on
character, by which, if my poor philosophy holds good, character is
progressively formed. Instead of relating these different accidents as
they occurred, I shall rather endeavour to collect them into classes,
beginning with those that immediately belong to the business of a
jockey.

‘I have already remarked how necessary it is for the best horseman never
to be off his guard. At the time the little accident I am going to
relate happened, and which I could not but then consider as rather
disgraceful, I was so persuaded of being always on the alert, and of my
power of instantaneously recovering my seat, that I supposed what
followed to be nearly an impossibility.—The horse that I then rode
happened to be unwell; and did not take his morning and evening exercise
with the others. I was therefore ordered to walk him out a couple of
hours in the middle of the day, to canter him gently, give him a certain
quantity of water, and canter and walk him home again. The horse was by
no means apt to start or play tricks of an uncommon kind: he was besides
unwell, and dull in spirits, and I was more than usually unsuspicious of
accident. After a walk, and a very gentle gallop, I brought him to
water. Our watering troughs stood by a pump under the Devil’s Ditch, on
the side next to Newmarket. Not foreseeing any possible danger, I held
the reins quite slack, and did not sit upright in my seat, but rested on
one thigh; when suddenly, without any warning, a grey rook, of the
species common to that plain, ascended on the wing up the ditch within
half a yard of the ground, and in a direction that would scarcely have
missed the horse’s head. At this sudden apparition, an arrow from a bow
could hardly exceed the velocity with which he darted round to avoid his
enemy; and the impulse was so unforeseen, and so irresistible, that I
and my whole stock of self-confidence, and self-conceit, lay humbled in
the dust. I was greatly afraid, lest my disgrace should be witnessed by
any one, and particularly that the horse should make for home: however,
his fright ceasing, and his health not disposing him to be wanton, he
easily suffered himself to be caught, and mounted, and my honour
received no stain.

‘I felt this accident the more, because I was at this very time
receiving new marks of confidence in my talents. A horse bred in Ireland
had been brought into our train: John Watson did not think proper to let
a boy of heavy weight back him, and among those of light weight, I was
the only one in whom he durst confide. It was for this horse that I
quitted the Dun horse, on whose back I had obtained such praise, and
upon him the other boy of the name of Tom was mounted, but only for two
or three mornings. Dun immediately discovered he was Tom’s master, and
would not keep up in the gallop, but would go what pace he pleased: if
struck, he began to plunge, kick, and rear, threw his rider, and made
all the boys laugh and hoot at him, and thoroughly exposed him to
mortification.—I was frequently obliged to change my horse, but it was
always for one more difficult to manage; and not only so, but I
generally preserved an honour that had been early conferred on me, that
of leading the gallop, let me ride what horse I would. At one of these
changes I was transferred to the back of a little mare, which had long
been ridden by Jack Clarke, who was wanted for a horse of more power,
but of less spirit. On her too I led the gallop. She was not so much
vicious as full of play. Whenever I pleased, when the gallop was begun,
by a turn of the arm and a pretended flourish, I could make her start
out of the line, clap her head between her legs, fling her hind heels in
the air, and begin to cut capers. This excitement was generally
sufficient for the whole string, who would start off one after another,
each playing his gambols, and perhaps, one or two of them throwing their
riders. Under such a temptation for triumph, I was perhaps as prudent as
could be expected from a boy of my age; but when John Watson did not
happen to be with us, I could not always resist the vanity of shewing
that I was equal to the best of them, and quite before the majority.
When John was absent, the bad riders would sometimes, before I began the
gallop, very humbly intreat me not to play them any tricks; and when
they did, I was good-natured enough to comply.

‘In every stud of horses, there are frequent changes; and as their
qualities are discovered, one horse is rejected, and a colt or perhaps a
stranger bought and admitted. It happened on such an occasion, that a
little horse was brought us from another stud, whence he had been
rejected for being unmanageable. He had shewn himself restive, and
besides the snaffle, was ridden in a check-rein. I was immediately
placed on his back, and what seemed rather more extraordinary, ordered
to lead the gallop, as usual. I do not know how it happened, but under
me he shewed very little disposition to be refractory, and whenever the
humour occurred, it was soon overcome: that he was however watchful for
an opportunity to do mischief, the following incident will discover. Our
time for hard exercise had begun perhaps a fortnight or three weeks. As
that proceeds, the boys are less cautious, each having less suspicion of
his horse. I was leading the gallop one morning, and had gone more than
half the way towards the foot of Cambridge hill, when something induced
me to call and speak to a boy behind me; for which purpose I rather
unseated myself, and as I looked back, rested on my left thigh. The arch
traitor no sooner felt the precarious seat I had taken, than he suddenly
plunged from the path, had his head between his legs, his heels in the
air, and exerting all his power of bodily contortion, flung me from the
saddle with only one foot in the stirrup, and both my legs on the off
side. I immediately heard the whole set of boys behind shouting
triumphantly, “A calf, a calf!” a phrase of contempt for a boy that is
thrown. Though the horse was then in the midst of his wild antics, and
increasing his pace to full speed, as far as the tricks he was playing
would permit, still finding I had a foot in the stirrup, I replied to
their shouts by a whisper to myself, “It is no calf yet.” The horse took
the usual course, turned up Cambridge hill, and now rather increased his
speed than his mischievous tricks. This opportunity I took with that
rashness of spirit which is peculiar to boys; and notwithstanding the
prodigious speed and irregular motion of the horse, threw my left leg
over the saddle. It was with the utmost difficulty I could preserve my
balance, but I did: though by this effort I lost hold of the reins, both
my feet were out of the stirrups, and the horse for a moment was
entirely his own master. But my grand object was gained: I was once more
firmly seated, the reins and the stirrups were recovered. In a
twinkling, the horse, instead of being pulled up, was urged to his
utmost speed, and when he came to the end of the gallop, he stopped of
himself with a very good will, as he was heartily breathed. The short
exclamations of the boys at having witnessed what they thought an
impossibility, were the gratification I received, and the greatest,
perhaps, that could be bestowed.

‘I once saw an instance of what may be called the grandeur of alarm in a
horse. In winter, during short exercise, I was returning one evening on
the back of a hunter, that was put in training for the hunter’s plate.
There had been some little rain, and the channel always dry in summer,
was then a small brook. As I must have rubbed his legs dry if wetted, I
gave him the rein, and made him leap the brook, which he understood as a
challenge for play, and beginning to gambol, after a few antics he
reared very high, and plunging forward with great force, alighted with
his fore-feet on the edge of a deep gravel-pit half filled with water,
so near that a very few inches further he must have gone headlong down.
His first astonishment and fear were so great, that he stood for some
time breathless and motionless: then, gradually recollecting himself,
his back became curved, his ears erect, his hind and fore leg in a
position for sudden retreat; his nostrils from an inward snort burst
into one loud expression of horror; and rearing on his hind legs, he
turned short round, expressing all the terrors he had felt by the utmost
violence of plunging, kicking, and other bodily exertions. I was not
quite so much frightened as he had been, but I was heartily glad when he
became quiet again, that the accident had been no worse. The only little
misfortune I had was the loss of my cap, and being obliged to ride back
some way in order to recover it.

‘Among the disagreeable, and in some degree dangerous accidents that
happened to me, was the following. We had an old grey blood gelding
touched in his wind, called Puff, on which John Watson generally used to
ride. He had some vicious tricks, and the thing that made him dangerous
was, that, in the jockey’s phrase, he had lost his mouth, that is, the
bit could make no impression on him, and he could run away with the
strongest rider: but the whim did not often take him. The watering
troughs were filled once a day, and as they were about a mile and a half
distant, each lad performed that duty in turns, being obliged to walk
for that purpose to the Devil’s Ditch and back. One day, when it was my
turn, old Puff being in the stable, John Watson allowed me to shorten my
task by a ride, of which I was very glad, and Puff was soon brought out.
For the office of filling the troughs, it was necessary to take a pail,
and accordingly I flung one with the rim over my right shoulder, and
under my left arm, as was the way with us when we walked. I then
mounted, but had not gone far, when I found Mr Puff was determined on
one of his frolics. He set off at a good round gallop. This I should not
have regarded in the least, had it not been for the pail at my back. But
he was a tall horse, the ruts before the race-course began were
numerous, rough, and often narrow, and he amused himself with crossing
them; so that the rim of the pail was very disagreeable, and now and
then hurt my back severely. I foresaw, however, that my only remedy was
to tire him out at his own diversion. As soon, therefore, as I had an
opportunity, I turned him upon the turf, by which I avoided the worst
jolts of the pail; and instead of struggling with him, I gave him head,
hurried him forward as fast as he could go, passed along the side called
the flat, turned in beside the Devil’s Ditch, forbore to push him when
we came to the watering troughs, but found the obstinate old devil was
resolved not to stop. I then took him full gallop up Cambridge hill, and
into Newmarket, supposing his own home would satisfy him. But no! away
he went into the town, while some boys belonging to other stables
exclaimed, “Here is old Puff running away with Watson’s Tom.” At a
certain distance down the main street, was a street on the left, by
which making a little circle, I might again bring his head homewards,
and that road I prevailed on him to take; but as he was not easily
guided, he thought proper to gallop on the causeway, till he came to a
post which bent inwards towards the wall, so much that it was doubtful
whether his body would pass. He stopped short at a single step, but
luckily I had foreseen this, or I should certainly have been pitched
over his neck, and probably my back would have been broken, had I not
employed both hands with all my force to counteract the shock. Having
measured the distance with his eye, he saw he could pass, which to me
was a new danger: my legs would one or both of them have wanted room,
but with the same juvenile activity, I raised them on the withers, and
away again we went, mutually escaping unhurt. By this time, however, my
gentleman was wearied; in two minutes we were at home, and there he
thought proper once more to stop. The worst of it, however, was, that I
had still to water my troughs. I shall conclude this chapter with a fact
which may deserve the attention of the philosopher, as an instance of
deep feeling, great sagacity, and almost unconquerable ambition among
horses; and which goes nearly to prove, that they themselves understand
why they contend with each other. I have mentioned a vicious horse, of
the name of Forester, that would obey no boy but Tom Watson: he was
about ten or eleven years old, and had been a horse of some repute, but
unfortunately his feet foundered, for the cure of which he was suffered
to remain a great part of his time at grass. However, when I had been
about a year and a half at Newmarket, Captain Vernon thought proper to
match him against Elephant, a horse belonging to Sir Jennison Shaftoe,
whom by the bye I saw ride this famous match. Forester, therefore, had
been taken up, and kept in training a sufficient time to qualify him to
run this match; but it was evident that his legs and feet were far from
being in that sound state which such an exertion required, so that we
concluded he must be beaten, for the reputation of Elephant arose out of
his power rather than his speed. Either I mistake, or the match was a
four mile heat over the strait course; and the abilities of Forester
were such, that he passed the flat, and ascended the hill as far as the
distance post, nose to nose with Elephant; so that John Watson who rode
him began to conceive hopes. Between this and the chair, Elephant, in
consequence of hard whipping, got some little way before him, while
Forester exerted every possible power to recover at least his lost
equality; till finding all his efforts ineffectual, he made one sudden
spring, and caught Elephant by the under-jaw, which he griped so
violently as to hold him back; nor was it without the utmost difficulty
that he could be forced to quit his hold. Poor Forester, he lost; but he
lost most honourably! Every experienced groom, we were told, thought it
a most extraordinary circumstance. John Watson declared he had never in
his life been more surprised by the behaviour of a horse.

CHAPTER XV

‘The feature in my character which was to distinguish it at a later
period of life, namely, some few pretensions to literary acquirement,
has appeared for a time to have lain dormant. After I left Berkshire,
circumstances had been so little favourable to me, that, except the
mighty volume of Sacred Writ (which I always continued more or less to
peruse, wherever I found a Bible) and the two small remnants of romance
I have mentioned, letters seemed to have lost sight of me, and I of
letters. Books were not then, as they fortunately are now, great or
small, on this subject or on that, to be found in almost every house: a
book, except of prayers, or of daily religious use, was scarcely to be
seen but among the opulent, or in the possession of the studious; and by
the opulent they were often disregarded with a degree of neglect which
would now be almost disgraceful. Yet in the course of six or seven
years, it can hardly be imagined that not a single book fell in my way;
or that if it did, I should not eagerly employ such opportunity as I had
to know its contents. Even the walls of cottages and little alehouses
would do something; for many of them had old English ballads, such as
Death and the Lady, and Margaret’s Ghost, with lamentable tragedies, or
King Charles’s golden rules, occasionally pasted on them. These were at
that time the learning, and often, no doubt, the delight of the vulgar.
However, I may venture to affirm, that during the period we have passed,
I neither had in my possession, nor met with any book of any kind which
I had leisure and permission to read through. During my residence at
Newmarket, I was not quite so much in the desert, though, as far as my
limits extended, I was little removed: a tolerable estimate of the
boundary may be formed from the remaining chapters of this book.

‘Whether I had or had not begun to scrawl and imitate writing, or
whether I was able to convey written intelligence concerning myself to
my father for some months after I left him, I cannot say, but we were
very careful not to lose sight of each other; and following his
affection, as well as his love of change, in about half a year he came
to Newmarket himself, where he at first procured work of the most
ordinary kind at his trade. There was one among his shop-mates whom I
well remember, for he was struck with me and I with him: he not only
made shoes, but was a cock-feeder of some estimation; and what was to me
much more interesting, he had read so much as to have made himself
acquainted with the most popular English authors of that day. He even
lent me books to read: among which were Gulliver’s Travels, and the
Spectator, both of which could not but be to me of the highest
importance. I remember after I had read them, he asked me to consider
and tell him which I liked best: I immediately replied, “there was no
need of consideration, I liked Gulliver’s Travels ten times the best.”
“Aye,” said he, “I would have laid my life on it, boys and young people
always prefer the marvellous to the true.” I acquiesced in his judgment,
which, however, only proved that neither he nor I understood Gulliver,
though it afforded me infinite delight. The behaviour of my father, who
being at work, was present at this, and two or three other dialogues in
which there was a kind of literary pretension, denoted the pride and
exultation of his heart. He remarked, “that many such boys as Tom were
not to be found! It was odd enough! He knew not where Tom had picked it
up, he had never had a brain for such things; but God gave some gifts to
some, and others to others, seeing He was very bountiful: but, if he
guessed rightly, He had given Tom his share!” My father was not a little
flattered to find that the cock-feeder was inclined to concur with him
in opinion. I remember little else of my literary cock-feeder; yet the
advantages I had gained from him in letting me know there were books
like these, and introducing me, though but to a momentary view of Swift
and Addison, were perhaps incalculable.

‘That love of the marvellous which is natural to ill-informed man, is
still more lively in childhood. I used to listen with the greatest
pleasure to a tale of providential interference; my blood thrilled
through my frame at a story of an angel alighting in a field, walking up
to a worthy clergyman, telling him a secret known only to himself, and
then persuading him to change his road, by which he avoided the
murderers that were lying in wait for him. Yet I know not how it
happened, but even at this time I refused to believe in witches; and
when stories of hobgoblins, of houses that were haunted, or of nightly
apparitions were repeated, I remained incredulous. I had either invented
or heard some of the plain arguments which shewed the absurdity of such
opinions. It will be seen in the following chapter, that my incredulity
in this respect was of use to me, though I cannot account for the manner
in which I came by it at so early an age.

‘Books of piety, if the author were but inspired with zeal, fixed my
attention whenever I met with them: “the Whole Duty of Man” was my
favourite study, and still more Horneck’s “Crucified Jesus.” I had not
yet arrived at Baxter’s “Saint’s Everlasting Rest,” or “The Life of
Francis Spira;” but John Bunyan I ranked among the most divine authors I
had ever read. In fact I was truly well-intentioned, but my zeal was too
ardent, and liable to become dangerous.

‘One day as I happened to be passing the church, I heard voices singing,
which exercise I admired; and having, as I thought, a tuneful voice, I
was desirous of becoming acquainted with so pleasing an art. I
approached the church door, found it open, and went in, when I found my
ear charmed with some heavenly addition to the sweet melody of music;
and on inquiry was told, they were singing in four parts. At the head of
them was a Mr Langham, who could sing in a feigned soprano’s voice, and
who was their instructor in music; for they were all acknowledged
learners except himself, and each of them paid him five shillings a
quarter for his trouble in teaching them. Having stood with delight to
listen some time, a conversation at length began, I was invited to try
my voice, and after a ready compliance, both my voice and ear were
pronounced to be good. Thus encouraged, I ventured to ask if I might
come among them; and was answered, yes; they should be very glad to have
me, for they much wanted a treble voice, and all they required was that
I should conform to the rules of the society. I inquired what those
rules were, and was told, they each paid five shillings entrance, and
five shillings a quarter to Mr Langham, another five shillings for
Arnold’s Psalmody; and that they paid forfeits of pennies and
two-pences, if they were absent on certain days, at certain hours, or
infringed other necessary bye-laws. An expense so great alarmed me: I
would willingly have complied with their forfeits, because I depended on
my own punctuality; but fifteen shillings was a vast sum, and I told
them what it was that made me hesitate. As they were desirous to have
me, they agreed that I should sing out of their books; and Langham, who
had great good-nature, said, since I was but a boy, and my wages could
not be great, he would give up the entrance money. It was therefore
agreed, that with the payment of five shillings a quarter to Mr Langham,
I should be instructed by him in the art of psalmody.

‘From the little I that day learned, and from another lesson or two, I
obtained a tolerable conception of striking intervals upwards or
downwards; such as the third, the fourth, and the remainder of the
octave, the chief feature in which I soon understood, but of course I
found most difficulty in the third, sixth, and seventh. Previously
however to any great progress, I was obliged to purchase Arnold’s
Psalmody; and studious over this divine treasure, I passed many a
forenoon extended in the hay-loft. My chief, and almost my only
difficulty, lay in the impenetrable obscurity of such technical words as
were not explained either by their own nature, or by the author in other
language. I was illiterate, I knew the language of the vulgar well, but
little more. Perhaps no words ever puzzled poor mortal more than I was
puzzled by the words, _major_ and _minor_ keys. I think it a duty, which
no one who writes an elementary book ought to neglect, to give a
vocabulary of all the words which are not in common use, in the language
in which he writes; and to explain them by the simplest terms in that
language; or if that cannot be done, by a clear and easy paraphrase. The
hours I spent by myself in mastering whatever belonged to notation, and
in learning the intervals, occasioned my progress to be so very
different from that of the others, that it excited the admiration of
them all; and Mr Langham, the great man whom I then looked up to,
declared it was surprising. If any part was out, I heard it immediately,
and often struck the note for them, getting the start of Mr Langham. If
he should happen to be absent, he said that I could set them all right;
so that by this, and the clearness of my voice, I obtained the nickname
of the sweet singer of Israel.

‘My quickness at whatever related to reading became so far known, that a
man about fifty, who had many years kept a school in Newmarket, made me
the offer, if I would become his scholar, to teach me gratis. Thoroughly
glad of the opportunity, I thanked him kindly, and instantly complied.
The next morning I went to his school, where I saw a number of boys, to
whom I was introduced by the master, as one whom they ought to respect.
“I’ll set him a word of six syllables,” said he, “and I’ll engage for
him that he shall spell it instantly without the least mistake, or
without ever perhaps having seen it before. Pray, my boy,” said he, “how
do you spell Mahershalalashbas?” The boys first stared at a word of so
foreign a sound, and next at the immediate readiness with which I
spelled it, though it would be difficult to find a word that could
puzzle less: however, since they all wondered at me, it was very natural
I should wonder at myself, and that I did most assuredly. The master
shewed me the first seat as an honour to his school, where he assured me
I might remain as long as he could teach me any thing, and he had by no
means the character of ignorance. But, poor gentleman, he had another
failing, which I could still less pardon; for every afternoon he was to
be seen drunk in the streets, and that to such an offensive and shameful
degree, that though I was very desirous to gain some little addition to
my stock of knowledge, I felt myself so disgraced by my master, that I
went but three times to his school.

‘This plan, however, suggested another. By trade, Mr Langham was a maker
of leather breeches, which were worn through all Newmarket: but he had
by some means acquired rather a greater love of knowledge, and more of
it than at that period belonged to his station; for I believe he was
only a journeyman. Hearing me bewail the opportunity I had lost, and
especially that of acquiring the first rudiments of arithmetic, he
joined in my regret, saying it was a pity he could not afford to teach
me himself for nothing, and that I could not spare another five
shillings a quarter out of my wages; otherwise he would have given me
one lesson daily between stable-hours. To this proposal, after turning
it in my mind, I however agreed. I continued with him three months, and
in that time mastered rule after rule so well, as to understand Practice
and the Rule of Three. Except what I have already related, these three
months, as far as others were concerned, may be truly called my course
of education. At the age of two and three and thirty, indeed, when I was
endeavouring to acquire the French language, I paid a Monsieur Raymond
twenty shillings for a few lessons, but the good he did me was so little
that it was money thrown away. At Newmarket I was so intent on studying
arithmetic, that for want of better apparatus, I have often got an old
nail, and cast up sums on the paling of the stable-yard. The boys
prophesied I should go mad; in which sagacious conjecture our old maid
and housekeeper, for she was both, joined them.

CHAPTER XVI

‘While my music and my arithmetic were thus in some sort confusing my
brain, I became not only ashamed of, but alarmed at myself; for being
occasionally sent on errands, I found my memory absent, and made several
blunders, a thing to which I had been wholly unaccustomed. One day, when
John Watson was at home, I was sent only for two things, and forgot one
of them, at which I heard him exclaim, without any reproach,—“God bless
me, what is come to the boy!” This startled me a little. As however I
remember nothing more of the paroxysm, it could not have lasted very
long.

‘My father did not continue long at his trade, and was obliged to seek
some other mode of subsistence. For some months during the middle part
of the time that I remained as a stable-boy, he had the office at an inn
of fetching and carrying the Royston mail; and being afterwards tired of
this, he quitted Newmarket for London, leaving me once more with much
good advice, and no small degree of regret. I loved my father, and knew
his intentions were honest: but almost from infancy, I was aware they
were not wise.

‘I suppose that that property of the mind, which creates certain
indistinct forms and imaginary lines in the clear and visible
appearances of things, is common to every person of a lively and active
fancy, for I have it still; and now that I am old, much more in sickness
than in health. I recollect an instance of this, which occurred about
the time I am speaking of. The cowardly boys made bargains with each
other to go in pairs, when their business called them to different parts
of the yard and out-houses after it was dark: I determined always to go
by myself. One evening, intending to fetch some hay from a hay-loft, as
I was mounting the ladder, an object presented itself, that instantly
stopped me. It was a clear moon-light night, and I beheld the perfect
face of a man extended on the hay. He must be a stranger, and might be a
robber, or person of evil intentions. I had no idea of a ghost; and
though alarmed, I reasoned on probabilities. The more I looked, the more
thoroughly I was convinced I saw a real face. Still I continued to
reason. I was half way up the ladder. If I returned, I must either
fabricate a falsehood, or openly declare why, and this would have been
cause of triumph to those whose actions betrayed their fears, and of the
greater disgrace to me for having assumed a superiority. The man might
be a beggar, who had only obtained entrance by some means, that he might
rest comfortably: and even if his designs were wicked, they could not be
against me, for I had little to lose: so that at last I determined to
proceed. As I have said, the light of the moon was bright: it shone into
the loft through the holes and crevices of a side hanging door; and I
had mounted three steps higher, before the vision totally disappeared,
and was replaced by the rude and unmeaning lines of reality. No man was
there, consequently no man’s face could be seen. This incident was a
wholesome lesson: it taught me to think much on the facility with which
the senses are deceived, and the folly with which they entertain fear.

‘The boys, who had paired off as mutual protectors to each other, had
left my name-sake Tom, being the odd one, without a mate, and as he was
much more remarkable for his cowardice than his valour, the best
expedient he could think of was to offer me a halfpenny a night if I
would go with him in the dark to get his hay. I believe nothing could
have made him stir from the fire-side on a winter night, but the fear of
neglecting his stable duties, which fear to all of us had something in
it that was almost sacred. We had at this time in the stables a very
beautiful male tabby cat, as remarkable for his familiarity with the
horses and boys, as for his fine colours, symmetry, and strength. He
would go through the stable night by night, and place himself on the
withers, first of this horse, then of the next, and there familiarly
take his sleep, till he had made the whole round. The boys had taught
him several tricks, which he very willingly repeated as often as they
gave the signal, without taking offence at the rogueries they
occasionally practised upon him; so that he was a general favourite with
every one, from John Watson even to Old Betty. One evening as I was
going with Tom to get his hay, and we approached the stable in which it
happened then to be kept, Tom leading the road (for cowards are always
desirous to convince themselves they are really valiant), a very sudden,
vehement, and discordant noise was heard; to listen to which, Tom’s
valour was wholly unequal. Flying from the stable, he was at the back
door of the house in a twinkling. I was paid for my courage: pride and
curiosity concurred to make me show it, and I remained firm at my post.
I stood still, while the noise at intervals was several times repeated.
It was the beginning of winter, and at one end of the stable a certain
quantity of autumn wheat was stowed. I recollected this circumstance,
and after considering some time, at length the truth struck me, and I
called, “Come along, Tom, it is the cat and the rats fighting, but they
will leave off when they hear us come into the stable.” We had neither
candle nor lanthorn. It was a maxim with John Watson to trust no such
things with boys, whose nightly duty it was to fetch trusses of straw
and armfuls of hay; but I entered the stable, gave Tom his hay, loaded
myself with my own, and confident in the valour of our favourite cat,
said to him—“We shall find a rare number of dead rats to-morrow, Tom.” I
knew not the power of numbers, nor the imbecility of an individual so
exposed. The next morning we found our hero lying dead in the stable,
with only three dead rats beside him. What the number of the wounded
was, must remain a secret to posterity: though of the value of this, and
other secrets of the same kind, I have often entertained my doubts.

‘John Watson remained a bachelor, and old Betty was the only female, at
least that I can recollect, in the family: she was very ignorant, and
very angry when boys durst contend with her age and experience, but we
did not greatly respect her anger. She was so strenuous an advocate for
goblins, apparitions, and especially witchcraft, that she did not in the
least scruple to affirm things the most extravagant. One of her
positions was, that unthinking old women with less courage and sagacity
than herself, were taken by surprise, and made witches against their
will. Imps of the devil came slily upon them, run up their clothes,
caught some part of the breast in their mouths, and made teat for
themselves. She provoked me very much, yet I could not help laughing;
while she, to prove the truth of what she said, affirmed, she had seen
them peeping out more than once; and that on a certain night, two of
them made a desperate attempt on her, which she could no otherwise
defeat, than by taking up first one, and then the other, with the tongs,
and throwing them both into the red hot part of the kitchen fire.

‘Stories like these are almost too ludicrous to be mentioned, but the
one I am going to relate, was at that time to me as tragical as any
thing that could happen to an individual.

‘Jack Clarke, now about eighteen, was spending his evening before nine
o’clock in his good-natured way among the boys of Lord March, who lived
opposite. One of them, (I forget his name), took down a fowling-piece
that was hanging over the kitchen chimney, and playing that trick which
has been so repeatedly, and in my opinion so strangely played, said,
“Now, Jack, I’ll shoot you.” As he spoke, he pulled the trigger, and the
distance between them being short, Clarke was shot on the left side of
his face, the middle half of which immediately became as frightful a
wound as perhaps was ever beheld. The lads of both stables were there
instantly: the grooms came the moment they could be found, and the
terror and distress of the scene were very great, for every body felt
kindness for Jack Clarke. Tom Watson was dispatched on horseback to
Cambridge in search of all the surgical and medical aid that could be
obtained; and such was his speed, that the surgeon, the doctor, and
himself, were back by midnight, and the medical men busy in probing,
inquiring, and consulting, while poor Clarke lay groaning, extended on
the bed of John Watson. The left cheek-bone, eye, and other parts, were
shattered past hope: the case was thought precarious, there was a bare
possibility that the patient, miserable as he was, and shocking to look
at, might survive. When the physician and surgeon had done all that they
could by dressing and giving orders, John Watson took them under his
care for the night. Whether he found beds and entertainment for them at
an inn, or at the house of a friend, I know not; but as I saw him no
more, I suppose he remained with them to keep them company, for such
scenes do not immediately dispose the mind to sleep. Among ourselves at
home, however, a very serious question arose, no less than that of, who
should sit up and watch with him all night? His sufferings were so
incessant, his groans so terrifying, and the wounds (by which the inside
of the head was made visible) had been so bloody, raw, and torn, being
at the same time most frightfully spread all round with gun-powder, and
black and red spots, that every person present frankly owned they durst
not stay alone all night with him in the same chamber. When it was
proposed to old Betty, she was in an agony. All the older boys expressed
the terror it would give them:—some sleep must be had, and it being
winter, the stables were to open before four. What, therefore, could be
done? I own I was almost like the rest, but I most truly pitied poor
Jack Clarke. I had always felt a kindness for him, and to see him
forsaken at so distressing a moment, left by himself in such a wretched
state, no one able to foresee what he might want, overcame me, and I
said, “Well, since nobody else will, I must!” Besides, by an action so
bold, performed by a boy at my age, I gained an undeniable superiority,
of which any one of the elder boys would have been proud.—The medical
men remained at Newmarket, or went and came as their business required,
while Jack Clarke continued under their hands. I was truly anxious for
his cure, though from what I had seen on the first night, and from my
ignorance in surgery, I had supposed such a thing impossible. I was
therefore surprised that he should seem at first to linger on, that
afterwards the wounds should fill up, and assume a less frightful
appearance, and that at length a perfect cure should be effected. It was
certainly thought to do great honour to Cambridge. The left eye was
lost, the appearance of the bones was disfigured, and the deep stain of
the gun-powder remained. But before I came away appearances varied, the
marks of the gun-powder became less; and when I left Newmarket, Jack
Clarke had been long restored to the stables, where he continued to
live, apparently in good health.

CHAPTER XVII

‘During these events and accidents, the trifling studies I might be said
to have, were, as far as I had the means, pursued. That is, whenever I
could procure a book, I did not fail to read it; I took pains to repeat,
that I might well understand my rules in arithmetic; and as for music,
Arnold was studied with increasing ardour. But the instructions of
Arnold were only vocal: nay, they had a stricter limitation, they were
confined to psalmody. Had I possessed any instrument, had I begun to
practise, and had the means of obtaining a livelihood suggested
themselves in this way, music would, most probably, have been my
profession.

‘Moral remarks do not escape the notice of boys whose minds are active,
nor the moral consequences of things, so much perhaps as is supposed.
They now and then discover how much they are themselves affected by
them; and therefore are not only led to re-consider their own, but begin
to ruminate on some of the practices of mankind. For myself, I looked up
with delight to angelic purity, and with awful reverence to the sublime
attributes of the Godhead. The first I considered as scarcely beyond the
attainment of man; the second I considered it as the grand reward of
saints and angels to be allowed to comprehend. Towards the future
attainment of any such angelic perfection, I could not discover the
least tendency in the manners of Newmarket, or the practices of the
people around me. When left to themselves, petty vulgar vices, such as
their means could afford, were common among them: and at the grand
periodical meetings of the place, I heard of nothing but cards, dice,
cock-fighting, and gambling to an enormous amount.

‘One anecdote which John Watson, who was no babbler, told his brother
Tom, and which Tom was eager enough to repeat, struck me for its
singularity and grandeur; as it appeared to me, who then knew nothing of
vast money speculations, and who know but little at present. In addition
to matches, plates, and other modes of adventure, that of a sweepstakes
had come into vogue: and the opportunity it gave to deep calculators to
secure themselves from loss by _hedging_ their bets, greatly multiplied
the bettors, and gave uncommon animation to the sweepstakes mode. In one
of these, Captain Vernon had entered a colt or filly; and as the prize
to be obtained was great, the whole stable was on the alert. It was
prophesied that the race would be a severe one; for, though the horses
had none of them run before, they were all of the highest breed; that
is, their sires and dams were in the first lists of fame. As was
foreseen, the contest was indeed a severe one; for it could not be
decided,—it was a dead heat: but our colt was by no means among the
first. Yet so adroit was Captain Vernon in hedging his bets, that if one
of the two colts that made it a dead heat had beaten, our master would,
on that occasion, have won ten thousand pounds: as it was, he lost
nothing, nor would in any case have lost any thing. In the language of
the turf, he stood ten thousand pounds to nothing.

‘A fact, so extraordinary to ignorance, and so splendid to poverty,
could not pass through a mind like mine without making a strong
impression, which the tales told by the boys of the sudden rise of
gamblers, their reverses, desperate fortunes, empty pockets at night,
and hats full of guineas in the morning, only tended to increase. With
my companions I repeated, _Never venture, never win_: and in this state
of puerile avarice, I made bets to the amount of more than half my
year’s wages, the very next day on the race ground, all to be decided
within the week. Concerning the event, however, when it was too late, my
mind began to misgive me. By each match, on which I had a venture, my
fears were increased; for I generally found myself on the wrong side. My
crowns and half-crowns were dwindling away; yet in the midst of my
despair, I looked with some degree of surprise at myself, and said, “How
can these boys with whom I betted, who are so very ignorant, and over
whom, even on the turf or in the stable, I feel my own superiority, have
so much more cunning in laying bets than I have?”

‘Like many of the tragical farces of life, this hastily formed scheme of
mine was without a basis, formed on confused suppositions, and ending in
total disappointment; for at the end of the week, the loss I had
sustained was somewhat either over or under a guinea and a half. To me,
who never before had ventured to bet sixpence, who now well remembered
that all the good books I had read, held gambling in abhorrence; and who
recollected, with unspeakable anguish, that the sin and folly must be
told to my father; that, face to face, I must avow what I had done (for
how else could I account for the expenditure of money, for which I could
find no equivalent?) to me, I say, these were excruciating thoughts, as
will be proved by the desperate remedy I attempted. Well was it for me
that the races were over, or my little purse would have been wholly
emptied. As it was not therefore possible for me to recover my loss in
this way, I began to consider whether there was no other, and despair at
length suggested another; a wild one, it is true, but no one could deny
its possibility. The race week was just over; thousands of pounds had
been betted; guineas and purses had passed in multitudes, from hand to
hand, and pocket to pocket, over a vast area, extending from the chair
to the Devil’s Ditch, and spreading to I know not what width: might not
some stray guinea, nay, perhaps some weighty purse, be now lying there
for the first fortunate comer? Or rather, was it not a thing exceedingly
likely? I could not suppose the seeds of this golden fruit to be sown
exceeding thick, or that it would not require a long search: but I must
not spare my labour: such good luck might befal me, and so eager was my
mind to rid itself of its present anguish, that I was willing to believe
I should be successful.

‘The next morning the horses were no sooner dressed and fed, and the
stables cleaned, than I hurried to execute my design. I began it by a
most careful examination of the betting chair, round which I slowly
walked a number of times, and finding nothing below, mounted, examined
its crevices, and after often attempting to go, and as often lingering
by some faint endeavour to renew hope, could not quit it at last, but
with painful reluctance. Where should I seek next? The whole heath was
before me; but which was the lucky spot? Groups of horsemen had
assembled here and there: but to find each individual place? Oh that I
had marks by which to discover!—Thus with my eyes fixed on the ground,
wandering eagerly in every direction, I slowly paced the ground, wholly
intent on the perplexing thoughts and fruitless pursuits, till
increasing disappointment, and inquiry into the time of day, sent me
back. This experiment of money-finding on Newmarket heath, might be
thought sufficient, but, no! I had an hour in the evening: it was a fine
moon-light night, and dejected as I was, I resolved again to try, and
forth I went, but it was indeed on the forlorn hope. The incident
however forcibly paints the nature of my feelings. I could not endure to
confess to my father both my guilt, and evident inferiority in cunning
to other boys; and to fabricate a lie, was perhaps equally painful. All
that remained was to put off the evil day, and come to my account as
late as might be. What I mean will be better understood, when it is
known I had determined to leave Newmarket, and return to my father, not
however without having first consulted him, and gained his approbation.
My mind having its own somewhat peculiar bias, circumstances had rather
occurred to disgust me, than to invite my stay. I despised my companions
for the grossness of their ideas, and the total absence of every
pursuit, in which the mind appeared to have any share. It was even with
sneers of contempt that they saw me intent on acquiring some small
portion of knowledge: so that I was far from having any prompter, either
as a friend or a rival. As far as I was concerned with horses, I was
pleased; but I saw scarcely a biped, John Watson excepted, in whom I
could find any thing to admire.

‘Having taken my resolution, I had to summon up my courage to give John
Watson warning; not that I in the least suspected he would say any thing
more than, very well: but he had been a kind master, had relieved me in
the day of my distress, had never imputed faults to me, of which I was
not guilty, had fairly waited to give my faculties time to shew
themselves, and had rewarded them with no common degree of praise when
accident brought them to light. It was therefore painful to leave such a
master. With my cap off, and unusual awkwardness in my manner, I went up
to him, and he perceiving I was embarrassed, yet had something to say,
began thus. “Well, Tom, what is the matter now?”—“Oh, Sir, nothing much
is the matter: only I had just a word to say.”—“Well, well, don’t stand
about it; let me hear.”—“Nay, Sir, it is a trifle; I only came to tell
you, I think of going to London.”—“To London?”—“Yes, Sir, if you
please.”—“When do you mean to go to London?”—“When my year is up,
Sir.”—“To London! What the plague has put that whim into your head?”—“I
believe you know my father is in London.”—“Well, what of that?”—“We have
written together, so it is resolved on.”—“Have you got a place?”—“I
don’t want one, Sir, I could not have a better than I have.”—“And what
are you to do?”—“I can’t tell that yet, but I think of being a
shoemaker.”—“Pshaw, you are a blockhead, and your father is a foolish
man.”—“He loves me very dearly, Sir; and I love and honour him.”—“Yes,
yes, I believe you are a good boy, but I tell you, you are both doing a
very foolish thing. Stay at Newmarket, and I will be bound for it, you
will make your fortune.”—“I would rather go back to my father, Sir, if
you please.”—“Nay, then, pray take your own way.”—So saying, he turned
from me with very visible chagrin, at which I felt some surprise; for I
did not imagine it would give him the least concern, should any one lad
in the stables quit his service.

‘Spring and summer kept passing away: Arnold continued to afford me
difficulties which I continued to overcome: my good-tempered, pleasant
friend, (for so he was) the breeches-maker, and I, used often to consult
together; and his surprise that I should so soon have gone beyond him
with respect to the theory of music, not a little flattered me. The
honest psalm-singers were told I was about to leave them, and owned they
were sorry to hear it, I gave them so much assistance. In short, such
friends as a poor boy of fifteen, wholly unrelated in the town could
have, all expressed a degree of regret at parting: my stable-companions
were the only persons who expressed no emotion one way or the other. I
must here, however, except poor Jack Clarke, who, as he was the first
that introduced me to Newmarket, so he was the last, of whom I took
leave.’

END OF MR. HOLCROFT’S NARRATIVE

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

At the expiration of his year, Mr Holcroft left John Watson and his
associates at Newmarket; and returned, as he had intended, to his
father, who then kept a cobbler’s stall in South-Audley Street. He was
at this time near sixteen. He continued to work in the stall with his
father, till the latter could afford to pay a journey-man shoe-maker, to
instruct him in the business of making shoes, which in time he learned
so well, as to obtain the best wages.

From his early childhood, however, he had eagerly read whatever books
came in his way, and this habit did not now leave him: so that, though
an exceedingly quick workman, it was rarely that he had a shilling to
spare, except for absolute necessaries; and when he had, it was spent at
an old book-stall, and _his time was again idled away in reading_.—Such
was the complaint continually made against him. At nineteen, he
travelled to Liverpool with his father, who seems still to have retained
his love of wandering, and who was most probably determined in this
excursion by a desire to revisit his native country. This happened in
the year 1764: and in the year following, Mr Holcroft married. While he
continued at Liverpool, he procured the humble office of teaching
children to read, at a small school in the town. But in less than a
year, he left the country, and came to London. Here he continued to work
at his trade as a shoe-maker, yet gleaning knowledge with all the
industry in his power. He had advanced as far as fractions in
Arithmetic, knew something of geometry, could write a legible hand, and
had made himself a complete master of vocal music. But the stooping
position required in making shoes brought on a return of his old
disorder, the asthma; and as he hated the trade, he made every effort to
find out some other employment.

Mr Holcroft had, through life, except during the time he was at
Newmarket, felt the effects of poverty very severely: but they now
preyed more upon his mind than his body. He continually ruminated on the
advantages that would have resulted from a good education; and the
consciousness that he had neither received one, nor could now pay for
instruction, gave him the utmost uneasiness. He was not aware that the
desultory materials which he had been at so much pains to collect, would
at last form themselves into a consistent mass.

It seems however, that at this period he could not resist the
inclination he occasionally felt to commit his thoughts to paper: he
even found an editor of a newspaper (the Whitehall Evening Post,) who so
far approved of his essays, as to pay him five shillings a column for
them. One of them was transcribed into the Annual Register: but,
according to his own account, it was much too jejune a performance to
deserve any such honour. About this time, Mr Holcroft attempted to set
up a day-school somewhere in the country, where for three months he
lived upon potatoes and buttermilk, and had but one scholar. At the
expiration of the first quarter, he gave up his school, and returned to
London. After this, he obtained admission into the family of Mr
Granville Sharpe, with whom he went to reside, partly in the character
of a servant, and partly I believe as a secretary. It is not certain,
whether he was introduced to the notice of this amiable but eccentric
man, by his literary efforts, or by accident. Both before and after he
went to live with Mr S. he had been accustomed to attend a reading-room,
or spouting-club, the members of which in turn rehearsed scenes and
passages out of plays. His master did not think this the best mode of
spending his time, and made some attempts to cure him of what he
considered as an idle habit. These, however, proved ineffectual, and he
was at length dismissed from the house of his patron.

He now found himself once more in the streets of London, without money,
without a friend, that shame or pride would suffer him to disclose his
wants to, or a habitation of any kind to hide his head in. At last, as
he was wandering along wherever his feet led him, his eye accidentally
glanced on a printed paper pasted against the wall. This was an
invitation to all those spirited young fellows, who chose to make their
fortunes as common soldiers in the service of the East India Company. He
read it with the greatest satisfaction, and was posting away with all
haste to enrol his name in that honourable corps, when he was met by one
of the persons, whom he had known at the spouting-club. His companion,
seeing his bundle and rueful face, asked him where he was going; to
which Holcroft replied, that, had he inquired five minutes sooner, he
could not have told him; but that, at present, he was for the wars. At
this his spouting friend appeared greatly surprised, and told him he
thought he could put him upon a better scheme. He said, one Macklin, a
famous London actor, was going over to play in Dublin; that he had been
inquiring of him for a young fellow, who had a turn for the stage; and
that, if Holcroft pleased, he would introduce him; observing that it
would be time enough to carry the knapsack, if the sock did not succeed.
This proposal was too agreeable to our adventurer to be heard with
inattention. Accordingly, having thanked his acquaintance, and accepted
his offer, the next day was fixed upon for his introduction to Macklin.
The friend, on whom Holcroft had thus unexpectedly lighted was, in fact,
a kind of scout, employed by Macklin, to pick up young adventurers of
promising talents: it being one of this actor’s passions to make actors
of others; though he was in some respects the worst qualified for the
office of any man in the world.

The next morning they proceeded to the place of appointment, when they
found the great man seated on his couch, which stood by the fire; and on
which, whenever he felt himself tired or drowsy, he went to rest, both
day and night; so that he sometimes was not in bed for a fortnight
together. As they went in, they were followed by his wife, who brought
him a bason of tea and some toast, with each of which he found fifty
faults in the rudest manner. He afterwards called to her several times,
upon the most frivolous occasions, when she was dignified with the style
and title of Bess. His countenance, as it appeared to Mr Holcroft at
this interview, was the most forbidding he had ever beheld; and age,
which had deprived him of his teeth, had not added to its softness.
After desiring the young candidate to sit down, he eyed him very
narrowly for some time, and then asked him, _What had put it into his
head to turn actor?_ The abruptness of the question disconcerted him;
and it was some time before he could answer, in rather a confused
manner, that he had _taken it into his head_ to suppose it was genius,
but that it was very possible he might be mistaken. ‘Yes,’ said he,
‘that’s possible enough; and by G—d, Sir, you are not the first that I
have known so mistaken.’ Holcroft smiled at his satire, and the other
grinned ghastly with his leathern lips, for our tyro had not added to
the beauty of his visage by repeating his words. While Macklin was
drinking his tea, they talked on indifferent subjects; and as Holcroft
did not happen to differ with him, but on the contrary had opportunities
of saying several things which confirmed his opinions, he was pleased to
allow that he had the appearance of an ingenious young man. When his
beverage was finished, he desired him to speak a speech out of some
play, which being done, he remarked that he had never in his life heard
a young spouter speak naturally, and therefore he was not surprised that
Holcroft did not: but, as he seemed tractable, and willing to learn, if
he would call again on the morrow, he would hear and answer him further.

When they had descended into the street, Holcroft’s companion assured
him _it would do_, for that he had met with a very favourable reception;
which was indeed the case, considering the character of the person to
whom their visit had been paid.

According to the account Mr Holcroft has left of this extraordinary man,
the author of the comedy of the Man of the World, he was born in the
century before the last, yet at the time of Mr Holcroft’s application to
him (which was in the year 1770) his faculties did not seem in the least
impaired. He was said to have been bred in the interior parts of
Ireland, and in such utter ignorance, as not to be able to read at the
age of forty. The progress, therefore, which he made afterwards, was an
astonishing proof of his genius and industry. His body, like his mind,
was cast in a mould as rough as it was durable. His aspect and address
confounded his inferiors; and the delight he took in making others fear
and admire him gave him an aversion to the society of those whose
knowledge exceeded his own; nor was he ever heard to acknowledge
superiority in any man. He had no respect for the modesty of youth or
sex, but would say the most discouraging, as well as grossest things;
and felt pleasure in proportion to the pain he gave. It was common with
him to ask his pupils, why they did not rather think of becoming
bricklayers than players. He was impatient of contradiction to an
extreme; and when he found fault, if the person attempted to answer, he
stopped him without hearing, by saying, ‘Ha, you have always a reason
for being in the wrong!’ This impatience carried him still farther; it
often rendered him exceedingly abusive. He could pronounce the words
_scoundrel, fool, blockhead_, familiarly, without the least annoyance to
his nervous system. He indeed pretended to the strictest impartiality,
and while his passions were unconcerned, often preserved it: but these
were so extremely irritable, that the least opposition was construed
into an unpardonable insult; and the want of immediate apprehension in
his pupils subjected them to the most galling contempt, which excited
despair instead of emulation. His authority was too severe a climate for
the tender plant of genius ever to thrive in. His judgment was, however,
in general sound, and his instructions those of a master. ‘In short,’
says Mr H., ‘if I may estimate the sensations of others by my own, those
despots, who, as we are told, shoot their attendants for their
diversion, are not regarded with more awe than Macklin was by his pupils
and domestics.’ Such is the conclusion of his severe, but apparently
faithful portrait of this singular character; and it will be seen in the
sequel, that he had sufficient opportunity for rendering it accurate.

Having finished their visit, Holcroft and his friend adjourned to the
Black Lion, in Russell Street, which was at that time a place of resort
for theatrical people. He here learnt that Mr Foote was going to take a
company to Edinburgh, after the close of the summer season. Being now
anxious to secure himself an engagement, and the manner of Macklin
having neither prejudiced him much in his favour, nor given him any
certain hopes of success, he resolved to apply to Mr Foote. Accordingly,
making some slight excuse to his companion, he hastened into Suffolk
Street.

He had the good fortune to find the manager at breakfast with a young
man, whom he employed partly on the stage, and partly as an amanuensis.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘young gentleman, I guess your business by the
sheepishness of your manner; you have got the theatrical cacoethes, you
have rubbed your shoulder against the scene: hey, is it not so?’
Holcroft answered that it was. ‘Well, and what great hero should you
wish to personate? Hamlet, or Richard, or Othello, or who?’ Holcroft
replied, that he distrusted his capacity for performing any that he had
mentioned. ‘Indeed,’ said he, ‘that’s a wonderful sign of grace. I have
been teazed for these many years by all the spouters in London, of which
honourable fraternity I dare say you are a member; for I can perceive no
stage varnish, none of your true strolling brass lacker on your
face.’—‘No indeed, Sir.’—‘I thought so. Well, Sir, I never saw a spouter
before, that did not want to surprise the town in Pierre, or Lothario,
or some character that demands all the address, and every requisite of a
master in the art. But, come, give us a touch of your quality; a speech:
here’s a youngster,’ pointing to his secretary, ‘will roar Jaffier
against Pierre, let the loudest take both.’ Accordingly, he held the
book, and at it they fell: the scene they chose, was that of the
before-mentioned characters in Venice Preserved. For a little while
after they began, it seems that Holcroft took the hint Foote had thrown
out, and restrained his wrath: but this appeared so insipid, and the
ideas of rant and excellence were so strongly connected in his mind,
that when Jaffier began to exalt his voice, he could no longer contain
himself; but, as Nic. Bottom says, they both roared so, that it would
have done your heart good to hear them. Foote smiled, and after enduring
this vigorous attack upon his organs of hearing as long as he was able,
interrupted them.

Far from discouraging our new beginner, he told him, that with respect
to giving the meaning of the words, he spoke much more correctly than he
had expected. ‘But,’ said he, ‘like other novices, you seem to imagine
that all excellence lies in the lungs: whereas such violent exertions
should be used but very sparingly, and upon extraordinary occasions; for
(besides that these two gentlemen, instead of straining their throats,
are supposed to be in common conversation) if an actor make no reserve
of his powers, how is he to rise according to the tone of the passion?’
He then read the scene they had rehearsed, and with so much propriety
and ease, as well as force, that Holcroft was surprised, having hitherto
supposed the risible faculties to be the only ones over which he had any
great power.

Mr Holcroft afterwards displayed his musical talents, which also met
with the approbation of Foote; who, however, told him, that as he was
entirely inexperienced with respect to the stage, if he engaged him, his
salary at first would be very low. He said, it was impossible to judge
with certainty of stage requisites, till they had been proved; and that
if, upon consideration, he thought it expedient to accept of one pound
per week, he might come to him again a day or two before the theatre in
the Haymarket shut up; but that if he could meet with a more flattering
offer in the mean time, he begged he might be no obstacle.

Mr Holcroft came away from this celebrated wit, delighted with the ease
and frankness of his behaviour, and elated with his prospect of success.
But as he had promised Macklin to call again, he did not think it right
to fail in his engagement. Accordingly, on his second visit, he gave him
a part to read in a piece of which he himself was the author, and which
had met with great success. Having finished this task apparently to the
satisfaction of the author, the latter paid his visitor so high a
compliment, as to read to him some scenes of a comedy, which he was then
writing. They were characteristic and satirical, and met with Holcroft’s
sincere and hearty approbation, which, it may be supposed, did not a
little contribute to prejudice Macklin in his favour. He, however,
thought himself bound not to act with duplicity; and he therefore told
Macklin of the offer he had had from Foote, excusing this second
application from the necessity he was under of getting immediate
employment. Macklin allowed the force of his excuse, but thought he
might do better in Ireland. He inquired if Holcroft had any objection to
become a prompter, adding that the office was profitable, and one, for
which, from the good hand he wrote, and other circumstances, he might
easily qualify himself. Holcroft answered that Macklin was the best
judge of his fitness for the office, and that he had no objection to the
situation, except that it would be more agreeable to his inclination to
become an actor. This inclination the other said might be indulged at
the same time, which would render him so much the more useful. Little
parts would frequently be wanting; the going on for these would accustom
him to face the audience, and tread the stage, which would be an
advantage. Holcroft then demanded what salary would be annexed to this
office; and received for answer, that, as there was a good deal of
trouble in it, he could not have less than thirty shillings a week,
especially if he undertook to perform small parts occasionally. Macklin
also informed him, that he was not manager himself, he only went as a
performer: but that Mr ——, one of the managers, was in town, to whom he
would speak, and in two or three days return him a positive answer. In
the interim he desired his _protegé_ to call in the morning, and he
would give him instructions in the part he had read to him, for he had
some thoughts of letting him play it. After making proper
acknowledgments for these favours, our young adventurer took his leave,
much better pleased than at his first visit.

CHAPTER II

It was not long before everything was settled in the manner proposed by
Macklin, and Mr Holcroft was informed, that it was necessary for him to
set off for Dublin, it being the intention of the proprietors to open
the theatre about the beginning of October. In consequence of the desire
he had expressed to appear in some character, Macklin had promised not
only to procure him such an opportunity, but likewise to instruct and
become his patron: and on Holcroft’s representing to him his want of
cash for the journey, he lent him six guineas on the part of the
managers, and gave him a letter to Mr ——, who would, he said, provide
him with a lodging, and do him other trifling services, which would be
agreeable to a person in his situation.

Holcroft now rewarded his spouting friend with a guinea, redeemed his
clothes, which he had been forced to pawn, and left London, elated with
the most flattering hopes.—He arrived in Dublin about the latter end of
September, 1770. The novelty of the scene, and the vast difference in
the economy and manners of the people, made a strong impression on his
imagination. The bar at the mouth of the Liffy renders the entrance up
that river passable only to ships of small burthen, and to them only
when the tide serves. It was low water when the packet arrived at the
mouth of the river, and a boat came alongside of the vessel, into which
most of the passengers went, rather than wait another tide, and our
adventurer among the rest. The river divides the city, and the other
passengers were set on shore on the quay; but Holcroft, as directed by
his letter, inquired for Capel-Street, which was on the opposite side.
Thither, accordingly, he was carried; and his trunk and himself landed
in a beer-house. He was rather astonished, when the waterman demanded
five and five-pence, together with a quart of three-penny, for his
conveyance from the packet: and the more so, as he had seen the other
passengers give but a shilling each, and one or two of the meaner among
them only sixpence. He remonstrated against the imposition, and quoted
the precedent of the shilling; but in vain.

The disorder of their looks, the smoothness of their tongues, and the
possession they had taken of his trunk, on which one of them seated
himself, while the other argued the case, induced our novice to comply
with their demands: but what gave him the greatest astonishment was,
that the landlord of the beer-house, who had sworn stoutly to their
honesty, while he was paying them, no sooner saw their backs turned,
than, according to his own phraseology, ‘he pitched them to the _divel_,
for a couple of cut-throat, _chating_ rascals, that _desarved_ hanging
worse than a murderer.’

The reflections to which this and similar scenes gave rise in Mr
Holcroft’s mind, though trite, are not the less worthy of attention. He
says, ‘During my short stay in Ireland, I had but too many occasions to
observe a shocking depravity of manners, which I attribute either to the
laws, or the want of a due enforcement of them. The Irish are
habitually, not naturally, licentious. They have all that warmth and
generosity which are the characteristics of the best dispositions; and
when properly educated, are an honour to mankind. Ireland has produced
many first-rate geniuses; and in my opinion, nothing but the foregoing
circumstance has prevented her from producing many more. It is the
legislature which forms the manners of a nation.’

When our traveller set out from London, he was assured that the house
would open in the beginning of October, but it was November before the
season commenced; so that his finances were once more exhausted, and he
was obliged to apply to the friend to whom Macklin had recommended him,
for a farther supply. The acting manager was one D——, a busy, bustling
fellow, void of all civility, who pretended to carry the world before
him.

Mr Holcroft soon discovered that there was an insurmountable antipathy
between this man’s disposition and his own. But the means of his
subsistence were at stake; he endeavoured, therefore, to accommodate
himself to the other’s temper as much as possible, and waited for the
arrival of Macklin with the utmost impatience. He understood that his
engagement had been permanently fixed at thirty shillings a week; but,
when he went to the treasury, he found it reduced to a guinea; and
whenever he pleaded his engagement, received the most mortifying and
insulting answers. He discovered the entire improbability of his
becoming a favourite. None were such but those who could administer the
grossest flattery, and who industriously listened to whatever was said
in the theatre concerning this petty despot and his management, in order
to repeat it in the ear of their employer.

Holcroft had vainly imagined that the presence of Macklin would put an
end to all his grievances: he looked up to him as his patron, as one who
had been the occasion of his leaving England, who had pledged himself to
be his friend, and was bound to protect him. Whether D—— had prejudiced
him against Holcroft, or whether Macklin himself was aware of his
deficiency in the honeyed arts of adulation, he could not determine; but
he found him very cold in his interest, and far more disposed to
browbeat than countenance him. He had, as we have seen, promised to
teach him a part, and bring him out in it; but when he ventured to
remind him of it, he received only sarcastic remarks on his incapacity.
Holcroft, however, persisted in asserting the positiveness of his
agreement with respect to his salary, concerning which Macklin had the
meanness to equivocate; but he succeeded in obtaining an addition of
four shillings a week.

Unable to extricate himself, he endured the insults of malice and
ignorance for five months, till the money which he had borrowed had been
deducted from his stipend, and then D—— immediately discharged him. It
would be no easy task to describe what he must have felt at this moment:
he was not possessed of five shillings in the world, was in a strange
country, and had no means, now that he was shut out from the theatre, of
obtaining a livelihood. He saw nothing but misery and famine before him,
and he uttered the bitterest exclamations against Macklin for the
perfidiousness of his conduct. This he felt so strongly, that though
Macklin by the severity of his manner had gained an almost entire
ascendancy over him, he went to his house, and with the utmost firmness,
after observing that he would rather starve than incur any further
obligations to him, displayed the impropriety and injustice of his
conduct in such animated terms, that all his wonted sternness fled, and
the cynic stood abashed before the boy.

There was another theatre open in Smock-Alley, under the direction of
Mossop: but he was insolvent, and none of his people were paid. Here,
however, as a last resource, Holcroft applied, and was engaged at the
same nominal salary that he had in Capel-Street.

It soon appeared that there was no probability of his being paid for his
performance at Mossop’s theatre: he was therefore forced to quit Dublin,
and went on board the Packet for Parkgate, in March, 1771.

The wind was fair till they had lost sight of the hill of Hoath; but
soon after sun-set, a hurricane came on, which in this narrow and rocky
sea, put their lives in imminent danger. Of this, however, from the
violent effects of the sea-sickness, Holcroft was insensible. They were
driven during the storm, considerably to the north; and such was the
ignorance of the master and his two or three superannuated mariners,
that he still continued sailing to the northward, having no knowledge of
navigation, but what he had gained by coasting between the two kingdoms.
He was therefore on the present occasion quite at a loss; so that in all
probability they might have made a voyage to Greenland, had not an
intelligent Scotchman among the passengers known some of the headlands
in his own country. The master would have contested the point, but that
the passengers perceived his want of skill, and joined the North-Briton,
who with a degree of warmth expressive of his attachment to his bleak
hills, exclaimed, ‘What the de’el, mon, d’ye think I dinna ken the craig
of Ailsa?’

They were eight days without putting into any port, except sending the
boat on shore on the evening of the seventh at the Isle of Man, to
procure some provisions for the passengers, who were almost starving,
having consumed the stock, which is usually provided for voyages of this
kind, in a day or two after the storm had abated. The reason of their
being kept so long from port was the dead calm which had succeeded; and
which the mariners, who are the most superstitious of all beings,
attributed to there being some Jonas on board. This opinion they
inculcated among the poor Irish who had paid half a crown for their
passage in the hold; who were as ignorant as themselves, and much more
mischievous. Unluckily, Holcroft was the person on whom their suspicions
lighted. They had discovered him to be a player, a profession, which was
at one time regarded by the universal consent of mankind as altogether
_profane_. The common Irish in the hold were chiefly catholics, and the
sixth day from their departure happened to be Easter-Sunday. Holcroft
had sauntered off the quarter-deck, with a volume of Hudibras in his
hand, and had walked to the other end of the vessel, when he found
himself encircled by two or three fellows with most ferocious
countenances, who were gazing earnestly at him, with looks expressive of
loathing and revenge. Most of the passengers were at breakfast, and
there was no one on deck but these men, and a couple of the sailors, who
joined them. The peculiarity of their manner excited his notice, and one
of them asked him, his lips quivering with rage, ‘If he had not better
be getting a prayer-book, than be reading plays upon that blessed day?’
Holcroft now perceived that the fellows were inebriated, and very
imprudently, instead of soothing them, asked them if they imagined there
was as much harm in reading a play as in getting drunk on that day, and
so early in the morning. ‘By the holy father,’ replied the spokesman, ‘I
know you. You are the Jonas, and by Jasus the ship will never see land
till you are tossed over-board, you and your plays along with you: and
sure it will be a great deal better that such a wicked wretch as you
should go to the bottom, than that all the poor innocent souls in the
ship should be lost.’ This speech entirely disconcerted him. The
fellow’s resolute tone, and the approbation which his companions
discovered, were alarming. He, however, preserved presence of mind
enough to assure them, it was not a play-book that he was reading, and
opened it to convince them, while he slunk away to the quarter-deck,
which he gained not without the greatest difficulty. Mr Holcroft arrived
at Chester without any farther accident.

CHAPTER III

Mr Holcroft had now the world once more before him; and he resolved to
write to such travelling companies as he could obtain any intelligence
of. His knowledge of music, his talents as a singer, and his recent
arrival from the Dublin theatre, were recommendations which procured him
the offer of several engagements. He closed with one, in a company that
was then at Leeds in Yorkshire. In this his evil fortune was again
predominant. He found the affairs of the company in a state of the
greatest disorder: the players were despised in the town, and
quarrelling with one another and the manager. Here, however, he
discovered how necessary practice is to the profession of a player; and
perceived that, though some of his new associates could scarcely read,
they could all, from the mere force of habit, speak better on the stage
than he could.

In a few weeks, in consequence of continual bickerings and jealousies,
most of the players deserted the manager; and no others coming to supply
their places, the company dissolved of itself. A letter had followed our
luckless hero from Chester, inviting him to join another set of actors,
then at Hereford: but this had been written nearly a month; it was a
hundred and sixty miles across the country, and he did not know, if he
set out, whether he should find them there; or if he did, whether they
might now stand in need of his assistance. But his money was by this
time reduced so low, that it was necessary to come to an immediate
determination. With a heavy heart, then, and a light purse, did he begin
another journey: and on the fifth day, entered an inn by the road-side,
which was eight-and-twenty miles from Hereford, with the sum of
nine-pence in his pocket; and in the morning made his exit pennyless.
The fatigue he had already undergone, and the scanty fare he had allowed
himself, had so reduced his spirits, that he found considerable
difficulty in performing this last day’s journey on an empty stomach:
but there was no remedy. About four o’clock he ascended the hill that
looks down upon that ancient city, at the sight of which a thousand
anxieties took possession of his bosom. He inquired of the first person
he met, with an emotion not easily to be expressed, if the comedians had
left Hereford; and to his great joy, was answered that they had not.
Faint, weary, and ready to drop with hunger, he traversed the town to
inquire for the manager: but it was one of the nights on which they did
not perform, and the manager was not to be found. He was then directed
to his brother, who was a barber in the place; and upon the family’s
observing his weakness, and desiring to know if he was not well, he
collected courage enough to tell them that he was greatly fatigued,
having come a long journey, and for the last day not having broken his
fast, except at the brook. Notwithstanding this confession, in making
which he had evidently done great violence to his feelings, they heard
it without offering him the least refreshment, or so much as testifying
either surprise or pity; and he left the house with tears in his eyes.
When the players understood that a fresh member was come to join them,
they, from sympathy, very soon discovered his situation; and were not a
little incensed at the story of the barber.

The company into which Mr Holcroft was now introduced was that of the
Kembles: the father of Mrs. Siddons was the manager. Mr H. continued
with this company some time; and in the course of their peregrinations
he visited Ludlow, Worcester, Leominster, Bewdly, Bromsgrove, and
Droitwitch; in all which places he acted inferior parts. One of the
actors in this company, of the name of Downing or Dunning, seems to have
made a pretty strong impression on Mr H.’s fancy, for he has left a very
particular description of him. This stage-hero had a large, red,
bottle-nose, with little intellect; but he was tall, looked passably
when made up for the stage, and had a tolerable voice, though
monotonous. To hide the redness of his nose, it was his custom to powder
it: but unluckily he drank brandy; the humour that flowed to his nose,
made it irritable, and in the course of a scene the powder was usually
rubbed off. His wife stood behind the scenes with the powder-puff ready,
and exclaimed when he came off—‘Lord! Curse it, George! how you rub your
poor nose! Come here, and let me powder it. Do you think Alexander the
Great had such a nose? I am sure Juliet would never have married Romeo
with such a bottle-nose. Upon my word, if your nose had been so red, and
large, when you ran away with me from the boarding-school, I should
never have stepped into the same chaise with you and your journeyman
captain, I assure you.’ George seldom made any reply to these harangues,
except ‘Pshaw, woman,’ or by beginning to repeat his part.

In the year 1798, when Mr Holcroft spent an evening with old Mrs.
Kemble, and talked over past times with her, she gave a whimsical
picture of this wife of Downing. Mrs. D. was addicted to drinking,
exceedingly nervous, and snuffled when she spoke. She used to tell her
own story as follows: ‘He calls himself Downing, Ma’am, but his name is
Dunning. I was a quaker, Ma’am, when he first knew me, and put to a
boarding-school. He and one Chalmers (I suppose you have heard of that
Chalmers, he gave himself the title of Captain)—Well, Ma’am, while I was
at the boarding-school, they came a courting to me. Dunning, my husband,
that you see there, was a tall, handsome fellow enough; he had not such
a bottle-nose then, Ma’am, nor such spindle legs; so he put on a coat
edged with gold lace, I don’t know where he got it, and gave himself the
airs of a gentleman. He thought I was a great fortune; but, God help me,
I had not a shilling; and I believed him to be what he pretended, when
all the while he was no better than a barber; and this Captain Chalmers
was his journeyman. So they persuaded me, innocent fool, to run away
with them, thinking they had got a prize, and I thought the same; so the
biter on both sides was bit. So that is the history, Ma’am, of me and Mr
Dunning.’

This maudlin lady was often employed to receive the money at the
play-house door, and was suspected of petty embezzlements to supply
herself with liquor. Mr Holcroft used sometimes to rally her a little
unmercifully on her love of the bottle, and the adventure of the
Captain. The dialogue is somewhat coarse, but it may serve as a sample
of the tone of conversation which prevailed in provincial companies at
that time. ‘It is very cold to-night, Mrs. Downing.’—‘Yes, sir.’—‘I hope
you take care to keep yourself warm.’—‘What do you mean, sir?’—‘Flannel
and a little comfort.’ ‘What comfort, sir!’—‘You know what I mean.’—‘I
know nothing about you, sir!’—‘A drop of cordial; lamb’s wool is a good
lining.’—‘Gods curse your linings, sir; I know nothing about
linings.’—‘Nay, don’t be angry; I have not said you are tipsy.’ ‘Gods
curse your sayings, sir, I don’t care for your sayings. Mr Downing shall
never set foot, after this night, on the same boards with such an
impertinent puppy.’—‘Nay, my dear Mrs. Downing.’—‘Yes, sir, you are no
better; and if George Downing was a man, he would soon teach you good
manners.’—‘He is well qualified, my dear Mrs. D., for he practised upon
many a _block-head_ before he came to mine.’—‘And what of that, sir. I
understand you; but a barber is as good as a cobbler at any time.’

Now it must be allowed, that though there is not much wit or humour in
all this, it is very easy and free spoken. Mr Holcroft was young at the
time, and probably ready enough to give into any joke, which he found
the common practice of the place.—It may be remarked by the way, that
there is a peculiar tone of banter and irony, bordering on ribaldry,
which seems almost inseparable from the profession of strolling players.
For this many reasons might be given: 1. The contempt (often most
undeserved, no doubt) in which they are held by the world, and which
they naturally reflect back on one another; for they must soon learn to
despise a profession which they see despised by every one else, at least
with that single exception which self-love contrives to reserve for us
all. 2. The circumstance that they live by repeating the wit of others,
and that they must naturally ape what they live by. In nine instances
out of ten, however, this habitual temptation must produce impertinence
instead of wit. 3. The custom of repeating things without meaning or
consequence on the stage, must lead to the same freedom of speech when
they are _off_. It is only acting a part. 4. They have not much else to
do, and they assume a certain levity of manner as a resource against
_ennui_, as well as to hide a sense of the mortifications and hardships
they so often meet with. Lastly, their mode of life, which is always in
companies, and in situations where they have an opportunity of becoming
acquainted every moment with one another’s weak sides, gives rise to a
propensity to _quizzing_, as it does in all other open societies; such
as of boys at school, of collegians, among lawyers, etc.—But to return
to our narrative.

The company of which old Mr Kemble was the manager, was more respectable
than many other companies of strolling players; but it was not in so
flourishing a condition as to place the manager beyond the reach of the
immediate smiles or frowns of fortune. Of this the following anecdote
may be cited as an instance. A benefit had been fixed for some of the
family, in which Miss Kemble, then a little girl, was to come forward in
some part, as a juvenile prodigy. The taste of the audience was not, it
seems, so accommodating as in the present day, and the extreme youth of
the performer disposed the gallery to noise and uproar instead of
admiration. Their turbulent dissatisfaction quite disconcerted the
child, and she was retiring bashfully from the stage, when her mother,
who was a woman of a high spirit, and alarmed for the success of her
little actress, came forward, and leading the child to the front of the
house, made her repeat the fable of the Boys and the Frogs, which
entirely turned the tide of popular opinion in her favour. What must the
feelings of the same mother have been, when this child (afterwards Mrs.
Siddons), became the admiration of the whole kingdom, the first seeing
of whom was an event in every person’s life never to be forgotten!

It may not be improper to remark in this place, that Mrs. Siddons first
appeared in London about the year 1778, without exciting any great
notice or expectation. She had acquired her fame in the country, before
she was received in 1783 with such unbounded applause on the London
theatres. There is a playful and lively letter from Mr Holcroft to Miss
Kemble (most probably Mrs. Siddons), dated, 12th Feb., 1779, returning
her thanks for the favour of her late visit to him while in town, and
desiring his remembrances to theatrical friends in the country, and
among others, his _Baises Mains_ to a Mr Davis.

A difference with the manager (old Mr Kemble), occasioned Mr Holcroft to
leave this company; from which he went to that of Stanton, which
performed at Birmingham and in the neighbourhood, and sometimes made
excursions to the north of England. A memorandum of Mr Holcroft, dated
1799, gives some account of himself, and of one of his fellow-actors
while in this company. ‘A person called on me of the name of F——, who
began by asking if I knew him. I answered no. He replied that it was
likely enough, but that we had been acquainted when I was an actor in
Walsal, where he played the second fiddle, and doubted not but I should
remember that we had often played at billiards together. I answered that
I recollected nothing of his person, though I played at billiards with
several people, and probably with him. I then asked, which was the best
player of the two? He replied that, because he squinted, people thought
he could not play; but that, to the best of his recollection, he had won
six or seven pounds of me, which greatly distressed me. Yes, said I, the
loss of such a sum at that time (in 1773), would have so distressed me,
that though I do forget multitudes of things and persons, I think I
should not have forgotten such an incident. I was therefore persuaded he
was much mistaken in the sum. In answer to this, he said, he had
remarked to me at the time we were both upon the same _lay_; and finding
I took offence at the expression, he had softened it by saying, we
neither of us _wished to lose our money_. He therefore proposed that I
should pay him by going halves with him, when he played and betted
again. What degree of truth there was in all this, I cannot now exactly
tell, only I know that I had a high spirit, and a detestation of all
gambling conspiracies, though at that time I played for money and wished
to win. I was poor, neither did I then conceive it to be wrong. The man
said, he should not have taken the liberty to come to a gentleman _so
high in the world_ (at this I could not but smile,) as I now was, had
not Mr Clementi told him I was without pride, and entirely free of
access. He is a stout man, nearly six feet high, and lives at
Birmingham, where he teaches the violin, has daughters, whom he has
taught to fiddle, play the harpsichord, etc., and sells music among his
scholars. His business in London, he tells me, is to bring up his wife
and daughters, and leave them here, the latter for instruction; and that
one great motive for visiting me was, to hear Fanny (Miss Holcroft)
play. In addition to ungain size, awkwardness, and squinting, he has a
clownish gesticulation, and makes such strange contortions of face, as,
were it not to avoid giving offence, would excite continual laughter. In
talking of billiards, he spoke of a gentleman at Walsal, with whom he
used to play, who came with his pockets full of guineas, and that the
chinking of these excited in him the most extraordinary desire to win.
Here he got up, and gave a picture by gesticulating, squinting, and
drawing his muscles awry, of the agitation he used to be in when going
to strike the balls. Nothing could exceed the effect of his _naïveté_.
The conclusion of his history of Walsal was, that playing at billiards
with Stanton, the manager, the latter complained of the largeness of the
pockets; to which F—— replied, yes, they were very large, large indeed,
as unconscionably large as his four dead shares, added to the five
shares he received for the acting of his wife and children; which so
affronted Stanton, that he discharged him the next week. He said he left
Walsal with thirty pounds in his pocket, which he had won at billiards,
promising his wife never to play more, and that he had kept his word. As
he appeared to have been the industrious father of a family, I invited
him to bring his daughters, and hear Fanny, who did not then happen to
be at home; but his left-handed country breeding, or some other motive,
made him decline fixing any time.’[2]

To enable the reader to understand the satirical allusion to the
manager’s shares, which cost poor F—— his situation as second fiddler in
the company, it may be necessary to give a short account of the economy
of a provincial theatre. This I cannot do better than by citing Mr
Holcroft’s own words. ‘A company of travelling comedians then is a small
kingdom, of which the manager is the monarch. Their code of laws seems
to have existed with few material variations since the days of
Shakespeare, who is, with great reason, the god of their idolatry.—The
person who is rich enough to furnish a wardrobe and scenes, commences
manager, and has his privileges accordingly: if there are twenty persons
in the company, for instance, the manager included, the receipts of the
house, after all incidental expenses are deducted, are divided into four
and twenty shares, four of which are called _dead_ shares, and taken by
the manager as payment for the use of his dresses and scenes; to these
is added the share to which he is entitled as a performer. Our manager
(Stanton), has five sons and daughters all ranked as performers; so that
he sweeps eleven shares, that is, near half the profits of the theatre,
into his pocket every night. This is a continual subject of discontent
to the rest of the actors, who are all, to a man, disaffected to the
higher powers. They are, however, most of them in debt to the manager,
and of course chained to his galley; a circumstance which he does not
fail to remind them of, whenever they are refractory.

‘They appear to be a set of merry, thoughtless beings, who laugh in the
midst of poverty, and who never want a quotation or a story to recruit
their spirits. When they get any money, they seem in haste to spend it,
lest some tyrant, in the shape of a dun, should snatch it from them.
They have a circuit or set of towns, to which they resort when the time
comes round; so that there are but three or four in our company who are
not well known in *****. I observe that the town’s-people are
continually railing at them: yet are exceedingly unhappy, if they fail
to return at the appointed time. It is a saying among us, that a
player’s six-pence does not go as far as a town’s-man’s groat;
therefore, though the latter are continually abusing them for running in
debt, they take good care to indemnify themselves, and are no great
losers, if they get ten shillings in the pound.’

This patriarchal manager, with his wife, sons, and daughters, seems to
have been not only an object of envy, but from his blunders and
stupidity, the butt of the whole company. Among other instances, which
are related of his talent for absurdity, he wished to have Shylock in
the Merchant of Venice played in the dialect of Duke’s Place, and was
positive Shakespeare intended it so. He once told the duke in Othello, a
messenger was arrived from the _gallows_, instead of the _galleys_; and
in playing the part of Bardolph, where that worthy person, descanting on
the fieriness of his nose, says, ‘Behold these meteors, these
exhalations,’ he used to lift his hands to heaven with a solemn
flourish, as if he had really seen ‘the heavens on fire.’

CHAPTER IV

While Mr Holcroft was in this company, or a short time before he entered
it, he married again. His second wife was the sister of a Mr Tipler, of
Nottingham: by her he had two children, William, born in 1773, and
Sophy, born at Cockermouth, in 1775. Her mother either died in child-bed
of her, or shortly after. This marriage would have been a very happy
one, had it not been embittered by scenes of continual distress and
disappointment, which Mrs. H. bore with a resignation and sweetness of
temper, which could not but endear her to a husband of Mr Holcroft’s
character. There is a sort of Shandean manuscript of his, written at
this time, and in which he gives an account of his own situation,
crosses, poverty, etc. In this there are several passages expressive of
the tenderest attachment to his wife; and which, from the amiable
character he has drawn of her, she seems to have deserved. One of these
will, I think, strongly paint the amiableness of his own heart. After
describing a series of misfortunes, he breaks out into the following
beautiful address to his wife.

‘Oh Matilda! shall I ever forget thy tenderness and resignation? Or when
in the bitterness of despair, beholding thee pregnant, wan with watching
thy sick infant, and sitting assiduously at thy needle to earn a morsel
of bread,—when thou hast beheld the salt rheum of biting anguish scald
my agonizing cheek, with what tender love, what mild, what sweet
persuasive patience, thou hast comforted my soul, and made even misery
smile in hope, and fond forgetfulness! Richer than all the monarchs of
the east, Matilda, has thy kindness made me: the world affords not thy
equal!’

Mr Holcroft afterwards removed with his wife into Booth’s company. She
had a good figure, and her husband had taught her to sing, and
instructed her sufficiently in the business of the stage to render her
serviceable to the theatre. When at Cockermouth in 1775, Mr Holcroft
addressed a letter and a poem to David Garrick, which I shall here
insert; both as they are curious in themselves, and are characteristic
of the state of his feelings at the time. For the romantic extravagance
of his appeal to Garrick’s generosity, no other apology seems necessary,
than the old adage, that drowning men catch at straws.

‘_To David Garrick, Esq._

‘SIR, I know of no excuse that I can make for the impertinence of this
address, but my feelings. They press hard upon me, they are not to be
withstood. They have told me your sympathetic heart sighs for the
distressed, and weeps with the child of sorrow. I believe they told me
truth.

‘I am a strolling comedian, have a wife and family, for whom I would
fain provide, but have sometimes, notwithstanding the strictest economy,
found the task a very difficult one. I am now near three hundred miles
from London, in a company that must, in all human probability, soon be
dispersed; my wife lying-in at an inn, and in circumstances that I
cannot describe. I do not wish to eat the bread of idleness; I neither
know, nor wish to know any thing of luxury; and a trifling salary would
make me affluent. I have played in the country with applause, and my
friends, I am afraid, have flattered me: some of them have ranked me
among the sons of genius, and I have, at times, been silly enough to
believe them. I have succeeded best in low comedy and old men. I
understand music very well, something of French and fencing, and have a
very quick memory, as I can repeat any part under four lengths at six
hours’ notice. I have studied character, situation, dress, deliberation,
enunciation, but above all, the eye and the manner; and have so far
succeeded, as to be entirely at the head of my profession here in all
those characters which nature has any way qualified me for. I am afraid,
Sir, you think by this time that I have undertaken to write my own
panegyric. That, however, is far from my intention; neither do I wish
for employment in any but a very subordinate situation. My wife is a
good figure, but her timidity would always place her behind a Queen at
your theatre. If you were to find me capable of any thing better than an
attendant, to your judgment would I cheerfully accede. If you do not
chuse to employ my wife, but would only engage me, I think we should
_both_ remember it with that enthusiasm of gratitude, with which good
minds are oppressed when they receive favours which they have no
possible means of returning.

‘I am, Sir,
‘Your very humble Servant, etc.

‘_Cockermouth, in Cumberland,
June 1st, 1775, at the house
of George Bowes, hatter._

‘P.S. With respect to the trifling Poem inclosed, I meant only to ease
my own heart by it: should it reach yours, it will be more than I can
expect.’

HOPE;
OR,
THE DELUSION.

‘Advance, soft soother of the mind,
Oh! hither bend, a welcome guest:
Sweet Hope! stray hither, here thou’lt find
Those sanguine thoughts, that please thee best.

Fair Fancy bring, thy darling child,
Deck’d in loose robes of Alpine white:
With thee, her happy Parent, wild
She wings her bold, romantic flight.

Blest pair! I’ll sing, inspir’d by you,
Of wealth bestow’d to noble ends,
Of sweet enchanting scenes in view,
Of future times and faithful friends.

Tho’ my sweet William, prattling youth,
For bread oft begs in accents meek;
Matilda, fairest flower of truth,
Droops on my breast her dew-dipt cheek.

Tho’ the big tears run down my face
To see her aspect wan and mild,
And hear her lov’d affection trace
My care-mark’d features in our child.

Tho’ fortune lowly bows my neck,
And cares not for the wretch’s groan,—
Yet smile but Hope, or Fancy beck,
And I’ll ascend her star-built throne.

Now, now, I mount! Behold me rise!
Hope lends me strength, and Fancy wings,
Oh! listen to the magic lies,
Which fleeting, faithless Fancy sings!

With Independence truly blest,
Of some neat cot she styles me lord,
Where Age and Labour love to rest,
Where healthy viands press the board.

Now lay me down, kind nymph, at ease
Beneath yon verdant mountain’s brow,
Where wanton zephyrs fan the trees,
Where violets spring, and waters flow.

What joys—delusive charmer, hold!
Despair has seiz’d my thick’ning blood:
Her lips how pale! Her cheek how cold!
Matilda faints for want of food!’

The foregoing stanzas have been given less for the poetry than the
history they contain. The distress which they paint did not, it seems,
reach Garrick’s heart: at least Mr Holcroft left Cockermouth some time
after without having received an answer to his letter. Whether his wife
died before or after he left Cockermouth, I do not know; but there is an
epitaph on Mrs. Holcroft, written about this period, in which he
feelingly laments her loss.

Beauty, Love, and Truth lie here:
Passenger, a moment stay!
Breathe a sigh, and drop a tear,
O’er her much-lamented clay.

Death! thy dart is harmless now,
Widow’d griefs thy stroke defy:
Weak the terrors of thy brow
To the wretch who longs to die.

At the time that Mr Holcroft was at Cockermouth, he was in Booth’s
company, which he had joined at Carlisle in the autumn of 1774. He had
just then left Stanton’s company, who were performing at Kendal. He was
recommended to Booth by a friend of the name of Hatton, who was an
excellent comedian, and the hero of the company. He had spoken in high
terms of Holcroft’s talents, who himself sent off a letter as his
_avant-courier_, in which he undertook to do a great deal for very
little. He engaged to perform all the old men, and principal low-comedy
characters; he was to be the _music_, that is, literally the sole
accompaniment to all songs, etc., on his fiddle in the orchestra; he
undertook to instruct the younger performers in singing and music, and
to write out the different casts or parts in every new comedy; and,
lastly, he was to furnish the theatre with several new pieces, never
published, but which he brought with him in manuscript, among the rest
Dr. Last in his Chariot, which character he himself performed. Here was
certainly enough for one man to do; and for all these services, various
and important as they were, he stipulated that he should be entitled to
a share and a half of the profits of the theatre, which generally
amounted to between four and five pounds a night whenever it opened,
that is, three times a week. This proposed salary could not, therefore,
amount to more than seventeen or eighteen shillings weekly.

In the above list of employments, which Mr Holcroft undertook to fulfil,
the capital attraction, and that which he believed no country manager
could resist, was the character of Dr. Last, which he did in imitation
of the London performers. The scene in which he produced the most effect
was that of the doctor’s examination. This, as I have heard it
described, was a very laughable, if not a very pleasing performance. Mr
Holcroft was naturally rather long-backed; and in order to give a
ridiculous appearance to the doctor, he used to lean forwards, with his
chin raised as high as possible into the air, and his body projecting
proportionably behind; and in this frog-like attitude, with his eyes
staring wide open, and his teeth chattering, he answered the questions
that were put to him, in a harsh, tremulous voice, sometimes growling,
and sometimes squeaking, and with such odd starts and twitches of
countenance, that the effect produced upon the generality of spectators
was altogether convulsive. The person who gave me this description said
he thought the part a good deal overdone, but that it was a very
entertaining caricature. Mr Holcroft himself went through this part to
gratify a friend, a very short time before his death. He said, it always
produced a very great effect, whenever he acted it; but that the chief,
or only merit it had, was that of being a close imitation of Weston’s
manner of doing it.[3]

The history of the company in which Mr Holcroft was now engaged,
deserves notice from its singularity. The name of the original founder
of the company was Mills, a Scotchman. He and his family had formerly
travelled the country, playing nothing but Allan Ramsay’s Gentle
Shepherd. This they continued to do for several years without either
scenery or music. As the younger branches of the family grew up, one of
them became a scene-painter, and some of the others learned to fiddle.
They now, therefore, added scenes and music to the representation of
their favourite pastoral. They afterwards enlarged their circuit, and
made excursions into the North of England: and though the loves of Patie
and Peggy were a never-failing source of delight on the other side of
the Tweed, their English auditors grew tired of this constant sameness.
They therefore, after the performance of the _Gentle Shepherd_, which
was still the business of the evening, introduced a farce occasionally,
as a great treat to the audience. Mills’s daughters married players.
This brought an accession of strength into the family, so that they were
now able to act regular plays; and by degrees, Allan Ramsay, with his
shepherds and shepherdesses, and flocks of bleating sheep, was entirely
discarded. Still, however, during the life-time of Mills, the whole
business of the theatre, even to the shifting of the scenes, or making
up of the dresses, was carried on in the circle of his own family. At
his death, the property of the theatre was purchased by a Mr Buck
(formerly of Covent Garden theatre), who kept an inn at Penrith, and it
was by him let out to Booth.

Mrs. Sparks, of Drury Lane Theatre, was an actress in this company, at
the time Mr Holcroft belonged to it, and the youngest daughter of Mills,
the late manager. Mrs. Inchbald was playing in the same company, at
Inverness, in Scotland, in 1773, or the winter of 1774. The company
afterwards went to Glasgow, where not being permitted to play, they were
all in the utmost distress. The whole stock was detained for rent and
board, etc., at an inn. From this awkward situation they were liberated
by a young Scotchman, who had just joined the company in a kind of
frolic, and who paid their score, and set them off to Kilmarnock, and
from thence to Ayr, where they had a very brilliant run of good fortune.

Booth, the manager, was the same person who has since been well known as
the inventor of the polygraphic art, and of the art of making cloth
without spinning or weaving. He appears to have been always a man of
much versatility of enterprise; and at this time added to his
employments of manager and actor, the profession of a portrait-painter.
The first thing he did when he came to any town, was to wait on the
magistrate, to ask leave for his company to play; or if this was
refused, that he might have the honour of painting his picture. If his
scenes and dresses were lying idle, he was the more busy with his
pencil: and that tempting bait hung out at the shop-windows, _Likenesses
taken in this manner for half-a-guinea_, seldom failed to fill his
pockets, while his company were starving.

CHAPTER V

Mr Holcroft continued in Booth’s company about a year and a half. He
next joined Bates’s company, which made the circuit of the principal
towns on the east side of the north of England, including Durham,
Sunderland, Darlington, Scarborough, Stockton-upon-Tees, etc.

It was sometime in the year 1777, that Mr Holcroft walked with Mr Shield
(the celebrated composer, who was then one of the band in the same
company) from Durham to Stockton-upon-Tees. Mr Holcroft employed himself
on the road in studying Lowth’s Grammar, and reading Pope’s _Homer_.—The
writers that we read in our youth are those, for whom we generally
retain the greatest fondness. Pope always continued a favorite with Mr
Holcroft, and held the highest place in his esteem after Milton,
Shakspeare, and Dryden. He used often, in particular, to repeat the
character of Atticus, which he considered as the finest piece of satire
in the language. Moral description, good sense, keen observation, and
strong passion, are the qualities which he seems chiefly to have sought
in poetry. He had therefore little relish even for the best of our
descriptive poets, and often spoke with indifference, approaching to
contempt, of Thomson, Akenside, and others. He was, however, at this
time, exceedingly eager to make himself acquainted with all our English
poets of any note; and he was seldom without a volume of poetry in his
pocket.

At the time that Bates’s company were at Scarborough, Fisher, the late
celebrated Oboe player, gave concerts there, which were led by Dance,
and in which a Miss Harrop, (afterwards Mrs. Bates) was the principal
vocal performer. Holcroft used to sing in the choruses.—He at this time
practised a good deal on the fiddle, which he continued ever after to do
occasionally; but he never became a good performer. It was Bates, who
conducted the commemoration of Handel at Westminster Abbey.

Among the parts which Mr Holcroft played most frequently, were—Polonius,
which he did respectably; Scrub, in the Beaux’ Stratagem; Bundle, in the
Waterman; and Abel Drugger. He acted this last character after he came
to London, one night when Garrick happened to be present.

At Stockton-upon-Tees, Mr Holcroft first became acquainted with Ritson,
the antiquarian, and author of the Treatise on animal food, who was
afterwards one of his most intimate friends. He was at that time
articled to an attorney in the town; but was, like most other young men
of taste or talents, fonder of poetry than the law. The poet Cunningham
was an actor in the same company. He was the intimate friend of Shield.
He was, it seems, a man of a delicate constitution, of retired habits,
and extreme sensibility, but an amiable and worthy man. The parts in
which he acted with most success were mincing fops and pert
coxcombs,—characters the most opposite to his own. He played Garrick’s
character of Fribble, in Miss in her Teens. He also excelled in Comus.
He was often subject to fits of absence; as a proof of which, he once
forgot that he had played the Duke of Albany in King Lear, and had
returned to the door of the theatre for the second time, before he
recollected himself.—Besides his descriptive poems, he wrote several
prologues; and an opera called “The Lass with Speech,” which was offered
to the theatres, but never acted, and from which the Lying Valet was
taken. He dedicated his poems to Garrick, who sent him two guineas on
the occasion, which he returned, begging that they might be added to the
theatrical fund. It seems he either did not want pecuniary remuneration
for the compliment he had paid to Garrick, or he thought this a very
inadequate one. When he was writing anything, his room was strewed with
little scraps of paper, on which he wrote down any thought as it
occurred; and afterwards he had some difficulty in connecting these
scattered, half-forgotten fragments together, before he could make out a
fair copy.

At the time that Mr Shield was most with him, he had been long in ill
health, apparently in a decline; and this had given a deeper tinge of
melancholy to the natural thoughtfulness of his disposition. A little
before his death, he wrote the following lines, which seem to convey a
presentiment of his fate.

‘Sweet object of the zephyr’s kiss,
Come rose, come, courted by the hours,
Queen of the banks, the garden’s bliss,
Come, and abash yon tawdry flow’rs.
“Why call us to revokeless doom,”
With grief the op’ning buds reply,
“Scarce suffer’d to expand our bloom,
Scarce born, alas! before we die.”

‘Man, having pass’d appointed years,
(Years are but days) the scene must close:
And when Fate’s messenger appears,
What is he but a withering rose?’

These lines can hardly fail of being acceptable to the reader, when he
is told, they were the last ever written by a man, to whom we are
indebted for some of the most pleasing and elegant pastoral descriptions
in the language.—It must abate something of the contempt with which we
are too apt to mention the name of a strolling player, when we recollect
that Cunningham was one.

Mr Holcroft had never been satisfied with his employment as a strolling
actor in the country. He sighed for the literary advantages, and
literary intercourse which London afforded. He was indeed the whole time
labouring hard to cultivate his mind, and acquire whatever information
was within his reach. But his opportunities were very confined. He had
studied Shakespeare with the greatest ardour, and with some advantage to
himself in his profession. Polonius was the character in which he was
most successful: he also played Hamlet, and other parts, of which he was
but an indifferent representative. I have been told, that Mr Holcroft’s
acting, both in its excellences and defects, more resembled Bensley’s
than any other person’s. The excellent sense and judgment of that able
actor were almost entirely deprived of their effect, by his
disadvantages of voice and manner. Mr Holcroft, in the performance of
grave parts, had the same distinct, but harsh articulation, and the same
unbending stiffness of deportment.

After wandering for seven years as an itinerant actor, with no very
brilliant success, he resolved upon trying his fortune in London, and
arrived there early in the latter end of 1777. His stay with the last
company, which he joined, must therefore have been short. His separation
from this company was I believe in some measure hastened by little
disagreeable circumstances, but it was no doubt chiefly owing to the
general bias of his inclination, to the desire and expectation of fame
of some sort or other, either theatrical or literary, on which his mind
had for some years been brooding. It is not likely that his success on
the stage, though it might in time have ensured him a livelihood in
inferior parts, would ever have been such as to satisfy the ambition of
an aspiring and vigorous mind. It was, however, on his talents as an
actor, that he first rested his hopes of pushing his fortune in London,
and of recommending himself to the favour of the public. But before we
follow him up to town, it may not be improper to take a retrospect of
the path we have already trod. There are some persons of nice tastes,
who may perhaps be disgusted with the meanness of his adventures; and
who may think the situation in which he embarked in life, and the
society into whose characters and manners he seems to have entered with
so much relish, unworthy of a man of genius.

But it should be recollected, first, that men of genius do not always
chuse their own profession or pursuit. In Mr Holcroft’s case, the
question was, whether he should turn strolling player, or starve.

Secondly, there are in this very profession, which is held in such
contempt, circumstances which must make a man of genius, not very averse
to enter into it. In spite of the real misery, meanness, ignorance, and
folly, often to be found among its followers, the player as well as the
poet, lives in an ideal world.

The scenes of petty vexation, poverty, and disappointment, which he has
to encounter, are endless; so are the scenes of grandeur, pomp, and
pleasure, in which he is as constantly an actor. If his waking thoughts
are sometimes disagreeable, his dreams are delightful, and the business
of his life is to dream. This may be a reason why every one else should
shun this profession as a pest, but it is for this very reason that the
man of genius may pass his time pleasantly and profitably in it. But let
us hear Mr Holcroft’s apology for his former way of life, which seems to
have been dictated with a view to his own feelings. ‘Know then,’ he
says,[4] ‘there is a certain set or society of men, frequently to be met
in straggling parties about this kingdom, who by a peculiar kind of
magic, will metamorphose an old barn, stable, or out-house, in such a
wonderful manner, that the said barn, stable, or out-house, shall
appear, according as it suits the will or purpose of the said magicians,
at one time a prince’s palace; at another, a peasant’s cottage; now the
noisy receptacle of drunken clubs, and wearied travellers, called an
inn; anon the magnificent dome of a Grecian temple. Nay, so vast is
their art, that, by pronouncing audibly certain sentences, which are
penned down for them by the head, or master magician, they transport the
said barn, stable, or out-house, thus metamorphosed, over sea, or land,
rocks, mountains, or deserts, into whatsoever hot, cold, or temperate
region the director wills, with as much facility as my lady’s squirrel
can crack a nut-shell. What is still more wonderful, they carry all
their spectators along with them, without the witchery of broom-sticks.
These necromancers, although whenever they please they become princes,
kings, and heroes, and reign over all the empires of the vast and
peopled earth; though they bestow governments, vice-royalties, and
principalities, upon their adherents, divide the spoils of nations among
their pimps, pages, and parasites, and give a kingdom for a kiss, for
they are exceedingly amorous; yet, no sooner do their sorceries cease,
though but the moment before they were revelling and banqueting with
Marc Antony, or quaffing nectar with Jupiter himself, it is a safe wager
of a pound to a penny that half of them go supperless to bed. A set of
poor, but pleasant rogues! miserable, but merry wags! that weep without
sorrow, stab without anger, die without dread, and laugh, sing, and
dance, to inspire mirth in others, while surrounded themselves with
wretchedness. A thing still more remarkable in these enchanters is, that
they completely effect their purpose, and make those, who delight in
observing the wonderful effects of their art, laugh or cry, condemn or
admire, love or hate, just as they please; subjugating the heart with
every various passion: more especially when they pronounce the charms
and incantations of a certain sorcerer, called Shakespeare, whose
science was so powerful, that he himself thus describes it:

——I have oft be-dimm’d
The noon-tide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, etc.’

CHAPTER VI

Mr Holcroft arrived in London, just at the time that Mr Sheridan came
into the management of Drury-Lane. He endeavoured to procure an
engagement at this, and at the other house; but in vain. As a last
desperate resource, when his money was nearly exhausted, he sat down and
wrote a farce, called The Crisis, or Love and Famine which Mrs. Sheridan
was prevailed on to read; and this, with his musical knowledge (as he
was able to sing in all choruses), procured him an engagement at twenty
shillings a week. On his being engaged, Mr Holcroft was desired by Mr
Sheridan to give in his cast of parts to Mr Hopkins, the prompter; and
they were as follow:

Don Manuel, Kind Impostor.
Hardcastle, She Stoops to Conquer.
Justice Woodcock, Love in a Village.
Hodge, Ditto.
Giles, Maid of the Mill.
Ralph, Ditto.
Sir Harry Sycamore, Ditto.
Scrub, Beaux’ Stratagem.
Sir Anthony Absolute, Rivals.
General Savage, School for Wives.
Colin Macleod, Faithless Lover.
Mortimer, Ditto.
Sir Benjamin Dove, Brothers.
Major O’Flaherty, West-Indian.
Fulmer, Ditto.
Varland, Ditto.
Colonel Oldboy, Lionel and Clarissa.

It was in this last part that Mr Holcroft particularly wished to have
made his first appearance. The manner in which he procured a
recommendation to Mrs. Sheridan, was through his cousin, Mrs. Greville.
In consequence of this connexion, he also obtained introductions to Mrs.
Crewe, and several other persons of fashion, who interested themselves
in his behalf; and an epistolary intercourse commenced between him and
Mr Greville on subjects of taste and the theatre, which continued for
some years.

His farce of the Crisis was, I believe, played but once, for the benefit
of Hopkins, the prompter, when it was favourably received. This Mr
Hopkins, who had the regulation of the inferior parts in the theatre,
entertained a very low opinion of Mr Holcroft’s powers as an actor; and
he remained unnoticed, till Mr Sheridan by chance saw him in the part of
Mungo, with which he was so much pleased as to order his weekly salary
to be raised to five and twenty shillings. Both his salary and his
reputation in the theatre seem now to have remained stationary during
this and the following season, though he constantly attended the theatre
to perform the most menial parts. The following extract from a letter
addressed to Mr Sheridan, will sufficiently explain both his situation
and feelings at this time:—

‘Depressed, dejected, chained by Misfortune to the rock of Despair,
while the vultures Poverty and Disappointment are feasting with increase
of appetite upon me, I have no chance of deliverance but from you. You,
Sir, I hope, will be my Alcides! Mr Evans says, he must increase the
deductions he already makes from my salary (9s. per week), unless I can
obtain your order to the contrary. It is scarcely possible I should
maintain my family, which will shortly be increased, upon my present
income. Were I not under deductions at the office, my receipts would
very little exceed sixty pounds a year; and this I enjoy more through
your favour than any consequence I am of to the theatre, though
continually employed. But then it is either to sit in a senate or at a
card-table, or to walk in a procession, or to sing in a chorus, which is
all that the prompter, who has the direction of this kind of business,
thinks me capable of. Nay, in so little esteem am I held by Mr Hopkins,
that he took the part of a dumb steward in Love for Love from another
person, and made me do it; and when by your permission I played Mawworm,
he said, had he been well and up, it should not have been so. I do not
mention this as a subject of accusation against Mr Hopkins, but merely
to shew that if I am consigned to his penetration, I am doomed to
everlasting oblivion.

‘Unhappily for me, when I performed Mawworm, you were not at the
theatre. Interest rather than vanity makes me say, I was more successful
than I had any reason to expect. The audience were in a continual laugh.
I played Jerry Sneak for my own benefit last year, and with the same
success; and if I could only be introduced to the town in old men and
burletta singing, I know from former experience how soon I should be
held in a very different estimation from what I am at present. You do
not know, Sir, how useful I could be upon a thousand emergencies in the
theatre, if I were but thought of; but this I shall never be till your
express mandate is issued for that purpose.

‘You have frequently been pleased to express a partiality towards me, as
well as a favourable opinion of my abilities. But, sir, if you do not
immediately interest yourself in my behalf, I may grow grey, while I
enjoy your favour without a possibility of confirming or increasing it.
“Who’s the Dupe” prevented the Crisis from being played last year: now
you tell me you will talk to me after Christmas; in the meantime “the
Flitch of Bacon” and a new pantomime are preparing. I told those to whom
I am indebted, I should have a chance of paying them soon, for that the
Crisis would come out before the holidays. When I said so, I believed
that it would; but they will think I meant to deceive them.’

The concluding sentence of this letter is remarkable, when we recollect
the character of the celebrated man to whom it is addressed.

‘In short, I am arrived at the labyrinth of delays, where suspense and
all his busy imps are tormenting me—_You alone, Sir, hold the clue that
can guide me out of it._’

Mr Sheridan, in spite of Mr Holcroft’s entreaties, was not inclined on
this occasion to perform the part of Theseus; for he was still left to
the mercy of the remorseless prompter, and had no opportunity of
exerting his talents till the Camp came out (in 1780) when he
endeavoured, as he expresses himself, _to make a part_ of a foolish
recruit, and succeeded; in consequence of which his salary was raised to
thirty shillings weekly.

During the summer recesses of the years 1778 and 1779, Mr Holcroft had
not been idle, but had made excursions to the Canterbury, Portsmouth,
and Nottingham theatres, where he moved in a higher range of parts, and
escaped from the drudgery of choruses and processions. The state of his
health appears to have been one inducement for his leaving town in 1779;
for he says in a letter, dated from Nottingham, in June, that but for
this consideration, he believes it would have been more profitable for
him to have remained in London. In these excursions he seems to have
established a pretty intimate correspondence with a Mr Hughes, the
Portsmouth or Plymouth manager; for we find the latter writing to him
for a supply of performers, and Mr Holcroft in answer complaining of his
being able only to meet with a Mrs. Hervey, of whom he gives a very
satirical portrait, and a Mr Cubit, a singer, who, he observes, had
already been with Mr Hughes, and who never visited a company twice.

Mr Holcroft’s business at the theatre, did not hinder him from pursuing
his literary avocations. Besides the Crisis, he had already written two
other after-pieces, the Shepherdess of the Alps, and the Maid of the
Vale.

The following letter to Mrs. Sheridan, gives an account of the first of
these:

‘MADAM, It is with a peculiar pleasure that I have, by Mr Sheridan’s
desire, an opportunity of addressing you. I am indebted to your
benevolence and interposition, for my first obtaining admission in the
theatre, and shall ever remember it with respect and gratitude. Give me
leave, Madam, to intrude upon your patience for a moment, while I
explain the motive of this address.—Mrs. Greville, Mrs. Crewe, and some
other ladies of fashion and consequence, have kindly undertaken to
patronize, and recommend the Shepherdess of the Alps. Mrs. Crewe has
spoken to Mr Sheridan concerning it, as he informed me last night,
desiring me at the same time, to send it to you, who he said would not
only read it yourself, but put him in mind of it. I believe myself
almost certain of your good wishes, when you read the beginning, and
recollect that your late dear and worthy brother pointed out the subject
to me, encouraged me to pursue it, and had not only undertaken to set
it, but had actually composed two songs. Pardon me, Madam, for
introducing so melancholy a reflection. His esteem for me, I might
almost say his friendship, shall never be forgotten, let my condition in
life hereafter be what it may; it does me too much honour. You likewise,
Madam, have some share in the work: it was in consequence of your advice
and observations, that the comic part was introduced: it was at first
intended only to affect the nobler passions, and to have been entirely
serious.—I would not willingly appear too urgent: yet cannot forbear
expressing some anxiety about the fate of my poor Shepherdess. I spent
all the summer about it, (certain as I thought then) of its coming out
immediately.—I am, Madam,’ etc.

The Maid of the Vale was a translation from the Italian comic opera of
La Buona Figliola, which Mr Arne, the son of Dr. Arne, employed him to
alter and adapt to the English stage.

A good deal of altercation seems to have taken place between the author
and musician respecting the division of the future profits of the piece;
Mr Holcroft claiming one half, to which his employer did not think him
by any means entitled. In consequence, I believe, of these
disagreements, the piece was not brought forward.

Mr Holcroft afterwards offered his translation of this opera to Mr King,
the late actor, at that time manager of Sadler’s Wells, by whom it was
rejected. Mr Holcroft, however, wrote several little pieces for Mr King,
which were brought out at this theatre. The Noble Peasant (which
afterwards came out at the Haymarket,) was originally intended to have
been acted here. Mr Holcroft always experienced from this gentleman the
most liberal and friendly treatment, and was under considerable
pecuniary obligations to him. Mr Foote died in October, 1777, a few
weeks before Mr Holcroft came to town. In the spring of the following
year, he published an Elegy on his Death, which was the first
composition of his, that had appeared in print, (since his essays in the
Whitehall Evening Post). It met with a favourable reception. He had
always respected the character of Foote, had been personally known to
him, and lamented his death in terms dictated by real feeling, as much
as by the inspiration of the muse. At the same time, he published a
short poem on Old Age, which was bound up with the elegy. In April 1779,
I find him desiring his father, who lived at Bath, to make inquiries
respecting the prizes given at the Bath Easton Vase, the subjects
proposed, and the length of the poems. ‘I have an inclination,’ he says,
‘to become a candidate for fame at that temple of Apollo, _not so much
from a supposition that I shall gain the laurel, as because I think the
plan deserves encouragement_.’ The little deceptions of self-love,
cannot but sometimes excite a smile.—It may be proper to notice here,
that Mr Holcroft kept up at this period a constant correspondence with
his father, whose wife rented a small house and garden, either at or in
the neighbourhood of Bath. The letters that passed between them, do
honour to the feelings of both parties. Mr Holcroft was always eager to
communicate the news of any good fortune that had befallen him, and
ready to lend every assistance in his power to his father, who was still
frequently in pecuniary difficulties. From one of these letters, it
appears that Mr Holcroft, among other employments, had engaged to write
a paper, called the Actor, for the Westminster Magazine, and that he was
secretary to a society, (the theatrical fund,) for which he received ten
pounds a year. He also found time to write songs for Vauxhall, several
of which became very popular. Among these, the greatest favourite was
the ballad, beginning, ‘Down the Bourne and through the Mead,’ which was
set to music by Shield. This song, which is written in the Scottish
dialect, has often been taken for an old Scotch ballad, and has been
actually printed in a collection of Scotch songs.—Mr Holcroft was one
evening drinking tea with some friends at White-Conduit House, when the
organ was playing the tune of Johnny and Mary. After they had listened
some time, a person in the next box began to descant rather learnedly on
the beauty of the Scotch airs, and the tenderness and simplicity of
their popular poetry, bringing this very ballad as an illustration of
his argument, neither the words nor music of which, he said, any one now
living was capable of imitating. Mr Holcroft on this, took occasion to
remark the strange force of prejudice, and turning to the gentleman,
interrupted his argument by informing him, that he himself was the
author of the song in question, and that the tune was composed by his
friend, Mr Shield, who I believe was also there present.—This song had
been composed for, and was originally sung at Vauxhall, by the
celebrated Nan Catley. An Irish music-seller, at the St. Paul’s Head in
the Strand, had procured the words and music, and had advertised them in
his window to be sold. Mr Shield was accidentally passing, saw the music
in the window, and went in to demand by what right the advertiser meant
to publish his property. To this he received for answer, ‘By a very good
right, for that the music was composed by him (the vender,) and that the
words had been written by a friend, for Miss Catley, whom he very well
knew.’ It was with difficulty that Mr Shield by informing him that he
was the author of the music, prevailed on the pretended composer to
relinquish his claim.

Mr Holcroft, almost on his coming to town, married his third wife; and
soon after, she and Mr Holcroft determined upon taking a small house,
and furnishing it. They were, however, diverted from this plan by a Mr
Turner, an upholsterer, in Oxford Road, who persuaded them that it would
be much more advantageous to take a large house, which he would furnish,
and give them credit for any length of time they demanded. He said, that
many persons by letting the upper part of their houses, not only cleared
their rent, but were often gainers. These arguments, and the additional
motive of making a more creditable appearance, induced Mr Holcroft to
take a house in Southampton Buildings, which Mr Turner furnished as he
had promised, to the value of 240l. But scarcely were the goods lodged
in the house, before the upholsterer became a bankrupt, and his effects
and bills were consigned over to his creditors, who immediately came on
Mr Holcroft for 160l., 80l. having been at first advanced to Mr Turner
for the furniture. This unexpected stroke completely ruined the
prospects of our young house-keepers, and they were obliged to apply to
several persons to prevent an execution, which was threatened. Mr
Holcroft might indeed have sold his goods for nearly the amount of the
debt against him: but it seems that he was unwilling to see his property
melt away under the hands of an auctioneer, and to have to begin the
world again, after having, in a manner, realized all his hopes, by
attaining a permanent and respectable establishment in life. He wrote to
several persons to assist him in this emergency, with a degree of
importunity which can only be excused by the severity of his
disappointment, and a sense that it was undeserved on his part. He wrote
to Mr Greville, to a Mr Laurel, to Mr Sheridan, to the Proprietors of
Drury-Lane, to persons whom he had never seen or known, with a kind of
wild desperation. These applications indeed shewed no great knowledge of
the world; but the abrupt appeals which he thus made to the humanity and
generosity of others, at least proved that Mr Holcroft was not without a
strong sense of these qualities in his own breast, which made him
believe they might be found to a romantic degree in others. His friend,
Mr King, at length relieved him from his immediate embarrassments by a
loan of 80 or 100l. This, however, was to be repaid; and at no great
distance of time, the same difficulties, and the same struggles to
extricate himself from them returned. At one time, great hopes were
entertained from the expected arrival of a Mr Marsac, a near relation of
his wife, who had a handsome appointment in India; and who, in their
present situation, it was thought, would be willing to assist them. But
he did not arrive within the time which had been fixed. Mr Holcroft then
wrote to a lady, high in rank and literary pretension, but a stranger to
him, stating the circumstances of his case, and inclosing a comedy,
which he had written as a voucher for the justice of his claims: she had
been the laborious patroness of departed genius, and he thought might be
the friend of living merit. But it seems, the inference was not
justified by the event. The comedy was returned unread: and, indeed, if
she had read it, a very favourable verdict could scarcely have been
expected, under the annexed penalty of a hundred pounds. Mr Holcroft has
recorded this extravagance and its result among the adventures of
Wilmot, the usher, in Hugh Trevor. Mr Holcroft now looked forward, as a
last resource, to the success of the comedy itself (Duplicity) which was
afterwards acted with applause; but such was the author’s untoward fate,
that even his success was attended with little advantage, and relieved
his necessities but in part.

Mr Holcroft had, at this time, few friends or acquaintance in London,
and those few were very little able to afford him any material
assistance. The oldest were Shield and P——, both of whom he had known in
strolling companies in the North: they had separated, had come to London
about the same time, and met by chance. Shield first discovered Holcroft
poring over an old book-stall, in Goodge-Street: they immediately
recognized each other with a good deal of pleasure, and a friendly
intercourse commenced, which was uninterrupted to the last. When the
place of composer of the birth-day minuets at court became vacant by the
death of Mr Weideman, Mr Holcroft applied to Mr Greville to procure the
place for Mr Shield; with what success I do not know.

Mr Shield at the period we are speaking of, had an engagement at the
Opera-house. It was winter, and in consequence of some new piece, they
had very long rehearsals every morning. One day he was detained longer
than usual, his dinner-hour was over, he felt himself very cold when he
came out, and his attendance for so many hours had sharpened his
appetite. He therefore proceeded up the Hay-market with a determination
to get some refreshment at the first place that offered. He had strolled
into St. Martin’s-lane, without meeting with any thing that he liked:
till he came to a little bye-court, called Porridge Island; at the
corner of which, in a dark, dirty-looking window, he discovered a large
round of beef smoking, which strongly seconded the disposition he
already felt in himself to satisfy his hunger. He did not, however, much
like the appearance of the place: he looked again, the temptation grew
stronger, and at last he ventured in. Having asked for dinner, he was
shewn into a room up one pair of stairs, not very large, but convenient
and clean, where he found several persons already set down to dinner. He
was invited to join them, and to his great joy found both the fare and
the accommodation excellent. But his attention was shortly much more
powerfully arrested by the conversation which took place at the table.
Philosophy, religion, politics, poetry, the belles lettres were talked
of, and in such a manner, as to shew that every person there was
familiar with such subjects, and that they formed the ordinary topics of
conversation. Mr Shield listened in a manner which denoted his surprise
and pleasure. The conversation at one time began to take rather a free
turn, when a grave, elderly looking man, who sat at the head of the
table, addressed the new guest, telling him that he seemed a young man,
and by his countenance shewed some signs of grace; that he would not
have him mind what was said by persons who scarcely believed their own
sophisms; that he himself when young had been attacked and staggered by
the same objections; that he had examined them all, and found them all
false and hollow. This diverted the discourse to other subjects which
were more agreeable. The name of the person who had thus addressed Mr
Shield, and who thus assumed the office of a censor, was Cannon: he was
the son of an Irish bishop. He was advanced in years, and presided in
the company with an air of authority that was partly submitted to in
earnest, and partly humoured for the joke’s sake. He regularly dined
here every day. On entering the room, he first pulled off his great
coat, and fastened it with two long pins to the back of a tall
cane-worked old chair with knobs behind: and after disposing of his
umbrella, which in those days was a great singularity, he used to pay
his respects to the company with much formality, and then sat down. He
had one place, which was always kept for him; and for this privilege it
seems he paid double price. If any stranger came in by chance, and took
possession of his seat, he would never sit down in any other, but walked
up and down the room in a restless way, till the person was gone. It was
his constant custom to carry with him a small pocket volume of Milton,
or Young’s Night Thoughts, in which he had made a great number of
marginal notes; and as soon as dinner was over, he regularly took out
one of his favourite authors, and opening the book at random, requested
the person who sat next him, whether a stranger, or one of the usual
company, to read aloud a certain passage which he thought very
beautiful. This offer was of course declined by those who knew him, who
in return begged that he would favour the company with it himself, which
he did, at the same time repeating the remarks which he had made in the
margin. He then very deliberately closed the book, and put it into his
pocket again. Cannon was a man of letters, and had travelled. He spoke a
very florid language, full of epithets and compound words, and professed
to be engaged in an edition of Tibullus. Mr Shield was so much amused
with this old gentleman, and interested in the general conversation,
(not to say that the commons were excellent), that he was determined he
would in future dine no where else: he was also eager to inform Holcroft
of the discovery he had made, whom he invited to go along with him the
next day, and who also became a very constant visitor. The persons who
were generally present were Messieurs Shield, Nicholson, Holcroft,
Cannon, etc., who formed themselves into a little society, which in
compliment to the last mentioned person, was called ‘The Cannonian.’ The
president was rather tenacious of his opinions, and impatient of
contradiction; and frequently some very warm altercations took place in
consequence between him and Mr Holcroft.

The other friend of Mr Holcroft, mentioned above, was a young Scotchman,
who had been in Booth’s company with him, but soon quitted it, and came
up to London two or three years before him. They had had a violent
quarrel while they were in this company, but meeting again in London,
with new objects before them, and where they were both to a considerable
degree strangers, former disagreements were forgotten, and a friendly
intercourse commenced. He strenuously advised Holcroft to turn his
thoughts to writing, or reporting for the newspapers, which he himself
had found a lucrative employment, which Holcroft declined, being more
bent on pushing his way at the theatre.

The manner in which this friend of our author began his career in life,
deserves a place in a work which is little else than a history of the
difficulties and successes which attend the efforts of men of talents
and literature.

Mr P——, whose connexions were respectable, came to town, with
recommendations to a banking-house in the city, and with an intention to
get a place as clerk in some counting-house, or public office. He
delivered his letters, and his friends promised they would be on the
look-out for him. He called once or twice to no purpose, and as his time
hung rather idly on his hands, he had employed himself in writing one or
two anonymous letters on the politics of the day, which were inserted in
the General Advertiser. It so happened that one of the partners in the
house to which he had been recommended, had a principal share in this
very paper: and when he called, he told him that he had heard of nothing
in the way that he wished; but taking out the Advertiser, and shewing
him his own letter in it, ‘If now,’ said he, ‘you could do something of
this kind, I might possibly be of service to you.’ Mr P—— replied, with
some eagerness, that he was the author of the letter. ‘Aye, indeed,’
says the other, ‘then come with me; we must have some farther talk
together.’ So saying, he took our young politician with him into another
room; and after being closeted some time, it was arranged that P——
should be immediately employed as a writer and reporter for this paper,
at a guinea and half a week. The very next night there was to be an
important debate in the house, and our young gentleman was to make his
_coup d’essai_. As however he was entirely ignorant of the forms and
rules of reporting, it was thought necessary to give him some previous
instructions; and he was told, that he should place himself so as to be
able to hear the speakers distinctly; that he should provide himself
with a pencil and pocket-book, in which he must note down the speeches
as privately as he could; but that as he was a stranger, and might be
noticed the more on that account, if any one came to interrupt him, he
was to say nothing, but put half a guinea into his hand. Thus equipped
and instructed, Mr P—— went early to his post, and planted himself in
the middle of the gallery, directly in front of the speaker. He had his
pencil and pocket-book ready in his hand, and the instant the debate
opened, began to take notes with so much eagerness, and so little
precaution, that a messenger came to him, and said, ‘Sir, you must give
over writing.’ As he had been prepared for this event, he took the
half-guinea out of his pocket, and bending his hand behind him, offered
the half-guinea, which was lodged in the palm of it, to the door-keeper,
who took it without saying a word, and the other went on with his
writing as before. But no sooner had he begun, than the man very quietly
tapped him on the shoulder again, and said, ‘Sir, you must give over
writing.’ This second rebuff was quite unexpected, and completely
disconcerted our zealous reporter. He put his pencil and paper in his
pocket, and sat during the remainder of the debate in a state of the
utmost confusion, not expecting to remember a single sentence. He went
home and related his ill-success; professing his inability to give any
account of what he had heard. ‘But,’ said his employer, ‘you may at
least try: you must surely recollect something of what passed.’ He said,
‘no: he had been in such a state of agitation the whole time, that it
would be in vain to attempt it.’ As no one else had gone from the same
office, and it was absolutely necessary to give some account of the
debate the next morning, he was again urged to make the attempt, and at
length complied. He was left in the room by himself, and scarcely
knowing what he did, began an account of the speech of Lord Nugent, who
had opened the question. He was surprised to find that he could
recollect the few first sentences. Still he despaired of being able to
proceed; but by degrees, one thing recalled another, he still kept
writing on without knowing what was to follow, and when he had finished
one page, sent it down to the press. His hopes now began to revive, he
returned to the charge, and writing under an apprehension that the words
might every minute escape from his memory, he despatched sheet after
sheet so vigorously, that the press could hardly keep pace with him.
They had now printed two columns and a half, and Lord Nugent was still
speaking. At last, the proprietor, who had at first dreaded a dearth of
information, and whose fears were now alarmed the contrary way, came up
to him, and said, ‘My G—d, when will this Lord Nugent’s speech be done?
Was there no other speaker the whole evening?’ ‘Oh yes, there are seven
or eight more to come.’ The other laughed, and told P—— that he had
quite mistaken the business; that in his way of going on, he would fill
a volume instead of a newspaper, and that he must begin again entirely,
and instead of giving every word and sentence, merely repeat the heads
of each speech, and a few of the most striking arguments. ‘Oh, is that
all you want,’ exclaimed P——, at once relieved from his terrors, ‘then
I’m your man.’ Accordingly he set to work afresh, cut down Lord Nugent
into half a column, and the other speakers had a proportionable space
allotted them: and the report, thus curtailed, was the next day noticed
as the ablest and fullest that had been given of the debate. The person,
to whom this anecdote relates, has been long known to the public as the
editor and proprietor of the only constitutional paper that remains.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

Mr Holcroft, as he had intended, let part of his house, in Southampton
Buildings, to lodgers. Among other inmates, were Miss Kemble (afterwards
Mrs. Whitelocke) and his friend N——. Holcroft used to take frequent
opportunities of urging this gentleman to devote his talents to works of
taste and imagination, and his mind teemed with the plots of comedies
and subjects of novels, which he wished his friend to write. But as Mr
N——’s pursuits were of a totally different kind, it generally happened
that Holcroft himself, in the end, executed the works which he had
planned for another. Of this kind was his first novel, entitled Alwyn,
or, the Gentleman Comedian, which it was originally intended that Mr N.
should compile from materials to be furnished by Holcroft, but of which
he, in fact, only wrote a few short letters, evidently very much
_against the grain_.

This novel came out in the year 1780, in two small volumes, and was
printed for Fielding and Walker. What terms he procured for it with the
bookseller, I do not know: its success was very moderate; and it was to
his own novel that Mr Holcroft alludes, when he complains, in Hugh
Trevor, that Wilmot’s novel had been characterized in the Monthly
Review, as ‘a vulgar narrative of uninteresting occurrences.’

The most curious part of it is the account which Mr Holcroft has
inserted of some of his own adventures as a strolling actor; for he
himself is not the _Gentleman Comedian_. He has disguised his own name
under that of Hilkirk, and Alwyn is the hero of the piece. The story is
as follows: Alwyn, a young man, who is patronized by a Mr Stamford, in
consequence of the friendship which had subsisted between him and
Alwyn’s father, who had saved his life, falls in love with Maria, the
daughter of his guardian or master. His passion preys upon his health;
and, in order to conceal it from the family, and to try what absence may
do towards effecting a cure, he determines to leave his patron’s house,
and commence comedian. Young Stamford, Maria’s brother, is alone in the
secret, and is the person to whom Alwyn addresses the account of his
subsequent adventures. Mr Hilkirk, on whose story our author has chosen
to ingraft his own, in like manner, falls in love with his master’s
niece, is on this account, and for his frequenting sporting clubs and
billiard rooms, discarded from his service as a clerk, and betakes
himself to the stage. These two romantic youths correspond together, and
endeavour to console one another, by comparing their mutual mishaps,—the
pains of absence, poverty, and hopeless love. Alwyn proceeds to Kendal,
where he is received by the inhabitants with extraordinary marks of
attention; is supposed to be a gentleman in disguise; is envied by the
players; and being invited to the assembly (a distinction never before
allowed to any comedian), dances with a young, rich, lively widow, a
West-Indian, who falls in love with him, and makes him an offer of her
hand and fortune. This the youth politely declines, his affections being
irrevocably engaged to another; and, in consequence of this, the lady
being piqued by his refusal, enters into a plot against him in concert
with one of the players (a veteran in the corps, who was offended that
the part of Romeo, which he had played _for fifty years_, should be
taken from him, and given to Alwyn). His pocket-book is searched; the
name of the lady’s rival is discovered; and a letter is dispatched to
old Stamford, informing him of the liberties which Mr Alwyn is said to
have taken with his daughter’s name, and the equal presumption he had
shewn in paying his addresses to the anonymous writer of the epistle.
This letter, which is believed, gives a death-blow to his hopes. Maria
Stamford, who had secretly returned his passion, is ashamed of her
folly; the father is shocked; and the brother is incensed at the
baseness and ingratitude of his friend. Another lover is now provided
for Alwyn’s mistress, the son of a Mr Maitland, a rattling, thoughtless
young fellow, who is not half sentimental enough for the young lady; and
is accordingly rejected by her. The father of young Maitland is
represented as an odd character, a half-crazy humourist, who, like the
people of Laputa, makes every thing a subject of mathematical
demonstration. He calculates the height and size of meteors, and is made
to follow every _ignis fatuus_ that he sees, through bog and briar. His
graceless son ties a lantern to the house-dog’s tail, and sends his
father on a bootless chase after it: the dog escapes from his keeper,
gets in at the library window with his meteorological apparatus about
him, and sets fire to the house. Maitland-Hall is converted into a heap
of ruins; and what is worse, Mr Maitland’s strong-box, containing nearly
all his property, is lost. Mr Stamford, his son, and daughter, are on a
visit there at the time; and Maria Stamford must have perished in the
flames, but that Alwyn, the ungrateful, the supposed worthless Alwyn,
who had left the Kendal company, and was travelling homeward, happens,
at that instant, to be passing by, and comes in time to rescue his
lovely mistress from the flames. He however remains unknown, and pursues
his journey. Tom Maitland’s fortune being thus dissipated by his frolic,
it becomes a point of honour that Maria should give up her scruples, and
join her hand to his; when this, now almost inevitable event, is put a
stop to by a discovery,—that it was not the dog Pompey that had set fire
to the house, but a gang of thieves, who had committed this flagrant act
in order to carry off old Maitland’s strong box: that they had been
detected, and their prize secured by the vigilance and activity of
Alwyn’s friend, Hilkirk, who now appears to be the son of his former
master, Seldon, and who is rewarded with the hand of his old
sweet-heart, Julia Gowland, for the difficulties he has had to
encounter, and to which he was purposely exposed by his father to enable
him to bear adversity, and make a man of him. At the same time, Alwyn is
recognized by a rich uncle, who adopts him as his heir; the story of the
anonymous letter, and of his pretended treachery, is cleared up, and the
whole ends happily in marriage.

There is in this story neither much probability nor much invention. The
characters, such as they are, are tolerably supported: but some of the
attempts at humour which are inserted, shock all common sense. Such are
the accounts of the school-master, the methodist parson, the
mathematical calculation of the reasons for marrying, etc. These however
were not written by Holcroft, but by his friend. The reason, why men of
real and great abilities do not succeed in different kinds of writing,
is perhaps, less for want of power, than of industry and inclination.
They naturally set the highest value on that department of taste or
genius, to which they have devoted themselves, and they have not respect
enough for any other to take the pains necessary to excel in it. Thus
the philosopher and man of science is apt to think he pays a sufficient
compliment to the efforts of humour or fancy, if he only unbends his
mind to engage in them; that any thing is good enough for a novel, or
poem; and that the absence of wisdom is wit.

The character of Handford, Alwyn’s uncle, is the most amusing and
original in the work: let it speak for itself.

This gentleman had conceived the idea of establishing a humane asylum
for animals, the consequences of which he describes thus:

‘I am pestered, plagued, teazed, tormented to death. I believe all the
cats in Christendom are assembled in Oxfordshire. I am obliged to hire a
clerk to pay the people, and the village where I live, is become a
constant fair. A fellow has set up the sign of the three Blind Kittens,
and has the impudence to tell the neighbours, that if my whims and my
money only hold out for one twelve-month, he shall not care a fig for
the king. I thought to prevent this inundation, by buying up all the old
cats, and secluding them in convents and monasteries of my own: but the
value of the breeders is increased to such a degree, that I do not
believe my whole fortune is capable of the purchase.—Besides, I am made
an ass of. A rascal, who is a known sharper in these parts, hearing of
the aversion I had to cruelty, bought an old, one-eyed horse, that was
going to the dogs, for five shillings. Then taking a hammer in his hand,
watched an opportunity of finding me alone, and addressed me in the
following manner: “Look you, master, I know that you don’t love to see
any dumb creature abused, and so, if you don’t give me ten pounds, why I
shall scoop out this old rip’s odd eye, with the sharp end of this here
hammer, now, before your face.” Aye, and the villain would have done it
too, if I had not instantly complied: but what was worse, the abominable
scoundrel had the audacity to tell me, when I wanted him to deliver the
horse first, for fear he should extort a farther sum from me, that he
had more honour than to break his word. A whelp of a boy had yesterday
caught a young hedgehog, and perceiving me, threw it into the water to
make it extend its legs; then with the rough side of a knotty stick,
sawed upon them till the creature cried like a child; and when I ordered
him to desist, told me he would not, till I had given him six-pence.
There is something worse than all this. The avaricious rascals, when
they can find nothing that they think will excite my pity, disable the
first animal which is not dignified with the title of Christian; and
then bring it to me as an object worthy of commiseration; so that in
fact, instead of protecting, I destroy. The women have entertained a
notion that I hate two-legged animals: and one of them called after me
the other day, to tell me I was an old rogue, and that I had better give
my money to the poor, than keep a parcel of dogs and cats that eat up
the village. I perceive it is in vain to attempt carrying on the scheme
much longer, and then my poor invalids will be worse off than they were
before.’

This account was probably intended by the author as an indirect satire
upon his friend Ritson’s arguments on the inhumanity of eating animal
food.

Mr Holcroft may now be considered as having commenced regular author; or
in other words, he now began to write constantly for the booksellers. He
was employed by them to write a pamphlet, under the name of Wm. Vincent,
Esq. of Gray’s Inn, containing an account of the riots in 1780. For this
purpose he had attended the trials at the Old Bailey, where he was the
means of saving the life of an innocent man, who was brought there as a
prisoner. I have heard Mr Holcroft mention this circumstance, with tears
of pleasure at the recollection. One of his most habitual feelings was a
strong sense of the value of human life; and his having been in more
than one instance an instrument in saving it, was a subject of the most
grateful reflection to him.

A young man was brought to the bar, and tried as one of the rioters. The
witness against him swore, that as he was standing in a shop, where he
had taken refuge, at the bottom of Holborn, he saw the prisoner coming
down Holborn Hill, at the head of a body of rioters, with a drawn sword
in his hand, which he brandished furiously in the air. The witness swore
positively to the facts, and there is little doubt that the prisoner
would have been found guilty, if by great good fortune Mr Holcroft, who
was taking notes of the evidence, had not recollected the prisoner’s
face. He felt himself much agitated while the evidence was giving; and
when it was over, he addressed the judge, and begged that he might be
admitted as an evidence, for that he had something very material to
depose to the prisoner’s innocence. He then declared that he had been
present at the real transaction; that he had been standing at the corner
of one of the streets near the bottom of Holborn, when the rioters
passed; that the prisoner was not one of them, but that some time after
they were gone by, he had seen the prisoner, who was walking quietly
along the street, pick up a sword, which had probably been dropped in
some scuffle by one of the rioters, and carry it away with him. This he
said was the whole of the transaction, and that the circumstances of his
marching at the head of the mob, and brandishing the sword in a
threatening manner, were utterly false. This evidence was so clear and
satisfactory, that the man was acquitted. Loughborough was the judge on
this occasion. Mr Holcroft used to mention another anecdote which
happened at the same time, when the prisoners were tried and convicted
in that wholesale way, and upon such slender evidence, that it was not
easy for them to escape, whether guilty or not. A man with a strong,
stern, sensible countenance, after sentence of condemnation had been
passed upon him, muttered to himself, in a scarcely audible voice, and
evidently without intending to excite any one’s notice; ‘Short and
sweet—innocent by G—d!’

CHAPTER II

Mr Holcroft’s first comedy, called Duplicity, was acted in October,
1781. It had been offered to Mr Harris, and came out at Covent Garden.
The prologue was written by Mr Nicholson. The applause it met with, both
on the first night and afterwards, was very great. Mr Holcroft’s
feelings on this occasion he has expressed in a manner honourable to
himself in a letter to Mr Greville, dated October 18, the day after it
was acted.

‘SIR, I received your very obliging letter last night, just as I was
going to the theatre, and had not time to answer it till to-day. Indeed,
Sir, I do not find myself so much flattered by the very favourable
opinion which, as far as I am able to come at the truth, the town
entertains of me, as I am by your friendship and kindness. It is true I
have had great difficulties to encounter, and the unhappy effects of a
narrow education to surmount: but to be thus distinguished is more than
a compensation for the labour I have taken, and the conflicts I have had
with poverty, obscurity, and their dismal attendants. I am successful—I
am happy—I shall acquire the means of making my father, my family, and
some of my friends happy. These are the purest sources of pleasure, and
which, as I have reason to know, both you and Mrs. Greville most
intimately feel. My greatest danger is the possibility of not supporting
the new character I have undertaken, with that equanimity, moderation,
and ease, which are so essential to real worth. Vanity is continually
spreading the net for pride, and those who are never entrapped, are
either very strong or very cunning. To be successful, I have now only to
be industrious: having escaped the Dog of Hell, the Elysian Fields are
before me, if I have but taste and prudence to select the sweets. But
this egotism is a species of the folly I have been declaiming against.’

Mr Greville, it may be necessary to add here, had perused Mr Holcroft’s
piece before it came out, and had suggested some alterations both in the
plot and language. Several were also made by Mr Holcroft in the course
of the rehearsals, and more by Mr Harris; some of them against the
author’s judgment.

Mr Holcroft now considered his fame as established, and his fortune as
already made. The author of a successful and admired comedy he thought
had a passport which would carry him securely through the world. In
these flattering hopes, he was unhappily deceived.

He also wrote on the same day to his father, in terms which his success
and the warmth of his affection dictated.

‘MY DEAR FATHER, I know that a short letter will be acceptable to you
rather than none, especially on this occasion. My piece is come out at
Covent Garden Theatre under the title of Duplicity. You may perhaps have
heard some account of its reception from the newspapers: its success has
been very flattering, and no circumstance relative to it gives me more
satisfaction than that I shall now be enabled to provide for my dear
father.’

Only three days after the date of the preceding letters, his brilliant
prospects were dissipated, and we find him addressing the following
letter to Mr Harris.

‘SIR, It is with reluctance I begin to write to you on the present
subject: but my feelings are too powerful to be resisted. My labours
have been great; my cares, hopes, and fears innumerable, and just at the
moment when I was to be rewarded, to see my golden dreams vanish, to
have the blessings I had so hardly earned snatched from me, is more than
I can support in silence. It is not now, Sir, vanity in me to say the
comedy is deserving of reward, every body says so, many say much more,
at least to me. Had it been brought out at a good time of the year, I
should not have gained less than five hundred pounds by it. But to be
played at the most barren of all seasons, and when the fineness of the
weather concurs to make it still worse, is certainly a severe fate; and
I appeal to you, Sir, whether it is a misfortune, the whole weight of
which should be borne by a man who has strained every faculty, and
endured every kind of mental torture to give others pleasure. Again,
though I have no doubt but you thought it best, yet it is the opinion of
every body that the playing the piece at intervals, so contrary to the
established mode, has thrown a damp upon it of the most stagnating kind.
There is not a person I meet, who does not ask the reason with a face of
wonder. This you know was not with my judgment, nay, I was exceedingly
vexed when I first saw another play advertised over its head. What added
still more to the surprise of the town, was to hear it given out for
Tuesday, and to see it put off till Wednesday, in order to give place to
an old piece, of which they therefore concluded you had greater
expectations than of the new comedy. They could not know your real
motive. The concluding stroke thus far finishes this melancholy tragedy.
You told me my night should be on the Friday or Saturday; I objected to
the first, and you agreed to the other: but circumstances alter—you
allege the business of the theatre—I am obliged to take the Friday, and
King Arthur, with every force of novelty, dress, decoration, etc. etc.
is opposed to me at a time when there is scarcely one full audience of
play-going people in town. The consequence is, the profits of my first
and best night are twenty pounds. I appeal to you, Sir, whether I have
not a claim to some reparation. I wish you to allow me a certain sum for
my nights; what, I leave to your candour. My hopes are so lowered that
my views now are not very extravagant. If you think I have reason, you
will be kind enough to inform me what you think proper to give; and
then, Sir, you will do with the piece whatever you think fit.’

The next night that the comedy was played for the author’s benefit, it
did not clear the expenses of the house; and Mr Harris then said, that
unless it was commanded by the king, he should not think of playing it
any more; but, at the same time, desired Mr Holcroft to draw on the
theatre for a hundred pounds. This sum, with the price which he got for
it from the booksellers, was all that he cleared by this his first
comedy. It was shortly after published with a very well written preface.

Mr Harris appears to have behaved in a liberal and friendly manner on
this occasion. Mr Holcroft afterwards called on him, and he proposed
that the play should be laid by for a time, till he had a strong
afterpiece to play with it. This set Mr Holcroft’s imagination at work
again, and he conceived the idea of writing a pastoral, and laying the
scene in Ireland, so as to have an opportunity of introducing all the
good Irish music. I do not know whether he ever executed this idea.

After the appearance of Duplicity, Mr Holcroft wrote to Mr Linley to
decline singing in the choruses and oratorios. His salary had been
raised by Mr Sheridan to two pounds a week, but still Mr Holcroft seems
to have been dissatisfied with not being brought forward in considerable
parts; and he entertained thoughts of going to Ireland as an actor,
unless a more respectable class of characters was assigned him at the
theatre. He seems to have thought it inconsistent, not only with his
dignity, but with his interest, as an author, to appear only in the
lowest and most insignificant parts. I ought to have mentioned above,
that when his own play of Duplicity was acted at the other house, Mr
Wewitzer being taken ill, he had played the part of Vandervelt at an
hour’s notice, which he continued to do afterwards. He also tried to
procure an engagement with Mr Colman this year at the Haymarket, but I
believe ineffectually.

A project, which about this time engaged a good deal of Mr Holcroft’s
attention, and excited very sanguine hopes in him, was the pretended
discovery of the polygraphic art. The person who set this plan on foot,
as we have before noticed, was Booth, the manager of one of the
theatrical companies to which Mr Holcroft had belonged. He undertook, by
some mechanical process, to produce copies of the old masters, such as
Titian and Rubens, which, both in colour and execution, should not be
distinguishable from the originals, and which were to be sold as cheap,
or cheaper, than a common coloured print. This certainly was promising
great things, if the performance had been answerable. Mr Holcroft was so
full of this scheme, and of the golden advantages it held out, that
Booth having applied to him to assist him in it, and become a partner in
the profits, he wrote to Mr Greville, informing him of his sudden good
fortune; and indeed offering him a share in so lucrative an undertaking.
Mr Greville, however, seems to have thought the success not so certain;
and it was not long before Mr Holcroft began to incline to his opinion.
In his next letter to this gentleman, he confesses that he entertained
some doubts on the subject, especially since he had heard that the same
scheme had been tried before, and had failed; and farther, that there
were not half a dozen artists in the kingdom, _who could copy the best
pictures well enough to make it an object_. In fact, this last
observation betrayed the real secret: after an imperfect outline, or
rude sketch, had been struck off by a mechanical operation, any bungling
artist, who could be found to do it cheap enough, was employed to finish
the picture. So that, after all, this new mode of superseding the
necessity of copying the old masters, was nothing more than an attempt
to set up a cheap wholesale manufactory of bad copies of good
pictures.—Mr Holcroft, however, though his ardour very soon cooled, was
willing to wait till he had seen the specimens which Mr Booth was busy
in making of some famous picture, but which he was very backward in
producing. The subsequent fate of this polygraphic scheme is well known
to the public. To excuse Mr Holcroft’s credulity on this occasion, it
may be remarked, that it was long before he had paid any particular
attention to the subject of painting; that he was really and truly a
novice in the art; and, probably, would not have been much struck
himself with the difference between one of these polygraphic imitations
and a real Titian or Rubens.

CHAPTER III

In the years 1781 and 1782, Mr Holcroft published a poem called the
Sceptic, and the Family Picture,[5] a collection of tales, partly
compiled, and partly original. Neither of these works seems to have held
a very high place in his estimation. Of the former he says, in a letter
to a friend, that it was written in haste; that he believes it ought to
have been treated according to Horace’s maxim, ‘Prematur nonum in
annum’; and that though he was pleased with some parts in the writing,
he is afraid he should not be so in the reading of them. Of the _Tales_
he says, that he did not expect to increase his reputation by them,
though he hoped he should not lessen it.

About this time an offer was made him by Mr Greville to reside in his
house, which he had the good sense respectfully to decline. He observed,
that it was difficult for people with the best tempers and intentions,
and who are upon a perfect equality, to live together, without
harbouring little disgusts, or fancying supposed neglects; and that with
respect to himself, he was conscious of whims and peculiarities which it
was his duty to keep behind the curtain as much as possible. His sole
reason, therefore, for declining Mr Greville’s offer, he declared, was
the fear of declining in his good opinion by accepting it.

His mind now teemed with dramatic projects, plots, characters, and
incidents. His ambition was to write elegant comedy; and he was sensible
of the disadvantages under which he laboured in this respect, both from
education, and the sphere of life in which he had hitherto chiefly
moved. He wished to get a nearer and more intimate view of the manners
of high life, that he might be able to describe its refinements, or
ridicule its absurdities, with more effect. He also wished, for the same
reason, to acquaint himself, by actual observation, with foreign
manners. Both these ends would be answered by obtaining admission into
the Ambassador’s suite, which was then (1783) setting off for Paris; and
he made application to several persons of consequence for this purpose,
but without obtaining his immediate object. He however so far succeeded
as to obtain some respectable introductions abroad.

Lord Carmarthen was at first talked of as Ambassador; and Mr Holcroft,
by the interest of Mrs. Harcourt and Mrs. Greville, had an interview
with his lordship; in which he was informed, that another person had
been fixed upon to go to Paris. This was the Duke of Manchester; and he
now applied to the Duchess of Devonshire, I believe through Mrs.
Siddons, for a recommendation to the Duke to go out with him as
under-secretary, or in any other situation, in which he might be of
service as a literary man. He stated that a salary was not his object,
and that his only motive was to gain some little knowledge of the
manners of a court, and of foreign countries. The only advantage he
reaped from this application was, that he obtained the honour of some
commissions to execute for her Grace at Paris, and the notice of one or
two persons of consequence while he was there.[6]

Mr Holcroft being still determined on a visit to the continent, procured
an engagement with the editor of a newspaper, the Morning Herald, to
send over paragraphs, relating to the events of the day, public
amusements, fashions, etc. for which he was to have a guinea and a half
a week; and a similar engagement with a printer, Mr John Rivington, to
furnish him with notices of new works, translations, etc. It was so
arranged, that his salary from the newspaper office should be received
by Mrs. Holcroft in his absence, for the immediate use of the family,
and Rivington was to supply him with money for his expenses at Paris.

Mr Holcroft’s family consisted, at this time, of his wife and four
children, only one of whom, Fanny, was by his present wife. Ann, the
eldest, was by his first wife, and Sophy and William were by his second
wife, whom he lost just before he left the country.

The two children, after her death, were for some time under the care of
their uncle and aunt, Mr and Mrs. Tipler, at Nottingham. When Mr
Holcroft became settled in Southampton Buildings, they were sent for up
to town. The boy William was his greatest favourite: he was now (1783)
between nine and ten years old; he was a very forward and intelligent
child, could speak French with tolerable fluency, and his father, in
order to perfect him in the language, determined to take him with him,
and afterwards to leave him at a boarding-school in France.

Matters being thus arranged, Mr Holcroft set out for Paris in the
beginning of April, 1783, which place he reached a few days after. The
first appearance of this capital does not seem to have answered his
expectations. He complained of the narrowness and dirtiness of the
streets, of the meanness of the shops, and of the unfinished state of
the principal public buildings. His chief attention, however, was
directed to the discovery of new publications, of several of which he
proposed translations to Rivington, most of which he afterwards executed
for another bookseller. Among these were the Tales of the Castle, by
Madam Genlis, Caroline of Litchfield, The Amours of Peter the Long,
Memoirs of De Tott, Savary’s Travels in Egypt, An Account of the Manners
and Treatment of Animals, by D’Obsonville, etc. This last publication he
recommends as a curious work in a letter to Mr Greville; and observes,
that from the account there given, it is evident that the Newmarket
jockeys had learned the first principles of their art from the Arabs.
His translation of the Tales of the Castle went through several
editions, and introduced Mr Holcroft to a correspondence, and afterwards
to a personal acquaintance with the authoress. Most, if not all of these
translations, were done for the Robinsons.

Mr Holcroft made several friends at Paris, the chief of whom were
Mercier, and a Mr Bonneville, (the translator of the Theatre Allemand)
of whom he had a high opinion; but Bonneville afterwards came to
England, and they quarrelled. Of Mercier, the celebrated author of the
Dramas, and _The Year 2500_, there will be occasion to speak hereafter.
Either through these friends, or through the letters he brought with
him, he was introduced to several persons of rank and literary
pretension. Among them were the Duke and Duchess of Chartres, the Count
de Catuelan, the Chevalier Macdonald, the Marquis de Dampiere, and
others. He was desired by the Duke and Duchess of Chartres to read some
scenes of Shakspeare to themselves and friends, with which he says they
seemed more than satisfied. He appears afterwards to have entered into
some discussion with the Count de Catuelan with respect to the
comparative merits of Shakspeare and the French poets; for on the 24th
of June, he addressed a short note to the Count, with a poem enclosed,
on this subject. I shall here insert both, as well to shew the zeal with
which Mr Holcroft defended his great countryman while abroad, as for the
sake of the manner in which it is done.

‘SIR, The conversation we had on Sunday morning concerning Rousseau,
Voltaire, Shakspeare, etc. started an idea as I was returning home,
which I immediately put into the form you see. I would not have you
suppose, Sir, I mean to depreciate the talents of Voltaire; that is far
from my intention; I would only vindicate the poet who of all others
within my sphere of knowledge, and as far as my judgment extends, is
infinitely the greatest. I should have sent you the verses before,
because I know your reverence for my favourite bard,[7] but that I kept
them to see if after sleeping two or three nights I still thought them
fit to be read. I am yet in doubt; for any thing middling on such a
subject is contemptible. However, I have not yet shewn them to any
person, except you, Sir, and Mr Bonneville, at whose lodgings they were
written.

‘Clad in the wealthy robes his genius wrought,
In happy dreams was gentle Shakspeare laid;
His pleas’d soul wand’ring through the realms of thought,
While all his elves and fairies round him play’d.

‘Voltaire approach’d—strait fled the quaint-eyed band,
For Envy’s breath such sprites may not endure:
He pilfer’d many a gem with trembling hand;
Then stabb’d the bard to make the theft secure.

‘Ungrateful man! Vain was thy black design:
Th’ attempt and not the deed thy hand defiled.
Preserv’d by his own charms and spells divine,
Safely the gentle Shakspeare slept and smiled.’

The conception of this little allegorical fiction, is certainly a very
happy one, and the execution is no less spirited and elegant. With
respect however to the enthusiasm with which Englishmen generally
endeavour to persuade foreigners of the superlative excellence of our
great dramatist, unless where it is taken up in self-defence, it is
undoubtedly a species of quixotism, and of the most hopeless kind.

The remittances which Mr Holcroft was to receive from his employer, were
not so regular as he had expected. Indeed there seems to have been some
unaccountable neglect on the part of Rivington,[8] and Mr Holcroft would
have been reduced to very great distress, had it not been for the
generous assistance afforded him by his friend Bonneville, who was
himself in no very affluent circumstances. He was at last wearied out
with the state of suspense and dependence in which he was kept, and in
October he took the resolution of again returning to England. He however
left his son behind him at a school, in or near Paris.

Before Mr Holcroft went from England, he had left an opera, called the
Noble Peasant, in the hands of Mr Colman, then manager of the Haymarket
theatre. This had been accepted; and such was Mr Colman’s opinion of it,
that on his return, he advanced Mr Holcroft a hundred pounds, in the
expectation of its future success. This piece was acted the ensuing
season, (in 1784). The evening it was acted, Mr Holcroft had placed
himself behind the scenes, as authors generally do, to watch the
progress of the piece, or be of occasional assistance. At the end
however of the first act, the effect produced on the audience seemed so
discouraging, and disapprobation began to manifest itself so strongly,
that Mr Holcroft could no longer stand it. He left the theatre, quite
hopeless of success, and went and walked for an hour in St. James’s
Park. He had by this time so far mastered the agitation of his spirits,
that he returned to the Haymarket, tolerably resigned to his fate. He
got in just at the conclusion of the third act, and was most agreeably
surprised, when he heard the house resounding with applause, and saw
himself surrounded by the actors and others, who came to congratulate
him on the complete success of the piece.—It however only ran eleven
nights. It was then stopped by Mr Colman, in consequence of a
disagreement with the author, whom he had without reason suspected of
writing some paragraphs in the Morning Herald against The Connoisseurs.
Mr Holcroft soon after vindicated himself so fully from this charge,
that Mr Colman was satisfied.[9]

The success of this opera was not certainly equal to its merits, which
are considerable. It seems to have given rise to a succession of plays
of the same kind, the scene of which is laid in the ages of chivalry,
and which represent the costume, characters, and manners of remote
times. Such particularly have been the Battle of Hexham, The
Mountaineers, The Venetian Outlaw, etc. This opera is in fact a romance
dramatised.—A young peasant joins some outlaws, who are no other than
the famous archers, Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and Will Cloudesley;
and soon after, has an opportunity together with them, to defeat a band
of Danes, who were proceeding to attack the castle of Earl Walter, which
lies in the neighbourhood of Sherwood. The cause of this quarrel is,
that Anlaff the Dane had demanded Edwitha, the daughter of Earl Walter,
in marriage, and had been refused. On this he determines to enforce his
claim, and in the battle which ensues, Earl Walter’s men under his son
Harold are nearly vanquished, when they are unexpectedly joined by the
outlaws and Leonard, the noble peasant, who slays Alric, the brother of
the Danish chief. This youth who in addition to his warlike
achievements, is represented with all the grace and amiableness of an
Arcadian swain, is the first who by chance communicates the news of the
victory to Edwitha, and her cousin Adela, who had wandered to a little
distance from the castle. Edwitha is immediately smitten with the manly
appearance, and modest demeanour of Leonard, the peasant, and is rallied
a good deal on the subject, by her witty and merciless cousin, who puts
the reader somewhat in mind of the character of Beatrice. Adam Bell, and
his renowned compeers, in consequence of their service in the battle,
conceive a plan for being reconciled to Earl Walter; and for this
purpose, Adam Bell goes to the castle in the disguise of a Friar, to
watch for some favourable opportunity of obtaining a pardon. Harold and
his followers return, and one of these, Earl Egbert, a ridiculous,
cowardly braggart, pretends to have slain Anlaff, whose sword and armour
he has carried in a pompous manner before him by his Dwarf. This story
is contradicted by the pretended friar, who says that he had shrieved a
young peasant an hour before, who confessed that he had slain the Danish
warrior. However, on the strength of the boasted service he had done,
Earl Egbert lays claim to Earl Walter’s daughter; and his pretensions
are admitted by the father, in opposition to the most earnest
remonstrances of the young lady. The valiant Earl accordingly remains at
the castle, to court his froward mistress, while Harold, with his chosen
friends, sets out to hunt for a few days on Cheviot Hills. The Danes
hearing of his absence, and in revenge for the death of Alric, once more
attack the castle, through which the greatest terror prevails, and
particularly in the breast of Egbert; when Adam Bell takes the
opportunity to discover himself to Earl Walter, and on obtaining promise
of pardon, winds his bugle-horn, and is immediately joined by his
friends who had watched without the castle, and among the rest by
Leonard. A challenge is now sent from Anlaff, to the conqueror of his
brother, to meet him in single combat, on the conditions, that if
defeated, his followers are immediately to withdraw from the castle, but
that if victorious, he is to bear off Edwitha as his prize. This message
startles Earl Egbert, and he is going to disclaim his share in the death
of Alric; when Leonard persuades him to accept the challenge, by
offering to exchange armour privately with him, and meet the haughty
Dane in his stead. They fight, and victory declares in favor of Leonard.
Just before the battle, a letter conveyed by an arrow, had fallen at the
feet of Edwitha, conjuring her to pray for the success of Leonard the
peasant, which had occasioned some surprise. The riddle is now
explained, and Leonard, the conqueror of Anlaff and Alric, and the
preserver of her house, lays claim to the hand of Edwitha, as his
reward. To this there are insuperable obstacles in the meanness of his
origin; but this difficulty is soon removed by a discovery, that though
disguised as a peasant, he is the son of a noble warrior. Harold
returns, the marriage is celebrated, the outlaws are pardoned, and
nothing but happiness reigns through the castle of Earl Walter.

The story of this little piece is interesting, and natural, as far as a
romantic story can be so. The dialogue is well supported throughout,
particularly in the comic parts; and though there are frequent
imitations of Shakespeare, both in the incidents, characters, and
speeches, yet they are very happily executed, with much wit and fancy;
which shew that the author had imbibed the spirit of the poet, in whose
steps he treads. The songs, both the serious and humorous ones, have
great merit; and were most of them set by Shield, to whom Mr Holcroft,
in his preface to the opera, pays a very high and deserved compliment. I
should add here, for the sake of those who take an interest in dramatic
retrospections, that Parsons played Earl Egbert, and that the part of
the Fool was performed by Edwin.

Mr Holcroft’s next piece came out at Covent Garden, and was called The
Choleric Fathers. This opera is inferior to the last. The scene is
supposed to be in Spain, and the business of the play turns upon the
testy disposition of two fathers, who suddenly break off a match between
their children, just as they are going to sign the marriage-settlement.
The merit of the piece consists chiefly in the easy impudence and
vivacity of a valet, who forms a number of schemes, and acts different
characters, to out-wit the old gentlemen, and bring about a
reconciliation. The plot is formed after the manner of the Spanish
school, full of intrigue and difficulties: these are at last overcome
with a good deal of ingenuity; and the denouement is both natural and
unexpected.

Mr Holcroft had for some time been concerned in the Wit’s Magazine, for
which he wrote a number of amusing articles: but he now declined his
share in it, seeming determined to bend his mind wholly to works of
greater moment.

CHAPTER IV

In 1784, the marriage of Figaro, (_Mariage de Figaro_) by Beaumarchais,
came out at Paris, where it was acted with astonishing success. Mr
Holcroft no sooner received notice of this piece, than he formed the
instant resolution of going over to France to procure a copy of it, in
order to translate and adapt it to the English stage.

He arrived in Paris the latter end of September, 1784, and proceeded to
the lodgings of his friend Bonneville, to whom he immediately
communicated the object of his journey. They both set about the
accomplishment of it directly, but they found it attended with greater
difficulty than they had expected. The comedy had not been printed:
therefore their first plan was to procure a manuscript copy, either at
the theatre, or through some friend of the author. This attempt however
they found fruitless, from the jealousy with which the managers of the
French theatre prevented any copies from getting abroad. The only
resource now remaining was to commit it to memory. And for this purpose,
both Holcroft and his friend went to the theatre every night for a week
or ten days successively, till they brought away the whole with perfect
exactness. At night when they got home, each of them set down as much as
he could recollect of a scene, and they then compared notes; if any
difficulty occurred, it was determined the following evening. Another
scene was brought away from the next representation in like manner, and
the entire play was at length transcribed. It was necessary to proceed
in this deliberate and cautious manner, as if they had attempted to take
notes, or had continued to do so more than once, their design would
probably have been suspected, and defeated by the interference of the
police.

Mr Holcroft was not, it seems, quite confident of his success, till he
had his manuscript safely deposited in his portmanteau, with which he
immediately set out on his return home. No time was lost, and the
acquisition Mr Holcroft had made was the day after his arrival
communicated to Mr Harris, through the Robinsons. A meeting was
appointed, and it was agreed that Figaro should, with all possible
expedition, make his appearance in an English dress. The necessary
metamorphosis was completed in a few weeks, and Figaro was acted at
Covent Garden Theatre, under the title of the Follies of a Day, a little
before the Christmas holidays. The reception of the new piece was equal
to the sanguine expectations Mr Holcroft had formed, and the pains he
had taken to bring it forward. It continued to be acted without
intermission for a considerable length of time, and is still one of our
most popular entertainments. It is needless here to give any account, or
to speak of the merits of a piece so well known to the public, and for
which we are indebted more to Mr Holcroft’s industry and enterprise,
than to his genius as an author. It would be unjust, however, to
suppose, that it is a mere literal translation. Many alterations were
necessary to adapt it exactly to the taste of an English audience, and
these were executed with much skill and felicity. Of all the pieces
brought out by the author, this and the Road to Ruin have been the most
successful. He received six hundred pounds for it at the theatre,
besides a considerable sum for the copy-right, which was bought in at
the time.

Mr Holcroft himself played the part of Figaro the first night, in the
absence of Mr Bonner, for whom it was designed, and who afterwards took
it. Mr Holcroft had before this given up his engagement at Drury Lane,
but at what precise period I cannot tell.

The music of the only song in this piece, ‘Ah! well-a-day, my poor
heart,’ was by Shield. It became a great favourite; and Longman, coming
to treat for the purchase of the music with Shield, who hesitated what
price to ask, the other, half laughing, made him an offer of three and
twenty dozen of wine for it; which terms were readily acceded to by
Shield, it being more than he had at that time ever received for a song.
Mr Holcroft took the first opportunity of acquainting his friend
Bonneville with the success of the undertaking in which he had been of
such service to him. His letter is dated Dec. 28, 1784.

‘Dear Bonneville, I am sure you will pardon my apparent neglect, when
you remember how exceedingly hard I have been obliged to labour since my
arrival in England. Figaro has made his appearance, and is likely to be
as great a favourite in London as in Paris. I wish most sincerely you
were here to be a witness of his good fortune. I enclose a letter of
exchange for 480 livres, on Girard and Co. bankers, Paris. The many
obligations I have to your friendship, the pleasure I take in your
company, and the fears I entertain lest your very virtues should lead
you into irretrievable difficulties, make me earnestly desire to see you
in England. Fortune seems at present disposed to smile upon my efforts;
I only wish you were with me to participate her favours. I am sure you
would be happy. Why will you not come? Billy has written to you, as you
will see; you know he loves you, he has reason to do so; and though a
child, I hope he will not forget his obligation.[10] Pray do not fail to
tell M. and Madame Mercier, that though I do not write, I remember them
as they would wish to be remembered, that is, I remember their virtue
and their friendship, and shall do while I live.’

Mr Holcroft had about this time considerable intimacy with several
French literary characters; among others, with M. Berquin, the author of
“The Children’s Friend,” who came over here to inspect the translation
of his own work into English; and a Mr Floscel, an unfortunate but
worthy man, whose works he recommended to the public in a circular
proposal. Mr Floscel came over to England to procure some subscriptions
to a considerable literary undertaking, but was attacked by a disorder
which proved fatal to him soon after his arrival.

It may be proper to add here, that Mr Holcroft had offered the marriage
of Figaro to Drury Lane theatre, before he left England; but he had
clogged this proposal with other conditions, which probably prevented
its acceptance. This appears from a letter either to Mr Sheridan or Mr
Linley, which may be worth insertion; both as it contains the first
hints of a project of dramatic authorship, which has, I believe, been
since acted upon at the other house, and as it is characteristic of Mr
Holcroft’s unwearied industry in his different undertakings, and of the
sanguine temper with which he encouraged the most distant prospects of
success. It is necessary to observe in explanation of one part of the
letter, that he had while in Paris (in 1783), written a tragedy, the
heroine of which he very anxiously wished to see personated by Mrs.
Siddons, who was now in the height of her reputation.

‘SIR, Not having been able to see you on the subject of the tragedy
(Ellen, or the Fatal Cave) and being at present obliged to make a
journey to Paris, I take the liberty of submitting the following
proposals to your consideration. Besides the tragedy already presented,
I have a comedy begun, which will be ready in a month after my return;
that is, I will engage to give it in complete, some time in November.

‘My proposals then, Sir, are, instead of author’s rights, to receive a
salary, and that a very moderate one; for which, exclusive of the
tragedy and comedy already mentioned, I will engage to write any
recitatives, songs, or choruses, which may be wanted for pantomimes, or
other temporary occasions in the theatre. The terms I require are ten
pounds per week, under the following provisos. If either the tragedy or
comedy are condemned by the public, I will furnish an afterpiece; should
two out of the three miscarry, my salary shall be reduced to seven
pounds per week; and should all three be unfortunate, to five; and to be
in the receipt of only five pounds per week till one has succeeded, the
arrears to be then paid. By this proposal Mrs. Siddons’s nights will not
be encroached upon. I, as an author, shall have the interest of the
house at heart, and shall neglect no opportunity of promoting that
interest:—the terms are so moderate, the probabilities I presume are
greatly that the proprietors should gain, not lose. My own reputation
will make me exert myself to the utmost; and with respect to my
fulfilling the conditions proposed, I will enter into any forfeiture,
not exceeding the receipt of my whole salary, to fulfil them literally.
Indeed, whatever my talents may be, my industry and facility will not be
disputed. I set off for France to-morrow morning, where, Sir, there is
at present a most popular piece, ‘The Marriage of Figaro,’ which I shall
endeavour to procure; it will be to the advantage of the theatre to get
first what I know is thought an object, and which, if these terms are
agreeable to you, Sir, and the proprietors, I shall then be more earnest
and expeditious, concerning. I must, however, add, I am by no means
certain of obtaining it; on the contrary, I understand it will be
attended with great difficulties. I must intreat, Sir, that this
proposal remain totally a secret, if not acceded to; otherwise it might
injure me: and the fear lest it might by accident become known, was the
only motive that prevented me from making it sooner. Should this meet
your approbation, you will greatly oblige me to signify as much as soon
as possible, by sending a line directed to me at Paris.’

CHAPTER V

The Comedy of Seduction appeared in the year 1787, and was received with
very great applause. Some few hints for this play were taken from _Les
Liaisons Dangereux_; but it was chiefly original, and possessed great
merit. In 1789, appeared the translation of the King of Prussia’s works,
in twelve or thirteen volumes, and also the translation of the Essays of
Lavater. For the former of these, Mr Holcroft received 1200l. from
Robinsons, the booksellers. He had worked almost night and day to get it
out soon, and to prevent the possibility of anticipation. He had, I
believe, very early, and before the publication of the original work,
procured a copy through the interest of the Prussian Ambassador. He
complains, in one of his letters about this time, of the difficulty he
had in translating the poetry of the great Frederic, for whom our
author, though he translated his works, seems to have had no great
predilection.[11] His translation of Lavater’s smaller work has
certainly been the means of making the English public acquainted with
the system of that ingenious and lively writer; but it was criticised
with unusual severity by the authors of the Analytical Review, and this
led to some disagreeable altercation between Mr Holcroft and the
Reviewers.

In 1790, the German Hotel appeared at Covent Garden, a play which is
little more than a translation from the German of Brandes. The plot is
very neat and lively, and sometimes interesting: but there is very
little besides plot and incident in the piece. Baron Thorck seems the
counterpart of Squire Thornhill, in the Vicar of Wakefield. The most
striking circumstance in this drama is the perfect preservation of the
unities of time and place. In the present instance, this peculiarity
adds to the natural effect of the scene by riveting the imagination to
one spot, and thus giving a sort of reality to it, and by making the
incidents follow one another in such quick succession, that the mind has
no time to question their probability. The events are some of them the
most improbable that can be supposed; yet such is the mechanical
construction of the plot, that they seem inseparably interwoven with
each other, and as if they could not happen otherwise. The whole play is
like a scene really passing in a hall of a large Hotel, in the course of
a few hours.

Mr Holcroft brought out the Comedy of The School for Arrogance, in the
beginning of 1791. In consequence of some disagreement between Mr
Holcroft and Mr Harris respecting former pieces, it was imagined it
would not be very graciously received if the author were known; and a
friend undertook for a time _to father_ the piece. After the comedy had
been twice performed, the author wrote the following letter to the
manager of the theatre. It is published in the preface.

‘SIR, I have patiently waited the proper moment in which to write to
you. That moment I hope is now come. I should be guilty of injustice,
were I any longer to delay expressing my sense of the propriety with
which you have acted relative to the School for Arrogance, after you had
every reason to suppose it mine. Such conduct, Sir, is highly
honourable; and is not only productive of the best effects, but must
secure the best and most permanent applause. That you had conceived
disadvantageous ideas of me, I knew; though I have no doubt, but I shall
ultimately convince you, that, even supposing me to be mistaken, my
motives have been laudable. With me you were irritated; but you had the
justice to forget the man, and promote the interests of the piece. This
I hold it my duty to say to the world at large. I am, Sir, etc.’

The School for Arrogance is, in its plan, founded on _Le Glorieux_ of
Destouches, but it is for the most part original. It is Mr Holcroft’s
best play, with the exception of the Road to Ruin, and, perhaps, even
this exception is doubtful. The last of these pieces is, no doubt, much
more adapted for stage-effect; but I question whether the former would
not be perused oftener, and with greater delight, in the closet. It is
less eventful, less interesting, less showy and dazzling; but it has
beauties more refined in the conception, and difficult in the execution.
Such is the whole of the character of Count Conolly Villars, which is
managed throughout with the nicest art. His pride of birth; the conflict
between the feelings of love, and a sense of the honour of his family;
and the rapid and delicate alternations of passion, arising from a
constant fear of degrading himself, either by resisting or indulging the
familiarity of others, are described without the violation of truth,
perhaps, in a single instance. On the other hand, the contrast between
the pride of wealth and that of ancestry, which the character of Lady
Peckham gives the author an opportunity to display, has an effect
equally forcible, whether we regard the immediate impression on the
audience, or the moral lesson it conveys. The other characters are
comparatively insignificant, though necessary and well supported. To
expose the weaknesses of pride, as it is founded on the prejudice either
of wealth or ancestry, may be said to form the whole business of the
piece. This, however, is not done by pompous, laboured declamation, or
satirical epigrams; but by shewing the effects of these prejudices on
real characters and in natural situations. As this play is less known
than some of Mr Holcroft’s other plays, we shall select the following
scene for the entertainment of the reader.

‘_Enter_ COUNT, _bowing_.

_Lady Peckham._ So, Sir! They tells me, Sir, that you and my foolish
husband are colloguing together, for to marry my daughter! Is this troo,
Sir?

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

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

_Count._ Not very well, Ma’am.

_Lady P._ Sir?

_Count._ Except that she is your daughter.

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

_Count._ I have been told, Ma’am.

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

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

_Lady P._ Yes, Sir! The debbidy of his vard, Sir! A common councilman,
and city sword-bearer! Had an Aldermand’s gownd von year, vus chosen
sheriff the next, and died a lord-mayor elect!

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

_Lady P._ And do you know, Sir, that I designs, Sir Samooel Sheepy, Sir,
an English knight and barrow knight, for the spouse of my daughter! A
gentleman, that is a gentleman! A person of honour and purtensions, and
not a Papish Jesubite!

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

_Lady P._ Vhat, Sir! do you mean for to say, Sir, or to insinivate, Sir,
that Sir Samooel Sheepy is not your betters?

_Count._ If Sir Samuel himself, Madam, had put such a question to me, I
would have replied with my sword, or more properly, with my cane.

_Lady P._ Wery vell, Sir! I’ll let Sir Samooel know that you threatens
to cane him; I’ll take care to report you! Cane quotha! He shall talk to
you.

_Count._ Let him, Madam.

_Lady P._ Madam! Madam! At every vord—Pray, Sir, do you know that Sir
Paul Peckham has had the honour to be knighted by the king’s own hand?

_Count._ I have heard as much, Madam.

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

_Count._ Up, Madam!

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

_Count._ (_with great agitation_) Madam!

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

_Count._ Madam, I am of a family known to history, known to Europe,
known to the whole universe!

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

_Count._ The names of Conolly and Villars, Madam, never before were so
degraded as they have been in my person.

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

_Count._ Insult like what I have received from you, Madam, no man should
utter and escape death—But you are—

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

_Count._ A woman.

_Lady P._ A voman, indeed! Sir, I vould have you to know as how I am a
lady! A lady, Sir, of his Majesty’s own making! And moreover, Sir, don’t
you go for to flatter yourself that I shall bestow the hand and fortin
of Miss Loocy Peckham upon any needy outlandish Count somebody nobody!
My daughter, Sir, is for your betters!

_Count._ Madam, though scurril—[_Recollecting himself_] I say, Madam,
though such vul—, such accusations are beneath all answer, yet I must
tell you that by marrying your daughter, if after this I should sink
myself so low—I say, by marrying your daughter, Madam, I should confer
an honour on your family, as much superior to its expectations, as the
splendour of the glorious sun is to the twinkling of the worthless
glow-worm!

_Lady P._ Vhat! Vhat! [_Enter Edmund, son of Lady Peckham._] Marry come
up! An Irish French foriner! Not so good as von of our parish _porpers_!
And you! You purtend to compare yourself to the united houses of the
Peckhams and the Pringles! Your family indeed! Yourn! Vhere’s your
settlement? Yourn! Vus’nt my great uncle, Mr Peter Pringle, the
cheese-monger of Cateaton-street, a major in the Train Bands before you
vus born, or thought of?

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

_Lady P._ Vhat! Hasn’t I an ownd sister at this day married to Mr
Poladore Spraggs, the tip-toppest hot-presser in all Crutched Friars!
Isn’t my maiden aunt, Miss Angelica Pringle, vorth thirty thousand
pounds, in the South Sea funds, every morning she rises! And doesn’t I
myself get up and go to bed, the greatest lady in this here city! And
for to purtend for to talk to me of his family! His’n.

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

_Lady P._ Vhat country is that, Sir? Who ever heard of any country but
England? A Count among beggars! How much is his Countship worth?

_Count._ I had determined to be silent, Madam, but I find it impossible!
[_With vehement volubility_] And I must inform you, my family is as
ancient, as exalted, and as renowned, as you have proved yours to
be—what I shall not repeat! That I am the heir to more rich acres than I
believe your Ladyship ever rode over! That my father’s vassals are more
numerous than your Ladyship’s vaunted guineas! That the magnificence in
which he has lived, looked with contempt on the petty, paltry strainings
of a trader’s pride! And that in his hall are daily fed—[_Stops short,
and betrays a consciousness of inadvertent falsehood, but suddenly
continues with increasing vehemence_] Yes, Madam, are daily fed; now, at
this moment, Madam, more faithful adherents, with their menials and
followers, than all your boasted wealth could for a single year supply!

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

_Count._ Sir, I—I have said.

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

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

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

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

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

_Lady P._ As for you, Sir, I doesn’t believe von vord you say! I knows
the tricks of such sham chevaliers as you, too vell!

_Count._ [_Walking away from her_] Torture!

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

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

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

_Count._ Sir, I am a dishonoured villain

[_Exit._

_Lady P._ There! There! he tells you himself he is a willin? his
conscience flies in his face, and he owns it!

_Edmund._ [_With great ardour and feeling_] Madam, he is a noble-hearted
gentleman! His agonizing mind deems it villainy to suffer insults so
gross.

[_Exit._

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

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

[_Exit Lady Peckham._

_Count._ Into what has my impetuous anger hurried me?—Guilty of
falsehood! I? To recede is impossible! What! Stand detected before this
city Madam!—whose tongue, itching with the very scrophula of pride,
would iterate liar in my ear! No! Falsehood itself is not so foul.’—ACT
III.

This is truth and nature. If it should be thought that the description
of Lady Peckham borders too much on caricature, it should be remembered
that grossness is the essence of the character, and it serves to set off
more forcibly the refinement of the Count. If, however, it should be
insisted that the scene which has been transcribed is a union of farce
and sentimental comedy, still it is farce worthy of Foote, and the
serious part is worthy of any one.

The sentiments which are inculcated in the scene which precedes the one
just quoted, are such as have never been embodied with the prejudices of
any class of men, because it must be confessed they are much more
adapted to convince the reason than to flatter the passions or the
imagination! Lucy Peckham is a female philosopher, and lectures the
Count on his pretensions, in a manner scarcely less grating to his
feelings, than the personalities of her mother. The Count says, ‘Mankind
have agreed, Madam, to honour the descendants of the wise and the
brave.’ To this his mistress replies, ‘They have so,—But you have,
doubtless, too much native merit to arrogate to yourself the worth of
others! You are no jay, decked in the peacock’s feathers! You are not
idiot enough to imagine that a skin of parchment, on which are
emblazoned the arms and the acts of one wise man, with a long list of
succeeding fools, is any honour to you! Responsible to mankind for the
use and the abuse of such talents as you feel yourself endowed with, you
ought to think only how you may deserve greatly; and disdain to be that
secondary thing, that insignificant cypher, which is worthless, except
from situation!’

Whatever may be thought of the political tendency of this speech, the
morality of it is unquestionable; and though it may not be practicable
for society at large to act upon the standard here proposed, yet surely
every individual would do well to apply it to his own conduct, and to
the value which he sets upon himself in his own private esteem. However
necessary it may be that the vulgar should respect rank for its own
sake, it is desirable that the great themselves should respect virtue
more, and endeavour to make the theory, on which nobility is founded,
correspond with the practice—private worth with public esteem. The
sentiments of this kind, which Mr Holcroft has interspersed through his
different works, may therefore remain as useful moral lessons: their
noxious political qualities, if ever they had such, have long since
evaporated; though I shall take an opportunity to shew that Mr
Holcroft’s politics were never any thing more than an enlarged system of
morality, growing out of just sentiments, and general improvement.

The School for Arrogance is the first of the author’s pieces, in which
there appeared a marked tendency to political or philosophical
speculation. Sentiments of this kind, however, and at that time, would
rather have increased than diminished the popularity of any piece. A
proof of this is, that the very epilogue (which is seldom designed to
give offence), glances that way.

‘Such is the modern man of high-flown fashion!
Such are the scions sprung from Runny-Mead!
The richest soil, that bears the rankest weed!
Potatoe-like, the sprouts are worthless found;
And all that’s good of them _is under ground_.’

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

Mr Holcroft’s next play was The Road to Ruin, which carried his fame as
a dramatic writer into every corner of the kingdom, where there was a
play-house. Nothing could exceed the effect produced by this play at its
first appearance, nor its subsequent popularity. It not only became a
universal favourite, but it deserved to be so. Mr Holcroft, in sending
round one or two copies of it to his friends before it was acted, had
spoken of it as his best performance. He had hitherto been generally
dissatisfied with what he had written, as not answering his own wishes,
or what he thought himself capable of producing: but in this instance he
seems to have thought his muse had been as favourable to him as she was
likely to be. Authors are perhaps seldom deceived with respect to their
works, when they judge of them from their own immediate feelings, and
not out of contradiction to the opinions of others, or from a desire to
excel in something which the world thinks them incapable of. Mr
Holcroft’s predictions were at least verified by the appearance of the
Road to Ruin. It had a run greater than almost any other piece was ever
known to have, and there is scarcely a theatre in the kingdom, except
Drury-Lane, and the Haymarket, in which it has not been acted numberless
times. The profits he received from it were nine hundred pounds from Mr
Harris, and three or four hundred for the copy-right.

The Road to Ruin is so well known to the public, and its merits have
been so fully established, that it seems almost impertinent to make any
remarks upon it: yet as it is Mr Holcroft’s greatest dramatic effort, it
might be thought wrong to pass it over, without attempting to point out
its leading features, or ascertain its rank among similar productions.

The character of Goldfinch, though not the principal character, was
undoubtedly that which contributed most to the popularity of the piece.
Nine persons out of ten who went to see the Road to Ruin, went for the
sake of seeing Goldfinch; though the best parts of the play are those in
which he has no concern. The very great effect it produced was, in some
measure, owing to the inimitable acting of Lewis. But there are other
circumstances which would almost be sure to make it the favourite of the
public. In the first place, it is a most masterly delineation of the
character it pretends to describe; namely, that of a person of very
little understanding, but with very great animal spirits, in the
heigh-day of youth and thoughtlessness, and who is hurried away by all
the vulgar dissipation of fashionable life. There is not the smallest
glimmering of wit or sense in all that Goldfinch says; yet nothing can
exceed the life, the spirit, the extreme volubility, the restless
animation, which Mr Holcroft has thrown into this character. He has none
but the most mean and groveling ideas; his language consists entirely of
a few cant words; yet the rapidity with which he glances from object to
object, and the evident delight which he takes in introducing his
favourite phrases on all occasions, have all the effect of the most
brilliant wit. _That’s your sort_ comes in at least fifty times, and is
just as unexpected and lively the last time as the first, for no other
reason than because Goldfinch has just the same pleasure in repeating
it. This mechanical humour was so much the more striking in its effect,
because every person could make it his own. It was a very transferable,
and therefore a very convenient, commodity. It was a compendious receipt
for being witty, to go and see Goldfinch, and repeat after him, _That’s
your sort._ If the invention was not favourable to the increase, it was
at least calculated for the spread of wit. Mr Holcroft may in some sort
be considered as the author of this species of dramatic humour, of which
succeeding writers have fully availed themselves, and on which the
effect of many of our most popular modern pieces depends. Cant terms
have, it is true, always been the subject of ridicule on the stage; but
Mr Holcroft was, I believe, the first who made them interesting; or who
conceived the project of giving spirit and animation to a character by
the force of a single phrase. The two most important characters in the
piece, are those of old Dornton and his son; the former, an eminent
banker in the city, the latter, a wild, but high-minded and
noble-spirited young man, something like Charles, in The School for
Scandal. The serious interest of the piece arises chiefly from the
struggle between prudence and affection in the mind of the father, and
from the compunction and generous sacrifices of the youth to save his
father’s house from the ruin which he believes he has brought upon it.
He is in love with Sophia, the daughter of the widow Warren. This last
lady is described with a person and mind equally unprepossessing. She
is, however, supposed to be rich, and is violently in love with young
Dornton, who determines, rather than see his father ruined, to marry
her, and forsake his young and guileless Sophia. This match is prevented
by the timely interference of old Dornton.

Mr Sulky and Mr Silky are two very principal characters in the play,
whose names are happily adapted to their characters; the one being as
remarkable for a blunt kind of surly honesty, as the other is for
smooth, sleek, fawning knavery. It is, however, on the confusion of
these two names, that the contrivance of the plot depends. For the late
Mr Warren, not being well pleased with the conduct of his wife, and
suspecting her violent professions of a determination not to marry
again, had made a will, in which, in case such an event should happen,
he had left his property to his natural son, Milford, and to his wife’s
daughter, appointing Mr Sulky his executor. He died abroad; and the
person who brought over the will, being deceived by the name, leaves it
in the possession of Mr Silky, instead of Mr Sulky. Mr Silky, knowing
the widow’s amorous propensities, and willing to profit by them, informs
Goldfinch, who is besieging her for her money, that he has a deed in his
possession which puts the widow’s fortune, should she marry again,
entirely in his power; and exacts a promise from him of fifty thousand
pounds out of a hundred and fifty, as the price of secrecy, with respect
to himself. He then calls on the widow, shews her the conditions of the
will, and threatens to make it public unless she marries Goldfinch, and
assents to his proposal. She, however, governed by her passion for young
Dornton, and relying on the exhaustless wealth of his family, sets Mr
Silky and his secret at defiance; and on his next visit, treats Mr
Goldfinch with very little ceremony. But after she finds herself
disappointed of Dornton, and is in the height of her exclamations
against the whole sex, Goldfinch is announced. His name at this moment
has the effect of suddenly calming her spirits; he is admitted; received
with much affected modesty: he makes another offer; the bargain is
struck; Mr Silky is sent for, and Goldfinch sets off post haste for a
license. But just as he is going out, he meets Milford; and being more
fool than knave, he tells the latter of his marriage, and of the
hush-money to Silky, on account of some deed, by which he has the
widow’s fortune at his command, though he does not know how. This
excites suspicion in the mind of Milford, who, supposing it must be his
father’s will, goes immediately to Sulky to inform him of the
circumstance, and they conceal themselves in the widow’s apartment.
Goldfinch, Silky, and the widow, soon after come in; every thing is
settled; and the will is on the point of being committed to the flames,
when Milford and Sulky burst upon them, and their whole scheme is
unluckily defeated.

This sketch may be sufficient to give an idea of the bustle of the
scene, and the rapidity with which events follow one another. The story
never stagnates for a moment; the whole is full, crowded, and the wonder
seems to be how so many incidents, so regularly connected, and so
clearly explained, can be brought together in so small a compass. At the
same time, the hurry of events, and the intricacy of the plot, do not
interfere with the unfolding of the characters, or the forcible
expression of the passions. Some of the scenes are replete with the
truest pathos, which is expressed without exaggeration, or the least
appearance of art. Though the feelings of paternal affection, of terror,
generosity, etc. are often wrought up to the highest pitch, and
described with their full force, so that the reader finds nothing
wanting; yet it is in language so easy and natural, that not only might
it be uttered by the persons themselves, but they could scarcely use any
other.

Mrs. Holcroft died in the year 1790.

It was in the preceding year that Mr Holcroft met with the severest blow
that fortune had yet inflicted on him, the death of his son. This
unhappy event has been sometimes misrepresented by persons unacquainted
with the character and feelings of Mr Holcroft: the best answer to these
misrepresentations will be to state the circumstances as they happened,
without any other comment.

William Holcroft was his only son, and favourite child, and this very
circumstance perhaps led to the catastrophe, which had nearly proved
fatal to his father as well as to himself. He had been brought up, if
any thing, with too much care and tenderness. The greatest attention had
been paid to his education from the very first, not only by teaching him
to read and write, French, English, etc., but by daily instilling such
moral principles into his mind, as it was Mr Holcroft’s earnest wish,
and firm belief, would in the end make him a great and good man. Perhaps
it was a mistake to suppose that precept could anticipate the fruits of
experience, or that it was not a dangerous experiment to enable a child
to think and reason for himself on the propriety of his own actions,
before settled habits and a knowledge of consequences had provided a
sufficient counterpoise to the levity of youth, and the caprices of
fancy. Be this as it may, he was a boy of extraordinary capacity, and Mr
Holcroft thought no pains should be spared for his instruction and
improvement. From the first, however, he had shewn an unsettled
disposition, and his propensity to ramble was such from his childhood,
that when he was only four years old, and under the care of an aunt at
Nottingham, he wandered away to a place at some distance, where there
was a coffee-house, into which he went, and read the newspapers to the
company, by whom he was taken care of, and sent home. This propensity
was so strong in him, that it became habitual, and he had run away six
or seven times before the last. Once, for instance, in 1786, when he was
about thirteen, he had taken a little mare which belonged to his father,
and went to Northampton, where he was discovered by some respectable
persons in the place, and word being sent to Mr Holcroft, he went down,
and brought him home with him. On Sunday, November 8th, 1789, he brought
his father a short poem; a watch which had been promised as a reward,
was given him; his father conversed with him in the most affectionate
manner, praised, encouraged, and told him, that notwithstanding his
former errors and wanderings, he was convinced he would become a good
and excellent man. But he observed, when taking him by the hand to
express his kindness, that the hand of the youth, instead of returning
the pressure as usual, remained cold and insensible. This however at the
moment was supposed to be accidental. He seemed unembarrassed, cheerful,
and asked leave, without any appearance of design or hesitation, to dine
with a friend in the city, which was immediately granted. He thanked his
father, went down stairs, and several times anxiously inquired whether
his father were gone to dress. As soon as he was told that he had left
his room, he went up stairs again, broke open a drawer, and took out
forty pounds. With this, the watch, a pocket-book, and a pair of pistols
of his father’s, he hastened away to join one of his acquaintance, who
was going to the West-Indies. The name of this young person was G——. He
was immediately pursued to Gravesend, but ineffectually. It was not
discovered till the following Wednesday, that he had taken the money.
After several days of the most distressing inquietude, there appeared
strong presumptive proofs that he, with his acquaintance, was on board
the Fame, Captain Carr, then lying in the Downs. The father and a friend
immediately set off, and travelled post all Sunday night to Deal. Their
information proved true, for he was found to be on board the Fame, where
he assumed a false name, though his true situation was known to the
Captain. He had spent all the money, except 15_l._, in paying for his
passage, and purchasing what he thought he wanted. He had declared he
would shoot any person who came to take him, but that if his father
came, he would shoot himself. His youth, for he was but sixteen, made
the threat appear incredible. The pistols, pocket-book, and remaining
money, were locked up in safety for him, by his acquaintance. But he had
another pair of pistols concealed. Mr Holcroft and his friend went on
board, made inquiries, and understood he was there. He had retired into
a dark part of the steerage. When he was called and did not answer, a
light was sent for, and as he heard the ship’s steward, some of the
sailors, and his father, approaching, conscious of what he had done, and
unable to bear the presence of his father, and the open shame of
detection, he suddenly put an end to his existence.

The shock which Mr Holcroft received was almost mortal. For three days
he could not see his own family, and nothing but the love he bore that
family could probably have prevented him from sinking under his
affliction. He seldom went out of his house for a whole year afterwards:
and the impression was never completely effaced from his mind.

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I

Mr Holcroft had been, for some years, imbibing principles, and forming a
system in his mind, relative to political and moral questions,
considerably different from those which are generally received, or at
least acted upon by the world.

The interest which he felt in the success of these speculations, will be
best expressed by extracting some part of a letter to a friend, written
in February, 1790. He says, ‘The great object I have in view, is not the
obtaining of riches, but the power of employing my time according to the
bent of my genius, in the performance of some works which shall remain
when I am no more—works that will promote the general good. This is a
purpose I have so strongly at heart, that I would with pleasure
sacrifice ease, peace, health, and life for its accomplishment: nay,
accomplish it I will, unless cut off in the midst of my labours. It has
been my pursuit for years, and you are my witness, I have never relaxed,
never been discouraged by disappointment, to which indeed I hold men of
real strength of mind to be superior.’ A clearer picture cannot be given
of the motives from which the writer appears to have engaged in and
prosecuted his task—the regard of good men hereafter, and a wish to
promote the general welfare of mankind, by diffusing a system of more
just and enlightened principles of action.

These rational and worthy motives are those which actuated Mr Holcroft’s
whole conduct in the part he took in such questions: they are the only
ones which he had at heart, and he never seems in a single instance to
have wavered in his pursuit, by flattering the prejudices, or soothing
the vices of any set of men, by cajoling or inflaming the multitude, or
by adapting his views or language to those of the ignorant, the rash, or
profligate. He was a man of too honest, and of too independent a turn of
mind to be a time-server, to lend himself as a tool to the violence of
any party; his habits and studies rendered him equally averse to
political intrigues or popular tumults; and he had no other desire than
to speak the truth, such as he saw it, with a conviction that its
effects must be beneficial to society. Whether his opinions were right
or wrong, is another question: I speak here of his intentions. But I am
anticipating the subject; and also deviating from my plan, which was not
to write a panegyric, but a history.

_Anna St. Ives_, a novel in 7 vols. appeared in 1792. It was much read
at the time, and excited considerable attention, both from the force
with which it is written, and from the singularity of the characters and
sentiments. As a mere novel, it is interesting, lively, and vigorous.
The natural or real characters it contains, are exhibited with great
truth of conception, with strong and vivid colouring, and often with a
great deal of whimsical eccentricity. The characters both of the proud,
daring, impetuous, revengeful, capricious Coke Clifton, and of the sly,
selfish, insinuating, cool, plodding, immovable Abimelech Henley, are
master-pieces. The invention of either of these characters would stamp
the author a man of genius. With respect to the first, however spirited
the execution, the invention is beyond all doubt due to Richardson: Coke
Clifton and Lovelace are the same being, and in fact are often placed in
situations so similar, that the resemblance must strike the most cursory
reader. Notwithstanding this, too much praise can hardly be given to Mr
Holcroft for the life, the enthusiasm, and glowing fancy with which he
has sustained this character, and applied it to a different purpose. As
to Abimelech, he is all his own; and he is a person of such quaint and
ill-sorted qualities, his humility and his insolence are so oddly
jumbled together, his knavery is so artfully disguised, and yet so
easily seen through, and he delivers all his purposes in such a strange
jargon of cant terms and phrases, every one of which has some end,
though their connexion is scarcely intelligible; in short there is such
a perfect consistence given to the most crude and shapeless mass, and
this in a manner so unlike any thing else, that it seems almost equal to
the invention of a new language. That class of men who get introduced
into gentlemen’s families; and who, by plodding, hoarding, fawning, and
flattering the follies of their masters, make fortunes themselves, ruin,
and then trample upon their employers, were never better represented
than in the person of Mr Abimelech Henley. The steward in Castle
Rackrent is not so very a knave by half.—The character of the Count de
Beaunoir, though short, is managed with a great deal of humour and
feeling. Mac Fane, the keeper of the madhouse, etc. are strong and real
portraits.

But the principal characters in the novel, (at least those which were
intended by the author to be the most prominent,) are not natural, but
ideal beings. In fact, they are not so properly characters (that is,
distinct individuals) as the vehicles of certain general sentiments, or
machines put into action, as an experiment to shew how these general
principles would operate in particular situations. Frank Henley, and
Anna St. Ives, are the philosophical hero and heroine of the work. They
are the organs through which the voice of truth and reason is to
breathe, and whose every action is to be inspired by the pure love of
justice.—Mr Holcroft, by embodying his general principles in individual
characters, no doubt, gained some advantages, which he could not
otherwise have done; such as shewing the possibility of his plan, by
actually reducing it to practice, and also pointing out how persons
convinced of the truths he wishes to impress, both may and ought to act
in the present state of society. For instance, duelling is held to be
criminal; and to shew that declining a duel is no proof of cowardice,
Frank Henley, who receives a blow from Coke Clifton, will not fight with
him, but the very next day leaps into the water after him, and saves his
life at the imminent hazard of his own: thus by an act of true heroism
rising superior to the prejudices of false honour.

But though the author has gained in point of argument by throwing his
reasonings into a narrative form, perhaps he has lost in point of the
general impression produced upon the mind. It was Mr Holcroft’s business
to make his characters not only consistent, but interesting and amiable:
and he has done nearly all that was possible to accomplish this end. But
it seems as if the difficulty of the undertaking, from the very nature
of it, was too great to be overcome. For in spite of all the appeals
that are made to reason, and though we strive ever so much to suspend
our invidious prepossessions, yet the old adage of ‘A faultless monster,
which the world ne’er saw,’ continually obtrudes itself upon us, and
poisons our satisfaction. It is true, our dislike may be irrational, but
still it is dislike. That which, if left in generals, we might believe
and admire, if brought to a nearer view, and exhibited in all its
circumstances of improbability, we begin to distrust, and for that
reason to hate: _quod sic mihi ostendis, incredulus odi_. Perfect
virtue, the pure disinterested love of justice, an unshaken zeal for
truth, regardless of all petty consequences, a superiority to false
modesty, a contempt for the opinion of the world, when reason and
conscience are on our side, all these are fine things, and easily
conceived, while they remain, what they are, the pure creatures of the
understanding, mere abstract essences, which cannot kindle too warm a
glow of enthusiasm in the breast. But when these airy nothings are made
reluctantly to assume a local habitation and a name, called Frank, or
Anna; when they are personified in the son of a knavish steward, or the
daughter of a foolish baronet; when they are petticoated, booted and
spurred; when they are mounted on horse-back, or seat themselves in a
post-chaise, or walk arm in arm through the streets of London, or
Paris,—the naked form of truth vanishes under all this pitiful drapery,
and the mind is distracted with mean and contradictory appearances which
it knows not how to reconcile. When familiarised to us by being brought
on the real stage of life, and ascribed to any supposed characters,
perfect virtue becomes little better than a cheat, and the pretension to
superior wisdom, looks like affectation, conceit, and pedantry. This
effect must in some measure take place, even though the most perfect
consistency and propriety were preserved: how much more then when the
mind eagerly catches hold of every little flaw, to prove that the whole
is a piece of acting, and to revert to its habitual feelings of nature
and probability?—It is not difficult to personify the passions, so as to
render them natural: that is a language which men readily understand.
But of the difficulty of exhibiting the passions entirely under the
control of reason, of virtue, religion, or any other abstract principle,
let those judge who have studied the romances of Richardson. To have
made Clarissa a natural character with all her studied attention to
prudence, propriety, etc. is the greatest proof of his genius: yet even
she is not free from affectation. In Sir Charles Grandison, he has
completely failed: he has exhibited him either as an automaton, a
puppet, or a self-complacent coxcomb, ‘ugly all over with affectation,’
whose own perfection, propriety of conduct, and fine qualities, are
never for a moment out of his sight. Rousseau’s Julia, again, is
something of a pedant, and cold, calculating, and insincere. I mention
these instances to shew, that though I do not think Mr Holcroft has
rendered his hero and heroine so attractive as he himself probably
thought they might be made, yet it was not for want of genius, but from
the impossibility of the undertaking. Frank Henley, though a much
nobler-minded being than Sir Charles Grandison, yet stands in general in
the same predicament. We admire his actions, but we do not love the man:
his motives we respect, but with his feelings we have little sympathy.
Indeed he is a character who does not stand in need of our sympathy; ‘A
reasoning, self-sufficient thing, an intellectual all in all.’ He is
himself a being without passions; and in order to feel with him, we must
ourselves be divested of passion.

I have made these remarks to shew the difficulty of embodying a
philosophic character in a dramatic form.

The dignity of truth is in some measure necessarily lowered by coming to
us ‘in so questionable a shape,’ and nothing but a very powerful mind
can prevent it from becoming quite ridiculous and contemptible. Mr
Holcroft himself was perfectly aware of the prejudices he had to
encounter, in order to exhibit his characters, so as not to be
misunderstood. He has not indeed been sparing of the most pointed
raillery upon the philosophic pretensions of Frank Henley, in the
letters of his rival, Coke Clifton. And the best proof of the strength
with which he has conceived, and pourtrayed his favourite character is,
that notwithstanding all the other’s wit and eloquence, Frank is never
once degraded in our esteem. He stands his ground firmly, and, upon the
whole, has the preference, though it is not exactly such a preference as
virtue ought to have over vice, wisdom over folly, or pure mind over
sensuality and selfishness. An extract from one of Clifton’s letters, in
which he describes Frank Henley, will give a tolerable idea of the
characters of both.

‘The youth has some parts, some ideas: at least he has plenty of words.
But his arrogance is insufferable. He does not scruple to interfere in
the discourse, either with me, Sir Arthur, or the angelic Anna! Nay sets
up for a reformer; and pretends to an insolent superiority of
understanding and wisdom. Yet he was never so long from home before in
his life; has seen nothing, but has read a few books, and has been
permitted to converse with this all-intelligent deity.

‘I cannot deny but that the pedagogue sometimes surprises me with the
novelty of his opinions; but they are extravagant. I have condescended
oftener than became me, to shew how full of hyperbole and paradox they
were. Still he has constantly maintained them, with a kind of congruity
that astonished me, and even rendered many of them plausible.

‘But, exclusive of his obstinacy, the rude, pot-companion loquacity of
the fellow is highly offensive. He has no sense of inferiority. He
stands as erect, and speaks with as little embarrassment, and as loudly
as the best of us; nay, boldly asserts, that neither riches, rank, nor
birth have any claim. I have offered to buy him a beard, if he would but
turn heathen philosopher. I have several times indeed bestowed no small
portion of ridicule upon him; but in vain. His retorts are always ready;
and his intrepidity, in this kind of impertinence, is unexampled.

‘From some anecdotes which are told of him, I find he is not without
personal courage: but he has no claim to chastisement from a gentleman.
Petty insults he disregards; and has several times put me almost beyond
my forbearance by his cool and cutting replies. His oratory is always
ready; cut, dry, and fit for use; and d——d insolent oratory it
frequently is.

‘The absurdity of his tenets, can only be equalled by the effrontery
with which they are maintained. Among the most ridiculous of what he
calls first principles is that of the equality of mankind. He is one of
your levellers! Marry! His superior! Who is he? On what proud eminence
can he be found? On some Welsh mountain, or the peak of Teneriffe?
Certainly not in any of the nether regions! Dispute his prerogative who
dare! He derives from Adam; what time the world was all “hail fellow
well met!” The savage, the wild man of the woods, is his true
liberty-boy; and the ourang-outang, his first cousin. A lord is a merry
andrew, a duke a jack-pudding, and a king a tom-fool: his name is man!

‘Then, as to property, ’tis a tragic farce; ’tis his sovereign pleasure
to eat nectarines, grow them who will. Another Alexander he; the world
is all his own! Aye, and he will govern it as he best knows how. He will
legislate, dictate, dogmatise, for who so infallible? Cannot Goliah
crack a walnut?

‘As for arguments, it is but ask and have: a peck at a bidding, and a
good double handful over. I own I thought I knew something; but no, I
must to my horn-book. Then, for a simile, it is sacrilege; and must be
kicked out of the high court of logic! Sarcasm too is an ignoramus, and
cannot solve a problem; wit a pert puppy, who can only flash and bounce.
The heavy walls of wisdom are not to be battered down with such popguns
and pellets. He will waste you wind enough to set up twenty millers, in
proving an apple is not an egg-shell; and that _homo_ is Greek for a
goose. Duns Scotus was a school-boy to him. I confess he has more than
once dumb-founded me with his subtleties. But, pshaw! it is a mortal
waste of words and time to bestow them on him.’—Vol. II.

With respect to Mr Holcroft’s principles as they are delivered in Anna
St. Ives, I shall here attempt to give a short sketch of them, of the
train of events in which they originated, and of the seductiveness of
the prospects which they held out to a mind not perfectly callous to the
interests of humanity. Even could it be shewn that they were disgraceful
to his penetration, yet they were certainly honourable to his heart, and
they were highly honourable to human nature. It is indeed a little
singular, that those who have augured most highly of the powers of our
nature, and have entertained the most sanguine hopes of the future
virtue and happiness of man, should so often have been considered as the
worst enemies of society. But it seems that our self-love is not so much
flattered by the idea of the progress we might hereafter make, as
offended by that of the little we have already made. Reformers
imprudently compliment mankind on what they might become, at the expense
of what they are.

Mr Holcroft was a purely speculative politician. He constantly
deprecated force, rashness, tumult, and popular violence. He was a
friend to political and moral improvement, but he wished it to be
gradual, calm, and rational, because he believed no other could be
effectual. All sanguinary measures, all party virulence, all provocation
and invective he deplored: all that he wished was the free and
dispassionate discussion of the great principles relating to human
happiness, trusting to the power of reason to make itself heard, and not
doubting but that the result would be favourable to freedom and virtue.
He believed that truth had a natural superiority over error, if it could
only be heard; that if once discovered, it must, being left to itself,
soon spread and triumph; and that the art of printing would not only
accelerate this effect, but would prevent those accidents, which had
rendered the moral and intellectual progress of mankind hitherto so
slow, irregular, and uncertain.

This opinion of the progress of truth, and its power to crush error, had
been gaining ground in this country ever since the Reformation; the
immense improvements in natural and mechanical knowledge within the last
century had made it appear nearly impossible to limit the discoveries of
art and science; as great a revolution (and it was generally supposed as
great improvements) had taken place in the theory of the human mind in
consequence of the publication of Mr Locke’s Essay; and men’s attention
having been lately forcibly called to many of the evils and abuses
existing in society, it seemed as if the present was the era of moral
and political improvement, and that as bold discoveries and as large
advances towards perfection would shortly be made in these, as had been
already made in other subjects. That this inference was profound or
just, I do not affirm: but it was natural, and strengthened not only by
the hopes of the good, but by the sentiments of the most thinking men.

As far as any practical experiment had been tried, the result was not
discouraging. Of two revolutions that had taken place, one, that of
America, had succeeded, and a more free and equal government had been
established without tumult, civil discord, animosity or bloodshed,
except what had arisen from the interference of the mother country. The
other Revolution, that of France, was but begun: but it had at this time
displayed none of those alarming features which it afterwards
discovered. Whether the difference of the result in the latter case was
owing to the external situation of the country, which exposed it to the
inroads of a band of despots; or to the manners of the people, which had
been depraved by a long course of slavery, which while it made freedom
the more desirable, rendered them the more incapable of it; whether, I
say, the French Revolution might not have succeeded, had not every means
been employed to destroy and crush the good that might have been
expected from it, is a question not to be discussed here: but at the
period of which I am speaking, I believe I may say there were few real
friends of liberty who did not augur well of it. A tyranny, which all
our most esteemed writers had been endeavouring for the last hundred
years to render odious and contemptible to the English people, had been
overthrown; and this was hailed by all those who had been taught to
value the principles of liberty, or the welfare of nations, as an event
auspicious to France and to the world. The emancipation of thirty
millions of people (so I remember it was considered at the time) was a
change for the better, as great as it was unexpected: the pillars of
oppression and tyranny seemed to have been overthrown: man was about to
shake off the fetters which had bound him in wretchedness and ignorance;
and the blessings that were yet in store for him were unforeseen and
incalculable. Hope smiled upon him, and pointed to futurity.

With these feelings, and with these encouragements from the state of the
public mind, reasoning men began to inquire what would be the ruling
principles of action in a state of society, as perfect as we can
suppose, or the general diffusion of which would soonest lead to such a
state of improvement. And the answer was found, not so much in any real
novelties, or heretofore unheard-of paradoxes, as in the most pure and
simple principles of morality, differing from the common and received
ones, no otherwise than in the severity with which they are insisted on,
and in their application to a state of things in which the same
indulgences, precautions, and modifications of our higher and paramount
obligations, which are at present inseparable from the imperfection of
our nature, would no longer be necessary. The whole of the _modern_
philosophy (as far as relates to moral conduct), is nothing more than a
literal, rigid, unaccommodating, and systematic interpretation of the
text, (which is itself pretty old and good authority) ‘Thou shalt love
thy neighbour as thyself,’ without making any allowances for the
weaknesses of mankind, or the degree to which this rule was practicable;
and the answer to the question, ‘Who is our neighbour,’ is the same,
both in the sacred records, and in the modern paraphrase, ‘He who most
wants our assistance.’ I have mentioned this coincidence (I hope without
offence), to shew that the shock occasioned by the extreme and naked
manner of representing the doctrine of universal benevolence, did not,
and could not, arise from the principle itself, but from the supposition
that this comprehensive and sublime principle was of itself sufficient
to regulate the actions of men, without the aid of those common
affections, and mixed motives, which our habits, passions, and vices,
had taught us to regard as the highest practicable point of virtue. If,
however, it be granted, not only that it is in itself _right_ and
_best_, but that a period might come, in which it would be _possible_
for men to be actuated by the sole principles of truth and justice, then
it would seem to follow that the subordinate and auxiliary rules of
action might be dispensed with, being superseded by the sense of higher
and more important duties.

Mr Holcroft was among the foremost and most ardent of those who indulged
their imaginations, in contemplating such an Utopian, or ideal state of
society, and in reasoning on the manner in which the great leading
principle of morality would then be reduced to practice. In such a state
of things, he believed that wars, bloodshed, and national animosities,
would cease; that peace and good-will would reign among men; and that
the feeling of patriotism, necessary as it now is to preserve the
independence of states, and repel the ravages of unprincipled and
ambitious invaders, would die away of itself with national jealousies
and antipathies, with ambition, war, and foreign conquest. Family
attachments would also be weakened or lost in the general principle of
benevolence, when every man would be a brother. Exclusive friendships
could no longer be formed, because they would interfere with the true
claims of justice and humanity, and because it would be no longer
necessary to keep alive the stream of the affections, by confining them
to a particular channel, when they would be continually refreshed,
invigorated, and would overflow with the diffusive soul of mutual
philanthropy, and generous, undivided sympathy with all men. Another
feeling, no less necessary at present, would then be forgotten, namely,
gratitude to benefactors; but not from a selfish, hateful spirit, or
hardened insensibility to kind offices; but because all men would in
fact be equally ready to promote one another’s welfare, that is, equally
benefactors and friends to each other, without the motives either of
gratitude or self-interest. Promises, in like manner, would no longer be
binding, or necessary: not in order that men might take advantage of
this liberty to consult their own whims or convenience, and trick one
another, but that by being free from every inferior obligation, they
might be enabled more steadily and directly to pursue the simple
dictates of reason and conscience. False honour, false shame, vanity,
emulation, etc. would upon the same principle give way to other and
better motives. It is evident that laws and punishments would cease with
the cause that produces them, the commission of crimes. Neither would
the distinctions of property subsist in a society, where the interests
and feelings of all would be more intimately blended than they are at
present among members of the same family, or among the dearest friends.
Neither the allurements of ease, or wealth, nor the dread of punishment,
would be required to excite to industry, or to prevent fraud and
violence, in a state (such as has been supposed), where all would
cheerfully labour for the good of all; and where the most refined
reason, and inflexible justice actuating a whole community, could
scarcely fail to ensure the same effects which at present result from
the motives of honesty and honour. The labour, therefore, requisite to
produce the necessaries of life, would be equally divided among the
members of such a community, and the remainder of their time would be
spent in the pursuit of science, in the cultivation of the noblest arts,
and in the most refined social and intellectual enjoyments.

However wild and visionary this scheme may appear, it is certain that
its greatest fault is in expecting higher things of human nature than it
seems at present capable of, and in exacting such a divine or angelic
degree of virtue and wisdom, before it can be put in practice, as
without a miracle in its favour must for ever prevent its becoming any
thing more than a harmless dream, a sport of the imagination, or ‘an
exercise in the schools.’ But to consider a man as an immoral character,
or a political delinquent, for having indulged in such speculations, is
no less false or absurd, than to stigmatise any one as a bad member of
the community for having written a treatise on the Millennium. Yet with
respect to Mr Holcroft, this appears to have been ‘the very head and
front of his offending.’

CHAPTER II

The first part of Hugh Trevor, a novel, appeared in 1794, and the
remainder in 1797. This novel is a work of less genius than Anna St.
Ives, but it is characterised by much sound sense, by a clear and
vigorous style, by acute observation, and by many satirical, but
accurate portraits of modern manners. As a political work, it may be
considered as a sequel to Anna St. Ives; for as that is intended to
develope certain general principles by exhibiting imaginary characters,
so the latter has a tendency to enforce the same conclusions, by
depicting the vices and distresses, which are generated by the existing
institutions of society. A Lord and a Bishop are among the most
prominent figures. That such characters exist in fact, there cannot be a
doubt: that the satire is applied in too general and unqualified a
manner, is an objection which may also be readily admitted; but it
certainly is not necessary, in order to enforce the _imperfection_ of
existing institutions and manners, that the profligacy which he has
ascribed to these characters should be universal. A very little of it is
enough, and too much—were there any real and substantial remedy for the
evil.

The story of Hugh Trevor is less connected and interesting than that of
Anna St. Ives: the excellence of the work is to be judged of from
detached scenes and passages, rather than from considering it as a
whole. Among the most striking passages are the description of Oxford,
Wakefield’s conversations with Hugh Trevor, the disputes with Trotman on
the study of the law, the character of Olivia’s aunt, which is in the
best style of the old novels, the scene in the stage-coach between the
aunt, Olivia, and Hugh Trevor, the description given by Glibly of the
characters at the playhouse, and some of the scenes which occur in the
history of Wilmot. The dialogues in Hugh Trevor are almost all of them
highly spirited, and full of character, and the language exactly that of
animated conversation. Mr Holcroft would (as it might be expected,) have
an advantage in this respect over novel-writers in general, from his
habit of writing for the stage. Perhaps the finest things in Hugh
Trevor, are, the account of an author, found in Wilmot’s pocket, after
he had attempted to drown himself, and the song of Gaffer Gray. Both
these I shall extract, as they are short and detached, and, in my
opinion at least, exquisite pieces of writing.

The paper found in Wilmot’s pocket, after the rash, and almost fatal,
act, to which he has been driven by repeated disappointment, and extreme
distress, is as follows.

‘This body, if ever it should be found, was once a thing, which, by way
of reproach among men, was called an author. It moved about the earth
despised and unnoticed; and died indigent and unlamented. It could hear,
see, feel, smell, and taste, with as much quickness, delicacy, and
force, as other bodies. It had desires and passions like other bodies,
but was denied the use of them by such as had the power and the will to
engross the good things of this world to themselves. The doors of the
great were shut upon it; not because it was infected with disease, or
contaminated with infamy; but on account of the fashion of the garments
with which it was cloathed, and the name it derived from its
forefathers; and because it had not the habit of bending its knee where
its heart owed no respect, nor the power of moving its tongue to gloze
the crimes, or flatter the follies of men. It was excluded the
fellowship of such as heap up gold and silver; not because it did, but
for fear it might, ask a small portion of their beloved wealth. It
shrunk with pain and pity from the haunts of ignorance, which the
knowledge it possessed could not enlighten, and from guilt, that its
sensations were obliged to abhor. There was but one class of men with
whom it was permitted to associate, and those were such as had feelings
and misfortunes like its own, among whom it was its hard fate frequently
to suffer imposition, from assumed worth and fictitious distress. Beings
of supposed benevolence, capable of perceiving, loving, and promoting
merit and virtue, have now and then seemed to flit and glide before it.
But the visions were deceitful. Ere they were distinctly seen, the
phantoms vanished. Or, if such beings do exist, it has experienced the
peculiar hardship of never having met with any, in whom both the purpose
and the power were fully united. Therefore, with hands wearied with
labour, eyes dim with watchfulness, veins but half nourished, and a mind
at length subdued by intense study, and a reiteration of unaccomplished
hopes, it was driven by irresistible impulse to end at once such a
complication of evils. The knowledge was imposed upon it that, amid all
these calamities, it had one consolation—Its miseries were not
eternal—That itself had the power to end them. This power it has
employed, because it found itself incapable of supporting any longer the
wretchedness of its own situation, and the blindness and injustice of
mankind: and as, while it lived, it lived scorned and neglected, so it
now commits itself to the waves; in expectation, after it is dead, of
being mangled, belied, and insulted.’

* * * * *

The song of Gaffar-Gray is written in a less sombrous style, with a
mixture of banter and irony. But it is distinguished by the same fulness
of feeling, and the same simple, forcible, and perfect expression of it.
There is nothing wanting, and nothing superfluous. The author has
produced exactly the impression he intended.

‘Ho! Why dost thou shiver and shake,
Gaffar-Gray!
And why doth thy nose look so blue?
“’Tis the weather that’s cold,
’Tis I’m grown very old,
And my doublet is not very new,
Well-a-day!”

Then line thy worn doublet with ale,
Gaffar-Gray;
And warm thy old heart with a glass.
“Nay, but credit I’ve none;
And my money’s all gone;
Then say how may that come to pass?
Well-a-day!”

Hie away to the house on the brow,
Gaffar-Gray;
And knock at the jolly priest’s door.
“The priest often preaches
Against worldly riches;
But ne’er gives a mite to the poor,
Well-a-day!”

The lawyer lives under the hill,
Gaffar-Gray;
Warmly fenc’d both in back and in front.
“He will fasten his locks,
And will threaten the stocks,
Should he ever more find me in want,
Well-a-day!”

The ‘Squire has fat beeves and brown ale,
Gaffar-Gray;
And the season will welcome you there.
“His fat beeves and his beer,
And his merry new year
Are all for the flush and the fair,
Well-a-day!”

My keg is but low, I confess,
Gaffar-Gray;
What then? While it lasts, man, we’ll live.
“The poor man alone,
When he hears the poor moan,
Of his morsel a morsel will give,
Well-a-day!”’

CHAPTER III

We have hitherto beheld Mr Holcroft only in the light of an author, or
as a private man: we have at present to consider him in that part of his
history, which was the most interesting to the public, and the most
honourable to himself, of any of the circumstances of his life;—his
behaviour under that most unaccountable, unjust, and groundless
prosecution, which was instituted against him for high-treason, in the
year 1794. The account of this transaction will be given nearly
literally from Mr Holcroft’s own ‘Narrative of Facts,’ published soon
after. I shall only observe of this work, which is written in a style of
manly and nervous eloquence, that it not only contains the most
undeniable proofs of the author’s innocence of the charge brought
against him, and of the knowledge which the prosecutors themselves had
of his innocence, but that it farther shews Mr Holcroft’s character in a
most amiable and respectable point of view. His regard to his family and
friends, the steady uprightness of his mind, his ardent love of liberty,
his utter abhorrence of all violent and sanguinary measures, and the
sincerity, and even enthusiasm with which he acted up to the principles
he professed, are evident in every line of his narrative.

It was in the month of November, 1792, that he first became a member of
the Society for constitutional information. The multitude of
extraordinary events which at that period happened in France, excited
people of all ranks to political inquiry; and men were roused to a
conviction, which, though obvious, yet seemed a recent discovery, that
the political institutions of all nations essentially influence the
morals and happiness of the people, and that these institutions are
capable of improvement. The good was no sooner conceived than an
eagerness to enjoy it was begotten; and this eagerness was frequently so
impatient, as to excite a dread, that even if it did not defeat, it
might lamentably retard its own purpose.

At length, the apprehensions of those, who thought it their interest to
prevent any kind of change, were awakened. Their numbers considerable,
their wealth immense, their influence universal, their prejudices
strong, and their appetites and passions almost their only means of
enjoyment, they no sooner saw danger, than they conceived disgust for
the supposed authors of it: and this disgust rapidly quickened into
hatred. Animosity once conceived is generally mutual; and the passions
of both parties seemed every day to become more and more inflamed, and
to be pregnant with pernicious consequences.

Under such circumstances, it became (in Mr Holcroft’s opinion) the duty
of every man to think seriously and act with vigour. Passengers in a
storm labour at the pump, are upbraided if they linger, and in danger of
being thrown overboard. Individual and general safety are the same; and
the man who is not trusted with the helm, may yet aid to heave the lead,
or cast the anchor.

Mr Holcroft, believing that all men, and all actions contribute more or
less to the general good, had long been accustoming himself to keep that
good in view. Stimulated by the considerations just mentioned, and by
the events that pressed with daily astonishment on the mind; he ardently
applied himself to the study of man, and the means of promoting his
welfare, and lessening the evils that result from his present vices and
imperfections. The chief of the principles, to which this inquiry led,
were that man is happy, in proportion as he is truly informed; that his
ignorance, which is the parent of his misery and vices, is not a fault,
but a misfortune, which can only be remedied by infusing juster
principles, and more enlightened notions into his mind; that punishment,
violence, and rancour, only tend to inflame the passions, and perpetuate
the mistakes they are meant to cure; and that therefore, the best and
only effectual means of ameliorating the condition of mankind, is by the
gentleness of instruction, by steady inquiry, and by a calm, but
dauntless reliance on the progressive power of truth.

These principles being firmly rooted in his mind, Mr Holcroft naturally
became the opponent of all violence, and a determined friend to the
publication of truth; since by that alone, he thought the well-being of
mankind could be promoted. With respect to the Society for
constitutional information, of which he had become a member, he did not
approve of many of their proceedings, nor was he altogether satisfied
with the authority they seemed to assume of peremptorily deciding
questions by a majority of votes, which he thought could only be decided
by reason: but still he conceived that this was not a sufficient ground
to absent himself from their meetings, as such an over-scrupulousness
would exclude all those who were best calculated to prevent such
societies, in their too great ardour to do good, from doing ill; since
if he refused to act with men so long as they were guilty of mistake, he
must banish himself wholly from their intercourse.

He entered this Society then with a firm determination to use every
endeavour to prevent violence and acrimony, to communicate the truth he
knew, or imagined he knew, and to stimulate others to do the same.
Accordingly, while he remained a member of it, he never interfered with
the framing of a single resolution: when questions were put, he
sometimes voted; and sometimes spoke to declare his opinion, but was
much oftener silent; either because he thought them frivolous, or such a
mixture of right and wrong, as to leave him undecided. He little
imagined that it would be possible to accuse their insignificant
proceedings as treasonable: much less that he should be selected as one
of the most wicked of the conspirators.

The apprehensions of ministry had been first publicly announced in the
proclamation of the 21st of May, 1792: and the coercive measures on
which they had determined, immediately appeared in parliamentary
addresses, and the measures of the magistrates and municipal officers,
throughout the kingdom. Associations were formed, and the danger of the
constitution, from the wicked attempts of republicans and levellers,
became the cry of what was called the aristocratic party. So active were
these self-declared friends of government, and so loud in their
asseverations of approaching ruin, the destruction of property,
insurrection, and anarchy, that quiet people began to partake of the
fears of these agitators; and ministry, by more proclamations, asserted
that insurrections did actually exist, which the militia was called out
to quell, when not a hand or foot was stirring on any such pretences
within the confines of Great-Britain. Men even of respectable characters
and honest intentions now thought it an heroical act of duty, to watch
the conduct of their intimate friends, excite them to utter violent or
seditious expressions, and afterwards to turn informers against the
intemperance they had provoked. To avoid giving any opinion was
impossible. Language the most outrageous, was employed to make those who
were in the least suspected declare their creed; and if it were not
entirely accommodating, the peaceable citizen, after being entrapped,
was insulted, and turned, or frequently kicked, out of tap-rooms,
coffee-houses, and public places. The impotence of the obnoxious party
was every where demonstrated; yet the outcry of alarm increased.
Church-and-king-mobs were proved, in courts of justice, to have been
encouraged by the very men whose office it was to keep the peace: while
no insurrection, or shade of insurrection, appeared on the part of the
people, wishing for reform. In the same spirit, printers and booksellers
all over the kingdom were hunted out for prosecution; and the tempest of
insurrection and anarchy was so confidently affirmed to be rising and
raging, that the House of Commons voted the suspension of the Habeas
Corpus bill, on the ground that dangerous and treasonable conspiracies
did actually exist.

The Society, of which Mr Holcroft was a member, seemed with the progress
of these events to increase in amazement; and it might almost be said,
in stupefaction. This was visible in the thinness of its meetings, its
feeble resolutions, and long adjournments. Each man saw himself the butt
of obloquy. Each man knew that Mr Reeves’s association was sitting in a
room of the same tavern immediately over his head; and that this
association was the focus of the opprobrium cast on them all. They
supposed themselves to be watched by the very waiters. Thus wantonly and
unjustly set up as a mark for public reproach, it is not much to be
wondered at, that some petulant ebullitions occasionally burst forth.
But was this guilt so enormous? Was it high-treason?

When Mr Holcroft first heard that a few of its members had been taken
into custody, he felt the greatest astonishment. ‘Surely,’ he said,
‘either there have been practices of which I am totally ignorant, or men
are running mad!’ The persons apprehended were severally, and some of
them repeatedly examined before the privy council. The three estates of
the kingdom had declared the existence of treason and conspiracy; and
the nation seemed generally to credit the assertion. Mr Holcroft had
been told more than once, that a warrant was issued against him.
Incredible as the rumour would have been at any other time, he now
believed it to be true.

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.

_31st._—Finished Boswell’s Life of Johnson: the author still continuing
a pompous egotist, servile, selfish, and cunning; as is evident from the
documents and pictures he gives of himself; and defending and
condemning, not according to any principles which his own experience and
observation had taught, but in conformity to those opinions, whatever
they might be, right or wrong, which might most probably ingratiate him
with the powerful. As a piece of biography, it is a vile performance;
but as a collection of materials, it is a mine. Called on B——. The head
of Kemble painted by him for Desenfans is a fine likeness, and a good
picture. Saw a pair of his landscapes, but indifferent performances. At
one time he copied the old masters. One of these copies after Berghem,
but in the style of Wouvermans, is a good imitation, penciled with great
labour and exactness, but not with the freedom of an original. The
subject, a man on a white Galloway, bird-catching; but the copy was not
finished, nor the nets inserted.—Wilson, he says, was indolent, and, in
his latter time, used to make several attempts at each touch, before his
hand reached the precise place. In this manner a picture would remain
several days on the easel, with but little apparent progress. If B—— be
accurate, the colours on Wilson’s palette did not exceed four, and his
common menstruum was linseed oil, instead of other oils eight or ten
times as dear. He had much comic humour, would turn from his easel to
the window, make whimsical remarks on the passengers, pause to recollect
himself, and begin painting again. He was addicted to liquor, by which
his nose became enlarged, and so irritable, that the handkerchief was
frequently applied to it, and kept in his bosom for that purpose. Glad
of every opportunity to escape from labour to his favourite indulgence,
he would say to any acquaintance who happened to call, “Come, let us go
and take a drop of something. I have painted enough for one day.”
Farrington and Hodges were his pupils, and many of the pictures that
pass for Wilson’s were painted by them, but retouched by himself. Thus
the same picture became multiplied. He would even buy copies made from
his pictures, work upon them and sell them as his own. To a certain
degree they were such, but the practice was dishonest; for an unskilful
eye could not detect the inferior parts. Arts like these are the ruin of
honest and well-earned fame. Wilson, however, was a man of uncommon
genius, of which he has left sufficient and undoubted proofs. He and Sir
Joshua had conceived some ill-founded prejudices against each other.
Under their influence, Sir Joshua once said, at the Academy,
Gainsborough was the best English landscape-painter. Wilson, happening
to be unperceived at his elbow, replied, “You mean the best English
portrait-painter.” If it was not Opie, I forget who gave me this
anecdote.

AUGUST _1st._—Proceed with Middleton’s Life of Cicero. It is full of
information. Wrote a song to-day, “Dan Cupid, &c.” and a glee yesterday,
of “Bitter pangs,” &c. for the opera. At Debrett’s, Mr Bouverie shewed
me the Cambridge paper. Flower, the editor, is a zealot of a bold but
honest character. By his paper, he must necessarily have made himself
extremely obnoxious to persons in power. He unsparingly assails all
whose creed or moral conduct he thinks reproachable. Godwin has been
several times attacked in his paper, and probably myself. A letter,
written from Ireland by a Colonel in the Guards, asserts, that the two
O’Connors, Bond, and another, whose name I have forgotten, have
consented to inform against the insurgents, and transport themselves
from Ireland, on condition that the life of Bond be spared. Lord Thanet
said, he had betted fifty guineas to half a crown, that this was a false
assertion. I think myself certain he will win. A. O’Connor is a
noble-minded man, or I am wretchedly mistaken, and it is said his
brother Roger is even his superior. Met Mr G——, whom I informed that the
comedy of “He’s Much to Blame” was written by me. He testified great
satisfaction at the shame its success brought on my persecutors, and
that the King, not knowing the author, had commanded it twice. Mentioned
its great popularity among the country theatres; invited me to
Turnham-Green, and I promised to dine there next Sunday se’nnight.

_2nd._—Read Middleton. Wrote a song “The Fiat of Fate,” Act 3. Went to
Debrett’s, read a high-flown complimentary letter, from some city
volunteers, to Colonel ——, a bankrupt, persuading him to continue in
their command, and describing him as an unfortunate man, but of
exemplary worth. A—— remarked that the aristocrats of the corps, had
thus stirred in his behalf, because he had gone through thick and thin
to serve persons in power. Walked down Constitution-Hill, and wrote
Clara’s two songs of the third act in the Park. Just as I finished, with
my pencil in my hand, I saw I was observed by General F——. We know each
other personally, but are not acquainted. Acquaintance indeed among
persons of rank, I have very few. My feelings will not suffer me to be
forward; and such persons are known only to the obtruding, or those who
minister to their immediate pleasures and vices. Men of literature lay
claim to honors, to which men of rank have but seldom any good
pretensions; and both seem jealous of their individual prerogatives.

_3rd._—Wrote Duet, Act 3. Worked at the opera. Asked Weld at Debrett’s
if he knew Boswell. He had met him at coffee-houses, etc. where B—— used
to drink hard and sit late. It was his custom during the sessions, to
dine daily with the Judges, invited or not. He obtruded himself every
where. Lowe (mentioned by him in his life of Johnson) once gave me a
humourous picture of him. Lowe had requested Johnson to write him a
letter, which Johnson did, and Boswell came in, while it was writing.
His attention was immediately fixed, Lowe took the letter, retired, and
was followed by Boswell. “Nothing,” said Lowe, “could surprise me more.
Till that moment he had so entirely overlooked me, that I did not
imagine he knew there was such a creature in existence; and he now
accosted me with the most overstrained and insinuating compliments
possible.” “How do you do, Mr Lowe? I hope you are very well, Mr Lowe.
Pardon my freedom, Mr Lowe, but I think I saw my dear friend, Dr.
Johnson, writing a letter for you”—“Yes, Sir”—“I hope you will not think
me rude, but if it would not be too great a favor, you would infinitely
oblige me, if you would just let me have a sight of it. Every thing from
that hand, you know, is so inestimable.”—“Sir, it is on my own private
affairs, but”—“I would not pry into a person’s affairs, my dear Mr Lowe;
by any means. I am sure you would not accuse me of such a thing, only if
it were no particular secret”—“Sir, you are welcome to read the
letter.”—“I thank you, my dear Mr Lowe, you are very obliging, I take it
exceedingly kind.” (having read) “It is nothing, I believe, Mr Lowe,
that you would be ashamed of”—“Certainly not”—“Why then, my dear Sir, if
you would do me another favour, you would make the obligation eternal.
If you would but step to Peele’s coffee-house with me, and just suffer
me to take a copy of it, I would do any thing in my power to oblige
you.”—“I was overcome,” said Lowe, “by this sudden familiarity and
condescension, accompanied with bows and grimaces. I had no power to
refuse; we went to the coffee-house, my letter was presently
transcribed, and as soon as he had put his document in his pocket, Mr
Boswell walked away, as erect and as proud as he was half an hour
before, and I ever afterward was unnoticed. Nay, I am not certain,”
added he, sarcastically, “whether the Scotchman did not leave me, poor
as he knew I was, to pay for my own dish of coffee.”

_4th._—Continued the opera through scene 9, Act 3. Colonel Barry at
Debrett’s, returned from Ireland: rejoiced to see each other. Spoke of
Ireland as subdued by the divisions which government had found the means
to create, and chiefly by the aid of the native yeomanry. Read reviews
and magazines.

_5th._—Corrected scene 10. Wrote song for Florid. Called on N——, who had
been sent for by the Duchess of D——; she broke her appointment, made
another, and broke that, with a note apologising, and desiring he would
come again, and bring a copy of his very excellent journal. This a good
deal resembles scenes I had with her in 1783, except that I made
application to _her_ (for recommendatory letters to our ambassador at
Paris) which Mr N—— did not. Pinkerton, Godwin, Stoddart, and J Parry,
to dinner. Stoddart, as usual, acute, but pertinacious and verbose.
Godwin clear, and concise.

_6th._—Proceeded with the opera. Walked an hour. Returned and finished
it. Nothing at Debrett’s. Have read Monthly Magazine and Review for some
days. Individually, the numbers of such works appear dull: collectively,
they afterwards become highly amusing.

_7th._—Read and sent the opera to Mr Harris, with a letter. Walked to
Godwin. He proceeds with his novel. Gave a favourable account of
Fenwick’s pamphlet on Coigley.

_8th._—Began to consider my new comedy, which I am very desirous of
enriching with numerous incidents.

_9th._—Debrett blames Robinson for publishing another translation of the
voyage of Perouse; that already published by Johnson, being complete,
the size octavo. R.’s edition is to be quarto, the plates in a grander
style. Debrett’s phrase was, he would burn his fingers. Meditated on the
comedy. Conceived two incidents arising from the poverty of my
characters, of a pawnbroker’s shop, and an antique ring. Dined with
Geiseveiller, and G——. His German friends came after dinner. F——
displayed some knowledge in Grammar; but was laughed at by me and G——,
for being a disciple of Kant.

_10th._—Rose at seven, in good spirits, and apparently excellent health;
persuaded, as I had been for some time, that my disease was gone, and my
constitution improved. While eating my breakfast, soon after eight, was
seized with a fifth fit of hemorrhoidal colic. The pain as on former
occasions excruciating, yet resisted with so much determination by me,
that I am persuaded its violence was considerably abated. I continued
very ill through the day. In the night my dreams were extremely vivid,
often disagreeable, but not always. I read and composed poetry, that
never had any other existence; engaged in metaphysical disputes; and
busied myself with the plot of a comic opera. I conceived a nobleman and
his servant, Spaniards, to have arrived at a castle with immense walls
and turrets; and that the first thing the nobleman said, must be to tell
his servant, that they were now come to the place of action, and must
make their way into that castle. The various obstacles and incidents
which this would afford, delighted me, while dreaming. A few years ago,
having a slight fever, and lying awake in the night, I found I could
speak extempore verses on any given subject, (for I proposed two or
three to myself) many of them approaching excellence, and the others
full of high sounding words, and such as would be thought excellent by
some. Fear of increasing the fever, made me rather endeavour to calm and
appease my mind, than either to proceed, or try to remember those I had
made, which might amount to above thirty lines in number, as I believe.
Have found nearly the same facility occasionally, when actually writing
poetry, after having considered my subject a certain time, and made a
certain number of verses, or rather, after rouzing the faculties. In my
sleep I have read many a page of poetry, that never was written. Others
have told me they have done the same. Mr N—— says he has several times
gone to bed with his mind wearied by considering a question of science
which he could not resolve, has slept or dozed, and the resolution has
intruded so forcibly upon his thoughts, that it has awaked him.

_11th._—Sent for Dr. Pitcairne. After he was gone, the pain rather
increased till I rose, half an hour after, when I experienced some
relief. Was induced to examine the nature of pain, and found that it is
not, and from the nature of the human frame, cannot be, incessant. Could
it be so, it must soon destroy the patient. Sensations are impelled upon
us. Trifles, the tickling of a hair, the trains of ideas which pain
itself begets, divert the attention. These intervals appear to be short
in proportion to the intensity of the pain. Played a game at chess, with
Geiseveiller: at the beginning with great brilliancy; at the end, with
great stupidity. Received a well written letter from Mrs. B——, and the
opera from Harris.

_12th._—Harris firmly of opinion the opera will be a good afterpiece,
but a dangerous first-piece, I obliged to yield, the slave of my
circumstances. He agreed to give me two hundred and fifty pounds for the
piece, and the copy-right; and, should it run twenty nights, to make the
sum three hundred. Urged me to proceed with my comedy, which I promised,
if possible, to send at the close of November. Underwood, a young
artist, called to see my pictures. He was full of admiration, but he is
a youth. Godwin called to enquire after my health, and Mrs. Foulkes.

_13th._—Pitcairne called, behaved very kindly, and refused his fee. I
could not visit Mr G——, who had invited me. The Parrys, Colonel B——,
Mrs. F——, and Geiseveiller called. Yesterday and to-day, amidst the
pain, I reduced the opera, but not completely.

_14th._—Mrs. F—— called: and Geiseveiller before and after seeing the
Road to Ruin for the first time at the Haymarket. This perhaps is the
only theatre in the three kingdoms, Drury-Lane and the Opera-House
excepted, at which it has not been acted more probably fifty times than
once. The custom of the theatres prevents its being performed in London,
except at Covent-Garden, where it first appeared.

_15th._—Wrote to Harris and Robinson. Went to Mrs. B——, who requested my
advice and aid, concerning a novel. A lively woman, upwards of sixty;
widow of Dr. B——. From a printer’s mark in the margin, there is reason
to suspect her novel has been clandestinely printed. If not, it
certainly was in preparation for the press. Completed the reduction of
the opera; and proceeded, as the day before, with reading Middleton’s
Cicero, and correcting P——’s tragedy.

_16th._—Visited by Dr. Pitcairne, to whom I had sent. Received his fee,
is to call on Saturday. Smith, the surgeon, Mrs. F——, Samuel S——,
visitors. Read Wild Oats, (having this day received O’Keefe’s works) a
farce, but one in which much invention and feeling are displayed. Wrote
an air to Dan Cupid, in Old Clothesman.

_17th._—Went to Debrett’s, after taking the warm sea-bath. Col. B—— and
others praised the Cheltenham waters, as excellent for bilious
affections. Walked home, not in the least fatigued.

_18th._—Visited by Dr. Pitcairne. Corrected tragedy.

_19th._—Walked into the Park, but overpowered with fatigue and heat,
took rest in Whitehall chapel: was too giddy to pay much attention to
the paintings of Rubens.

_20th._—Pitcairne called, thinks I ought to eat meat, refused his fee.
Hugh Trevor, and Road to Ruin, sent to Geiseveiller.

_21st._—Mr Ramsey, who had acted as a clergyman and physician in the
West Indies, returning, was one of the first promoters, by various
pamphlets, of the enquiry into the slave-trade. An agent of the planters
wrote against him, accusing him of want of humanity in his treatment of
the sick slaves. He was advanced in years, and much agitated; the
weather was hot, he made a journey, and wrote to contradict the calumny.
This brought on an inward hemorrhage, of which he died. Mr Armstrong
gave me the above account; adding, that there scarcely could be a more
humane man than Mr Ramsey. In the present state of my disorder, I am
equally afraid of eating and fasting. Debility threatens me on one hand
with the loss of power to repel the disease: and not improbably another
fit, every mouthful I swallow. Patience and cheerfulness, experience
tells me, are my best aids. I am patient, but cannot sufficiently
recollect myself, so as to assume that constant cheerfulness which pain
so frequently disturbs. This should be a temper of mind inculcated from
infancy.

_22nd._—The perseverance with which I endeavour to notice, and remember
my own sensations has occasioned Mr Armstrong to accuse me of being
subject to violent and false alarms. He is mistaken. The consciousness I
have of serenity, is too firm and permanent to be a deception; but I am
persuaded my cure must depend on a still stricter attention to facts.
Dr. Pitcairne came, prescribed, and again refused his fee. Mr Godwin
called, and Captain Johnson, an intelligent Scotch seaman, trading to
Bremen and Hamburg; says the Dutch are nearly as good sailors as the
English: as a proof, they, like the English, will navigate a small
trader with six hands, for which the French would require twelve, and
the Spaniards twenty; yet the navigation and work, are best done on
board the English and Dutch. Geiseveiller, Mrs. Shield, and T. and B.
Mercier, called.

OCTOBER _3rd._—I now mean to recommence my diary, which has been
interrupted by the disease so often before mentioned, on its coming to a
crisis, which was all but mortal.

Went to Debrett’s. Met B—— and Parry. Saw Emery and Mrs. Mills in second
and third acts of the Road to Ruin. Both have merit. Emery the most.
Second illumination night for Nelson’s victory. Passed through the mean
streets leading to the Seven Dials. The poor did not illuminate. I was
in a coach, being too weak to walk.

_4th._—Called on Carlisle. Visited P—— and bride; a woman of pleasing
manners and intelligent countenance. On return met J. Bannister and
Wathen. Dined at Kensington Gore with Mr and Mrs. B—— and J. Parry.

_5th._—Mr Attwood came by appointment, and received from me the score of
“When sharp is the frost, &c.” composed by me, but corrected by Mr
Shield for the opera of the Old Clothesman. Sent back the manuscript by
him to the theatre. Called on by J. Bannister.

_6th._—Six pints of sweet wine given me by J. Bannister.

_7th._—Music. Haydn. Fanny accompanied by Messrs. Watts and Mackenzie.
Mr Henry present. Dined at Turnham Green by invitation. Complaint of the
G—— family of the want of rational society. The villas of the place
having become the country houses of wealthy but ignorant town tradesmen.
Butchers, tailors, tallow-chandlers, &c. who make these their holiday
and Sunday seats. Message to N—— from G——, inviting communication, as
well as to dine, and further intercourse. Whimsical disputes of
half-drunken passengers in the coach, on my return, concerning, and
descriptive of Nelson’s victory. Each man, according to his own account,
minutely acquainted with all the occurrences.

_8th._—Called on N—— to deliver the message from G——. Apothecary at
Debrett’s affirms there are letters in town of Buonaparte taken with his
dispatches; particularly one to his wife, accusing the Directory of
having purposely betrayed him into an irretrievable situation of danger.
I learnt from Mr N——’s common-place book that it was on the 11th of
March, 1796, that he, Arthur O’Connor, Dr. Parr, (Bellendenus) Godwin,
Mackintosh, Opie, Powel (a young Oxonian brought by Parr), and Col. B——,
dined with me. I consider the meeting of so many celebrated as well as
extraordinary men, as an occurrence worthy of being remembered.

_9th._—Met Weld at Debrett’s, who congratulated me on my recovery in a
very friendly manner. Drank tea and sat part of the evening with Mr and
Mrs. Kemble (the father and mother of Mrs. Siddons.) She, except her
usual complaints of rheumatism, cheerful and conversable. We talked of
Hereford, Ludlow, Worcester races, Leominster, Bewdley, Bromsgrove,
Droitwich and Worcester again, as places I had played in while in the
Kemble company.

_10th._—Read the papers at Debrett’s. Weld asked Parson —— where
Buonaparte is at present? In India, past all doubt, was his answer. I
remarked that the parson had always been a fast, but fanciful traveller.

_11th._—The day rainy; played five games at billiards before dinner.
Went in the evening to see “Lovers’ Vows” played for the first time at
Covent Garden. Translated from the German by some retainer at court, as
Mrs. Inchbald told Mr Robinson, but corrected and altered by her. My
legs so swelled that I could only stay the first four acts; which at
times made me laugh, and cry heartily. Saw the Parrys at the theatre.
James, as usual, fastidious and dissatisfied.

_12th._—John Parry at Debrett’s, praised the whole play, including the
fifth act, of last night. B——, the miniature painter, with Bannister,
called: B—— saw my pictures, which he praised very much. Sold Bannister
the copy of Wilson for five guineas. Finished translating the first act
of Kotzebue’s Indian in England, which has employed me five or six days;
and as I intend essentially to alter the character of Samuel or Balaam,
more time will be employed in the revisal. This character has _keeping_
in the original but not enough of the _vis comica_.

_13th._—Walked to Brompton to return Mr S——’s call. Not at home. Back on
foot to Debrett’s: obliged to rest several times.

_14th._—Gave young Watts the letters of recommendation for the opera
band, to P—— and Salomon. Picture-dealer’s son, near Stratford-Place,
brought a little oval Wilson, bought of him by Bannister, to shew me.
The water enchantingly transparent, the sky scarcely less excellent, the
composition in itself trifling, but most happily contrived to produce
contrast. Bannister came soon after with another Wilson, which I think
doubtful, yet a charming picture if a copy. I mean as far as respects
the right hand part, the sky, and the distances. The figure seated is an
admirable thought, and no less admirably managed. The massy dark wood
(said to be Hornsey wood), appeared too lifeless for Wilson; and a
person who called afterwards with Mr Heath (I believe Corbould) said he
knew the original, of which this was a copy. The price of the two, the
picture-dealer told me, was fifteen pounds. Called with Bannister on
Wathen, and afterwards on J. Aickin, who is determined to resign.
Forebodings of bankruptcy, such trifles as wood and canvass not to be
had; yet three thousand guineas lately given for an estate. Cumberland
sent his Tiberius, which had been repeatedly refused, as a new play, to
the theatre. It was cheerfully received till the title was read, and
then immediately returned. A letter from C—— to Aickin, stated that it
was a mistake to suppose it the same Tiberius; it was no longer a
tragedy; and if magic, music, scenery, and dialogue, could interest an
audience, he had greater expectations from this, than from any piece he
had ever produced. It was the most laboured, the oftenest revised, and
the best written, of all his works. The letter concluded with an appeal
to posterity. B—— and K—— were invited to spend a week at the country
house of C——. B—— acknowledged he was partial to a good supper, and K——
the same. Of this article C—— was sparing. I suppose, gentlemen, said
he, you are no supper-eaters, a little bread and cheese and small beer
is all you take. Their false modesty and contrary wishes made them feel
awkward and look silly, but they confirmed him in his supposition. When
supper time came, the bread and cheese and small beer appeared. They
flattered themselves, however, that a bottle of wine would be the
successor. They were deceived: not a drop of wine was brought. Two or
three nights made them weary of this; and on one day, they announced
their intention of departing the next. If so, gentlemen, said the host,
I mean to give you a treat this evening before you leave me; and such a
treat! But I do not wish to anticipate. This put them in high spirits;
they imagined a couple of fowls, with good old port or madeira, would be
served up; and they had highly whetted their fancies with this
supposition. The evening came, and with it the treat. C—— approached
with a “now, gentlemen, you shall have it; you will find whether I keep
my word. Here it is. I suppose you have heard of it? Tiberius, I can
assure you the best of all my works.” So saying, he spread his
manuscript, and began to read. K—— without ceremony, fell asleep in the
first act. B—— with great difficulty listened through the second, when
the author luckily became tired of his task, either from the labour of
reading, or the drowsiness of his auditors.

_15th._—Walked out before noon, intending to proceed half way to
Hammersmith, and then take coach; but finding I had not motive enough to
overcome my weakness, turned back and went to the billiard table, where
I played an hour and a half. Such is the efficacy of having a motive.

_16th._—Nobody at Debrett’s. Finished translating the second act of the
Indians. Mr Carlisle called. I not at home.

_17th._—Called on Carlisle. Saw a picture of fish well painted, but
praised by him extravagantly.

_18th._—Walked to Debrett’s and King’s auction room. Saw Sturt, M.P. and
Parry, jun. Mr P—— called in the forenoon. Praised the passion and power
of language with which my tragedy, he says, is written.

_19th._—Finished translating the Indians. Called on Opie; saw his view
of St. Michael’s mount, a moon-light, the manner hard, but the scenery
and effects grand, and the composition good. A well painted portrait
likewise of Dr. A——. Went to Birch, saw a Berghem, as he said, but which
I doubt; a good picture. Walked from thence with Bannister, to Simpson’s
(picture cleaner). Saw the famous Niobe landscape by Wilson, and another
by him, lately bought of Sir William Beechy, which Sir William told me
was, according to Farrington’s account, partly the work of Wilson, and
partly of Farrington. Simpson angrily asserts Farrington never touched
the picture, and asks fifty guineas for it.

_20th._—Called on Sir Francis Bourgeois, saw the additional pictures of
Desenfans. He, as usual, spoke highly in praise of Kemble. Weld very
civil at Debrett’s. Billiards in the evening. Compton, auctioneer,
Moore, the attorney, another person, and Palmer, jun. author of the
epilogue to “Lovers’ Vows” came in. All extremely civil to me. When I
returned home, found Salomon, who accompanied Fanny with his usual
feeling and enthusiasm. Spoke in raptures of Haydn, which well accorded
with my own sentiments. Staid till one o’clock, and occasioned me to eat
too much supper. Promised to favour Watts, if in his power. Is desirous
of setting an English opera.

_21st._—Called on young Watts concerning the opera engagement. Saw Da
Vinci’s battle of the Standard by Edelinck; a proof at Edmonds’s,
upholsterer, cost him two guineas; cheap, I believe, at five. Saw Mrs.
Shield. After dinner, was above an hour walking with Fanny to the top of
Oxford-Street and back.

_22nd._—Wrote to Shield. Read the papers. Letter from Dr. Parry,
advising me against the Bath waters. Dined with Robinson. Thursday,
Robinson and myself are to exchange acquittances.

_23rd._—Called on Aickin. Debts accumulating, business neglected,
promises never kept. Hammersley’s receiving clerk in the treasury, the
whole in a state of disorder, yet the houses great. The Walkers, of
Manchester, ruined by the war and ministerial persecutions. Francis and
T—— at Debrett’s. The latter, as usual, sanguine in describing the
progress of Buonaparte, whom he conveys to India with great facility,
asserting, Egypt and the revolutionizing of crocodiles, were not the
objects of Buonaparte.

_24th._—Returned Mr Boaden’s call, and there saw a female portrait, said
to be by Leonardo da Vinci, but I think not, though an excellent old
picture. Met Banks, Weld, and Bosville, at Debrett’s.

_25th._—Called on Mr Compton, who advises no sale of effects till the
spring. Proceed daily, but slowly, in correcting the Indians. Papers at
Debrett’s. Robinson did not keep his appointment.

_26th._—Compton, auctioneer, called and looked at books and pictures.
Debrett’s. Wrote to Mr P——. His wife ill.

_27th._—Clementi called, but Fanny was out. Mr M—— called. He attends
the Old Bailey bar, from a desire to save the lives of the culprits.
Talked a little metaphysics. I read Pope’s character of Atticus to him.

_28th._—Called on ——, and conversed with Mr Buller on occult and final
causes. Saw Tobin’s brother. Two girls of the town, walking in Newman
Street, praised the goodness of God; and, as the weather had been very
rainy for some days, they hoped his goodness would extend itself to
render it fair all the next week, that they might walk the streets in
comfort. A man being tried for a capital offence at the Old Bailey; the
jury retired to consider of their verdict. The three principal witnesses
had been ordered out of court, after having given their testimony, but
stood in the passage at the door. The reward for convicting the man, as
usual, was forty pounds. The jury returned, and pronounced the fatal
sentence, Guilty. As soon as the sound reached these witnesses, they
jumped up, clapped their hands, and exclaimed to each other, Guilty!
Guilty! M—— was in court and witnessed the transaction.

_29th._—F——, jun. came to ask me to petition the proprietors of
Drury-Lane Theatre for a dresser’s place, for the wife of a door-keeper,
who had died suddenly, in the exercise of his office. I could not
comply, because of the very improper conduct of these proprietors in
refusing to notice the letters I wrote to them, when they ceased,
without any apparent cause, to play “Knave or Not?” But I agreed to
write a letter for the woman to copy in her own name.

_30th._—Wrote the letter; F—— having appointed to come for that purpose
at nine, was with me at ten. Young S——, and B——’s nephew, came in their
father’s name to ask for orders. Both families are rich, but I complied
and procured them. B—— and N——, M.P. being at Brighton, where Major R——
was, N—— praised the Major as a man of great information, his friend,
and one with whom B—— ought to be intimate. B—— said, they had met and
spoken, and as there could be no great harm, he would accompany N—— to
visit R——. They happened to meet him, and R—— presently took occasion to
tell N——, that, from the principles he professed, and the speeches he
had made in parliament, he could not but consider him as an enemy to his
king and country, he therefore desired they might have no more
intercourse. B—— laughed at N—— and his friend, but remarked the Major
was an honest man, for most people would have said as much when he was
absent, without the courage to declare such sentiments to his face.
Hare, St. John, and others, at Debrett’s.

_31st._—P—— and I had a dispute concerning Shakspeare. He asserted,
quoting Gray and Warton as his supporters, that the thing in which
Shakspeare excels all other writers, and in that only, is sudden bursts
of passion. I allowed he did excel other writers in this, as in almost
every other part of composition, but that he excelled them most in the
full flow of passion. I doubt I was abrupt and dogmatical, for he
appears to be a good-natured man; yet I could see he went away
displeased.

NOVEMBER _1st._—Met Weld and H—— at Debrett’s. Pitt met H—— on
horseback, the day on which it was determined to strike Fox’s name out
of the list of privy-counsellors, and made such strange faces at him,
that H—— went to Brookes’s and reported him mad; on which a person
present said, “that accounts for a strange speech, as I thought, of
Grenville, who affirmed, that while Pitt was in his present temper, he
would not see him, but in the presence of a third person.” The —— said
to be of the Orange party, and inimical to Cornwallis. Weld affirms,
that since London was a city, it never had such immense exports as at
this moment.

_2nd._—Wrote yesterday an apology to P——, for my warmth in dispute; and
received a very friendly and proper answer to-day.

_4th._—Music at Mr Mackenzie’s. Haydn’s symphony quintetto and Mozart:
both men of uncommon genius, but the latter impatient after novelty and
superior excellence, often forgets the flow of passion in laboriously
hunting after new thoughts which, when thus introduced, have the same
effect in music, as the _concetti_ of the Italians have in poetry; and
for these Mozart is frequently extolled as superior to Haydn.

_6th._—Went and settled with Mr Robinson, that is, I made over to him
the copies and copyright of “School for Arrogance,” “Deserted Daughter,”
“Man of Ten Thousand,” “Knave or Not,” “Hugh Trevor,” and “Anna St.
Ives,” in consideration of an acquittal of sums due to him, to the
amount of 340_l._, and a conditional promissory note on his part to pay
me 150_l._ more, when the copies and copy-right shall have realized to
him the sum of 504_l._ Procured a copy of the “School for Ingratitude,”
advertised by Bell gratis, that is, at the author’s expense; he being
angry, or rather, enraged at the plagiarism which he (falsely and
ridiculously) accuses Messrs. Sheridan and Richardson of committing, by
communicating his manuscript to Mr Reynolds to aid him in writing the
comedy of “Cheap Living.”

_7th._—Called on Carlisle. Conversed on the necessity of cultivating
youthful sports and habits in mature and advanced age. Bought books at
King’s. Met Harris, the manager, and soon after, Tierney, M.P.; both
congratulated me on my recovery.

_8th._—Read Walpole’s Painters.—Looked over and considered the scenes of
my new comedy, of which I have sketched about six. Papers at Debrett’s;
picture sale in Cloak-Lane. A walk altogether of about seven miles.
Copies and rubbish at the sale. Sent Robinson an advertisement of my
works, with an order to Symonds to deliver the Narrative, and Windham’s
letter.

_11th._—Called on, and conversed with Geiseveiller concerning his new
enterprise. Saw a proof of Duncan’s Victory, by Fittler, which I think
but indifferent. Went to, and conversed with, Aickin on the subject of
the Exiles. Kelly very desirous of having something of mine to set.
Aickin informed me that Tobin has written two dramatic pieces.

_12th._—Wrote to T——. Read the papers.

_14th._—Wrote two songs for the “Exiles,” the second of Balaam, and the
first of Harry. Dined on Monday with P——; Platonist Taylor, and D——
present. Taylor, intolerant and abusive to all who do not pretend to
understand and put faith in his Platonic jargon. Had he the power,
according to P——, he would bring every man of us to the stake. From my
own experience, P——’s description is scarcely exaggerated; but though a
bigot, Taylor is an honest one. D——, on the contrary, asked P—— whether
he had any principles? and when P—— expressed his surprise at such a
question, D—— declared he had none. Saw Dr. Towers at Debrett’s; his
democracy still maintains its violence; I should scarcely exceed if I
said its virulence. He asked me if the universal defection had not made
me turn aristocrat. I answered, that I supposed my principles to be
founded in truth, that is, in experience and fact: that I continued to
believe in the perfectibility of man, which the blunders and passions of
ignorance might apparently delay, but could not prevent; and that the
only change of opinion I had undergone was, that political revolutions
are not so well calculated to better man’s condition, as during a
certain period I, with almost all the thinking men in Europe, had been
led to suppose. The Doctor doubted man’s perfectibility; was more
inclined to think him a radical sinner; and said, as I held such
opinions, I was, no doubt, a Necessarian, to which I readily assented. I
do not know what connexion the Doctor found between perfectibility and
necessity; though such connexion does certainly exist. Among other
things I said, the best of us at present understood morality very
imperfectly: his sanctity took offence at the assertion, and he replied,
that some of us (meaning, no doubt, himself, and, perhaps, others who
hold his tenets) understood it in full perfection, at which I could only
smile and dissent.

_15th._—Saw pictures on show at Christie’s, a wretched collection. Met
H—— in the room to-day, and M—— yesterday; though both excel as
engravers, their remarks shewed they had but little judgment of
pictures; a circumstance I have had frequent occasion to observe in
engravers, and indeed in painters, though not perhaps so generally. ’Tis
seldom that a tolerable painter is not a good judge of the mechanical
defects or excellences of a picture. Read at Debrett’s, in the papers,
the manly behaviour of Tone, tried at Dublin, and cast for high-treason.
Johnson the bookseller sent to the King’s Bench Prison for selling
Wakefield’s pamphlet.

_16th._—Read the first act and part of the second of the Indian Exiles,
to Bannister; and am convinced, by the effect it produced upon him, that
it is much too dull for representation. I doubt how far it is worth the
trouble of alteration. Met Sir F—— B——, lately come to town, at
Debrett’s. He was very kind. Went to the picture-sale at Christie’s. The
stable-yards, asses, and pigs of Morland, as usual, fetched a good
price.

_17th._—M——l called, and, speaking on that subject, expressed his sorrow
and surprise that W—— should be acquainted with M——, whom M——l, like
most other people, considers as a very odd character. I mentioned what I
conceived to be artifice in the conduct of W—— as a public preacher.
M——l defended him against the charge, and gave me the following
information. The famous Dr. Franklin, the present Sir J—— B——, Dr.
Solander, Bentley, the partner of Wedgwood, and perhaps some few others,
were desirous of putting a plan, conceived by Franklin, into practice;
which was, to have a kind of chapel, or meeting-house, where all matters
of faith should be omitted, and pure morality taught. W——, at that time
a dissenting teacher from Wales, was fixed on as the preacher at this
new chapel, but at this period, Franklin was obliged to conceal himself
from Government on American affairs, and remained some days shut up in
the house of W——, who at that time was a teacher of youth. The scheme,
however, did not drop. A small chapel in Margaret-Street,
Cavendish-Square, was hired to these moralists at one part of the
Sunday, and to Methodists on the other. B—— and Solander acted with
great shyness, if not hypocrisy, and instead of countenancing W——, and
promoting the plan, they now and then peeped into the chapel, and got
away as fast as they decently could. Bentley and M——, the Member for
T——, were more open in their conduct, but Bentley and W—— disagreed,
because Bentley urged him to insist on the immortality of the soul, and
W—— replied he could and would teach no other doctrines than such as
agreed with the original plan. M——l attributed the failure of the plan
to this defection of B——, Solander, and Bentley, but here I think he is
mistaken. I attended this chapel myself, and became acquainted with W——,
whose manner was much too dry and cold, and his reasoning too confused
either to warm the passions, or sufficiently interest the understanding.
He afterwards saw me at the Sunday evening society, where discussion and
the reading of philosophical papers were the business of the meetings;
at these I read some papers, and my manner was so far animated, as to
induce W—— to propose to me that he and I should resume the plan of the
chapel, and be joint preachers, which I positively declined. Since this
time, we have met and spoke in the streets, but nothing more.

_18th._—Walked to Hampstead and dined with P——. He asked explanation of
various of the corrections I advised and had made with pencil-marks in
his tragedy. I had only gone through the four first acts, and he
requested I would revise the fifth. Speaking of Dr. G—— he said, that in
1792, it was his custom to declaim vehemently at the Stratford
coffee-house, in favour of republicanism; and finding the alarm that was
raised, and the tide turning, he soon after wrote in praise of the King,
of mixed monarchy, and of the peculiar happiness derived from it by the
English. The doctor had been tutor to Lord H——, for which an annuity was
settled on him of a hundred a year. About the time of his turning
royalist, Dr. —— died, and the place of ——, becoming vacant, G—— went to
Lord H——, who was intimate with Dundas; and proposed, if his lordship
would procure him this place, he would resign the annuity. The proposal
was accepted, the place procured, and the doctor’s loyalty and royalty
confirmed. Speaking of his literary talents, P—— joined with me in
thinking them rather below than above mediocrity. We differed in opinion
concerning the perfectibility of man, against which he quoted the
traditional and written authority of five thousand years, treating the
supposition with great contempt, and some degree of humourous ridicule.
According to him, men grow more corrupt so rapidly, that in his youthful
dealings with booksellers, &c., he met with nothing but open fairness,
and at present he is obliged to be continually on his guard against
cheating and chicanery. I could only answer, that for my own part, I
found no such general depravity to combat; and that granting it were so,
this was a narrow ground, belonging to temporary and local incident, by
which the great question could not be decided.

_20th._—Called on Sir Francis Burdett, who had just been reading in the
newspaper the King’s intended speech to-day, (which for some sessions
past has been published the morning before it is spoken) and eagerly
asked my opinion what he, as an honest member of Parliament, ought to
say, thinking it highly objectionable. I read it over, and pointed out
parts which I consider, some as vicious in principle, others false in
fact. He repeated the summary or skeleton of what he intended to say,
part of which was sound sense, and part a repetition of questions a
thousand times ineffectually asked. During the day, sketched the
beginning scene of Hobson and Dobson.

_21st._—Worked at my comedy. Fairfax and Curtail, Headlong and the
tradesmen, &c. Several politicians at Debrett’s, canvassing the King’s
speech, &c.

_22nd._—Met a political parson at Debrett’s, whose first recollection
was where he was to dine. Said that Brown, the Egyptian traveller,
affirmed Buonaparte is safe in Egypt, and that Egypt was alone the grand
object of the expedition. Received a friendly letter from Dr. Parry.

_23rd._—Sketched in part the scenes of Melford and Caroline, Caroline
and Fairfax, and Caroline and the wife of Norman. Think of rejecting the
idea of twin-sisters. A wicked recruiting hand-bill of Ireland,
published in to-day’s Chronicle. Spoke of it to General Hastings and
others. It excited universal abhorrence.

_24th._—Walked to S——’s, Paternoster-row, for the account between us,
which he sent in the evening, wishing me to deduct seventy-six of the
Narrative, and twelve of the Letter to Windham, which he pretends to
have been lost by the binder, and this since the last settling, during
which period the account states only three sold. Saw two or three good
pictures at Nodin’s, Leadenhall-street. Met Osmond, whom I had not seen
for some years. He remarked, I was much altered and broken. He was the
same to me. Time effects these changes, especially, as in my case, with
the addition of illness, in despite of the little wisdom we at present
possess. Conversed with Ward, the pugilist; a man who has been
remarkable for uncommon agility, as well as strength and courage; his
language illiterate, his countenance and manner vulgar, yet to a certain
degree pleasing, and his intellect remarkably quick. He was once so
famous at fives, that he beat every opponent, with right, left, or back
hand, by his extreme activity. He is now among the best players at
billiards. The method practised by pugilists, to bring themselves into
condition, as they term it, is air and exercise, regular hours, not more
than a pint of wine a-day, lean meat, especially beef, and fowls, with
few vegetables. This regimen may be instructive to persons wishing to
recover activity and strength. Met Jew K——, who from his conversation
and physiognomy, does not appear to grow more wise and placable, as he
grows older. Again invited me to renew my visits, which I do not intend,
and spoke of the frequency of those of G——, as I suspect, with
exaggeration. Soon afterwards, I was in some danger of being run over by
B—— D——, his son-in-law, driving a kept woman furiously in a curricle.
The coincidence of these rencontres was whimsical.

_25th._—Called on Stoddart, not at home. Received a letter from him
complaining of marked disrespect from me. Answered by truly denying any
such intentional behaviour. Godwin, Carlisle, and the two Tobins to
dinner, Stoddart came in the evening. Carlisle spoke of a woman who had
been five-and-twenty years in bed, from a cancerous disease, and who is
still living.

_26th._—Saw J. Robinson, Sir Francis Burdett, and Este, at Debrett’s. It
is said, in a newspaper, that Kotzebue is imprisoned by the Imperial
Government, for his democratic principles. Mr Aspin, who printed
Fenwick’s pamphlet on Coigley, called.

_27th._—T. North, Lord Thanet, &c. at Debrett’s. The ravages of the
yellow fever at Philadelphia and New York, detailed in to-day’s
Chronicle. Courtney says, he lately read in one of Dr. Franklin’s
letters, a passage where the doctor foretold epidemical diseases, if
draining and cleanliness were not more carefully practised.

_28th._—Called to settle with S——, reminded him that the preface I
wrote, and the proofs I read for him, while a prisoner with him in
Newgate, had I charged them, if charged at twelve guineas, would not
have been more than a third of the value of my time, yet I had charged
nothing, nor should, unless he contested a fair account. This induced
him immediately to allow the balance due on the sale of my books. Papers
at Debrett’s. On Thursday the 22nd, Fanny met the Miss Harts, drinking
tea with Miss Banks; they are the daughters of Horne Tooke. Horne Tooke
takes some pleasure in praising his daughters, which he sometimes does
by those equivocatory falsehoods, which are one of his principal
pleasures. Of the eldest, he says, “all the beer brewed in this house is
of that young lady’s brewing.” It would be equally true were he to say,
all the hogs killed in this house are of that young lady’s killing, for
they brew no beer. When a member of the Constitutional Society, I have
frequently heard him utter sentences, the first part of which would have
subjected him to death, by the law, but for the salvo that followed; and
the more violent they were, thus contrasted and equivocatory, the
greater was his delight.

_30th._—P—— to dinner. Manuscript letters of James I., Prince Henry, &c.
in the Museum. P—— had been reading them, says the character in which
they are written, is uncommonly beautiful; and that many of them
addressed to Prince Henry, were from projectors and improvers with which
that time abounded. Henry delighted in patronizing and encouraging them.
P—— of opinion that the high character given of Henry, was well
deserved.

DECEMBER _5th._—Saw Cumberland’s Word for Nature first time, was much
pleased. He too often unravels his whole fable, which is slight enough,
in the first or second acts. In this, some little suspense is preserved,
and very much of those generous feelings, which interest while they
improve. His usual self-conceit was exceedingly prominent in the
prologue, and sufficiently so in the play. The epilogue was an
incongruous farrago, and took away much of the pleasant feeling the
piece had left. It likewise was egotistical. In the dialogue, he was
guilty of his common fault, a repeated play upon words, little better
than quibbling; and though not held in so much contempt, inferior
perhaps to punning, of which it is but a meagre species. His characters
of the termagant wife, hen-pecked husband, and old officer, are
repetitions of himself: that is, of Ironsides, with Sir Benjamin and
Lady Dove, in the Brothers; except that in the Brothers, if I remember
rightly, the three characters are much better drawn. The chief, and
almost the sole merit of the present comedy centers in the youth
Leonard, to whom all the rest are very properly made subservient
adjuncts. In this comedy, as in the Wheel of Fortune, there are some few
impertinent excrescences. These two pieces, however, have more of
wholeness and simplicity in the fable, than most others in the English
language, of those at least that, because of their insipidity, are not
forgotten. These are the thoughts that occur after having once seen the
comedy. Perhaps when I read and consider it more attentively, I may
correct or alter my opinion. It was received.

_6th._—The papers to-day have been less favourable in the account given
of Cumberland’s comedy, than I supposed they would have been.

_7th._—Coming from Debrett’s, I met S——, who likewise spoke unfavourably
of Cumberland’s comedy.

_8th._—Call from Mrs ——. She was much affected at being told by a
tailor, who works for Mr ——, that my amanuensis had reported my opinion
of Mr —— to be, that he was not a man of principle. I replied, that if I
had ever conveyed a thought to my amanuensis which might be so
interpreted, it was, when dictating this diary, the contents of which I
supposed he would have regarded as sacred, and not have repeated to the
disturbance of any person named in it. I added, that the diary was
intended as a memorandum of my present conduct, opinions, and
intercourse, and to serve in future, as a depository of facts, which
both I and others might wish should be preserved. Many of them must
doubtless be trifling, others may turn to use, and that this end is
desirable in our most insignificant actions. I told her that if by the
word unprincipled, any planned intention to defraud was understood, I
never had expressed such an opinion of Mr ——, because I had no such
opinion; though his conduct was reprehensible, yet I was satisfied his
intentions were honest and kind. The assessed taxes the chief subject of
conversation now at Debrett’s. There was yesterday in the Chronicle,
what was called “a scale,” stating, as is the case, according to the
proposed bill, that a man of five-hundred a year landed property, which
will sell for (say) twenty thousand pounds, during his life, or leave
five-hundred a year to his descendants, is to pay fifty pounds per annum
assessment. That a man of five-hundred a year annuity, which will sell
for only a small part of that sum, and, if not sold, leave nothing to
descendants, must pay the same. And lastly, that a man making
five-hundred a year by his profession, which during life, will sell for
nothing, and leave nothing at his death, must still pay fifty pounds
annual assessment. Went with Fanny and Mrs. and Miss B—— to
Covent-Garden, to a new comedy performed there, written by Reynolds,
called “Laugh when you Can.” A strange mixture it would be to compare
it, as a whole, with Cumberland’s, yet it has sallies of humour, which
Cumberland cannot reach, and will probably have a temporary popularity.

_9th._—Called on C—— who shewed me a plan for a new school of anatomy.

_11th._—Saw P—— at Debrett’s, told him my intention to go abroad.

_12th._—Mr H—— at Debrett’s remarked that Canning’s fine speech in the
House of Commons, was rather a reply to what Canning supposed Tierney
would have said, than to what Tierney did say.

_13th._—At Debrett’s, Weld rallied Tarleton on his approaching marriage,
and military appointment. Spoke with me concerning Sheridan’s opera.
T——r having quarrelled with S——, swore he would never be friends again;
for he never pulled off his hat to him in the street, but it cost him
fifty pounds, and if he trusted himself in the same room, a hundred. S——
still supposed to be concerned in the Haymarket. At Opie’s in the
evening. Northcote present. Northcote animated, as usual. Related a
comic conversation between himself and a framemaker, who had never heard
the name of Northcote, nor noticed it in the prints he had framed,
though he remembered the names of Sir Joshua Reynolds, West, Opie, &c.
After supper, stories of terror were related.

One, of a lady waked from sleep, who suffered her lap-dog to lie at the
foot of her bed, and feeling something move, bid the dog lie still, at
the same time stretching out her arm, to feel him; but instead of a
lap-dog, took hold of a hand. When a voice bid her lie still, make no
noise, but deliver her keys. The lady was a woman of courage, and
immediately complied, only requesting her daughter might not be
disturbed, who was sleeping by her side. She however was mistaken, the
daughter had heard the thieves, had risen, slipped on a night-dress, and
stealing into another room, gave the alarm, by which the thieves were
secured.

Another of a bigotted old lady, who seeing thieves enter her apartment
with lights, at midnight, exclaimed to her maid who lay in the same
room, “Lie still Betty, for now we shall see the salvation of the Lord!”
imagining it was a celestial apparition. The thieves however, were
driven away by the fury of a poor man, maintained out of charity, who
was half an idiot; and who, after the exploit, was made drunk every day,
when he went to Plymouth, with drams given him by people, who bribed him
to tell the story.

A third, of a gentleman, that having put out his candle, going to bed,
read in blazing characters on his curtains, “Confess thy sins, this
night thy soul shall be required of thee.” On which the gentleman fell
on his knees, and, as directed, began to confess his sins aloud: not
from terror, but aware it was a trick, meant to terrify him, by a
waggish young lady; and hearing a little bustle on the stairhead, truly
supposed that she, and others, were there listening. He confessed as the
last and greatest of his sins, that he had seduced the young lady; and,
if that might be pardoned him, he would never again be so heinously
guilty. The joke was understood, and of course, the lady laughed at,
instead of the gentleman.

A fourth, of a cook-maid left alone in a country-house, which was
attacked by several thieves on the night when she was sitting up,
waiting the arrival of the family. The detail of this story ——, who told
it, did not know, except that the fears and courage of the girl being
inflamed, finding them to be thieves, and that they were making their
way, by widening the aperture of the kitchen gutter, she took up a
cleaver, and killed the first man that was creeping forward, then
dragged the body away, imitated his voice, encouraged a second to come
in, killed him, and thus destroyed them all; after which, growing
frantic, she lighted up every room, smeared herself with blood,
brandished her dreadful weapon, and was found marching about the house,
and to and from the dead bodies, by the family, who coming home in the
middle of the night, were amazed at the lights from the windows first,
and much more afterwards, when they beheld the scene within.

I am here reminded of a tragical story told me by the late Mrs. P——,
with the hero of which she was personally acquainted, having, while a
child, seen him daily. One Alexander —— of Aberdeen, had seduced a
pretty girl, who was pregnant by him. This girl, and one or two others,
had risen at two o’clock to wash. While they were at their work, a
whistle was heard, and the girl said “that is Sandy, I will go and speak
to him.” She said this with a kind of wildness and terror in her look,
and was persuaded not to go: but she said she must and would, come of it
what might, as if herself foreboding some ill. She could not be
withheld; but going, said, perhaps she should soon be back. The night
passed away, however, and instead of returning, if I remember rightly,
she was never seen more: though her lover remained for some time in the
place, till suspicion became so loud, that he thought proper to go
abroad: for there was no proof to detain him, as no one could swear to a
whistle, or knew what was become of the girl. After a lapse of years, he
returned rich, but always deeply melancholy, and loving to be alone.
This behaviour revived the memory of past events, and he was universally
shunned, except by children, to whom he was particularly kind, and who
therefore frequently played with him, and partook of the good things he
gave them.

Discoursing at Opie’s on the effects of terror, Northcote related, that
two of his brothers were sitting by the fire, and as one of them slept,
the other, by way of experiment, when he saw him about to wake, sat
motionless, without appearing to breathe, and his eyes fixed on one
object. The brother who had been asleep, watched him as long as his
patience could hold, and then spoke, but received no answer. He spoke
again and again, but still the same fixed, motionless, and as he began
to dread, lifeless figure, sat before him. He was not a timid man, and
the absurd joke ended without any bad consequences. But the picture
which he afterwards gave of his own terror, was a strong one. N. also
told the following story. A gentleman, followed by a servant in livery,
rode into an inn in the West of England, one evening a little before
dusk. He told the landlord that he should be detained by business in
that part of the country for a few days, and wished to know if there
were any amusements going on in the town to fill up the intervals of his
time. The landlord replied, that it was their race and assize week, and
that he would therefore be at no loss to pass away the time. On the
gentleman’s making answer, that this was lucky, for that he was fond of
seeing trials, the other said, that a very interesting trial for a
robbery would come on the next day, on which people’s opinions were much
divided, the evidence being very strong against the prisoner; but he
himself persisting resolutely in declaring that he was in a distant part
of the kingdom at the time the robbery was committed. His guest
manifested considerable curiosity to hear the trial; but as the court
would probably be crowded, expressed some doubt of getting a place. The
landlord told him, that there could be no difficulty in a gentleman of
his appearance getting a place; but that, to prevent any accident, he
would himself go with him, and speak to one of the beadles. Accordingly
they went into court the next morning, and the gentleman was shewn to a
seat on the bench. Presently after, the trial began. While the evidence
was giving against him, the prisoner had remained with his eyes fixed on
the ground, seemingly very much depressed; till being called on for his
defence, he looked up, and seeing the stranger, he suddenly fainted
away. This excited some surprise, and it seemed at first like a trick to
gain time. As soon as he came to himself, on being asked by the judge
the cause of his behaviour, he said, Oh, my lord, I see a person that
can save my life; that gentleman (pointing to the stranger) can prove I
am innocent, might I only have leave to put a few questions to him. The
eyes of the whole court were now turned on the gentleman, who said he
felt himself in a very awkward situation to be so called upon, as [he]
did not remember ever to have seen the man before, but that he would
answer any question that was asked him. Well then, said the man, don’t
you remember landing at Dover at such a time? To this the gentleman
answered, that he had landed at Dover, not long before, but that he
could not tell whether it was on the day he mentioned or not. Well, said
he, but don’t you recollect that a person in a blue jacket and trowsers
carried your trunk to the inn? To this he answered, that of course some
person had carried his trunk for him; but that he did not know what
dress he wore. But, said the prisoner, don’t you remember that the
person, who went with you from the boat, told you a story of his being
in the service, that he thought himself an ill-used man, and that he
shewed you a scar he had on one side of his forehead? During this last
question, the countenance of the stranger underwent a considerable
change, he said he certainly did recollect such a circumstance, and on
the man’s putting his hair aside, and shewing the scar, he became quite
sure that he was the same person. A buzz of satisfaction now ran through
the court, for the day on which, according to the prisoner’s account,
this gentleman had met with him at Dover, was the same on which he was
charged with the robbery in a remote county. The stranger however could
not be certain of the time, but said that he sometimes made memorandums
of dates in his pocket-book, and might possibly have done so on this
occasion. On turning to his pocket-book, he found a memorandum of the
time he landed from Calais, which corresponded with the prisoner’s
assertion. This being the only circumstance necessary to prove the
_alibi_, the prisoner was immediately acquitted, amidst the applause and
congratulations of the whole court.—Within less than a month after this,
the gentleman who came to the Inn, attended by a servant in livery, the
servant who followed him, and the prisoner who had been acquitted, were
all three brought back together to the same gaol, for robbing the mail.

_14th._—The assassination of Buonaparte, the subject at Debrett’s.

_15th._—Met Arthur B——, who disbelieves the assassination of Buonaparte.
It was much questioned at Debrett’s. T—— loud, in asserting it was
impossible that a general officer, surrounded by his staff, should be
massacred. Tarleton already imagines himself and his staff, in P——. B——
remarked to me on the triumphant tone of the ministry, and their
creatures, in announcing this intelligence. It is true enough, but party
spirit never yet had understanding.

_16th._—Walked with Tobin into the Park. Met various persons; among
others, S——, the surgeon, as flighty and whimsical as usual. He walked
with us; dropped us; then came up again; met another acquaintance,
stopped with him, was presently with us again; and after first saying I
was a deep observer of men and manners, asked me of what profession was
the man he met. I had scarcely seen the man’s face, and, cutting
Addison’s joke, desired him to give me the red hot poker out of his
pocket, that I might swallow it as a first proof of my skill. He then
said the man was a dentist. I replied, I was about to guess he was a
Doctor, and should have been tolerably near the mark. Tobin tells me Dr.
Beddoes is again going to lecture at Bristol on health and its
preservation, that he hates physicians, that physicians hate him, and
that he wishes to teach each man to be the guardian of his own health.
Thomas Wedgewood, Tobin says, is so afflicted with bad digestion, that
he is obliged to take several hours’ strong exercise every day. Shooting
and turning are part of his amusements. Metaphysics, the study he most
delighted in. I told Tobin I wished for a school of health, one
principal branch of which should be exercise, and its proper direction,
tending to move the limbs and muscles in all modes, by running,
stooping, &c., and that social games, which should powerfully stimulate,
ought to be practised; bowls, trap-ball, &c., in fine weather.
Billiards, marbles, and whatever would engage the attention, and give
variety of action, should be studied. I mentioned the above as those
that first occurred to the memory. Parkinson, jun., a good mineralogist.
His father was offered twelve thousand pounds, and the title of Baron
for his son, by a German Prince (of Hesse, I believe), for the Leverian
Museum. It is intended to remove this museum into Bond-street, make
scientific arrangements, &c., and exhibit it at half-a-crown, or by
annual tickets. At present it does not quite pay the interest of the
money. Parkinson, sen., a lawyer, acting chiefly as steward to various
persons. Much talk with Tobin, concerning some manuscript pieces written
by his brother, and not a little praised by him. Stoddart and Clementi
to dinner. Read a scene from Lillo’s “Fatal Curiosity” to them. Agnes
and Wilmot concerting the murder. Critical remarks by S—— on the
language. Called on N——, who mentioned an attack made on him by T——,
editor of a magazine, meant to rival his Journal. The attack ignorant
and artful. I advised either a perfectly good-tempered reply, or
silence.

_17th._—Walked to Westminster, to inquire concerning the picture of
Angelica and Medora, but could not find Mr Bates. Unexpectedly met
Colonel Barry at Debrett’s, just come to town. Lord Wycombe, speaking of
Lord Cornwallis, says, “no man is more open in discussing any question,
political, or appertaining to government, except such as relate
immediately to his own office, and then, no man more close.” G—— related
of one B——, a gambler and famous billiard-player, that he was now in
total discredit, after having lived in a very high style; to support
which, he had been guilty of many notorious gambling frauds. He and one
Captain —— met one evening at billiards, and played a long rubber for
50_l._, which B—— easily won. The Captain said he had no more money
then, but would come the next night, and play him for his own sum, for
he was still convinced he was the better player. The appointment was
made, and all the gamblers and sporting people, who heard of it, flocked
to the place. Bets to a large amount were laid every game; the Captain
won, and emptied most of the spectators’ pockets: but the match was not
finished, for he and B—— quarrelled, abused each other in very gross
language, pretended to strike at each other with their cues, but avoided
the blows by dodging, and separated in an apparently extreme heat. A
person, however, who had been betting, happening to pass toward
Berkeley-square, saw B—— and the Captain, under the wall of Lansdown
House, dividing the banknotes and money of which they had robbed the
bettors. B—— was dealer to one ——, who kept a faro table; and three
nights successively, a man came in towards the close of the play, staked
a large sum on the card, and won it, to the total amount of two thousand
pounds. He made a fourth attempt, but was refused by the tablekeeper.
B—— was suspected, and discharged; and was soon after seen dining at the
tavern on Richmond-Hill, with the man who had won the two thousand
pounds. Gamblers speak with most acrimonious rancour against those of
their own set who betray them. They delight in conspiring against all
the world besides: but bestow the epithets, thief, robber, rascal, &c.
most plentifully when betrayed by one of themselves.

_18th._—Conversed with E—— at Debrett’s concerning L——, who was left
joint patentee of Drury-Lane theatre, with landed property, houses, &c.
of twelve hundred a year, or more. Married a green-woman’s daughter
because she was tall; himself above six feet: and, in a very short time,
was little better than a beggar; yet never made any figure, even as a
spendthrift. He had last night a benefit at the little theatre in the
Haymarket, a poor house.

_19th._—Breton at Debrett’s, spoke of the tricks of Smithfield salesmen.
He sent thirty head of cattle to market, came himself, unknown to the
salesman, and watched his proceedings; a number, twelve I think, of bad
cows were added to his thirty fat bullocks; the whole sold together, and
he paid the average price; but made the salesman refund. Farmers are not
allowed to sell for themselves, they must employ salesmen.

_20th._—Mr H—— observed, that the ship, Orient, had been the evil genius
of the squadron of Brueys. It had prevented the going into the inner
harbour. It would not suffer the squadron to anchor in very shallow
water, and by blowing up in the battle did every kind of mischief.

_21st._—Conversed with Erskine, Sir Francis Burdett, R. Adair, Courtney,
Este, and Weld. Erskine of opinion it was wrong to give up agitating the
question of reform without doors, i.e. out of the House of Commons. He
had before remarked that the people had lost all spirit, which I denied,
and, on this occasion, reminded him that the leaders of the people had
abandoned them in a cowardly manner, and then had called the people
cowards. Sir Francis Burdett is inquiring into the number of persons
imprisoned on suspicion, and their treatment, meaning to state the
particulars to Parliament. Erskine, as a lawyer, has great talents,
quick conceptions, acute feelings, and uncommon power over juries; but
as a man of grand plans, and inflexible principles, he is far from
ranking in the first class. I this day completed my 53rd year.

_23d._—Called on Sir William Beechey, who has lately given a delicacy of
tint and reflected lights to the shaded side of his faces, which I think
admirable; and, as far as my knowledge goes, peculiar to himself. He
related the following anecdote of Serres, the ship painter. Serres took
a picture or pictures of shipping, from England to the King of France,
painted to commemorate some naval exploit of the French, and invited
connoisseurs and artists to see his performance. Among the rest was the
famous Vernet. Serres waited some time after Vernet had looked at the
picture, till he became impatient to hear his opinion, hoping for
praise, and fearing lest it should not be bestowed. “How do you like my
picture,” said he, “Mr Vernet?” “Upon my word, Sir,” replied Vernet,
“you paint ropes exceedingly well.” Nothing could be more satirical, or
better mark the genius of the two men, than this reply. Vernet, like a
man of genius, painted nature at large, and suggested her minutiae, but
never gave them in detail. Serres was incapable of any thing but detail,
in which he was uncommonly accurate. Serres thought he revenged himself
on Vernet, by damning him for a fool, that had never known how to paint
a ship, which, in his sense, was true enough. He could not paint every
shroud, rope, and tackle, &c. all which Serres had laboriously studied.

_24th._—Mr—— M.P. related an incredible anecdote of the Prince of
Sicily; the present prince royal, if I do not mistake: that, being
betrothed to an archduchess of Austria, and, as they could not meet,
Germany, &c. being overrun by the French, being married by proxy, eight
months after the marriage, he ordered his attendants to provide
child-bed linen; supposing she must be brought to bed in a month, though
he had never seen her. I said it was incredible, and he answered it was
seriously asserted as a fact.

_25th._—Mr C—— surprised me much by a very liberal and friendly offer of
the loan of two or three hundred pounds; thinking it might be want of
money that induced me to sell my effects and go abroad. I answered, one
motive was, that of being already in debt to persons who never reminded
me of it, which I could endure no longer, much less to incur fresh
obligations of the same kind; but that his offer was a strong testimony
of the goodness of his own heart. That I was likewise desirous of
familiarizing myself and my daughter, with the true idiom of foreign
languages, and the manners of the people; also of reducing my expenses,
and of absenting myself till certain prejudices in the public mind,
respecting me, should subside.

_26th._—Sent the three first acts of the “Lawyer” to Mr Harris. Walked
with B——r to see P——, whose hands are excessively burned by
extinguishing fire, which had caught his wife’s clothes, and must
certainly have burned her to death. His resolution was considerable.
When the wife of B——r was sitting for her picture, B—— related the
following anecdote. At the time of the last procession, he was painting
K. G. who asked if he intended to see the sight, B—— answered in the
affirmative. “It will be very fine, B——, very fine.” The day after, when
sitting, he again said, “Well, B——, did you see the procession, B——?”
The painter answered he had. “How did you like it, B——? How did you like
it?” “Exceedingly.” “Had you a good sight, B——?” “A very good one. I saw
it from a one pair of stairs, on the top of Ludgate Hill.” “That must
have been very fine, very fine indeed, B——. I wish I had been in your
place. I should like to have seen it myself. But I could see nothing but
the back of the coachman.” Went to “the Jew and the Doctor” in the
evening, which is a tolerably good farce.

_27th._—Mr —— at Debrett’s, wished the Orange men of Ireland might raise
another rebellion, and be all cut off and totally destroyed. Such is the
miserably vicious state of the minds of the two opposite parties.
Nothing will satisfy either, but the extirpation and blood of their
opponents. Dined with Mr F——. A Mrs. Remorande came to consult him on
law business. Her husband, an Irish officer, in the French service, was
guillotined by Robespierre; and she, finding means to secrete five
hundred pounds, remitted the money to England. The person afterwards
refused payment. She employed an attorney, and was told by another, one
M——, the first intended to cheat her; and prevailed on her to let him
continue the suit. She complied, and he soon obtained the money; but
instead of receiving it, as she expected, an information was laid
against her, and she was taken on suspicion before the Duke of Portland.
Her story being heard, the villainous artifice of M—— was seen through,
and she was released. He used fresh endeavours, and she was taken before
the Westminster justices; but again set free. M—— had given
instructions, in his own hand-writing, to his servant, how to proceed in
accusing her. These were obtained: he was prosecuted, and promised, if
they would stop proceedings, the money should be repaid. Her counsel
incautiously took his word; and as it was a criminal prosecution, when
it was dropped, he was no longer in danger, and mocked their credulity.
He was arrested, however, for the debt, and put in the Fleet prison,
where he now lies. This woman’s story in France was still more
remarkable. The outlines of it were these. The papers announcing her
husband’s death had arrived, and the tragedy was generally known to the
inhabitants of St. Omer’s, but not to her. The people around her were
afraid to tell her of it. She is a woman of quick faculties, observed
something remarkably unusual, gloomy, and strange in their countenances,
and could not conceive the reason. One of them advised her to go to the
play, because she was in need of amusement. This ridiculous advice she
innocently followed; and her acquaintance at the play were so astonished
at the indecency of such conduct, that she came away uncommonly agitated
by behaviour she thought so affronting. Still she found the same
mournful faces, and at last conjured some of them in God’s name, to tell
her what was the matter. One advised her, if she had any property, to
secure it, for she was in danger. This alarmed her suspicions concerning
the true cause, and they were confirmed by another, who answered her
next question, by replying, “_il est parti_, he is gone.” The famous
tyrant, Le Bon, soon afterward came to Saint Omer’s. Her person was
seized; her property confiscated; her two children were torn from her;
and she was ordered to prison. In the delirium of her distress, she
braved this demon, called him _Scelerat_, and said, though he aimed at
her life, she should live to see him cut off for his crimes. She was
removed, however, to Amiens, among persons who were soon to be
sacrificed, and her hair was shorn for that purpose. But at this period,
Robespierre himself fell; she escaped; and, by an odd coincidence of
circumstances, when Le Bon was on his trial, she happened to come to the
town where he was tried, went to the court to see the man who had done
her so much mischief, and entered it (he being on his defence) at the
moment he was describing the fury with which she had resisted what he
called the execution of the law. She instantly mounted on a seat; shewed
herself to the court; and called, in the most impressive manner, to be
heard. The judge was proceeding to commit her for disturbing the
proceedings, till she announced her name, and the court then listened to
her with the utmost attention. The impression she made was so great,
that Le Bon sunk dejected, and offered no further defence to that
charge. She supposes him to have been a man as extraordinary for his
abilities, as for his cruelty and rapaciousness. Mr Martinet, an
emigrant, came to tea. In one respect, his was a similar story. He had
taught French, with great reputation, in the university of Cambridge,
where he had never agitated or concerned himself with political
questions, yet an information being laid against him, he was ordered out
of the kingdom. In consequence of letters written by noblemen, divines,
and respectable men of all parties, this order was revoked; but he is
not permitted to teach in Cambridge, consequently he has lost an income,
which he had established by his abilities, of between one and two
hundred a year.

_28th._—Met Sir L—— C—— at Debrett’s, and spoke to him to recommend
N——’s academy. Was pleased with Pulteney’s speech against the Income
bill. Mr G. Dyer drank tea with us, and told me of poems well written by
Lord Holland. Imitations of Juvenal, one of them called Secession, in
praise of his uncle, Charles Fox. B—— asserted two people had perished
by the frost in the prison, nick-named the Bastille. Sir L—— C—— agreed
with me in disapproving Tierney’s motion against the Editor of the
Times.

_29th._—Letter from Harris refusing to accept bills for me. Wrote in
answer. Informed Courtney of B——’s story; he had heard it of one person
starved, but with aggravating circumstances that render it incredible.

_30th._—Met Tierney coming from the park, and Tobin, jun.

_31st._—Letter from Harris. Spoke to Lord Holland, requesting him to
promote Mr N——’s plan for an intended academy, which he promised to do.

1799.

JANUARY _1st._—Lord Wycombe at Debrett’s. Conversed with him yesterday
on the Orleans gallery; and with Courtney on the subject of solitary
confinement. Northcote present. Conversation chiefly on the
perfectibility of man, Shakspeare, and painting.

_2nd._—Mr Harris called, and proposes to put the comedy in rehearsal
nearly as soon as it is finished. Contended with Lord H—— at Debrett’s,
against precedents, and in favour of the patriotism of the people; which
points he did not obstinately maintain. Spoke with P—— on the subject of
the “Lawyer.” Every body speaks ill of Boaden’s play, Aurelio and
Miranda, first performed on Saturday, the 29th ult. at Drury Lane
Theatre. Dined with Tobin in Barnard’s Inn, No. 7, his brother, Mr W——,
and E——. The discourse on Christianity, causation, &c. and politics. T——
one of those who defend the present tyranny of the French Government;
from the enthusiasm with which they admired the late struggles of the
nation for freedom.

_3rd._—Mr C—— brought me a hundred pounds as a loan. Seems very desirous
I should not quit the kingdom. Accepted a draft for ninety pounds, at
two months, drawn by Birch, for a Teniers and other pictures. Had a
dispute with Weld concerning the frost of 1789 and that of 1795. I was
wrong. Weld jocularly accused me of the trouble I took to have myself
hanged; alluding to my surrendering myself when indicted for
high-treason, though my prosecutors seemed unwilling to take me into
custody.

_4th._—Mr Martinet, a French emigrant, called for the first time, the
gentleman mentioned on the 27th ult. Billiards with a stranger. One G——
was at play in the morning, with a youth of the name of Frazer, and
played barefacedly ill, to encourage him, meaning no doubt to lead him
on and plunder him.

_5th._—E—— at Debrett’s. He used to be stiff and distant with me, he now
seems to make it a point of being familiar. A great, and not an ill
talker, little depth of thought, but much florid description. Sometimes
with a happy poetic word. Weld, in conversation with me, gave a high
character of Lord H——, in which, I think, there was little, if any
exaggeration. His speech to the Lords against the suspension of the
Habeas Corpus, as reported by the newspapers, has great and solid merit.
His delivery, I fear, is not very impressive. I likewise fear he has not
sufficient vehemence of feeling to become a man of genius. G—— has again
been at play with young Frazer, and to-day thought proper to win a few
games. The match is to be continued on Monday.

_6th._—After writing the last, and chief scene in my comedy, yesterday
and this morning, part of it from notes, but chiefly the labour of the
two days, I walked with Fanny, and Louisa Mercier, into the park, where,
though it was a quick thaw, numbers were skaiting; and had the day been
clear, the morning picture would have been amusing. Met General M——, had
a salute; a nod from Lord R. S—— on horseback.

_7th._—Again transcribed, with additions and corrections, the last
scene. Lord Holland, General Maitland, Mr Weld, Mr Hare, the Duke of
Bedford, &c. at Debrett’s. The hardships of the income bill discussed.

_8th._—Wrote the first scene of the fifth act, the substance of which I
had in my memory; and had the whole act transcribed, and the comedy sent
to Mr Harris. Saw P—— at Debrett’s, and spoke to him of my intended
Epilogue.

_9th._—Harris called about three o’clock, much satisfied with the
comedy, but advising some curtailments and slight alterations.

_10th._—Wrote to Harris concerning the proposed alterations.

_11th._—Made alterations in the Tradesman-scene, and returned the comedy
to Harris, that Lewis might read Headlong before I curtail the
Bailiff-scene in the third act. [This comedy came out at Drury Lane
(much altered) in 1803, ran eleven nights, ill performed, and entitled,
“Hear both Sides.” June, 1808.]

_12th._—Went with Fanny and Louisa to Holman’s new comedy, first time,
“The Votary of Wealth,” a piece in which there is much to blame, and but
little to commend. Heard Mrs. Atkins in the first act of Rosina. M. Le
F—— and his wife in the same box; he pretended to regret we each had
visited when the other was not at home, and to wish a more intimate
acquaintance, but I doubt his sincerity. He is a man of the world, and
his world has not been of the purest kind.

_13th._—Called on P——, who read me quotations made by Belsham from
Davenant, something like miraculously picturing the political state and
government of the kingdom, though written, I believe, at the beginning
of this century. Left the manuscript of “the Lawyer” with him to read.
Called on M. Martinet—not at home, and on Mr Nicholson. Mr Godwin
brought my manuscript with further remarks, of the same temper and
complexion as his first: on which subject, as nearly as I can recollect,
we had the following conversation.—H. “The first part of your criticism,
which I have read, has, I own, both pained and surprised me. When you
brought your tragedy to me, you gave a minute detail of the rules I was
to observe in criticising your work, that you might properly benefit by
my remarks, which rules you have not yourself in the least attended to.
One of the first of them was, not to find fault in such an absolute and
wholesale style, as might at once kill your ardour, and make you, if not
disgusted with your work, yet so doubtful, as at once to damp all
farther progress. Yet, having read mine, you come with a sledge hammer
of criticism, describe it as absolutely contemptible, tell me it must be
damned, or, if it should escape, that it cannot survive five nights,
that the characters and plot are but transcripts of myself, and that
every body will say it is the garrulity of an old man. I am well aware
that the judgment of an author, on a work of his own, which he has
lately finished, is extremely fallible; but a judgment he has, and must
have, and I am firmly persuaded that this comedy (meaning ‘the Lawyer’)
contains some of the strongest writing I have ever produced, and I stake
my judgment, as far as the judgment of an author, under the
circumstances I have described, can be staked, that instead of being
damned, it will meet with no inconsiderable applause.”—G. “I thought it
my duty to speak my thoughts plainly. The opinion I have delivered, I
delivered coolly, after due reflection, and I was desirous you should
understand perfectly what my feelings were. My language was unqualified,
but there is this distinction between my critique and yours, of which I
complained. I have used no triumphing banter, which you did.”—H. “Not in
that part of my remarks which was general; nor ever, but when I supposed
it would make you more clearly perceive the defect which I wished you to
amend, than any other method I could take.”—G. “There is another
difference between us. Though I certainly give myself credit for
intellectual powers, yet I have a failing which I have never been able
to overcome. I am so cowed and cast down by rude and unqualified
assault, that for a time I am unable to recover. You, on the contrary, I
consider as a man of iron.”—H. “It is true, I have been so hardened in
sufferance, by the difficulties I have had to overcome, that when such
attacks are made upon me, I think I may say, however egotistical it may
sound, I can, in the language of Shakspeare, shake them from me ‘as the
lion shakes the dewdrops from his mane.’ Yet if you imagine that
sensibility is destroyed in me, the mistake is strange and
unaccountable, considering how well you know me. On the present
occasion, I lay wakeful and ruminating full three hours on the injustice
and wrong nature of your remarks. At length I recollected the folly of
such uneasiness, created chiefly by the pain it gave me to think you
could act so improperly, and I then recounted to myself your great
virtues, and how very trifling such blemishes are, when placed in
comparison with them. This, as it ought, acted like a charm, and almost
immediately calmed my perturbation. But it is right I should inform you,
I had this perturbation; and that though I can overcome feeling, it is
still as quick and vigorous as ever.” We then walked, and conversed on
other subjects till dinner-time.

_14th._—Enquired of King, auctioneer, his terms of selling books: they
are ten per cent. not including ten-pence in the pound King’s taxes, but
all other expenses, except that of conveying them to the auction-room.
Lord Wycombe at Debrett’s; read to me the strange account inserted in
the Times of to-day, of Lord Camelford’s attempt to go over to France;
and commented on the pretended purity of ministers, who have lately
conferred the command of a ship (a frigate as I recollect) on this
madman. L—— related to me a whimsical story of a physician, who one
night hearing lamentable groans and cries, went to search whence they
proceeded, found a man and woman, drunk, thrown out of an overturned
cart, hastened to a public-house to get aid, and in his care had them
put to bed together, but returning the next morning, found the man in a
rage at having slept with such a companion; and the woman making an
intolerable uproar, weeping, and reproaching, asserting that her
character was ruined, and that he must and should marry her; which
accordingly the good-natured fool was persuaded to do. Called on
Christie, his terms for pictures are seven and a half per cent., all
expenses whatever included.

_15th._—Met Mr P—— at Phillips’s auction-rooms. Thinks highly of “the
Lawyer.” Suggested an alteration that should omit the Bailiff in the
fourth act. Will consider it. Conversed with Lord Wycombe at Debrett’s.

_16th._—Mr Harris called, advised alterations in “the Lawyer,” which I
expect will be essential. His ideas, though crude, have awakened
reflection. He promised to put no other comedy in rehearsal, till he had
my answer within a fortnight.

_17th._—Made notes for altering the character of Sir Ralph. Lord
Wycombe, Marquis of Townsend, Rans, &c., at Debrett’s. Read the three
last acts of “the Lawyer” to Louisa and Fanny; their feelings were
strong, yet from their variations I could discover some defects. Reading
such manuscripts is a good experiment.

_18th._—Account in to-day’s Morning Chronicle of the Norwegian that died
at 160, enjoying his faculties to the last. His name, I think,
Surrington. Girton, a landscape designer, looked at my pictures, and
praised them highly. After the Wilsons, his attention was most deeply
attracted by the landscape by Artois.

_19th._—Barry, the painter, R.A. spent the evening with us. His
conversation as usual rapturous in praise of the arts. Speaks, and, I
believe, thinks highly of Fanny’s attempts at drawing; not of her
knowledge or execution, but of her feeling for character and beauty. Saw
Mr Wheeler going to Fulham, who was astonished and rejoiced, having
supposed me dead. Asked me to dine with him in the country.

_20th._—Received a begging letter from a person, signing himself J. K——,
the chief features of which are ignorance and servility. I thought it my
duty to refuse his request. I learn —— intends to read lectures on law;
in which political government is to be introduced, and the established
systems of this country highly praised. Expressed the pain I felt, that
a man of such superior powers should act so false a part, and so
contrary to his convictions, of which I must, in all human probability,
be able to form a tolerably accurate opinion, from the many
conversations I have had with him. His judgment was (and, doubtless,
still is, for his faculties are in their full vigour) so clear, his
perceptions so penetrating, and his opinions so decided, that I can
conceive no possibility of their being so totally changed. Read Dryden’s
Translation, Ode 29., B. 1., of Horace; part of Macflecnoe, and his
verses on young statesmen, 1680; aloud.

_21st._—Report at Debrett’s, that Paul Benfield is ruined. Was told he
went out to India a carpenter, got employment as a builder, learned the
art of making money breed, and came home worth 300,000_l._

_22nd._—The union of Ireland is now the whole subject of political
discourse. Ministry seems determined, and their opponents hope, though
faintly, it may put an end to their power.

_23rd._—Met Sir F. B—— in Bond-street, who reminded me of my promise;
then H——, who would not see me, (’tis the fashion of these folks to
those they think their inferiors,) and afterwards C. Grey, M.P., who was
less aristocratic, and gave me a nod. Lord S——’s Address in the
Chronicle and Post. T—— calls him mad. I expressed a different opinion
to Weld, who agreed, and said there was method in his madness.

_24th._—Met General H—— again. He spoke to me, for it was not in
Bond-street, and his pride had no alarms. Such pride is pitiable, and
excites to resentment, but to resent would be equally weak.

_25th._—At Debrett’s. General H—— described the black chief of St.
Domingo, Toussaint, after General Maitland. He is a little man, about
fifty, toothless, lively of temper, and ambitious.

_26th._—Call from Watts; another from Tobin, who had lent me the
Sorcerer, translated from Veil Weber. He and his brother praised it as
the first production in the world. I told him, I think the author a man
of genius, but that his book is written in a taste no less disgusting
than immoral, besides being deficient in several of the essential parts
of composition, as, a choice of subject, conduct of the fable,
probability, &c. Attwood came and told me the performers gave high
applause at the reading of “the Old Clothesman.” Met Knight, who is to
play Florid, and who wanted to tell me it as a secret, which I refused
to hear. Dibdin, comedian, and author of the Jew and the Doctor, was
with him. I like him, because he spoke so earnestly in praise of the
virtuous principles of his brother. They are illegitimate sons of
Dibdin, the musical composer, whose conduct towards them is highly
reprehensible. The young man said he had seen his father so seldom,
that, having weak eyes, he should not know him if he met him in the
street. I invited him to my house. The news at Debrett’s was the failure
in the Irish Parliament, of the attempt at a union; and not only there,
but in the streets, it was the subject of general conversation. All whom
I heard mention it, rejoiced. Naples, they say, is in the possession of
the French. The king, having fled with eight thousand troops to Sicily,
after twenty thousand others had laid down their arms to eight thousand
French. The substance of this I suppose to be true.

_28th._—Finished the alterations in my comedy. Debrett’s full. The
conduct of the Irish parliament relating to the union, the whole subject
of political conversation. Read a criticism in _La Decade
Philosophique_, No. 8. An. 7,—on a French translation of Hugh Trevor,
containing great praise, and some pointed blame. The chief articles of
the latter are,—that the plan proposed is incomplete [true], that some
of the conversations are too long [true], that my satire on professions
is unfounded [false], that I have not put my morality sufficiently in
action [false again, the law part excepted], that probability is not
quite enough regarded [perhaps not], and that, to make Trevor so
suddenly a wealthy man is entirely in the novel style [true; blamable].
The following are the concluding remarks: “Malgré ces défauts qu’on peut
reprocher, comme nous l’avons vu, à beaucoup de romans, mêmes
très-estimés, celui-ci mérite assurément d’être distingué par la
justesse des observations, la vérité des tableaux et des caractères, le
naturel du dialogue, la peinture exacte des mœurs et des ridicules. En
un mot, c’est l’ouvrage d’un penseur, d’un homme de talent, d’un
observateur habile et exercisé, d’un ami des mœurs, et de la vertu;
disons encore d’un écrivain patriote, hardi défenseur des droits sacrés
du peuple, et de telles productions sont toujours faites pour être bien
accueillies.”

_29th._—Called on Opie; saw a portrait, whole length, of a lady,
excellent. News of a second defeat of government in Ireland, 109 to 104
against the union. Pitt, in answer to Sheridan, on the debate here on
that subject, said, Sheridan seemed determined to have the last word; to
which Sheridan replied, he was satisfied with having the last argument.
When Dundas brought the sealed bag, containing the proofs which are to
be examined to shew the necessity of a union; Sheridan, seeing there was
not much in it, jocularly said to Dundas, “Confess the truth, is there
any thing in that bag, except the report the committee are to bring up?”
H——, M.P. related these as extraordinary witticisms. The one was a ready
reply; the other, a sarcastic question, naturally resulting from his
knowledge of the practices of people in office: nothing more. Sent my
comedy to Harris, with a letter. Called on Northcote.

_30th._—Sat to Mr Opie, first sitting for my portrait, intended for
Colonel Barry. Mr G—— has a portrait of me painted by Opie, which was
exhibited last year, a most admirable painting and likeness. Received a
letter from Harris. A very excellent sonnet in to-day’s Herald on
Winter. General H—— told me, that Burns, who has written a pamphlet on
the union, cites an expression, which is become proverbial in Ireland,
i.e. “Put an Irishman on the spit, and an Irishman will be found to turn
it.”

_31st._—Second sitting to Opie. He related an anecdote of a man in
Cornwall, who being half drunk, and near a dreadful precipice, suddenly
fell, but happened to catch with his hands; on which he began to pray,
in a confused and terrified manner, till he was so exhausted that he
could hold no longer, and at last loosed his hold; but scarcely
descended a yard, being not quite so far on his road as the precipice;
from which, if he had fallen, he must probably have been dashed to
pieces. The disappointment must have been an odd sensation. Opie knew
the man.—S——, a painter, told us of his journey over Mount Cenis, when
those winter winds characteristically called Tormento, by the Italians,
prevailed, which will not let the snow rest till it becomes lodged in
cavities, filling them up, and making one even surface, dangerous to the
lives of the most experienced guides. S—— has been in India, where he
was painter to the Mogul; and dignified with a Persian title, appointing
him a general, and calling him the Royal Falcon of War, though he was in
no other capacity than that of painter; but such cut-throat titles are
there the only honourable distinctions, according to him, that are
conferred.

FEBRUARY _1st._—Dr. B—— and —— loud in praise of Dr. Drennan’s pamphlet
against Pitt. Third sitting to Opie. Called on Birch, who thinks
Phillips gets better prices for pictures than Christie. Mr and Mrs.
Opie, Mr and Mrs. Perry, Marian, Miss Barkley, daughter of Sir Robert,
Northcote, and Sir F—— B——, in the evening. On the whole a pleasant
party.

_2nd._—Fourth sitting to Opie, a short one, and only for the coat. A
report at Debrett’s of the massacre of the Neapolitan nobility by the
Lazaroni. Conversed with Lord Wycombe on the native ferocity of the
Irish. Conjectures run high, that Pitt will breed a serious civil war in
that country. Read three acts of my comedy to S——. It is still capable,
and indeed in want of great improvements.

_4th._—Mr Harris came by appointment, and we were mutually of opinion
farther alterations would greatly improve the comedy. Sale of Stuart,
the artist’s, pictures at Phillips’s rooms.

_5th._—Este, Dr. Towers, Parry, jun. at Debrett’s. Towers, a character
worth drawing. Drank tea with P——, who wished me to mention manuscript
travels written by Brown, to Robinson.

_6th._—The foot walk in Hyde Park one sheet of ice, on which, not being
aware, had a severe fall. No news at Debrett’s. Letter from Knight to
Attwood, declining to sing “The Joys of Eating, &c.” in the Old
Clothesman. Russian leather. Mr Breton said the report was, that the
recent death of the Duke of L—— was occasioned by poison
self-administered. This is probably as unfounded as another report,
which proves to be false, that Lord C—— had lost seventy thousand pounds
to the Duke of B——, and had then destroyed himself. Lord Cowper is
alive, and the Duke says he never spoke to him in his life. It is true,
indeed, the Duke of L—— had ruined himself by gaming, and had
endeavoured to drink away the remembrance of it.

_7th._—Wrote to Mr Harris concerning Knight’s song, &c. Nothing at
Debrett’s.

_8th._—Pitt at present thought insincere for pretending to persist in
the measure of a union. List of Wakefield’s jury from Mr Foulkes.

_9th._—Finished my second alteration of “the Lawyer.” Lord D—— at
Debrett’s; of opinion that the union is a dangerous affair to Pitt. The
death of Mr Rans of Moorhall, with whom I had some slight acquaintance,
announced in the papers. Bought the Crucifixion, a Caracci, highly
finished, at Phillips’s, the property of Pugh, a surgeon, who gave
eighty pounds, or guineas, for it. A Metzu sold for ninety-six guineas.
The subject, a man on horse-back, with host and hostess at an alehouse
door; bought by a young man, related to Lord Fitzwilliam.

_11th._—Sent my comedy and a letter to Mr Harris, stating the price I
required. He refused, and immediately returned the comedy. Borrowed and
repaid 18_l._ 16_s._ to Mr Robinson, and 60_l._ for a month, of Mr S——.

_12th._—Sat to Opie. Wrote to Mr P——, informing him that having seen Mr
Robinson, if Mr Brown will send his manuscript, and the price, Mr
Robinson would return an answer. Read a manuscript of Mr Tobin, jun.

_13th._—Agreed with Mr Phillips, auctioneer, to sell the whole of my
effects at five per cent., including all charges, except that I am to
remove books, prints, and pictures to his sale-room at my own expense.
Had a second fall on the unthawed snow, by which the spinal bone is so
sore I can hardly walk. Phillips, speaking of Count Kelly, characterised
him as uncommonly liberal, and a great lover of the arts. Phillips sold
his library, and asked permission to introduce some very indifferent
books of his own, which he estimated at forty pounds. The Count
disliking this, took the books at the estimate, sent them to Stockholm,
had a printed catalogue of them, and sold them by auction. This was a
thing totally new to the country, and drew numbers of people, some of
them from a considerable distance. The books sold for 120_l._ and the
Count remitted the money to Phillips.

_14th._—Wrote Finale and a new song for Incledon, in the Old Clothesman.
The dishonourable proceedings of Boyd and Benfield, the topic of the
day. The justification of Boyd, a lame, or rather a condemning tale. Saw
P——; informed him of what had passed with Harris.

_15th._—Sat to Opie.

_17th._—Messrs. G——, Clementi, Master Field, Mr and Mrs. Opie, Mr and
Mrs. F—— to dinner. Field played a concerto and other things of his own
composition. Is a youth of genius, for which Clementi loves, admires,
and instructs him; highly to his own honour.

_18th._—The opinion that Pitt has again lost a favourable opportunity of
treating with France is pretty general.

_20th._—Sat to Opie. Called on Sharp, and paid him for his print of ——;
which he said if I kept would become of great value, for it was the last
on such a subject, meaning the destruction of war, that would ever be
published. Guessing the reason of this whimsical assertion, I mentioned
Brothers, of whom he talked in his usual style. The wisdom of man, he
said, counteracting the wisdom of the Creator, had occasioned all our
miseries: but the tongue of wisdom was now subdued, meaning Egypt, which
was not only a slip of land resembling a tongue, but the place in which
the learning of the world originated. Thus, by the help of a pun and a
metaphor, he had double proof, which he accepts as indubitable. Syria,
Palestine, and all these countries are soon to be revolutionized; and
those who do not take up arms against their fellow men, are to meet at
the Grand Millennium. The earthquake is still to happen, and the
peaceable, even if uninspired, are all to be saved. So that I, being one
of them, were temples to tumble over my head, should find some
miraculous nail or rafter, or something else, equally wonderful, to save
me from being crushed. I asked him, as I had formerly done, why the
earthquake did not happen at the time positively appointed by Brothers;
and he said, that unless I were one of the inspired, it was a thing he
could not explain. Last summer he had retired to a lonely place near, or
at Kilburn; and there he himself had been absolutely favored with a
revelation, communicating to him personally, beyond all doubt, the
revolutions that are immediately to happen. He is a worthy and excellent
man, and in spite of this insanity, has an acute, strong, and inquiring
mind. Notwithstanding my cross-questioning him, he has a strong desire
to make a convert of me; and knowing the principles of peaceful
benevolence which I hold, has no small hopes of succeeding. He was happy
at the idea of having more talk on the subject, though I both plainly
and ironically, in conversing with him, treated it as it deserves,
except that I forbear as much as I can to wound him. He said he was
greatly gratified that, though I argued against Brothers, I never called
him rascally impostor, and other abusive epithets, common in the mouths
of his opponents. Laughed with —— at Debrett’s, at T——’s account some
time ago, of the prodigious stone, or rocky fragment, that was rained on
his estate. —— said, T—— was only half mad, and that vanity was the
possessing demon.

_21st._—Sat to Opie. Lord Wycombe brought the report to Debrett’s of the
loss of the Proserpine frigate, with Mr Grenville, his suite, and the
whole crew. Sent Mrs. —— a one pound note, as a present relief.

_22nd._—Argued at Debrett’s against the immorality of invective, for
which I consider Mr Wakefield as very blamable. Received a note from Mr
——, asking in the name of a friend to admit some pictures in my sale,
which I refused, as a public deception, and for other reasons.

_25th._—Met R. A——, who walked with me up Bond-Street. Disbelieves the
loss of Grenville. Fox still determined on retirement. Tobin called, and
inquired my thoughts on his brother’s manuscript, which I gave him.

_26th._—Sent the following notice to the Commissioners for the Income
Bill. “I have no income; that is, I have neither landed nor personal
property, that brings me either rent or interest. My income has always
been the produce of my labour; and that produce has been so reduced, by
the animosity of party spirit, that I find myself obliged to sell my
effects for the payment of my debts, that I may leave the kingdom till
party spirit shall subside.”

_27th._—Sat to Mr Opie.

_28th._—Sat to Opie. Sir L—— C—— at Debrett’s, glad to see me; a man of
unaffected manners, no pride, or as little perhaps as a man of wealth
and title can have, and with patriotic and benevolent intentions. Lord
Wycombe walked with me down Piccadilly, to inquire after my picture of
Angelica and Medoro.

MARCH _1st._—Sat to Opie. Northcote there, who warmly praised his whole
length of Mrs. Price, and his Old Soldier, and Girl with Beer. Phillips
came, read the catalogue, and approved my lotting of the pictures.
Called and saw his Wouvermans’ Hawking. Parry, jun., is given to hope
for a verdict in his favour, by Erskine.

_2nd._—Sat to Mr Opie. Aided to catalogue the German books.

_3rd._—Louisa and Theresa to breakfast. Spyring to tea. Informed Col.
Barry of the business of to-morrow; viz. my marriage with Louisa, and
received his hearty congratulations. He had seen my portrait, was highly
pleased, and gave Opie a draft on his banker.

_5th._—Went after breakfast at ten, and sat to Mr Drummond,
Carlisle-street, Soho, at the request of the proprietors of the Monthly
Mirror. Taken in crayons, size of life. A call from P——; he told me they
(meaning his friend, Mr Brown, and himself), had closed with Cadell for
a thousand guineas, that is, had sold the copyright of Brown’s travels
into Egypt, Darfoor, &c. for that sum.

_6th._—Went a second time and sat to Drummond.

_8th._—Called on Opie; but the morning so clouded after a fall of snow,
that it was too dark for him to paint, in the present almost finished
state of my portrait.

_9th._—Sat to Opie. A snowy and very bad day for the picture sale.
Difficulties made by ——, the auctioneer, concerning the prices marked by
me, though he had himself required I should mark them. Thirty-seven lots
of my pictures bought in.

_10th._—Mrs. Holcroft visited by Mrs. and Miss B——, Mr and Mrs. P——, and
by Mr and Mrs. Opie in the evening. Mr Brown, the traveller, called.

_12th._—Walked with Louisa in search of lodgings. Mr B—— to dinner, and
accompanied me, Sophia, and Louisa to the theatre Drury-lane. The
Secret, and Feudal Times, both of them very dull and indifferent.

END OF DIARY

CHAPTER VIII

Mr Holcroft soon after went abroad. On his arrival at Hamburgh, he went
to lodge at the house of his daughter and her husband, Mr Cole, who was
settled there in trade. He afterwards went to reside at the house of ——,
where he paid five pounds a week; and as his remittances from England
were often interrupted, he would have been reduced to great distress,
had it not been for the generous exertions of a stranger, a Mr
Schuckmacher. This gentleman, who was a merchant, advanced 250_l._ to Mr
Holcroft, on his note of hand. The first literary attempt which Mr
Holcroft made after he was settled on the continent failed. This was to
set up a journal, (the European Repository) containing an account of the
state of foreign literature, and anecdotes of celebrated characters. It
only reached the second number.

It is certain that Mr Holcroft’s introductions, and his connexions with
literary men abroad, would have afforded every opportunity for executing
such a work well, had it met with encouragement. While at Hamburgh, he
visited Klopstock, Voss, Sander, &c. &c. On his first introduction to
Klopstock, the latter laboured to shew the superiority of the German to
every other language in conciseness; and challenged Mr Holcroft to
translate with equal conciseness into English. To which he replied, that
Klopstock might be easily supposed to overcome Holcroft, but that the
English language ought not to suffer on that account. He told Mr
Holcroft a story of Voss, the celebrated classic; that at a time when he
was too ill even to hear a scholar read and parse a few lines in the
classics, familiar as they were to him, he was still able and desirous
to continue his translation of Ovid in Hexameters, and found relief from
this laborious task. When Baron Stolberg (the superintendant of the
academy) came to visit him, he hid his papers, lest he should be accused
of neglect of duty, or blamed for disregarding his health. Sander, a
Dane by birth, informed Mr Holcroft that the Road to Ruin, and the
Deserted Daughter, had been translated into the Danish language, and
that the latter had been the most popular of the pieces brought out the
preceding winter at Copenhagen.

The admiration of the Germans for English literature, and their contempt
for the French, are well known. Molière is the only man among the
latter, to whom they allow much genius. Their notions of excellence are
indeed rather hypercritical than common-place. They seem in general to
assign the highest stations to the greatest men, but their list of great
men is short. There are only four whom they consider as _poets_, that is
to say, inventors of a new style, namely, Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, and
Goethe. Why the last should have this high rank assigned him, I do not
know. He is placed by the Germans themselves far above Schiller. Mr
Holcroft while abroad, translated his poem of Herman and Dorothea. A
note from the author to the translator on this subject, will be found
among the letters at the end of the volume.—Mr Holcroft also, while he
was at Hamburgh, finished and sent over the comedy of ‘Hear both Sides,’
and his translation of ‘Deaf and Dumb,’ which were afterwards acted with
success, at Drury-Lane.

On his departure from England, he had renounced all idea of
picture-dealing, and connoisseurship. He however attended several
picture-sales, but without attempting to bid. One day as he was
strolling along the street, his attention was caught by a small picture,
which lay among some lumber at a broker’s shop. He went in, asked the
price of it, and was answered three guineas. Mr Holcroft made no
bargain, but determined to go home, and get Mrs. Holcroft to come and
look at it, to see whether any one else must not be as much struck with
it as he was. On re-examining the picture, his confidence in its being
an original increased, and he paid the money for it. As he was returning
home in triumph with the picture under his arm, he met Mercier, (Mrs.
Holcroft’s father) who had himself been a dabbler in pictures, and who,
laughing, exclaimed, ‘A ce trait je connois mon sang.’

The first step being got over, they consulted together, how to turn this
accident to advantage; they henceforward frequented auction-rooms, and
ransacked brokers’ shops, to make mutual discoveries of original
pictures, which might be had for a song. Mr Holcroft, in this manner,
laid out between four and five hundred pounds, by which he expected to
clear at least double the sum.

In this expectation he was once more wretchedly disappointed. Not
that the pictures were in themselves bad, they were many of them
excellent, and in general by the masters to whom they were
attributed; but they were not the finest specimens of those masters,
and with respect to second rate pictures, it requires either an
acquaintance with the particular master who happens to be in vogue
for the time, or regular connexions with other picture-dealers, to
secure the purchaser against loss. The pictures which Mr Holcroft
sent over to England, were fifty-seven in number. They were
entrusted to the care of Mr Godwin. He prevailed on some
professional friends, to go and look at them, who thought they would
hardly sell for the amount of the custom-house-duties, which were a
hundred-and-fifty pounds. A few of them were however brought away,
and left in the care of Mr Opie. The following friendly letter to Mr
Holcroft, was written on this subject.

‘_December 5, 1799._

‘I am quite ashamed that your letter should have remained so long
unnoticed; but being at Norwich when it arrived, I thought it better to
wait till I came to town, and had seen the pictures mentioned in it,
that I might at the same time I answered it, give you some account of
them.

‘The pictures I found, through the care of Mr Gillies, safely lodged in
my house on my return to town, which was only three days ago. With the
sketch by Rubens, I am quite charmed; it is really a most exquisite
thing. The portrait is a good one; but is not the likeness of Lord
Stratford, nor painted by Vandyke. The other two are not at first view
so much to my taste, nor am I convinced they were painted by the master
to whom you attribute them; but I cannot speak decisively, till I have
examined them with more attention. Care shall be taken of all, but the
Rubens I have mounted into my painting room, as it contains a great deal
worth studying.

‘You will do great injustice to the sentiments of esteem and friendship,
which both Mrs. Opie and myself feel for you, if you do not rest assured
that to hear of your health and welfare, will at all times give us
pleasure; and we have only to beg that in your next, you will make no
other use of your _bridle_, than to lay its reins on the neck of your
affection, in the utmost confidence, that all that comes from you, will
be received with a most hearty welcome.

‘I am, with the highest esteem,
‘Yours most sincerely,
J. OPIE.’

These pictures were all of them afterwards redeemed from the
custom-house; and with those which Mr Holcroft had bought in at his
first sale, and other purchases he made on the continent, sold for near
700_l._

While at Hamburgh, Mr Holcroft met with one of those alarming accidents,
of which, in the course of his life, a more than usual number fell to
his share. He had been recommended to bathe his feet in hot water, and
mix a certain quantity of aquafortis in the bath. As he was pouring the
aquafortis into the tub, the steam of the water caused the bottle, which
was of very thin glass, to burst; the aquafortis flew up to his face,
burned his wrists to the bone; but luckily his spectacles saved his
eyes. The state he was in was dreadful, yet not a single complaint
escaped him. ‘Thank God,’ he exclaimed to his terrified wife, who just
before the accident had wished to pour the aquafortis in, but was
prevented from doing so, ‘You and the child (whom she held in her arms)
are safe!’ His daughters, who were undressing in the next room, alarmed
by the shrieks of Mrs. Holcroft, rushed into the apartment, which was
filled with steam; and the distraction of the youngest at seeing the
condition her father was in, deprived her of all presence of mind. ‘For
Heaven’s sake, Fanny,’ said her father, ‘calm yourself; and do you,
Sophy, listen to what I say. Let Dr. Maclean be immediately fetched: he
lives in such a street. Your violent grief, my dear girls, instead of
good, does harm. Be collected, and act like rational beings.’ It was
more than two hours before he was attended by his friend, Dr. Maclean.
Till he arrived, Mr Holcroft supposed himself deprived of sight; and the
joy which the assurance that he was not blind excited may be easily
imagined. During a long and painful confinement, he was perfectly
cheerful, and his mind always employed and active.

Two years before this accident, Mr Holcroft was so dangerously ill as to
be given over by his physicians: and at that time his fortitude and
presence of mind saved his life. One night the spasms, to which he was
subject, were so violent, that he felt, if they continued, he could not
live. Dr. Pitcairn had advised him to take a very small quantity of
laudanum, beginning with five drops, which he might increase to fifteen
or twenty at the utmost, should the pain become worse. Finding the pain
grow more and more violent, he desired his amanuensis who attended him,
to give him fifteen, then twenty drops at a time. This he took to the
amount of 140 in the course of the night. Mr Ralph expostulated, and
said he was afraid to give them; but Mr Holcroft insisted—‘If these
pains continue,’ said he, ‘it is impossible I should live, and I can but
die.’ This bold but dangerous experiment succeeded.

Mr Holcroft’s stay at Hamburgh lasted above a year. He had some
difficulty in procuring a passport to Paris from the French minister at
the Hague, (as we were then at war with France), but on a second
application he succeeded. He had also met with some impediment in
obtaining one from Mr Frere, before he went abroad. While he was at
Hamburgh, a paragraph appeared in one of our morning papers, directly
charging him with being a spy of the French government. To this
paragraph he condescended to make a public answer.

Mr Holcroft remained above two years at Paris. While here, he seems to
have been chiefly occupied in collecting materials for the large work on
the manners, &c. of this capital, which he published after his return,
in 1804. Of this work (Travels in France, &c.) it is only just to say,
that it is one of the most interesting and instructive books of travels
in the language. Its fault perhaps is, that it bears too hard on the
foibles of the French, which Mr Holcroft seems to have regarded too much
with the eye of an Englishman. Their own self-sufficiency, it is true,
is enough to provoke and justify considerable severity of criticism.
With respect to the question itself of the difference between the two
nations, all that can be said upon it, I think, amounts only to this,
that the one has too much gravity, and the other too much levity. Our
gravity frequently degenerates into phlegm, coldness, reserve, pride,
obstinacy, and sullenness; as their constitutional levity is productive
of frivolity, pertness, unmeaning loquacity, self-conceit, fickleness,
and indifference to good or evil. The feelings of the French are more
quick and lively; those of the English more deep and permanent: again,
their apprehensions have more facility and nicety of observation; our
own countrymen have shewn greater strength and comprehension of mind.
France has, I am persuaded, produced more clever men than England; but
that she has produced more great men than England, cannot be pretended.
The mind of a Frenchman is, in general, more easily moved, and by
slighter causes; an Englishman’s feelings are, for the very reason that
they require a greater momentum to bring them out, more steady and more
strong. I do not here inquire into the superiority of the French or
English character. I only state what I conceive to be the difference
with a view to those among the French, who, setting up an exclusive
claim to certain qualities, will not allow others the superiority in
things which are totally distinct, and who are ready to grasp all
excellence, however incompatible, to themselves. Those who wish to be
furnished with facts illustrative of the peculiar manners and character
of the French, will find ample materials for this purpose, accompanied
with refined and discriminating reflections, in the Travels of our
author.

I shall insert only two examples, which may shew the pointed felicity
with which Mr Holcroft has selected his traits of national character.
‘My wife,’ says Mr Holcroft, ‘was one day buying some fish; and while
she was undetermined, the girl said to her—“_Prenez cela, car votre mari
est un brave homme_.” My wife replied,—“_Oui, cela se peut bien; mais
comment savez-vous qu’il est un brave homme?_” “_C’est égal_,” answered
the girl, “_cela fait plaisir à entendre_.” This girl’s maxim is sound
morality wherever I have been in France.’ The difference between words
and things is certainly less marked in France than in England: how far
this is an advantage or a disadvantage, I do not, for my own part,
pretend to decide.

The other story is highly honourable to, as well as characteristic of
the French. Their humanity, whatever else we may think of it, costs them
less than it does the English.

‘A poor musician, who usually brought a small pianoforte in the
afternoon to the _Champs Elysées_, and played, that those who were
pleased might reward him by a trifle, having played in vain one evening,
was sorrowfully retiring home. He was seen by Elleviou, (a famous actor)
remarked, and questioned. The poverty and ill success of the wandering
musician moved the pity of the actor, who desired the instrument might
again be put down; and stepping aside, he said he would return
instantly. His wife and friend had passed on, and he brought them back.
It was nearly dark. Pradere, his friend, sat down to the pianoforte, and
accompanied Elleviou, who began to sing, to the astonishment of numbers
that were soon assembled. The men had drawn the hat over the brow:
Madame Elleviou put down her veil, and went round to collect; the
pleasingness of her manner, the little thankful curtsies she dropt to
all who gave, the whiteness of her hand, and the extraordinary music
they heard, rendered the audience so liberal, that she made several
_tours_, and none ineffectually. Elleviou, however, could not long
remain unknown; and finding themselves discovered, Madame Elleviou gave
all, and it was supposed, more than all, she had collected from the
crowd, to the poor musician: the sum amounted to thirty shillings; and
among the pence and halfpence there were crown pieces, which no doubt
were given by the actors. The feelings of the scene as the audience
dispersed, are not easily to be described. The unexpected relief,
afforded to the man who was departing so disconsolate, was great indeed:
but it was forgotten in the charming behaviour of those who relieved
him, in their almost divine music, and in the strangeness of the
adventure. The surrounding people were scarcely less moved; so kind an
act from a man in such high public estimation, excited more than
admiration; and the tears of gratitude, shed by the musician, drew
sympathizing drops from many of the spectators. This event gave birth to
two new musical pieces, which were both successful.’

This was certainly an action of which an Englishman is incapable, but to
which every Englishman will give his warmest tribute of applause. When
people dispute and cavil about one another’s actions, it is only because
there is something wrong or absurd on both sides.

The Travels through France, &c. were published by Phillips, and Mr
Holcroft received 1500_l._ for the copy-right.

After Mr Holcroft’s return from the Continent, in the summer of 1803,
almost the first undertaking in which he embarked was the establishment
of a printing-house, in connexion with his brother-in-law, Mercier. Mr
Holcroft found unexpected difficulties in this business, owing to the
want of sufficient capital to carry it on. Meeting also with many heavy
losses in publications which he undertook to print on his own account,
he found himself under the necessity, in order to satisfy the pressing
demands of his creditors, to dispose of the printing-office, having
previously obtained his partner’s consent to do so.

Mr Holcroft brought out six dramatic pieces while he was abroad, or
after his return to England: Deaf and Dumb, The Escapes, Hear both
Sides, a Tale of Mystery, the Lady of the Rock, and lastly, The
Vindictive Man. All of them, except the last, were successful.

Those which became the greatest favourites with the public, were, Deaf
and Dumb, and the Tale of Mystery, a melo-drama. Both of these are
certainly exquisite in their kind, but of the first it is not too much
to say, that it is one of the most beautiful and affecting stories that
ever was exhibited on any stage. It is taken from the French play of M.
Bouilly, which was itself founded on an incident in the life of the
famous Abbe de l’Epée, instructor of the Deaf and Dumb.

Julio, the heir of the lord of Harancour, who is born deaf and dumb, is
left an orphan, when he is only eight years old; and the helplessness of
his situation suggesting the possibility of getting rid of him, he is
taken from Thoulouse to Paris by his guardian and maternal uncle,
assisted by a servant in the family, and there lost in the streets at
night. Dupre, the accomplice of his uncle Darlemont, swears to his
death; and at their return home, Darlemont is invested with the estates
and honours of the house of Harancour. Meantime, poor Julio is found in
the streets of Paris in a coarse dress, which does not denote him to be
any thing but a beggar; and it being discovered that he is deaf and
dumb, he is taken to the asylum of the Abbe de l’Epée for children who
are born with this defect. The melancholy observed in his countenance
and manner, the delicacy of his complexion, and other circumstances,
soon lead to a suspicion that he is the child of rich parents, and has
been purposely lost by some person who wished to usurp his rights. He is
taught the use of artificial signs, and learns to read and write. One
day being with De l’Epée, when a judge is passing by dressed in his full
robes, Julio is violently agitated, and makes signs to his instructor,
that his father used to be dressed in this manner. Another time, passing
through the Barriere d’Enfer, the recollection suddenly struck him that
this was the very gate through which he entered Paris. This produced a
conviction in the mind of L’Epée that he came from some city in the
south of France, of which in all likelihood his father had been chief
magistrate. Yet how to proceed in his behalf? The youth had never heard
his father’s name, he did not know his family, or the place of his
birth. After some ineffectual researches, De l’Epée resolves at last to
take his pupil with him, and traverse in person and on foot the whole of
the south of France. They embrace each other, invoke the protection of
heaven, and set forward. After a journey, long, fatiguing, hopeless,
they at length arrive at the gates of Thoulouse. Julio knows the place,
seizes his benefactor’s hand, and uttering wild cries of joy, leads him
quickly, here and there, through various quarters of the city. At last
they come to the square in which the palace of Harancour stood; he
stops, points to the mansion, shrieks, and falls senseless into the arms
of L’Epée. This is the foundation of the story, the rest may be easily
divined by the reader.—The Vindictive Man was the last, and certainly
not the best of Mr Holcroft’s dramatic productions. It was condemned at
Drury-lane. From the state of his circumstances at the time, this
failure was felt as a severe blow, by the author. With what feelings he
bore it, may be learned from a short, but beautiful dedication of the
play to Miss Holcroft.

‘TO MY DAUGHTER FANNY.

‘To you, my dear, I inscribe this comedy, because you approved, nay, was
partial enough to admire the scenes, progressively, as they were
written, and the play, when it became a whole. I inscribe it to you,
because you have dedicated your talents, by your literary efforts, to
the cause of morality, and have need of that patient resignation to
which every writer is doomed. I inscribe it to you, and in this sense to
my whole family, with sympathetic tenderness, as a solitary testimony of
true and ardent affection: as such, I am well persuaded you will all
receive it, though it has been publicly condemned. You will remember the
giver; and the gift, though barren, will be welcome.’

Besides the plays which have been enumerated, Mr Holcroft, after his
return to England, published ‘the Theatrical Recorder,’ in two volumes,
a small volume of Poems, called ‘Tales in Verse,’ and the novel of
‘Brian Perdue.’

Mr Holcroft, at the time of the failure of his last play, had several
dramatic, as well as other manuscripts in hand, which, had he been
allowed to finish them, would have easily relieved him from his
temporary embarrassments. He had however a young and increasing family
to maintain; and the ill health, with which he had long struggled, now
encreased fast upon him, and rendered all his efforts vain.

Mr Holcroft had, for nearly a year, been so much troubled with an
asthma, as to render walking difficult to him. He was not, however,
confined to his house till about half a year before his death. His
disorder was violent spasms, accompanied with spitting of blood, and an
enlargement of the heart, occasioned, as was supposed, by continual
anxiety. It was during the two last months of his illness, when he could
no longer rise from his bed, and when every effort to speak was almost
convulsive, that he dictated the account of his own life, which has been
inserted in the beginning of these volumes. Let it remain a proof of the
energy of his character, and of that superiority of the mind over the
body, which was one of his strongest sentiments. Through the whole time
he discovered a fortitude in suffering, which has rarely been equalled:
nor did he till the very last relinquish the hopes of recovering. If any
thing could exceed the patient courage with which he passed through this
trying scene, it was the affectionate, unwearied assiduity with which
Mrs. Holcroft attended him night and day, through the whole. For the
last six weeks, she scarcely once quitted his bed-side for a quarter of
an hour together. The task was one, to which duty and affection were
alone equal. In any other circumstances, her strength would have failed
under such exertions: but Mr Holcroft was not satisfied unless she was
with him, and that consideration prevailed over every other. Colonel
Harwood, his son-in-law, was with him from the Sunday evening before he
died; on which day, his physicians, Dr. Buchan and Dr. Hooper, had given
him over. Many of the following particulars are taken from Colonel
Harwood’s account.

There was not the shortest interval in which he was not in complete
possession of himself. The only slight indication to the contrary was
that he once said to the Colonel, ‘I have great difficulty sometimes in
rousing my mind; therefore, if at any time I stop in speaking to you, do
you remember my last word, and join it to the next that I shall
afterwards say to you.’ This however rather implied his strong efforts
to preserve his intellects, than the failure of them. His stopping at
any time in the midst of a sentence appeared to be always owing to the
difficulty of articulation, rather than the loss of memory. When he was
so far gone, that it was difficult to understand him, he desired those
who were with him to repeat his words, that he might be sure they were
heard, and then nodded assent.

On Sunday he expressed a wish to see Mr Godwin, but when he came, his
feelings were overpowered. He could not converse, and only pressed his
hand to his bosom, and said, ‘My dear, dear friend!’ On Monday, he again
wished to see Godwin, and all his friends that could be sent to: but he
had not strength sufficient to hold a conversation: he could only take
an affectionate leave, and then he said, he had nothing more to do in
this world. He afterwards frequently spoke, or moved his lips, as taking
a most affectionate leave. A little before he died, he called for wine,
and refused it from every hand that held it to him, till his eldest
daughter took it into hers, he then bowed his head to her, and drank it;
thus, in some way or other, shewing signs of regard to all, till his
last moments approached. Hearing a noise of children on the stairs, he
said to his wife, ‘Are those _your_ children, Louisa?’ as if he was
already disengaged from human ties. On Thursday night, about half past
eleven, he seemed in great pain, and said to Mrs. Holcroft, ‘_How
tedious_, My affections are strong.’ It was thought from this that it
would be a relief to his feelings, that they should retire: they all
went into the next room, Colonel Harwood still keeping his eye upon him;
but seeing his struggles increase, and being desirous to spare his wife
and daughter a sight they could not have borne, he returned into the
bedroom, and gradually shut and fastened the doors, which Mr Holcroft
observing, shewed evident signs of satisfaction. And seeming then
easier, he smiled, and fixing his eyes on his friend, took them no more
from him, till they were closed for ever.—Thus died a great and good
man, who shewed in the last and most trying scene of all the same
firmness of mind, and warmth of affection, which had distinguished him
through life.

Mr Holcroft died on Thursday, the 23rd of March, 1809, at the age of 63.

The following is the report which Dr. A. P. Buchan, and Mr A. Carlisle,
favoured Colonel Harwood with, who also attended the examination.

‘_London, March 24th, 1809._

‘_Statement of the Anatomical Inspection of Mr Thomas Holcroft, aged
63._

‘The examination took place twenty-four hours after decease. The body
was considerably emaciated, and slightly anasarcous throughout. An
extensive cicatrix at the upper part of the sternum, and at the junction
of the neck with the breast, indicated some long continued chronic
abscesses. The cavity of the abdomen contained about a pint of dropsical
water. The stomach, intestines, mesenteric glands, kidneys, and bladder,
were free from diseased structure. The liver was about twice the natural
bulk, hard and tuberculated on its surfaces. The peritoneal covering of
this viscous substance was marked by numerous opake spots, where the
membrane was drawn into folds, and this appearance seemed to
characterize a series of inflammations. The interior texture of the
liver was tuberculated. The gall-bladder was much distended. The outer
surface of the spleen had much of the appearance displayed by the liver.
The cavities of the thorax contained about two quarts of dropsical
water. The lungs were soft, and their air-cells free. The heart was
large, and bore the relaxed character which often occurs after a
long-continued laborious circulation. The coronary arteries had begun to
ossify. The arch of the aorta was dilated, approaching to aneurism, and
the texture of its coats had become hard and inelastic. The descending
aorta and the primary iliac arteries had become completely ossified in
several parts, and were unduly dilated. From the facts here adduced, it
may be considered, that the diseased structure of the liver, and of the
heart, and its principal arteries, led to the dropsy of the chest, which
might be the Immediate cause of death, although in a frame so
disorganized, life could not have been much longer protracted. Whether
the disease of the liver preceded that of the heart and its vessels, or
the contrary, and whether they were distinct diseases, and which of
these led most decidedly to the fatal event, are subjects for uncertain
speculation.’

LETTERS TO AND FROM THE AUTHOR

LETTER I

_To a Friend. 1799_

You, and many other of my friends, were informed of my motives for
quitting my native country, and residing some few years abroad: till
more peaceable times should again render that country to me what it once
was; admirable for its general industry, manners, and morality; and
undisturbed by the suspicions and persecutions, with which other
countries were, and too often still continue to be, afflicted. Nothing
but the strange terror which had seized the public mind could have
engendered that spirit of individual rancour so foreign to the English
character, which suddenly spread through the nation; and nothing but the
stupor of mind, under such an impulse, could have made me suspected as
one of the heads of the abominable Hydra, to extirpate which every
Englishman was summoned. The fear was itself ridiculous: but, in their
consequences, such fears have been fatal to many a worthy man.

I cannot recollect these things unmoved: neither can I hear various
false reports of my being obliged to quit England, and of my not being
suffered to return, without wishing that those who give them credit may
be undeceived. My departure from England was voluntary; as is my
absence. I cannot live in danger from Laws which I have not violated, or
power with which I do not contend. I carefully shun the acrimony of
political dispute, and the circles in which it is indulged. To the
utmost of the little ability I have, it is my desire to inform, with the
hopes of benefiting mankind; and this end cannot be attained by making
them angry. In action, heart, and principle, I am, or would become, the
friend of man. The only enemy I encounter is error; and that with no
weapon but words: my constant theme has been, let it be taught, not
whipped.

The letters I mean to address to you are intended for the public; and of
these facts I wish the public to be informed and reminded. You must not,
therefore, be surprised that I speak of them in this place. Whatever
fable may invent, or credulity believe, I pledge my veracity to the
world, that what I have above said is literally true: and may the world
treat my memory with that ignominy, which a falsehood so solemn and
gratuitous would deserve, if I prevaricate.

Avoiding the pursuit of this painful subject, the busy memory recurs to
another, equally ungrateful: I did not quit the circle of friends, in
whose intercourse I found so much benefit, and took so much delight, but
with the bitterness of regret. I could not sit in apathy; and see the
few effects I had collected become the scattered prey of brokers and
dealers; and chiefly my library, on which so much of my money and time
had been bestowed, squandered, twenty and more books in a lot: several
of them individually of greater worth than the price paid for the whole.
It seemed the dissolution of my social life; and something like the
entrance into a wild and savage state. What multitudes of such thoughts
did my afflicted heart suffer without giving them utterance! It would
but have communicated and increased affliction.

I wish not to dwell on these dark parts of the picture. Who quits the
country of his fathers without a sigh? Yet, who journeys forward to
lands unexplored without hopes of strange and unexpected pleasures? It
is a season full of apprehensive emotions, flutterings of the heart, and
hopes and fears too numerous to be defined. At least it is such to those
to whom travelling is not become a habit.

Some people have asked, why are books of travel so much read? It is
because they are so often entertaining. Customs, when they differ but
little from our own, seldom fail to excite our surprise, our laughter,
or our contempt. Without crossing the seas, a man who has the faculty of
noticing the remarkable, the whimsical, and the absurd, in his daily
walks at home, never fails to entertain, if he think proper to narrate
and to comment; and the traveller who wants this faculty of observation
journeys to little purpose, and is heard with little pleasure. He
sometimes even endeavours to falsify the true reports of his
predecessors; and to offer the dulness of his discernment as a proof of
his impartiality. Thus much by way of introduction.

LETTER II

Let us begin our journey; and whet your imagination to fill up the
narrative.

We were sufficient in number to occupy a small cabin; and various
reasons determined us to sail down the river, instead of posting by land
to Yarmouth. Wind and weather out of the question, he that depends on
the word of a captain, for the day that his vessel will be ready to
sail, will be deceived ninety-nine times in a hundred: a week of
additional latitude is often too little. Not thoroughly aware of this,
we left the polite parish of Mary-le-bone, and removed to the purlieus
of London-Bridge. How many thanks are due to our worthy and liberal
friend, G——, for the many invitations he gave us to his table, and the
pleasant urbanity with which we were there treated. But these, you well
know, are not the only acts of kindness for which we are indebted to
this free-hearted, worthy man.

About two days before we went on board, a sudden difficulty seemed to
start. We were told we should be stopped at Gravesend, if we had not a
passport. This seemed incredible: we inquired, and some affirmed, and
others denied the necessity of such a document. Could an Englishman want
a passport, to go wherever his business or his pleasure might invite
him, within the British domains, or to a neutral state? By many the idea
was scouted, and as it proved, justly. Yet others were so positive in
affirming the reverse, that I thought it prudent, for full security, to
go to Gravesend, and inquire.

It happened to be at the hour when the tide served, and the common
passage-boats were ready to sail; and, as this was a cheap, an
expeditious, and to me a novel conveyance, it was in every sense
acceptable. Those who have made the experiment, know with what
solicitations they have been invited to step on board first one boat and
then another. On this occasion, it happened that the Queen Charlotte,
and the Prince of Wales, were rivals: but, as I was first harangued by
the orator of the Charlotte, and had no other preponderating motive, the
right seemed to be in her; and I was escorted, with great eagerness and
civility, to my seat.

I had heard so much of Gravesend passengers, and the peculiar rhetoric
in which they indulge, that I thought it probable they would detect
something ridiculous in the cut of my coat, the colour of my hair, or
some other feature or appurtenance about me. I was not deceived. The
shortsightedness that obliges me to wear spectacles, has often subjected
me to the derision of the working community; who never suspect there can
be a rational motive for walking the streets with what they generally
regard as a badge of supreme folly. I had not taken my place five
seconds, before I saw the leer and the wink go round. The weather being
fine, every body was on deck; and the assumed gravity of my look, at
first checked risibility. But the pause was short. An impudent fellow
opposite to me, looking in my face, said—‘The next time I go to court, I
will get a saddle for my nose; because I see it is all the go.’—‘You had
better get a handle to your hat,’ said the man at the helm, whose
invitation to come on board I had followed; and who therefore, I
suppose, thought proper to be my champion. My assailant knew his man;
and, without noticing this retort continued.—‘I’ll ask my granny to
leave me her barnacles. Pray, Sir, how many candles may you see in the
dark, when only one is lighted?’ ‘How many fools did you meet, when you
last dipt your pate in a pail of water? Who gave you that coarse
net-work, to cover your face? Why did not you ask your wife to wash it
before you came out?’ [The man was scarred with pock-marks, and the
river tar continued.] ‘You’re a pretty fellow to hoist the slang-flag!
Where did you learn gull shooting? you are an apt scholar! You could eat
a giblet-pye before you could spell goose *****.’ Enough of these vulgar
but merry kind of combats. Would that the well-bred duellist were as
harmless!

I believe it was here I first remarked one of the many superstitious
habits of seamen; that of whistling for a wind. I find it is common to
them all; from the captain to the cabin-boy. The day was more calm than
either the passengers, or the boat-men wished; and, to beguile the time,
a man sang the beautiful ballad of Black-Eyed Susan. Having ended,
another told us a tragical tale, which the song no doubt had brought to
memory.

The mate of a ship had a sweetheart; who came on board the evening he
was to sail. She was a pretty girl, and deeply affected. Her love was
strong, or rather violent. Having drawn him aside, she told him, if they
parted, she was certain they should never meet again; and that she had
not the power to leave the ship. He remonstrated on the impossibility of
her stay; but she could listen to nothing but her passion, fears, and
forebodings. She wept, intreated, went on her knees; and, if he would
but consent, said she would hide herself in the forecastle, till the
ship should be under way. The mate, who could not comply, at length
reproved and left her in anger; while she threatened her own
destruction. He went below; and, not seeing her when he returned on
deck, he concluded she was gone. Alas! the poor agitated, and despairing
creature, had thrown herself over-board. She had done it unseen; and the
mate, immediately afterward perceiving that the boat in which she came
was waiting, began to inquire: but no one knew what was become of her.
He recollected her proposition to hide herself, and went in search:
certain, as he supposed, she had made the attempt. She was no where to
be found: his alarm increased; his cheeks became pale. One man said ‘he
had heard something fall into the water; and to be sure it must be she.
Who knew but she might have been thrown over-board?’ Suspicions arose:
the pallid hue and wild terror of the poor mate, gave them strength: he
was taken into custody, tried for the supposed murder, and in great
danger of suffering death; so strong did the circumstances against him
appear to be, in the opinion of his judges. One witness, however, was
very clear in his testimony, that he saw the mate go under hatches, and
leave the deceased on the deck; that he likewise saw him return; and
that it was during this interval, the accident must have happened: for
that he and others had accompanied the mate in his search to find her.
Thus the positive and accurate evidence of this witness, saved his
shipmate from an ignominious death.

The life of a man, in a court of law, depends upon a breath. Remember
it, you who sit in judgment on the lives of your fellow creatures!

Another told us how his cabin-boy (he was himself a sea-captain) jumped
over-board in a rough sea, to recover a mop; which he had accidentally
let fall. He succeeded; but it was at the risk of his life. ‘I asked
him,’ said the captain, ‘how he came to do such a thing? and the little
hell-spawn told me, “he was afraid I should _give him the cat_; if the
mop had been lost.”—I’ll give it you to some tune, lubber, said I, if
you do such a thing again.’—So much for a captain’s humanity. This is no
bad instance of the general despotism exercised on board of ships.

Fine writing will object to the coarseness of phraseology in this
letter; and, under other circumstances, I would not give fine writing
such cause of complaint: but, were it changed in this place, we should
no longer be in company with sea-captains and passengers from
Billingsgate in a Gravesend boat.

LETTER III

We parted during a calm, in my last; but remember we are not yet at
Gravesend. In wit, vulgar or refined, puns are more frequent agents than
wits generally suppose. Hearing a child cry in a woman’s arms, a sailor
exclaimed—‘So! We have a squall: we shall soon have a breeze.’—‘Yes,’
replied a second, ‘I hope another hand will be put to the bellows.’

It so happened that the punster was a prophet. The sails swelled; and
the steersman told us ‘we could not have a better wind, if we had bought
one.’ To which another added—‘he wished he could find the way to the
weather-office.’

I doubt if there be a nation existing more skilful and alert, on the
water, than the English. The Thames in particular, has vessels so
numerous, and of such various kinds, riding and traversing its waves in
such endless directions, that the unaccustomed eye is confused in its
attempts to distinguish and individualize the moving multitude. Ships,
snows, brigs, sloops, cutters, barges, lighters, boats, vessels of every
form and size, and from all regions of the Earth! My heart beat, while I
watched the dexterity with which they mutually shunned the shocks, that
at every returning moment, threatened each other with oversetting. Of
this we were once in danger. The steersman of a heavy barge, had his
attention called away, perhaps not three-seconds, from his duty; and it
was with the utmost exertion, and presence of mind, that the active
fellows on board the Charlotte kept her from running foul of the barge.
The danger past, they were enraged; and began to rate the barge-man:
who, angry with and ashamed of himself, bade them in a surly tone ‘mind
their own business.’ ‘You don’t mind yours,’ aptly retorted one of them.
‘I’ll be damned if you are he that set the Thames on fire.’

I was not a little amused by an itinerant bookseller, one of the
passengers; who opened his pocket, and spread his wares upon deck: and,
to astonish and invite customers, among other things, exhibited a small
quarto, on botany, with coloured plates; which, he told us, was for a
_surprising_ learned gentleman, at West Thurrock. (Apropos of Thurrock.
All book-men are addicted to etymology. Pray was this the rock of the
gothic god, Thor?) Among his literary treasures was a sixpenny
description of the passage, by water, from London to Gravesend; by the
erudite Bibliopole Pocock, of the latter place: from which, if you have
the patience to read it, you may discover how many reaches, or windings,
are in this traject. Pillaging this boatman’s history, and pointing to
the shore, our sagacious tradesman told us, ‘all those houses were built
in _one_ day’s time.’ The prevaricating knave ought to have given a
different emphasis; and have said “in one _day’s_ time.” But wit was
always a shuffling fellow, and seldom a friend to truth. The hawker’s
jocularity, from the same source, was next exerted on a church, of which
we had a prospect: which he said was as _light_ by night as it was by
day! Of the truth of which quaint pun the inventor had no doubt. Yet the
unvarying force of gravitation is not perhaps absolutely certain. But I
am now getting out of my depth; and will therefore hasten on shore to
Gravesend. In despite of the noble stream that washes the banks, this
said Gravesend is a dirty, disagreeable place; and for pitiful extortion
unrivalled. If you have but little money in your purse, or if you feel
indignation or sorrow, at beholding man in the daily practice of petty
theft, till the confirmed habit, makes him believe thieving to be
justice, and necessary to his happiness, arrange your affairs, so as to
make but a short stay at Gravesend. It was my good fortune to remain
there only one night. My journey was unnecessary: no pass was required.
But of this I was ignorant. The expense and trouble were trifling, the
characters and scene of action new, and the pain of uncertainty was
relieved. And now thank your benignant stars, that you have escaped from
a Gravesend-boat, and have only paid so trifling a tax on good sense,
and good manners. The potentate of the North, at whose breath all things
shake, having honoured a yatcht by his presence, issued an edict,
commanding that it should no longer remain a paltry yatcht, but become a
glorious frigate. Peter was not so great as Paul; for Peter could only
change a brown loaf into Banbury mutton.

LETTER IV

And now comes the day of departure: and now farewel for a time to
London, that hive of souls; itself the soul of Britain, the seat of
action, the city of great events! Farewel to many pleasures, and to many
pains! to friends in whom the heart delighted! to foes that persecuted
they knew not why! we go in search of better days.

Before we embark, suffer me to make an observation, and tell a story.
Fortune is a capricious jade; she flies from those who pursue; and
pursues those who shun her. The remark is old; but not, I believe, the
tale to which it leads.

In the town of Halberstadt, not long ago, there lived a tanner,
remarkable for having been made enormously rich against his will. During
the seven years’ war, the French, being at this place, had collected all
the cattle in the environs, the skins of which they had to sell. The
tanners of Halberstadt had but little power to buy, one alone excepted.
To him the French applied; but, not understanding speculation after a
certain quantity, he absolutely refused any more. Conquerors are not to
be trifled with; and finding that their persuasions, which indeed were
numberless, could not prevail, they resorted to the _argumentum
baculinum_, and the tanner was at last beat into compliance. It was
however under the condition that the other tanners would, at a fair
price, lend him their tan-pits; and for this the argumentative French
very readily undertook. The tanners were summoned, refused, and the
rhetoric of the bastinado was again employed. It was resistless; the
tanners let out their tan-pits. The tanner, who bought the hides at
one-sixth of their value, parted with the dollars he had been so
desirous to retain; and, in a few years afterward, became the wealthiest
tanner in Germany.

I will give you another example of the caprice of this said Madam
Fortune.

In Germany there are lotteries of various construction. Of one of these
the law is, that he who draws a first prize, a second, and a third,
shall the fourth time be one of the five that are to draw for the
capital lot of I know not how many thousand dollars. A cooper, who loved
to tap the barrels he hooped, bought a ticket, which came up a prize
once, twice, and thrice; but the foolish fellow was thirsty; and being
offered drink for the present, and money to buy more for a fortnight to
come, he could not resist the temptation, and sold his ticket, which was
a fourth time the fortunate number. He comforted himself with his can;
and made a second venture, with exactly the same good and ill success.
To another man this would have been horribly vexatious; but the jovial
cooper let it pass; and when the next lottery came, made another
purchase. The third time it had arrived at the third stage of winning,
and he was again on the point of parting with his chance. By something
of persuasion, and something of force, the reckless fellow was
prevented. ‘Fortune,’ said his friends, or perhaps his wife, though this
is the kind of husband a wife knows least how to manage, ‘Fortune
absolutely persecutes you to accept her favours: why do you so
perversely cast them from you?’ For once the sot heard reason; and the
doctrine of chances proved how dangerous it is to lay the long odds; for
the cooper’s ticket again gained the great prize.

From us Fortune is flying; and we are now in pursuit. The sequel will
shew how perverse a jade she is, and how determined not to be overtaken.

On the first of July, 1799, we went on board the Kennet, Captain
Thomson. All was confusion, all hurry. Barges, loaded with prodigious
bales, lay beside her; a dozen men were straining every nerve to raise
them over her side, and stow them between her ribs. It excited attention
and surprise to see these cumbrous packs wedged with such contrivance as
scarcely to leave a vacancy. Every thing that suppleness of limb, thews,
sinews and muscular force could effect, was in continual exertion. The
vessel was to fall down the river the next tide; which seemed
incompatible with the labour to be performed.

With what additional wonder do I recollect scenes like these in my
native country, having compared them with the inattention I since have
witnessed. Here every man was active and intelligent; and one even
supremely above the rest. Indeed it was prodigious. He was the mate; he
directed the whole; his eye was every where; and his arm seemed to work
miracles. He was full six feet high; and when the ponderous load seemed
to defy their collected strength, he came, applied his giant force, and,
at the first pull, it began to move. His agility was no less surprising,
and almost irreconcilable to such bulk; for his wrist would doubly
measure that of an ordinary man. His understanding was equal to his
bodily power; he instantly saw what was wrong, and the way in which it
was to be rectified. Give but his faculties another circle of action,
and an epic poet might have made this man his hero: yet he was but the
mate of a ship, subject to a captain who, though no fool, was far indeed
from his equal; and when I asked him if he did not mean to be a captain
himself, answered with a sigh—‘I wish, Sir, I may ever have so much good
fortune.’

In what a traverse and frequently ludicrous manner does accident arrange
the place and office of man, and the affairs of this poor world!

The mate’s name was Baird; and he and his commander were both Scotchmen.
In the invoice, he was written captain, and the captain supercargo; a
falsehood to which the infamous practice of pressing has given birth; a
mate, like a foremast man, being liable to be pressed.

When I came on board, and saw the work that was still to do, I concluded
it was impossible it should be accomplished. The mate himself doubted,
but hoped, and worked like legion. Yes; we were at Gravesend the next
day, where we were examined at the Alien Office; and on the evening of
the third, anchored at the Nore.

The ocean was before us; the evening was calm; the expanse vast; the
shores of Essex and of Kent were to the right and left; and the fleet
with which we were to sail, with our convoy, and the admiral’s ship that
guards the Nore, were all in view. The silence that reigned was suddenly
interrupted by the eight o’clock bell, that rang from vessel to vessel;
and, much more agreeably, by the admiral’s military band. We were at a
proper distance; and the music came so softened to our ears that it was
delightful.

The captain went on board our convoy; received his sailing instructions;
and the next morning the fleet, about thirty in number, was under weigh.

Owing to the closeness with which the ship was stowed, the decks were so
belumbered, that it required the catlike activity of a sailor to pass,
without a fall, to the forecastle. I supposed they were so to continue.
How much was I mistaken! No sooner was the business of setting the sails
performed, than the active Baird began a clearance. All hands were at
work; the hatches opened; room for stowage still was to be found; cables
were coiled; and, in less than half an hour, no signs of disorder or
incumbrance were to be seen. In some things, how full of caution is a
sailor! How active is he, and how orderly on the approach of storm or
battle! What contradictions are there in his habits! The least
appearance of defect in his shrouds, braces, or rigging, must be
repaired: his decks must be daily washed; to every thing that regards
the safety of the ship, the strictest attention must be paid. He must
not sleep more than four hours at a time, and never soundly: the least
alarm must bring him upon deck. His eye must alternately be upon the
watch; his apprehension of danger must never cease. Meanwhile, his own
convenience is utterly neglected. Being at sea, he puts on any dirty or
ragged jacket, sleeps upon boards or ropes, and feeds on the coarsest
fare. Our cook was half covered with grease and tar; his hands were
uncommonly large, and chapped; and he washed his dishes with a cable’s
end. It often happens that the sailor’s beef is half putrid, his butter
and cheese the same; his biscuits swarming with maggots; and his water
stinking. To this he is sometimes by necessity reduced; and the landsman
is astonished at the habits which such hard necessities have taught. But
a voyage to Hamburgh is seldom of so much severity; and the pampered
passenger as seldom goes to sea unprovided.

LETTER V

Our convoy was sluggish, and we were off the Norfolk coast on the fifth.
We gave it some few parting sighs, remembering the relations and friends
that were there; and who, perhaps, had they known the incident, would
have brought down their telescopes, to have taken a last view. Was it
affection or vanity that gave me this thought? Let it be permitted to
hope the best.

He that makes a voyage and meets with no adventures, using the common
phrase, must be greatly in or greatly out of luck; unless indeed we
suppose him fast asleep, which, with the convenience of a close
carriage, is the way that most travellers see the world. A watchman,
shut up in his box at midnight, without the aid of his candle and
lantern, sees it as well. We were willing to keep awake, and were not in
want of stimulants. I had been to sea before more than once, yet had
numberless things to remark: especially as I had never before sailed
with a convoy. The Kennet was a good sailer; but if we ran before our
guardian, we were liable to have a ten-pounder sent, with a possibility
of hitting us, as a warning order to _keep astern_. If we were too
close, the peril was that of _running foul_ of the ships _under the
Commodore’s lee_. If the weather _fell_ hazy, this danger increased. If
it was a calm, we must no less carefully keep our distance. Should you
have supposed that, being on the boundless ocean, you must always have
sea room enough, the above hints may help to rectify your mistake.

On the sixth, we were off the Texel; on the seventh saw Lord Duncan’s
fleet; and on the eighth were still upon the Dutch coast. I repeat what
the mariners and their charts told me; for I could not see land. The
sailing under the protection of cannon balls, the _look-out_ that was
kept for the approach of an enemy, and the hostile fleets of Britain
proudly riding on a threatened shore, inspired thoughts which——I will
take another time to tell you what these thoughts were. We caught
gurnels, a pretty but cruel warfare. The wretched animal was generally
an hour gasping for the medium in which, till then, he had breathed, and
dying with difficulty.

A more animating incident occurred. Perhaps you are ignorant that
smugglers, if pursued, will sink their cargoes of gin, and leave a buoy;
by the aid of which they are sometimes recovered. From one of these, as
it was supposed, a keg was seen to come swimming among the fleet. The
sight awakened two passions at once—drunkenness and ambition. To what
dangers do they expose the thirsty, the daring, and the rash! The fleet
was under sail; and the keg swam in a contrary direction. We perceived a
consultation was held on board a ship but little distant. In a moment,
one of the sailors began to strip. We watched his proceedings with
surprise and apprehension; we saw him plunge into the sea, and stem the
waves with such eagerness that it seemed impossible for his strength not
to be presently exhausted. How impatiently did the eye pursue him, his
head now hidden, and now seen dancing among the waves, till we could no
longer catch a glimpse. It was a fearful distance. There was something
so daring in the attempt, and so vigorous in the execution, that he
became a kind of hero; in whose dubious fate every heart was interested.

Meanwhile the sailors, who first discovered the prize in question, _lay
to_; that is, turned the ship so that the sails did not catch the winds:
and hoisted out their boat. In this they went in search of the swimmer
and the keg. We could not discover their proceedings; but we learned,
after their return, that the sailor had overtaken and seized the object
of his wishes; and they brought him and his prize once more on board of
the ship to which he belonged in triumph.

A rash action, when successful, never fails to be admired. To people who
live on shore, the remarks, language, and adventures of mariners are
often amusing. The answers, however, which the latter return to
passengers, are frequently surly, and expressive of contempt. Sailors, I
assure you, are as pragmatic, and full of pedantry, in their way, as any
Doctor the Universities can afford. Men are always surprised at, and
diverted by each other’s ignorance; forgetting their own.

The seaman, however, has a feature common to us all; he is pleased with
those who will listen to his complaints. One of our men told me how long
he had served on board a man of war, the sufferings he there endured,
and painted the despotism of naval officers, in the anecdotes he
related. A Captain, who perhaps had read Culpepper, or some such erudite
author, thought proper to physic his crew regularly once a month; and to
take care the doses he prescribed were actually swallowed. This was not
all; if the men were sick afterwards, they were put in the bilboes, to
convince them they were well; and one poor fellow, who was extremely
weak, was flogged for not running fast enough up the shrouds.

Another of these commanders having given a man three dozen lashes on the
starboard of the vessel, ordered him two dozen more on the larboard;
that, as he said, one side might not laugh at the other.

The man cited many more incidents of a like kind; adding, that when on
board a king’s ship, he many a time wished himself dead. Observe, I can
only be answerable for my own veracity; I faithfully repeat what I was
told.

I shall be equally accurate in what I am going to relate; though it is
on a subject which some naturalists have treated as absurd. The Captain
and Mate of the Kennet, had both navigated the Coast of Norway, the
Northern Ocean, and the Atlantic; and I questioned them concerning the
Kraken. They neither of them pretended to have seen this supposed
stupendous monster of the waters: but they immediately expressed their
firm conviction of its existence. I asked their reasons; and they
affirmed it had been twice seen within the last four years.

The first instance they cited was that of a Captain coming from
Archangel, or Greenland, through the Atlantic; who was surprised at the
appearance of rocks unknown to the chart of mariners, and immediately
ordered out his boat, to have them examined; meanwhile the Kraken, that
is, the imaginary rocks, disappeared, and he sailed over the place; but
forgot, during his astonishment, to sound.

Their second instance was more circumstantial. About two years and a
half before the time at which they spoke, a Dane, sailing through the
Firth of Forth, on the coast of Scotland, was so terrified, at the
appearance of rocks in such a place, that he _lay to_; being for some
time persuaded that he had lost his reckoning, and had arrived he knew
not where. After consideration, he took courage, and sailed past them;
and when he arrived at Dundee, gave a relation of what he had seen.
Finding himself at first disbelieved, he and his crew made oath of the
fact; either at the Custom-house or before a Magistrate of Dundee. The
narrators were both Scotchmen; and affirmed they spoke of the
attestation being thus made from their own knowledge. Persons, who shall
deem it worth their trouble, may easily make an inquiry whether any such
attestation exists at Dundee.

My informants confirmed, unquestioned, the usual accounts, fabulous or
not, that fishermen find plenty of fish on the back of the Kraken; as
they do on sand banks, at a certain distance below the surface; and that
these fishermen hasten away, as soon as they perceive the Kraken
beginning to rise; because when it goes down, it occasions a dangerous
whirlpool. These, you will recollect, are the old stories of
Pontoppidan.

Finding this Leviathan so familiar to their belief, I next inquired if
they had heard, or knew any thing of the sea-snake, by some called the
sea-worm? To this question I received a still more direct answer. The
Mate, Mr Baird, who certainly was not a liar by habit, whatever mistake
or credulity might make him, assured me that, about the midway in a
voyage to America, in the Atlantic, he had himself seen a fish,
comparatively small in the body, of from forty to fifty fathoms in
length; and that it had excited great terror in the Captain, who was
well acquainted with those latitudes, lest it should sink the ship.

They both related other stories, concerning the appearance of this
sea-worm: asserting that it will rise out of the water as high as a
common main mast.

Should you ask, do you repeat these things because you think them
credible? I answer, no. But who can affirm he can mark out the
boundaries of possibility? Some mariners treat these tales as absolutely
false and ridiculous: others seriously affirm them to be true; and I
think it a duty to collect evidence, and to remain on this question as
on many another, in a certain degree of scepticism.

They spoke of another fact; which, supposing them to speak truth,
deserves attention. The waves in the Western Ocean are sometimes so
oily, from dead whales, as it is imagined, that they are not much
disturbed by a brisk gale. The sailor’s brisk gale, observe, by you and
me would be called a high wind.

LETTER VI

Remember I left you in a gale at sea, and a high wind on shore: but what
would you think of a stiff breeze? I heard one described by a sailor,
who swore that it shaved him; that he could not keep his hair safe on
his head; and that it made the ship sneeze. His metaphors, and the
composure with which he spoke of a tempest, that to a landsman would
have been so full of terror, were amusing.

Our voyage was performed by the aid of gentle gales; and we got in view
of Heligoland on the morning of the 9th. Being now out of danger from an
enemy, the ships were allowed to part company, and each make the best of
her way. To people weary of the qualms and inconveniences of a
sea-voyage, and impatient to arrive at the place of their destination,
with the latent hope of unknown pleasures from unknown sources, this was
welcome news. The Captain was teazed with our questions; and we were
much disappointed to find there was little hope we should yet see
Hamburgh, within four and twenty hours.

It was late in the day before we arrived at the red buoy, where usually
the pilot comes on board. We now entered the Elbe, the navigation of
which is both difficult and dangerous, if circumstances are
unfavourable; and I could not but admire and most sincerely applaud the
precautions taken for safety, and augur favourably of the industry and
understanding I should find in Hamburgh. These, however, are the labours
of sea-faring men; and such are the dangers of the waters, that sailors,
who speaking of them as a class, are far from being the most
intelligent, exert very sagacious means to guard against these dangers.
The apparent width of the Elbe is great; but the bed of the navigable
channel is comparatively small: buoys therefore have been placed, and
distinguished by colour and numbering, to mark out the course of the
stream, which winds exceedingly.

The eye of the traveller is always caught by those objects which differ
greatly from such as he has been accustomed to see; and the appearance
of our pilot was to us highly original. His figure was diminutive, yet
so bundled up in jackets and breeches, that it was swelled out to a very
respectable bulk. His breeches, far from being small clothes, were large
and loose, and had pockets, or rather paunches, at the sides, in which
he put his pipe, his tobacco, his bread and cheese, and other
necessaries. I suppose he wore half a dozen pair; for he unbuttoned
three, with great unconcern, before us all, to come at a fourth. His
face was thin, his forehead contracted, his chin peaked, his nose large,
his mouth wide, his teeth black and decayed, and his eyes small and red.
Having given his directions, as soon as he had leisure he dressed, or
rather undressed himself, that he might look respectably before the
ladies; that is, he pulled off two jackets, the first exceedingly thick
and weather proof, two pair of trowsers, and his boots, which hung loose
about his legs. He then appeared in a grey damask doublet, made probably
from his great grandmother’s holiday gown, long quartered shoes, and a
pair of pewter single-tongued buckles, extravagantly large, and diamond
cut. He had a gigantic kind of sleeve-button to fasten his waistband,
and another of the same form but less, at his shirt collar; these, by
their embossing, equalled his buckles in splendour: and in his now
reduced size, he accurately resembled the wooden men cut in Dutch toys.
I found amusement in studying this figure, it being the first of the
kind I had seen. His language was low Dutch, but he spoke broken
English; and I endeavoured to make him talk: but as he knew nothing, he
could say nothing. The office of pilot frequently requires great
presence of mind, activity, and courage: this man had certainly no such
qualities.

Under his guidance, however, we entered the Elbe; and the shores of
Holstein on the left, and Hanover on the right, began to close upon us.
I know not when or how it came there, but the picture I had in my mind
of Holstein, was that of one of the rude and naked countries of the
North; and I felt surprise as we approached its banks to see them
frequently adorned with houses built of brick, and the gable ends
painted green. This, however, as I afterwards found, is by no means the
general style of building in that province; but it appears that men
every where take delight in having pleasant habitations on the banks of
rivers. At this part of the Elbe the left hand shore had a flat and low
appearance; while in Hanover we could see, not mountains, for there are
none in these parts of Germany, but high lands. I know not why, but the
traveller appears to have a latent expectation that every thing which he
is to see, is to be unlike every thing he has seen; and is almost
disappointed to find that trees are trees, and that the banks of rivers,
in foreign countries, are as verdant as those of his native land. It is
true, there are in reality marking differences; but these must be sought
for in the minuter parts, and not in the grand features of Nature; some
few and singular instances excepted.

The Elbe cannot be navigated in the dark; for the buoys and pilot marks
cannot be discerned; and at twilight we cast anchor. At this the sailors
did not repine; it was a necessity to which they knew they must submit;
but we, impatient passengers, heard with regret that the wind blew
peculiarly fresh and fair. In the middle of the night it strengthened,
and opposed the tide; in consequence of which the waves rose, and the
ship rolled violently. Doors flew open, boxes and bottles tumbled from
their places, and there was a great clatter in the cabin. It seemed
strange to be so much disturbed, having now passed the sea, and safely
arrived in the river. Trifles, to which we are unaccustomed, excite
surprise.

LETTER VII

The anchor was weighed as early as possible; for it was still doubtful
whether we should arrive at Hamburgh before the close of day.

According to regulation, the pilot from the red buoy has a right only to
proceed to a certain distance; after which another, if he be in
readiness, comes on board and takes charge of the vessel. Our little man
was very anxious in his hopes that a successor would not appear; and
that he should have the whole profit of proceeding to Hamburgh. But he
was disappointed. At the proper station his rival came; and he returned.
The second pilot was no less characteristic in manner and appearance
than the first; though very different. His dress, indeed, was nearly the
same; but instead of the insignificance of the former, he had an
assuming deportment; which, agreeing with the costume, made me imagine I
was actually in company with ancient Pistol. With his pipe in his mouth,
his wide, straddling gait, and his hands in his breeches’ side-pockets,
commanding with a kind of bluff authority, and speaking a half
unintelligible jargon, the picture was almost complete. His son was with
him; a young boy, the likeness and the ape of his father. The decayed
state of this man’s teeth, made me conjecture that smoaking might be a
principal agent in producing this defect; which I afterwards found to be
common among the Germans.

This man, however, had activity in his profession; and it was fortunate
that he, instead of the former, was our pilot: for, in going up the
river, had not he and all the crew strongly exerted themselves, we might
have been run down by the sluggish neglect of a Dane; which danger we
escaped with great difficulty.

As we proceeded, the appearance of the opposite shores considerably
varied; we lost sight of the distant high lands in Hanover, and saw
nothing but a dead and low flat; while the Holstein bank became
elevated, the number of the green-ended houses increased, and the town
and fortifications of Gluckstadt came in view. It is low, and we could
see little of the palace of which our pilot vaunted. We discerned
nothing that in the least approached magnificence; but saw many things
that had a charming air of rural calm and cleanliness. These pleasing
appearances became more frequent as we approached Altona; but we could
not sufficiently enjoy them, for it was now once more the close of day.
Being at Altona, we were glad, though surprised, to find ourselves
within a gun-shot’s distance of Hamburgh: but our joy on this occasion
was short; for we heard, with vexation, that the gates of Hamburgh, as
well of the port as of the city, were regularly shut at dusk; and that
admission, even for a prince, was then impossible.

Altona, like Hamburgh, is a seaport town; and it may safely be
prophesied, that at no very distant period, they will form but one
place. The number of shipping at Altona, was considerable, though small,
when compared to those that crowded the harbours of Hamburgh. But the
appearance that catches the eye, and distinguishes these cities from all
that I had before seen, was the excessive quantity of windows in the
houses; the front surfaces of which are nearly one half of glass. I had
remarked the upper stories of certain manufacturing houses in London,
that have rows of windows in the same manner; and inquired if the houses
I now saw were all manufactories? It was a question the sailors could
not answer, but I afterwards found that every house was thus
constructed.

About nine o’clock, we came to moorings in the river, without the
harbour; exceedingly mortified at being obliged to sleep another night
on board; knowing that every thing to give us a pleasant reception had
been prepared by our friends on shore. Expectation is whetted by
difficulty and delay: yet expectation, without these stimulants, is
generally too high. We were soon to be on German ground; and Germany is
one of the grand divisions of Europe; renowned for its ancient
resistance to the Roman arms, and claiming in modern times, not only the
destructive honours of war, but a high rank in every department of
science and belles lettres; we should therefore find it peopled with the
learned, the polite, and the brave. With these, and a thousand other
grateful images, we appeased our impatience, and once more waited the
return of day. How eager is man for the future,—how insensible to the
present!—Had he the power, how would he lend wings to time, and wish his
life away!

LETTER VIII

The morning came, the Captain ordered out his boat, and we had scarcely
patience to descend into it with care. The fleet that had arrived had to
find berths in the harbour: ships must change their stations; some to
depart, others to load, or unload: the boats and barges employed seemed
almost as numerous as the ships themselves: multitudes of the peasants
that inhabit the banks of the Elbe, who, from necessity, are both
watermen and farmers, were arriving, male and female, in their skiffs,
to provision the devouring city: all was life, all was motion; and we,
rowing in the midst of the scene, had our faculties wholly absorbed by
the countless novelties that at once invaded them. The animation of the
Elbe cannot indeed be said to equal that of the Thames: but then the
objects were so different, and their appearance generally was so uncouth
and boorish, that the eye was bewildered, and unable to examine them
individually.

We were stopped at the entrance of the harbour by the voice of a
sentinel, and questioned concerning who we were, and what our trunks
contained; but this is rather a form than a scrutiny; for few ports are
so free of access, or give so little trouble with respect to
Custom-house duties, as that of Hamburg. The government of Hamburg,
comparatively, has laid but few restraints upon trade: that is, it has
practised fewer of the vices of finance, common, more or less, to all
governments; which absurdly rob, by their endeavours to enrich
themselves. We landed on the _Vorsetzen_, at the principal stairs of the
harbour, and were immediately struck by their inconvenience: they were
narrow, steep, and dangerous, especially to persons carrying luggage.
The _krahnziehers_, or city porters, perceiving we were English, and
unacquainted with the place, pressed their service upon us, which we
eagerly enough accepted; and having landed our trunks on the quay, one
of them went for a coach, and another for a car, to remove us and our
effects. We intreated them to make haste, which they promised; and
though they kept us waiting in vexation above half an hour, they might
still be said to keep their word: as Germans, they were quick. We had
indeed heard much of the inflexible phlegm of this people, but as yet we
were novices in its practical effects. While we stood watching our
luggage, gazed at and gazing, the appearance of those around us strange
to us, and ours to them, among other things that attracted attention
were two waggons, if they might so be called, that met; and though the
street, speaking of Hamburg, was tolerably wide, could scarcely pass.
Each was drawn by four horses, two abreast, the driver riding on the
near or left hand shaft-horse; each had four wheels, and not two feet
broad at the bottom, though both were uncommonly long, the axle-trees
projected above a foot on each side; in short, nothing could be more ill
constructed for turning and passing in narrow streets. The convenience
which would have resulted from their small width, was wholly destroyed
by the projecting axle-trees; the rope harness was so long, and the
horses drew at such a distance from each other, as at once to employ the
space of drawing abreast, and what was nearly sufficient to have drawn
lengthways. This, added to the length of the waggon, the awkwardness of
the drivers, and the lazy unconcern with which they sat and looked, when
they had embarrassed each other, before they determined how they would
act, combining and harmonizing with other appearances around us,
immediately gave birth to much surmise and meditation on national
character. It was heightened too by the contents of one of the waggons,
which was loaded with the filth and ordure of the city, as offensive
almost to the sight as to the smell. Let us not, however, be too hasty
in our conclusions, the detail of facts as they arise will best explain
the real state of things: individually they may mislead, but collected
and compared, they must elucidate.

It is true the next I have to relate is of the unfavourable kind. Three
of the _krahnziehers_ harnessed themselves to the car that drew our
luggage; the distance they had to take it might be six or seven hundred
yards, and a porter in London would willingly have done the whole work
for three shillings; but their demand was twelve. It is true three of
them thought proper to employ themselves, and they rendered that which
might have been easy and expeditious, laborious and slow. Neither was
their demand complied with; one third was abated: but then they supposed
themselves paid no more than their due, and were dissatisfied that
strangers were not taxed higher. It is said indeed, and I suppose truly,
that throughout Germany labour is no where so extravagantly paid as in
Hamburg: but a comparative estimate of the rate of labour is much
wanted; for it is a subject on which there are many and gross mistakes.
In proportion as the inhabitants of the country are ignorant, labour is
supposed to be cheap: the very reverse is generally the truth.

_To Mr Freeman,
Bath._

SIR, I had once the pleasure of receiving a very humane and sensible
letter from you on the part of my father. After the character he has
given of you, I do not wonder at it. Benevolence and wisdom frequently
are, and ought always to be united. I am now to address you on his
behalf. He informs me he is indebted to you to the amount of ten pounds,
which was lent to him in necessity, and which I assure you is remembered
by him with gratitude: it is an affair, that if I am not mistaken, does
honour both to you and him. He is very anxious to have you satisfied
that you shall not suffer for your generosity. I have it not in my power
without great inconvenience to discharge the debt just at present,
though it is a burthen which I wish to take from my father. I shall be
enabled within this year, that is, at the beginning of next November, to
pay it. I am secretary to a society which allows me that sum; and which,
if you will accept of my note, or a draft payable at that time, shall be
appropriated to this use. I shall be glad if you will favor me with a
line respecting the affair, and after begging you will accept my most
sincere thanks for the obligations I owe you on my father’s account,
take the liberty to subscribe myself, &c.

_January 9, 1779._

_To Mr Richard Hughes.
Barnstaple._

SIR, I shall execute with pleasure any little commands you will please
to favour me with, and beg you will not suppose it any obligation. I
have enquired concerning a first singer, but hear of none except Mr
Cubit. I have not applied to him, because I am told he has been with you
before, and that he seldom visits one company twice. If you want a
capricious hoyden, who values herself upon her character and virtue, yet
walks about the town in men’s clothes, with a long stride, and a fierce
cocked hat; who has more spirits, and as many antics as an ape or a
tumbler; who is a coquet this minute, and a prude the next; raps out a
great oath now, and anon reads you a lecture upon propriety and decorum;
talks _to_ herself, _at_ herself, _of_ herself, and never for five
minutes together upon any other subject; who affects the girl, and whose
wrinkles are as apparent as her vanity; who yet does every manager she
is with, considerable service, by the singularity of her character, and
the free airs she gives herself among the men; who on the stage, has
considerable merit in breeches’ parts, coquets, etc., but who will be
Wall and Moonshine, or haunt you both sleeping and waking; in short, if
you want a person who is sentimental, dissipated, reserved, obliging,
talkative, sullen, laughing, pouting, and all in less time than I could
copy this period: who has many indications of strong sense, and more of
absolute insanity: whose heart would direct her to do right, but whose
vanity will not permit her: I say, if such a person pleases you, then
take Mrs. H——. If you suspect me of pique or ill-nature while I have
been painting this picture, you wrong me. I have not, nor is it probable
I ever should again have, occasion to associate with Mrs. H——. If she
should say it were a bad likeness, I will mend the copy when she mends
the original. We have a new afterpiece of Mr Sheridan’s coming out this
evening, ‘The Critic,’ from which we expect great things. Pray give my
best respects to Mrs. Hughes, and believe me to be sincerely yours.

_T. H._

_Oct. 30th, 1779._

_To Mr Holcroft._

MY DEAR FATHER, I am glad the trifle I sent came safe to hand. Mr
Freeman’s receipt is sufficient. You did not mention whether Mr Freeman
still continues your friend. I wish you would be kind enough to let me
know whether you have all your garden ground, and your bed of asparagus
still, and what you chiefly depend on for your livelihood. Let me beg of
you not to be unhappy. When you can no longer make up your payments,
give up your all and come to me. I have told you frequently, and I
cannot repeat it too often, I will never see you want. I am afraid you
think the little I have hitherto done for you an obligation: I think I
discover it in your letters. Let me intreat you, do not consider it in
this light. You cherished me in infancy, and I should be very wicked to
see you perish in age: you loved me then, and I love and reverence you
now. I will shew you how sincere I am in my professions, the moment I
have it in my power. I am exceedingly concerned for my poor mother’s
afflictions, I hope she endures them with patience and fortitude, which
alone can alleviate and make them lighter. I was not at home when your
friends from Bath called, I should have been happy to have seen them,
but they never came again. I hope you bear the burthen of old age
cheerfully: nothing but indifference to the accidents of life can make
them supportable. Life itself is to the wisest, happiest, and longest
lived, short, uncertain, and chequered with good and evil; a kind of
dream that ends in a profound sleep. You are travelling towards the
grave, and I am following you very fast, nay, possibly may finish the
journey before you; but let us not be unhappy on that account: we shall
rest from our labours, while our sons and daughters in numberless
succeeding generations shall toil in the same steps, have the same hopes
and disappointments, and sink at last into the same forgetfulness. Life
is an April day; if we are impatient and out of humour, it is overcast
with tempests, clouds, and rain; but if we bound our desires and are
cheerful, sunshine and serenity prevail. Mrs. Holcroft and the three
little ones are all well, as are all friends, who frequently inquire
after you. You would be delighted with the children, especially the boy,
who is a fine little fellow, reads well, and is learning French and
Latin.

_To Mr Holcroft.
King’s Mead Square, Bath._

My dear Father, I take great pleasure in hearing of your welfare, and
that you are not likely to become unsettled again, which, if I had not a
house to invite you to, would give me great pain to reflect on, more
especially at your time of life. I cannot tell you how much I respect Mr
Freeman, he certainly must be a very benevolent, worthy man, and I beg
you will assure him from me that he shall be certain not to lose the
least part of the sum he has lent you: and that I am ready to give him
my notes, if he pleases to accept of them, for the payment at such
stated periods, as I find myself able to pay them at. Your property in
your garden, and your own integrity, dear Sir, are sufficient security;
but I would willingly remove every burthen from your shoulders, as well
as give Mr Freeman every certainty in my power. I am every day more
esteemed, and I believe, if I have life and health, there is little
doubt of my success. I hope, Sir, you will not think me rude in
cautioning you not to be too eager in increasing your stock; as by
having more affairs on your hands than your small capital can supply,
you may easily lose the whole; besides that you bring a degree of
trouble and anxiety on your mind that your health cannot now support
perhaps. I am exceedingly glad to hear that my mother is better. We are
all in good health, our relations dine with us on Sunday, and we always
speak of you. Mr Marsac is not arrived. My comedy is to be played next
season. God bless you both, and make you happy. I am, dear father, etc.

_March 31st._

_To Fulke Greville, Esq._

SIR, Before I proceed to any other subject, permit me to assure you that
I not only think myself greatly honoured by your correspondence, but
greatly obliged by your remarks, and more especially by the candour and
liberality with which they are made. Indeed, Sir, these sensations have
made too powerful an impression to be soon, or easily forgotten. Your
ideas of consistency, however I may have failed, agree entirely with
mine; for which reason, whenever you find absurdities or
inconsistencies, I shall be glad if you will freely point them out. Your
objection to the Two Knights is well founded. I will make Sir Harry, a
Lord, or Sir Hornet, a Mr ——. Vandervelt is in the same predicament. A
large fortune, and the illiterate manners of Turnbull, are sufficiently
improbable, unless what Osborne says, when he draws his character in the
first act, reconciles it to truth. I think your hint, however, a good
one, and worth attending to. If any phrases, words, or other alterations
of that nature, occur to you in reading, I beg you will not scruple to
write them on the blank leaf, being convinced that you have too much
candour to take offence if I should happen to differ with you
occasionally. If you understand that Sir Hornet sends the Turnbulls to
his nephew’s house as a residence, I have erred in expressing myself,
and must correct. The last thing you have noticed I confess affects me a
good deal. I thought I had contrived the plot so as to keep the audience
in suspense relative to the real character of Osborne; if I have failed
in this the error is a capital one indeed. It is true I could not make
Osborne a rascal so palpably as to take away all probability of the
contrary, because the mind would have been too much shocked at the want
of poetical justice in the denouement; the point to be hit was that
perplexity which must arise in the mind on seeing a worthy person likely
to be betrayed by an unworthy one; but yet to preserve a possibility of
his salvation by having a possibility of your suspicions of the supposed
unworthy one ill founded. Now to certain minds who are intimately in the
mechanical secret of plot and catastrophe, &c. I hardly know how this is
to be effected. You, Sir, know that a comedy must end happily, because
critics have made it an inevitable rule. You see as you proceed there is
no way of doing this, but by making a certain character (Osborne for
instance,) not what he appears to be: you foresee, therefore, this will
happen, and your concern for the distress of another vanishes. But in
what labyrinth shall the poet bewilder you, Sir, who are possessed of
this clue. If the whole audience see as far as you, Sir, my play loses
half its merit. The work in question was to be a comedy, the auditors
were to laugh; wit, humour, variety of character, of manners, of
incident, were absolute requisites for a good comedy, and as entirely so
as instruction and reformation from the fable and moral. The poet’s
attention must, therefore, inevitably be divided; he must bestow a part
on each. If the catastrophe of my play is not more moral, more forcible,
and more affecting, than that of any late production, it is worse than
any of them, because the plot has greater capabilities, but the nature
of the work would not permit it to be as much so as if it had had but
one whole and undivided intention, that is, as if it had been a Tragedy.
Do not imagine, Sir, that I am seized with the irritability of
authorship; whenever I am chagrined it will be at myself for committing
errors, not at others for telling me of them. I am afraid there is truth
in your objection, though I confess I have been told by some readers
they were entirely at a loss concerning the catastrophe till it
happened: but it is evident they either said false, or were less
discerning than you. Continue, Sir, to tell me truth. They will not
flatter me at the Theatre. I will retrieve my errors where I can. I am
concerned, however, Sir, at giving you the labour of writing, you will
be in town soon; or at Petersham, I shall be proud to wait on you; you
will give me your opinion with greater ease: I find already it will be
of much service to me, and I repeat, I think myself greatly honoured,
and indebted to that philanthropy which could prompt you so cheerfully
to the present undertaking.

I am, Sir, &c.

_September 4th._

_To Fulke Greville, Esq._

SIR, I have this moment received and read your last letter: your
attention to me is not only an honour to me, but to yourself, Sir; it
expresses the anxiety of a generous mind. I continue to think that your
suggestion of Osborne’s gratitude is a very happy improvement, and as
such have endeavoured to give it all the expression and force I could
from the mouth of Osborne. As to Sir Harry, he appears to me to be so
overflowing with passion, that is, the turn is so sudden and unexpected,
and he is so affected with Osborne’s friendship and virtue in disguise,
and at the hideous danger he had just escaped, that, if I feel right, he
_cannot_ speak, except in exclamation. The difficulty of making
impassioned characters say neither too little nor too much is, as you
observe, exceedingly great: and the plot frequently obliges the author
to say too much; but it never fails in some degree to offend. I confess,
Sir, you almost terrify me about the loss of Melissa’s fortune, but I
have no remedy; the reason is what I gave you in our last conversation.
Mr Nicholson says, were it not done, he confesses he would not do it;
and yet, as it is at present managed, the effect is such that he can
scarcely wish it undone; nor does he seem to think there is much risk in
it. He approved your before-mentioned hint concerning Osborne’s
gratitude, exceedingly, and thought it very happy. I don’t know how
enough to thank you for your kind offers concerning the prologue; but Mr
Nicholson is at present about one, and had begun it before I received
your letter; how far it may succeed in mine or Mr Harris’s opinion, I
cannot yet predict; but I am under no disagreeable concern on that
subject, because I know Mr Nicholson’s candour and good sense so well as
to be certain, should it not chance to be happy, he will not suffer the
least chagrin; not to mention, Sir, that I should be exceedingly sorry
again to subject your performance to the caprice, or ill taste, of
others, to which I myself, in this business, am entirely subjected. I
have not yet seen Mr Henderson: he was out of town.

I am, &c.
T. H.

_To the same._

SIR, I am very much concerned at not knowing where or which way to remit
the copy of the comedy to you, being ignorant of where you are, or where
this may find you. I went on Tuesday with it into Somerset Street, but
found the house entirely shut up. The trouble you have taken in reading
and advising, demands every attention from me. It is to be played on
Saturday the 13th. If you come to town, or can instruct me how to send
the comedy to you, I shall be happy. I assure you, Sir, you can scarcely
conjecture the trouble and chagrin attending things of this nature:
there have been three epilogues written before there was one to please
the speaker; and at this instant, I am not certain of finding any person
to speak the prologue. Mr Henderson said he could not please himself in
it, and therefore declined it; and Mr Lee Lewis, to whom it was
afterwards given, who fancies himself a wit and a critic, does not find
opportunities enough of regaling his acquaintance in the upper gallery;
whether he will or will not speak it, is yet to be determined. There
have been various alterations made in the play, and a very considerable
one relative to the loss of Melissa’s fortune, though your objection is
not entirely obviated. I have written a speech for Sir Harry, on the
effects of gaming, as consonant to the ideas you hinted as I could; and
I believe it will have a charming effect. Your turn too for the
denouement is exceedingly happy. I can only add, Sir, that I think
myself exceedingly obliged to you for these favours, and shall take the
earliest opportunity when you are in town, with your permission, of
thanking you in person.

I am, Sir, &c.

_To the same._

SIR, I am exceedingly happy that you do not suspect me of ingratitude:
indeed, Sir, I should detest myself had I, by my own neglect, treated
you with the least disrespect. It would have been a symptom not only of
an inflated, silly mind, but of a bad heart also. I repeat this, Sir,
because I assure you I was very uneasy till the receipt of your obliging
letter removed my doubts. I cannot help again observing to you, Sir,
that the approbation of people of known worth and undoubted abilities is
very flattering; and I hope there will be nothing wrong or indelicate in
saying that I feel myself peculiarly happy and elevated at having gained
the esteem of Mr and Mrs. Greville; and I am certain I shall neglect no
opportunity of endeavouring to improve a friendship so honourable to me,
and, at one period of my life, so seemingly incompatible. I know, Sir,
the most effectual mode of accomplishing this will be to do my duty in
society, and assiduously to cultivate such talents as accident or nature
has bestowed upon me; and this, Sir, is my most serious intention.
Respecting the play, I, Sir, was never satisfied with making Sir Harry
lose his sister’s fortune; besides that I find it is an incident in the
tragedy of the Gamester, where, as the hero does not survive the
dishonour, it is very proper and happy. However, as few are sufficiently
refined to feel properly on this occasion, it has a good stage effect.
You can hardly conceive how great the effect of the denouement was on
the first night, the whole house seemed taken by surprise; and Osborne’s
generous account of the reason of his conduct greatly heightened, or
rather gave a complete finish to their pleasure. There is another
speech, which was written in consequence of some hints I received from
conversing with you, which I think one of the best conceived in the
whole play. It is Sir Harry’s soliloquy in the fourth act, after Melissa
has put her fortune in his hands. I very much approve what you are
pleased to term the niceties of verbal criticism. An exact and well
regulated machine depends as much, if not more, upon small things, as
great; but still there must be vast labour and precision indeed, if no
particle of dust insinuates itself among the cogs and wheels; however,
when such is discovered, it would be folly not to brush it away. The
epilogue I wrote, and it has a good effect in speaking. The curtailings
have some of them been suggested at rehearsals by the performers, and
some were my own, but the greatest part were Mr Harris’s. I dislike Sir
Harry’s squeezing Clara’s hand, as much as you can do, I assure you,
Sir, it was the insertion of the actors: and I chose rather to submit to
that, and many other things I disapproved, than to appear obstinate or
opinionated. Mrs. Holcroft desires me to assure you, Sir, she is
exceedingly obliged by the kind mention you have made of her, and only
wishes it were possible to have an opportunity of expressing her
gratitude in actions both to you and Mrs. Greville: but this she
despairs of.

I am, Sir, &c.

_Oct. 28._

_To Mr Freeman._
_Bath._

To a heart like mine, addicted, both by principle and constitution, to
the glowing emotions of friendship, the philanthropy and warmth of
sentiment so conspicuous in your letters, and particularly in your last,
are very acceptable. And though I have not leisure to answer you so
fully as I wish, nor opportunity to return those many kindnesses you do
me, yet to be totally silent would be ungrateful. Let me therefore
return you my most sincere thanks for all your favours, particularly for
those done to my father: believe me, Sir, they shall never be forgotten.
You are pleased to style yourself my friend, and I am proud of the
appellation: the friendship of good men is not to be obtained upon
slight and trivial terms: they know not only their own worth, but that
the merits or demerits of those to whom they apply that serious and
respectful word, are in a great measure reflected back upon themselves;
and this makes them cautious. For my own part, Sir, small as my
consequence is in this world, nothing but a thorough conviction of the
goodness of a man’s heart, could make me accept him for my friend. I am
convinced you think in this like me, and I esteem your friendship, Sir,
and the friendship of men like you too highly ever to wilfully make
myself unworthy of it. Men who feel the dignity of virtue are too proud
to be vicious. Excuse this, Sir, I only mean to assure you I will
endeavour to equal the good opinion you are pleased to entertain of me,
and not to write my own eulogy.

_To Mr Freeman._

DEAR SIR, I received yours of the 25th in due course, and have forborne
to answer it till now, because I had not money to pay any part of the
account before; as soon as I go out to-day I shall pay ten pounds in
part to Mr Ellis, and hope to pay as much more in a few weeks; should
you think this too tardy, be kind enough to hint as much, and I will
endeavour to quicken my motions. Had I any means of conveyance, I would
send you a book just published (by me) in French and English, very
curious,—‘Memoires de Voltaire écrits par lui-même.’ If you will be kind
enough in your next to inform me who in London sends you parcels
oftenest, I can take occasion now and then to send you such trifles as I
have any concern in. We complain in London of literary envy among
literary men, and often with reason; but our men of letters are far
behind those of France in that particular; parties there are as high
among the learned, as here among politicians. Their passions are sudden,
their wit keen, and their tongues imprudent; all these must have
exercise, and as they dare not, like us, talk of beheading prime
ministers, tell kings they are fools, and regulate the affairs of
nations; they are all judges of wit, taste, poetry, and the belles
lettres; and much in the same proportion as we are of politics: that is
to say, there are a thousand who affirm and dogmatize, for one who
discriminates and judges with temperance and taste. Their authors of the
present century, who have been famous, are most of them dead or old, and
they themselves say they have little hopes from any of the rising
generation: but this is a common-place complaint of all ages, and I have
no doubt is without foundation now as heretofore. Notwithstanding their
universal pretensions to dispute and decide in works of wit and taste,
the common people are very ignorant and ill-educated, insomuch that you
will see, in the best streets of Paris, the inscriptions on the signs
frequently misspelt; which is matter of astonishment to an Englishman,
who seldom sees such a thing even on a village chandler’s shop sign. I
have written the above sketch in obedience to a wish expressed in your
last; it is hasty and slight, for I am pressed at present for time, as
indeed I generally am. My father is at present in Manchester; but he has
taken a cottage in Cheshire, whither he and his wife are going in a few
days. In his last he desired me to give his kindest love and sincerest
thanks to you and your family, for all your kindness and goodness to
him; he likewise wishes to know who is Mr F——’s successor, and if it is
necessary he should come to Bath at the expiration of his lease. A line
when you have leisure, Sir, will be very acceptable to your sincere
friend, and obliged humble servant,

T. H.

_To Mr Professor Dugald Stewart._

DEAR SIR, I am ashamed of myself, I have treated you with seeming
disrespect, by neglecting to answer your letter. This is a thing I
should be ashamed of with any person, and especially with one who I
believe deserves the best esteem of the best men. Hear what I can urge
in mitigation, and I hope to obtain your pardon. Your letter arrived
just at the moment when my opera of the Noble Peasant was in rehearsal;
and I exceedingly hurried and teazed, not only with attending every day
at the theatre, but with alterations, writing new songs, new scenes,
making retrenchments, &c. &c. to suit the circumstances of introducing
this performer, leaving out that, and so on; by which you will readily
conjecture I was not idle: add to which the necessity of supplying
printers with copy of Les Veillêes du Chateau, which I am translating. I
even began this letter yesterday, but was cut short at the word _teazed_
in the last paragraph, _par un impertinent_, and was obliged to defer
the subject till this morning. My defence is ended in which I even plead
guilty, but hope you will find lenity not ill-bestowed. Mr de Bonneville
has been several months at Evreux. I wrote letter after letter, and
received no answer, till at last I grew very seriously uneasy. My
letters lay at Paris for him; he is returned, has written, and I am
recovered of my fears. I believe, Sir, you know how deeply I am
interested in whatever concerns Monsieur de Bonneville. At present, or
rather at the moment he wrote, he was severely afflicted with the
toothache; but this, though a terrible _evil_ while it _lasts_, is not I
hope a _lasting evil_. I shall transcribe your kind expressions
concerning him in my next, for which give me leave to thank you: I
assure you they gave me pleasure, yes, Sir, great pleasure. My delay has
had one good effect; had I written sooner I could not have told you
where he was, or if any where. I received his letter on Thursday last,
shall write in a few days, and would advise you, Sir, to do likewise:
your letter will be sure to reach him if you direct to him, ‘Chez
Monsieur Barrois le jeune Libraire Rue Hurepaix à Paris.’ You are kind
enough to say, Sir, you will call on me when you come to London. I have
a house and table, Sir; and such as they are, if you will do me the
honor of making them your own, while you stay, be it short or long, I
shall remember the favor: this is said in plain and simple sincerity,
and not in compliment. If you should see Mr Robertson, junior, pray
present my kind respects.

I am, &c.
T. H.

_To Madame de Genlis._

I have received your favor, Madam, and am happy to find the books came
safe to hand. As to the retrenchments you are pleased to notice, I will
not pretend to justify either my own false delicacy, or that of my
nation; but I can affirm, that be it false or true, it exists,

and that to an English reader, I have done the book a service, and no
injury. A person of your genius, Madam, need not appeal to the
approbation of journalists (I speak generally); however, if that were
any consolation, I can likewise plead their support on this very
subject, as you will see if you will please to read the Critical Review
for February last; but I would rather have given you satisfaction,
Madam, than fifty Reviewers. You may well imagine, Madam, I acted for
the good of the work, according to the best of my judgment, but I will
by no means presume that judgment infallible.—Permit me, Madam, to
relate a short story.—A certain young nobleman was remarkable for the
elegance of his dress, the symmetry of his person, and the refinement of
his manners. The old ladies admired him, the young ladies loved him, and
even the handsomest among the men envied him. He was the chief inventor
of modes, the leader of fashions, and the arbiter of taste and tailors:
above all, he was remarkable for a fine head of hair. Proud of his
power, and conscious of his abilities, his ambition was insatiable. One
day, while waiting for his hair-dresser, he happened by some odd
accident to be turning over the leaves of a folio, in which he saw
engravings of Eastern habits—he burst into a laugh.—What strange
figures, cried he! how little do they understand of grace and elegance!
were I among them, I would soon teach them better. Full of this idea,
and urged by a thirst of still superior fame, he determined to take a
voyage to China, in order to begin by humanizing and converting that
vast empire to the principles of good taste. Arrived at Pekin, and being
a master of his art, his first endeavour was to gain the suffrages of
the fair sex: to effect this, he assailed, and hoped to captivate the
daughter of a Mandarine, acknowledged to be the greatest beauty in all
Pekin, and, as her admirers daily swore, in all the world. Much depended
on a first impression, and this he knew: he therefore pared his nails
and powdered his hair, and some add (perhaps maliciously) painted his
cheeks. Full of the remembrance of former celebrity, and elate with the
consciousness of present perfection, he walked up to the glass, admired
the image it reflected, and with the step of ease and self-approbation,
called for his palanquin and proceeded on his visit. Thus prepossessed,
I need not describe his surprise and chagrin, when instead of meeting
the approbation he thought so certain, he heard the beauteous Chinese,
though struck with his fine form (for proportion must ever please) find
fault with that European art—that taste, which he had held so
irresistible: the smart short cut of his clothes suffered a thousand
ridiculous comparisons; and his frizzed and powdered hair, so bushy and
so full, afforded endless laughter. A circumstantial detail is needless.
The European, when he beheld the Chinese in their own country, and in
great numbers, did not find their fashions so absurd as he thought them
in an engraving. He fell desperately in love with the Mandarine’s
daughter, soon consented to cut off his fine hair, except a single lock,
to let his nails grow, and wear a long vest; for without such
condescension he found it impossible to win the affection of his
mistress—that is, he translated himself into Chinese. Truth and nature
are the same in all countries, but the mode of decoration varies in
each.—This I hope, Madam, will be a sufficient apology for any
occasional liberties I may have taken with your very estimable work; and
which, notwithstanding, I believe few people think more highly of than I
do, because few have studied its numerous excellences with such minute
attention. There is a new edition now in the press, and I shed tears
daily over the proofs as I read. I shall receive the favor of your
‘Theatre d’Education,’ with the respect and thanks such a present,
coming from such a person, deserves.

I am, Madam, &c.
T. H.

_To Fulke Greville, Esq._

DEAR SIR, When I returned from Blackheath, I found your kind note, in
which you speak in that mild and true spirit of philosophy, which is
worthy of a liberal and philosophic mind. Proof respecting the subject
in question (_Instinct_) is not to be had. To me the difficulties seem
less to suppose the actions of all animals the consequence of
reflection, than to suppose them _blind_ impulse. I care not a farthing,
whether my opinion be right or wrong; but while it _is_ my opinion,
however weak or absurd it may be, I will never pretend to a conviction I
do not feel: and in this I am sure to meet your approbation, because a
contrary conduct would be contemptible. A hen that has chickens, rakes
up a barley-corn on a dunghill and stands clucking over it till her
brood come round her. I could as soon suppose this an action of
instinct, viz. an action without an intention, for that is what I
understand by the word instinct; I repeat, I could as soon suppose the
hen acted from instinct, and without any idea passing in her mind, as I
could at seeing a tomtit carry moss into the hollow of a tree, for the
safety of itself and young: the action is much more complicated in the
one case, than in the other, but I do not see that it warrants me to
conclude the tomtit is acting without any intention. My mind revolts at
the idea of a bird selecting a hole just capacious enough to creep into,
remarking in what tree that hole happens to be, flying away and looking
round for materials to make its nest, placing those materials in a
certain form, leaving its mate to watch, and give notice if an enemy
approach, and going through a rational and well connected system,
without rationality, and without meaning. It seems to me much less
difficult to suppose the bird has a greater capacity than I am
habituated to attribute to birds, or that it learns to do these things
from seeing others of the same species with which it lives in society do
the like. Pray Sir, do me the justice to believe, that I mean to give
all this as mere opinion, and that I am superior to dogmatizing. The
fact you mention of the squirrel, may, as you say, Sir, if I am not
mistaken, afford deductions for either side of the question. The first
thing I should wish to inquire into would be, whether the squirrel had
never been in company with other squirrels that had the like habits;
and, if that were proved against me, I should next inquire, whether a
young squirrel that had never been in company with any other squirrel
did, the very first time it had nuts given it, go and seek for a corner
to hide them, and if even this extraordinary thing were to happen, I
should still be much more inclined to attribute it to the fears and
cunning of the animal, than to suppose it went and came and knew nothing
about the matter; for so, I think, acting from instinct or without
intention, implies. Your Wilbury horses, Sir, are surely on my side of
the question, and my very good friends on this occasion, or I am once
more egregiously deceived. They not only _choose_ to leave the heat and
retire to the shade, but they moreover select that part of the shade
which suits them best, that is, where they are least annoyed by flies.
Just so an over-roasted cook-maid retires behind her fire-screen, and if
she happens to sit down on an uneasy chair removes to another, and gives
the easiest the preference. Men play on the harpsichord and talk, as men
walk and talk; i.e. the thing is so familiar, it employs only a part of
their attention; but give them music which is too difficult for them,
that is, which employs their whole attention, and I from experience will
answer for their silence. The respect due to your friendly mode of
arguing, has occasioned me to do what I have a great aversion to, write
a long letter. But however convinced you may be of the fallacy of my
arguments, I hope I shall never give you cause to suspect the sincerity
and friendship with which I am, and shall ever remain,

Your very respectful,
Humble servant,
T. H.

P.S.—I have sent you the magazine, and a volume of the Harleian
manuscript, a very scarce, curious, and dear book, and hope it may
afford something that will entertain. I have not got the other book:
_Lord Kaimes’s Sketches of Man_ is the title.

_To the Hon. Horace Walpole._

Sir, The politeness with which I was received on my accidental visit to
Strawberry-hill, in company with Mr Mercier, and the pleasure I felt not
only in viewing so rare a collection of the works of art, but in the
very kind manner in which they were shewn, will not easily be forgotten.
As a small testimony of the truth of this, I then projected, and having
received them from the binders, now take the liberty to send you copies
of such dramatic works of mine, as have been already played and
published, which I beg you to accept, not as a task imposed upon you to
read them, nor yet with an expectation of praise, but as an
acknowledgement of as much thankfulness as I dare express. I have also
inclosed a copy of a manuscript comedy, for which I can give no better
reason, than that though every motive of delicacy would make me avoid
laying you under the least restraint, yet it may happen that the perusal
of it may afford you an hour’s amusement, which is the best return I am
at present able to make for the attention with which you were pleased to
treat me, and the invitation you gave me to revisit Strawberry-hill in a
more favourable season.

I am, Sir,
Your very respectful,
Humble servant,
T. H.

ANSWER.

_To Mr Holcroft._

_Berkley Square, Nov. 28th, 1788._

The civilities, Sir, which you are pleased to say you received from me
at Strawberry-hill, were no more than were due to any gentleman, and
certainly did not deserve such acknowledgement as you have made; and I
should be ashamed of your thanking me so much, if the agreeable manner
in which you have greatly overpaid them by the present of your works,
did not make me easily swallow my shame, though it will not dispense me
from assuring you how much I am obliged to you. I shall read them with
pleasure as soon as I am settled in town. Just at present, I live
between town and country, and should not have leisure but to read them
by snatches. It is for this reason, that if you are not in haste for it,
I shall beg leave to keep your manuscript comedy, till I can peruse it
with proper attention. If you should want it soon, I will return it, and
ask for it again, for it would be unjust to the merit of your works to
run through them too rapidly.

I am, Sir,
Your obliged, and
Obedient humble servant,
H. WALPOLE.

_To Mr Holcroft, sen._

_Aug. 31st, 1791._

MY DEAR FATHER, I have received both your kind letters, and hope you
will excuse my not having answered you sooner, my delay having been
occasioned by the intense application which I am obliged to pay to a
work I am now writing. I imagine it will be printed about Christmas, and
you shall receive an early copy. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than
to hear of your good health. I am convinced of the efficacy of
sea-bathing, and am glad you are near enough to the sea to enjoy the
benefit of it. Remember, my dear father, what I repeated to you, when I
had last the happiness of your company. Keep your mind alive; exercise
every part of your body, fingers, joints, and muscles; endeavour to
infuse spirit and vigour into them, and depend upon it you will be
surprised at the effects which will be produced. We die piece-meal, by
falling into habits of apathy and neglect; and by supposing that
debility and inactivity are the inevitable consequences of age. The mind
becomes weary of action; it loses its desires, and the body sinks into
listlessness, palsy, and universal decay. This I am persuaded is the
error of a false supposition, that death is inevitable. Not that I would
have you understand I myself think I shall not die: but I very sincerely
think, when I do die, it will be of ignorance, and of the disease I have
just mentioned; accidents excepted.

You inquire, dear Sir, whether I am married again. I cannot say what
miracles may happen in the world; but I really think I have had marriage
enough for one man. The woman whom I could truly esteem is not easily to
be found; and, if the discovery were made, it would be strange if she
were wholly disengaged. Your grandchildren are all in good health, and
inquire after you very affectionately. Mrs. Colles and family are well,
she dined with us the Sunday before last. With respect to affairs, I am
sorry for your sake, my dear father, that I am not so rich as I could
wish. The only remedy is strict economy, and hard labour; both of which
conditions I am obliged severely to comply with: but, far from being
discontented; to be able to comply with them, to be rid of the false
notions that fix felicity in the enjoyment of superfluous trifles, which
none of us want, and to have a mind industrious, active, and delighting
to produce, these things are to me happiness, which may be almost called
supreme. I shall for some months be exceedingly short of money; but you
shall nevertheless hear from me, at the usual time. Pray remember me
kindly to Mrs. Holcroft, and assure yourself that I shall always remain

Your dutiful and
Affectionate Son,
T. H.

_From Mr Shield._

_Turin, September 22nd, 1791._

DEAR HOLCROFT, * * * * * * My health, since I left England, one day
excepted, has been extremely good; but passing the Alps in the manner I
did, was too much for me. I thought it degraded the race of men too much
to suffer two of them to carry me in a sedan over this immense mountain:
in consequence of which we had mules; and after riding about one mile,
reflection told me that I was shortening the life of an animal, by
obliging it to carry me up and down so many precipices; and as I saw
women walk it, I was resolved to do the same, for I was then in
possession of the temper of the animal which I led, and would not yield
to the intreaties of my fellow travellers to remount. I was so much
exhausted when I arrived at Laneburg, that I threw myself upon the bed:
soon after which, dinner was served up in the same room; but my appetite
had entirely left me through fatigue: my heart was good, but my strength
failed me. However, after waiting for two hours for some very
indifferent tea, it revived me a little, and I got into the coach, and
was entirely recovered by the time we reached Turin. A man needs no
common share of that inestimable quality which you so eminently possess
(fortitude) to travel through the South of France and Savoy, with only a
dozen words of the language. I thought change of scene would prove the
best medicine for me, and I seem to have been right in my
prognostications, for I find myself in the full possession of my
faculties, and am determined to exert myself in my profession. A very
accomplished Russian is my chief companion. But the greatest original of
our voiture party is a Chinese, of a small stature, but of a capacious
memory: he speaks the French, Italian, Spanish, German, Dutch, Russian,
and Latin languages, so as to astonish the natives and students of the
above. His character is so uncommon that, were you to draw him for the
English stage, he must reside in London before the audience would
acknowledge your character to be natural: most people like him, for the
only indignity he has yet met with is his being taken for my valet, from
his attention to me.

Your’s truly,
WM. SHIELD.

P.S.—I cannot view the beautiful scenes which at present surround me,
without recollecting the strokes of Milton’s pencil in his sublime
picture of Paradise Lost.

_To Mr Shield._

_London, Oct. 11, 1791._

DEAR SHIELD, You cannot easily imagine the pleasure which your letter
gave me. The passions, hopes, and alarms of the heart are necessarily
excited in behalf of those for whom it has an affection by distance, and
by its ignorance of the good or ill health, happiness or misfortune of
those it loves. I heard of you at Lyons, and for the moment was
satisfied. I knew from the numbers who cross the Alps, that there would
be little or no danger in traversing the tremendous Mount Cenis; yet I
was anxiously desirous to hear you had passed it in safety. I have
accompanied you in imagination, and looked down from its summit on the
surrounding nations. Fanny supposes that, being placed there, the eye
has a survey, as it were, of all Europe, though in reality its powers
are too feeble to see distinctly and accurately at a few yards’
distance; but fancy delights in these deceptions, nor can the scenery be
other than sublime and astonishing. You are at present in what, perhaps,
more than any other, may properly be called the country of
contradictions. The noble works of art, of sculpture, of painting, and
the monuments of architecture, which are to be met with in almost every
city of Italy, form a surprising contrast to the ignorance, poverty,
sloth, and present depravity of its inhabitants. Men who, by the baneful
influence of priesthood and bad government, have, from the first of
mankind, become almost the lowest. Sunk in ignorance, deprived of
energy, destitute of all noble emulation, we ask with amazement, how
could a people like this produce works so magnificent; or tower, as they
have done, above the rest of mankind? You are sensible, dear Shield, I
now speak of them as a nation; there are, no doubt, individuals among
them who still possess those powers, and that genius, of which the herd
of their fellow citizens is deprived. They only wait a more happy
moment, and a return of times more fortunate, to become all that they
have been, and I hope much more. I need not tell you the infinite
pleasure it would give me, could I, at this moment, transport myself to
the palace in which you lodge, for such no doubt it is, and accompany
you in all your peregrinations: I have a very earnest desire to see
Rome, that queen of cities, and take a view of all her treasures, which
as I am told, are so immense and multifarious, as presently to satiate
the most inquisitive mind.

Do not forget, dear Shield, to fix your attention on the various works
of Michael Angelo: in painting, sculpture, and architecture, I am
persuaded he was the first of modern artists. Nor must Raphael escape
your notice. Rome, I am told, is the only place on earth to view his
pictures, for all the best of them are there. I shall ask you a thousand
questions concerning them on your return, and of the effect they
produced upon you. The remains of ancient architecture: the Pantheon,
Trajan’s Pillar, the Tower of St. Angelo, &c. &c. you will certainly not
forget. I should indeed prefer fixing my attention on a select few of
the grandest objects, to that of dividing it into too many parts, and
thus rendering it without efficacy. No passage in your letter gave me so
much pleasure as that in which you tell me you are in full possession of
your faculties, _which you are determined to exert_.—The determination
is well worthy of a mind like your’s, Shield, which to possess, and not
to employ, is, in my opinion, the true sin against the Holy Ghost; it is
unpardonable. Familiarized as your mind at present is to harmony, and
stored with musical ideas, what can be so desirable for the world, or so
delightful to yourself, as to arrange those stores, to pour them forth,
and to dig the gold from the mountain where, while it lies buried, it is
worthless. Not that any accusation of the kind can be brought against
you, yet, Shield, distance will authorise friendship in speaking a truth
which false modesty unjustly forbids us to repeat _vivâ voce_. Your
works are already an honour to your nation and your art; and had you not
been under the malignant influence of absurd prejudices, they would have
been infinitely more honourable. We are at present all, more or less,
under similar influences, and obliged to obey the dictates of necessity.
I hope, however, that you will be less so in future than heretofore; and
the end of my present very severe labours is to free myself from them if
possible. There needed not any caution relative to the newspapers; I
believe you are too generally beloved to be in danger of attack; but
should illiberality or envy shew their fangs, be certain, you will not
want a defender. Forgive me, dear Shield, for not transcribing this
letter myself; my brain is exceedingly busy, and not a little fatigued;
you will see on what, when you return to England. I am obliged to employ
every moment in that severe labour which is requisite to form a
consistent, efficacious, and excellent whole; whether the work I am
writing will be such must be left to the proof, but such at least I must
endeavour to make it, and I hope my efforts will not be unsuccessful.
All good, all happiness, all pleasure, be with you wherever you go.

T. H.

_To Mr Godwin._

_July 20th, 1797._

It was my intention to write, for I feel a kind of vacuity of heart,
when I am deprived of the intercourse of my accustomed friends; but as I
cannot write to them all, and as we have many friends in common, I think
there are few whom you may not safely assure on my part, that they have
their turn in my thoughts. I deferred this pleasant duty, however, till
I had seen your mother, whom I thought it right and respectful to visit.
My coming occasioned some little alarm; the Major, Mrs. Harwood, and
Fanny, accompanied me; we were seen from the windows as we came up to
the gate. I had my spectacles on, and your sister-in-law ran to inform
your mother that yourself and Mrs. Godwin were arrived. The old lady
stood in the portico; the young ones advanced; there was an anxious
curiosity in their countenances, and your sister said, addressing
herself to me, ‘I think I know you, Sir.’ I scarcely knew what to reply:
imagination had winged her and myself up to London, where I supposed,
some years ago, I might have seen her at your lodgings; taking it for
granted she was a relation: but as I did not answer, Major Harwood
relieved our embarrassment by announcing my name. The change of
countenance, perhaps, could not have fully persuaded her that my face
was actually yours, yet she seemed rather to trust to her hopes, than to
her recollection; and these being disappointed, an immediate blank took
possession of her features, and the rising joy was damped. Your mother,
however, very kindly invited us in, and gave us all the good things she
had, that could administer to our immediate pleasures. The expectations
which Major Harwood had raised by his description of your mother were
not entirely answered. She was neither so alert, so commanding, nor so
animated, as he and Ann had described. I think her very rapidly on the
decline: having quitted her farming business I have no doubt myself but
that her faculties will be impaired much faster than they would have
been had she continued to exert them. Her memory is good, her
conceptions, speaking comparatively, are clear, and her strength
considerable. I have seen more of the county of Norfolk, than of its
inhabitants; of which county I remark, that, to the best of my
recollection, it contains more churches, more flints, more turkeys, more
turnips, more wheat, more cultivation, more commons, more cross-roads,
and from that token probably more inhabitants, than any county I ever
visited. It has another distinguishing and paradoxical feature, if what
I hear be true: it is said to be more illiterate than any other parts of
England, and yet I doubt if any county of like extent have produced an
equal number of famous men. This is, however, merely a conjecture made,
not from examination, but from memory. As it is necessary for me to
bathe, I shall immediately depart for Yarmouth, and pass through
Norwich, which I have not yet seen. If you, or Mrs. Godwin, or both, can
but prevail on yourself or selves to endure the fatigue of writing to
me, I hope I need not use many words to convince you of the pleasure it
will give me: and be it understood that this letter is addressed to you
both, whatever the direction on the back may affirm to the contrary.
Professions are almost impertinent, and yet I am almost tempted to
profess to you how sincerely and seriously I am interested in your
happiness, but as I am sure my words would ill describe my thoughts, I
shall forbear. Pray inform me, sweet lady, in what state is your novel?
And on what, courteous Sir, are you employed? Though I am idle myself, I
cannot endure that anybody else should be so. Direct to me at the
Post-Office, Yarmouth.

_To Mr Holcroft._

_December 11th, 1794._

SIR, Were I not writing to Mr Holcroft, I should think it needful to
apologize for my abrupt self-introduction to you in London, and the
liberty I now take in addressing you: but I trust you will not deem me
impertinent, nor expect any professions to convince you of the esteem
and admiration I have for your character. These sentiments induced me to
visit you in your late unjust confinement, to be anxious for your
safety, and sincerely to rejoice that you are now restored to your
friends, and your extensive circle of usefulness. You may perhaps
recollect the scheme[17] of which I gave you an imperfect outline; I
much desired your opinion and advice on the subject; but your mind being
then much engaged on its peculiar situation, I forbore to intrude the
subject. Hoping you may now be happily settled at your rightful home,
and believing you would be happy to assist me by advice, as well as
enforce by precept any virtuous intention, I would engage your thoughts
to our projected plan of establishing a genuine system of property.
America presents many advantages to the accomplishment of this
scheme—the easy rate at which land may be purchased, is not the least
important: yet we are not determined on emigration. Principle, not plan,
is our object. A friend has suggested that the plan is practicable in
some of the uncultivated parts of Wales. I recollect your expressing a
desire that we might form such a society without leaving the kingdom. As
we wish to consult all who may render our efforts more serviceable to
the cause of truth and virtue, we should be happy if in some unemployed
hour, you would consider the subject, and impart to us any objection
which may occur peculiar to the scheme of emigration. From the writings
of William Godwin and yourself, our minds have been illuminated, we wish
our actions to be guided by the same superior abilities; perhaps when
together, you may bestow some thoughts to our advantage. To him, and
your friend Nicholson, I would request the remembrance of an admirer.
Long may they continue to instruct and amend mankind! If we could
practise our scheme in this kingdom, it would save much expense, perhaps
danger, and at the same time be more agreeable to our private
inclinations; but the probability of being obnoxious to Government, and
subject to tythes, are in our opinions serious objections. I forbear to
make any remark on the late trials, or formally to congratulate you on
your acquittal. I hope the spirit of enquiry will be excited to
advantage; perhaps you would rather have had your trial proceeded in;
though the Court authority prevented your _speaking_, they cannot
prevent you from _printing_ your injured case. I am anxious to see your
appeal on the subject.

When you address your charming daughter, (Mrs. C——, of Exeter), whom I
saw with you, be good enough to make my remembrance. I wonder not at
your drawing the charming character of Anna St. Ives, having so fair an
original.

ROBERT LOVELL.

_No. 14, Old Market, Bristol, 1794._

_From Mr Dermody._

_London, June 15th, 1796._

SIR, From the universal celebrity of your talents, and the liberal
spirit which breathes through all your productions, I am, though a
stranger, emboldened to request your superior guidance in the paths of
literature. Very little used to authorship as a trade, inexperienced in
the polity of booksellers, and even unacquainted with the city itself,
it would, I presume, be no dishonourable employment to direct a
wandering muse, and you alone, Sir, are the person I conceive (from
general benevolence) best adapted to that task both by affability and
experience. Without these two qualifications, you could not have written
Alwyn, which, next to Fielding’s work, contains the most affecting and
sportive scenes that ever adorned that (of which you have given so fine
a definition) a novel. I have lately borne a commission in the army, and
am, at present, under the patronage of a most learned and amiable
nobleman: however, being formerly taught to believe that I had some
talents, it is disagreeable to be unemployed with every faculty on the
stretch for exertion. By that nobleman’s desire, I left a large poem,
‘The Retrospect,’ with a printer of eminence in Pall Mall; but was much
surprised to be informed yesterday that he had embarked for Italy, and
the manuscript was locked up. I have but a very rough draught of it now
till he returns. Your very great dramatic eminence might be of the most
material benefit by pointing out the steps proper to be taken in a line
of which I have been ever enamoured. If you deign to direct a short
reply to this strange intrusion, I shall have the honour to lay a few
pieces of poetry (which fortunately are correctly copied) before your
judgment—meanwhile

I am, Sir, with great respect,
Your obedient Servant,
THOMAS DERMODY.

_No. 30, Oxendon-Street, Haymarket._

_From the Marquis Dampierre._

_Liege, 6 Xbre l’an 1^r de la Républic._

DEAR HOLCROFT, I charge my dear friend, the young Mergées, my
countermen, to tell you, that I never forgot our old friendship, he’ll
tell you my profession of faith, upon the Revolution. He’ll bring you a
relation of the victories of the French, and you’ll see my part in it. I
have the honour to conduct the liberty lads in the way of the victory.

Adieu, dearer among the dear,

H. DAMPIERRE.[18]
_Maj. G. of the French Republic._

_From Madame de Genlis._[19]

SIR, With pleasure, as well as gratitude, I acknowledge the receipt of
the translation you were pleased to send me, which came to hand prior to
your letter, and consequently before I could well go to make my claim. I
have not yet had time to peruse it, but by the preface I am surprised to
find you have omitted some incidents in the tales of _Eglantine_ and of
_Pamela_, which in this country have created universal interest. Even
the journalists, from whom I had little reason to expect mercy, owing to
the severity with which they are treated in my works, have with one
accord praised the expunged passages. I mention this to you with the
less reserve, because those very passages are not of my own invention,
which may be seen by referring to the notes relative to them. I have
besides given the place of Mad^{me} Busca’s residence; a number of
persons have been to see her, and have satisfied themselves of the truth
of my statement. Woe be to the false delicacy which is unable to endure
a recital honourable to humanity, when made with an appeal to the
feelings powerful enough to command tears! However, Sir, be persuaded
that I entertain a lively sense of the very great attention you have
otherwise shewn me, as well as of the handsome, and by far too
flattering encomiums you have passed on my feeble productions. My
motives are pure, and I have courage enough to tell truths likely to
prove beneficial:—my writings will corrupt no one;—this is the only
merit I am anxious to claim for myself; and indeed in our days it is
sufficiently rare to satisfy its possessor.

There is now in the press a new edition of the _Théatre d’Education_, to
which I have added another volume, consisting of pieces taken from the
Scriptures. This new edition will appear in the course of May next, and
I beg your permission, Sir, to forward you a copy, as a small token of
my gratitude, and of the sentiments with which I have the honour to be,
Sir, your very humble and very obedient servant,

DUCREST GENLIS.

_Belle Chassee, 22nd Feb. 1785._

FINIS

LIBER AMORIS
OR
THE NEW PYGMALION

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

This book was published in a 12mo volume of 192 pages in 1823. The
title-page ran as follows: ‘Liber Amoris; or, The New Pygmalion. London:
Printed for John Hunt, 22. Old Bond Street, by C. H. Reynell, 45. Broad
St., Golden Sq^{re} 1823,’ and contained a vignette (engraved by S. W.
Reynolds) of the picture referred to in the first Conversation. The
first edition was reprinted _verbatim_, with a facsimile of the
title-page, in the _Bibliotheca Curiosa_ (8vo,? 1884), and again in 1893
(8vo) by Elkin Matthews and John Lane, with an Introduction by Richard
Le Gallienne. In the following year (1894) another edition (small 4to,
‘privately printed’) was published with the following title: ‘Liber
Amoris or The New Pygmalion by William Hazlitt with additional matter
now printed for the first time from the original manuscripts, with an
introduction by Richard Le Gallienne.’ The first edition (1823) is here
reprinted.

The circumstances, an outline of which is given in these pages, happened
a very short time ago to a native of North Britain, who left his own
country early in life, in consequence of political animosities and an
ill-advised connection in marriage. It was some years after that he
formed the fatal attachment which is the subject of the following
narrative. The whole was transcribed very carefully with his own hand, a
little before he set out for the Continent in hopes of benefiting by a
change of scene, but he died soon after in the Netherlands—it is
supposed, of disappointment preying on a sickly frame and morbid state
of mind. It was his wish that what had been his strongest feeling while
living, should be preserved in this shape when he was no more.—It has
been suggested to the friend, into whose hands the manuscript was
entrusted, that many things (particularly in the _Conversations_ in the
First Part) either childish or redundant, might have been omitted; but a
promise was given that not a word should be altered, and the pledge was
held sacred. The names and circumstances are so far disguised, it is
presumed, as to prevent any consequences resulting from the publication,
farther than the amusement or sympathy of the reader.

LIBER AMORIS

_PART I_

THE PICTURE

H. Oh! is it you? I had something to shew you—I have got a picture here.
Do you know any one it’s like?

S. No, Sir.

H. Don’t you think it like yourself?

S. No: it’s much handsomer than I can pretend to be.

H. That’s because you don’t see yourself with the same eyes that others
do. _I_ don’t think it handsomer, and the expression is hardly so fine
as your’s sometimes is.

S. Now you flatter me. Besides, the complexion is fair, and mine is
dark.

H. Thine is pale and beautiful, my love, not dark! But if your colour
were a little heightened, and you wore the same dress, and your hair
were let down over your shoulders, as it is here, it might be taken for
a picture of you. Look here, only see how like it is. The forehead is
like, with that little obstinate protrusion in the middle; the eyebrows
are like, and the eyes are just like your’s, when you look up and
say—‘No—never!’

S. What then, do I always say—‘No—never!’ when I look up?

H. I don’t know about that—I never heard you say so but once; but that
was once too often for my peace. It was when you told me, ‘you could
never be mine.’ Ah! if you are never to be mine, I shall not long be
myself. I cannot go on as I am. My faculties leave me: I think of
nothing, I have no feeling about any thing but thee: thy sweet image has
taken possession of me, haunts me, and will drive me to distraction. Yet
I could almost wish to go mad for thy sake: for then I might fancy that
I had thy love in return, which I cannot live without!

S. Do not, I beg, talk in that manner, but tell me what this is a
picture of.

H. I hardly know; but it is a very small and delicate copy (painted in
oil on a gold ground) of some fine old Italian picture, Guido’s or
Raphael’s, but I think Raphael’s. Some say it is a Madona; others call
it a Magdalen, and say you may distinguish the tear upon the cheek,
though no tear is there. But it seems to me more like Raphael’s St.
Cecilia, ‘with looks commercing with the skies,’ than anything
else.—See, Sarah, how beautiful it is! Ah! dear girl, these are the
ideas I have cherished in my heart, and in my brain; and I never found
any thing to realise them on earth till I met with thee, my love! While
thou didst seem sensible of my kindness, I was but too happy: but now
thou hast cruelly cast me off.

S. You have no reason to say so: you are the same to me as ever.

H. That is, nothing. You are to me everything, and I am nothing to you.
Is it not too true?

S. No.

H. Then kiss me, my sweetest. Oh! could you see your face now—your mouth
full of suppressed sensibility, your downcast eyes, the soft blush upon
that cheek, you would not say the picture is not like because it is too
handsome, or because you want complexion. Thou art heavenly-fair, my
love—like her from whom the picture was taken—the idol of the painter’s
heart, as thou art of mine! Shall I make a drawing of it, altering the
dress a little, to shew you how like it is?

S. As you please.—

THE INVITATION

H. But I am afraid I tire you with this prosing description of the
French character and abuse of the English? You know there is but one
subject on which I should ever wish to talk, if you would let me.

S. I must say, you don’t seem to have a very high opinion of this
country.

H. Yes, it is the place that gave you birth.

S. Do you like the French women better than the English?

H. No: though they have finer eyes, talk better, and are better made.
But they none of them look like you. I like the Italian women I have
seen, much better than the French: they have darker eyes, darker hair,
and the accents of their native tongue are much richer and more
melodious. But I will give you a better account of them when I come back
from Italy, if you would like to hear it.

S. I should much. It is for that I have sometimes had a wish for
travelling abroad, to understand something of the manners and characters
of different people.

H. My sweet girl! I will give you the best account I can—unless you
would rather go and judge for yourself.

S. I cannot.

H. Yes, you shall go with me, and you shall go _with honour_—you know
what I mean.

S. You know it is not in your power to take me so.

H. But it soon may: and if you would consent to bear me company, I would
swear never to think of an Italian woman while I am abroad, nor of an
English one after I return home. Thou art to me more than thy whole sex.

S. I require no such sacrifices.

H. Is that what you thought I meant by _sacrifices_ last night? But
sacrifices are no sacrifices when they are repaid a thousand fold.

S. I have no way of doing it.

H. You have not the will.—

S. I must go now.

H. Stay, and hear me a little. I shall soon be where I can no more hear
thy voice, far distant from her I love, to see what change of climate
and bright skies will do for a sad heart. I shall perhaps see thee no
more, but I shall still think of thee the same as ever—I shall say to
myself, ‘Where is she now?—what is she doing?’ But I shall hardly wish
you to think of me, unless you could do so more favourably than I am
afraid you will. Ah! dearest creature, I shall be ‘far distant from
you,’ as you once said of another, but you will not think of me as of
him, ‘with the sincerest affection.’ The smallest share of thy
tenderness would make me blest; but couldst thou ever love me as thou
didst him, I should feel like a God! My face would change to a different
expression: my whole form would undergo alteration. I was getting well,
I was growing young in the sweet proofs of your friendship: you see how
I droop and wither under your displeasure! Thou art divine, my love, and
canst make me either more or less than mortal. Indeed I am thy creature,
thy slave—I only wish to live for your sake—I would gladly die for you—

S. That would give me no pleasure. But indeed you greatly overrate my
power.

H. Your power over me is that of sovereign grace and beauty. When I am
near thee, nothing can harm me. Thou art an angel of light, shadowing me
with thy softness. But when I let go thy hand, I stagger on a precipice:
out of thy sight the world is dark to me and comfortless. There is no
breathing out of this house: the air of Italy will stifle me. Go with me
and lighten it. I can know no pleasure away from thee—

‘But I will come again, my love,
An’ it were ten thousand mile!’

THE MESSAGE

S. Mrs. E—— has called for the book, Sir.

H. Oh! it is there. Let her wait a minute or two. I see this is a
busy-day with you. How beautiful your arms look in those short sleeves!

S. I do not like to wear them.

H. Then that is because you are merciful, and would spare frail mortals
who might die with gazing.

S. I have no power to kill.

H. You have, you have—Your charms are irresistible as your will is
inexorable. I wish I could see you always thus. But I would have no one
else see you so. I am jealous of all eyes but my own. I should almost
like you to wear a veil, and to be muffled up from head to foot; but
even if you were, and not a glimpse of you could be seen, it would be to
no purpose—you would only have to move, and you would be admired as the
most graceful creature in the world. You smile—Well, if you were to be
won by fine speeches—

S. You could supply them!

H. It is however no laughing matter with me; thy beauty kills me daily,
and I shall think of nothing but thy charms, till the last word trembles
on my tongue, and that will be thy name, my love—the name of my
Infelice! You will live by that name, you rogue, fifty years after you
are dead. Don’t you thank me for that?

S. I have no such ambition, Sir. But Mrs. E—— is waiting.

H. She is not in love, like me. You look so handsome to-day, I cannot
let you go. You have got a colour.

S. But you say I look best when I am pale.

H. When you are pale, I think so; but when you have a colour, I then
think you still more beautiful. It is you that I admire; and whatever
you are, I like best. I like you as Miss L——, I should like you still
more as Mrs. ——. I once thought you were half inclined to be a prude,
and I admired you as a ‘pensive nun, devout and pure.’ I now think you
are more than half a coquet, and I like you for your roguery. The truth
is, I am in love with you, my angel; and whatever you are, is to me the
perfection of thy sex. I care not what thou art, while thou art still
thyself. Smile but so, and turn my heart to what shape you please!

S. I am afraid, Sir, Mrs. E—— will think you have forgotten her.

H. I had, my charmer. But go, and make her a sweet apology, all graceful
as thou art. One kiss! Ah! ought I not to think myself the happiest of
men?

THE FLAGEOLET

H. Where have you been, my love!

S. I have been down to see my aunt, Sir.

H. And I hope she has been giving you good advice.

S. I did not go to ask her opinion about any thing.

H. And yet you seem anxious and agitated. You appear pale and dejected,
as if your refusal of me had touched your own breast with pity. Cruel
girl! you look at this moment heavenly-soft, saint-like, or resemble
some graceful marble statue, in the moon’s pale ray! Sadness only
heightens the elegance of your features. How can I escape from you, when
every new occasion, even your cruelty and scorn, brings out some new
charm. Nay, your rejection of me, by the way in which you do it, is only
a new link added to my chain. Raise those down-cast eyes, bend as if an
angel stooped, and kiss me.... Ah! enchanting little trembler! if such
is thy sweetness where thou dost not love, what must thy love have been?
I cannot think how any man, having the heart of one, could go and leave
it.

S. No one did, that I know of.

H. Yes, you told me yourself he left you (though he liked you, and
though he knew—Oh! gracious God!—that you loved him) he left you because
‘the pride of birth would not permit a union.’—For myself, I would leave
a throne to ascend to the heaven of thy charms. I live but for thee,
here—I only wish to live again to pass all eternity with thee. But even
in another world, I suppose you would turn from me to seek him out who
scorned you here.

S. If the proud scorn us here, in that place we shall all be equal.

H. Do not look so—do not talk so—unless you would drive me mad. I could
worship you at this moment. Can I witness such perfection, and bear to
think I have lost you for ever? Oh! let me hope! You see you can mould
me as you like. You can lead me by the hand, like a little child; and
with you my way would be like a little child’s:—you could strew flowers
in my path, and pour new life and hope into me. I should then indeed
hail the return of spring with joy, could I indulge the faintest
hope—would you but let me try to please you!

S. Nothing can alter my resolution, Sir.

H. Will you go and leave me so?

S. It is late, and my father will be getting impatient at my stopping so
long.

H. You know he has nothing to fear for you—it is poor I that am alone in
danger. But I wanted to ask about buying you a flageolet. Could I see
that which you have? If it is a pretty one, it would hardly be worth
while; but if it isn’t, I thought of bespeaking an ivory one for you.
Can’t you bring up your own to shew me.

S. Not to-night, Sir.

H. I wish you could.

S. I cannot—but I will in the morning.

H. Whatever you determine, I must submit to. Good night, and bless thee!

[_The next morning, S. brought up the tea-kettle as usual; and looking
towards the tea-tray, she said, ‘Oh! I see my sister has forgot the
tea-pot.’ It was not there, sure enough; and tripping down stairs,
she came up in a minute, with the tea-pot in one hand, and the
flageolet in the other, balanced so sweetly and gracefully. It would
have been awkward to have brought up the flageolet in the tea-tray,
and she could not have well gone down again on purpose to fetch it.
Something, therefore, was to be omitted as an excuse. Exquisite
witch! But do I love her the less dearly for it? I cannot._]

THE CONFESSION

H. You say you cannot love. Is there not a prior attachment in the case?
Was there any one else that you _did_ like?

S. Yes, there was another.

H. Ah! I thought as much. Is it long ago then?

S. It is two years, Sir.

H. And has time made no alteration? Or do you still see him sometimes?

S. No, Sir! But he is one to whom I feel the sincerest affection, and
ever shall, though he is far distant.

H. And did he return your regard?

S. I had every reason to think so.

H. What then broke off your intimacy?

S. It was the pride of birth, Sir, that would not permit him to think of
a union.

H. Was he a young man of rank, then?

S. His connections were high.

H. And did he never attempt to persuade you to any other step?

S. No—he had too great a regard for me.

H. Tell me, my angel, how was it? Was he so very handsome? Or was it the
fineness of his manners?

S. It was more his manner: but I can’t tell how it was. It was chiefly
my own fault. I was foolish to suppose he could ever think seriously of
me. But he used to make me read with him—and I used to be with him a
good deal, though not much neither—and I found my affections entangled
before I was aware of it.

H. And did your mother and family know of it?

S. No—I have never told any one but you; nor I should not have mentioned
it now, but I thought it might give you some satisfaction.

H. Why did he go at last?

S. We thought it better to part.

H. And do you correspond?

S. No, Sir. But perhaps I may see him again some time or other, though
it will be only in the way of friendship.

H. My God! what a heart is thine, to live for years upon that bare hope!

S. I did not wish to live always, Sir—I wished to die for a long time
after, till I thought it not right; and since then I have endeavoured to
be as resigned as I can.

H. And do you think the impression will never wear out?

S. Not if I can judge from my feelings hitherto. It is now sometime
since,—and I find no difference.

H. May God for ever bless you! How can I thank you for your
condescension in letting me know your sweet sentiments? You have changed
my esteem into adoration.—Never can I harbour a thought of ill in thee
again.

S. Indeed, Sir, I wish for your good opinion and your friendship.

H. And can you return them?

S. Yes.

H. And nothing more?

S. No, Sir.

H. You are an angel, and I will spend my life, if you will let me, in
paying you the homage that my heart feels towards you.

THE QUARREL

H. You are angry with me?

S. Have I not reason?

H. I hope you have; for I would give the world to believe my suspicions
unjust. But, oh! my God! after what I have thought of you and felt
towards you, as little less than an angel, to have but a doubt cross my
mind for an instant that you were what I dare not name—a common
lodging-house decoy, a kissing convenience, that your lips were as
common as the stairs—

S. Let me go, Sir!

H. Nay—prove to me that you are not so, and I will fall down and worship
you. You were the only creature that ever seemed to love me; and to have
my hopes, and all my fondness for you, thus turned to a mockery—it is
too much! Tell me why you have deceived me, and singled me out as your
victim?

S. I never have, Sir. I always said I could not love.

H. There is a difference between love and making me a laughing-stock.
Yet what else could be the meaning of your little sister’s running out
to you, and saying ‘He thought I did not see him!’ when I had followed
you into the other room? Is it a joke upon me that I make free with you?
Or is not the joke rather against _her_ sister, unless you make my
courtship of you a jest to the whole house? Indeed I do not well see how
you can come and stay with me as you do, by the hour together, and day
after day, as openly as you do, unless you give it some such turn with
your family. Or do you deceive them as well as me?

S. I deceive no one, Sir. But my sister Betsey was always watching and
listening when Mr M—— was courting my eldest sister, till he was obliged
to complain of it.

H. That I can understand, but not the other. You may remember, when your
servant Maria looked in and found you sitting in my lap one day, and I
was afraid she might tell your mother, you said ‘You did not care, for
you had no secrets from your mother.’ This seemed to me odd at the time,
but I thought no more of it, till other things brought it to my mind. Am
I to suppose, then, that you are acting a part, a vile part, all this
time, and that you come up here, and stay as long as I like, that you
sit on my knee and put your arms round my neck, and feed me with kisses,
and let me take other liberties with you, and that for a year together;
and that you do all this not out of love, or liking, or regard, but go
through your regular task, like some young witch, without one natural
feeling, to shew your cleverness, and get a few presents out of me, and
go down into the kitchen to make a fine laugh of it? There is something
monstrous in it, that I cannot believe of you.

S. Sir, you have no right to harass my feelings in the manner you do. I
have never made a jest of you to anyone, but always felt and expressed
the greatest esteem for you. You have no ground for complaint in my
conduct; and I cannot help what Betsey or others do. I have always been
consistent from the first. I told you my regard could amount to no more
than friendship.

H. Nay, Sarah, it was more than half a year before I knew that there was
an insurmountable obstacle in the way. You say your regard is merely
friendship, and that you are sorry I have ever felt anything more for
you. Yet the first time I ever asked you, you let me kiss you; the first
time I ever saw you, as you went out of the room, you turned full round
at the door, with that inimitable grace with which you do everything,
and fixed your eyes full upon me, as much as to say, ‘Is he
caught?’—that very week you sat upon my knee, twined your arms round me,
caressed me with every mark of tenderness consistent with modesty; and I
have not got much farther since. Now if you did all this with me, a
perfect stranger to you, and without any particular liking to me, must I
not conclude you do so as a matter of course with everyone?—Or, if you
do not do so with others, it was because you took a liking to me for
some reason or other.

S. It was gratitude, Sir, for different obligations.

H. If you mean by obligations the presents I made you, I had given you
none the first day I came. You do not consider yourself _obliged_ to
everyone who asks you for a kiss?

S. No, Sir.

H. I should not have thought anything of it in anyone but you. But you
seemed so reserved and modest, so soft, so timid, you spoke so low, you
looked so innocent—I thought it impossible you could deceive me.
Whatever favors you granted must proceed from pure regard. No betrothed
virgin ever gave the object of her choice kisses, caresses more modest
or more bewitching than those you have given me a thousand and a
thousand times. Could I have thought I should ever live to believe them
an inhuman mockery of one who had the sincerest regard for you? Do you
think they will not now turn to rank poison in my veins, and kill me,
soul and body? You say it is friendship—but if this is friendship, I’ll
forswear love. Ah! Sarah! it must be something more or less than
friendship. If your caresses are sincere, they shew fondness—if they are
not, I must be more than indifferent to you. Indeed you once let some
words drop, as if I were out of the question in such matters, and you
could trifle with me with impunity. Yet you complain at other times that
no one ever took such liberties with you as I have done. I remember once
in particular your saying, as you went out at the door in anger—‘I had
an attachment before, but that person never attempted anything of the
kind.’ Good God! How did I dwell on that word _before_, thinking it
implied an attachment to me also; but you have since disclaimed any such
meaning. You say you have never professed more than esteem. Yet once,
when you were sitting in your old place, on my knee, embracing and
fondly embraced, and I asked you if you could not love, you made answer,
‘I could easily say so, whether I did or not—YOU SHOULD JUDGE BY MY
ACTIONS!’ And another time, when you were in the same posture, and I
reproached you with indifference, you replied in these words, ‘Do I SEEM
INDIFFERENT?’ Was I to blame after this to indulge my passion for the
loveliest of her sex? Or what can I think?

S. I am no prude, Sir.

H. Yet you might be taken for one. So your mother said, ‘It was hard if
you might not indulge in a little levity.’ She has strange notions of
levity. But levity, my dear, is quite out of character in you. Your
ordinary walk is as if you were performing some religious ceremony: you
come up to my table of a morning, when you merely bring in the
tea-things, as if you were advancing to the altar. You move in
minuet-time: you measure every step, as if you were afraid of offending
in the smallest things. I never hear your approach on the stairs, but by
a sort of hushed silence. When you enter the room, the Graces wait on
you, and Love waves round your person in gentle undulations, breathing
balm into the soul! By Heaven, you are an angel! You look like one at
this instant! Do I not adore you—and have I merited this return?

S. I have repeatedly answered that question. You sit and fancy things
out of your own head, and then lay them to my charge. There is not a
word of truth in your suspicions.

H. Did I not overhear the conversation down-stairs last night, to which
you were a party? Shall I repeat it?

S. I had rather not hear it!

H. Or what am I to think of this story of the footman?

S. It is false, Sir, I never did anything of the sort.

H. Nay, when I told your mother I wished she wouldn’t * * * * * * * * *
(as I heard she did) she said ‘Oh, there’s nothing in that, for Sarah
very often * * * * * *,’ and your doing so before company, is only a
trifling addition to the sport.

S. I’ll call my mother, Sir, and she shall contradict you.

H. Then she’ll contradict herself. But did not you boast you were ‘very
persevering in your resistance to gay young men,’ and had been ‘several
times obliged to ring the bell?’ Did you always ring it? Or did you get
into these dilemmas that made it necessary, merely by the demureness of
your looks and ways? Or had nothing else passed? Or have you two
characters, one that you palm off upon me, and another, your natural
one, that you resume when you get out of the room, like an actress who
throws aside her artificial part behind the scenes? Did you not, when I
was courting you on the staircase the first night Mr C—— came, beg me to
desist, for if the new lodger heard us, he’d take you for a light
character? Was that all? Were you only afraid of being _taken_ for a
light character? Oh! Sarah!

S. I’ll stay and hear this no longer.

H. Yes, one word more. Did you not love another?

S. Yes, and ever shall most sincerely.

H. Then, _that_ is my only hope. If you could feel this sentiment for
him, you cannot be what you seem to me of late. But there is another
thing I had to say—be what you will, I love you to distraction! You are
the only woman that ever made me think she loved me, and that feeling
was so new to me, and so delicious, that it ‘will never from my heart.’
Thou wert to me a little tender flower, blooming in the wilderness of my
life; and though thou should’st turn out a weed, I’ll not fling thee
from me, while I can help it. Wert thou all that I dread to think—wert
thou a wretched wanderer in the street, covered with rags, disease, and
infamy, I’d clasp thee to my bosom, and live and die with thee, my love.
Kiss me, thou little sorceress!

S. NEVER!

H. Then go: but remember I cannot live without you—nor I will not.

THE RECONCILIATION

H. I have then lost your friendship?

S. Nothing tends more to alienate friendship than insult.

H. The words I uttered hurt me more than they did you.

S. It was not words merely, but actions as well.

H. Nothing I can say or do can ever alter my fondness for you—Ah, Sarah!
I am unworthy of your love: I hardly dare ask for your pity; but oh!
save me—save me from your scorn: I cannot bear it—it withers me like
lightning.

S. I bear no malice, Sir; but my brother, who would scorn to tell a lie
for his sister, can bear witness for me that there was no truth in what
you were told.

H. I believe it; or there is no truth in woman. It is enough for me to
know that you do not return my regard; it would be too much for me to
think that you did not deserve it. But cannot you forgive the agony of
the moment?

S. I can forgive; but it is not easy to forget some things!

H. Nay, my sweet Sarah (frown if you will, I can bear your resentment
for my ill behaviour, it is only your scorn and indifference that harrow
up my soul)—but I was going to ask, if you had been engaged to be
married to any one, and the day was fixed, and he had heard what I did,
whether he could have felt any true regard for the character of his
bride, his wife, if he had not been hurt and alarmed as I was?

S. I believe, actual contracts of marriage have sometimes been broken
off by unjust suspicions.

H. Or had it been your old friend, what do you think he would have said
in my case?

S. He would never have listened to anything of the sort.

H. He had greater reasons for confidence than I have. But it is your
repeated cruel rejection of me that drives me almost to madness. Tell
me, love, is there not, besides your attachment to him, a repugnance to
me?

S. No, none whatever.

H. I fear there is an original dislike, which no efforts of mine can
overcome.

S. It is not _you_—it is my feelings with respect to another, which are
unalterable.

H. And yet you have no hope of ever being his? And yet you accuse me of
being romantic in my sentiments.

S. I have indeed long ceased to hope; but yet I sometimes hope against
hope.

H. My love! were it in my power, thy hopes should be fulfilled
to-morrow. Next to my own, there is nothing that could give me so much
satisfaction as to see thine realized! Do I not love thee, when I can
feel such an interest in thy love for another? It was that which first
wedded my very soul to you. I would give worlds for a share in a heart
so rich in pure affection!

S. And yet I did not tell you of the circumstance to raise myself in
your opinion.

H. You are a sublime little thing! And yet, as you have no prospects
there, I cannot help thinking, the best thing would be to do as I have
said.

S. I would never marry a man I did not love beyond all the world.

H. I should be satisfied with less than that—with the love, or regard,
or whatever you call it, you have shown me before marriage, if that has
only been sincere. You would hardly like me less afterwards.

S. Endearments would, I should think, increase regard, where there was
love beforehand; but that is not exactly my case.

H. But I think you would be happier than you are at present. You take
pleasure in my conversation, and you say you have an esteem for me; and
it is upon this, after the honeymoon, that marriage chiefly turns.

S. Do you think there is no pleasure in a single life?

H. Do you mean on account of its liberty?

S. No, but I feel that forced duty is no duty. I have high ideas of the
married state!

H. Higher than of the maiden state?

S. I understand you, Sir.

H. I meant nothing; but you have sometimes spoken of any serious
attachment as a tie upon you. It is not that you prefer flirting with
‘gay young men’ to becoming a mere dull domestic wife?

S. You have no right to throw out such insinuations: for though I am but
a tradesman’s daughter, I have as nice a sense of honour as anyone can
have.

H. Talk of a tradesman’s daughter! you would ennoble any family, thou
glorious girl, by true nobility of mind.

S. Oh! Sir, you flatter me. I know my own inferiority to most.

H. To none; there is no one above thee, man nor woman either. You are
above your situation, which is not fit for you.

S. I am contented with my lot, and do my duty as cheerfully as I can.

H. Have you not told me your spirits grow worse every year?

S. Not on that account: but some disappointments are hard to bear up
against.

H. If you talk about that, you’ll unman me. But tell me, my love,—I have
thought of it as something that might account for some circumstances;
that is, as a mere possibility. But tell me, there was not a likeness
between me and your old lover that struck you at first sight? Was there?

S. No, Sir, none.

H. Well, I didn’t think it likely there should.

S. But there was a likeness.

H. To whom?

S. To that little image! (_looking intently on a small bronze figure of
Buonaparte on the mantlepiece_).

H. What, do you mean to Buonaparte?

S. Yes, all but the nose was just like.

H. And was his figure the same?

S. He was taller!

[_I got up and gave her the image, and told her it was her’s by every
right that was sacred. She refused at first to take so valuable a
curiosity, and said she would keep it for me. But I pressed it
eagerly, and she took it. She immediately came and sat down, and put
her arm round my neck, and kissed me, and I said, ‘Is it not plain
we are the best friends in the world, since we are always so glad to
make it up?’ And then I added ‘How odd it was that the God of my
idolatry should turn out to be like her Idol, and said it was no
wonder that the same face which awed the world should conquer the
sweetest creature in it!’ How I loved her at that moment! Is it
possible that the wretch who writes this could ever have been so
blest! Heavenly delicious creature! Can I live without her? Oh!
no—never—never._

‘What is this world? What asken men to have,
Now with his love, now in the cold grave,
Alone, withouten any compagnie!’

_Let me but see her again! She cannot hate the man who loves her as
I do._]

LETTERS TO THE SAME

_Feb., 1822._

—You will scold me for this, and ask me if this is keeping my promise to
mind my work. One half of it was to think of Sarah: and besides, I do
not neglect my work either, I assure you. I regularly do ten pages a
day, which mounts up to thirty guineas’ worth a week, so that you see I
should grow rich at this rate, if I could keep on so; _and I could keep
on so_, if I had you with me to encourage me with your sweet smiles, and
share my lot. The Berwick smacks sail twice a week, and the wind sits
fair. When I think of the thousand endearing caresses that have passed
between us, I do not wonder at the strong attachment that draws me to
you; but I am sorry for my own want of power to please. I hear the wind
sigh through the lattice, and keep repeating over and over to myself two
lines of Lord Byron’s Tragedy—

‘So shalt thou find me ever at thy side
Here and hereafter, if the last may be.’—

applying them to thee, my love, and thinking whether I shall ever see
thee again. Perhaps not—for some years at least—till both thou and I are
old—and then, when all else have forsaken thee, I will creep to thee,
and die in thine arms. You once made me believe I was not hated by her I
loved; and for that sensation, so delicious was it, though but a mockery
and a dream, I owe you more than I can ever pay. I thought to have dried
up my tears for ever, the day I left you; but as I write this, they
stream again. If they did not, I think my heart would burst. I walk out
here of an afternoon, and hear the notes of the thrush, that come up
from a sheltered valley below, welcome in the spring; but they do not
melt my heart as they used: it is grown cold and dead. As you say, it
will one day be colder.—Forgive what I have written above; I did not
intend it: but you were once my little all, and I cannot bear the
thought of having lost you for ever, I fear through my own fault. Has
any one called? Do not send any letters that come. I should like you and
your mother (if agreeable) to go and see Mr Kean in Othello, and Miss
Stephens in Love in a Village. If you will, I will write to Mr T——, to
send you tickets. Has Mr P—— called? I think I must send to him for the
picture to kiss and talk to. Kiss me, my best beloved. Ah! if you can
never be mine, still let me be your proud and happy slave.

TO THE SAME

_March, 1822._

—You will be glad to learn I have done my work—a volume in less than a
month. This is one reason why I am better than when I came, and another
is, I have had two letters from Sarah. I am pleased I have got through
this job, as I was afraid I might lose reputation by it (which I can
little afford to lose)—and besides, I am more anxious to do well now, as
I wish you to hear me well spoken of. I walk out of an afternoon, and
hear the birds sing as I told you, and think, if I had you hanging on my
arm, _and that for life_, how happy I should be—happier than I ever
hoped to be, or had any conception of till I knew you. ‘_But that can
never be_’—I hear you answer in a soft, low murmur. Well, let me dream
of it sometimes—I am not happy too often, except when that favourite
note, the harbinger of spring, recalling the hopes of my youth, whispers
thy name and peace together in my ear. I was reading something about Mr
Macready to-day, and this put me in mind of that delicious night, when I
went with your mother and you to see Romeo and Juliet. Can I forget it
for a moment—your sweet modest looks, your infinite propriety of
behaviour, all your sweet winning ways—your hesitating about taking my
arm as we came out till your mother did—your laughing about nearly
losing your cloak—your stepping into the coach without my being able to
make the slightest discovery—and oh! my sitting down beside you there,
you whom I had loved so long, so well, and your assuring me I had not
lessened your pleasure at the play by being with you, and giving me your
dear hand to press in mine! I thought I was in heaven—that slender
exquisitely-turned form contained my all of heaven upon earth; and as I
folded you—yes, you, my own best Sarah, to my bosom, there was, as you
say, _a tie between us_—you did seem to me, for those few short moments,
to be mine in all truth and honour and sacredness—Oh! that we could be
always so—Do not mock me, for I am a very child in love. I ought to beg
pardon for behaving so ill afterwards, but I hope the _little image_
made it up between us, &c.

[_To this letter I have received no answer, not a line. The rolling
years of eternity will never fill up that blank. Where shall I be?
What am I? Or where have I been?_]

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF ENDYMION

I want a hand to guide me, an eye to cheer me, a bosom to repose on; all
which I shall never have, but shall stagger into my grave, old before my
time, unloved and unlovely, unless S. L. keeps her faith with me.

* * * * *

—But by her dove’s eyes and serpent-shape, I think she does not hate me;
by her smooth forehead and her crested hair, I own I love her; by her
soft looks and queen-like grace (which men might fall down and worship)
I swear to live and die for her!

A PROPOSAL OF LOVE

(_Given to her in our early acquaintance_)

‘Oh! if I thought it could be in a woman
(As, if it can, I will presume in you)
To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love,
To keep her constancy in plight and youth,
Outliving beauties outward with a mind
That doth renew swifter than blood decays:
Or that persuasion could but thus convince me,
That my integrity and truth to you
Might be confronted with the match and weight
Of such a winnowed purity in love—
How were I then uplifted! But, alas,
I am as true as truth’s simplicity,
And simpler than the infancy of truth.’

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

_PART II_

LETTERS TO C. P——, ESQ.

_Bees-Inn._

My good Friend, Here I am in Scotland (and shall have been here three
weeks, next Monday) as I may say, _on my probation_. This is a lone inn,
but on a great scale, thirty miles from Edinburgh. It is situated on a
rising ground (a mark for all the winds, which blow here
incessantly)—there is a woody hill opposite, with a winding valley
below, and the London road stretches out on either side. You may guess
which way I oftenest walk. I have written two letters to S. L. and got
one cold, prudish answer, beginning _Sir_, and ending _From your’s
truly_, with _Best respects from herself and relations_. I was going to
give in, but have returned an answer, which I think is a touch-stone. I
send it you on the other side to keep as a curiosity, in case she kills
me by her exquisite rejoinder. I am convinced from the profound
contemplations I have had on the subject here and coming along, that I
am on a wrong scent. We had a famous parting-scene, a complete quarrel
and then a reconciliation, in which she did beguile me of my tears, but
the deuce a one did she shed. What do you think? She cajoled me out of
my little Buonaparte as cleverly as possible, in manner and form
following. She was shy the Saturday and Sunday (the day of my departure)
so I got in dudgeon, and began to rip up grievances. I asked her how she
came to admit me to such extreme familiarities, the first week I entered
the house. ‘If she had no particular regard for me, she must do so (or
more) with everyone: if she had a liking to me from the first, why
refuse me with scorn and wilfulness?’ If you had seen how she flounced,
and looked, and went to the door, saying ‘She was obliged to me for
letting her know the opinion I had always entertained of her’—then I
said, ‘Sarah!’ and she came back and took my hand, and fixed her eyes on
the mantle-piece—(she must have been invoking her idol then—if I thought
so, I could devour her, the darling—but I doubt her)—So I said ‘There is
one thing that has occurred to me sometimes as possible, to account for
your conduct to me at first—there wasn’t a likeness, was there, to your
old friend?’ She answered ‘No, none—but there was a likeness’—I asked,
to what? She said ‘to that little image!’ I said, ‘Do you mean
Buonaparte?’—She said, ‘Yes, all but the nose.’—‘And the figure?’—‘He
was taller.’—I could not stand this. So I got up and took it, and gave
it her, and after some reluctance, she consented to ‘keep it for me.’
What will you bet me that it wasn’t all a trick? I’ll tell you why I
suspect it, besides being fairly out of my wits about her. I had told
her mother half an hour before, that I should take this image and leave
it at Mrs. B.’s, for that I didn’t wish to leave anything behind me that
must bring me back again. Then up she comes and starts a likeness to her
lover: she knew I should give it her on the spot—‘No, she would keep it
for me!’ So I must come back for it. Whether art or nature, it is
sublime. I told her I should write and tell you so, and that I parted
from her, confiding, adoring!—She is beyond me, that’s certain. Do go
and see her, and desire her not to give my present address to a single
soul, and learn if the lodging is let, and to whom. My letter to her is
as follows. If she shews the least remorse at it, I’ll be hanged, though
it might move a stone, I modestly think. (_See before, Part I. page
300._)

N.B.—I have begun a book of our conversations (I mean mine and the
statue’s) which I call LIBER AMORIS. I was detained at Stamford and
found myself dull, and could hit upon no other way of employing my time
so agreeably.

LETTER II

Dear P——, Here, without loss of time, in order that I may have your
opinion upon it, is little YES and NO’s answer to my last.

‘Sir, I should not have disregarded your injunction not to send you any
more letters that might come to you, had I not promised the Gentleman
who left the enclosed to forward it the earliest opportunity, as he said
it was _of consequence_. Mr P—— called the day after you left town. My
mother and myself are much obliged by your kind offer of tickets to the
play, but must decline accepting it. My family send their best respects,
in which they are joined by

Your’s, truly,
S. L.’

The deuce a bit more is there of it. If you can make anything out of it
(or any body else) I’ll be hanged. You are to understand, this comes in
a frank, the second I have received from her, with a name I can’t make
out, and she won’t tell me, though I asked her, where she got franks, as
also whether the lodgings were let, to neither of which a word of
answer. * * * * is the name on the frank: see if you can decypher it by
a Red-book. I suspect her grievously of being an arrant jilt, to say no
more—yet I love her dearly. Do you know I’m going to write to that sweet
rogue presently, having a whole evening to myself in advance of my work?
Now mark, before you set about your exposition of the new Apocalypse of
the new Calypso, the only thing to be endured in the above letter is the
date. It was written the very day after she received mine. By this she
seems willing to lose no time in receiving these letters ‘of such sweet
breath composed.’ If I thought so—but I wait for your reply. After all,
what is there in her but a pretty figure, and that you can’t get a word
out of her? Her’s is the Fabian method of making love and conquests.
What do you suppose she said the night before I left her?

‘H. Could you not come and live with me as a friend?

S. I don’t know: and yet it would be of no use if I did, you would
always be hankering after what could never be!’

I asked her if she would do so at once—the very next day? And what do
you guess was her answer—‘Do you think it would be prudent?’ As I didn’t
proceed to extremities on the spot, she began to look grave, and declare
off. ‘Would she live with me in her own house—to be with me all day as
dear friends, if nothing more, to sit and read and talk with me?’—‘She
would make no promises, but I should find her the same.’—‘Would she go
to the play with me sometimes, and let it be understood that I was
paying my addresses to her?’—‘She could not, as a habit—her father was
rather strict, and would object.’—Now what am I to think of all this? Am
I mad or a fool? Answer me to that, Master Brook! You are a philosopher.

LETTER III

Dear Friend, I ought to have written to you before; but since I received
your letter, I have been in a sort of purgatory, and what is worse, I
see no prospect of getting out of it. I would put an end to my torments
at once; but I am as great a coward as I have been a dupe. Do you know I
have not had a word of answer from her since! What can be the reason? Is
she offended at my letting you know she wrote to me, or is it some new
affair? I wrote to her in the tenderest, most respectful manner, poured
my soul at her feet, and this is the return she makes me! Can you
account for it, except on the admission of my worst doubts concerning
her? Oh God! can I bear after all to think of her so, or that I am
scorned and made a sport of by the creature to whom I had given my whole
heart?—Thus has it been with me all my life; and so will it be to the
end of it!—If you should learn anything, good or bad, tell me, I conjure
you: I can bear anything but this cruel suspense. If I knew she was a
mere abandoned creature, I should try to forget her; but till I do know
this, nothing can tear me from her, I have drank in poison from her lips
too long—alas! mine do not poison again. I sit and indulge my grief by
the hour together; my weakness grows upon me; and I have no hope left,
unless I could lose my senses quite. Do you know I think I should like
this? To forget, ah! to forget—there would be something in that—to
change to an ideot for some few years, and then to wake up a poor
wretched old man, to recollect my misery as past, and die! Yet, oh! with
her, only a little while ago, I had different hopes, forfeited for
nothing that I know of! * * * * * * If you can give me any consolation
on the subject of my tormentor, pray do. The pain I suffer wears me out
daily. I write this on the supposition that Mrs. —— may still come here,
and that I may be detained some weeks longer. Direct to me at the
Post-office; and if I return to town directly as I fear, I will leave
word for them to forward the letter to me in London—not at my old
lodgings. I will not go back there: yet how can I breathe away from her?
Her hatred of me must be great, since my love of her could not overcome
it! I have finished the book of my conversations with her, which I told
you of: if I am not mistaken, you will think it very nice reading.

Your’s ever.

Have you read Sardanapalus? How like the little Greek slave, Myrrha, is
to _her_!

LETTER IV

(_Written in the Winter_)

MY GOOD FRIEND, I received your letter this morning, and I kiss the rod
not only with submission, but gratitude. Your reproofs of me and your
defences of her are the only things that save my soul from perdition.
She is my heart’s idol; and believe me those words of yours applied to
the dear saint—‘To lip a chaste one and suppose her wanton’—were balm
and rapture to me. I have _lipped her_, God knows how often, and oh! is
it even possible that she is chaste, and that she has bestowed her loved
‘endearments’ on me (her own sweet word) out of true regard? That
thought, out of the lowest depths of despair, would at any time make me
strike my forehead against the stars. Could I but think the love
‘honest,’ I am proof against all hazards. She by her silence makes my
_dark hour_; and you by your encouragements dissipate it for twenty-four
hours. Another thing has brought me to life. Mrs. —— is actually on her
way here about the divorce. Should this unpleasant business (which has
been so long talked of) succeed, and I should become free, do you think
S. L. will agree to change her name to ——? If she _will_, she _shall_;
and to call her so to you, or to hear her called so by others, would be
music to my ears, such as they never drank in. Do you think if she knew
how I love her, my depressions and my altitudes, my wanderings and my
constancy, it would not move her? She knows it all; and if she is not an
_incorrigible_, she loves me, or regards me with a feeling next to love.
I don’t believe that any woman was ever courted more passionately than
she has been by me. As Rousseau said of Madame d’Houptot (forgive the
allusion) my heart has found a tongue in speaking to her, and I have
talked to her the divine language of love. Yet she says, she is
insensible to it. Am I to believe her or you? You—for I wish it and wish
it to madness, now that I am like to be free, and to have it in my power
to say to her without a possibility of suspicion, ‘Sarah, will you be
mine?’ When I sometimes think of the time I first saw the sweet
apparition, August 16, 1820, and that possibly she may be my bride
before that day two years, it makes me dizzy with incredible joy and
love of her. Write soon.

LETTER V

MY DEAR FRIEND, I read your answer this morning with gratitude. I have
felt somewhat easier since. It shewed your interest in my vexations, and
also that you know nothing worse than I do. I cannot describe the
weakness of mind to which she has reduced me. This state of suspense is
like hanging in the air by a single thread that exhausts all your
strength to keep hold of it; and yet if that fails you, you have nothing
in the world else left to trust to. I am come back to Edinburgh about
this cursed business, and Mrs. —— is coming from Montrose next week. How
it will end, I can’t say; and don’t care, except as it regards the other
affair. I should, I confess, like to have it in my power to make her the
offer direct and unequivocal, to see how she’d receive it. It would be
worth something at any rate to see her superfine airs upon the occasion;
and if she should take it into her head to turn round her sweet neck,
drop her eye-lids, and say—‘Yes, I will be yours!’—why then, ‘treason
domestic, foreign levy, nothing could touch me further.’ By Heaven! I
doat on her. The truth is, I never had any pleasure, like love, with any
one but her. Then how can I bear to part with her? Do you know I like to
think of her best in her morning-gown and mob-cap—it is so she has
oftenest come into my room and enchanted me! She was once ill, pale, and
had lost all her freshness. I only adored her the more for it, and fell
in love with the decay of her beauty. I could devour the little witch.
If she had a plague-spot on her, I could touch the infection: if she was
in a burning fever, I could kiss her, and drink death as I have drank
life from her lips. When I press her hand, I enjoy perfect happiness and
contentment of soul. It is not what she says or what she does—it is
herself that I love. To be with her is to be at peace. I have no other
wish or desire. The air about her is serene, blissful; and he who
breathes it is like one of the Gods! So that I can but have her with me
always, I care for nothing more. I never could tire of her sweetness; I
feel that I could grow to her, body and soul? My heart, my heart is
her’s.

LETTER VI

(_Written in May_)

DEAR P——, What have I suffered since I parted with you! A raging fire is
in my heart and in my brain, that never quits me. The steam-boat (which
I foolishly ventured on board) seems a prison-house, a sort of
spectre-ship, moving on through an infernal lake, without wind or tide,
by some necromantic power—the splashing of the waves, the noise of the
engine gives me no rest, night or day—no tree, no natural object varies
the scene—but the abyss is before me, and all my peace lies weltering in
it! I feel the eternity of punishment in this life; for I see no end of
my woes. The people about me are ill, uncomfortable, wretched enough,
many of them—but to-morrow or next day, they reach the place of their
destination, and all will be new and delightful. To me it will be the
same. I can neither escape from her, nor from myself. All is endurable
where there is a limit: but I have nothing but the blackness and the
fiendishness of scorn around me—mocked by her (the false one) in whom I
placed my hope, and who hardens herself against me!—I believe you
thought me quite gay, vain, insolent, half mad, the night I left the
house—no tongue can tell the heaviness of heart I felt at that moment.
No footsteps ever fell more slow, more sad than mine; for every step
bore me farther from her, with whom my soul and every thought lingered.
I had parted with her in anger, and each had spoken words of high
disdain, not soon to be forgiven. Should I ever behold her again? Where
go to live and die far from her? In her sight there was Elysium; her
smile was heaven; her voice was enchantment; the air of love waved round
her, breathing balm into my heart: for a little while I had sat with the
Gods at their golden tables, I had tasted of all earth’s bliss, ‘both
living and loving!’ But now Paradise barred its doors against me; I was
driven from her presence, where rosy blushes and delicious sighs and all
soft wishes dwelt, the outcast of nature and the scoff of love! I
thought of the time when I was a little happy careless child, of my
father’s house, of my early lessons, of my brother’s picture of me when
a boy, of all that had since happened to me, and of the waste of years
to come—I stopped, faultered, and was going to turn back once more to
make a longer truce with wretchedness and patch up a hollow league with
love, when the recollection of her words—‘I always told you I had no
affection for you’—steeled my resolution, and I determined to proceed.
You see by this she always hated me, and only played with my credulity
till she could find some one to supply the place of her unalterable
attachment to _the little image_. * * * * * I am a little, a very little
better to-day. Would it were quietly over; and that this misshapen form
(made to be mocked) were hid out of the sight of cold, sullen eyes! The
people about me even take notice of my dumb despair, and pity me. What
is to be done? I cannot forget _her_; and I can find no other like what
_she seemed_. I should wish you to call, if you can make an excuse, and
see whether or no she is quite marble—whether I may go back again at my
return, and whether she will see me and talk to me sometimes as an old
friend. Suppose you were to call on M—— from me, and ask him what his
impression is that I ought to do. But do as you think best. Pardon,
pardon.

P.S.—I send this from Scarborough, where the vessel stops for a few
minutes. I scarcely know what I should have done, but for this relief to
my feelings.

LETTER VII

MY DEAR FRIEND, The important step is taken, and I am virtually a free
man. * * * What had I better do in these circumstances? I dare not write
to her, I dare not write to her father, or else I would. She has shot me
through with poisoned arrows, and I think another ‘winged wound’ would
finish me. It is a pleasant sort of balm (as you express it) she has
left in my heart! One thing I agree with you in, it will remain there
for ever; but yet not very long. It festers, and consumes me. If it were
not for my little boy, whose face I see struck blank at the news,
looking through the world for pity and meeting with contempt instead, I
should soon, I fear, settle the question by my death. That recollection
is the only thought that brings my wandering reason to an anchor; that
stirs the smallest interest in me; or gives me fortitude to bear up
against what I am doomed to feel for the _ungrateful_. Otherwise, I am
dead to every thing but the sense of what I have lost. She was my
life—it is gone from me, and I am grown spectral! If I find myself in a
place I am acquainted with, it reminds me of her, of the way in which I
thought of her,

——‘and carved on every tree
The soft, the fair, the inexpressive she!’

If it is a place that is new to me, it is desolate, barren of all
interest; for nothing touches me but what has a reference to her. If the
clock strikes, the sound jars me; a million of hours will not bring back
peace to my breast. The light startles me; the darkness terrifies me. I
seem falling into a pit, without a hand to help me. She has deceived me,
and the earth fails from under my feet; no object in nature is
substantial, real, but false and hollow, like her faith on which I built
my trust. She came (I knew not how) and sat by my side and was folded in
my arms, a vision of love and joy, as if she had dropped from the
Heavens to bless me by some especial dispensation of a favouring
Providence, and make me amends for all; and now without any fault of
mine but too much fondness, she has vanished from me, and I am left to
perish. My heart is torn out of me, with every feeling for which I
wished to live. The whole is like a dream, an effect of enchantment; it
torments me, and it drives me mad. I lie down with it; I rise up with
it; and see no chance of repose. I grasp at a shadow, I try to undo the
past, and weep with rage and pity over my own weakness and misery. I
spared her again and again (fool that I was) thinking what she allowed
from me was love, friendship, sweetness, not wantonness. How could I
doubt it, looking in her face, and hearing her words, like sighs
breathed from the gentlest of all bosoms? I had hopes, I had prospects
to come, the flattery of something like fame, a pleasure in writing,
health even would have come back with her smile—she has blighted all,
turned all to poison and childish tears. Yet the barbed arrow is in my
heart—I can neither endure it, nor draw it out; for with it flows my
life’s-blood. I had conversed too long with abstracted truth to trust
myself with the immortal thoughts of love. _That S. L. might have been
mine, and now never can_—these are the two sole propositions that for
ever stare me in the face, and look ghastly in at my poor brain. I am in
some sense proud that I can feel this dreadful passion—it gives me a
kind of rank in the kingdom of love—but I could have wished it had been
for an object that at least could have understood its value and pitied
its excess. You say her not coming to the door when you went is a
proof—yes, that her complement is at present full! That is the reason
she doesn’t want me there, lest I should discover the new affair—wretch
that I am! Another has possession of her, oh Hell! I’m satisfied of it
from her manner, which had a wanton insolence in it. Well might I run
wild when I received no letters from her. I foresaw, I felt my fate. The
gates of Paradise were once open to me too, and I blushed to enter but
with the golden keys of love! I would die; but her lover—my love of
her—ought not to die. When I am dead, who will love her as I have done?
If she should be in misfortune, who will comfort her? when she is old,
who will look in her face, and bless her? Would there be any harm in
calling upon M——, to know confidentially if he thinks it worth my while
to make her an offer the instant it is in my power? Let me have an
answer, and save me, if possible, _for_ her and _from_ myself.

LETTER VIII

MY DEAR FRIEND, Your letter raised me for a moment from the depths of
despair; but not hearing from you yesterday or to-day (as I hoped) I
have had a relapse. You say I want to get rid of her. I hope you are
more right in your conjectures about her than in this about me. Oh no!
believe it, I love her as I do my own soul; my very heart is wedded to
her (be she what she may) and I would not hesitate a moment between her
and ‘an angel from Heaven.’ I grant all you say about my self-tormenting
folly: but has it been without cause? Has she not refused me again and
again with a mixture of scorn and resentment, after going the utmost
lengths with a man for whom she now disclaims all affection; and what
security can I have for her reserve with others, who will not be
restrained by feelings of delicacy towards her, and whom she has
probably preferred to me for their want of it. ‘_She can make no more
confidences_’—these words ring for ever in my ears, and will be my
death-watch. They can have but one meaning, be sure of it—she always
expressed herself with the exactest propriety. That was one of the
things for which I loved her—shall I live to hate her for it? My poor
fond heart, that brooded over her and the remains of her affections as
my only hope of comfort upon earth, cannot brook this new degradation.
Who is there so low as me? Who is there besides (I ask) after the homage
I have paid her and the caresses she has lavished on me, so vile, so
abhorrent to love, to whom such an indignity could have happened? When I
think of this (and I think of nothing else) it stifles me. I am pent up
in burning, fruitless desires, which can find no vent or object. Am I
not hated, repulsed, derided by her whom alone I love or ever did love?
I cannot stay in any place, and seek in vain for relief from the sense
of her contempt and her ingratitude. I can settle to nothing: what is
the use of all I have done? Is it not that very circumstance (my
thinking beyond my strength, my feeling more than I need about so many
things) that has withered me up, and made me a thing for Love to shrink
from and wonder at? Who could ever feel that peace from the touch of her
dear hand that I have done; and is it not torn from me for ever? My
state is this, that I shall never lie down again at night nor rise up in
the morning in peace, nor ever behold my little boy’s face with pleasure
while I live—unless I am restored to her favour. Instead of that
delicious feeling I had when she was heavenly-kind to me, and my heart
softened and melted in its own tenderness and her sweetness, I am now
inclosed in a dungeon of despair. The sky is marble to my thoughts;
nature is dead around me, as hope is within me; no object can give me
one gleam of satisfaction now, nor the prospect of it in time to come. I
wander by the sea-side; and the eternal ocean and lasting despair and
her face are before me. Slighted by her, on whom my heart by its last
fibre hung, where shall I turn? I wake with her by my side, not as my
sweet bedfellow, but as the corpse of my love, without a heart in her
bosom, cold, insensible, or struggling from me; and the worm gnaws me,
and the sting of unrequited love, and the canker of a hopeless, endless
sorrow. I have lost the taste of my food by feverish anxiety; and my
favourite beverage, which used to refresh me when I got up, has no
moisture in it. Oh! cold, solitary, sepulchral breakfasts, compared with
those which I promised myself with her; or which I made when she had
been standing an hour by my side, my guardian-angel, my wife, my sister,
my sweet friend, my Eve, my all; and had blest me with her seraph
kisses! Ah! what I suffer at present only shews what I have enjoyed. But
‘the girl is a good girl, if there is goodness in human nature.’ I thank
you for those words; and I will fall down and worship you, if you can
prove them true: and I would not do much less for him that proves her a
demon. She is one or the other, that’s certain; but I fear the worst. Do
let me know if anything has passed: suspense is my greatest punishment.
I am going into the country to see if I can work a little in the three
weeks I have yet to stay here. Write on the receipt of this, and believe
me ever your unspeakably obliged friend.

TO EDINBURGH

——‘Stony-hearted’ Edinburgh! What art thou to me? The dust of thy
streets mingles with my tears and blinds me. City of palaces, or of
tombs—a quarry, rather than the habitation of men! Art thou like London,
that populous hive, with its sunburnt, well-baked, brick-built
houses—its public edifices, its theatres, its bridges, its squares, its
ladies, and its pomp, its throng of wealth, its outstretched magnitude,
and its mighty heart that never lies still? Thy cold grey walls reflect
back the leaden melancholy of the soul. The square, hard-edged,
unyielding faces of thy inhabitants have no sympathy to impart. What is
it to me that I look along the level line of thy tenantless streets, and
meet perhaps a lawyer like a grasshopper chirping and skipping, or the
daughter of a Highland laird, haughty, fair, and freckled? Or why should
I look down your boasted Prince’s Street, with the beetle-browed Castle
on one side, and the Calton Hill with its proud monument at the further
end, and the ridgy steep of Salisbury Crag, cut off abruptly by Nature’s
boldest hand, and Arthur’s Seat overlooking all, like a lioness watching
her cubs? Or shall I turn to the far-off Pentland Hills, with
Craig-Crook nestling beneath them, where lives the prince of critics and
the king of men? Or cast my eye unsated over the Frith of Forth, that
from my window of an evening (as I read of Amy and her love) glitters
like a broad golden mirror in the sun, and kisses the winding shores of
kingly Fife? Oh no! But to thee, to thee I turn, North Berwick-Law, with
thy blue cone rising out of summer seas; for thou art the beacon of my
banished thoughts, and dost point my way to her, who is my heart’s true
home. The air is too thin for me, that has not the breath of Love in it;
that is not embalmed by her sighs!

A THOUGHT

I am not mad, but my heart is so; and raves within me, fierce and
untameable, like a panther in its den, and tries to get loose to its
lost mate, and fawn on her hand, and bend lowly at her feet.

ANOTHER

Oh! thou dumb heart, lonely, sad, shut up in the prison-house of this
rude form, that hast never found a fellow but for an instant, and in
very mockery of thy misery, speak, find bleeding words to express thy
thoughts, break thy dungeon-gloom, or die pronouncing thy Infelice’s
name!

ANOTHER

Within my heart is lurking suspicion, and base fear, and shame and hate;
but above all, tyrannous love sits throned, crowned with her graces,
silent and in tears.

LETTER IX

MY DEAR P——, You have been very kind to me in this business; but I fear
even your indulgence for my infirmities is beginning to fail. To what a
state am I reduced, and for what? For fancying a little artful vixen to
be an angel and a saint, because she affected to look like one, to hide
her rank thoughts and deadly purposes. Has she not murdered me under the
mask of the tenderest friendship? And why? Because I have loved her with
unutterable love, and sought to make her my wife. You say it is my own
‘outrageous conduct’ that has estranged her: nay, I have been _too
gentle_ with her. I ask you first in candour whether the ambiguity of
her behaviour with respect to me, sitting and fondling a man
(circumstanced as I was) sometimes for half a day together, and then
declaring she had no love for him beyond common regard, and professing
never to marry, was not enough to excite my suspicions, which the
different exposures from the conversations below-stairs were not
calculated to allay? I ask you what you yourself would have felt or
done, if loving her as I did, you had heard what I did, time after time?
Did not her mother own to one of the grossest charges (which I shall not
repeat)—and is such indelicacy to be reconciled with her pretended
character (that character with which I fell in love, and to which I
_made love_) without supposing her to be the greatest hypocrite in the
world? My unpardonable offence has been that I took her at her word, and
was willing to believe her the precise little puritanical person she set
up for. After exciting her wayward desires by the fondest embraces and
the purest kisses, as if she had been ‘made my wedded wife yestreen,’ or
was to become so to-morrow (for that was always my feeling with respect
to her)—I did not proceed to gratify them, or to follow up my advantage
by any action which should declare, ‘I think you a common adventurer,
and will see whether you are so or not!’ Yet any one but a credulous
fool like me would have made the experiment, with whatever violence to
himself, as a matter of life and death; for I had every reason to
distrust appearances. Her conduct has been of a piece from the
beginning. In the midst of her closest and falsest endearments, she has
always (with one or two exceptions) disclaimed the natural inference to
be drawn from them, and made a verbal reservation, by which she might
lead me on in a Fool’s Paradise, and make me the tool of her levity, her
avarice, and her love of intrigue as long as she liked, and dismiss me
whenever it suited her. This, you see, she has done, because my
intentions grew serious, and if complied with, would deprive her of _the
pleasures of a single life_! Offer marriage to this ‘tradesman’s
daughter, who has as nice a sense of honour as any one can have;’ and
like Lady Bellaston in _Tom Jones_, she _cuts_ you immediately in a fit
of abhorrence and alarm. Yet she seemed to be of a different mind
formerly, when struggling from me in the height of our first intimacy,
she exclaimed—‘However I might agree to my own ruin, I never will
consent to bring disgrace upon my family!’ That I should have spared the
traitress after expressions like this, astonishes me when I look back
upon it. Yet if it were all to do over again, I know I should act just
the same part. Such is her power over me! I cannot run the least risk of
offending her—I love her so. When I look in her face, I cannot doubt her
truth! Wretched being that I am! I have thrown away my heart and soul
upon an unfeeling girl; and my life (that might have been so happy, had
she been what I thought her) will soon follow either voluntarily, or by
the force of grief, remorse, and disappointment. I cannot get rid of the
reflection for an instant, nor even seek relief from its galling
pressure. Ah! what a heart she has lost! All the love and affection of
my whole life were centred in her, who alone, I thought, of all women
had found out my true character, and knew how to value my tenderness.
Alas! alas! that this, the only hope, joy, or comfort I ever had, should
turn to a mockery, and hang like an ugly film over the remainder of my
days!—I was at Roslin Castle yesterday. It lies low in a rude, but
sheltered valley, hid from the vulgar gaze, and powerfully reminds one
of the old song. The straggling fragments of the russet ruins, suspended
smiling and graceful in the air as if they would linger out another
century to please the curious beholder, the green larch-trees trembling
between with the blue sky and white silver clouds, the wild mountain
plants starting out here and there, the date of the year on an old low
door-way, but still more, the beds of flowers in orderly decay, that
seem to have no hand to tend them, but keep up a sort of traditional
remembrance of civilization in former ages, present altogether a
delightful and amiable subject for contemplation. The exquisite beauty
of the scene, with the thought of what I should feel, should I ever be
restored to her, and have to lead her through such places as my adored,
my angel-wife, almost drove me beside myself. For this picture, this
ecstatic vision, what have I of late instead as the image of the
reality? Demoniacal possessions. I see the young witch seated in
another’s lap, twining her serpent arms round him, her eye glancing and
her cheeks on fire—why does not the hideous thought choke me? Or why do
I not go and find out the truth at once? The moonlight streams over the
silver waters: the bark is in the bay that might waft me to her, almost
with a wish. The mountain-breeze sighs out her name: old ocean with a
world of tears murmurs back my woes! Does not my heart yearn to be with
her; and shall I not follow its bidding? No, I must wait till I am free;
and then I will take my Freedom (a glad prize) and lay it at her feet
and tell her my proud love of her that would not brook a rival in her
dishonour, and that would have her all or none, and gain her or lose
myself for ever!—

You see by this letter the way I am in, and I hope you will excuse it as
the picture of a half-disordered mind. The least respite from my
uneasiness (such as I had yesterday) only brings the contrary reflection
back upon me, like a flood; and by letting me see the happiness I have
lost, makes me feel, by contrast, more acutely what I am doomed to bear.

LETTER X

DEAR FRIEND, Here I am at St. Bees once more, amid the scenes which I
greeted in their barrenness in winter; but which have now put on their
full green attire that shews luxuriant to the eye, but speaks a tale of
sadness to this heart widowed of its last, its dearest, its only hope!
Oh! lovely Bees-Inn! here I composed a volume of law-cases, here I wrote
my enamoured follies to her, thinking her human, and that ‘all below was
not the fiend’s’—here I got two cold, sullen answers from the little
witch, and here I was —— —— and I was damned. I thought the revisiting
the old haunts would have soothed me for a time, but it only brings back
the sense of what I have suffered for her and of her unkindness the more
strongly, till I cannot endure the recollection. I eye the Heavens in
dumb despair, or vent my sorrows in the desart air. ‘To the winds, to
the waves, to the rocks I complain’—you may suppose with what effect! I
fear I shall be obliged to return. I am tossed about (backwards and
forwards) by my passion, so as to become ridiculous. I can now
understand how it is that mad people never remain in the same place—they
are moving on for ever, _from themselves_!

Do you know, you would have been delighted with the effect of the
Northern twilight on this romantic country as I rode along last night?
The hills and groves and herds of cattle were seen reposing in the grey
dawn of midnight, as in a moonlight without shadow. The whole wide
canopy of Heaven shed its reflex light upon them, like a pure crystal
mirror. No sharp points, no petty details, no hard contrasts—every
object was seen softened yet distinct, in its simple outline and natural
tones, transparent with an inward light, breathing its own mild lustre.
The landscape altogether was like an airy piece of mosaic-work, or like
one of Poussin’s broad massy landscapes or Titian’s lovely pastoral
scenes. Is it not so, that poets see nature, veiled to the sight, but
revealed to the soul in visionary grace and grandeur! I confess the
sight touched me; and might have removed all sadness except mine. So (I
thought) the light of her celestial face once shone into my soul, and
wrapt me in a heavenly trance. The sense I have of beauty raises me for
a moment above myself, but depresses me the more afterwards, when I
recollect how it is thrown away in vain admiration, and that it only
makes me more susceptible of pain from the mortifications I meet with.
Would I had never seen her! I might then not indeed have been happy, but
at least I might have passed my life in peace, and have sunk into
forgetfulness without a pang.—The noble scenery in this country mixes
with my passion, and refines, but does not relieve it. I was at Stirling
Castle not long ago. It gave me no pleasure. The declivity seemed to me
abrupt, not sublime; for in truth I did not shrink back from it with
terror. The weather-beaten towers were stiff and formal: the air was
damp and chill: the river winded its dull, slimy way like a snake along
the marshy grounds: and the dim misty tops of Ben Leddi, and the lovely
Highlands (woven fantastically of thin air) mocked my embraces and
tempted my longing eyes like her, the sole queen and mistress of my
thoughts! I never found my contemplations on this subject so subtilised
and at the same time so desponding as on that occasion. I wept myself
almost blind, and I gazed at the broad golden sun-set through my tears
that fell in showers. As I trod the green mountain turf, oh! how I
wished to be laid beneath it—in one grave with her—that I might sleep
with her in that cold bed, my hand in hers, and my heart for ever
still—while worms should taste her sweet body, that I had never tasted!
There was a time when I could bear solitude; but it is too much for me
at present. Now I am no sooner left to myself than I am lost in infinite
space, and look round me in vain for support or comfort. She was my
stay, my hope: without her hand to cling to, I stagger like an infant on
the edge of a precipice. The universe without her is one wide, hollow
abyss, in which my harassed thoughts can find no resting-place. I must
break off here; for the _hysterica passio_ comes upon me, and threatens
to unhinge my reason.

LETTER XI

MY DEAR AND GOOD FRIEND, I am afraid I trouble you with my querulous
epistles, but this is probably the last. To-morrow or the next day
decides my fate with respect to the divorce, when I expect to be a free
man. In vain! Was it not for her and to lay my freedom at her feet, that
I consented to this step which has cost me infinite perplexity, and now
to be discarded for the first pretender that came in her way! If so, I
hardly think I can survive it. You who have been a favourite with women,
do not know what it is to be deprived of one’s only hope, and to have it
turned to shame and disappointment. There is nothing in the world left
that can afford me one drop of comfort—_this_ I feel more and more.
Everything is to me a mockery of pleasure, like her love. The breeze
does not cool me: the blue sky does not cheer me. I gaze only on her
face averted from me—alas! the only face that ever was turned fondly to
me! And why am I thus treated? Because I wanted her to be mine for ever
in love or friendship, and did not push my gross familiarities as far as
I might. ‘Why can you not go on as we have done, and say nothing about
the word, _forever_?’ Was it not plain from this that she even then
meditated an escape from me to some less sentimental lover? ‘Do you
allow anyone else to do so?’ I said to her once, as I was toying with
her. ‘No, not now!’ was her answer; that is, because there was nobody
else in the house to take freedoms with her. I was very well as a
stopgap, but I was to be nothing more. While the coast was clear, I had
it all my own way: but the instant C—— came, she flung herself at his
head in the most barefaced way, ran breathless up stairs before him,
blushed when his foot was heard, watched for him in the passage, and was
sure to be in close conference with him when he went down again. It was
then my mad proceedings commenced. No wonder. Had I not reason to be
jealous of every appearance of familiarity with others, knowing how easy
she had been with me at first, and that she only grew shy when I did not
take farther liberties? What has her character to rest upon but her
attachment to me, which she now denies, not modestly, but impudently?
Will you yourself say that if she had all along no particular regard for
me, she will not do as much or more with other more likely men? ‘She has
had,’ she says, ‘enough of my conversation,’ so it could not be that!
Ah! my friend, it was not to be supposed I should ever meet even with
the outward demonstrations of regard from any woman but a common trader
in the endearments of love! I have tasted the sweets of the well
practiced illusion, and now feel the bitterness of knowing what a bliss
I am deprived of, and must ever be deprived of. Intolerable conviction!
Yet I might, I believe, have won her by other methods; but some demon
held my hand. How indeed could I offer her the least insult when I
worshipped her very footsteps; and even now pay her divine honours from
my inmost heart, whenever I think of her, abased and brutalised as I
have been by that Circean cup of kisses, of enchantments, of which I
have drunk! I am choked, withered, dried up with chagrin, remorse,
despair, from which I have not a moment’s respite, day or night. I have
always some horrid dream about her, and wake wondering what is the
matter that ‘she is no longer the same to me as ever?’ I thought at
least we should always remain dear friends, if nothing more—did she not
talk of coming to live with me only the day before I left her in the
winter? But ‘she’s gone, I am abused, and my revenge must be to _love_
her!’—Yet she knows that one line, one word would save me, the cruel,
heartless destroyer! I see nothing for it but madness, unless Friday
brings a change, or unless she is willing to let me go back. You must
know I wrote to her to that purpose, but it was a very quiet, sober
letter, begging pardon, and professing reform for the future, and all
that. What effect it will have, I know not. I was forced to get out of
the way of her answer, till Friday came.

Ever your’s.

TO S. L.

My dear Miss L——, _Evil to them that evil think_, is an old saying; and
I have found it a true one. I have ruined myself by my unjust suspicions
of you. Your sweet friendship was the balm of my life; and I have lost
it, I fear for ever, by one fault and folly after another. What would I
give to be restored to the place in your esteem, which, you assured me,
I held only a few months ago! Yet I was not contented, but did all I
could to torment myself and harass you by endless doubts and jealousy.
Can you not forget and forgive the past, and judge of me by my conduct
in future? Can you not take all my follies in the lump, and say like a
good, generous girl, ‘Well, I’ll think no more of them?’ In a word, may
I come back, and try to behave better? A line to say so would be an
additional favour to so many already received by

Your obliged friend,
And sincere well-wisher.

LETTER XII. TO C. P——

I have no answer from her. I’m mad. I wish you to call on M—— in
confidence, to say I intend to make her an offer of my hand, and that I
will write to her father to that effect the instant I am free, and ask
him whether he thinks it will be to any purpose, and what he would
advise me to do.

UNALTERED LOVE

‘Love is not love that alteration finds:
Oh no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.’

Shall I not love her for herself alone, in spite of fickleness and
folly? To love her for her regard to me, is not to love her, but myself.
She has robbed me of herself: shall she also rob me of my love of her?
Did I not live on her smile? Is it less sweet because it is withdrawn
from me? Did I not adore her every grace? Does she bend less
enchantingly, because she has turned from me to another? Is my love then
in the power of fortune, or of her caprice? No, I will have it lasting
as it is pure; and I will make a Goddess of her, and build a temple to
her in my heart, and worship her on indestructible altars, and raise
statues to her: and my homage shall be unblemished as her unrivalled
symmetry of form; and when that fails, the memory of it shall survive;
and my bosom shall be proof to scorn, as her’s has been to pity; and I
will pursue her with an unrelenting love, and sue to be her slave, and
tend her steps without notice and without reward; and serve her living,
and mourn for her when dead. And thus my love will have shewn itself
superior to her hate; and I shall triumph and then die. This is my idea
of the only true and heroic love! Such is mine for her.

PERFECT LOVE

Perfect love has this advantage in it, that it leaves the possessor of
it nothing farther to desire. There is one object (at least) in which
the soul finds absolute content, for which it seeks to live, or dares to
die. The heart has as it were filled up the moulds of the imagination.
The truth of passion keeps pace with and outvies the extravagance of
mere language. There are no words so fine, no flattery so soft, that
there is not a sentiment beyond them, that it is impossible to express,
at the bottom of the heart where true love is. What idle sounds the
common phrases, _adorable creature_, _angel_, _divinity_, are? What a
proud reflection it is to have a feeling answering to all these, rooted
in the breast, unalterable, unutterable, to which all other feelings are
light and vain! Perfect love reposes on the object of its choice, like
the halcyon on the wave; and the air of heaven is around it.

FROM C. P., ESQ.

_London, July 4th, 1822._

I have seen M——! Now, my dear H——, let me entreat and adjure you to take
what I have to tell you, _for what it is worth_—neither for less, nor
more. In the first place, I have learned nothing decisive from him.
This, as you will at once see, is, as far as it goes, good. I am either
to hear from him, or see him again in a day or two; but I thought you
would like to know what passed inconclusive as it was—so I write without
delay, and in great haste to save a post. I found him frank, and even
friendly in his manner to me, and in his views respecting you. I think
that he is sincerely sorry for your situation; and he feels that the
person who has placed you in that situation is not much less awkwardly
situated herself; and he professes that he would willingly do what he
can for the good of both. But he sees great difficulties attending the
affair—which he frankly professes to consider as an altogether
unfortunate one. With respect to the marriage, he seems to see the most
formidable objections to it, on both sides; but yet he by no means
decidedly says that it cannot, or that it ought not to take place.
These, mind you, are his own feelings on the subject: but the most
important point I learn from him is this, that he is not prepared to use
his influence either way—that the rest of the family are of the same way
of feeling; and that, in fact, the thing must and does entirely rest
with herself. To learn this was, as you see, gaining a great point.—When
I then endeavoured to ascertain whether he knew anything decisive as to
what are her views on the subject, I found that he did not. He has an
opinion on the subject, and he didn’t scruple to tell me what it was;
but he has no positive knowledge. In short, he believes, from what he
learns from herself (and he had purposely seen her on the subject, in
consequence of my application to him) that she is at present indisposed
to the marriage; but he is not prepared to say positively that she will
not consent to it. Now all this, coming from him in the most frank and
unaffected manner, and without any appearance of cant, caution, or
reserve, I take to be most important as it respects your views, whatever
they may be; and certainly much more favorable to them (I confess it)
than I was prepared to expect, supposing them to remain as they were. In
fact, as I said before, the affair rests entirely with herself. They are
none of them disposed either to further the marriage, or throw any
insurmountable obstacles in the way of it; and what is more important
than all, they are evidently by no means _certain_ that SHE may not, at
some future period, consent to it; or they would, for her sake as well
as their own, let you know as much flatly, and put an end to the affair
at once.

Seeing in how frank and strait-forward a manner he received what I had
to say to him, and replied to it, I proceeded to ask him what were _his_
views, and what were likely to be _her’s_ (in case she did not consent)
as to whether you should return to live in the house;—but I added,
without waiting for his answer, that if she intended to persist in
treating you as she had done for some time past, it would be worse than
madness for you to think of returning. I added that, in case you did
return, all you would expect from her would be that she would treat you
with civility and kindness—that she would continue to evince that
friendly feeling towards you, that she had done for a great length of
time, &c. To this, he said, he could really give no decisive reply, but
that he should be most happy if, by any intervention of his, he could
conduce to your comfort; but he seemed to think that for you to return
on any express understanding that she should behave to you in any
particular manner, would be to place her in a most awkward situation. He
went somewhat at length into this point, and talked very reasonably
about it; the result, however, was that he would not throw any obstacles
in the way of your return, or of her treating you as a friend, &c., nor
did it appear that he believed she would refuse to do so. And, finally,
we parted on the understanding that he would see them on the subject,
and ascertain what could be done for the comfort of all parties: though
he was of opinion that if you could make up your mind to break off the
acquaintance altogether, it would be the best plan of all. I am to hear
from him again in a day or two.—Well, what do you say to all this? Can
you turn it to any thing but good—comparative good? If you would know
what _I_ say to it, it is this:—She is still to be won by wise and
prudent conduct on your part; she was always to have been won by
such;—and if she is lost, it has been (not, as you sometimes suppose,
because you have not carried that unwise, may I not say _unworthy_?
conduct still farther, but) because you gave way to it at all. Of course
I use the terms ‘wise’ and ‘prudent’ with reference to your object.
Whether the pursuit of that object is wise, only yourself can judge. I
say she has all along been to be won, and she still is to be won; and
all that stands in the way of your views at this moment is your past
conduct. They are all of them, every soul, frightened at you; they have
_seen_ enough of you to make them so; and they have doubtless heard ten
times more than they have seen, or than anyone else has seen. They are
all of them, including M—— (and particularly she herself) frightened out
of their wits, as to what might be your treatment of her if she were
your’s; and they dare not trust you—they will not trust you, at present.
I do not say that they will trust you, or rather that _she_ will, for it
all depends on her, when you have gone through a probation, but I am
sure that she will not trust you till you have. You will, I hope, not be
angry with me when I say that she would be a fool if she did. If she
were to accept you at present, and without knowing more of you, even _I_
should begin to suspect that she had an unworthy motive for doing it.
Let me not forget to mention what is perhaps as important a point as
any, as it regards the marriage. I of course stated to M—— that when you
are free, you are prepared to make her a formal offer of your hand; but
I begged him, if he was certain that such an offer would be refused, to
tell me so plainly at once, that I might endeavour, in that case, to
dissuade you from subjecting yourself to the pain of such a refusal. _He
would not tell me that he was certain._ He said his opinion was that she
would not accept your offer, but still he seemed to think that there
would be no harm in making it!—One word more, and a very important one.
He once, and without my referring in the slightest manner to that part
of the subject, spoke of her as a _good girl_, and _likely to make any
man an excellent wife_! Do you think if she were a bad girl (and if she
were, he must know her to be so) he would have dared to do this, under
these circumstances?—And once, in speaking of _his_ not being a fit
person to set his face against ‘marrying for love,’ he added ‘I did so
myself, and out of that house; and I have had reason to rejoice at it
ever since.’ And mind (for I anticipate your cursed suspicions) I’m
certain, at least, if manner can entitle one to be certain of any thing,
that he said all this spontaneously, and without any understood motive;
and I’m certain, too, that he knows you to be a person that it would not
do to play any tricks of this kind with. I believe—(and all this would
never have entered my thoughts, but that I know it will enter your’s) I
believe that even if they thought (as you have sometimes supposed they
do) that she needs whitewashing, or making an honest woman of, you would
be the last person they would think of using for such a purpose, for
they know (as well as I do) that you couldn’t fail to find out the trick
in a month, and would turn her into the street the next moment, though
she were twenty times your wife—and that, as to the consequences of
doing so, you would laugh at them, even if you couldn’t escape from
them.—I shall lose the post if I say more.

Believe me,
Ever truly your friend,
C. P.

LETTER XIII

MY DEAR P——, You have saved my life. If I do not keep friends with her
now, I deserve to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. She is an angel from
Heaven, and you cannot pretend I ever said a word to the contrary! The
little rogue must have liked me from the first, or she never could have
stood all these hurricanes without slipping her cable. What could she
find in me? ‘I have mistook my person all this while,’ &c. Do you know I
saw a picture, the very pattern of her, the other day, at Dalkeith
Palace (Hope finding Fortune in the Sea), just before this blessed news
came, and the resemblance drove me almost out of my senses. Such
delicacy, such fulness, such perfect softness, such buoyancy, such
grace! If it is not the very image of her, I am no judge.—You have the
face to doubt my making the best husband in the world; you might as well
doubt it if I was married to one of the Houris of Paradise. She is a
saint, an angel, a love. If she deceives me again, she kills me. But I
will have such a kiss when I get back, as shall last me twenty years.
May God bless her for not utterly disowning and destroying me! What an
exquisite little creature it is, and how she holds out to the last in
her system of consistent contradictions! Since I wrote to you about
making a formal proposal, I have had her face constantly before me,
looking so like some faultless marble statue, as cold, as fixed and
graceful as ever statue did; the expression (nothing was ever like
_that_!) seemed to say—‘I wish I could love you better than I do, but
still I will be your’s.’ No, I’ll never believe again that she will not
be mine; for I think she was made on purpose for me. If there’s anyone
else that understands that turn of her head as I do, I’ll give her up
without scruple. I have made up my mind to this, never to dream of
another woman, while she even thinks it worth her while to _refuse to
have me_. You see I am not hard to please, after all. Did M—— know of
the intimacy that had subsisted between us? Or did you hint at it? I
think it would be a _clencher_, if he did. How ought I to behave when I
go back? Advise a fool, who had nearly lost a Goddess by his folly. The
thing was, I could not think it possible she would ever like _me_. Her
taste is singular, but not the worse for that. I’d rather have her love,
or liking (call it what you will) than empires. I deserve to call her
mine; for nothing else _can_ atone for what I’ve gone through for her. I
hope your next letter will not reverse all, and then I shall be happy
till I see her,—one of the blest when I do see her, if she looks like my
own beautiful love. I may perhaps write a line when I come to my right
wits.—Farewel at present, and thank you a thousand times for what you
have done for your poor friend.

P.S.—I like what M—— said about her sister, much. There are good people
in the world: I begin to see it, and believe it.

LETTER THE LAST

DEAR P——, To-morrow is the decisive day that makes me or mars me. I will
let you know the result by a line added to this. Yet what signifies it,
since either way I have little hope there, ‘whence alone my hope
cometh!’ You must know I am strangely in the dumps at this present
writing. My reception with her is doubtful, and my fate is then certain.
The hearing of your happiness has, I own, made me thoughtful. It is just
what I proposed to her to do—to have crossed the Alps with me, to sail
on sunny seas, to bask in Italian skies, to have visited Vevai and the
rocks of Meillerie, and to have repeated to her on the spot the story of
Julia and St. Preux, and to have shewn her all that my heart had stored
up for her—but on my forehead alone is written—REJECTED! Yet I too could
have adored as fervently, and loved as tenderly as others, had I been
permitted. You are going abroad, you say, happy in making happy. Where
shall I be? In the grave, I hope, or else in her arms. To me, alas!
there is no sweetness out of her sight, and that sweetness has turned to
bitterness, I fear; that gentleness to sullen scorn! Still I hope for
the best. If she will but _have_ me, I’ll make her _love_ me: and I
think her not giving a positive answer looks like it, and also shews
that there is no one else. Her holding out to the last also, I think,
proves that she was never to have been gained but with honour. She’s a
strange, almost an inscrutable girl: but if I once win her consent, I
shall kill her with kindness.—Will you let me have a sight of _somebody_
before you go? I should be most proud. I was in hopes to have got away
by the Steam-boat to-morrow, but owing to the business not coming on
till then, I cannot; and may not be in town for another week, unless I
come by the Mail, which I am strongly tempted to do. In the latter case
I shall be _there_, and visible on Saturday evening. Will you look in
and see, about eight o’clock? I wish much to see you and her and J. H.
and my little boy once more; and then, if she is not what she once was
to me, I care not if I die that instant. I will conclude here till
to-morrow, as I am getting into my old melancholy.—

It is all over, and I am my own man, and your’s ever—

_PART III_

ADDRESSED TO J. S. K——

My dear K——, It is all over, and I know my fate. I told you I would send
you word, if anything decisive happened; but an impenetrable mystery
hung over the affair till lately. It is at last (by the merest accident
in the world) dissipated; and I keep my promise, both for your
satisfaction, and for the ease of my own mind.

You remember the morning when I said ‘I will go and repose my sorrows at
the foot of Ben Lomond’—and when from Dumbarton Bridge its giant-shadow,
clad in air and sunshine, appeared in view. We had a pleasant day’s
walk. We passed Smollett’s monument on the road (somehow these poets
touch one in reflection more than most military heroes)—talked of old
times; you repeated Logan’s beautiful verses to the cuckoo,[20] which I
wanted to compare with Wordsworth’s, but my courage failed me; you then
told me some passages of an early attachment which was suddenly broken
off; we considered together which was the most to be pitied, a
disappointment in love where the attachment was mutual or one where
there has been no return, and we both agreed, I think, that the former
was best to be endured, and that to have the consciousness of it a
companion for life was the least evil of the two, as there was a secret
sweetness that took off the bitterness and the sting of regret, and ‘the
memory of what once had been’ atoned, in some measure, and at intervals,
for what ‘never more could be.’ In the other case, there was nothing to
look back to with tender satisfaction, no redeeming trait, not even a
possibility of turning it to good. It left behind it not cherished
sighs, but stifled pangs. The galling sense of it did not bring moisture
into the eyes, but dried up the heart ever after. One had been my fate,
the other had been yours!—

You startled me every now and then from my reverie by the robust voice,
in which you asked the country people (by no means prodigal of their
answers)—‘If there was any trout-fishing in those streams?’—and our
dinner at Luss set us up for the rest of our day’s march. The sky now
became overcast; but this, I think, added to the effect of the scene.
The road to Tarbet is superb. It is on the very verge of the lake—hard,
level, rocky, with low stone bridges constantly flung across it, and
fringed with birch trees, just then budding into spring, behind which,
as through a slight veil, you saw the huge shadowy form of Ben Lomond.
It lifts its enormous but graceful bulk direct from the edge of the
water without any projecting lowlands, and has in this respect much the
advantage of Skiddaw. Loch Lomond comes upon you by degrees as you
advance, unfolding and then withdrawing its conscious beauties like an
accomplished coquet. You are struck with the point of a rock, the arch
of a bridge, the Highland huts (like the first rude habitations of men)
dug out of the soil, built of turf, and covered with brown heather, a
sheep-cote, some straggling cattle feeding half-way down a precipice;
but as you advance farther on, the view expands into the perfection of
lake scenery. It is nothing (or your eye is caught by nothing) but
water, earth, and sky. Ben Lomond waves to the right, in its simple
majesty, cloud-capt or bare, and descending to a point at the head of
the lake, shews the Trossacs beyond, tumbling about their blue ridges
like woods waving; to the left is the Cobler, whose top is like a castle
shattered in pieces and nodding to its ruin; and at your side rise the
shapes of round pastoral hills, green, fleeced with herds, and retiring
into mountainous bays and upland valleys, where solitude and peace might
make their lasting home, if peace were to be found in solitude! That it
was not always so, I was a sufficient proof; for there was one image
that alone haunted me in the midst of all this sublimity and beauty, and
turned it to a mockery and a dream!

The snow on the mountain would not let us ascend; and being weary of
waiting and of being visited by the guide every two hours to let us know
that the weather would not do, we returned, you homewards, and I to
London—

‘Italiam, Italiam!’

You know the anxious expectations with which I set out:—now hear the
result.—

As the vessel sailed up the Thames, the air thickened with the
consciousness of being near her, and I ‘heaved her name pantingly
forth.’ As I approached the house, I could not help thinking of the
lines—

‘How near am I to a happiness,
That earth exceeds not! Not another like it.
The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the conceal’d comforts of a man
Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house.
What a delicious breath true love sends forth!
The violet-beds not sweeter. Now for a welcome
Able to draw men’s envies upon man:
A kiss now that will hang upon my lip,
As sweet as morning dew upon a rose,
And full as long!’

I saw her, but I saw at the first glance that there was something amiss.
It was with much difficulty and after several pressing intreaties that
she was prevailed on to come up into the room; and when she did, she
stood at the door, cold, distant, averse; and when at length she was
persuaded by my repeated remonstrances to come and take my hand, and I
offered to touch her lips, she turned her head and shrunk from my
embraces, as if quite alienated or mortally offended. I asked what it
could mean? What had I done in her absence to have incurred her
displeasure? Why had she not written to me? I could get only short,
sullen, disconnected answers, as if there was something labouring in her
mind which she either could not or would not impart. I hardly knew how
to bear this first reception after so long an absence, and so different
from the one my sentiments towards her merited; but I thought it
possible it might be prudery (as I had returned without having actually
accomplished what I went about) or that she had taken offence at
something in my letters. She saw how much I was hurt. I asked her, ‘If
she was altered since I went away?’—‘No.’ ‘If there was any one else who
had been so fortunate as to gain her favourable opinion?’—‘No, there was
no one else.’ ‘What was it then? Was it any thing in my letters? Or had
I displeased her by letting Mr P—— know she wrote to me?’—‘No, not at
all; but she did not apprehend my last letter required any answer, or
she would have replied to it.’ All this appeared to me very
unsatisfactory and evasive; but I could get no more from her, and was
obliged to let her go with a heavy, foreboding heart. I however found
that C—— was gone, and no one else had been there, of whom I had cause
to be jealous.—‘Should I see her on the morrow?’—‘She believed so, but
she could not promise.’ The next morning she did not appear with the
breakfast as usual. At this I grew somewhat uneasy. The little
Buonaparte, however, was placed in its old position on the mantle-piece,
which I considered as a sort of recognition of old times. I saw her once
or twice casually; nothing particular happened till the next day, which
was Sunday. I took occasion to go into the parlour for the newspaper,
which she gave me with a gracious smile, and seemed tolerably frank and
cordial. This of course acted as a spell upon me. I walked out with my
little boy, intending to go and dine out at one or two places, but I
found that I still contrived to bend my steps towards her, and I went
back to take tea at home. While we were out, I talked to William about
Sarah, saying that she too was unhappy, and asking him to make it up
with her. He said, if she was unhappy, he would not bear her malice any
more. When she came up with the tea-things, I said to her, ‘William has
something to say to you—I believe he wants to be friends.’ On which he
said in his abrupt, hearty manner, ‘Sarah, I’m sorry if I’ve ever said
anything to vex you’—so they shook hands, and she said, smiling
affably—‘_Then_ I’ll think no more of it!’ I added—‘I see you’ve brought
me back my little Buonaparte’—She answered with tremulous softness—‘I
told you I’d keep it safe for you!’—as if her pride and pleasure in
doing so had been equal, and she had, as it were, thought of nothing
during my absence but how to greet me with this proof of her fidelity on
my return. I cannot describe her manner. Her words are few and simple;
but you can have no idea of the exquisite, unstudied, irresistible
graces with which she accompanies them, unless you can suppose a Greek
statue to smile, move, and speak. Those lines in Tibullus seem to have
been written on purpose for her—

Quicquid agit quoquo vestigià vertit,
Componit furtim, subsequiturque decor.

Or what do you think of those in a modern play, which might actually
have been composed with an eye to this little trifler—

——‘See with what a waving air she goes
Along the corridor. How like a fawn!
Yet statelier. No sound (however soft)
Nor gentlest echo telleth when she treads,
But every motion of her shape doth seem
Hallowed by silence. So did Hebe grow
Among the gods a paragon! Away, I’m grown
The very fool of Love!’

The truth is, I never saw anything like her, nor I never shall again.
How then do I console myself for the loss of her? Shall I tell you, but
you will not mention it again? I am foolish enough to believe that she
and I, in spite of every thing, shall be sitting together over a
sea-coal fire, a comfortable good old couple, twenty years hence! But to
my narrative.—

I was delighted with the alteration in her manner, and said, referring
to the bust—‘You know it is not mine, but your’s; I gave it you; nay, I
have given you all—my heart, and whatever I possess, is your’s!’ She
seemed good-humouredly to decline this _carte blanche_ offer, and waved,
like a thing of enchantment, out of the room. False calm!—Deceitful
smiles!—Short interval of peace, followed by lasting woe! I sought an
interview with her that same evening. I could not get her to come any
farther than the door. ‘She was busy—she could hear what I had to say
there.’ ‘Why do you seem to avoid me as you do? Not one five minutes’
conversation, for the sake of old acquaintance? Well, then, for the sake
of _the little image_!’ The appeal seemed to have lost its efficacy; the
charm was broken; she remained immoveable. ‘Well, then I must come to
you, if you will not run away.’ I went and sat down in a chair near the
door, and took her hand, and talked to her for three quarters of an
hour; and she listened patiently, thoughtfully, and seemed a good deal
affected by what I said. I told her how much I had felt, how much I had
suffered for her in my absence, and how much I had been hurt by her
sudden silence, for which I knew not how to account. I could have done
nothing to offend her while I was away; and my letters were, I hoped,
tender and respectful. I had had but one thought ever present with me;
her image never quitted my side, alone or in company, to delight or
distract me. Without her I could have no peace, nor ever should again,
unless she would behave to me as she had done formerly. There was no
abatement of my regard to her; why was she so changed? I said to her,
‘Ah! Sarah, when I think that it is only a year ago that you were
everything to me I could wish, and that now you seem lost to me for
ever, the month of May (the name of which ought to be a signal for joy
and hope) strikes chill to my heart.—How different is this meeting from
that delicious parting, when you seemed never weary of repeating the
proofs of your regard and tenderness, and it was with difficulty we tore
ourselves asunder at last! I am ten thousand times fonder of you than I
was then, and ten thousand times more unhappy.’ ‘You have no reason to
be so; my feelings towards you are the same as they ever were.’ I told
her ‘She was my all of hope or comfort: my passion for her grew stronger
every time I saw her.’ She answered, ‘She was sorry for it; for _that_
she never could return.’ I said something about looking ill: she said in
her pretty, mincing, emphatic way, ‘I despise looks!’ So, thought I, it
is not that; and she says there’s no one else: it must be some strange
air she gives herself, in consequence of the approaching change in my
circumstances. She has been probably advised not to give up till all is
fairly over, and then she will be my own sweet girl again. All this time
she was standing just outside the door, my hand in hers (would that they
could have grown together!) she was dressed in a loose morning-gown, her
hair curled beautifully; she stood with her profile to me, and looked
down the whole time. No expression was ever more soft or perfect. Her
whole attitude, her whole form, was dignity and bewitching grace. I said
to her, ‘You look like a queen, my love, adorned with your own graces!’
I grew idolatrous, and would have kneeled to her. She made a movement,
as if she was displeased. I tried to draw her towards me. She wouldn’t.
I then got up, and offered to kiss her at parting. I found she
obstinately refused. This stung me to the quick. It was the first time
in her life she had ever done so. There must be some new bar between us
to produce these continued denials; and she had not even esteem enough
left to tell me so. I followed her half-way down-stairs, but to no
purpose, and returned into my room, confirmed in my most dreadful
surmises. I could bear it no longer. I gave way to all the fury of
disappointed hope and jealous passion. I was made the dupe of trick and
cunning, killed with cold, sullen scorn; and, after all the agony I had
suffered, could obtain no explanation why I was subjected to it. I was
still to be tantalized, tortured, made the cruel sport of one, for whom
I would have sacrificed all. I tore the locket which contained her hair
(and which I used to wear continually in my bosom, as the precious token
of her dear regard) from my neck, and trampled it in pieces. I then
dashed the little Buonaparte on the ground, and stamped upon it, as one
of her instruments of mockery. I could not stay in the room; I could not
leave it; my rage, my despair were uncontroulable. I shrieked curses on
her name, and on her false love; and the scream I uttered (so pitiful
and so piercing was it, that the sound of it terrified me) instantly
brought the whole house, father, mother, lodgers and all, into the room.
They thought I was destroying her and myself. I had gone into the
bedroom, merely to hide away from myself, and as I came out of it,
raging-mad with the new sense of present shame and lasting misery, Mrs.
F—— said, ‘She’s in there! He has got her in there!’ thinking the cries
had proceeded from her, and that I had been offering her violence. ‘Oh!
no,’ I said, ‘She’s in no danger from me; I am not the person;’ and
tried to burst from this scene of degradation. The mother endeavoured to
stop me, and said, ‘For God’s sake, don’t go out, Mr ——! for God’s sake,
don’t!’ Her father, who was not, I believe, in the secret, and was
therefore justly scandalised at such outrageous conduct, said angrily,
‘Let him go! Why should he stay?’ I however sprang down stairs, and as
they called out to me, ‘What is it?—What has she done to you?’ I
answered, ‘She has murdered me!—She has destroyed me for ever!—She has
doomed my soul to perdition!’ I rushed out of the house, thinking to
quit it forever; but I was no sooner in the street, than the desolation
and the darkness became greater, more intolerable; and the eddying
violence of my passion drove me back to the source, from whence it
sprung. This unexpected explosion, with the conjectures to which it
would give rise, could not be very agreeable to the _precieuse_ or her
family; and when I went back, the father was waiting at the door, as if
anticipating this sudden turn of my feelings, with no friendly aspect. I
said, ‘I have to beg pardon, Sir; but my mad fit is over, and I wish to
say a few words to you in private.’ He seemed to hesitate, but some
uneasy forebodings on his own account, probably, prevailed over his
resentment; or, perhaps (as philosophers have a desire to know the cause
of thunder) it was a natural curiosity to know what circumstances of
provocation had given rise to such an extraordinary scene of confusion.
When we reached my room, I requested him to be seated. I said, ‘It is
true, Sir, I have lost my peace of mind for ever, but at present I am
quite calm and collected, and I wish to explain to you why I have
behaved in so extravagant a way, and to ask for your advice and
intercession.’ He appeared satisfied, and I went on. I had no chance
either of exculpating myself, or of probing the question to the bottom,
but by stating the naked truth, and therefore I said at once, ‘Sarah
told me, Sir (and I never shall forget the way in which she told me,
fixing her dove’s eyes upon me, and looking a thousand tender reproaches
for the loss of that good opinion, which she held dearer than all the
world) she told me, Sir, that as you one day passed the door, which
stood a-jar, you saw her in an attitude which a good deal startled you;
I mean sitting in my lap, with her arms round my neck, and mine twined
round her in the fondest manner. What I wished to ask was, whether this
was actually the case, or whether it was a mere invention of her own, to
enhance the sense of my obligations to her; for I begin to doubt
everything?’—‘Indeed, it was so; and very much surprised and hurt I was
to see it.’ ‘Well then, Sir, I can only say, that as you saw her sitting
then, so she had been sitting for the last year and a half, almost every
day of her life, by the hour together; and you may judge yourself,
knowing what a nice modest-looking girl she is, whether, after having
been admitted to such intimacy with so sweet a creature, and for so long
a time, it is not enough to make any one frantic to be received by her
as I have been since my return, without any provocation given or cause
assigned for it.’ The old man answered very seriously, and, as I think,
sincerely, ‘What you now tell me, Sir, mortifies and shocks me as much
as it can do yourself. I had no idea such a thing was possible. I was
much pained at what I saw; but I thought it an accident, and that it
would never happen again.’—‘It was a constant habit; it has happened a
hundred times since, and a thousand before. I lived on her caresses as
my daily food, nor can I live without them.’ So I told him the whole
story, ‘what conjurations, and what mighty magic I won his daughter
with,’ to be anything but _mine for life_. Nothing could well exceed his
astonishment and apparent mortification. ‘What I had said,’ he owned,
‘had left a weight upon his mind that he should not easily get rid of.’
I told him, ‘For myself, I never could recover the blow I had received.
I thought, however, for her own sake, she ought to alter her present
behaviour. Her marked neglect and dislike, so far from justifying, left
her former intimacies without excuse; for nothing could reconcile them
to propriety, or even a pretence to common decency, but either love, or
friendship so strong and pure that it could put on the guise of love.
She was certainly a singular girl. Did she think it right and becoming
to be free with strangers, and strange to old friends?’ I frankly
declared, ‘I did not see how it was in human nature for any one who was
not rendered callous to such familiarities by bestowing them
indiscriminately on every one, to grant the extreme and continued
indulgences she had done to me, without either liking the man at first,
or coming to like him in the end, in spite of herself. When my addresses
had nothing, and could have nothing honourable in them, she gave them
every encouragement; when I wished to make them honourable, she treated
them with the utmost contempt. The terms we had been all along on were
such as if she had been to be my bride next day. It was only when I
wished her actually to become so, to ensure her own character and my
happiness, that she shrunk back with precipitation and panic-fear. There
seemed to me something wrong in all this; a want both of common
propriety, and I might say, of natural feeling; yet, with all her
faults, I loved her, and ever should, beyond any other human being. I
had drank in the poison of her sweetness too long ever to be cured of
it; and though I might find it to be poison in the end, it was still in
my veins. My only ambition was to be permitted to live with her, and to
die in her arms. Be she what she would, treat me how she would, I felt
that my soul was wedded to hers; and were she a mere lost creature, I
would try to snatch her from perdition, and marry her to-morrow if she
would have me. That was the question—‘Would she have me, or would she
not?’ He said he could not tell; but should not attempt to put any
constraint upon her inclinations, one way or other. I acquiesced, and
added, that ‘I had brought all this upon myself, by acting contrary to
the suggestions of my friend, Mr ——, who had desired me to take no
notice whether she came near me or kept away, whether she smiled or
frowned, was kind or contemptuous—all you have to do, is to wait
patiently for a month till you are your own man, as you will be in all
probability; then make her an offer of your hand, and if she refuses,
there’s an end of the matter.’ Mr L. said, ‘Well, Sir, and I don’t think
you can follow a better advice!’ I took this as at least a sort of
negative encouragement, and so we parted.

TO THE SAME

(_in continuation_).

My Dear Friend, The next day I felt almost as sailors must do after a
violent storm over-night, that has subsided towards day-break. The
morning was a dull and stupid calm, and I found she was unwell, in
consequence of what had happened. In the evening I grew more uneasy, and
determined on going into the country for a week or two. I gathered up
the fragments of the locket of her hair, and the little bronze statue,
which were strewed about the floor, kissed them, folded them up in a
sheet of paper, and sent them to her, with these lines written in pencil
on the outside—‘_Pieces of a broken heart, to be kept in remembrance of
the unhappy. Farewell._’ No notice was taken; nor did I expect any. The
following morning I requested Betsey to pack up my box for me, as I
should go out of town the next day, and at the same time wrote a note to
her sister to say, I should take it as a favour if she would please to
accept of the enclosed copies of the _Vicar of Wakefield_, _The Man of
Feeling_, and _Nature and Art_, in lieu of three volumes of my own
writings, which I had given her on different occasions, in the course of
our acquaintance. I was piqued, in fact, that she should have these to
shew as proofs of my weakness, and as if I thought the way to win her
was by plaguing her with my own performances. She sent me word back that
the books I had sent were of no use to her, and that I should have those
I wished for in the afternoon; but that she could not before, as she had
lent them to her sister, Mrs. M ——. I said, ‘very well;’ but observed
(laughing) to Betsey, ‘It’s a bad rule to give and take; so, if Sarah
won’t have these books, you must; they are very pretty ones, I assure
you.’ She curtsied and took them, according to the family custom. In the
afternoon, when I came back to tea, I found the little girl on her
knees, busy in packing up my things, and a large paper parcel on the
table, which I could not at first tell what to make of. On opening it,
however, I soon found what it was. It contained a number of volumes
which I had given her at different times (among others, a little
Prayer-Book, bound in crimson velvet, with green silk linings; she
kissed it twenty times when she received it, and said it was the
prettiest present in the world, and that she would shew it to her aunt,
who would be proud of it)—and all these she had returned together. Her
name in the title-page was cut out of them all. I doubted at the instant
whether she had done this before or after I had sent for them back, and
I have doubted of it since; but there is no occasion to suppose her
_ugly all over with hypocrisy_. Poor little thing! She has enough to
answer for, as it is. I asked Betsey if she could carry a message for
me, and she said ‘_Yes_.’ ‘Will you tell your sister, then, that I did
not want all these books; and give my love to her, and say that I shall
be obliged if she will still keep these that I have sent back, and tell
her that it is only those of my own writing that I think unworthy of
her.’ What do you think the little imp made answer? She raised herself
on the other side of the table where she stood, as if inspired by the
genius of the place, and said—‘AND THOSE ARE THE ONES THAT SHE PRIZES
THE MOST!’ If there were ever words spoken that could revive the dead,
those were the words. Let me kiss them, and forget that my ears have
heard aught else! I said, ‘Are you sure of that?’ and she said, ‘Yes,
quite sure.’ I told her, ‘If I could be, I should be very different from
what I was.’ And I became so that instant, for these casual words
carried assurance to my heart of her esteem—that once implied, I had
proofs enough of her fondness. Oh! how I felt at that moment! Restored
to love, hope, and joy, by a breath which I had caught by the merest
accident, and which I might have pined in absence and mute despair for
want of hearing! I did not know how to contain myself; I was childish,
wanton, drunk with pleasure. I gave Betsey a twenty-shilling note which
I happened to have in my hand, and on her asking ‘What’s this for, Sir?’
I said, ‘It’s for you. Don’t you think it worth that to be made happy?
You once made me very wretched by some words I heard you drop, and now
you have made me as happy; and all I wish you is, when you grow up, that
you may find some one to love you as well as I do your sister, and that
you may love better than she does me!’ I continued in this state of
delirium or dotage all that day and the next, talked incessantly,
laughed at every thing, and was so extravagant, nobody could tell what
was the matter with me. I murmured her name; I blest her; I folded her
to my heart in delicious fondness; I called her by my own name; I
worshipped her: I was mad for her. I told P—— I should laugh in her
face, if ever she pretended not to like me again. Her mother came in and
said, she hoped I should excuse Sarah’s coming up. ‘Oh, Ma’am,’ I said,
‘I have no wish to see her; I feel her at my heart; she does not hate me
after all, and I wish for nothing. Let her come when she will, she is to
me welcomer than light, than life; but let it be in her own sweet time,
and at her own dear pleasure.’ Betsey also told me she was ‘so glad to
get the books back.’ I, however, sobered and wavered (by degrees) from
seeing nothing of her, day after day; and in less than a week I was
devoted to the Infernal Gods. I could hold out no longer than the Monday
evening following. I sent a message to her; she returned an ambiguous
answer; but she came up. Pity me, my friend, for the shame of this
recital. Pity me for the pain of having ever had to make it! If the
spirits of mortal creatures, purified by faith and hope, can (according
to the highest assurances) ever, during thousands of years of
smooth-rolling eternity and balmy, sainted repose, forget the pain, the
toil, the anguish, the helplessness, and the despair they have suffered
here, in this frail being, then may I forget that withering hour, and
her, that fair, pale form that entered, my inhuman betrayer, and my only
earthly love! She said, ‘Did you wish to speak to me, Sir?’ I said,
‘Yes, may I not speak to you? I wanted to see you and be friends.’ I
rose up, offered her an arm-chair which stood facing, bowed on it, and
knelt to her adoring. She said (going) ‘If that’s all, I have nothing to
say.’ I replied, ‘Why do you treat me thus? What have I done to become
thus hateful to you?’ _Answer_, ‘I always told you I had no affection
for you.’ You may suppose this was a blow, after the imaginary
honey-moon in which I had passed the preceding week. I was stunned by
it; my heart sunk within me. I contrived to say, ‘Nay, my dear girl, not
always neither; for did you not once (if I might presume to look back to
those happy, happy times), when you were sitting on my knee as usual,
embracing and embraced, and I asked if you could not love me at last,
did you not make answer, in the softest tones that ever man heard, ‘_I
could easily say so, whether I did or not; you should judge by my
actions!_’ Was I to blame in taking you at your word, when every hope I
had depended on your sincerity? And did you not say since I came back,
‘_Your feelings to me were the same as ever?_ Why then is your behaviour
so different?’ S. ‘Is it nothing, your exposing me to the whole house in
the way you did the other evening?’ H. ‘Nay, that was the consequence of
your cruel reception of me, not the cause of it. I had better have gone
away last year, as I proposed to do, unless you would give some pledge
of your fidelity; but it was your own offer that I should remain. “Why
should I go?” you said, “Why could we not go on the same as we had done,
and say nothing about the word _forever_?”’ S. ‘And how did you behave
when you returned?’ H. ‘That was all forgiven when we last parted, and
your last words were, “I should find you the same as ever” when I came
home? Did you not that very day enchant and madden me over again by the
purest kisses and embraces, and did I not go from you (as I said)
adoring, confiding, with every assurance of mutual esteem and
friendship?’ S. ‘Yes, and in your absence I found that you had told my
aunt what had passed between us.’ H. ‘It was to induce her to extort
your real sentiments from you, that you might no longer make a secret of
your true regard for me, which your actions (but not your words)
confessed.’ S. ‘I own I have been guilty of improprieties, which you
have gone and repeated, not only in the house, but out of it; so that it
has come to my ears from various quarters, as if I was a light
character. And I am determined in future to be guided by the advice of
my relations, and particularly of my aunt, whom I consider as my best
friend, and keep every lodger at a proper distance.’ You will find
hereafter that her favourite lodger, whom she visits daily, had left the
house; so that she might easily make and keep this vow of extraordinary
self-denial. Precious little dissembler! Yet her aunt, her best friend,
says, ‘No, Sir, no; Sarah’s no hypocrite!’ which I was fool enough to
believe; and yet my great and unpardonable offence is to have
entertained passing doubts on this delicate point. I said, Whatever
errors I had committed, arose from my anxiety to have everything
explained to her honour: my conduct shewed that I had that at heart, and
that I built on the purity of her character as on a rock. My esteem for
her amounted to adoration. ‘She did not want adoration.’ It was only
when any thing happened to imply that I had been mistaken, that I
committed any extravagance, because I could not bear to think her short
of perfection. ‘She was far from perfection,’ she replied, with an air
and manner (oh, my God!) as near it as possible. ‘How could she accuse
me of a want of regard to her? It was but the other day, Sarah,’ I said
to her, ‘when that little circumstance of the books happened, and I
fancied the expressions your sister dropped proved the sincerity of all
your kindness to me—you don’t know how my heart melted within me at the
thought, that after all, I might be dear to you. New hopes sprung up in
my heart, and I felt as Adam must have done when his Eve was created for
him!’ ‘She had heard enough of that sort of conversation,’ (moving
towards the door). This, I own, was the unkindest cut of all. I had, in
that case, no hopes whatever. I felt that I had expended words in vain,
and that the conversation below stairs (which I told you of when I saw
you) had spoiled her taste for mine. If the allusion had been classical
I should have been to blame; but it was scriptural, it was a sort of
religious courtship, and Miss L. is religious!

At once he took his Muse and dipt her
Right in the middle of the Scripture.

It would not do—the lady could make neither head nor tail of it. This is
a poor attempt at levity. Alas! I am sad enough. ‘Would she go and leave
me so? If it was only my own behaviour, I still did not doubt of
success. I knew the sincerity of my love, and she would be convinced of
it in time. If that was all, I did not care: but tell me true, is there
not a new attachment that is the real cause of your estrangement? Tell
me, my sweet friend, and before you tell me, give me your hand (nay,
both hands) that I may have something to support me under the dreadful
conviction.’ She let me take her hands in mine, saying, ‘She supposed
there could be no objection to that,’—as if she acted on the suggestions
of others, instead of following her own will—but still avoided giving me
any answer. I conjured her to tell me the worst, and kill me on the
spot. Any thing was better than my present state. I said, ‘Is it Mr
C——?’ She smiled, and said with gay indifference, ‘Mr C—— was here a
very short time.’ ‘Well, then, was it Mr ——?’ She hesitated, and then
replied faintly, ‘No.’ This was a mere trick to mislead; one of the
profoundnesses of Satan, in which she is an adept. ‘But,’ she added
hastily, ‘she could make no more confidences.’ ‘Then,’ said I, ‘you have
something to communicate.’ ‘No; but she had once mentioned a thing of
the sort, which I had hinted to her mother, though it signified little.’
All this while I was in tortures. Every word, every half-denial, stabbed
me. ‘Had she any tie?’ ‘No, I have no tie?’ ‘You are not going to be
married soon?’ ‘I don’t intend ever to marry at all!’ ‘Can’t you be
friends with me as of old?’ ‘She could give no promises.’ ‘Would she
make her own terms?’ ‘She would make none.’—‘I was sadly afraid the
_little image_ was dethroned from her heart, as I had dashed it to the
ground the other night.’—‘She was neither desperate nor violent.’ I did
not answer—‘But deliberate and deadly,’—though I might; and so she
vanished in this running fight of question and answer, in spite of my
vain efforts to detain her. The cockatrice, I said, mocks me: so she has
always done. The thought was a dagger to me. My head reeled, my heart
recoiled within me. I was stung with scorpions; my flesh crawled; I was
choked with rage; her scorn scorched me like flames; her air (her
heavenly air) withdrawn from me, stifled me, and left me gasping for
breath and being. It was a fable. She started up in her own likeness, a
serpent in place of a woman. She had fascinated, she had stung me, and
had returned to her proper shape, gliding from me after inflicting the
mortal wound, and instilling deadly poison into every pore; but her form
lost none of its original brightness by the change of character, but was
all glittering, beauteous, voluptuous grace. Seed of the serpent or of
the woman, she was divine! I felt that she was a witch, and had
bewitched me. Fate had enclosed me round about. _I_ was transformed too,
no longer human (any more than she, to whom I had knit myself) my
feelings were marble; my blood was of molten lead; my thoughts on fire.
I was taken out of myself, wrapt into another sphere, far from the light
of day, of hope, of love. I had no natural affection left; she had slain
me, but no other thing had power over me. Her arms embraced another; but
her mock-embrace, the phantom of her love, still bound me, and I had not
a wish to escape. So I felt then, and so perhaps shall feel till I grow
old and die, nor have any desire that my years should last longer than
they are linked in the chain of those amorous folds, or than her
enchantments steep my soul in oblivion of all other things! I started to
find myself alone—for ever alone, without a creature to love me. I
looked round the room for help; I saw the tables, the chairs, the places
where she stood or sat, empty, deserted, dead. I could not stay where I
was; I had no one to go to but to the parent-mischief, the preternatural
hag, that had ‘drugged this posset’ of her daughter’s charms and
falsehood for me, and I went down and (such was my weakness and
helplessness) sat with her for an hour, and talked with her of her
daughter, and the sweet days we had passed together, and said I thought
her a good girl, and believed that if there was no rival, she still had
a regard for me at the bottom of her heart; and how I liked her all the
better for her coy, maiden airs: and I received the assurance over and
over that there was no one else; and that Sarah (they all knew) never
staid five minutes with any other lodger, while with me she would stay
by the hour together, in spite of all her father could say to her (what
were her motives, was best known to herself!) and while we were talking
of her, she came bounding into the room, smiling with smothered delight
at the consummation of my folly and her own art; and I asked her mother
whether she thought she looked as if she hated me, and I took her
wrinkled, withered, cadaverous, clammy hand at parting, and kissed it.
Faugh!—

I will make an end of this story; there is something in it discordant to
honest ears. I left the house the next day, and returned to Scotland in
a state so near to phrenzy, that I take it the shades sometimes ran into
one another. R—— met me the day after I arrived, and will tell you the
way I was in. I was like a person in a high fever; only mine was in the
mind instead of the body. It had the same irritating, uncomfortable
effect on the bye-standers. I was incapable of any application, and
don’t know what I should have done, had it not been for the kindness of
——. I came to see you, to ‘bestow some of my tediousness upon you,’ but
you were gone from home. Everything went on well as to the law business;
and as it approached to a conclusion, I wrote to my good friend P—— to
go to M——, who had married her sister, and ask him if it would be worth
my while to make her a formal offer, as soon as I was free, as, with the
least encouragement, I was ready to throw myself at her feet; and to
know, in case of refusal, whether I might go back there and be treated
as an old friend. Not a word of answer could be got from her on either
point, notwithstanding every importunity and intreaty; but it was the
opinion of M—— that I might go and try my fortune. I did so with joy,
with something like confidence. I thought her giving no positive answer
implied a chance, at least, of the reversion of her favour, in case I
behaved well. All was false, hollow, insidious. The first night after I
got home, I slept on down. In Scotland, the flint had been my pillow.
But now I slept under the same roof with her. What softness, what balmy
repose in the very thought! I saw her that same day and shook hands with
her, and told her how glad I was to see her; and she was kind and
comfortable, though still cold and distant. Her manner was altered from
what it was the last time. She still absented herself from the room, but
was mild and affable when she did come. She was pale, dejected,
evidently uneasy about something, and had been ill. I thought it was
perhaps her reluctance to yield to my wishes, her pity for what I
suffered; and that in the struggle between both, she did not know what
to do. How I worshipped her at these moments! We had a long interview
the third day, and I thought all was doing well. I found her sitting at
work in the window-seat of the front parlour; and on my asking if I
might come in, she made no objection. I sat down by her; she let me take
her hand; I talked to her of indifferent things, and of old times. I
asked her if she would put some new frills on my shirts?—‘With the
greatest pleasure.’ If she could get _the little image_ mended? ‘It was
broken in three pieces, and the sword was gone, but she would try.’ I
then asked her to make up a plaid silk which I had given her in the
winter, and which she said would make a pretty summer gown. I so longed
to see her in it!—‘She had little time to spare, but perhaps might!’
Think what I felt, talking peaceably, kindly, tenderly with my love,—not
passionately, not violently. I tried to take pattern by her patient
meekness, as I thought it, and to subdue my desires to her will. I then
sued to her, but respectfully, to be admitted to her friendship—she must
know I was as true a friend as ever woman had—or if there was a bar to
our intimacy from a dearer attachment, to let me know it frankly, as I
shewed her all my heart. She drew out her handkerchief and wiped her
eyes ‘of tears which sacred pity had engendered there.’ Was it so or
not? I cannot tell. But so she stood (while I pleaded my cause to her
with all the earnestness, and fondness in the world) with the tears
trickling from her eye-lashes, her head stooping, her attitude fixed,
with the finest expression that ever was seen of mixed regret, pity, and
stubborn resolution; but without speaking a word, without altering a
feature. It was like a petrifaction of a human face in the softest
moment of passion. ‘Ah!’ I said, ‘how you look! I have prayed again and
again while I was away from you, in the agony of my spirit, that I might
but live to see you look so again, and then breathe my last!’ I
intreated her to give me some explanation. In vain! At length she said
she must go, and disappeared like a spirit. That week she did all the
little trifling favours I had asked of her. The frills were put on, and
she sent up to know if I wanted any more done. She got the Buonaparte
mended. This was like healing old wounds indeed! How? As follows, for
thereby hangs the conclusion of my tale. Listen.

I had sent a message one evening to speak to her about some special
affairs of the house, and received no answer. I waited an hour expecting
her, and then went out in great vexation at my disappointment. I
complained to her mother a day or two after, saying I thought it so
unlike Sarah’s usual propriety of behaviour, that she must mean it as a
mark of disrespect. Mrs. L—— said, ‘La! Sir, you’re always fancying
things. Why, she was dressing to go out, and she was only going to get
the little image you’re both so fond of mended; and it’s to be done this
evening. She has been to two or three places to see about it, before she
could get anyone to undertake it.’ My heart, my poor fond heart, almost
melted within me at this news. I answered, ‘Ah! Madam, that’s always the
way with the dear creature. I am finding fault with her and thinking the
hardest things of her; and at that very time she’s doing something to
shew the most delicate attention, and that she has no greater
satisfaction than in gratifying my wishes!’ On this we had some farther
talk, and I took nearly the whole of the lodgings at a hundred guineas a
year, that (as I said) she might have a little leisure to sit at her
needle of an evening, or to read if she chose, or to walk out when it
was fine. She was not in good health, and it would do her good to be
less confined. I would be the drudge and she should no longer be the
slave. I asked nothing in return. To see her happy, to make her so, was
to be so myself.—This was agreed to. I went over to Blackheath that
evening, delighted as I could be after all I had suffered, and lay the
whole of the next morning on the heath under the open sky, dreaming of
my earthly Goddess. This was Sunday. That evening I returned, for I
could hardly bear to be for a moment out of the house where she was, and
the next morning she tapped at the door—it was opened—it was she—she
hesitated and then came forward: she had got the little image in her
hand, I took it, and blest her from my heart. She said ‘They had been
obliged to put some new pieces to it.’ I said ‘I didn’t care how it was
done, so that I had it restored to me safe, and by her.’ I thanked her
and begged to shake hands with her. She did so, and as I held the only
hand in the world that I never wished to let go, I looked up in her
face, and said ‘Have pity on me, have pity on me, and save me if you
can!’ Not a word of answer, but she looked full in my eyes, as much as
to say, ‘Well, I’ll think of it; and if I can, I will save you!’ We
talked about the expense of repairing the figure. ‘Was the man
waiting?’—‘No, she had fetched it on Saturday evening.’ I said I’d give
her the money in the course of the day, and then shook hands with her
again in token of reconciliation; and she went waving out of the room,
but at the door turned round and looked full at me, as she did the first
time she beguiled me of my heart. This was the last.—

All that day I longed to go down stairs to ask her and her mother to set
out with me for Scotland on Wednesday, and on Saturday I would make her
my wife. Something withheld me. In the evening, however, I could not
rest without seeing her, and I said to her younger sister, ‘Betsey, if
Sarah will come up now, I’ll pay her what she laid out for me the other
day.’—‘My sister’s gone out, Sir,’ was the answer. What again! thought
I, That’s somewhat sudden. I told P—— her sitting in the window-seat of
the front parlour boded me no good. It was not in her old character. She
did not use to know there were doors or windows in the house—and now she
goes out three times in a week. It is to meet some one, I’ll lay my life
on’t. ‘Where is she gone?’—‘To my grandmother’s, Sir.’ ‘Where does your
grandmother live now?’—‘At Somers’ Town.’ I immediately set out to
Somers’ Town. I passed one or two streets, and at last turned up King
Street, thinking it most likely she would return that way home. I passed
a house in King Street where I had once lived, and had not proceeded
many paces, ruminating on chance and change and old times, when I saw
her coming towards me. I felt a strange pang at the sight, but I thought
her alone. Some people before me moved on, and I saw another person with
her. _The murder was out._ It was a tall, rather well-looking young man,
but I did not at first recollect him. We passed at the crossing of the
street without speaking. Will you believe it, after all that had past
between us for two years, after what had passed in the last half-year,
after what had passed that very morning, she went by me without even
changing countenance, without expressing the slightest emotion, without
betraying either shame or pity or remorse or any other feeling that any
other human being but herself must have shewn in the same situation. She
had no time to prepare for acting a part, to suppress her feelings—the
truth is, she has not one natural feeling in her bosom to suppress. I
turned and looked—they also turned and looked—and as if by mutual
consent, we both retrod our steps and passed again, in the same way. I
went home. I was stifled. I could not stay in the house, walked into the
street and met them coming towards home. As soon as he had left her at
the door (I fancy she had prevailed with him to accompany her, dreading
some violence) I returned, went up stairs, and requested an interview.
Tell her, I said, I’m in excellent temper and good spirits, but I must
see her! She came smiling, and I said ‘Come in, my dear girl, and sit
down, and tell me all about it, how it is and who it is.’—‘What,’ she
said, ‘do you mean Mr C——?’ ‘Oh,’ said I, ‘Then it is he! Ah! you rogue,
I always suspected there was something between you, but you know you
denied it lustily: why did you not tell me all about it at the time,
instead of letting me suffer as I have done? But, however, no
reproaches. I only wish it may all end happily and honourably for you,
and I am satisfied. But,’ I said, ‘you know you used to tell me, you
despised looks.’—‘She didn’t think Mr C—— was so particularly handsome.’
‘No, but he’s very well to pass, and a well-grown youth into the
bargain.’ Pshaw! let me put an end to the fulsome detail. I found he had
lived over the way, that he had been lured thence, no doubt, almost a
year before, that they had first spoken in the street, and that he had
never once hinted at marriage, and had gone away, because (as he said)
they were too much together, and that it was better for her to meet him
occasionally out of doors. ‘There could be no harm in them walking
together.’ ‘No, but you may go some where afterwards.’—‘One must trust
to one’s principle for that.’ Consummate hypocrite! * * * * * * I told
her Mr M——, who had married her sister, did not wish to leave the house.
I, who would have married her, did not wish to leave it. I told her I
hoped I should not live to see her come to shame, after all my love of
her; but put her on her guard as well as I could, and said, after the
lengths she had permitted herself with me, I could not help being
alarmed at the influence of one over her, whom she could hardly herself
suppose to have a tenth part of my esteem for her!! She made no answer
to this, but thanked me coldly for my good advice, and rose to go. I
begged her to sit a few minutes, that I might try to recollect if there
was anything else I wished to say to her, perhaps for the last time; and
then, not finding anything, I bade her good night, and asked for a
farewell kiss. Do you know she refused; so little does she understand
what is due to friendship, or love, or honour! We parted friends,
however, and I felt deep grief, but no enmity against her. I thought C——
had pressed his suit after I went, and had prevailed. There was no harm
in that—a little fickleness or so, a little over-pretension to
unalterable attachment—but that was all. She liked him better than me—it
was my hard hap, but I must bear it. I went out to roam the desert
streets, when, turning a corner, whom should I meet but her very lover?
I went up to him and asked for a few minutes’ conversation on a subject
that was highly interesting to me and I believed not indifferent to him:
and in the course of four hours’ talk, it came out that for three months
previous to my quitting London for Scotland, she had been playing the
same game with him as with me—that he breakfasted first, and enjoyed an
hour of her society, and then I took my turn, so that we never jostled;
and this explained why, when he came back sometimes and passed my door,
as she was sitting in my lap, she coloured violently, thinking if her
lover looked in, what a _denouement_ there would be. He could not help
again and again expressing his astonishment at finding that our intimacy
had continued unimpaired up to so late a period after he came, and when
they were on the most intimate footing. She used to deny positively to
him that there was anything between us, just as she used to assure me
with impenetrable effrontery that ‘Mr C—— was nothing to her, but merely
a lodger.’ All this while she kept up the farce of her romantic
attachment to her old lover, vowed that she never could alter in that
respect, let me go to Scotland on the solemn and repeated assurance that
there was no new flame, that there was no bar between us but this
shadowy love—I leave her on this understanding, she becomes more fond or
more intimate with her new lover; he quitting the house (whether tired
out or not, I can’t say)—in revenge she ceases to write to me, keeps me
in wretched suspense, treats me like something loathsome to her when I
return to enquire the cause, denies it with scorn and impudence,
destroys me and shews no pity, no desire to soothe or shorten the pangs
she has occasioned by her wantonness and hypocrisy, and wishes to linger
the affair on to the last moment, going out to keep an appointment with
another while she pretends to be obliging me in the tenderest point
(which C—— himself said was too much).... What do you think of all this?
Shall I tell you my opinion? But I must try to do it in another letter.

TO THE SAME

(_in conclusion_).

I did not sleep a wink all that night; nor did I know till the next day
the full meaning of what had happened to me. With the morning’s light,
conviction glared in upon me that I had not only lost her for ever—but
every feeling I had ever had towards her—respect, tenderness, pity—all
but my fatal passion, was gone. The whole was a mockery, a frightful
illusion. I had embraced the false Florimel instead of the true; or was
like the man in the Arabian Nights who had married a _goul_. How
different was the idea I once had of her? Was this she,

—‘Who had been beguiled—she who was made
Within a gentle bosom to be laid—
To bless and to be blessed—to be heart-bare
To one who found his bettered likeness there—
To think for ever with him, like a bride—
To haunt his eye, like taste personified—
To double his delight, to share his sorrow,
And like a morning beam, wake to him every morrow?’

I saw her pale, cold form glide silent by me, dead to shame as to pity.
Still I seemed to clasp this piece of witchcraft to my bosom; this
lifeless image, which was all that was left of my love, was the only
thing to which my sad heart clung. Were she dead, should I not wish to
gaze once more upon her pallid features? She is dead to me; but what she
once was to me, can never die! The agony, the conflict of hope and fear,
of adoration and jealousy is over; or it would, ere long, have ended
with my life. I am no more lifted now to Heaven, and then plunged in the
abyss; but I seem to have been thrown from the top of a precipice, and
to lie groveling, stunned, and stupefied. I am melancholy, lonesome, and
weaker than a child. The worst is, I have no prospect of any alteration
for the better: she has cut off all possibility of a reconcilement at
any future period. Were she even to return to her former pretended
fondness and endearments, I could have no pleasure, no confidence in
them. I can scarce make out the contradiction to myself. I strive to
think she always was what I now know she is; but I have great difficulty
in it, and can hardly believe but she still _is_ what she so long
_seemed_. Poor thing! I am afraid she is little better off herself; nor
do I see what is to become of her, unless she throws off the mask at
once, and _runs a-muck_ at infamy. She is exposed and laid bare to all
those whose opinion she set a value upon. Yet she held her head very
high, and must feel (if she feels any thing) proportionably mortified.—A
more complete experiment on character was never made. If I had not met
her lover immediately after I parted with her, it would have been
nothing. I might have supposed she had changed her mind in my absence,
and had given him the preference as soon as she felt it, and even shewn
her delicacy in declining any farther intimacy with me. But it comes out
that she had gone on in the most forward and familiar way with both at
once—(she could not change her mind in passing from one room to
another)—told both the same barefaced and unblushing falsehoods, like
the commonest creature; received presents from me to the very last, and
wished to keep up the game still longer, either to gratify her humour,
her avarice, or her vanity in playing with my passion, or to have me as
a _dernier resort_, in case of accidents. Again, it would have been
nothing, if she had not come up with her demure, well-composed,
wheedling looks that morning, and then met me in the evening in a
situation, which (she believed) might kill me on the spot, with no more
feeling than a common courtesan shews, who _bilks_ a customer, and
passes him, leering up at her bully, the moment after. If there had been
the frailty of passion, it would have been excusable; but it is evident
she is a practised, callous jilt, a regular lodging-house decoy, played
off by her mother upon the lodgers, one after another, applying them to
her different purposes, laughing at them in turns, and herself the
probable dupe and victim of some favourite gallant in the end. I know
all this; but what do I gain by it, unless I could find some one with
her shape and air, to supply the place of the lovely apparition? That a
professed wanton should come and sit on a man’s knee, and put her arms
round his neck, and caress him, and seem fond of him, means nothing,
proves nothing, no one concludes anything from it; but that a pretty,
reserved, modest, delicate-looking girl should do this, from the first
hour to the last of your being in the house, without intending anything
by it, is new, and, I think, worth explaining. It was, I confess, out of
my calculation, and may be out of that of others. Her unmoved
indifference and self-possession all the while, shew that it is her
constant practice. Her look even, if closely examined, bears this
interpretation. It is that of studied hypocrisy or startled guilt,
rather than of refined sensibility or conscious innocence. ‘She defied
anyone to read her thoughts?’ she once told me. ‘Do they then require
concealing?’ I imprudently asked her. The command over herself is
surprising. She never once betrays herself by any momentary
forgetfulness, by any appearance of triumph or superiority to the person
who is her dupe, by any levity of manner in the plenitude of her
success; it is one faultless, undeviating, consistent, consummate piece
of acting. Were she a saint on earth, she could not seem more like one.
Her hypocritical high-flown pretensions, indeed, make her the worse: but
still the ascendancy of her will, her determined perseverance in what
she undertakes to do, has something admirable in it, approaching to the
heroic. She is certainly an extraordinary girl! Her retired manner, and
invariable propriety of behaviour made me think it next to impossible
she could grant the same favours indiscriminately to every one that she
did to me. Yet this now appears to be the fact. She must have done the
very same with C——, invited him into the house to carry on a closer
intrigue with her, and then commenced the double game with both
together. She always ‘despised looks.’ This was a favourite phrase with
her, and one of the hooks which she baited for me. Nothing could win her
but a man’s behaviour and sentiments. Besides, she could never like
another—she was a martyr to disappointed affection—and friendship was
all she could even extend to any other man. All the time, she was making
signals, playing off her pretty person, and having occasional interviews
in the street with this very man, whom she could only have taken so
sudden and violent a liking to from his looks, his personal appearance,
and what she probably conjectured of his circumstances. Her sister had
married a counsellor—the Miss F——’s, who kept the house before, had done
so too—and so would she. ‘There was a precedent for it.’ Yet if she was
so desperately enamoured of this new acquaintance, if he had displaced
_the little image_ from her breast, if he was become her _second_
‘unalterable attachment’ (which I would have given my life to have been)
why continue the same unwarrantable familiarities with me to the last,
and promise that they should be renewed on my return (if I had not
unfortunately stumbled upon the truth to her aunt) and yet keep up the
same refined cant about her old attachment all the time, as if it was
that which stood in the way of my pretensions, and not her faithlessness
to it? ‘If one swerves from one, one shall swerve from another’—was her
excuse for not returning my regard. Yet that which I thought a prophecy,
was I suspect a history. She had swerved twice from her vowed
engagements, first to me, and then from me to another. If she made a
fool of me, what did she make of her lover? I fancy he has put that
question to himself. I said nothing to him about the amount of the
presents; which is another damning circumstance, that might have opened
my eyes long before; but they were shut by my fond affection, which
‘turned all to favour and to prettiness.’ She cannot be supposed to have
kept up an appearance of old regard to me, from a fear of hurting my
feelings by her desertion; for she not only shewed herself indifferent
to, but evidently triumphed in my sufferings, and heaped every kind of
insult and indignity upon them. I must have incurred her contempt and
resentment by my mistaken delicacy at different times; and her manner,
when I have hinted at becoming a reformed man in this respect, convinces
me of it. ‘She hated it!’ She always hated whatever she liked most. She
‘hated Mr C——’s red slippers,’ when he first came! One more count
finishes the indictment. She not only discovered the most hardened
indifference to the feelings of others; she has not shewn the least
regard to her own character, or shame when she was detected. When found
out, she seemed to say, ‘Well, what if I am? I have played the game as
long as I could; and if I could keep it up no longer, it was not for
want of good will!’ Her colouring once or twice is the only sign of
grace she has exhibited. Such is the creature on whom I had thrown away
my heart and soul—one who was incapable of feeling the commonest
emotions of human nature, as they regarded herself or any one else. ‘She
had no feelings with respect to herself,’ she often said. She in fact
knows what she is, and recoils from the good opinion or sympathy of
others, which she feels to be founded on a deception; so that my
overweening opinion of her must have appeared like irony, or direct
insult. My seeing her in the street has gone a good way to satisfy me.
Her manner there explains her manner in-doors to be conscious and
overdone; and besides, she looks but indifferently. She is diminutive in
stature, and her measured step and timid air do not suit these public
airings. I am afraid she will soon grow common to my imagination, as
well as worthless in herself. Her image seems fast ‘going into the
wastes of time,’ like a weed that the wave bears farther and farther
from me. Alas! thou poor hapless weed, when I entirely lose sight of
thee, and for ever, no flower will ever bloom on earth to glad my heart
again!

THE END

CHARACTERISTICS
IN THE MANNER OF ROCHEFOUCAULD’S MAXIMS

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

This book was published anonymously in a 12mo vol. of 152 pages in 1823,
the title-page being as follows: ‘Characteristics: In the Manner of
Rochefoucault’s Maxims. London: Printed for W. Simpkin and R. Marshall,
Stationers’-Hall Court, Ludgate Street, 1823.’ Some of the unsold copies
were afterwards issued with a fresh undated title-page, and again in a
so-called second edition in 1837, with an introduction by R. H. Horne.
The title-page of this edition is as follows: ‘Characteristics: In the
Manner of Rochefoucault’s Maxims. By William Hazlitt. Second Edition.
With Introductory Remarks by the Editor of the “Monthly Repository.”
London: J. Templeman, 248 Regent Street and sold also by J. Miller, 404
Oxford Street, 1837.’ A later edition (1871), edited by Mr W. C.
Hazlitt, was published in Bohn’s Library in the volume containing _The
Round Table_ and _Characters of Shakespear’s Plays_. The first edition
is here reprinted.

PREFACE

The following work was suggested by a perusal of Rochefoucault’s Maxims
and Moral Reflections. I was so struck with the force and beauty of the
style and matter, that I felt an earnest ambition to embody some
occasional thoughts of my own in the same form. This was much easier
than to retain an equal degree of spirit. Having, however, succeeded
indifferently in a few, the work grew under my hands; and both the
novelty and agreeableness of the task impelled me forward. There is a
peculiar _stimulus_, and at the same time a freedom from all anxiety, in
this mode of writing. A thought must tell at once, or not at all. There
is no opportunity for considering how we shall make out an opinion by
labour and prolixity. An observation must be self-evident; or a reason
or illustration (if we give one) must be pithy and concise. Each Maxim
should contain the essence or ground-work of a separate Essay, but so
developed as of itself to suggest a whole train of reflections to the
reader; and it is equally necessary to avoid paradox or common-place.
The style also must be sententious and epigrammatic, with a certain
pointedness and involution of expression, so as to keep the thoughts
distinct, and to prevent them from running endlessly into one another.
Such are the conditions to which it seemed to me necessary to conform,
in order to insure anything like success to a work of this kind, or to
render the pleasure of the perusal equal to the difficulty of the
execution. There is only one point in which I dare even allude to a
comparison with Rochefoucault—_I have had no theory to maintain_; and
have endeavoured to set down each thought as it occurred to me, without
bias or prejudice of any sort.

CHARACTERISTICS

I. Of all virtues, magnanimity is the rarest. There are a hundred
persons of merit for one who willingly acknowledges it in another.

II. It is often harder to praise a friend than an enemy. By the last we
may acquire a reputation for candour; by the first we only seem to
discharge a debt, and are liable to a suspicion of partiality. Besides,
though familiarity may not breed contempt, it takes off the edge of
admiration; and the shining points of character are not those we chiefly
wish to dwell upon. Our habitual impression of any one is very different
from the light in which he would choose to appear before the public. We
think of him _as a friend_: we must forget that he is one, before we can
extol him to others.

III. To speak highly of one with whom we are intimate, is a species of
egotism. Our modesty as well as our jealousy teaches us caution on this
subject.

IV. What makes it so difficult to do justice to others is, that we are
hardly sensible of merit, unless it falls in with our own views and line
of pursuit; and where this is the case, it interferes with our own
pretensions. To be forward to praise others, implies either great
eminence, that can afford to part with applause; or great quickness of
discernment, with confidence in our own judgments; or great sincerity
and love of truth, getting the better of our self-love.

V. Many persons are so narrow in this respect, that they cannot bring
themselves to allow the most trifling merit in any one else. This is not
altogether ill-nature, but a meanness of spirit or want of confidence in
themselves, which is upset and kicks the beam, if the smallest particle
of praise is thrown into another’s scale. They are poor feeble insects
tottering along the road to fame, that are crushed by the shadow of
opposition, or stopped by a whisper of rivalship.

VI. There are persons, not only whose praise, but whose very names we
cannot bear to hear.

VII. There are people who cannot praise a friend for the life of them.
With every effort and all the good-will in the world, they shrink from
the task through a want of mental courage; as some people shudder at
plunging into a cold-bath from weak nerves.

VIII. Others praise you behind your back, who will not, on any account,
do so to your face. Is it that they are afraid of being taken for
flatterers?—Or that they had rather any one else should know they think
well of you than yourself;—as a rival is the last person we should wish
to hear the favourable opinion of a mistress, because it gives him most
pleasure?

IX. To deny undoubted merit in others, is to deny its existence
altogether, and consequently our own. The example of illiberality we set
is easily turned against ourselves.

X. Magnanimity is often concealed under an appearance of shyness, and
even poverty of spirit. Heroes, according to Rousseau, are not known by
the loftiness of their carriage; as the greatest braggarts are generally
the merest cowards.

XI. Men of the greatest genius are not always the most prodigal of their
encomiums. But then it is when their range of power is confined, and
they have in fact little perception, except of their own particular kind
of excellence.

XII. Popularity disarms envy in well-disposed minds. Those are ever the
most ready to do justice to others, who feel that the world has done
them justice. When success has not this effect in opening the mind, it
is a sign that it has been ill-deserved.

XIII. Some people tell us all the harm—others as carefully conceal all
the good they hear of us.

XIV. It signifies little what we say of our acquaintance, so that we do
not tell them what others say against them. Tale-bearers make all the
real mischief.

XV. The silence of a friend commonly amounts to treachery. His not
daring to say anything in our behalf implies a tacit censure.

XVI. It is hard to praise those who are dispraised by others. He is
little short of a hero, who perseveres in thinking well of a friend who
has become a butt for slander, and a bye-word.

XVII. However we may flatter ourselves to the contrary, our friends
think no higher of us than the world do. They see us with the jaundiced
or distrustful eyes of others. They may know better, but their feelings
are governed by popular prejudice. Nay, they are more shy of us (when
under a cloud) than even strangers; for we involve them in a common
disgrace, or compel them to embroil themselves in continual quarrels and
disputes in our defence.

XVIII. We find those who are officious and troublesome through sheer
imbecility of character. They can neither resolve to do a thing, nor to
let it alone; and, by getting in the way, hinder where perhaps they
meant to help. To _volunteer_ a service and shrink from the performance,
is to prevent others from undertaking it.

XIX. Envy, among other ingredients, has a mixture of the love of justice
in it. We are more angry at undeserved than at deserved good-fortune.

XX. We admit the merit of some, much less willingly than that of others.
This is because there is something about them, that is at variance with
their boasted pretensions, either a heaviness importing stupidity, or a
levity inferring folly, &c.

XXI. The assumption of merit is easier, less embarrassing, and more
effectual than the positive attainment of it.

XXII. Envy is the most universal passion. We only pride ourselves on the
qualities we possess or think we possess; but we envy the pretensions we
have, and those which we have not, and do not even wish for. We envy the
greatest qualities and every trifling advantage. We envy the most
ridiculous appearance or affectation of superiority. We envy folly and
conceit: nay, we go so far as to envy whatever confers distinction or
notoriety, even vice and infamy.

XXIII. Envy is a littleness of soul, which cannot see beyond a certain
point, and if it does not occupy the whole space, feels itself excluded.

XXIV. Or, it often arises from weakness of judgment. We cannot make up
our minds to admit the soundness of certain pretensions; and therefore
hate the appearance, where we are doubtful about the reality. We
consider every such tax on our applause as a kind of imposition or
injustice; so that the withholding our assent is from a fear of being
tricked out of our good opinion under false pretences. This is the
reason why sudden or upstart advantages are always an object of such
extreme jealousy, and even of contempt; and why we so readily bow to the
claims of posthumous and long-established reputation. The last is the
sterling coin of merit, which we no longer question or cavil at. The
other, we think, may be tinsel; and we are unwilling to give our
admiration in exchange for a bauble. It is not that the candidates for
it in the one case are removed out of our way, and make a diversion to
the more immediate claims of our contemporaries; but that their own are
so clear and universally acknowledged, that they come home to our
feelings and bosoms with their full weight, without any drawbacks of
doubt in our own minds, or objection on the part of others. If our envy
were intrinsically and merely a hatred of excellence and of the
approbation due to it, we should hate it the more, the more
distinguished and unequivocal it was. On the other hand, our faith in
standard reputation is a kind of religion; and our admiration of it,
instead of a cold servile offering, an enthusiastic homage. There are
people who would attempt to persuade us that we read Homer or Milton
with pleasure, only to _spite_ some living poet. With them, all our best
actions are hypocrisy; and our best feelings, affectation.

XXV. The secret of our self-love is just the same as that of our
liberality and candour. We prefer ourselves to others, only because we
have a more intimate consciousness and confirmed opinion of our own
claims and merits than of any other person’s.

XXVI. It argues a poor opinion of ourselves, when we cannot admit any
other class of merit besides our own, or any rival in that class.

XXVII. Those who are the most distrustful of themselves, are the most
envious of others; as the most weak and cowardly are the most
revengeful.

XXVIII. Some persons of great talents and celebrity have been remarkable
for narrowness of mind and an impatience of everything like competition.
Garrick and other public favourites might be mentioned as instances.
This may perhaps be accounted for, either from an undue and intoxicating
share of applause, so that they became jealous of popularity, as of a
mistress; or from a want of other resources, so as to be unable to
repose on themselves without the constant stimulus of incense offered to
their vanity.

XXIX. We are more jealous of frivolous accomplishments with brilliant
success, than of the most estimable qualities without it. Dr. Johnson
envied Garrick whom he despised, and ridiculed Goldsmith whom he loved.

XXX. Persons of slender intellectual _stamina_ dread competition, as
dwarfs are afraid of being run over in the street. Yet vanity often
prompts them to hazard the experiment, as women through foolhardiness
rush into a crowd.

XXXI. We envy others for any trifling addition to their acknowledged
merit, more than for the sum-total, much as we object to pay an addition
to a bill, or grudge an acquaintance an unexpected piece of good
fortune. This happens, either because such an accession of
accomplishment is like stealing a march upon us, and implies a
versatility of talent we had not reckoned upon; or it seems an
impertinence and affectation for a man to go out of his way to
distinguish himself; or it is because we cannot account for his
proficiency mechanically and as a thing of course, by saying _It is his
trade!_ In like manner, we plume ourselves most on excelling in what we
are not bound to do, and are most flattered by the admission of our most
questionable pretensions. We nurse the ricketty child, and want to have
our faults and weak sides pampered into virtues. We feel little obliged
to any one for owning the merit we are known to have—it is an old
story—but we are mightily pleased to be complimented on some fancy we
set up for—it is _a feather in our cap_, a new conquest, an extension of
our sense of power. A man of talent aspires to a reputation for personal
address or advantages. Sir Robert Walpole wished to pass for a man of
gallantry, for which he was totally unfit. A woman of sense would be
thought a beauty, a beauty a great wit, and so on.

XXXII. Some there are who can only find out in us those good qualities
which nobody else has discovered: as there are others who make a point
of crying up our deserts, after all the rest of the world have agreed to
do so. The first are patrons, not friends: the last are not friends, but
sycophants.

XXXIII. A distinction has been made between acuteness and subtlety of
understanding. This might be illustrated by saying, that acuteness
consists in taking up the points or solid atoms, subtlety in feeling the
_air_ of truth.

XXXIV. Hope is the best possession. None are completely wretched but
those who are without hope; and few are reduced so low as that.

XXXV. Death is the greatest evil; because it cuts off hope.

XXXVI. While we desire, we do not enjoy; and with enjoyment desire
ceases, which should lend its strongest zest to it. This, however, does
not apply to the gratification of sense, but to the passions, in which
distance and difficulty have a principal share.

XXXVII. To deserve any blessing is to set a just value on it. The pains
we take in its pursuit are only a consequence of this.

XXXVIII. The wish is often ‘father to the thought’: but we are quite as
apt to believe what we dread as what we hope.

XXXIX. The amiable is the voluptuous in expression or manner. The sense
of pleasure in ourselves is that which excites it in others; or, the art
of pleasing is to seem pleased.

XL. Let a man’s talents or virtues be what they may, we only feel
satisfaction in his society, as he is satisfied in himself. We cannot
enjoy the good qualities of a friend, if he seems to be none the better
for them.

XLI. We judge of others for the most part by their good opinion of
themselves: yet nothing gives such offence or creates so many enemies as
that extreme self-complacency or superciliousness of manner, which
appears to set the opinion of every one else at defiance.

XLII. Self-sufficiency is more provoking than rudeness or the most
unqualified or violent opposition, inasmuch as the latter may be
retorted, and implies that we are worth notice; whereas the former
strikes at the root of our self-importance, and reminds us that even our
good opinion is not worth having. Nothing precludes sympathy so much as
a perfect indifference to it.

XLIII. The confession of our failings is a thankless office. It savours
less of sincerity or modesty than of ostentation. It seems as if we
thought our weaknesses as good as other people’s virtues.

XLIV. A coxcomb is generally a favorite with women. To a certain point
_his_ self-complacency is agreeable in itself; and beyond that, even if
it grows fulsome, it only piques their vanity the more to make a
conquest of _his_. He becomes a sort of rival to them in his own good
opinion, so that his conceit has all the effect of jealousy in
irritating their desire to withdraw his admiration from himself.

XLV. Nothing is more successful with women than that sort of
condescending patronage of the sex, which goes by the general name of
gallantry. It has the double advantage of imposing on their weakness and
flattering their pride. By being indiscriminate, it tantalizes and keeps
them in suspense; and by making a profession of an extreme deference for
the sex in general, naturally suggests the reflection, what a delightful
thing must be to gain the exclusive regard of a man who has so high an
opinion of what is due to the female character. It is possible for a
man, by talking of what is _feminine_ or _unfeminine_, _vulgar_ or
_genteel_, by saying _how shocking such an article of dress is_, or that
_no lady ought to touch a particular kind of food_, fairly to starve or
strip a whole circle of simpletons half-naked, by mere dint of
impertinence, and an air of common-place assurance. How interesting to
be acquainted with a man whose every thought turns upon the sex! How
charming to make a conquest of one who sets up for a consummate judge of
female perfections!

XLVI. We like characters and actions which we do not approve. There are
amiable vices and obnoxious virtues, on the mere principle that our
sympathy with a person who yields to obvious temptations and agreeable
impulses (however prejudicial) is itself agreeable, while to sympathise
with exercises of self-denial or fortitude, is a painful effort. Virtue
costs the spectator, as well as the performer, something. We are touched
by the immediate motives of actions, we judge of them by the
consequences. We like a convivial character better than an abstemious
one, because the idea of conviviality in the first instance is
pleasanter than that of sobriety. For the same reason, we prefer
generosity to justice, because the imagination lends itself more easily
to an ebullition of feeling, than to the suppression of it on remote and
abstract principles; and we like a good-natured fool, or even knave
better than the severe professors of wisdom and morality. Cato, Brutus,
&c. are characters to admire and applaud, rather than to love or
imitate.

XLVII. Personal pretensions alone ensure female regard. It is not the
eye that sees whatever is sublime or beautiful in nature that the fair
delight to see gazing in silent rapture on themselves, but that which is
itself a pleasing object to the sense. I may look at a Claude or a
Raphael by turns, but this does not alter my own appearance; and it is
that which women attend to.

XLVIII. There are persons that we like, though they do not like us. This
happens very rarely; and, indeed it argues a strong presumption of merit
both in them and in ourselves. We fancy they only want to know us
better, to be convinced of the prize they would obtain in our
friendship. There are others, to whom no civilities or good offices on
their parts can reconcile us, from an original distaste: yet even this
repugnance would not, perhaps, be proof against time and custom.

XLIX. We may observe persons who seem to have a peculiar delight in the
_disagreeable_. They catch all sorts of uncouth tones and gestures, the
manners and dialect of clowns and hoydens, and aim at vulgarity as
others ape gentility. (This is what is often understood by a love of low
life.) They say all sorts of disagreeable things without meaning or
feeling what they say. What startles or shocks other people is to them
an amusing excitement, a fillip to their constitutions; and from the
bluntness of their perceptions and a certain wilfulness of spirit, not
being able to enter into the refined and pleasurable, they make a merit
of being insensible to everything of the kind. Masculine women, for
instance, are those who, not being possessed of the charms and delicacy
of the sex, affect a superiority over it by throwing aside all decorum.

L. We find another class who continually do and say what they ought not,
and what they do not intend; and who are governed almost entirely by an
instinct of absurdity. Owing to a perversity of imagination or
irritability of nerve, the idea that a thing is improper acts as a
mechanical inducement to do it; the fear of committing a blunder is so
strong, that they _bolt_ out whatever is uppermost in their minds,
before they are aware of it. The dread of some object haunts and rivets
attention to it; and a continual, uneasy, morbid apprehensiveness of
temper takes away their self-possession, and hurries them into the very
mistakes they wish to avoid.

LI. There are few people quite above, or completely below _par_.

LII. Society is a more level surface than we imagine. Wise men or
absolute fools are hard to be met with, as there are few giants or
dwarfs. The heaviest charge we can bring against the general texture of
society is, that it is commonplace; and many of those who are singular,
had better be commonplace. Our fancied superiority to others is in some
one thing, which we think most of, because we excel in it, or have paid
most attention to it; whilst we overlook their superiority to us in
something else, which they set equal and exclusive store by. This is
fortunate for all parties. I never felt myself superior to any one, who
did not go out of his way to affect qualities which he had not. In his
own individual character and line of pursuit, every one has knowledge,
experience, and skill:—and who shall say which pursuit requires most,
thereby proving his own narrowness and incompetence to decide?
Particular talent or genius does not imply general capacity. Those who
are most versatile are seldom great in any one department: and the
stupidest people can generally do something. The highest pre-eminence in
any one study commonly arises from the concentration of the attention
and faculties on that one study. He who expects from a great name in
politics, in philosophy, in art, equal greatness in other things, is
little versed in human nature. Our strength lies in our weakness. The
learned in books is ignorant of the world. He who is ignorant of books
is often well acquainted with other things: for life is of the same
length in the learned and the unlearned; the mind cannot be idle; if it
is not taken up with one thing, it attends to another through choice or
necessity; and the degree of previous capacity in one class or another
is a mere lottery.

LIII. Some things, it is true, are more prominent, and lead to more
serious consequences than others, so as to excite a greater share of
attention and applause. Public characters, authors, warriors, statesmen,
&c. nearly monopolise public consideration in this way, and are apt to
judge of their merit by the noise they make in the world. Yet none of
these classes would be willing to make the rule absolute; for a
favourite player gains as much applause as any of them. A poet stands a
poor chance either of popularity with the vulgar, or influence with the
great, against a fashionable opera-dancer or singer. Reputation or
notoriety is not the stamp of merit. Certain professions, like certain
situations, bring it into greater notice, but have, perhaps, no more to
do with it than birth or fortune. Opportunity sometimes indeed ‘throws a
cruel sunshine on a fool.’ I have known several celebrated men, and some
of them have been persons of the weakest capacity; yet accident had
lifted them into general notice, and probably will hand their memories
down to posterity. There are names written in her immortal scroll at
which FAME blushes!

LIV. The world judge of men by their ability in their profession, and we
judge of ourselves by the same test; for it is that on which our success
in life depends. Yet how often do our talents and pursuits lie in
different directions! The best painters are not always the cleverest
men; and an author who makes an unfavourable or doubtful impression on
the public, may in himself be a person of rare and agreeable
qualifications. One cause of this is affectation. We constantly aim at
what we are least fit for, thwarting or despising our natural bent; so
that our performances and our characters are unaccountably at variance.

LV. If a man is disliked by one woman, he will succeed with none. The
sex (one and all) have the same secret, or _freemasonry_, in judging of
men.

LVI. Any woman may act the part of a coquet successfully, who has the
reputation without the scruples of modesty. If a woman passes the bounds
of propriety for our sakes, and throws herself unblushingly at our
heads, we conclude it is either from a sudden and violent liking, or
from extraordinary merit on our parts, either of which is enough to turn
any man’s head, who has a single spark of gallantry or vanity in his
composition.

LVII. The surest way to make ourselves agreeable to others is by seeming
to think them so. If we appear fully sensible of their good qualities,
they will not complain of the want of them in us.

LVIII. We often choose a friend as we do a mistress, for no particular
excellence in themselves, but merely from some circumstance that
flatters our self-love.

LIX. Silence is one great art of conversation. He is not a fool who
knows when to hold his tongue; and a person may gain credit for sense,
eloquence, wit, who merely says nothing to lessen the opinion which
others have of these qualities in themselves.

LX. There are few things in which we deceive ourselves more than in the
esteem we profess to entertain for our friends. It is little better than
a piece of quackery. The truth is, we think of them as we please—that
is, as _they_ please or displease us. As long as we are in good humour
with them, we see nothing but their good qualities; but no sooner do
they offend us than we rip up all their bad ones (which we before made a
secret of, even to ourselves) with double malice. He who but now was
little less than an angel of light shall be painted in the blackest
colours for a slip of the tongue, ‘some trick not worth an egg,’ for the
slightest suspicion of offence given or received. We often bestow the
most opprobrious epithets on our best friends, and retract them twenty
times in the course of a day, while the man himself remains the same. In
love, which is all rhapsody and passion, this is excusable; but in the
ordinary intercourse of life, it is preposterous.

LXI. A man who is always defending his friends from the most trifling
charges, will be apt to make other people their enemies.

LXII. There are those who see everything through a medium of enthusiasm
or prejudice; and who therefore think, that to admit any blemish in a
friend, is to compromise his character altogether. The instant you
destroy their heated exaggerations, they feel that they have no other
ground to stand upon.

LXIII. We are ridiculous enough in setting up for patterns of perfection
ourselves, without becoming answerable for that of others. It is best to
confine our absurdities at home.

LXIV. We do not like our friends the worse because they sometimes give
us an opportunity to rail at them heartily. Their faults reconcile us to
their virtues. Indeed, we never have much esteem or regard, except for
those that we can afford to speak our minds of freely; whose follies vex
us in proportion to our anxiety for their welfare, and who have plenty
of redeeming points about them to balance their defects. When we ‘spy
abuses’ of this kind, it is a wiser and more generous proceeding to give
vent to our impatience and ill-humour, than to brood over it, and let
it, by sinking into our minds, poison the very sources of our goodwill.

LXV. To come to an explanation with a friend is to do away half the
cause of offence; as to declare the grounds of our complaints and
chagrin to a third party, is tacitly to pass them over. Our not daring
to hint at the infirmities of a friend implies that we are ashamed to
own them, and that we can only hope to keep on good terms with him by
being blind to his real character.

LXVI. It is well that there is no one without a fault; for he would not
have a friend in the world. He would seem to belong to a different
species.

LXVII. Even among actors, painters, &c. those who are the most perfect,
are not always the most admired. It is those who strike by their
inequalities, and whose faults and excellences keep up a perpetual
warfare between the partizans on both sides, that are the most talked of
and produce the greatest effect. Nothing is prominent that does not act
as a foil to itself. Emery’s acting was without a fault. This was all
that was ever said about it. His merit was one of those things that
nobody insisted on, because it was taken for granted. Mr Kean agitates
and almost convulses the public mind by contrary extremes. It is a
question whether Raphael would have acquired so great a name, if his
colouring had been equal to his drawing or expression. As it is, his
figures stand out like a rock, severed from its base: while Correggio’s
are lost in their own beauty and sweetness. Whatever has not a mixture
of imperfection in it, soon grows insipid, or seems ‘stupidly good.’

LXVIII. I have known persons without a friend—never any one without some
virtue. The virtues of the former conspired with their vices to make the
whole world their enemies.

LXIX. The study of metaphysics has this advantage, at least—it promotes
a certain integrity and uprightness of understanding, which is a cure
for the spirit of lying. He who has devoted himself to the discovery of
truth feels neither pride nor pleasure in the invention of falsehood,
and cannot condescend to any such paltry expedient. If you find a person
given to vulgar shifts and rhodomontade, and who at the same time tells
you he is a metaphysician, do not believe him.

LXX. It is the mischief of the regular study of all art and science,
that it proportionably unfits a man for those pursuits or emergencies in
life, which require mere courage and promptitude. To any one who has
found how difficult it is to arrive at truth or beauty, with all the
pains and time he can bestow upon them, everything seems worthless that
can be obtained by a mere assumption of the question, or putting a good
face upon the matter. Let a man try to produce a fine picture, or to
solve an abstruse problem by giving himself airs of self-importance, and
see what he will make of it. But in the common intercourse of life, too
much depends on this sort of assurance and quackery. This is the reason
why scholars and other eminent men so often fail in what personally
concerns themselves. They cannot take advantage of the follies of
mankind; nor submit to arrive at the end they have in view by unworthy
means. Those who cannot make the progress of a single step in a
favourite study without infinite pains and preparation, scorn to carry
the world before them, or to win the good opinion of any individual in
it, by vapouring and impudence. Yet these last qualities often succeed
without an atom of true desert; and ‘fools rush in where angels fear to
tread.’ In nine cases out of ten, the mere sanguineness of our pursuit
ensures success; but the having tasked our faculties as much as they
will bear, does not tend to enhance our overweening opinion of
ourselves. The labours of the mind, like the drudgery of the body,
impair our animal spirits and alacrity. Those who have done nothing,
fancy themselves capable of everything: while those who have exerted
themselves to the utmost, only feel the limitation of their powers, and
evince neither admiration of themselves nor triumph over others. Their
work is still to do, and they have no time or disposition for _fooling_.
This is the reason why the greatest men have the least appearance of it.

LXXI. Persons who pique themselves on their understanding are frequently
reserved and haughty: persons who aim at wit are generally courteous and
sociable. Those who depend at every turn on the applause of the company,
must endeavour to conciliate the good opinion of others by every means
in their power.

‘A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear
Of him who hears it.’

If a habit of jesting lowers a man, it is to the level of humanity. Wit
nourishes vanity; reason has a much stronger tincture of pride in it.

LXXII. Satirists gain the applause of others through fear, not through
love.

LXXIII. Some persons can do nothing but ridicule others.

LXXIV. Parodists, like mimics, seize only on defects, or turn beauties
into blemishes. They make bad writers and indifferent actors.

LXXV. People of the greatest gaiety of manners are often the dullest
company imaginable. Nothing is so dreary as the serious conversation or
writing of a professed wag. So the gravest persons, divines,
mathematicians, and so on, make the worst and poorest jokes, puns, &c.

LXXVI. The expression of a Frenchman’s face is often as melancholy when
he is by himself, as it is lively in conversation. The instant he ceases
to talk, he becomes ‘quite chop-fallen.’

LXXVII. To point out defects, one would think it necessary to be equally
conversant with beauties. But this is not the case. The best
caricaturists cannot draw a common outline; nor the best comic actors
speak a line of serious poetry without being laughed at. This may be
perhaps accounted for in some degree by saying, that the perfection of
the ludicrous implies that looseness or disjointedness of mind, which
receives most delight and surprise from oddity and contrast, and which
is naturally opposed to the steadiness and unity of feeling required for
the serious, or the sublime and beautiful.

LXXVIII. Different persons have different limits to their capacity.
Thus, some excel in one profession generally, such as acting; others in
one department of it, as tragedy; others in one character only. Garrick
was equally great in tragedy and comedy; Mrs. Siddons only shone in
tragedy; Russell could play nothing but Jerry Sneak.[21]

LXXIX. Comic actors have generally attempted tragedy first, and have a
hankering after it to the last. It was the case with Weston, Shuter,
Munden, Bannister, and even Liston. _Prodigious!_ The mistake may
perhaps be traced to the imposing _eclat_ of tragedy, and the awe
produced by the utter incapacity of such persons to know what to make of
it.

LXXX. If we are not first, we may as well be last in any pursuit. To be
_worst_ is some kind of distinction, and implies, by the rule of
contrary, that we ought to excel in some opposite quality. Thus, if any
one has scarcely the use of his limbs, we may conceive it is from his
having exercised his mind too much. We suppose that an awkward boy at
school is a good scholar. So, if a man has a strong body, we compliment
him with a weak mind, and _vice versâ_.

LXXXI. There is a natural principle of _antithesis_ in the human mind.
We seldom grant one excellence but we hasten to make up for it by a
contrary defect, to keep the balance of criticism even. Thus we say,
_Titian was a great colourist, but did not know how to draw_. The first
is true: the last is a mere presumption from the first, like alternate
rhyme and reason; or a compromise with the weakness of human nature,
which soon tires of praise.

LXXXII. There is some reason for this cautious distribution of merit;
for it is not necessary for one man to possess more than one quality in
the highest perfection, since no one possesses all, and we are in the
end forced to collect the idea of perfection in art from a number of
different specimens. It is quite sufficient for any one person to do any
one thing better than everybody else. Anything beyond this is like an
impertinence. It was not necessary for Hogarth to paint his Sigismunda;
nor for Mrs. Siddons to abridge Paradise Lost.

LXXXIII. On the stage none but originals can be counted as anything. The
rest are ‘men of no mark or likelihood.’ They give us back the same
impression we had before, and make it worse instead of better.

LXXXIV. It was ridiculous to set up Mr Kean as a rival to Mr Kemble.
Whatever merits the first might have, they were of a totally different
class, and could not possibly interfere with, much less injure those of
his great predecessor. Mr Kemble stood on his own ground, and he stood
high on it. Yet there certainly was a _reaction_ in this case. Many
persons saw no defect in Mr Kemble till Mr Kean came, and then finding
themselves mistaken in the abstract idea of perfection they had indulged
in, were ready to give up their opinion altogether. When a man is a
great favourite with the public, they incline by a natural spirit of
exaggeration and love of the marvellous, to heap all sorts of
perfections upon him, and when they find by another’s excelling him in
some one thing that this is not the case, they are disposed to strip
their former idol, and leave him ‘bare to weather.’ Nothing is more
unjust or capricious than public opinion.

LXXXV. The public have neither shame nor gratitude.

LXXXVI. Public opinion is the mixed result of the intellect of the
community acting upon general feeling.

LXXXVII. Our friends are generally ready to do everything for us, except
the very thing we wish them to do. There is one thing in particular they
are always disposed to give us, and which we are as unwilling to take,
namely, _advice_.

LXXXVIII. Good-nature is often combined with ill temper. Our own
uncomfortable feelings teach us to sympathise with others, and to seek
relief from our own uneasiness in the satisfactions we can afford them.
Ill-nature combined with good temper is an unnatural and odious
character. Our delight in mischief and suffering, when we have no
provocation to it from being ill at ease ourselves, is wholly
unpardonable. Yet I have known one or two instances of this sort of
callous levity, and gay, laughing malignity. Such people ‘poison in
jest.’

LXXXIX. It is wonderful how soon men acquire talents for offices of
trust and importance. The higher the situation, the higher the opinion
it gives us of ourselves; and as is our confidence, so is our capacity.
We _assume_ an equality with circumstances.

XC. The difficulty is for a man to rise to high station, not to fill it;
as it is easier to stand on an eminence than to climb up to it. Yet he
alone is truly great who is so without the aid of circumstances and in
spite of fortune, who is as little lifted up by the tide of opinion, as
he is depressed by neglect or obscurity, and who borrows dignity only
from himself. It is a fine compliment which Pope has paid to Lord
Oxford—

‘A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,
Above all pain, all passion, and all pride;
The rage of power, the blast of public breath,
The lust of lucre, and the dread of death!’

XCI. The most silent people are generally those who think most highly of
themselves. They fancy themselves superior to every one else; and not
being sure of making good their secret pretensions, decline entering the
lists altogether. They thus ‘lay the flattering unction to their souls,’
that they could have said better things than others, or that the
conversation was beneath them.

XCII. There are writers who never do their best; lest if they should
fail, they should be left without excuse in their own opinion. While
they trifle with a subject, they feel superior to it. They will not take
pains, for this would be a test of what they are actually able to do,
and set a limit to their pretensions, while their vanity is unbounded.
The more you find fault with them, the more careless they grow, their
affected indifference keeping pace with and acting as a shield against
the disapprobation or contempt of others. They fancy whatever they
condescend to write must be good enough for the public.

XCIII. Authors who acquire a high celebrity and conceal themselves, seem
superior to fame. Producing great works _incognito_ is like doing good
by stealth. There is an air of magnanimity in it, which people wonder
at. Junius, and the author of Waverley are striking examples. Junius,
however, is really unknown; while the author of Waverley enjoys all the
credit of his writings without acknowledging them. Let any one else come
forward and claim them; and we should then see whether Sir Walter Scott
would stand idle by. It is a curious argument that he cannot be the
author, because the real author could not help making himself known;
when, if he is not so, the real author has never even been hinted at,
and lets another run away with all the praise.

XCIV. Some books have a _personal_ character. We are attached to the
work for the sake of the author. Thus we read WALTON’S ANGLER as we
should converse with an agreeable old man, not for what he says, so much
as for his manner of saying it, and the pleasure he takes in the
subject.

XCV. Some persons are exceedingly shocked at the cruelty of WALTON’S
ANGLER—as if the most humane could be expected to trouble themselves
about fixing a worm on a hook, at a time when they burnt men at a stake
‘in conscience and tender heart.’ We are not to measure the feelings of
one age by those of another. Had Walton lived in our day, he would have
been the first to cry out against the cruelty of angling. As it was, his
flies and baits were only a part of his tackle. _They_ had not, at this
period, the most distant idea of setting up as candidates for our
sympathy! Man is naturally a savage, and emerges from barbarism by slow
degrees. Let us take the streaks of light, and be thankful for them, as
they arise and tinge the horizon one by one, and not complain because
the noon is long after the dawn of refinement.

XCVI. Livery-servants (I confess it) are the only people I do not like
to sit in company with. They offend not only by their own meanness, but
by the ostentatious display of the pride of their masters.

XCVII. It has been observed, that the proudest people are not nice in
love. In fact, they think they raise the object of their choice above
every one else.

XCVIII. A proud man is satisfied with his own good opinion, and does not
seek to make converts to it. Pride erects a little kingdom of its own,
and acts as sovereign in it. Hence we see why some men are so proud they
cannot be affronted, like kings who have no peer or equal.

XCIX. The proudest people are as soon repulsed as the most humble. The
last are discouraged by the slightest objection or hint of their
conscious incapacity, while the first disdain to enter into any
competition, and resent whatever implies a doubt of their self-evident
superiority to others.

C. What passes in the world for talent or dexterity or enterprise, is
often only a want of moral principle. We may succeed where others fail,
not from a greater share of invention, but from not being nice in the
choice of expedients.

CI. Cunning is the art of concealing our own defects, and discovering
other people’s weaknesses. Or it is taking advantages of others which
they do not suspect, because they are contrary to propriety and the
settled practice. We feel no inferiority to a fellow who picks our
pockets; though we feel mortified at being over-reached by trick and
cunning. Yet there is no more reason for it in the one case than in the
other. Any one may win at cards by cheating—_till he is found out_. We
have been playing against odds. So any one may deceive us by lying, or
take an unfair advantage of us, who is not withheld by a sense of shame
or honesty from doing so.

CII. The completest hypocrites are so by nature. That is, they are
without sympathy with others to distract their attention—or any of that
nervous weakness, which might revolt or hesitate at the baseness of the
means necessary to carry on their system of deception. You can no more
tell what is passing in the minds of such people than if they were of a
different species. They, in fact, are so as to all moral intents and
purposes; and this is the advantage they have over you. You fancy there
is a common link between you, while in reality there is none.

CIII. The greatest hypocrites are the greatest dupes. This is either
because they think only of deceiving others and are off their guard, or
because they really know little about the feelings or characters of
others from their want of sympathy, and of consequent sagacity. Perhaps
the resorting to trick and artifice in the first instance implies not
only a callousness of feeling, but an obtuseness of intellect, which
cannot get on by fair means. Thus a girl who is ignorant and stupid may
yet have cunning enough to resort to silence as the only chance of
conveying an opinion of her capacity.

CIV. The greatest talents do not generally attain to the highest
stations. For though high, the ascent to them is narrow, beaten, and
crooked. The path of genius is free, and its own. Whatever requires the
concurrence and co-operation of others, must depend chiefly on routine
and an attention to rules and _minutiæ_. Success in business is
therefore seldom owing to uncommon talents or original power, which is
untractable and self-willed, but to the greatest degree of common-place
capacity.

CV. The error in the reasonings of Mandeville, Rochefoucault, and
others, is this: they first find out that there is something mixed in
the motives of all our actions, and they then proceed to argue, that
they must all arise from one motive, _viz._ self-love. They make the
exception the rule. It would be easy to reverse the argument, and prove
that our most selfish actions are disinterested. There is honour among
thieves. Robbers, murderers, &c. do not commit those actions, from a
pleasure in pure villainy, or for their own benefit only, but from a
mistaken regard to the welfare or good opinion of those with whom they
are immediately connected.

CVI. It is ridiculous to say, that compassion, friendship, &c. are at
bottom only selfishness in disguise, because it is _we_ who feel
pleasure or pain in the good or evil of others; for the meaning of
self-love is not that it is I who love, but that I love myself. The
motive is no more selfish because it is I who feel it, than the action
is selfish because it is I who perform it. To prove a man selfish, it is
not surely enough to say, that it is _he who feels_ (this is a mere
quibble) but to shew that he does not feel _for another_; that is, that
the idea of the suffering or welfare of others does not excite any
feeling whatever of pleasure or pain in his mind, except from some
reference to or reflection on himself. Self-love or the love of self
means, that I have an immediate interest in the contemplation of my own
good, and that this is a motive to action; and benevolence or the love
of others means in like manner, that I have an immediate interest in the
idea of the good or evil that may befall them, and a disposition to
assist them, in consequence. Self-love, in a word, is sympathy with
myself, that is, it is I who feel it, and I who am the object of it: in
benevolence or compassion, it is I who still feel sympathy, but another
(not myself) is the object of it. If I feel sympathy with others at all,
it must be disinterested. The pleasure it may give me is the
consequence, not the cause, of my feeling it. To insist that sympathy is
self-love because we cannot feel for others, without being ourselves
affected pleasurably or painfully, is to make nonsense of the question;
for it is to insist that in order to feel for others properly and truly,
we must in the first place feel nothing. _C’est une mauvaise
plaisanterie._ That the feeling exists in the individual must be
granted, and never admitted of a question: the only question is, how
that feeling is caused, and what is its object—and it is to express the
two opinions that may be entertained on this subject, that the terms
_self-love_ and _benevolence_ have been appropriated. Any other
interpretation of them is an evident abuse of language, and a subterfuge
in argument, which, driven from the fair field of fact and observation,
takes shelter in verbal sophistry.

CVII. Humility and pride are not easily distinguished from each other. A
proud man, who fortifies himself in his own good opinion, may be
supposed not to put forward his pretensions through shyness or deference
to others: a modest man, who is really reserved and afraid of committing
himself, is thought distant and haughty: and the vainest coxcomb, who
makes a display of himself and his most plausible qualifications, often
does so to hide his deficiencies and to prop up his tottering opinion of
himself by the applause of others. Vanity does not refer to the opinion
a man entertains of himself, but to that which he wishes others to
entertain of him. Pride is indifferent to the approbation of others; as
modesty shrinks from it, either through bashfulness, or from an
unwillingness to take any undue advantage of it. I have known several
very forward, loquacious, and even overbearing persons, whose
confidential communications were oppressive from the sense they
entertained of their own demerits. In company they talked on in mere
_bravado_, and for fear of betraying their weak side, as children make a
noise in the dark.

CVIII. True modesty and true pride are much the same thing. Both consist
in setting a just value on ourselves—neither more nor less. It is a want
of proper spirit to fancy ourselves inferior to others in those things
in which we really excel them. It is conceit and want of common-sense to
arrogate a superiority over others, without the most well-founded
pretensions.

CIX. A man may be justly accused of vanity and presumption, who either
thinks he possesses qualifications which he has not, or greatly
overrates those which he has. An egotist does not think well of himself
because he possesses certain qualities, but fancies he possesses a
number of excellences, because he thinks well of himself through mere
idle self-complacency. True moderation is the bounding of our
self-esteem within the extent of our acquirements.

CX. Conceit is the most contemptible and one of the most odious
qualities in the world. It is vanity driven from all other shifts, and
forced to appeal to itself for admiration. An author, whose play has
been _damned_ overnight, feels a paroxysm of conceit the next morning.
Conceit may be defined as a restless, overweening, petty, obtrusive,
mechanical delight in our own qualifications, without any reference to
their real value, or to the approbation of others, merely because they
are ours, and for no other reason whatever. It is the extreme of
selfishness and folly.

CXI. Confidence or courage is conscious ability—the sense of power. No
man is ever afraid of attempting what he knows he can do better than any
one else. Charles Fox felt no diffidence in addressing the House of
Commons: he was reserved and silent in company, and had no opinion of
his talent for writing; that is, he knew his powers and their limits.
The torrent of his eloquence rushed upon him from his knowledge of the
subject and his interest in it, unchecked and unbidden, without his once
thinking of himself or his hearers. As a man is strong, so is he bold.
The thing is, that wherever we feel at home, there we are at our ease.
The late Sir John Moore once had to review the troops at Plymouth before
the King; and while he was on the ground and had to converse with the
different persons of the court, with the ladies, and with Mr Pitt whom
he thought a great man, he found himself a good deal embarrassed; but
the instant he mounted his horse and the troops were put in motion, he
felt quite relieved, and had leisure to observe what an awkward figure
Mr Pitt made on horseback.

CXII. The truly proud man knows neither superiors nor inferiors. The
first he does not admit of: the last he does not concern himself about.
People who are insolent to those beneath them crouch to those above
them. Both shew equal meanness of spirit and want of conscious dignity.

CXIII. No elevation or success raises the humble man in his own opinion.
To the proud the slightest repulse or disappointment is the last
indignity. The vain man makes a merit of misfortune, and triumphs in his
disgrace.

CXIV. We reserve our gratitude for the manner of conferring benefits;
and we revolt against this, except when it seems to say we owe no
obligation at all, and thus cancels the debt of gratitude as soon as it
is incurred.

CXV. We do not hate those who injure us, if they do not at the same time
wound our self-love. We can forgive any one sooner than those who lower
us in our own opinion. It is no wonder, therefore, that we as often
dislike others for their virtues as for their vices. We naturally hate
whatever makes us despise ourselves.

CXVI. When you find out a man’s ruling passion, beware of crossing him
in it.

CXVII. We sometimes hate those who differ from us in opinion worse than
we should for an attempt to injure us in the most serious point. A
favourite theory is a possession for life; and we resent any attack upon
it proportionably.

CXVIII. Men will die for an opinion as soon as for anything else.
Whatever excites the spirit of contradiction, is capable of producing
the last effects of heroism, which is only the highest pitch of
obstinacy in a good or a bad cause, in wisdom or in folly.

CXIX. We are ready to sacrifice life, not only for our own opinion, but
in deference to that of others. Conscience, or its shadow, honour,
prevails over the fear of death. The man of fortune and fashion will
throw away his life, like a bauble, to prevent the slightest breath of
dishonour. So little are we governed by self-interest, and so much by
imagination and sympathy.

CXX. The most impertinent people are less so from design than from
inadvertence. I have known a person who could scarcely open his lips
without offending some one, merely because he harboured no malice in his
heart. A certain excess of animal spirits with thoughtless good-humour
will often make more enemies than the most deliberate spite and
ill-nature, which is on its guard, and strikes with caution and safety.

CXXI. It is great weakness to lay ourselves open to others, who are
reserved towards us. There is not only no equality in it, but we may be
pretty sure they will turn a confidence, which they are so little
disposed to imitate, against us.

CXXII. A man has no excuse for betraying the secrets of his friends,
unless he also divulges his own. He may then seem to be actuated not by
treachery, but indiscretion.

CXXIII. As we scorn them who scorn us, so the contempt of the world (not
seldom) makes men proud.

CXXIV. Even infamy may be oftentimes a source of secret
self-complacency. We smile at the impotence of public opinion, when we
can survive its worst censures.

CXXV. Simplicity of character is the natural result of profound thought.

CXXVI. The affected modesty of most women is a decoy for the generous,
the delicate, and unsuspecting; while the artful, the bold, and
unfeeling either see or break through its slender disguises.

CXXVII. We as often repent the good we have done as the ill.

CXXVIII. The measure of any man’s virtue is what he would do, if he had
neither the laws nor public opinion, nor even his own prejudices, to
control him.

CXXIX. We like the expression of Raphael’s faces without an edict to
enforce it. I do not see why there should not be a taste in morals
formed on the same principle.

CXXX. Where a greater latitude is allowed in morals, the number of
examples of vice may increase, but so do those of virtue: at least, we
are surer of the sincerity of the latter. It is only the exceptions to
vice, that arise neither from ignorance nor hypocrisy, that are worth
counting.

CXXXI. The fear of punishment may be necessary to the suppression of
vice; but it also suspends the finer motives to virtue.

CXXXII. No wise man can have a contempt for the prejudices of others;
and he should even stand in a certain awe of his own, as if they were
aged parents and monitors. They may in the end prove wiser than he.

CXXXIII. We are only justified in rejecting prejudices, when we can
explain the grounds of them; or when they are at war with nature, which
is the strongest prejudice of all.

CXXXIV. Vulgar prejudices are those which arise out of accident,
ignorance, or authority. Natural prejudices are those which arise out of
the constitution of the human mind itself.

CXXXV. Nature is stronger than reason: for nature is, after all, the
text, reason but the comment. He is indeed a poor creature who does not
_feel_ the truth of more than he _knows_ or can explain satisfactorily
to others.

CXXXVI. The mind revolts against certain opinions, as the stomach
rejects certain foods.

CXXXVII. The drawing a certain positive line in morals, beyond which a
single false step is irretrievable, makes virtue formal, and vice
desperate.

CXXXVIII. Most codes of morality proceed on a supposition of _Original
Sin_; as if the only object was to coerce the headstrong propensities to
vice, and there were no natural disposition to good in the mind, which
it was possible to improve, refine, and cultivate.

CXXXIX. This _negative_ system of virtue leads to a very low style of
moral sentiment. It is as if the highest excellence in a picture was to
avoid gross defects in drawing; or in writing, instances of bad grammar.
It ought surely to be our aim in virtue, as well as in other things, ‘to
snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.’

CXL. We find many things to which the prohibition of them constitutes
the only temptation.

CXLI. There is neither so much vice nor so much virtue in the world, as
it might appear at first sight that there is. Many people commit actions
that they hate, as they affect virtues that they laugh at, merely
because others do so.

CXLII. When the imagination is continually led to the brink of vice by a
system of terror and denunciations, people fling themselves over the
precipice from the mere dread of falling.

CXLIII. The maxim—_Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor_—has not
been fully explained. In general, it is taken for granted, that those
things that our reason disapproves, we give way to from passion. Nothing
like it. The course that persons in the situation of Medea pursue has
often as little to do with inclination as with judgment: but they are
led astray by some object of a disturbed imagination, that shocks their
feelings and staggers their belief; and they grasp the phantom to put an
end to this state of tormenting suspense, and to see whether it is human
or not.

CXLIV. Vice, like disease, floats in the atmosphere.

CXLV. Honesty is one part of eloquence. We persuade others by being in
earnest ourselves.

CXLVI. A mere sanguine temperament often passes for genius and
patriotism.

CXLVII. Animal spirits are continually taken for wit and fancy; and the
want of them, for sense and judgment.

CXLVIII. In public speaking, we must appeal either to the prejudices of
others, or to the love of truth and justice. If we think merely of
displaying our own ability, we shall ruin every cause we undertake.

CXLIX. Those who cannot miss an opportunity of saying a good thing or of
bringing in some fantastical opinion of their own, are not to be trusted
with the management of any great question.

CL. There are some public speakers who commit themselves and their party
by extravagances uttered in heat and through vanity, which they retract
in cold blood through cowardice and caution. They outrage propriety, and
trim to self-interest.

CLI. An honest man is respected by all parties. We forgive a hundred
rude or offensive things that are uttered from conviction or in the
conscientious discharge of a duty—never one, that proceeds from design
or with a view to raise the person who says it above us.

CLII. Truth from the mouth of an honest man, or severity from a
good-natured one, has a double effect.

CLIII. A person who does not endeavour to _seem_ more than he _is_, will
generally be thought nothing of. We habitually make such large
deductions for pretence and imposture, that no real merit will stand
against them. It is necessary to set off our good qualities with a
certain air of plausibility and self-importance, as some attention to
fashion is necessary to decency.

CLIV. If we do not aspire to admiration, we shall fall into contempt. To
expect sheer, evenhanded justice from mankind, is folly. They take the
gross inventory of our pretensions; and not to have them overlooked
entirely, we must place them in a conspicuous point of view, as men
write their trades or fix a sign over the doors of their houses. Not to
conform to the established practice in either respect, is false delicacy
in the commerce of the world.

CLV. There has been a considerable change in dress and manners in the
course of a century or two, as well as in the signs and badges of
different professions. The streets are no longer encumbered with
numberless emblems of mechanical or other occupations, nor crowded with
the pomp and pageantry of dress, nor embroiled by the insolent airs
assumed by the different candidates for rank and precedence. Our
pretensions become less gross and obtrusive with the progress of
society, and as the means of communication become more refined and
general. The simplicity and even slovenliness of the modern beau form a
striking contrast to the dazzling finery and ostentatious formality of
the oldfashioned courtier; yet both are studied devices and symbols of
distinction. It would be a curious speculation to trace the various
modes of affectation in dress from the age of Elizabeth to the present
time, in connection with the caprices of fashion, and the march of
opinion; and to shew in what manner Sir Isaac Newton’s _Principia_ or
Rousseau’s Emilius have contributed to influence the gliding movements
and curtail the costume of a modern _dandy_!

CLVI. Unlimited power is helpless, as arbitrary power is capricious. Our
energy is in proportion to the resistance it meets. We can attempt
nothing great, but from a sense of the difficulties we have to
encounter: we can persevere in nothing great, but from a pride in
overcoming them. Where our will is our law, we eagerly set about the
first trifle we think of, and lay it aside for the next trifle that
presents itself, or that is suggested to us. The character of despotism
is apathy or levity—or the love of mischief, because the latter is easy
and suits its pride and wantonness.

CLVII. Affectation is as necessary to the mind, as dress is to the body.

CLVIII. Man is an intellectual animal, and therefore an everlasting
contradiction to himself. His senses centre in himself, his ideas reach
to the ends of the universe; so that he is torn in pieces between the
two, without a possibility of its ever being otherwise. A mere physical
being, or a pure spirit, can alone be satisfied with itself.

CLIX. Our approbation of others has a good deal of selfishness in it. We
like those who give us pleasure, however little they may wish for or
deserve our esteem in return. We prefer a person with vivacity and high
spirits, though bordering upon insolence, to the timid and
pusillanimous; we are fonder of wit joined to malice, than of dullness
without it. We have no great objection to receive a man who is a villain
as our friend, if he has plausible exterior qualities; nay, we often
take a pride in our harmless familiarity with him, as we might in
keeping a tame panther; but we soon grow weary of the society of a
good-natured fool who puts our patience to the test, or of an awkward
clown who puts our pride to the blush.

CLX. We are fonder of visiting our friends in health than in sickness.
We judge less favourably of their characters, when any misfortune
happens to them; and a lucky hit, either in business or reputation,
improves even their personal appearance in our eyes.

CLXI. An heiress, with a large fortune and a moderate share of beauty,
easily rises into a reigning toast.

CLXII. One shining quality lends a lustre to another, or hides some
glaring defect.

CLXIII. We are never so much disposed to quarrel with others as when we
are dissatisfied with ourselves.

CLXIV. We are never so thoroughly tired of the company of any one else
as we sometimes are of our own.

CLXV. People outlive the interest, which, at different periods of their
lives, they take in themselves. When we forget old friends, it is a sign
we have forgotten ourselves; or despise our former ways and notions, as
much as we do their present ones.

CLXVI. We fancy ourselves superior to others, because we find that we
have improved; and at no time did we think ourselves inferior to them.

CLXVII. The notice of others is as necessary to us as the air we
breathe. If we cannot gain their good opinion, we change our battery,
and strive to provoke their hatred and contempt.

CLXVIII. Some malefactors, at the point of death, confess crimes of
which they have never been guilty, thus to raise our wonder and
indignation in the same proportion; or to shew their superiority to
vulgar prejudice, and brave that public opinion, of which they are the
victims.

CLXIX. Others make an ostentatious display of their penitence and
remorse, only to invite sympathy, and create a diversion in their own
minds from the subject of their impending punishment. So that we excite
a strong emotion in the breasts of others, we care little of what kind
it is, or by what means we produce it. We have equally the feeling of
power. The sense of insignificance or of being an object of perfect
indifference to others, is the only one that the mind never covets nor
willingly submits to.

CLXX. There are not wanting instances of those, who pass their whole
lives in endeavouring to make themselves ridiculous. They only tire of
their absurdities when others are tired of talking about and laughing at
them, so that they have become a stale jest.

CLXXI. People in the grasp of death wish all the evil they have done (as
well as all the good) to be known, not to make atonement by confession,
but to excite one more strong sensation before they die, and to leave
their interests and passions a legacy to posterity, when they themselves
are exempt from the consequences.

CLXXII. We talk little, if we do not talk about ourselves.

CLXXIII. We may give more offence by our silence than even by
impertinence.

CLXXIV. Obstinate silence implies either a mean opinion of ourselves or
a contempt of our company: and it is the more provoking, as others do
not know to which of these causes to attribute it, whether to humility
or pride.

CLXXV. Silence proceeds either from want of something to say, or from a
phlegmatic indifference which closes up our lips. The sea, or any other
striking object, suddenly bursting on a party of mutes in a stage-coach,
will occasion a general exclamation of surprise; and the ice being once
broken, they may probably be good company for the rest of the journey.

CLXXVI. We compliment ourselves on our national reserve and taciturnity
by abusing the loquacity and frivolity of the French.

CLXXVII. Nations, not being willing or able to correct their own errors,
justify them by the opposite errors of other nations.

CLXXVIII. We easily convert our own vices into virtues, the virtues of
others into vices.

CLXXIX. A person who talks with equal vivacity on every subject, excites
no interest in any. _Repose_ is as necessary in conversation as in a
picture.

CLXXX. The best kind of conversation is that which may be called
_thinking aloud_. I like very well to speak my mind on any subject (or
to hear another do so) and to go into the question according to the
degree of interest it naturally inspires, but not to have to get up a
thesis upon every topic. There are those, on the other hand, who seem
always to be practising on their audience, as if they mistook them for a
DEBATING-SOCIETY, or to hold a general retainer, by which they are bound
to explain every difficulty, and answer every objection that can be
started. This, in private society and among friends, is not desirable.
You thus lose the two great ends of conversation, which are to learn the
sentiments of others, and see what they think of yours. One of the best
talkers I ever knew had this defect—that he evidently seemed to be
considering less what he felt on any point than what might be said upon
it, and that he listened to you, not to weigh what you said, but to
reply to it, like counsel on the other side. This habit gave a brilliant
smoothness and polish to his general discourse, but, at the same time,
took from its solidity and prominence: it reduced it to a tissue of
lively, fluent, ingenious _commonplaces_, (for original genuine,
observations are like ‘minute drops from off the eaves,’ and not an
incessant shower) and, though his talent in this way was carried to the
very extreme of cleverness, yet I think it seldom, if ever, went beyond
it.

CLXXXI. Intellectual excellence can seldom be a source of much
satisfaction to the possessor. In a gross period, or in vulgar society,
it is not understood; and among those who are refined enough to
appreciate its value, it ceases to be a distinction.

CLXXXII. There is, I think, an essential difference of character in
mankind, between those who wish _to do_, and those who wish to _have_
certain things. I observe persons expressing a great desire to possess
fine horses, hounds, dress, equipage, &c. and an envy of those who have
them. I myself have no such feeling, nor the least ambition to shine,
except by doing something better than others. I have the love of power,
but not of property. I should like to be able to outstrip a greyhound in
speed; but I should be ashamed to take any merit to myself from
possessing the fleetest greyhound in the world. I cannot transfer my
personal identity from myself to what I merely call _mine_. The
generality of mankind are contented to be estimated by what they
possess, instead of what they are.

CLXXXIII. Buonaparte observes, that the diplomatists of the new school
were no match for those brought up under the ancient _regime_. The
reason probably is, that the modern style of intellect inclines to
abstract reasoning and general propositions, and pays less attention to
individual character, interests, and circumstances. The moderns have,
therefore, less tact in watching the designs of others, and less
closeness in hiding their own. They perhaps have a greater knowledge of
things, but less of the world. They calculate the force of an argument,
and rely on its success, moving _in vacuo_, without sufficiently
allowing for the resistance of opinion and prejudice.

CLXXXIV. The most comprehensive reasoners are not always the deepest or
nicest observers. They are apt to take things for granted too much, as
parts of a system. Lord Egmont, in a speech in Parliament, in the year
1750, has the following remarkable observations on this subject. ‘It is
not common-sense, but downright madness, to follow general principles in
this wild manner without limitation or reserve; and give me leave to say
one thing, which I hope will be long remembered, and well thought upon
by all those who hear me—that those gentlemen who plume themselves thus
upon their open and extensive understandings, are in fact, the men of
the narrowest principles in the kingdom. For what is a narrow mind? It
is a mind that sees any proposition in one single contracted point of
view, unable to complicate any subject with the circumstances, or
considerations, that are or may or ought to be combined with it. And
pray, what is that understanding which looks upon the question of
_naturalization_ only in this general view, that naturalization is an
increase of the people, and the increase of the people is the riches of
the nation? Never admitting the least reflection, what the people are
whom you let in upon us; how, in the present bad regulation of the
police, they are to be employed or maintained; how their principles,
opinions, or practice may influence the religion or politics of the
state, or what operation their admission may have upon the peace and
tranquillity of the country. Is not such a genius equally contemptible
and narrow with that of the poorest mortal upon earth, who grovels for
his whole life within the verge of the opposite extreme?’

CLXXXV. In an Englishman, a diversity of profession and pursuit (as the
having been a soldier, a valet, a player, &c.) implies a dissipation and
dissoluteness of character, and a fitness for nothing. In a Frenchman,
it only shews a natural vivacity of disposition, and a fitness for
everything.

CLXXXVI. Impudence, like everything else, has its limits. Let a man be
ever so hardened and unblushing, there is a point at which his courage
is sure to fail him; and not being able to carry off the matter with his
usual air of confidence, he becomes more completely confused and awkward
than any one else would in the same circumstances.

CLXXXVII. Half the miseries of human life proceed from our not
perceiving the incompatibility of different attainments, and
consequently aiming at too much. We make ourselves wretched in vainly
aspiring after advantages we are deprived of; and do not consider that
if we had these advantages, it would be quite impossible for us to
retain those which we actually do possess, and which, after all, if it
were put to the question, we would not consent to part with for the sake
of any others.

CLXXXVIII. If we use no ceremony towards others, we shall be treated
without any. People are soon tired of paying trifling attentions to
those who receive them with coldness, and return them with neglect.

CLXXXIX. Surly natures have more pleasure in disobliging others than in
serving themselves.

CXC. People in general consult their prevailing humour or ruling passion
(whatever it may be) much more than their interest.

CXCI. One of the painters (Teniers,) has represented monkeys with a
monk’s cloak and cowl. This has a ludicrous effect enough. To a superior
race of beings the pretensions of mankind to extraordinary sanctity and
virtue must seem equally ridiculous.

CXCII. When we speak ill of people behind their backs, and are civil to
them to their faces, we may be accused of insincerity. But the
contradiction is less owing to insincerity than to the change of
circumstances. We think well of them while we are with them; and in
their absence recollect the ill we durst not hint at or acknowledge to
ourselves in their presence.

CXCIII. Our opinions are not our own, but in the power of sympathy. If a
person tells us a palpable falsehood, we not only dare not contradict
him, but we dare hardly disbelieve him _to his face_. A lie boldly
uttered has the effect of truth for the instant.

CXCIV. A man’s reputation is not in his own keeping, but lies at the
mercy of the profligacy of others. Calumny requires no proof. The
throwing out malicious imputations against any character leaves a stain,
which no after-reputation can wipe out. To create an unfavourable
impression, it is not necessary that certain things should be _true_,
but that they _have been said_. The imagination is of so delicate a
texture, that even words wound it.

CXCV. A nickname is a mode of insinuating a prejudice against another
under some general designation, which, as it offers no proof, admits of
no reply.

CXCVI. It does not render the person less contemptible or ridiculous in
vulgar opinion, because it may be harmless in itself, or even downright
nonsense. By repeating it incessantly, and leaving out every other
characteristic of the individual, whom we wish to make a bye-word of, it
seems as if he were an abstraction of insignificance.

CXCVII. Want of principle is power. Truth and honesty set a limit to our
efforts, which impudence and hypocrisy easily overleap.

CXCVIII. There are many who talk on from ignorance, rather than from
knowledge; and who find the former an inexhaustible fund of
conversation.

CXCIX. Nothing gives such a blow to friendship as the detecting another
in an untruth: it strikes at the root of our confidence ever after.

CC. In estimating the value of an acquaintance or even friend, we give a
preference to intellectual or convivial over moral qualities. The truth
is, that in our habitual intercourse with others, we much oftener
require to be amused than assisted. We consider less, therefore, what a
person with whom we are intimate is ready to do for us in critical
emergencies, than what he has to say on ordinary occasions. We dispense
with his services, if he only saves us from _ennui_. In civilised
society, words are of as much importance as things.

CCI. We cultivate the society of those who are above us in station, and
beneath us in capacity. The one we do from choice, the other from
necessity. Our interest dictates our submission to the first; our vanity
is flattered by the homage of the last.

CCII. A man of talents, who shrinks from a collision with his equals or
superiors, will soon sink below himself. We improve by trying our
strength with others, not by shewing it off. A person who shuts himself
up in a little circle of dependants and admirers for fear of losing
ground in his own opinion by jostling with the world at large, may
continue to be gaped at by fools, but will forfeit the respect of sober
and sensible men.

CCIII. There are others, who entertaining a high opinion of themselves,
and not being able (for want of plausible qualities) to gather a circle
of butterflies round them, retire into solitude, and there worship the
ECHOES and themselves. They gain this advantage by it—the ECHOES do not
contradict them. But it is a question, whether by dwelling always on
their own virtues and merits, unmolested, they increase the stock. They,
indeed, pamper their ruling vices, and pile them mountain-high; and
looking down on the world from the elevation of their retreat, idly
fancy that the world has nothing to do but to look up to them with
wondering eyes.

CCIV. It is a false principle, that because we are entirely occupied
with ourselves, we must equally occupy the thoughts of others. The
contrary inference is the fair one.

CCV. It is better to desire than to enjoy—to love than to be loved.

CCVI. Every one would rather be Raphael than Hogarth. Without entering
into the question of the talent required for their different works, or
the pleasure derived from them, we prefer that which confers dignity on
human nature to that which degrades it. We would wish to _do_ what we
would wish to _be_. And, moreover, it is most difficult to do what it is
most difficult to be.

CCVII. A selfish feeling requires less moral capacity than a benevolent
one: a selfish expression requires less intellectual capacity to execute
it than a benevolent one; for in expression, and all that relates to it,
the intellectual is the reflection of the moral. Raphael’s figures are
sustained by _ideas_: Hogarth’s are distorted by mechanical habits and
instincts. It is elevation of thought that gives grandeur and delicacy
of expression to passion. The expansion and refinement of the soul are
seen in the face as in a mirror. An enlargement of purpose gives a
corresponding enlargement of form. The _mind_, as it were, acts over the
whole body, and animates it equally; while petty and local interests
seize on particular parts, and distract it by contrary and mean
expressions. Now, if mental expression has this superior grandeur and
grace, we can account at once for the superiority of Raphael. For there
is no doubt, that it is more difficult to give a whole continuously and
proportionably than to give the parts separate and disjointed, or to
diffuse the same subtle but powerful expression over a large mass than
to caricature it in a single part or feature. The actions in Raphael are
like a branch of a tree swept by the surging blast; those in Hogarth
like straws whirled and twitched about in the gusts and eddies of
passion. I do not mean to say that goodness alone constitutes greatness,
but mental power does. Hogarth’s Good Apprentice is insipid: Raphael has
clothed Elymas the Sorcerer with all the dignity and grandeur of vice.
Selfish characters and passions borrow greatness from the range of
imagination, and strength of purpose; and besides, have an advantage in
natural force and interest.

CCVIII. We find persons who are actuated in all their tastes and
feelings by a spirit of contradiction. They like nothing that other
people do, and have a natural aversion to whatever is agreeable in
itself. They read books that no one else reads; and are delighted with
passages that no one understands but themselves. They only arrive at
beauties through faults and difficulties; and all their conceptions are
brought to light by a sort of Cæsarean process. This is either an
affectation of singularity; or a morbid taste, that can relish nothing
that is obvious and simple.

CCIX. An unaccountable spirit of contradiction is sometimes carried into
men’s behaviour and actions. They never do anything from a direct
motive, or in a straightforward manner. They get rid of all sorts of
obligations, and rush on destruction without the shadow of an excuse.
They take a perverse delight in acting not only contrary to reason, but
in opposition to their own inclinations and passions, and are for ever
in a state of cross-purposes with themselves.

CCX. There are some persons who never decide from deliberate motives at
all, but are the mere creatures of impulse.

CCXI. Insignificant people are a necessary relief in society. Such
characters are extremely agreeable, and even favourites, if they appear
satisfied with the part they have to perform.

CCXII. Little men seldom seem conscious of their diminutive size; or
make up for it by the erectness of their persons, or a peculiarly dapper
air and manner.

CCXIII. Any one is to be pitied, who has just sense enough to perceive
his deficiencies.

CCXIV. I had rather be deformed than a dwarf and well-made. The one may
be attributed to accident; the other looks like a deliberate insult on
the part of nature.

CCXV. Personal deformity, in the well-disposed, produces a fine placid
expression of countenance; in the ill-tempered and peevish, a keen,
sarcastic one.

CCXVI. People say ill-natured things without design, but not without
having a pleasure in them.

CCXVII. A person who blunders upon system, has a secret motive for what
he does, unknown to himself.

CCXVIII. If any one by his general conduct contrives to part friends, he
may not be aware that such is the tendency of his actions, but assuredly
it is their motive. He has more pleasure in seeing others cold and
distant, than cordial and intimate.

CCXIX. A person who constantly meddles to no purpose, means to do harm,
and is not sorry to find he has succeeded.

CCXX. Cunning is natural to mankind. It is the sense of our weakness,
and an attempt to effect by concealment what we cannot do openly and by
force.

CCXXI. In love we never think of moral qualities, and scarcely of
intellectual ones. Temperament and manner alone (with beauty) excite
love.

CCXXII. There is no one thoroughly despicable. We cannot descend much
lower than an ideot; and an ideot has some advantages over a wise man.

CCXXIII. Comparisons are odious, because they reduce every one to a
standard he ought not to be tried by, or leave us in possession only of
those claims which we can set up, to the entire exclusion of others. By
striking off the common qualities, the remainder of excellence is
brought down to a contemptible fraction. A man may be six feet high, and
only an inch taller than another. In comparisons, this difference of an
inch is the only thing thought of or ever brought into question. The
greatest genius or virtue soon dwindles into nothing by such a mode of
computation.

CCXXIV. It is a fine remark of Rousseau’s, that the best of us differ
from others in fewer particulars than we agree with them in. The
difference between a tall and a short man is only a few inches, whereas
they are both several feet high. So a wise or learned man knows many
things, of which the vulgar are ignorant; but there is a still greater
number of things, the knowledge of which they share in common with him.

CCXXV. I am always afraid of a fool. One cannot be sure that he is not a
knave as well.

CCXXVI. Weakness has its hidden resources, as well as strength. There is
a degree of folly and meanness which we cannot calculate upon, and by
which we are as much liable to be foiled, as by the greatest ability or
courage.

CCXXVII. We can only be degraded in a contest with low natures. The
advantages that others obtain over us are fair and honourable to both
parties.

CCXXVIII. Reflection makes men cowards. There is no object that can be
put in competition with life, unless it is viewed through the medium of
passion, and we are hurried away by the impulse of the moment.

CCXXIX. The youth is better than the old age of friendship.

CCXXX. In the course of a long acquaintance we have repeated all our
good things, and discussed all our favourite topics several times over,
so that our conversation becomes a mockery of social intercourse. We
might as well talk to ourselves. The soil of friendship is worn out with
constant use. Habit may still attach us to each other, but we feel
ourselves fettered by it. Old friends might be compared to old married
people without the tie of children.

CCXXXI. We grow tired of ourselves, much more of other people. Use may
in part reconcile us to our own tediousness, but we do not adopt that of
others on the same paternal principle. We may be willing to tell a story
twice, never to hear one more than once.

CCXXXII. If we are long absent from our friends, we forget them: if we
are constantly with them, we despise them.

CCXXXIII. There are no rules for friendship. It must be left to itself;
we cannot force it any more than love.

CCXXXIV. The most violent friendships soonest wear themselves out.

CCXXXV. To be capable of steady friendship or lasting love, are the two
greatest proofs, not only of goodness of heart, but of strength of mind.

CCXXXVI. It makes us proud when our love of a mistress is returned: it
ought to make us prouder that we can love her for herself alone, without
the aid of any such selfish reflection. This is the religion of love.

CCXXXVII. An English officer who had been engaged in an intrigue in
Italy, going home one night, stumbled over a man fast asleep on the
stairs. It was a bravo who had been hired to assassinate him. Such, in
this man, was the force of conscience!

CCXXXVIII. An eminent artist having succeeded in a picture which drew
crowds to admire it, received a letter from a shuffling old relation in
these terms, ‘Dear Cousin, now you may draw good bills with a
vengeance.’ Such is the force of habit! This man only wished to be a
Raphael that he might carry on his old trade of drawing bills.

CCXXXIX. Mankind are a herd of knaves and fools. It is necessary to join
the crowd, or get out of their way, in order not to be trampled to death
by them.

CCXL. To think the worst of others, and to do the best we can ourselves,
is a safe rule, but a hard one to practise.

CCXLI. To think ill of mankind and not wish ill to them, is perhaps the
highest wisdom and virtue.

CCXLII. We may hate and love the same person, nay even at the same
moment.

CCXLIII. We never hate those whom we have once loved, merely because
they have injured us. ‘We may kill those of whom we are jealous,’ says
Fielding, ‘but we do not hate them.’ We are enraged at their conduct and
at ourselves as the objects of it, but this does not alter our passion
for them. The reason is, we loved them without their loving us; we do
not hate them because they hate us. Love may turn to indifference with
possession, but is irritated by disappointment.

CCXLIV. Revenge against the object of our love is madness. No one would
kill the woman he loves, but that he thinks he can bring her to life
afterwards. Her death seems to him as momentary as his own rash act.
_See Othello._—‘My wife! I have no wife,’ &c. He stabbed not at her
life, but at her falsehood; he thought to kill the wanton, and preserve
the wife.

CCXLV. We revenge in haste and passion: we repent at leisure and from
reflection.

CCXLVI. By retaliating our sufferings on the heads of those we love, we
get rid of a present uneasiness, and incur lasting remorse. With the
accomplishment of our revenge our fondness returns; so that we feel the
injury we have done them, even more than they do.

CCXLVII. I think men formerly were more jealous of their rivals in
love—they are now more jealous of their mistresses, and lay the blame on
them. That is, we formerly thought more of the mere possession of the
person, which the removal of a favoured lover prevented, and we now
think more of a woman’s affections, which may still follow him to the
tomb. To kill a rival is to kill a fool; but the Goddess of our idolatry
may be a sacrifice worthy of the Gods. Hackman did not think of shooting
Lord Sandwich, but Miss Ray.

CCXLVIII. Many people in reasoning on the passions make a continual
appeal to common sense. But passion is without common sense, and we must
frequently discard the one in speaking of the other.

CCXLIX. It is provoking to hear people at their ease talking reason to
others in a state of violent suffering. If you can remove their
suffering by speaking a word, do so; and then they will be in a state to
hear calm reason.

CCL. There is nothing that I so hate as I do to hear a common-place set
up against a feeling of truth and nature.

CCLI. People try to reconcile you to a disappointment in love, by asking
why you should cherish a passion for an object that has proved itself
worthless. Had you known this before, you would not have encouraged the
passion; but that having been once formed, knowledge does not destroy
it. If we have drank poison, finding it out does not prevent its being
in our veins: so passion leaves its poison in the mind! It is the nature
of all passion and of all habitual affection; we throw ourselves upon it
at a venture, but we cannot return by choice. If it is a wife that has
proved unworthy, men compassionate the loss, because there is a tie,
they say, which we cannot get rid of. But has the heart no ties? Or if
it is a child, they understand it. But is not true love a child? Or when
another has become a part of ourselves, ‘where we must live or have no
life at all,’ can we tear them from us in an instant?—No: these bargains
are for life; and that for which our souls have sighed for years, cannot
be forgotten with a breath, and without a pang.

CCLII. Besides, it is uncertainty and suspense that chiefly irritate
jealousy to madness. When we know our fate, we become gradually
reconciled to it, and try to forget a useless sorrow.

CCLIII. It is wonderful how often we see and hear of Shakspeare’s plays
without being annoyed with it. Were it any other writer, we should be
sick to death of the very name. But his volumes are like that of nature,
we can turn to them again and again:

‘Age cannot wither, nor custom stale
His infinite variety.’

CCLIV. The contempt of a wanton for a man who is determined to think her
virtuous, is perhaps the strongest of all others. He officiously reminds
her of what she ought to be; and she avenges the galling sense of lost
character on the fool who still believes in it.

CCLV. To find that a woman whom we loved has forfeited her character, is
the same thing as to learn that she is dead.

CCLVI. The only vice that cannot be forgiven is hypocrisy. The
repentance of a hypocrite is itself hypocrisy.

CCLVII. Once a renegado, and always a renegado.

CCLVIII. By speaking truth to the really beautiful, we learn to flatter
other women.

CCLIX. There is a kind of ugliness which is not disagreeable to women.
It is that which is connected with the expression of strong but bad
passions, and implies spirit and power.

CCLX. People do not persist in their vices because they are not weary of
them, but because they cannot leave them off. It is the nature of vice
to leave us no resource but in itself.

CCLXI. Our consciousness of injustice makes us add to the injury. By
aggravating a wrong, we seem to ourselves to justify it. The repetition
of the blow inflames our passion and deadens reflection.

CCLXII. In confessing the greatest offences, a criminal gives himself
credit for his candour. You and he seem to have come to an amicable
understanding on his character at last.

CCLXIII. A barefaced profligacy often succeeds to an overstrained
preciseness in morals. People in a less licentious age carefully conceal
the vices they have; as they afterwards, with an air of philosophic
freedom, set up for those they have not.

CCLXIV. It is a sign that real religion is in a state of decay, when
passages in compliment to it are applauded at the theatre. Morals and
sentiment fall within the province of the stage; but religion, except
where it is considered as a beautiful fiction which ought to be treated
with lenity, does not depend upon our suffrages.

CCLXV. There are persons to whom success gives no satisfaction, unless
it is accompanied with dishonesty. Such people willingly ruin themselves
in order to ruin others.

CCLXVI. Habitual liars invent falsehoods, not to gain any end or even to
deceive their hearers, but to amuse themselves. It is partly practice
and partly habit. It requires an effort in them to speak truth.

CCLXVII. A knave thinks himself a fool, all the time he is not making a
fool of some other person.

CCLXVIII. Fontenelle said, ‘If his hand were full of truths, he would
not open his fingers to let them out.’ Was this a satire on truth or on
mankind?

CCLXIX. The best kind of conversation is that which is made up of
observations, reflections, and anecdotes. A string of stories without
application is as tiresome as a long-winded argument.

CCLXX. The most insignificant people are the most apt to sneer at
others. They are safe from reprisals, and have no hope of rising in
their own esteem, but by lowering their neighbours. The severest critics
are always those, who have either never attempted, or who have failed in
original composition.

CCLXXI. More remarks are made upon any one’s dress, looks, &c. in
walking twenty yards along the streets of Edinburgh, or other provincial
towns, than in passing from one end of London to the other.

CCLXXII. There is less impertinence and more independence in London than
in any other place in the kingdom.

CCLXXIII. A man who meets thousands of people in a day who never saw or
heard of him before, if he thinks at all, soon learns to think little of
himself. London is the place where a man of sense is soonest cured of
his coxcombry, or where a fool may indulge his vanity with impunity, by
giving himself what airs he pleases. A valet and a lord are there nearly
on a level. Among a million of men, we do not count the units, for we
have not time.

CCLXXIV. There is some virtue in almost every vice, except hypocrisy;
and even that, while it is a mockery of virtue, is at the same time a
compliment to it.

CCLXXV. It does not follow that a man is a hypocrite, because his
actions give the lie to his words. If he at one time seems a saint, and
at other times a sinner, he possibly is both in reality, as well as in
appearance. A person may be fond of vice and of virtue too; and practise
one or the other, according to the temptation of the moment. A priest
may be pious, and a sot or bigot. A woman may be modest, and a rake at
heart. A poet may admire the beauties of nature, and be envious of those
of other writers. A moralist may act contrary to his own precepts, and
yet be sincere in recommending them to others. These are indeed
contradictions, but they arise out of the contradictory qualities in our
nature. A man is a hypocrite only when he affects to take a delight in
what he does not feel, not because he takes a perverse delight in
opposite things.

CCLXXVI. The greatest offence against virtue is to speak ill of it. To
recommend certain things is worse than to practise them. There may be an
excuse for the last in the frailty of passion; but the former can arise
from nothing but an utter depravity of disposition. Any one may yield to
temptation, and yet feel a sincere love and aspiration after virtue; but
he who maintains vice in theory, has not even the idea or capacity for
virtue in his mind. Men err: fiends only make a mock at goodness.

CCLXXVII. The passions make antitheses and subtle distinctions, finer
than any pen.

CCLXXVIII. I used to think that men were governed by their passions more
than by their interest or reason, till I heard the contrary maintained
in Scotland, _viz._ that the _main-chance_ is the great object in life,
and the proof given of it was, that every man in the street where we
were talking, however he might have a particular _hobby_, minded his
business as the principal thing, and endeavoured to make both ends meet
at the end of the year. This was a shrewd argument, and it was Scotch. I
could only answer it in my own mind by turning to different persons
among my acquaintance who have been ruined with their eyes open by some
whim or fancy. One, for instance, married a girl of the town: a second
divorced his wife to marry a wench at a lodging-house, who refused him,
and whose cruelty and charms are the torment of his own life, and that
of all his friends: a third drank himself to death: a fourth is the dupe
and victim of quack advertisements: a fifth is the slave of his wife’s
ill-humour: a sixth quarrels with all his friends without any motive: a
seventh lies on to the end of the chapter, and to his own ruin, &c. It
is true none of these are Scotchmen; and yet they live in houses, rather
than in the open air, and follow some trade or vocation to avoid
starving outright. If this is what is meant by a calculation of
consequences, the doctrine may hold true; but it does not infringe upon
the main point. It affects the husk, the shell, but not the kernel of
our dispositions. The pleasure or torment of our lives is in the pursuit
of some favourite passion or perverse humour.

‘Within our bosoms reigns another lord,
_Passion_, sole judge and umpire of itself.’

CCLXXIX. There are few things more contemptible than the conversation of
men of the town. It is made up of the technicalities and cant of all
professions, without the spirit or knowledge of any. It is flashy and
vapid, and is like the rinsings of different liquors at a night-cellar,
instead of a bottle of fine old port. It is without clearness or body,
and a heap of affectation.

CCLXXX. The conversation of players is either dull or bad. They are
tempted to say gay or fine things from the habit of uttering them with
applause on the stage, and unable to do it from the habit of repeating
what is set down for them by rote. A good comic actor, if he is a
sensible man, will generally be silent in company. It is not his
profession to invent _bon mots_, but to deliver them; and he will scorn
to produce a theatrical effect by grimace and mere vivacity. A great
tragic actress should be a _mute_, except on the stage. She cannot raise
the tone of common conversation to that of tragedy, and any other must
be quite insipid to her. Repose is necessary to her. She who died the
night before in Cleopatra, ought not to revive till she appears again as
Cassandra or Aspasia. In the intervals of her great characters, her own
should be a blank, or an unforced, unstudied part.

CCLXXXI. To marry an actress for the admiration she excites on the
stage, is to imitate the man who bought PUNCH.

CCLXXXII. To expect an author to talk as he writes is ridiculous; or
even if he did, you would find fault with him as a pedant. We should
_read_ authors, and not converse with them.

CCLXXXIII. Extremes meet. Excessive refinement is often combined with
equal grossness. They act as a relief to each other, and please by
contrast.

CCLXXXIV. The seeds of many of our vices are sown in our blood: others
we owe to the bile or a fit of indigestion. A sane mind is generally the
effect of a sane body.

CCLXXXV. Health and good temper are the two greatest blessings in life.
In all the rest, men are equal, or find an equivalent.

CCLXXXVI. Poverty, labour, and calamity are not without their luxuries;
which the rich, the indolent, and the fortunate, in vain seek for.

CCLXXXVII. Good and ill seem as necessary to human life as light and
shade are to a picture. We grow weary of uniform success, and pleasure
soon surfeits. Pain makes ease delightful; hunger relishes the homeliest
food, fatigue turns the hardest bed to down; and the difficulty and
uncertainty of pursuit in all cases enhance the value of possession. The
wretched are in this respect fortunate, that they have the strongest
yearnings after happiness; and to desire is in some sense to enjoy. If
the schemes of Utopians could be realised, the tone of society would be
changed from what it is, into a sort of insipid high life. There could
be no fine tragedies written; nor would there be any pleasure in seeing
them. We tend to this conclusion already with the progress of
civilisation.

CCLXXXVIII. The pleasure derived from tragedy is to be accounted for in
this way, that, by painting the extremes of human calamity, it by
contrast kindles the affections, and raises the most intense imagination
and desire of the contrary good.

CCLXXXIX. The question respecting dramatic illusion has not been fairly
stated. There are different degrees and kinds of belief. The point is
not whether we do or do not believe what we see to be a positive
reality, but how far and in what manner we believe in it. We do not say
every moment to ourselves, ‘This is real:’ but neither do we say every
moment, ‘This is not real.’ The involuntary impression steals upon us
till we recollect ourselves. The appearance of reality, in fact, is the
reality, so long and in as far as we are not conscious of the
contradictory circumstances that disprove it. The belief in a well-acted
tragedy never amounts to what the witnessing the actual scene would
prove, and never sinks into a mere phantasmagoria. Its power of
affecting us is not, however, taken away, even if we abstract the
feeling of identity; for it still suggests a stronger idea of what the
reality _would be_, just as a picture reminds us more powerfully of the
person for whom it is intended, though we are conscious it is not the
same.

CCXC. We have more faith in a well-written romance, while we are reading
it, than in common history. The vividness of the representations in the
one case, more than counterbalances the mere knowledge of the truth of
the facts in the other.

CCXCI. It is remarkable how virtuous and generously disposed every one
is at a play. We uniformly applaud what is right and condemn what is
wrong, when it costs us nothing but the sentiment.

CCXCII. Great natural advantages are seldom combined with great acquired
ones, because they render the labour required to attain the last
superfluous and irksome. It is only necessary to be admired; and if we
are admired for the graces of our persons, we shall not be at much pains
to adorn our minds. If Pope had been a beautiful youth, he would not
have written The Rape of the Lock.[22] A beautiful woman, who has only
to shew herself to be admired, and is famous by nature, will be in no
danger of becoming a _bluestocking_, to attract notice by her learning,
or to hide her defects.

CCXCIII. Those people who are always _improving_, never become great.
Greatness is an eminence, the ascent to which is steep and lofty, and
which a man must seize on at once by natural boldness and vigour, and
not by patient, wary steps.

CCXCIV. The late Mr Opie remarked, that an artist often put his best
thoughts into his first works. His earliest efforts were the result of
the study of all his former life, whereas his later and more mature
performances (though perhaps more skilful and finished) contained only
the gleanings of his after-observation and experience.

CCXCV. The effort necessary to overcome difficulty urges the student on
to excellence. When he can once do well with ease, he grows
comparatively careless and indifferent, and makes no farther advances to
perfection.

CCXCVI. When a man can do better than every one else in the same walk,
he does not make any very painful exertions to outdo himself. The
progress of improvement ceases nearly at the point where competition
ends.

CCXCVII. We are rarely taught by our own experience; and much less do we
put faith in that of others.

CCXCVIII. We do not attend to the advice of the sage and experienced,
because we think they are old, forgetting that they once were young, and
placed in the same situations as ourselves.

CCXCIX. We are egotists in morals as well as in other things. Every man
is determined to judge for himself as to his conduct in life, and finds
out what he ought to have done, when it is too late to do it. For this
reason, the world has to begin again with each successive generation.

CCC. We should be inclined to pay more attention to the wisdom of the
old, if they shewed greater indulgence to the follies of the young.

CCCI. The best lesson we can learn from witnessing the folly of mankind
is not to irritate ourselves against it.

CCCII. If the world were good for nothing else, it is a fine subject for
speculation.

CCCIII. In judging of individuals, we always allow something to
_character_; for even when this is not agreeable or praiseworthy, it
affords exercise for our sagacity, and baffles the harshness of our
censure.

CCCIV. There are persons to whom we never think of applying the ordinary
rules of judging. They form a class by themselves and are curiosities in
morals, like nondescripts in natural history. We forgive whatever they
do or say, for the singularity of the thing, and because it excites
attention. A man who has been hanged, is not the worse subject for
dissection; and a man who deserves to be hanged, may be a very amusing
companion or topic of discourse.

CCCV. Every man, in his own opinion, forms an exception to the ordinary
rules of morality.

CCCVI. No man ever owned to the title of a _murderer_, a _tyrant_, &c.
because, however notorious the facts might be, the epithet is
accompanied with a reference to motives and marks of opprobrium in
common language and in the feelings of others, which he does not
acknowledge in his own mind.

CCCVII. There are some things, the _idea_ of which alone is a clear gain
to the human mind. Let people rail at virtue, at genius and friendship
as long as they will—the very _names_ of these disputed qualities are
better than anything else that could be substituted for them, and embalm
even the most angry abuse of them.

CCCVIII. If goodness were only a theory, it were a pity it should be
lost to the world.

CCCIX. Were good and evil ever so nearly balanced in reality, yet
imagination would add a casting-weight to the favourable scale, by
anticipating the bright side of what is to come, and throwing a pleasing
melancholy on the past.

CCCX. Women, when left to themselves, talk chiefly about their dress:
they think more about their lovers than they talk about them.

CCCXI. With women, the great business of life is love; and they
generally make a mistake in it. They consult neither the heart nor the
head, but are led away by mere humour and fancy. If instead of a
companion for life, they had to choose a partner in a country-dance or
to trifle away an hour with, their mode of calculation would be right.
They tie their true-lover’s knots with idle, thoughtless haste, while
the institutions of society render it indissoluble.

CCCXII. When we hear complaints of the wretchedness or vanity of human
life, the proper answer to them would be that there is hardly any one
who at some time or other _has not been in love_. If we consider the
high abstraction of this feeling, its depth, its purity, its voluptuous
refinement, even in the meanest breast, how sacred and how sweet it is,
this alone may reconcile us to the lot of humanity. That drop of balm
turns the bitter cup to a delicious nectar—

‘And vindicates the ways of God to man.’

CCCXIII. It is impossible to love entirely, without being loved again.
Otherwise, the fable of Pygmalion would have no meaning. Let any one be
ever so much enamoured of a woman who does not requite his passion, and
let him consider what he feels when he finds her scorn or indifference
turning to mutual regard, the thrill, the glow of rapture, the melting
of two hearts into one, the creation of another self in her—and he will
own that he was before only half in love!

CCCXIV. Women never reason, and therefore they are (comparatively)
seldom wrong. They judge instinctively of what falls under their
immediate observation or experience, and do not trouble themselves about
remote or doubtful consequences. If they make no profound discoveries,
they do not involve themselves in gross absurdities. It is only by the
help of reason and logical inference, according to Hobbes, that ‘man
becomes excellently wise, or excellently foolish.’[23]

CCCXV. Women are less cramped by circumstances or education than men.
They are more the creatures of nature and impulse, and less cast in the
mould of habit or prejudice. If a young man and woman in common life are
seen walking out together on a holiday, the girl has the advantage in
point of air and dress. She has a greater aptitude in catching external
accomplishments and the manners of her superiors, and is less depressed
by a painful consciousness of her situation in life. A Quaker girl is
often as sensible and conversable as any other woman: while a Quaker man
is a bundle of quaint opinions and conceit. Women are not spoiled by
education and an affectation of superior wisdom. They take their chance
for wit and shrewdness, and pick up their advantages, according to their
opportunities and turn of mind. Their faculties (such as they are) shoot
out freely and gracefully, like the slender trees in a forest; and are
not clipped and cut down, as the understandings of men are, into uncouth
shapes and distorted fancies, like yew-trees in an old-fashioned garden.
Women in short resemble self-taught men, with more pliancy and delicacy
of feeling.

CCCXVI. Women have as little imagination as they have reason. They are
pure egotists. They cannot go out of themselves. There is no instance of
a woman having done anything great in poetry or philosophy. They can act
tragedy, because this depends very much on the physical expression of
the passions—they can sing, for they have flexible throats and nice
ears—they can write romances about love—and talk for ever about nothing.

CCCXVII. Women are not philosophers or poets, patriots, moralists, or
politicians—they are simply women.

CCCXVIII. Women have a quicker sense of the ridiculous than men, because
they judge from immediate impressions, and do not wait for the
explanation that may be given of them.

CCCXIX. English Women have nothing to say on general subjects: French
Women talk equally well on them or any other. This may be obviously
accounted for from the circumstance that the two sexes associate much
more together in France than they do with us, so that the tone of
conversation in the women has become masculine, and that of the men
effeminate. The tone of apathy and indifference in France to the
weightier interests of reason and humanity is ascribable to the same
cause. Women have no speculative faculty or fortitude of mind, and
wherever they exercise a continual and paramount sway, all must be soon
laughed out of countenance, but the immediately intelligible and
agreeable—but the shewy in religion, the lax in morals, and the
superficial in philosophy.

CCCXX. The texture of women’s minds, as well as of their bodies, is
softer than that of men’s: but they have not the same strength of nerve,
of understanding, or of moral purpose.

CCCXXI. In France knowledge circulates quickly from the mere
communicativeness of the national disposition. Whatever is once
discovered, be it good or bad, is made no secret of; but is spread
quickly through all ranks and classes of society. Thought then runs
along the surface of the mind like an electrical fluid; while the
English understanding is a _non-conductor_ to it, and damps it with its
_torpedo_ touch.

CCCXXII. The French are fond of reading as well as of talking. You may
constantly see girls tending an apple-stall in the coldest day in
winter, and reading Voltaire or Racine. Such a thing was never known in
London as a barrow-woman reading Shakespear. Yet we talk of our
widespread civilisation, and ample provisions for the education of the
poor.

CCCXXIII. In comparing notes with the French, we cannot boast even of
our superior conceit; for in that too they have the advantage of us.

CCCXXIV. It is curious that the French, with all their vivacity and love
of external splendour, should tolerate nothing but their prosing,
didactic style of tragedy on the stage; and that with all their flutter
and levity they should combine the most laborious patience and minute
finishing in works of art. A French student will take several weeks to
complete a chalk drawing from a head of Leonardo da Vinci, which a dull,
plodding Englishman would strike off in as many hours.

CCCXXV. The Dutch perhaps finished their landscapes so carefully,
because there was a want of romantic and striking objects in them, so
that they could only be made interesting by the accuracy of the details.

CCCXXVI. An awkward Englishman has an advantage in going abroad. Instead
of having his deficiency more remarked, it is less so; for all
Englishmen are thought awkward alike. Any slip in politeness or
abruptness of address is attributed to an ignorance of foreign manners,
and you escape under the cover of the national character. Your behaviour
is no more criticised than your accent. They consider the barbarism of
either as a compliment to their own superior refinement.

CCCXXVII. The difference between minuteness and subtlety or refinement
seems to be this—that the one relates to the parts, and the other to the
whole. Thus, the accumulation of a number of distinct particulars in a
work, as the threads of a gold-laced buttonhole, or the hairs on the
chin in a portrait of Denner’s, is minute or high finishing: the giving
the gradations of tone in a sky of Claude’s from azure to gold, where
the distinction at each step is imperceptible, but the whole effect is
striking and grand, and can only be seized upon by the eye and taste, is
true refinement and delicacy.

CCCXXVIII. The _forte_ of the French is a certain facility and grace of
execution. The Germans, who are the opposite to them, are full of throes
and labour, and do everything by an overstrained and violent effort.

CCCXXIX. The conversation of a pedantic Scotchman is like a canal with a
great number of _locks_ in it.

CCCXXX. The most learned are often the most narrowminded men.

CCCXXXI. The insolence of the vulgar is in proportion to their
ignorance. They treat everything with contempt which they do not
understand.

CCCXXXII. Our contempt for others proves nothing but the illiberality
and narrowness of our own views. The English laugh at foreigners,
because, from their insular situation, they are unacquainted with the
manners and customs of the rest of the world.

CCCXXXIII. The true barbarian is he who thinks everything barbarous but
his own tastes and prejudices.

CCCXXXIV. The difference between the vanity of a Frenchman and an
Englishman seems to be this—the one thinks everything right that is
French, the other thinks everything wrong that is not English. The
Frenchman is satisfied with his own country; the Englishman is
determined to pick a quarrel with every other.

CCCXXXV. The national precedence between the English and Scotch may be
settled by this, that the Scotch are always asserting their superiority
over the English, while the English never say a word about their
superiority over the Scotch. The first have got together a great number
of facts and arguments in their own favour; the last never trouble their
heads about the matter, but have taken the point for granted as
self-evident.

CCCXXXVI. The great characteristic of the Scotch is that of all
semi-barbarous people,—namely, a hard defiance of other nations.

CCCXXXVII. Those who are tenacious on the score of their faults shew
that they have no virtues to bring as a set-off against them.

CCCXXXVIII. An Englishman in Scotland seems to be travelling in a
conquered country, from the suspicion and precautions he has to
encounter; and this is really the history of the case.

CCCXXXIX. We learn a great deal from coming into contact and collision
with individuals of other nations. The contrast of character and
feeling—the different points of view from which they see things—is an
admirable test of the truth or reasonableness of our opinions. Among
ourselves we take a number of things for granted, which, as soon as we
find ourselves among strangers, we are called upon to account for. With
those who think and feel differently from our habitual tone, we must
have a reason for the faith that is in us, or we shall not come off very
triumphantly. By this comparing of notes, by being questioned and
cross-examined, we discover how far we have taken up certain notions on
good grounds, or barely on trust. We also learn how much of our best
knowledge is built on a sort of acquired instinct, and how little we can
analyse those things that seem to most of us self-evident. He is no mean
philosopher who can give a reason for one half of what he thinks. It by
no means follows that our tastes or judgments are wrong, because we may
be at fault in an argument. A Scotchman and a Frenchman would differ
equally from an Englishman, but would run into contrary extremes. He
might not be able to make good his ground against the levity of the one
or the pertinacity of the other, and yet he might be right, for they
cannot both be so. By visiting different countries and conversing with
their inhabitants, we strike a balance between opposite prejudices, and
have an average of truth and nature left.

CCCXL. Strength of character as well as strength of understanding is one
of the guides that point the way to truth. By seeing the bias and
prejudices of others marked in a strong and decided manner, we are led
to detect our own—from laughing at their absurdities we begin to suspect
the soundness of our own conclusions, which we find to be just the
reverse of them. When I was in Scotland some time ago, I learnt most
from the person, whose opinions were, not most right (as I conceive) but
most Scotch. In this case, as in playing a game at bowls, you have only
to allow for a certain bias in order to hit the Jack: or, as in an
algebraic equation, you deduct so much for national character and
prejudice, which is a known or given quantity, and what remains is the
truth.

CCCXLI. We learn little from mere captious controversy, or the collision
of opinions, unless where there is this collision of character to
account for the difference, and remind one, by implication, where one’s
own weakness lies. In the latter case, it is a shrewd presumption that
inasmuch as others are wrong, so are we: for the widest breach in
argument is made by mutual prejudice.

CCCXLII. There are certain moulds of national character in which all our
opinions and feelings must be cast, or they are spurious and vitiated. A
Frenchman and an Englishman, a Scotchman and an Irishman, seldom reason
alike on any two points consecutively. It is vain to think of
reconciling these antipathies: they are something in the juices and the
blood. It is not possible for a Frenchman to admire Shakspeare, except
out of mere affectation: nor is it at all necessary that he should,
while he has authors of his own to admire. But then his not admiring
Shakspeare is no reason why we should not. The harm is not in the
natural variety of tastes and dispositions, but in setting up an
artificial standard of uniformity, which makes us dissatisfied with our
own opinions, unless we can make them universal, or impose them as a law
upon the world at large.

CCCXLIII. I had rather be a lord than a king. A lord is a private
gentleman of the first class, amenable only to himself. A king is a
servant of the public, dependent on opinion, a subject for history, and
liable to be ‘baited with the rabble’s curse.’ Such a situation is no
sinecure. Kings indeed were gentlemen, when their subjects were vassals,
and the world (instead of a stage on which they have to perform a
difficult and stubborn part) was a deer-park through which they ranged
at pleasure. But the case is altered of late, and it is better and has
more of the sense of personal dignity in it to come into possession of a
large old family estate and ‘ancestral’ groves, than to have a kingdom
to govern—or to lose.

CCCXLIV. The affectation of gentility by people without birth or fortune
is a very idle species of vanity. For those who are in middle or humble
life to aspire to be always seen in the company of the great is like the
ambition of a dwarf who should hire himself as an attendant to wait upon
a giant. But we find great numbers of this class—whose pride or vanity
seems to be sufficiently gratified by the admiration of the finery or
superiority of others, without any farther object. There are sycophants
who take a pride in being seen in the train of a great man, as there are
fops who delight to follow in the train of a beautiful woman (from a
mere impulse of admiration and excitement of the imagination) without
the smallest personal pretensions of their own.

CCCXLV. There is a double aristocracy of rank and letters, which is
hardly to be endured—_monstrum ingens, biforme_. A lord, who is a poet
as well, regards the House of Peers with contempt, as a set of dull
fellows; and he considers his brother authors as a Grub-street crew. A
king is hardly good enough for him to touch: a mere man of genius is no
better than a worm. He alone is all-accomplished. Such people should be
_sent to Coventry_; and they generally are so, through their
insufferable pride and self-sufficiency.

CCCXLVI. The great are fond of patronising men of genius, when they are
remarkable for personal insignificance, so that they can dandle them
like parroquets or lapdogs, or when they are distinguished by some
awkwardness which they can laugh at, or some meanness which they can
despise. They do not wish to encourage or shew their respect for wisdom
or virtue, but to witness the defects or ridiculous circumstances
accompanying these, that they may have an excuse for treating all
sterling pretensions with supercilious indifference. They seek at best
to be amused, not to be instructed. Truth is the greatest impertinence a
man can be guilty of in polite company; and players and buffoons are the
_beau ideal_ of men of wit and talents.

CCCXLVII. We do not see nature merely from looking at it. We fancy that
we see the whole of any object that is before us, because we know no
more of it than what we see. The rest escapes us, as a matter of course;
and we easily conclude that the idea in our minds and the image in
nature are one and the same. But in fact we only see a very small part
of nature, and make an imperfect abstraction of the infinite number of
particulars, which are always to be found in it as well as we can. Some
do this with more or less accuracy than others, according to habit or
natural genius. A painter, for instance, who has been working on a face
for several days, still finds out something new in it which he did not
notice before, and which he endeavours to give in order to make his copy
more perfect, which shews how little an ordinary and unpractised eye can
be supposed to comprehend the whole at a single glance. A young artist,
when he first begins to study from nature, soon makes an end of his
sketch, because he sees only a general outline and certain gross
distinctions and masses. As he proceeds, a new field opens to him;
differences crowd upon differences; and as his perceptions grow more
refined, he could employ whole days in working upon a single part,
without satisfying himself at last. No painter, after a life devoted to
the art and the greatest care and length of time given to a single study
of a head or other object, ever succeeded in it to his wish, or did not
leave something still to be done. The greatest artists that have ever
appeared are those who have been able to employ some one view or aspect
of nature, and no more. Thus Titian was famous for colouring; Raphael
for drawing; Correggio for the gradations, Rembrandt for the extremes of
light and shade. The combined genius and powers of observation of all
the great artists in the world would not be sufficient to convey the
whole of what is contained in any one object in nature; and yet the most
vulgar spectator thinks he sees the whole of what is before him, at once
and without any trouble at all.

CCCXLVIII. A copy is never so good as an original. This would not be the
case indeed, if great painters were in the habit of copying bad
pictures; but as the contrary practice holds, it follows that the
excellent parts of a fine picture must lose in the imitation, and the
indifferent parts will not be proportionally improved by anything
substituted at a venture for them.

CCCXLIX. The greatest painters are those who have combined the finest
general effect with the highest degree of delicacy and correctness of
detail. It is a mistake that the introduction of the parts interferes or
is incompatible with the effect of the whole. Both are to be found in
nature. The most finished works of the most renowned artists are also
the best.

CCCL. We are not weaned from a misplaced attachment by (at last)
discovering the unworthiness of the object. The character of a woman is
one thing; her graces and attractions another; and these last acquire
even an additional charm and piquancy from the disappointment we feel in
other respects. The truth is, a man in love prefers his passion to every
other consideration, and is fonder of his mistress than he is of virtue.
Should she prove vicious, she makes vice lovely in his eyes.

CCCLI. An accomplished coquet excites the passions of others, in
proportion as she feels none herself. Her forwardness allures, her
indifference irritates desire. She fans the flame that does not scorch
her own bosom; plays with men’s feelings, and studies the effect of her
several arts at leisure and unmoved.

CCCLII. Grace in women is the secret charm that draws the soul into its
circle, and binds a spell round it for ever. The reason of which is,
that habitual grace implies a continual sense of delight, of ease and
propriety, which nothing can interrupt, ever varying, and adapting
itself to all circumstances alike.

CCCLIII. Even among the most abandoned of the sex, there is generally
found to exist one strong and individual attachment, which remains
unshaken through all circumstances. Virtue steals like a guilty thing
into the secret haunts of vice and infamy, clings to their devoted
victim, and will not be driven quite away. Nothing can destroy the human
heart.

CCCLIV. There is a heroism in crime as well as in virtue. Vice and
infamy have their altars and their religion. This makes nothing in their
favour, but is a proud compliment to man’s nature. Whatever he is or
does, he cannot entirely efface the stamp of the Divinity on him. Let
him strive ever so, he cannot divest himself of his natural sublimity of
thought and affection, however he may pervert or deprave it to ill.

CCCLV. We judge of character too much from names and classes and modes
of life. It alters very little with circumstances. The theological
doctrines of _Original Sin_, of _Grace_, and _Election_, admit of a
moral and natural solution. Outward acts or events hardly reach the
inward disposition or fitness for good or evil. Humanity is to be met
with in a den of robbers, nay, modesty in a brothel. Nature prevails,
and vindicates its rights to the last.

CCCLVI. Women do not become abandoned with the mere loss of character.
They only discover the vicious propensities which they before were bound
to conceal. They do not (all at once) part with their virtue, but throw
aside the veil of affectation and prudery.

CCCLVII. It is enough to satisfy ambition to excel in some one thing. In
everything else, one would wish to be a common man. Those who aim at
every kind of distinction turn out mere pretenders and coxcombs. One of
the ancients has said that ‘the wisest and most accomplished man is like
the statues of the Gods placed against a wall—in front an Apollo or a
Mercury, behind a plain piece of marble.’

CCCLVIII. The want of money, according to the poet, has the effect of
making men ridiculous. It not only has this disadvantage with respect to
ourselves, but it often shews us others in a very contemptible point of
view. If we sink in the opinion of the world from adverse circumstances,
the world is apt to sink equally in ours. Poverty is the test of
civility and the touchstone of friendship.

CCCLIX. There are those who borrow money, in order to lend it again.
This is raising a character for generosity at an easy rate.

CCCLX. The secret of the difficulties of those people who make a great
deal of money, and yet are always in want of it, is this—they throw it
away as soon as they get it on the first whim or extravagance that
strikes them, and have nothing left to meet ordinary expenses or
discharge old debts.

CCCLXI. Those who have the habit of _being generous before they are
just_, fancy they are getting out of difficulties all their lives,
because it is in their power to do so whenever they will; and for this
reason they go on in the same way to the last, because the time never
comes for baulking their inclinations or breaking off a bad habit.

CCCLXII. It is a mistake that we court the society of the rich and the
great merely with a view to what we can obtain from them. We do so,
because there is something in external rank and splendour that gratifies
and imposes on the imagination, just as we prefer the company of those
who are in good health and spirits to that of the sickly and
hypochondriacal, or as we would rather converse with a beautiful woman
than with an ugly one.

CCCLXIII. Shakspeare says, ‘Men’s judgments are a parcel of their
fortunes.’ A person in depressed circumstances is not only not listened
to—he has not the spirit to say a good thing.

CCCLXIV. We _are_ very much what others _think of us_. The reception our
observations meet with, gives us courage to proceed or damps our
efforts. A man is a wit and a philosopher in one place, who dares not
open his mouth and is considered as a blockhead in another. In some
companies nothing will go down but coarse practical jests, while the
finest remark or sarcasm would be disregarded.

CCCLXV. Men of talent rise with their company, and are brought out by
the occasion. Coxcombs and pedants have no advantage but over the dull
and ignorant, with whom they talk on by rote.

CCCLXVI. In France or abroad one feels one’s self at a loss; but then
one has an excuse ready in an ignorance of the language. In Scotland
they speak the same language, but do not understand a word that you say.
One cannot get on in society, without ideas in common. To attempt to
convert strangers to your notions, or to alter their whole way of
thinking in a short stay among them, is indeed making a toil of a
pleasure, and enemies of those who may be inclined to be friends.

CCCLXVII. In some situations, if you say nothing you are called dull; if
you talk, you are thought impertinent or arrogant. It is hard to know
what to do in this case. The question seems to be whether your vanity or
your prudence predominates.

CCCLXVIII. One has sometimes no other way of escaping from a sense of
insignificance, but by offending the self-love of others. We should
recollect, however, that good manners are indispensable at all times and
places, whereas no one is bound to make a figure, at the expense of
propriety.

CCCLXIX. People sometimes complain that you do not talk, when they have
not given you an opportunity to utter a word for a whole evening. The
real ground of disappointment has been, that you have not shewn a
sufficient degree of attention to what they have said.

CCCLXX. I can listen with patience to the dullest or emptiest companion
in the world, if he does not require me to do anything more than listen.

CCCLXXI. Wit is the rarest quality to be met with among people of
education, and the most common among the uneducated.

CCCLXXII. Are we to infer from this, that wit is a vulgar faculty, or
that people of education are proportionably deficient in liveliness and
spirit?

CCCLXXIII. We seldom hear and seldomer make a witty remark. Yet we read
nothing else in Congreve’s plays.

CCCLXXIV. Those who object to wit are envious of it.

CCCLXXV. The persons who make the greatest outcry against bad puns, are
the very same who also find fault with good ones. A bad pun at least
generally leads to a wise remark—_that it is a bad one_.

CCCLXXVI. A grave blockhead should always go about with a lively
one—they shew one another off to the best advantage.

CCCLXXVII. A lively blockhead in company is a public benefit. Silence or
dullness by the side of folly looks like wisdom.

CCCLXXVIII. It is not easy to write essays like Montaigne, nor Maxims in
the manner of the Duke de la Rochefoucault.

CCCLXXIX. The most perfect style of writing may be that which treats
strictly and methodically of a given subject; the most amusing (if not
the most instructive) is that, which mixes up the personal character of
the author with general reflections.

CCCLXXX. The seat of knowledge is in the head; of wisdom, in the heart.
We are sure to judge wrong, if we do not feel right.

CCCLXXXI. He who exercises a constant independence of spirit, and yet
seldom gives offence by the freedom of his opinions, may be presumed to
have a well-regulated mind.

CCCLXXXII. There are those who never offend by never speaking their
minds; as there are others who blurt out a thousand exceptionable things
without intending it, and because they are actuated by no feelings of
personal enmity towards any one.

CCCLXXXIII. Cowardice is not synonymous with prudence. It often happens
that the better part of discretion is valour.

CCCLXXXIV. Mental cowards are afraid of expressing a strong opinion, or
of striking hard, lest the blow should be retaliated. They throw
themselves on the forbearance of their antagonists, and hope for
impunity in their insignificance.

CCCLXXXV. No one ever gained a good word from friend or foe, from man or
woman, by want of spirit. The public know how to distinguish between a
contempt for themselves and the fear of an adversary.

CCCLXXXVI. Never be afraid of attacking a bully.

CCCLXXXVII. An honest man speaks truth, _though_ it may give offence; a
vain man, _in order that_ it may.

CCCLXXXVIII. Those only deserve a monument who do not need one; that is,
who have raised themselves a monument in the minds and memories of men.

CCCLXXXIX. Fame is the inheritance not of the dead, but of the living.
It is we who look back with lofty pride to the great names of antiquity,
who drink of that flood of glory as of a river, and refresh our wings in
it for future flight.

CCCXC. The inhabitant of a metropolis is apt to think this circumstance
alone gives him a decided superiority over every one else, and does not
improve that natural advantage so much as he ought.

CCCXCI. A true-bred _cockney_ fancies his having been born in London is
a receipt in full for every other species of merit. He belongs, in his
own opinion, to a _privileged class_.

CCCXCII. The number of objects we see from living in a large city amuses
the mind like a perpetual raree-show, without supplying it with any
ideas. The understanding thus becomes habitually mechanical and
superficial.

CCCXCIII. In proportion to the number of persons we see, we forget that
we know less of mankind.

CCCXCIV. Pertness and conceit are the characteristics of a true
_cockney_. He feels little respect for the greatest things, from the
opportunity of seeing them often and without trouble; and at the same
time he entertains a high opinion of himself from his familiarity with
them. He who has seen all the great actors, the great public characters,
the chief public buildings, and the other wonders of the metropolis,
thinks less of them from this circumstance; but conceives a prodigious
contempt for all those who have not seen what he has.

CCCXCV. The confined air of a metropolis is hurtful to the minds and
bodies of those who have never lived out of it. It is impure,
stagnant—without breathing-space to allow a larger view of ourselves or
others—and gives birth to a puny, sickly, unwholesome, and degenerate
race of beings.

CCCXCVI. Those who, from a constant change and dissipation of outward
objects have not a moment’s leisure left for their own thoughts, can
feel no respect for themselves, and learn little consideration for
humanity.

CCCXCVII. Profound hypocrisy is inconsistent with vanity: for the last
would betray our designs by some premature triumph. Indeed, vanity
implies a sympathy with others, and consummate hypocrisy is built on a
total want of it.

CCCXCVIII. A hypocrite despises those whom he deceives, but has no
respect for himself. He would make a dupe of himself too, if he could.

CCCXCIX. There is a degree of selfishness so complete, that it does not
feel the natural emotions of resentment, contempt, &c. against those who
have done all they could to provoke them. Everything but itself is a
matter of perfect indifference to it. It feels towards others no more
than if they were of a different species; and inflicts torture or
imparts delight, itself unmoved and immovable.

CCCC. Egotism is an infirmity that perpetually grows upon a man, till at
last he cannot bear to think of anything but himself, or even to suppose
that others do.

CCCCI. He will never have true friends who is afraid of making enemies.

CCCCII. The way to procure insults is to submit to them. A man meets
with no more respect than he exacts.

CCCCIII. What puts the baseness of mankind in the strongest point of
view is, that they avoid those who are in misfortune, instead of
countenancing or assisting them. They anticipate the increased demand on
their sympathy or bounty, and escape from it as from a falling house.

CCCCIV. Death puts an end to rivalship and competition. The dead can
boast no advantage over us; nor can we triumph over them.

CCCCV. We judge of an author by the quality, not the quantity, of his
productions. Unless we add as much to our reputation by a second attempt
as we did by our first, we disappoint expectation, and lose ground with
the public. Those therefore who have done the least have often the
greatest reputation. The author of Waverley has not risen in public
estimation by the extreme voluminousness of his writings: for it seems
as if that which is done so continually could not be very difficult to
do, and that there is some trick or _knack_ in it. The miracle ceases
with the repetition! The _Pleasures of Hope_ and the _Pleasures of
Memory_, on the contrary, stand alone and increase in value, because
they seem unrivalled and inimitable, even by the authors themselves. An
economy of expenditure is the way to grow rich in fame, as well as in
other pursuits.

CCCCVI. It is better to drink of deep griefs than to taste shallow
pleasures.

CCCCVII. Those who can command themselves, command others.

CCCCVIII. A surfeit of admiration or friendship often ends in an
indifference worse than hatred or contempt. It is not a lively
perception of faults, but a sickly distaste to the very idea of the
persons formerly esteemed, a palling of the imagination, or a conscious
inertness and inability to revive certain feelings—a state from which
the mind shrinks with greater repugnance than from any other.

CCCCIX. The last pleasure in life is the sense of discharging our duty.

CCCCX. Those people who are fond of giving trouble like to take it; just
as those who pay no attention to the comforts of others, are generally
indifferent to their own. We are governed by sympathy; and the extent of
our sympathy is determined by that of our sensibility.

CCCCXI. No one is idle, who can do anything.

CCCCXII. Friendship is cemented by interest, vanity, or the want of
amusement: it seldom implies esteem, or even mutual regard.

CCCCXIII. Some persons make promises for the pleasure of breaking them.

CCCCXIV. Praise is no match for blame and obloquy. For, were the scales
even, the malice of mankind would throw in the casting-weight.

CCCCXV. The safest kind of praise is to foretell that another will
become great in some particular way. It has the greatest shew of
magnanimity, and the least of it in reality. We are not jealous of
dormant merit, which nobody recognises but ourselves, and which in
proportion as it developes itself, demonstrates our sagacity. If our
prediction fails, it is forgotten; and if it proves true, we may then
set up for prophets.

CCCCXVI. Men of genius do not excel in any profession because they
labour in it, but they labour in it, because they excel.

CCCCXVII. Vice is man’s nature: virtue is a habit—or a mask.

CCCCXVIII. The foregoing maxim shews the difference between truth and
sarcasm.

CCCCXIX. Exalted station precludes even the exercise of natural
affection, much more of common humanity.

CCCCXX. We for the most part strive to regulate our actions, not so much
by conscience or reason, as by the opinion of the world. But _by the
world_ we mean those who entertain an opinion about us. Now, this circle
varies exceedingly, but never expresses more than a part. In senates, in
camps, in town, in country, in courts, in a prison, a man’s vices and
virtues are weighed in a separate scale by those who know him, and who
have similar feelings and pursuits. We care about no other opinion.
There is a moral horizon which bounds our view, and beyond which the
rest is air. The public is divided into a number of distinct
jurisdictions for different claims; and posterity is but a name, even to
those who sometimes dream of it.

CCCCXXI. We can bear to be deprived of everything but our self-conceit.

CCCCXXII. Those who are fond of setting things to rights, have no great
objection to seeing them wrong. There is often a good deal of spleen at
the bottom of benevolence.

CCCCXXIII. The reputation of science which ought to be the most lasting,
as synonymous with truth, is often the least so. One discovery
supersedes another; and the progress of light throws the past into
obscurity. What has become of the Blacks, the Lavoisiers, the
Priestleys, in chemistry? In political economy, Adam Smith is laid on
the shelf, and Davenant and De Witt have given place to the Says, the
Ricardos, the Malthuses, and the Macullochs. These persons are happy in
one respect—they have a sovereign contempt for all who have gone before
them, and never dream of those who are to come after them and usurp
their place. When any set of men think theirs the only science worth
studying, and themselves the only infallible persons in it, it is a sign
how frail the traces are of past excellence in it, and how little
connection it has with the general affairs of human life. In proportion
to the profundity of any inquiry, is its futility. The most important
and lasting truths are the most obvious ones. Nature cheats us with her
mysteries, one after another, like a juggler with his tricks; but shews
us her plain honest face, without our paying for it. The understanding
only blunders more or less in trying to find out what things are in
themselves: the heart judges at once of its own feelings and
impressions; and these are true and the same.

CCCCXXIV. Scholastic divinity was of use in its day, by affording
exercise to the mind of man. Astrology, and the finding-out the
philosopher’s stone, answered the same purpose. If we had not something
to doubt, to dispute and quarrel about, we should be at a loss what to
do with our time.

CCCCXXV. The multitude who require to be led, still hate their leaders.

CCCCXXVI. It has been said that any man may have any woman.

CCCCXXVII. Many people are infatuated with ill-success, and reduced to
despair by a lucky turn in their favour. While all goes well, they are
_like fish out of water_. They have no confidence or sympathy with their
good fortune, and look upon it as a momentary delusion. Let a doubt be
thrown on the question, and they begin to be full of lively
apprehensions again; let all their hopes vanish, and they feel
themselves on firm ground once more. From want of spirit or of habit,
their imaginations cannot rise from the low ground of humility, cannot
reflect the gay, flaunting colours of the rainbow, flag and droop into
despondency, and can neither indulge the expectation, nor employ the
means of success. Even when it is within their reach, they dare not lay
hands upon it, and shrink from unlooked-for prosperity, as something of
which they are ashamed and unworthy. The class of _croakers_ here spoken
of are less delighted at other people’s misfortunes than at their own.
Querulous complaints and anticipations of failure are the food on which
they live, and they at last acquire a passion for that which is the
favourite subject of their thoughts and conversation.

CCCCXXVIII. There are some persons who never succeed, from being too
indolent to undertake anything; and others who regularly fail, because
the instant they find success in their power, they grow indifferent, and
give over the attempt.

CCCCXXIX. To be remembered after we are dead, is but a poor recompense
for being treated with contempt while we are living.

CCCCXXX. Mankind are so ready to bestow their admiration on the dead,
because the latter do not hear it, or because it gives no pleasure to
the objects of it. Even fame is the offspring of envy.

CCCCXXXI. Truth is not one, but many; and an observation may be true in
itself that contradicts another equally true, according to the point of
view from which we contemplate the subject.

CCCCXXXII. Much intellect is not an advantage in courtship. General
topics interfere with particular attentions. A man, to be successful in
love, should think only of himself and his mistress. Rochefoucault
observes that lovers are never tired of each other’s company, because
they are always talking of themselves.

CCCCXXXIII. The best kind of oratory or argument is not that which is
most likely to succeed with any particular person. In the latter case,
we must avail ourselves of our knowledge of individual circumstances and
character: in the former, we must be guided by general rules and
calculations.

CCCCXXXIV. The picture of the Misers, by Quintin Matsys, seems to
proceed upon a wrong idea. It represents two persons of this description
engaged and delighted with the mutual contemplation of their wealth. But
avarice is not a social passion; and the true miser should retire into
his cell to gloat over his treasures alone, without sympathy or
observation.

The End.

NOTES

MEMOIRS OF THOMAS HOLCROFT

The chief source of information respecting the life of Thomas Holcroft
(1745–1809) is the _Life_ here printed. A brief résumé of dates may not,
however, be useless. He was born in London, December 10, 1745 (o.s.).
After wandering with his father, who was in turn shoemaker, horse-dealer
and pedlar, he was apprenticed at the age of thirteen as a stableboy at
Newmarket. He returned to London when he was sixteen, and his next years
were spent as shoemaker, school-master and strolling player. He turned
dramatist, and his first piece, _The Crisis, or Love and Famine_, was
acted on May 1, 1778, for a single performance. He turned author, and in
1780 his first novel, _Alwyn, or the Gentleman Comedian_, was published.
These were followed by other novels and many plays, the best known of
which is _The Road to Ruin_ (Covent Garden, February 18, 1792). In 1783
he went abroad in the interests of journalism, and busied himself with
sundry translations (_e.g._ _Le Mariage de Figaro_, by Beaumarchais,
which was successful at Covent Garden, December 14, 1784, as _The
Follies of a Day_). He did not escape the political troubles of his
time, and, on October 7, 1794, he was sent to Newgate to await his trial
for high-treason: he was discharged, however, without being tried, on
December 1. The remaining years of his life were spent in unfortunate
business speculations (chiefly picture-buying) and literary adventures
in England and abroad: they were years of constant struggle against
poverty and adverse fate. He died on March 23, 1809, and lies buried in
Marylebone Parish Cemetery. He married four times.

There does not seem much reason for the abbreviation of the names of
people mentioned in Holcroft’s ‘Memoirs,’ since they are rarely the
subject of scandal. (See, however, with respect to the Diary, a letter
from Wm. Godwin to Mrs. Holcroft, given in C. Kegan Paul’s ‘William
Godwin,’ vol. ii. pp. 176–77, and Hazlitt’s remarks on p. 169 of the
‘Memoirs.’) Capitals were evidently used for the sake of shortness; in
some cases it is easy to identify from the context the persons
indicated; in others, less so, and, where possible, the identification
is made in the Notes. In some few cases it has not been possible to
state definitely the person meant.

In addition to the works mentioned in the text Holcroft seems also to
have translated Count Stolberg’s ‘Travels through Germany, Switzerland,
Italy and Sicily’ (1796), ‘The Life of Baron Trenck’ (1792), Goethe’s
‘Hermann and Dorothea’ (1801), ‘Sacred Dramas’ by the Countess de Genlis
(1786).

In a letter from Mary Lamb to Mrs. Hazlitt (Nov. 30, 1810, ‘Memoirs of
Hazlitt,’ vol. i. p. 179), in speaking of Hazlitt’s ‘Memoirs of
Holcroft,’ she calls the book the ‘Life Everlasting.’

PAGE

1. _Orange Court, Leicester Fields_, known later as Orange Street,
Leicester Square.

2. _History of Parismus and Parismenos._ A romance of Bohemia (1598)
by Emanuel Ford (fl. 1607).

_Seven Champions of Christendom._ By Richard Johnson (1573–1659?)
Published 1596–97.

4. _Chapman’s Books_, _i.e._ books sold by chapmen or pedlars.

6. Note. _Hugh Trevor._ ‘The Adventures of Hugh Trevor,’ London,
1794–97, 6 vols. See p. 136.

10. _the feast of reason._ Pope, Hor. Bk. II. Sat. 1.

18. _the great vulgar and the small._ Cowley, Hor. Od. III. 1.

19. _spell and null._ A game of ball. The ball (= nur) is released by
a spring from a cup at the end of a piece of steel (= spell).
The object is to strike it, when released, as far as possible.

_bandy._ A game similar to hockey.

_prison-bars._ A game of speed in running from goals or bases.

22. _Childers._ 1715. He was one of the fleetest horses ever known,
and was never beaten.

_Careless._ 1751. Was bred by John Borlace Warren of Stapleford,
Notts. He seems to have been beaten in 1758 by Atlas at
Huntingdon. In 1760 he beat the Duke of Devonshire’s Atlas at
York, but previously, in 1759, he had suffered another defeat
from Atlas at Newmarket.

24. _Mr Woodcock._ Holcroft’s father could hardly have applied to a
better person. John Woodcock was chosen by Mr Jenison Shafto in
1761 to ride a match for him on the following conditions: to
ride a hundred miles a day on any one horse each day for
twenty-nine successive days on any number of horses not
exceeding twenty-nine. He began on Newmarket Heath, May 4, 1761,
at one o’clock in the morning, and won the sum staked, two
thousand guineas, for his master on the 1st of June, at six
o’clock in the evening, having ridden on only fourteen horses.
One day he rode a hundred and sixty miles owing to his first
horse having tired when sixty miles only had been accomplished.
See Whyte’s ‘History of the British Turf,’ vol. i. p. 513.

25. _Tim Bobbin’s Lancashire dialect._ By John Collier (1708–1786). A
popular humorous work in dialogue and dialect (1746).

35. _chuck-farthing._ A game in which coins are thrown into a prepared
hole.

_bones, sinews, and thews._ ‘Heart, sinews, and bones.’—‘Troilus
and Cressida,’ v. 8.

42. _Death and the Lady._ See Bell’s ‘Early Ballads and Ballads of the
Peasantry’ (1877), p. 252.

_Margaret’s Ghost._ ‘William and Margaret’ (1724), by David Mallet
(?1705–1765). See also Bell’s ‘Early Ballads,’ 1877, p. 120.

_King Charles’s golden rules._ Twelve pithy ‘Table Observations,’
probably of seventeenth century origin. See ‘Notes and Queries,’
March 7 and 14, 1863, Jan. 13, 1872. Cf. Goldsmith’s ‘The
Deserted Village,’ l. 232.

43. _The Whole Duty of Man._ 1659. Authorship unknown.

_Horneck’s Crucified Jesus._ 1686. Anthony Horneck (1641–1697).

_The Life of Francis Spira._ Possibly ‘A Relation of the fearful
estate of Francis Spira after he turned apostate from the
Protestant Religion to Popery.’ By N. Bacon, 1637 and many later
editions.

56. _Mr Granville Sharpe._ G. Sharp, the abolitionist (1735–1813).

_one Macklin._ Charles Macklin (?1697–1797). ‘Man of the World’
(1781). For particulars of further well-known actors referred to
in the ‘Memoirs of Thomas Holcroft,’ see Notes to Hazlitt’s ‘A
View of the English Stage,’ present edition.

59. _Mr Foote._ Samuel Foote (1720–1777).

_Pierre and Jaffier._ In ‘Venice Preserved’ (1681–82), by Thomas
Otway (1652–1685).

_Lothario._ In ‘The Fair Penitent’ (1703), by Nicholas Rowe
(1674–1718).

_as Nic. Bottom says_. ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ 1, 2.

63. _Mossop._ Henry Mossop (?1729–?1774) opened Smock Alley Theatre in
1760.

66. _Downing or Dunning._ ? George Downing (d. 1780), who wrote the
comedy, ‘Newmarket, or The Humours of the Turf’ (1763).

67. _lamb’s wool._ A drink made of ale, nutmeg, sugar and roasted
apples.

70. _Clementi._ Muzio Clementi (1752–1832), the father of pianoforte
music.

Note. _the Spoiled Child._ 1790. Ascribed to Isaac Bickerstaffe
(d. 1812?).

Note. _The Road to Ruin._ See p. 121, and note thereto.

71. _Duke’s Place._ Aldgate. A Jewish quarter since 1650.

72. _the part of Bardolph_, and the two following quotations. ‘I King
Henry IV.’ II. 4, and III. 1.

75. _Dr. Last in his Chariot._ 1769. By Bickerstaffe.

76. _Weston._ Thomas Weston (1737–1776).

Note. _the Theatrical Recorder._ A monthly publication, conducted
by Holcroft for 2 vols. (1805–6).

Note. _Jerry Sneak._ In Foote’s ‘The Mayor of Garratt’ (1763).

_Abel Drugger._ In Ben Jonson’s ‘The Alchemist’ (1610).

_Scrub._ In ‘The Beaux’ Stratagem’ (1707), by George
Farquhar (1678–1707).

_Sharp._ In David Garrick’s ‘The Lying Valet’ (1741).

77. Note. _Bartholomew Fair._ A famous ground for shows and theatrical
exhibitions. The fair was held at West Smithfield from 1133 to
1855, and centred round the festival of St. Bartholomew, Aug.
24.

_Shuter._ Edward Shuter (?1728–1776).

_Mrs. Clive._ Catherine Clive (1711–1785).

_Kitty Pry._ In Garrick’s ‘The Lying Valet.’

_The reason has often been asked._ Cf. a similar passage in ‘The
Round Table,’

_On Actors and Acting_.

78. _Patie and Peggy._ In ‘The Gentle Shepherd’ (1725), by Allan
Ramsay (1686–1758).

_Mrs. Inchbald._ Elizabeth Inchbald (1753–1821), novelist,
dramatist and actress.

_the polygraphic art._ See p. 103.

79. _Bates’s company._ Joah Bates (1741–1799).

_Mr Shield._ William Shield, musical composer (1748–1829). He
wrote the music for ‘The Flitch of Bacon,’ the success of which
obtained for him the post of composer to Covent Garden Theatre;
and he composed many popular songs.

_Lowth’s Grammar._ ‘A Short Introduction to English Grammar’
(1762), by Robert Lowth (1710–1787).

_the character of Atticus._ Pope’s ‘Epis. to Arbuthnot.’

_Dance._ ? William Dance (1755–1840), one of the founders of the
Philharmonic Society.

_Miss Harrop._ Sarah Harrop (d. 1811). She married Joah Bates.

_the commemoration of Handel._ 1784.

_Bundle, in the Waterman._ 1774. By Charles Dibdin (1745–1814).

_Ritson ... the Treatise on Animal Food._ Joseph Ritson
(1752–1803), the antiquarian. ‘An Essay on Abstinence from
Animal Food as a Moral Duty’ (1802).

80. _the poet Cunningham._ John Cunningham (1729–1773), Irish poet and
strolling actor.

_Miss in her Teens._ 1747.

81. _Bensley._ Robert Bensley (?1738–?1817).

82. _there are in this very profession._ Cf. a similar passage in ‘The
Round Table,’

_On Actors and Acting_.

83. _I have oft be-dimm’d._ I have be-dimm’d, etc.—‘The Tempest,’ Act
v. 1.

_The Crisis._ May 1, 1778. Genest (‘Some Account of the English
Stage,’ vol. vi. p. 12) says it was acted for the benefit of the
Misses Hopkins. See p. 84.

_Kind Impostor._ ‘She Would and She Would Not, or the Kind
Impostor’ (1702), by Colley Cibber (1671–1757).

_Love in a Village._ 1762. By Bickerstaffe.

_Maid of the Mill._ 1765. By Bickerstaffe.

_School for Wives._ 1773. By Hugh Kelly (1739–1777).

_Faithless Lover._ The Fashionable Lover (1772). By Richard
Cumberland (1732–1811).

_Brothers._ 1769. By Cumberland.

_West Indian._ 1771. By Cumberland.

_Lionel and Clarissa._ 1768. By Bickerstaffe.

84. _Mr Greville._ Richard Fulke Greville, author of ‘Maxims,
Characters, and Reflections’ (1756), and grandfather of the
diarists, Charles and Henry Greville. See ‘The Early Diary of
Frances Burney’ (ed. Annie Raine Ellis, 2 vols., 1889), and
Boswell’s _Life_ (ed. G. B. Hill, iv. 304). Mrs. Greville
(Frances Macartney) was Fanny Burney’s godmother. She and her
daughter (Mrs., afterwards Lady, Crewe) were ‘the two greatest
beauties in England.’ ‘Early Diary,’ etc., 1. p. 23.

_the part of Mungo._ In ‘The Padlock’ (1768), by Bickerstaffe.

_Love for Love._ 1695. By Congreve.

_Mawworm._ In ‘The Hypocrite’ (1768), a comedy by Bickerstaffe,
based (through Cibber’s ‘Nonjuror’) on Molière’s ‘Tartuffe.’

85. _Who’s the Dupe?_ 1779. By Mrs. Hannah Cowley (1743–1809).

_The Flitch of Bacon._ 1778. Composed by Henry Bate, afterwards
the Rev. Sir Henry Bate Dudley (1745–1824), with music by
Shield. For Bate, see Boswell (ed. G. B. Hill), iv. 296.

_the Camp._ 1778. By Richard Tickell (1751–1793).

86. _the Shepherdess of the Alps._ Covent Garden, Jan. 18, 1780.

_Mr Arne._ Michael Arne (1741?–1786).

87. _Mr King._ Thomas King (1730–1805), actor and dramatist, was
three-fourths owner of Sadlers Wells Theatre, 1771–78.

_The Noble Peasant._ Aug. 2, 1784.

_Elegy on his Death._ ‘On the death of S. Foote, Esq.,’ and ‘On
Age’ (1777).

_Bath Easton Vase._ ‘Lady Miller’s collection of verses by
fashionable people, which were put into her Vase at Batheaston
Villa, near Bath, in competition for honorary prizes, being
mentioned, he held them very cheap: “_Boutsrimés_ (said he) is
a mere conceit, and an _old_ conceit _now_; I wonder how
people were persuaded to write in that manner for this
lady.”’—Boswell’s

_Life of Johnson_ (ed. G. B. Hill, ii. 336).

88. _White-Conduit House._ The tea-gardens formerly on the east side
of Penton Street, Pentonville, a resort of Goldsmith’s.

_Nan Catley._ Ann Catley (1745–1789).

89. _Duplicity._ Holcroft’s first comedy, Covent Garden, Oct. 13,
1781. See p. 100.

_P——._ James Perry (1756–1821) political writer and joint editor
and proprietor (with James Gray) of ‘The Morning Chronicle,’
‘the only constitutional paper,’ referred to on p. 94.

91. _Nicholson._ William Nicholson (1753–1815), writer on chemistry.

95. _Mrs. Whitelocke._ Mrs. Whitelocke (1761–1836) was a sister of
Mrs. Siddons. Her husband was part proprietor of the Newcastle
Theatre and of others in the North. She was an excellent
tragédienne, though her fame has been eclipsed by that of her
sister,

_his friend N——._ Nicholson.

98. _a pamphlet._ A Plain ... Narrative of the late Riots in London
... Westminster, and ... Southwark ... with an Account of the
Commitment of Lord G. Gordon to the Tower, etc.... By William
Vincent of Gray’s Inn (1780).

99. _Loughborough._ Alexander Wedderburn, 1st Baron Loughborough
(1733–1805), Lord Chancellor (1793–1801).

100. _Mr Harris._ Thomas Harris (d. 1820) was associated with Colman
and others in the proprietorship and management of Covent Garden
Theatre.

102. _King Arthur._ Probably Dryden’s (1691).

_Mr Linley._ Thomas Linley (1732–1795) was associated with
Sheridan in Drury Lane Theatre. He superintended the music.
Sheridan married his daughter Elizabeth Ann.

_Mr Wewitzer._ Ralph Wewitzer (1748–1825).

103. _Mr Colman._ George Colman (1732–1794) took over the Haymarket
from Foote in 1776.

104. _the Sceptic._ ‘Human Happiness, or the Sceptic,’ poem in six
cantos (1783).

_the Family Picture_, or Domestic Dialogues on Amiable Subjects
(1783), 2 vols.

_Prematur nonum in annum._

‘nonumque prematur in annum.’
Hor. De Arte Poet., 388.

Note. _Tales of the Castle_, or Stories of Instruction and
Delight, being Les Veillées du Chateau, written in French by
Madame la Comtesse de Genlis (1784). Translated into English
(1785). 5 vols. An eighth edition was published in 1806.

105. _Duchess of Devonshire._ The celebrated Georgiana (1757–1806), who
married in 1774 the 5th Duke of Devonshire.

106. _Mr John Rivington._ See Hazlitt’s note on p. 108. The publisher’s
(1720–1792) name was also John.

107. _Caroline of Litchfield._ Translated from the French of J. I. P.
de Bottens, Baroness de Montolieu.

_The Amours of Peter the Long._ ‘An Amourous Tale of the Chaste
Loves of Peter the Long and the History of the Lover’s Well.
Imitated from the original French’ (L. E. Billardson de
Sauvigny, 1786).

_Memoirs of De Tott._ ‘Memoirs of the Baron de Tott on the Turks
and Tartars. Translated from the French by an English Gentleman
at Paris, under the immediate inspection of the Baron’ (1785). 2
vols.

_Savary’s Travels in Egypt._ Nicholas Savary’s Letters on Egypt,
translated from the French (1786). 2 vols.

_An Account of the Manners and Treatment of Animals, by
D’Obsonville._ Philosophic Essays on the manners of various
foreign animals. By Foucher D’Obsonville (1784).

_the Robinsons._ George Robinson (1737–1801). His son and his
brother joined and succeeded him in his business as a
bookseller.

_Mercier._ Louis Sébastien Mercier (1740–1814), author of many
dramas. His ‘The Year 2500’ (2440 in French) was published in
1772. He was a supporter of the Revolution.

_Mr Bonneville._ Nicholas de Bonneville, a poet of the Revolution
(1760–1828) and a student of German literature. ‘Nouveau Théâtre
Allemand’ (12 vols.), 1782–5.

109. _The Connoisseurs._ Possibly a confusion for some other play of
Colman’s. ‘The Connoisseur’ was a journal of the ‘Spectator’
type, conducted by G. Colman and Bonnell Thornton, Jan. 31,
1754, to Sept. 30, 1756.

_Battle of Hexham._ 1789. By George Colman the younger
(1762–1836).

_The Mountaineers._ 1793. By Colman the younger.

_The Venetian Outlaw._ 1805. By Robert William Elliston
(1774–1831), comedian and dramatist.

Note. _The Man of Business._ 1774. By Colman the elder.

111. _Parsons._ Wm. Parsons (1736–1795).

_Edwin._ John Edwin the elder (1749–1790).

_The Choleric Fathers._ Nov. 10, 1785.

113. _The Follies of a Day._ Dec. 14, 1784. Published 1785.

_Mr Bonner._ Charles Bonnor (fl. 1777–1829?).

114. _M. Berquin._ Arnauld Berquin (1749–1791), a writer for children.

115. _Seduction._ March 12, Drury Lane.

_Les Liaisons Dangereux._ ‘Les Liaisons Dangereuses’ (1782), a
novel, by P. A. F. Ch. de Laclos (1741–1803).

_the King of Prussia’s works._ Posthumous works of Frederic II.,
King of Prussia (translated from the French) (1789), 13 vols.

_Essays of Lavater._ ‘Essays on Physiognomy; for the Promotion of
the Knowledge and Love of Mankind’ (1793), 3 vols.

116. _the German Hotel._ Nov. 11, 1790.

_The School for Arrogance._ Feb. 4, 1791, Covent Garden. ‘As
Holcroft imagined that Harris was prejudiced against him,
Marshall at first avowed himself as the author of the
piece.’—Genest, vol. vii. p. 27. The play was founded on ‘Le
Glorieux’ (1732) of Destouches (1680–1754).

121. _The Road to Ruin._ Covent Garden, Feb. 18, 1792. See ‘Lectures on
the English Comic Writers,’ viii. Some ‘Remarks’ signed ‘William
Hazlitt’ are prefixed to French’s (late Lacy’s) Acting Edition
of the play; see ‘Memoirs of Hazlitt,’ vol. ii. p. 272, for the
probable source of these ‘Remarks.’ They will be found in the
Notes to the volume of the present edition containing the bulk
of Hazlitt’s dramatic criticism.

122. _Lewis._ Wm. Thomas Lewis (1748?–1811).

_Castle Rackrent._ 1800. By Maria Edgeworth (1767–1849).

129. _‘A faultless monster, which the world ne’er saw.’_ From the
_Essay on Poetry_ of John Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham
(1648–1721).

_quod sic mihi ostendis, incredulus odi._ Hor. de Arte Poet., 188.

130. _ugly all over with affectation._ Cf. ‘He is ugly all over with
the affectation of the fine gentleman.’ Quoted by Steele from
Wycherley, _The Tatler_, No. 38.

‘A reasoning, self-sufficient [self-sufficing] thing.’—Wordsworth.
‘A Poet’s Epitaph.’ Poems: Sentiment, etc., viii.

_in so questionable a shape._ ‘In such a questionable
shape.’—Hamlet, I. 4.

133. _Mr Locke’s Essay._ The Essay was published in 1690.

136. _the very head and front of his offending._ Othello, I. 3.

139. _Mr Holcroft’s own ‘Narrative of Facts.’_ ‘A Narrative of Facts
relating to a Prosecution for High Treason, including the
Address to the Jury which the Court refused to hear; with
Letters to the Attorney-General ... and Vicary Gibbs, Esq., and
the Defence the Author had prepared if he had been brought to
trial’ (1795).

141. _the proclamation._ ‘For preventing seditious meetings and
writings.’

142. _Mr Reeves’s Association._ John Reeves (1752–1829), founder of the
Association for Preserving liberty and property against
Levellers and Republicans. He himself was prosecuted by order of
the House of Commons for a supposed libellous passage in
‘Thoughts on the English Government’ (1795), but acquitted.

142. _The late John Hunter._ Anatomist and surgeon (1728–1793).

145. _Hickes’s Hall._ Hicks Hall, formerly in St. John Street,
Clerkenwell. It was built in 1612 by Sir Baptist Hicks as a
sessions house, and abandoned in 1779. The milestones on the
Great North Road were measured from here.

146. _Lord Chief Justice Eyre._ Sir James Eyre (1734–1799),
Chief-Justice of the Common Pleas.

_Attorney-General._ Sir John Scott, Attorney-General, afterwards
Lord Eldon, was Counsel for the prosecution.

147. _Erskine._ Thomas Erskine (1750–1823), advocate and Lord
Chancellor. He eloquently defended many prosecuted for political
offences in 1793–4.

_Gibbs._ Vicary Gibbs (1751–1820), afterwards Sir Vicary
Gibbs, otherwise ‘Vinegar Gibbs’ from his caustic manner,
Attorney-General (1807–1812), and Chief-Justice of the
Common Pleas (1814–1818). He was a shrewd and learned lawyer
and had been complimented by the Attorney-General on his
successful defence of Thomas Hardy and Horne Tooke.

_Mr Munden._ Joseph Shepherd Munden (1758–1832), comic actor. He
was a favourite actor for the part of Dornton in ‘The Road to
Ruin.’ See Lamb’s ‘Elia,’ ed. Ainger, p. 201, ‘On the Acting of
Munden.’

149. _‘an acquitted felon.’_ A phrase of Windham’s. William Windham
(1750–1810) was a member of Pitt’s government, and heartily
supported measures for the repression of ‘sedition.’

151. _Thomas Hardy_ (1752–1832), radical politician. He was brought to
trial for high treason, Oct. 28, 1794, and found not guilty on
Nov. 5.

_the trial of Mr Tooke._ John Horne Tooke (1736–1812) had been
acquitted on Nov. 22, 1794.

_Mr Kyd, etc._ Stewart Kyd (d. 1811), political and legal writer.
Jeremiah Joyce (1763–1816), miscellaneous writer. He was tutor
to the sons of Lord Stanhope, at whose house, Chevening, Kent,
May 4, 1794, he was arrested for treason. See Note to p. 222.

152. _Sharp._ William Sharp (1749–1824), engraver, republican and
enthusiast. See p. 226.

_Mr Symmonds._ H. D. Symmonds, of 20 Paternoster Row, publisher of
Holcroft’s ‘Narrative of Facts’ and ‘Letter to Mr Windham.’

153. _Mr Thelwall’s lectures._ John Thelwall (1764–1834), reformer,
disseminated political views by means of lectures on Roman
history. Later, he was a popular lecturer on elocution.

154. Note. _The Borough of Gatton._ A ‘pocket-borough’ between Merstham
and Reigate, Surrey.

156. _Letter to Mr Windham._ ‘A Letter to the Right Hon. W. Windham on
the intemperance and dangerous tendency of his public conduct’
(1795).

158. _Dundas._ Henry Dundas, 1st Viscount Melville (1742–1811), a
trusted friend of Pitt’s, and a member of his government. He
practically ruled Scotland for thirty years. Cf. Cockburn’s
‘Life of Francis Jeffrey,’ pp. 74, _et seq._, and Sir H. Craik’s
‘A Century of Scottish History,’ vol. ii. p. 91.

159. _‘Love’s Frailties,’_ or Precept against Practice. Feb. 5.

_‘The Deserted Daughter.’_ May 2. Owing to the political prejudice
against Holcroft many of his plays appeared under assumed names
or anonymously.

_‘The Man of Ten Thousand.’_ Jan. 23.

_‘The Force of Ridicule.’_ Dec. 6, 1796.

_‘Knave or Not.’_ Jan. 25.

_‘He’s much to blame.’_ Feb. 13, 1798. See p. 190.

160. _Bannister._ John Bannister (1760–1836).

_Miss Farren._ Elizabeth Farren (1759?–1829), actress and, later,
Countess of Derby.

162. _the tragedy of Cato._ 1713. By Addison.

_Miss Jordan._ Dorothea Jordan (1762–1816).

_o’erstepping the modesty of nature._ Hamlet, III. 2.

163. _the Clavigo of Goethe._ 1774.

_‘The Inquisitor.’_ June 23, 1798.

_‘The Old Clothesman.’_ 1799 (music by Thomas Attwood, 1765–1838).
Genest (vol. vii. p. 434) speaks of its being acted a second
time on April 3.

163. _Mr Godwin._ Wm. Godwin (1756–1836). Mr Kegan Paul’s ‘William
Godwin, His Friends and Contemporaries’ (1876) contains many of
Holcroft’s letters, and much of interest to readers of the
‘Memoirs.’ It seems to have been at Godwin’s house, Holcroft and
Coleridge also present, that Hazlitt first met Lamb. See
‘Memoirs of Hazlitt,’ vol. i. p. 126.

_Political Justice._ ‘Enquiry concerning Political Justice and its
influence on Morals and Happiness’ (1793).

_Griffiths._ Ralph Griffiths (1720–1803), LL.D., founder,
proprietor and publisher of ‘The Monthly Review.’

164. _the Review of Mr Malthus’s publication._ The ‘Essay on the
Principle of Population’ (Thomas Robert Malthus, 1766–1834) was
published in 1798.

_Colonel Harwood._ ? Col. Harwood, nephew of William Tooke, Horne
Tooke’s friend.

165. _the Fratres Poloni._ Polonorum Fratrum Bibliotheca quos Unitarios
vocant, etc., 1656, 5 vols. folio. See ‘Memoirs of Hazlitt,’
vol. i. p. 33.

_the original picture of Sion House, painted by Wilson._ ‘A view
of Sion House from Richmond Gardens’ (1776), by Richard Wilson
(1714–1782), one of the greatest of English landscape painters.

166. _Gresset._ Jean Baptiste Louis Gresset (1709–1777), French poet
and dramatist.

167. _prison-bars._ See note to p. 19.

169. _Mr and Mrs. Opie._ John Opie (1761–1807), historical painter. One
of his portraits of Holcroft forms the frontispiece to the
present volume. His wife, Amelia, was a writer of ability.

_Debrett’s._ The shop of John Debrett (d. 1822), opposite
Burlington House, Piccadilly, a Whig resort.

_R. Ad——._ Sir Robert Adair (1763–1855), the friend of Charles
James Fox.

_Lord Fitz——._ William Wentworth, 2nd Earl Fitzwilliam
(1748–1833).

_D—— P——._ William Henry Cavendish Bentinck, 3rd Duke of Portland
(1738–1809).

_Professor Porson._ Richard Porson (1759–1808), Greek scholar and
critic.

_Middleton’s preface._ Conyers Middleton’s (1683–1750) ‘History of
the Life of M. Tullius Cicero’ (1741). A book which enjoyed a
great reputation, and which reached a fourth edition in 1750.

170. _the letters to Travis._ ‘Letters to Mr Archdeacon Travis [George,
1741– 1797] in answer to his Defence of the three heavenly
witnesses’ [1 John v. 7], published by Porson in ‘The
Gentleman’s Magazine,’ 1788–89, and in a volume in 1790;
described by Gibbon as ‘the most acute and accurate piece of
criticism since the days of Bentley.’

_the Minor._ 1760. By Foote.

_Pennant’s tour in Scotland._ Thomas Pennant’s (1726–1798) ‘Tours
in Scotland’ were published in 1771–75. ‘He’s a _Whig_, Sir; a
_sad dog_ ... but he’s the best traveller I ever read.’—Johnson.
See Boswell’s Life (ed. G. B. Hill), iii. 274.

_Carlisle._ Sir Anthony Carlisle (1768–1840), comparative
anatomist, who was associated in 1800 with Holcroft’s friend
Nicholson in his electrical researches.

_Mr Waldron._ Francis Godolphin Waldron (1744–1818), writer and
actor.

171. _Perry._ See note to p. 89. Perry was sent to Newgate by the House
of Lords, 22nd March 1798, for three months, and fined £50, for
a ‘libel’ on that assembly.

_Wakefield’s pamphlet._ Gilbert Wakefield (1756–1801),
pamphleteer, scholar, and critic, was sentenced to two years’
imprisonment, in May 1799, for remarks in a pamphlet addressed
to the Bishop of Llandaff. His publisher (Cuthell) and printer
were also convicted. Erskine defended Cuthell, whose punishment
was remitted. See also p. 202.

And Note. _Mr Fawcett._ Dissenting minister and poet (?1758–1804).
Mrs. Siddons and the Kembles were often amongst his listeners.
‘The Art of War’ was published in 1795. See ‘Memoirs of
Hazlitt,’ vol. i. pp. 75–79, for a collection of Hazlitt’s
notices of Mr Fawcett. See also sundry references to him in ‘The
Spirit of the Age.’ Godwin says: ‘The four principal oral
instructors to whom I feel my mind indebted for improvement were
Joseph Fawcet, Thomas Holcroft, George Dyson, and Samuel Taylor
Coleridge’ (Kegan Paul’s ‘Godwin,’ i. p. 17).

172. _Lord Townshend._ George, 4th Viscount and 1st Marquis
(1724–1807).

_St. John._ ? John St. John (1746–1793), dramatist and M.P.

_Bower’s Life of Pope Alexander the Sixth._ Probably Archibald
Bower’s (1686–1766) ‘History of the Popes,’ the first volume of
which was published in 1748, and the sixth and seventh just
before his death.

173. _‘First Elements.’_ ‘Elements of Natural History and Chemistry’
(1788) and Chaptal’s ‘Elements’ (1795), both translations or
adaptations.

_Fenwick’s publication._ A pamphlet on behalf of the Rev. James
O’Coigly. The ‘late trial’ would be that of Arthur (referred to
on the next page) O’Connor (1763–1852) and Coigly at Maidstone
for high treason. Coigly was found guilty on May 22, 1798, and
executed on June 7. Although O’Connor was found Not Guilty, he
was not liberated until 1803. See also Note to p. 186.

174. _Mr Stodart._ Sir John Stoddart (1773–1856), whose only sister,
Sarah, married W. Hazlitt.

_Mrs. Revely._ Maria Reveley (_née_ James), a friend of Godwin’s.
(See Kegan Paul’s ‘Godwin,’ vol. i. p. 81 _et seq._).

_Warren._ Richard Warren (1731–1797), the head of the medical
practice of his day. Mrs. Inchbald composed memorial verses on
his death.

_Sir George Baker_ (1722–1809).

175. _Reynold’s._ For Reynold’s read Reynolds’s.

_the following assertion of Johnson._ See Life (ed. G. B. Hill),
vol. ii. p. 198.

_C——._ Carlisle. See note to p. 170.

176. _Ireland’s Hogarth Illustrated._ John Ireland’s (d. 1808) edition,
in 3 vols., roy. 8vo, 1791–98.

_Boyd and Benfield._ Walter Boyd (1754?–1837), financier, and Paul
Benfield (d. 1810), Indian trader. They were bankers,
established in London in 1793 and ruined in 1799. See Lockhart’s
‘Scott,’ chap. lxxvi.

_Law._ John Law (1681–1729), financial projector and Parisian
banker.

_Purcel._ Henry Purcell (1658?–1695).

_as Boswell affirms._ See Life (ed. G. B. Hill), ii. 342. The
statement was made by Tom Davies. Dr. Burney says, in a note,
that Corelli never was in England.

_Corelli._ Archangelo Corelli, Italian musician (1653–1713).

177. _Phillips._ Sir Richard Phillips (1767–1840), author, bookseller,
and publisher. He established the ‘Monthly Magazine’ in 1796,
which was edited by John Aikin.

_F. the Cambridge man._ Flower. See Note to p. 190.

_Pinkerton (Heron’s Letters)._ John Pinkerton (1758–1826),
Scottish historian and antiquarian. His ‘Letters of Literature’
(Robert Heron, 1785) introduced him to Walpole. See De Quincey’s
‘Orthographic Mutineers.’ Works, ed. Masson, xi. pp. 443–44.

_the wife of Petion._ Jérôme Pétion de Villeneuve (1756–1794) of
the French Revolution. He was proscribed in 1793 and escaped,
but he and his companions shot themselves.

_George Dyer_ (1755–1841), miscellaneous writer. See Lamb’s
‘Amicus Redivivus.’ ‘Elia,’ ed. Ainger, p. 281.

178. _Don Carlos._ Schiller (1787). Stoddart (see note to p. 174)
published a translation of ‘Don Carlos’ with G. H. Noehden in
1798.

_Pitt ... duel._ Pitt fought a duel with Tierney, 27th May, 1798,
on Putney Heath. Pitt had accused Tierney of wilful obstruction.
Neither shot took effect.

_Count Rumford’s experiments on heat._ Sir Benjamin Thompson
(1753–1814), created Count von Rumford by the Elector of
Bavaria for his services to that State. He founded the Royal
Institution.

_Dalrymple._ Alexander Dalrymple (1737–1808), hydrographer to the
Admiralty.

_Sir Joseph Banks_ (1743–1820), naturalist and companion of
Captain Cook in a voyage round the world.

_C——_, _G——_, _O——_. Probably Carlisle, Godwin, and Opie.

_Laudohn._ Gideon Ernest Laudohn (1716–1790). Because of the
intrigues of his rivals he was not created Field-Marshal until
1778.

179. _Crebillon._ Prosper Jolyot de Crébillon (1674–1762), dramatic
poet.

180. _Garat._ Dominique Joseph Comte Garat (1749–1833) of the French
Revolution.

_Sir William B——._ Sir William Beechey (1753–1839).

_his picture of the dying Cardinal._ ‘The Death of Cardinal
Beaufort.’ A drawing by Fuseli of the same subject had appeared
at the Royal Academy in 1774.

_a picture by Fuseli for Comus._ Henry Fuseli (1741–1825). The
picture would be one of his forty for the ‘Milton Gallery,’
opened May 20, 1799, in Pall Mall.

181. _Sir F. Bourgeois._ Sir Peter Francis Bourgeois (1756–1811),
landscape painter to George III. His collection was bequeathed
to Dulwich College.

_Mr P——._ Mr Pinkerton. Is this the ‘tragedy’ spoken of by Sir
Walter Scott? See Lockhart’s ‘Life,’ Letter to Miss Joanna
Baillie, March 21, 1813.

_Wolcott._ John Wolcot, ‘Peter Pindar’ (1738–1819), physician,
satirist, and poet.

_Steevens._ George Steevens (1736–1800), Shakespearian
commentator.

_the two Sheares’s._ John (1766–1798), and Henry (1753–1798), of
the ‘United Irishmen.’ They were executed for high treason. See
Lady Wilde’s poem, ‘The Brothers.’

182. _a philippic by Francis ... against Thurlow._ Sir Philip Francis
(1740–1818), reputed author of the ‘Letters of Junius,’ and
Edward Thurlow (1731–1806), Lord Chancellor (1778–83 and
1784–92). The speech by Francis was delivered on July 16, 1784
(_Parl. Hist._ xxiv. pp. 1102–22).

182. _Sastres._ To whom Johnson bequeathed five pounds, ‘to be laid out
in books of piety for his own use’ (ed. G. B. Hill, iv. 403).
Boswell had perhaps annoyed him by a passage (ed. G. B. Hill,
iii. 21), in which, speaking of the widely different persons
with whom Johnson associated, he joined Lord Thurlow’s name with
that of ‘Mr Sastres, the Italian master.’

183. _Johnson complains in one of his letters._ ‘The best night I have
had these twenty years was at Fort Augustus.’ Letter to Boswell
(Life, ed. G. B. Hill, iii. 369).

184. _the new edition of Pilkington._ ‘The Gentleman’s and
Connoisseur’s Dictionary of Painters’ (1770), by Matthew
Pilkington (1700?–1784). A new edition, edited by Dr. Wolcot,
appeared in 1799.

_Malone._ Edmund Malone (1741–1812), commentator on Shakespeare
and the friend and editor of Boswell.

_Read._ Isaac Reed (1742–1807), critic and Shakespearian
commentator.

_Boswell likewise prates._ See Life (ed. G. B. Hill, iv. 40–41).

_Dr. Towers._ Joseph Towers (1737–1799), political writer. See p.
202.

_the late Dr. Kippis._ Andrew Kippis (1725–1795), dissenting
divine.

_P——’s tragedy._ See note to p. 181.

185. _Loutherbourg._ Philip James Loutherbourg (1740–1812), landscape
painter.

_Gilleray._ James Gillray (1757–1815), caricaturist.

_Mr E——._ Erskine.

186. _Lord Thanet._ Sackville Tufton, 9th Earl of Thanet (1767–1825). A
Whig sympathiser of Arthur O’Connor’s. He was tried April 25,
1799, for attempting to rescue O’Connor at Maidstone. See note
to p. 173. He was sentenced to one year’s imprisonment, fined
£1000, and ordered to find security for 7 years in £20,000.

_Judge Buller._ Sir Francis Buller (1746–1800). He presided at the
trial of Arthur O’Connor.

_Garrow._ Sir William Garrow (1760–1840), successively
Solicitor-General (1812–13) and Attorney-General (1813–17).

_Fullarton._ ? William Fullarton (1754–1808), Anglo-Indian
Commander, and Member of Parliament.

188. _the respite of Bond._ Oliver Bond (1760?–1798), Irish republican,
was tried, July 1798, and sentenced to be hanged for high
treason. He was respited by the Viceroy, the Marquis Cornwallis,
on the entreaty of his fellow-prisoners, who, to spare him,
agreed to turn informers. See p. 190.

_Farmer’s library._ Richard Farmer (1735–1797), Master of Emmanuel
College, Cambridge, and author of ‘An Essay on the Learning of
Shakspeare’ (1767). The Catalogue ran to nearly 400 pages,
concerning over 8000 books. The library had cost £500 to
collect, and sold for over £2000. The comment in the ‘Annual
Register’ is ‘such is the rage for musty literature.’

_Dr. Gosset._ Isaac Gosset the younger (1735?–1812),
bibliographer. He was a well-known figure at London auction
sales.

189. _B——._ Sir William Beechey.

_Desenfans._ Noel Joseph Desenfans (1745–1807), picture-dealer.

_Farrington._ Joseph Farington (1747–1821), landscape painter.

_Hodges._ William Hodges (1744–1797), Royal Academician.

190. _the Cambridge paper._ ‘The Cambridge Intelligencer,’ edited by
Benjamin Flower (1755–1829). He was imprisoned for libel in due
course. His paper was a rare example of a provincial paper,
advocating religious liberty and condemning the French war.

191. _Lowe (mentioned by Kim in his life of Johnson)._ Mauritius Lowe
(1746–1793), the painter. For Boswell’s version of the story
referred to in the text, see Life (ed. G. B. Hill, IV. 201–2).

_N——._ Nicholson. His ‘Journal [see pp. 192, 212] of Natural
Philosophy, Chemistry, and the Arts,’ etc., appeared in
1797–1802 and 1802–15.

192. _the voyage of Perouse._ John Francis Galoup de la Perouse (b.
1741), French circumnavigator. He perished off the New Hebrides
after March 1788. Translations of ‘A Voyage round the World
1785–88’ were published 1798 (8vo), and 1799 (4to).

194. _Wild Oats_, or the Strolling Gentleman. 1791. By John O’Keeffe.
In 1798 his Works were published by Subscription in 4 vols.

_Mr Ramsey._ James Ramsey, divine and philanthropist (1733–1789).
His ‘An Essay on the Treatment and Conversion of African Slaves
in the British Sugar Colonies’ was published in 1784.

195. _Emery and Mrs. Mills._ John Emery (1777–1822). See Hazlitt’s note
on p. 70. Genest (vol. vii. p. 426) says Mrs. Mills from York
made her second appearance on Oct. 10 (Covent Garden). She acted
Sophia in ‘The Road to Ruin,’ and Little Pickle in ‘The Spoil’d
Child.’

196. _Dr. Parr._ Samuel Parr (1747–1825), ‘the Whig Johnson.’ His
‘Præfatio ad Bellendenum de Statu’ was published in 1787.

_Macintosh._ ? Sir James Mackintosh (1765–1832). He was associated
with the Society for Constitutional Information.

_Lovers’ Vows._ 1798. By Mrs. Inchbald, adapted from Kotzebue.

197. _J. Aickin._ James Aickin or Aikin (d. 1803), actor.

_Cumberland sent his Tiberius_ [in Capreæ].

198. _Dr. A——_? Dr. John Aikin (1747–1822), physician and editor of
‘The Monthly Magazine.’ He was the father of Mrs. Barbauld.

_Palmer._ Thomas Palmer. See Genest (vol. vii. p. 427).

_Edelinck._ Gerard Edelinck (1649–1707), engraver.

199. _Boaden._ James Boaden (1762–1839), the biographer of Mrs.
Inchbald.

_Bosville._ William Bosville (1745–1813), bon vivant and friend of
Horne Tooke. See the latter’s ‘Diversions of Purley.’

_Tobin._ John Tobin (1770–1804), dramatic writer.

200. _Grenville._ William Wyndham, Baron Grenville (1759–1834).

_Cornwallis._ Charles, 1st Marquis and 2nd Earl Cornwallis
(1738–1805). Governor-General of India, and Lord-Lieutenant of
Ireland.

201. _School for Ingratitude._ A comedy by Fisher (1798).

_Mr Reynolds._ Frederick Reynolds (1764–1841). ‘Cheap Living’
appeared in 1797, but ‘The School for Ingratitude’ had been
submitted at Drury Lane and rejected before its publication in
1798. See Genest (vol. vii. p. 329).

_Tierney._ George Tierney (1761–1830), statesman and political
writer, Whig and duellist (with Pitt). Probably the T—— referred
to on p. 199.

_Walpole’s Painters._ Anecdotes of Painting in England
(1762–1771). Issued from Strawberry Hill.

_the Narrative, etc._ See notes to pp. 139 and 156.

_Fittler._ James Fittler (1758–1835), engraver.

_the Exiles._ A translation or adaptation of Kotzebue’s
(1761–1819) play. See p. 196.

_Platonist Taylor._ Thomas Taylor (1758–1835), lecturer on, and
translator of, Plato.

202. _Tone._ Theobald Wolfe Tone (1763–1798), Irish revolutionist. He
committed suicide in prison while under sentence of death.

_Wakefield’s pamphlet._ See note to p. 171.

_Morland._ George Morland (1763–1804), painter of country scenes
and humble life.

203. _Dr. Franklin._ Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790).

_Dr. Solander._ Daniel Charles Solander (1736–1782). Swedish
naturalist, and companion of Sir Joseph Banks and Captain Cook
in a voyage round the world.

_Bentley._ Thomas Bentley (1731–1780), entered into partnership
with Wedgwood, 1768.

_Wedgewood._ Josiah Wedgwood (1730–1795), the potter.

_Sir Francis Burdett_ (1770–1844), radical politician.

204. _King’s ... speech._ At the opening of Parliament, Nov. 20.

_Brown, the Egyptian traveller._ William George Browne
(1768–1813), whose ‘Travels in Africa, Egypt, and Syria 1792–98’
appeared in 1800.

_S——’s._ Symmonds’s. See p. 205 and Note to p. 152.

205. _Ward, the pugilist._ Ould Joe Ward, the father of the prize ring
(b. 1751). See Pierce Egan’s ‘Boxiana,’ vol. i. p. 424, and vol.
iii. p. 496.

_Jew K——._ John King. See a letter from Godwin to him, Jan. 24,
1796, concerning ‘the frequency of my visits’ (Kegan Paul’s
‘Godwin,’ 1. 155).

206. _the daughters of Horne Tooke._ Mary and Charlotte Hart, his
illegitimate daughters.

_the Wheel of Fortune._ 1795. By Cumberland.

208. _Canning’s fine speech._ Tierney had moved a peace proposal on
Dec. 11. Canning’s speech against the motion (which was
negatived) occupies thirty-eight columns in the ‘Parliamentary
History.’

209. _Northcote._ James Northcote (1746–1831).

_West._ Benjamin West (1738–1820), painter.

212. _Dr. Beddoes._ Thomas Beddoes (1760–1808). He was the father of
Thomas Lovell Beddoes.

_Wedgewood._ Thomas Wedgwood (1771–1805), the friend of Coleridge.

_Parkinson, jun. ... Parkinson, sen._ James Parkinson (1730?–1813)
won Sir Ashton Lever’s Museum (1784) by lottery. Placed in a
building erected for it at the Surrey side of Blackfriars Bridge
(later the home of the Surrey Institution), it was one of the
sights of London. It was sold by auction in 1806. Joseph
Parkinson, son of the above (1783–1855), was an architect, and
designed the Library of the Leverian Museum.

_Lillo’s Fatal Curiosity._ 1736. By George Lillo (1693–1739).

213. _L——._ Willoughby Lacy, Garrick’s partner at Drury Lane.

214. _Brueys._ François Paul Brueys d’Aigaïlliers (1753–1798), the
French admiral who commanded the fleet in the Egyptian
expedition. He was killed at the battle of Aboukir.

_Serres._ Dominic Serres (1722–1793), of Gascon birth, was marine
painter to the king; he was succeeded in that office by his son,
John Thomas Serres (1759–1825).

215. _‘the Jew and the Doctor.’_ 1798. By Thomas J. Dibdin (1771–1841).

216. _Le Bon._ Joseph Le Bon (1765–1795); his acts against the
opponents of the Revolution were very harsh, and they led to his
being guillotined.

217. _Tierney’s motion._ Tierney complained on the 27th against the
‘Times’ for misrepresenting speeches of members. The motion was
withdrawn on the 31st after satisfactory assurances from the
editor to Tierney.

_Lord Holland._ Henry Richard Vassall Fox, 3rd Lord Holland
(1773–1840). He is referred to later as Lord H——.

_N——’s ... academy._ Nicholson opened a school in Soho, but it had
only a brief career.

218. _His speech in the Lords._ The third reading of the Bill for the
Suspension of the Habeas Corpus came up in the Lords on Jan. 3.
After it was carried Lord Holland entered a protest on the
Journals.

219. _‘The Votary of Wealth.’_ 1799. By Joseph George Holman
(1764–1817), the original Harry Dornton in Holcroft’s ‘Road to
Ruin.’

_Belsham from Davenant._ Probably William Belsham (1752–1827), a
writer on the Whig side, and brother of the Unitarian divine.
_Davenant_: Dr. Charles D. (1656–1714), political economist.

220. _as the lion, etc._ ‘Troilus and Cressida,’ III. 3.

221. _Lord Camelford’s attempt._ Thomas Pitt, 2nd Baron Camelford
(1775–1804), naval commander, tried to go to France to procure a
set of French charts, using a French refugee’s letter of
introduction to Barras, in which he was set forth as one ready
to serve the French Government. The suspicions of the boatmen,
however, were aroused, and he was handed over to the English
Government officials. He was examined by the Privy Council, and,
although set at liberty, the Admiralty disapproved of his action
and relieved him of the command of his ship.

_Girton._ Thomas Girtin (1775–1802), water-colour painter, of whom
Turner said, ‘Had Tom Girtin lived, I should have starved.’

_Artois._ Jacques d’Artois, Flemish painter of rural scenes
(1613?–1678).

_Barry, the painter._ James Barry (1741–1806), painter of the
large pictures ‘Human Culture’ for the Society of Arts.

222. _his verses on young statesmen._ A political _jeu d’esprit_ ‘On
the Young Statesmen’ attributed to Dryden.

_Paul Benfield._ See note to p. 176.

_C. Grey, M.P._ (1764–1845), afterwards the 2nd Earl Grey.

_Lord S——’s Address._ Charles, 3rd Earl Stanhope (1753–1816), of
revolutionary sympathies, issued an ‘address to the Nations of
Great Britain and Ireland’ against the proposed Union.

_‘the Sorcerer’ ... Veil Weber._ An edition of _The Sorcerer_, a
Tale, from the German of Veit Weber, was published in London in
1795.

_Knight._ Thomas Knight (d. 1820).

224. _S——, a painter._ Probably John Smart (1741–1811), miniature
painter, who was in India for some years between 1788 and 1797.

_Dr. Drennan._ William Drennan (1754–1820), M.D., Irish poet, and
a leader of the United Irishmen.

225. _Metzu._ Gabriel Metzu (1615–1658), Dutch painter.

226. _Incledon._ Charles Incledon (1763–1826), vocalist.

_Master Field._ John Field (1782–1837). After his _début_ as an
infant prodigy (he had played at a public concert with Clementi
in 1794 or–95) he went on a continental tour with Clementi, and
finally settled down in Russia, where his music was much
appreciated.

_Brothers._ Richard Brothers (1757–1824), fanatic, who set forth
in 1793 as the nephew of the Almighty.

227. _R. A._ R. Adair. See note to p. 169.

228. _Mr Drummond._ Samuel Drummond (1765–1844), portrait and
historical painter.

_Cadell._ Thomas Cadell the younger (1773–1836).

_Brown’s travels._ See note to p. 204.

_Secret._ 1799. By Edward Morris.

_Feudal Times._ 1799. By George Colman the younger.

230 _Deaf and Dumb_, or the Orphan protected, an historical drama
taken from the French of J. N. Bouilly (under the name of
Herbert Hill). 1801.

232. _Travels in France._ Travels from Hamburg, through Westphalia,
Holland, and the Netherlands, to Paris. 1804. 2 vols.

235. _The Escapes_, or the Water-Carrier. Covent Garden, Oct. 14, 1801.

_A Tale of Mystery._ Covent Garden, Nov. 13, 1802.

_The Lady of the Rock._ Feb. 12, 1805, Drury Lane.

_The Vindictive Man._ A Comedy, 1806, Drury Lane.

236. _the Theatrical Recorder._ See note to p. 76.

_‘Tales in Verse.’_ Critical, Satirical, and Humorous, 1806. 2
vols.

_‘Brian Perdue.’_ Memoirs of Bryan Perdue, 1805. 3 vols.?

242. _our worthy and liberal friend G._ Godwin.

245. _snows._ Brig-like vessels.

_Pocock._ Robert Pocock of Gravesend. His ‘Gravesend Water
Companion, describing all the towns, churches, villages,
parishes, and gentlemen’s seats, as seen from the River Thames,
between London Bridge and Gravesend Town,’ was published in
1798.

_traject._ Passage.

246. _The potentate of the North ... Peter ... Paul._ Probably the
Czars Paul (1754–1801) and Peter the Great (1672–1725) are
intended. Paul, an imperious and capricious Emperor, reigned
1796–1801.

251. _Culpepper._ Nicholas Culpeper (1616–1654), herbalist.

252. _Pontoppidan._ Eric Pontoppidan (1698–1764), author of ‘The
Natural History of Norway.’

255. _ancient Pistol._ ‘Merry Wives of Windsor’ and ‘Henry IV.’

267. _Mr Professor Dugald Stewart_, philosopher and metaphysician
(1753–1828).

268. _Les Veillées du Chateau._ See note to p. 104.

_Madame de Genlis._ Stephanie Félicité du Crest de Saint-Aubin,
Countess de Genlis (1746–1830), a voluminous writer.

270. _Theatre d’Education._ ‘Théâtre à l’usage des jeunes personnes’
(1779–80). ‘Théâtre de Société’ (1781).

271. _Lord Kaimes’s Sketches of Man._ Henry Home, Lord Kames
(1696–1782). ‘Sketches of the History of Man’ (1774).

273. _Mrs. Colles._ ? Mrs. Cole, Holcroft’s daughter, see p. 143, note.

278. Note. _The Pantisocrasy Scheme._ The Utopian ‘all men are equal’
scheme, advocated by Southey, Coleridge, and Lovell (c. 1794).

279. _Mr Dermody._ Thomas Dermody (1775–1802).

_Robert Lovell_ (1770?–1796). The associate of Southey and
Coleridge in their plan for an ideal life on the banks of the
Susquehanna. The three friends married three sisters.

280. _Mergées._ Mr W. C. Hazlitt writes that this name should be
Merger.

281. _From Madame de Genlis._ This letter would seem to be the one to
which Holcroft replied. See p. 268.

LIBER AMORIS

The facts relating to the episode in Hazlitt’s life which is the subject
of this book are referred to in the General Introduction to the present
edition (see vol. i. pp. xviii, xix), but it may be useful to give here
a brief summary of them, and to refer shortly to the few later books
which throw further light upon the matter.

Before the autumn of 1819 Hazlitt and his wife had ceased to live
together, and in 1820 Hazlitt went to lodge in the house of a tailor
named Walker, at No. 9 Southampton Buildings, Chancery Lane, where, on
August 16, he first saw the heroine of this book, Sarah Walker, the
elder of his landlord’s two unmarried daughters. Some time in the same
year (1820), or in the following year, Mrs. Hazlitt agreed, or rather,
as we must assume (since she afterwards took the Oath of Calumny),
decided to take proceedings for divorce under the Scottish law, for
which purpose it was necessary for both parties to go to Scotland.
Hazlitt accordingly started for Edinburgh early in 1822, and reached
Scotland in February, after having been detained for a time at Stamford,
where he began ‘a book of our conversations (I mean mine and the
statue’s), which I call LIBER AMORIS.’ Mrs. Hazlitt did not arrive in
Edinburgh till April 21, and the business of the divorce was not finally
settled till July. Hazlitt spent the greater part of the time between
March and July either in Edinburgh or at Renton Inn, Berwickshire,
whence he addressed several of his letters to his friend, P. G. Patmore,
and where he wrote some of the essays which subsequently appeared in
vol. ii. of _Table Talk_. In May he delivered two lectures at Glasgow,
one (May 6) on Milton and Shakespeare, the other (May 13) on Thomson and
Burns. From Glasgow he seems to have gone for a short trip to the
Highlands with his friend Sheridan Knowles, to whom he afterwards
addressed the concluding letters of _Liber Amoris_. Towards the end of
May he paid a hurried visit to London, returning to Scotland early in
June. The book itself was published anonymously by John Hunt in 1823,
the copyright being purchased from Hazlitt by C. H. Reynell for £100.

It is unnecessary to refer to the many merely critical comments on the
book and its story, and it remains only to mention the works which may
be regarded as additional and authoritative sources of information. P.
G. Patmore devoted to the subject one chapter (vol. iii. pp. 171–188) of
his lengthy recollections of Hazlitt in _My Friends and Acquaintance_ (3
vols., 1854), and published extracts from some of the letters he had
received from Hazlitt. Further extracts from the same correspondence and
extracts from the journal kept by Mrs. Hazlitt in Scotland appeared in
Mr W. C. Hazlitt’s _Memoirs of William Hazlitt_ (2 vols., 1867). All
these letters (with a few trifling exceptions) and the whole of Mrs.
Hazlitt’s journal were printed from the original MSS. in Mr Le
Gallienne’s edition of _Liber Amoris_, published in 1894 (see
Bibliographical Note, _ante_, p. 284). This edition contains also a
transcript of the original MS. of _Liber Amoris_ (Part 1.) (believed to
be in the handwriting of Patmore with additions written by Hazlitt), and
(besides Mr Le Gallienne’s introduction) an unsigned essay by Mr W. C.
Hazlitt, entitled ‘Hazlitt from another point of view.’ B. W. Procter
(Barry Cornwall), who visited Hazlitt at Southampton Buildings, referred
to the subject in his Recollections of Men of Letters (see _Bryan Waller
Procter, An Autobiographical Fragment_, 1877, pp. 180–82). Finally, in
_Lamb and Hazlitt_ (1900), Mr W. C. Hazlitt published for the first time
a MS. which contains Hazlitt’s comment on the experiences of Patmore
(recorded in the form of a Diary), from March 4 to March 16, 1822,
during which time he appears to have been (at Hazlitt’s request) a
lodger at No. 9 Southampton Buildings. This MS. is entirely in Hazlitt’s
handwriting.

PAGE

288. _‘with looks,’ etc._ _Il Penseroso_, l. 38.

290. _‘But I will come again, my love,’ etc._ Burns’s song, ‘O, my luve
is like a red, red rose.’

_‘Pensive nun,’ etc._ _Il Penseroso_, l. 31.

294. _Mr M——._ Sarah Walker’s elder sister had married a man called
Roscoe, who is referred to in the _Liber Amoris_ as ‘Mr M——.’

300. _‘What is this world,’ etc._ Chaucer’s _Canterbury Tales_ (_The
Knightes Tale_, ll. 2777–79).

301. _‘So shalt thou find me,’ etc._ Byron’s _Sardanapalus_, Act IV.
Scene 1.

_Rosetta._ In Bickerstaffe’s _Love in a Village_, one of the most
successful parts played by Catherine Stephens (1794–1882). See
Hazlitt’s Dramatic Essays.

302. _Mr Macready._ William Charles Macready (1793–1873) appears to
have played Romeo at Covent Garden on Jan. 24, 1822.

303. _‘Oh! if I thought,’ etc._ _Troilus and Cressida_, Act III. Scene
2.

304. _C. P——, Esq._ Peter George Patmore (1786–1855), journalist, and
author of _Imitations of Celebrated Authors_, _etc._ (1826),
_Chatsworth, or the Romance of a Week_ (1844), _The Mirror of
the Months_ (1826), and other works. His recollections of
Hazlitt in _My Friends and Acquaintance_ (3 vols., 1854) are
interesting and even valuable if allowance is made for some
exaggeration. He was the father of Coventry Patmore. See B.
Champney’s, _Memoirs and Correspondence of Coventry Patmore_
(1900), chap. ii.

_Bees-Inn._ Renton Inn, on the London Road, near Grant’s House in
Berwickshire, forty-one miles from Edinburgh.

306. ‘_Of such sweet breath composed._’ Hamlet, Act III. Scene 1.

‘_Answer me that, Master Brook._’

‘Think of that, Master Brook.’

_Merry Wives of Windsor_, Act III. Scene 5.

_Letter III._ From Edinburgh, March 30, 1822.

307. _Letter IV._ From Edinburgh, April 21, 1822.

308. _‘To lip a chaste one,’ etc._

‘To lip a wanton in a secure couch,
And to suppose her chaste.’

_Othello_, Act IV. Scene 1.

_Strike my forehead against the stars._

‘Quod si me lyricis vatibus inseris,
Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.’

Horace, Odes, I. 1. 35–36.

_As Rousseau said._ ‘Ce fut dans ce bosquet qu’assis avec elle sur
un banc de gazon, sous un acacia tout chargé de fleurs, je
trouvai, pour rendre les mouvements de mon cœur, un langage
vraiment digne d’eux.’—_Confessions_, Liv. IX., p. 393 (édit.
Garnier).

_Letter V._ From Edinburgh, April 7, 1822.

_From Montrose._ This is of course fiction, like Hazlitt’s
statement in the advertisement that the author was a native of
North Britain (see _ante_, p. 285).

309. _‘Treason domestic,’ etc._ _Macbeth_, Act III. Scene 2.

311. _Letter VII._ From Edinburgh, June 20–21, 1822.

_‘And carved on every tree,’ etc._ _As You Like It_, Act III.
Scene 2.

312. _Letter VIII._ From Renton Inn, June 9, 1822.

314. _Its mighty heart, etc._ Cf. ‘And all that mighty heart was lying
still’ in Wordsworth’s Sonnet ‘Composed upon Westminster
Bridge.’

_The Prince of Critics, etc._ Francis Jeffrey (1773–1850) had
lived at Craigcrook (on the north-eastern slope of Corstorphine
Hill, not on ‘the far-off Pentland Hills’) since 1815. Hazlitt
had already contributed several articles to the _Edinburgh
Review_, and had met Jeffrey during his visit to Scotland.

314. _As I read of Amy and her love._ _Kenilworth_ had been published
in the preceding year (1821).

315. _Letter IX._ From Edinburgh, July 3, 1822.

316. ‘_Made my wedded wife yestreen._’ Burns’s _Lament for James, Earl
of Glencairn_, st. 10.

_Like Lady Bellaston._ _Tom Jones_, Book XV. Chap. ix.

_The old song._ Hazlitt refers perhaps to Richard Hewitt’s ‘Roslin
Castle,’ beginning ‘’Twas in that season of the year,’ published
in Johnson’s _The Scots Musical Museum_ (1787–1803), and praised
by Burns.

317. _Letter X._ From Renton Inn, June 18, 1822.

‘_All below was not the fiend’s._’ _King Lear_, Act IV. Scene 6.

319. _Hysterica passio._ Cf. _King Lear_, Act II. Scene 4.

_Letter XI._ From Edinburgh (?), June 25, 1822.

320. _‘She’s gone,’ etc._

‘She’s gone; I am abused, and my relief
Must be to loathe her.’

_Othello_, Act III. Scene 3.

321. _Letter XII._ This is merely a postscript to the former letter
(XI.).

‘_Love is not love,’ etc._ Shakespeare’s Sonnets, No. CXVI.

325. _Letter XIII._ July 8, 1822.

_‘I have mistook,’ etc._

‘I do mistake my person all this while:
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.’

_Richard III_, Act. I. Scene 2.

328. _Addressed to J. S. K——._ Hazlitt’s friend, James Sheridan Knowles
(1784–1862), the dramatist, who at this time lived at Glasgow.
There is a reference to him in Hazlitt’s _Spirit of the Age_, at
the end of the essay on Elia and Geoffrey Crayon.

_Smollett’s monument._ Erected by James Smollett, the novelist’s
cousin, whom Johnson and Boswell visited on their way from the
Highlands. The Latin inscription for the monument was partly the
work of Johnson (Boswell’s _Life, etc._, ed. G. B. Hill, v.
366–68).

_Logan’s beautiful verses to the cuckoo._ Published originally by
John Logan (1748–1788) in a volume entitled ‘Poems on Several
Occasions, by Michael Bruce’ (1770). It appeared again in 1781,
with a few alterations, in ‘Poems, by the Rev. Mr Logan, one of
the ministers of Leith.’ Some difference of opinion still exists
as to the authorship, which is claimed by some for Michael Bruce
(1746–1767), a fellow-student of Logan’s at Edinburgh
University. See _Notes and Queries_, 9th Ser., vii. 466; viii.
70, 148, 312, 388, 527.

Note. The verses begin, ‘Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove.’
The stanza quoted by Hazlitt is the sixth.

329. _The Trossacs._ Whatever the ‘blue ridges’ may have been which
Hazlitt saw, they were certainly nowhere near the Trossachs.

‘_Italiam, Italiam._’ Possibly from Filicaja’s Sonnet (LXXXVII.)
to Italy, beginning ‘Italia, Italia, o tu cui feo la sorte,’ and
translated by Byron in _Childe Harold_ (Canto IV., St. 42).

330. _Heaved her name, etc._ _King Lear_, Act IV. Scene 3.

_How near am I, etc._ Quoted, with omissions, from Middleton’s
_Women beware Women_ (_Works_, ed. Dyce, iv. 569–70).

331. _‘Quicquid agit,’ etc._

‘Illam quidquid agit, quoquo vestigia movit
Componit furtim subsequiturque decor.’

From the first of the Sulpicia poems (not the work of Tibullus) in
the fourth book of the Elegies.

334. _‘See with what a waving air,’ etc._ B. W. Procter’s (Barry
Cornwall’s) _Mirandola_ (Act I. Scene 3).

335. _‘What conjurations,’ etc._ _Othello_, Act I. Scene 3.

336. ‘_Nature and Art._’ By Mrs. Inchbald, published in 1796.

337. ‘_Ugly all over with hypocrisy._’ See _ante_, note to p. 130.

340. _At once he took, etc._

‘Then took his Muse at once and dipt her
Full in the middle of the Scripture.’

Gay, ‘Verses to be placed under the Picture of Sir Richard Blackmore,
England’s Arch-Poet, etc.’

341. ‘_Drugged this posset._’ _Macbeth_, Act II. Scene 2.

342. ‘_Bestow some of my tediousness upon you._’

‘_Dogberry._ But truly, for mine own part, if I were tedious as a
king, I could find it in my heart to bestow it all of your
worship.

_Leonato._ All thy tediousness on me, ah?’

_Much Ado About Nothing_, Act III. Scene 5.

343. _‘Of tears which sacred pity,’ etc._ _As You Like It_, Act II.
Scene 7.

347. _The False Florimel._ _The Faerie Queene_, Book III. Canto viii.

_The man in the Arabian Nights._ See The History of Sidi Nouman.

350. ‘_Turned all to favour and to prettiness._’ _Hamlet_, Act IV.
Scene 5.

356. _Heroes, according to Rousseau._ Cf. ‘Le brave ne fait ses preuves
qu’aux jours de bataille: le vrai héros fait les siennes tous
les jours; et ses vertus, pour se montrer quelquefois en pompe,
n’en sont pas d’un usage moins fréquent sous un extérieur plus
modeste.’ _Discours sur la vertu la plus nécessaire aux héros._

CHARACTERISTICS

360. _The wish is often ‘father to the thought.’_ _Henry IV._, Part II.
Act IV. Scene 5.

364. ‘_Some trick not worth an egg._’ _Coriolanus_, Act IV. Scene 4.

365. ‘_Spy abuses._’ ‘It is my nature’s plague to spy into abuses.’
_Othello_, Act III. Scene 3.

_Emery’s acting._ John Emery (1777–1822). See Hazlitt’s Dramatic
Essays, where he speaks of Emery in similar terms.

366. ‘_Fools rush in where angels fear to tread._’ Pope’s _Essay on
Criticism_, l. 625.

367. _‘A jest’s prosperity,’ etc._ _Love’s Labour’s Lost_, Act V. Scene
2.

‘_Quite chop-fallen._’ _Hamlet_, Act V. Scene 1.

368. _Russell._ Samuel Thomas Russell (1769?–1845), famous for his
acting of Jerry Sneak in Foote’s _Mayor of Garratt_ (1763), a
part created by Thomas Weston (1737–1776). Edward Shuter
(1728?–1776), whom Garrick described as the greatest comic
genius he had ever seen. For Joseph Shepherd Munden (1758–1832),
John Bannister (1760–1836), and John Liston (1776?–1846), see
the volume containing Hazlitt’s Dramatic Criticisms.

368. ‘_Men of no mark or likelihood._’ _Henry IV._, Part I. Act III.
Scene 2.

369. ‘_Bare to weather._’ _Cymbeline_, Act III. Scene 3.

‘_Poison in jest._’ _Hamlet_, Act III. Scene 2.

370. ‘_A soul supreme_,’ _etc._ _Epistle to Robert, Earl of Oxford_,
ll. 23–26.

‘_Lay the flattering unction to their souls._’ _Hamlet_, Act III.
Scene 4.

_The author of ‘Waverley.’_ Scott publicly acknowledged his
authorship at a dinner on behalf of the Theatrical Fund on Feb.
23, 1827. See Lockhart (ix. 79–84).

371. ‘_In conscience and tender heart._’ ‘Al was conscience and tendre
heart.’—Chaucer,

_Prologue_, 150.

372. _Mandeville._ Bernard Mandeville (1670?–1733), author of ‘The
Fable of the Bees’ (1714).

377. ‘_To snatch a grace_,’ _etc._ Pope’s _Essay on Criticism_, l. 153.

378. _Video meliora, etc._ Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_, 7, 21.

382. ‘_Minute drops from off the eaves._’

Cf. ‘His tears run down his beard, like winter’s drops
From eaves of reeds.’ _Tempest_, Act V. Scene 1.

383. _Lord Egmont._ John Perceval (1711–1770), 2nd Earl of Egmont (in
the peerage of Ireland). The passage quoted is from a speech
delivered in the House of Commons, against the Bill for the
Naturalisation of Jews, on May 22, 1753 (not 1750). See _Parl.
Hist._, XIV., 1366–1430. Hazlitt included a part of the speech
in his _Eloquence of the British Senate_ (ii. 519–21), where the
year is also wrongly given. In a note on the passage quoted in
the text he says: ‘This passage discovers more real depth of
thought than any thing else I have met with in the course of
these debates. There may be observations of equal value in
Burke, but there is no single observation in any part of his
works more profound, original, acute, and comprehensive: it may
indeed be said to contain the germ of all his political
reasoning. (See his French Revolution, etc.) In this speech we
find the first denunciation of the intrusion of abstract
theorems and metaphysical generalities into the science of
politics.’

391. ‘_My wife! I have no wife._’ _Othello_, Act V. Scene 2.

_Huckman._ James Hackman (1752–1779) shot Martha Ray, mistress of
the 4th Earl of Sandwich, on April 7, 1779, as she was leaving
Covent Garden Theatre. According to his own story, he intended
to kill neither Miss Ray nor Lord Sandwich, but himself. He had
two pistols, a circumstance which led to a violent dispute
between Dr. Johnson and Topham Beauclerk. See Boswell’s _Life_
(ed. G. B. Hill, iii. 383–85). Boswell accompanied him to
Tyburn. Sir Herbert Croft in 1780 published an account of the
tragedy in a series of fictitious letters entitled _Love and
Madness_. Johnson disapproved of this ‘mingling real facts with
fiction’ (_ibid._ iv. 287).

392. ‘_Where we must live_,’ _etc._ _Othello_, Act IV. Scene 2.

‘_Age cannot wither_,’ _etc._ _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act II.
Scene 2.

393. _Fontenelle said._ ‘Si je tenais toutes les vérités dans ma main,
je me donnerais bien de garde de l’ouvrir aux hommes.’

395. _A second divorced his wife, etc._ Hazlitt here sums up the story
of _Liber Amoris_.

398. _Mr Opie._ John Opie (1761–1807).

400. _And vindicates, etc._ Pope’s _Essay on Man_, Ep. 1. l. 16.

402. _Denner’s._ Balthasar Denner, a mechanical German painter
(1685–1749).

405. ‘_Baited with the rabble’s curse._’ _Macbeth_, Act V. Scene 8.

‘_Monstrum ingens, biforme._’

‘Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum.’

_Aeneid_, III. 658.

409. ‘_Men’s judgments_,’ _etc._ _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act III. Scene
13.

413. _The Pleasures of Hope._ Thomas Campbell’s _The Pleasures of Hope_
was published in 1799; _The Pleasures of Memory_, by Samuel
Rogers, in 1792.

415. _The Blacks, etc._ Joseph Black (1728–1799), Professor of Medicine
and Chemistry in Edinburgh University; Antoine Laurent Lavoisier
(1743–1799); Joseph Priestley (1733–1804); Charles Davenant
(1656–1714), son of the poet; John De Witt (1625–1672); Jean
Baptiste Say (1767–1832); David Ricardo (1772–1823), and his
disciple John Ramsay M’Culloch (1789–1864); Thomas Robert
Malthus (1766–1834), author of the famous

_Essay on the Principle of Population_, etc. (1798).

416. _Rochefoucault observes._ Maxims, No. 261.

417. _The picture of ‘The Misers.’_ _Les deux Avares_ of Quentin Metzys
or Massys (1466–1531). Hazlitt describes the picture in his
_Sketches of the Principal Picture Galleries in England_
(Pictures at Windsor Castle).

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, (late) Printers to Her Majesty at the
Edinburgh University Press

-----

Footnote 1:

Mr Holcroft has made use of this incident in the first Volume of Hugh
Trevor, see p. 40.

Footnote 2:

One Keys, who was also a contemporary of Mr H. in Stanton’s company,
and has since been a dancing-master, was the father of Mrs. Mills, who
played the Spoiled Child, Sophia, in The Road to Ruin, etc.

Footnote 3:

Weston is celebrated for his unrivalled power of face, for looking the
fool more naturally than any one else. Mr Holcroft speaks of him in
the following manner in the Theatrical Recorder.—‘As an actor, I
remember him well: to think of a few unrivalled performers, and to
forget Weston, is impossible. The range of characters that he
personated was confined. The parts in which he excited such uncommon
emotion, were those of low humour. He was the most irresistible in
those of perfect simplicity: his peculiar talent was the pure
personification of nature. I do not think it possible for an actor to
be less conscious than Weston appeared to be, that he was acting.
While the audience was convulsed with laughter, he was perfectly
unmoved: no look, no motion of the body, ever gave the least
intimation that he knew himself to be Thomas Weston. Never for a
moment was Thomas Weston present: it was always either Jerry Sneak,
Doctor Last, Abel Drugger, Scrub, Sharp, or the very character,
whatever it was, he stood there to perform; and it was performed with
such a consistent and peculiar humour, it was so entirely distinct
from any thing we call acting, and so perfect a resemblance of the
person whom the pencil of the poet had depicted, that not only was the
laughter excessive, nay sometimes almost painful, but the most
critical mind was entirely satisfied. I doubt if Garrick, or any other
actor, had so complete a power of disguising himself, and of assuming
a character with so little deviation from the conception he had
previously formed. It was not only a perfect whole, but it was also
unique.

‘He first appeared in tragedy, which he always considered as his
forte, though he was utterly unqualified for it. It was much against
his will that he was accidentally forced to play Scrub in the Beaux’
Stratagem, when he threw every one into raptures, except himself. Even
the very boys followed him in the streets, exclaiming, “There—that’s
he that played Scrub!” His first appearance in London was at a booth
in Bartholomew Fair. He was afterwards engaged by Foote, who was the
first person who introduced him to public notice, and who wrote the
part of Jerry Sneak expressly for him. Several stories are told of the
readiness of his wit, and presence of mind.

‘Shuter had long been the favourite of the galleries; and Weston,
before he was well known, appeared as a substitute for Shuter, in the
part of Sharp. Shuter’s name was in the play-bills; and when Weston
appeared, the galleries vociferated, “Shuter, Shuter!” Mrs. Clive
played the part of Kitty Pry, and was no less a favourite than the
other. The uproar continued, and nothing could be heard but “Shuter,
Shuter!” As soon as it was possible to be heard, Weston, in his own
inimitable and humourous manner, asked aloud, in a seriously stupid
amazement, and pointing to Mrs. Clive,—“Shoot her! Shoot her! Why
should I shoot her? I am sure she plays her part very well!” The
apparent earnestness and simplicity with which he asked this question,
were so inimitable, and it so truly applied to the excellent acting of
Mrs. Clive, that the burst of laughter was universal, and the applause
which Weston deserved, attended him through the part.

‘Weston was no less remarkable for his dissipation and poverty, than
for his comic excellence. It happened on a day that his name was in
the play-bills, that he was arrested for a small sum, which he applied
to the managers to discharge, which request they refused. Being known
to the bailiff, Weston prevailed on him and his follower to go with
him to the play, where he placed himself and them in the front of the
two-shilling gallery.—Before the curtain drew up, an apology was made,
that Mr Weston, being ill, could not possibly attend; and it was
therefore hoped, another performer might supply his place. Weston
rose, as he intended, and declared aloud, the apology was entirely
false; he was there, well, and ready to do his part, but that he was
in custody for a small debt, for which, though entreated, the managers
had refused to give security. Weston had well foreseen the
consequences: the managers were obliged to set him free. Another actor
would have immediately been expelled the theatre; but for Weston no
substitute could be found.’—Vol. ii. p. 112.

The reason has often been asked, why actors are imprudent and
extravagant. An answer may be found in the very nature of their
profession. They live in a world of fancy, of artificial life and
gaiety, and necessarily become careless of the real consequences of
their actions. They make realities of imaginary things, and very
naturally turn realities into a jest. Besides, all persons are so, who
have no settled prospects in life before them.

Footnote 4:

_Hugh Trevor_, vol. iii.

Footnote 5:

The Family Picture, I think, from memory, was published by Lockyer
Davis, in 1781, and the Sceptic a year or more afterwards. The latter
work has no plan, but in some parts it shews a more extensive power of
imagination and strength of general induction, than he had before
exhibited in any of his writings.—The colloquial language of the
connecting parts of his Family Picture, is poor and inelegant; and has
none of that easy, clear, and unaffected spirit which characterizes
his Tales of the Castle, and still more his Hugh Trevor.

Footnote 6:

To dance attendance on the great seems, at this period of his life, to
have been very much Mr Holcroft’s fate; but it certainly was an office
for which he was by nature but indifferently fitted. In the present
instance, his chief solicitude was to obtain an insight into the
character and pursuits of the fashionable world. The ordeal he went
thro’ for this purpose, must frequently have been a severe one to his
feelings. But as far as his present object was concerned, even the
repulses he met with, or the distance at which he was kept, would
still in some measure advance him towards the end he had in view. He
seems to have profited by his experience, and has left several lively
sketches of that part of the manners of the great, which relates to
their intercourse with men of letters. I do not know that the
following picture is true in all its particulars, but the general
feelings it describes, were suggested to him by the reception he met
with on his application to the Duchess of Devonshire.

‘On another occasion, an actress, who, strange to tell, happened, very
deservedly, to be popular; and whom, before she arrived at the dignity
of a London theatre, I had known in the country, recommended me to a
duchess. To this duchess I went day after day; and day after day was
subjected for hours to the prying, unmannered insolence of her
countless lacqueys. This time she was not yet stirring, though it was
two o’clock in the afternoon; the next, she was engaged with an
Italian vender of artificial flowers; the day after, the prince, and
the devil does not know who beside, were with her; and so on, till
patience and spleen were at daggers drawn. At last, from the hall I
was introduced to the drawing-room, where I was half amazed to find
myself. Could it be real? Should I, after all, see a creature so
elevated; so unlike the poor compendium of flesh and blood with which
I crawled about the earth? Why, it was to be hoped that I should!
Still she did not come; and I stood fixed, gazing at the objects
around me, longer perhaps than I can now well guess. The carpet was so
rich, that I was afraid my shoes would disgrace it! The chairs were so
superb, that I should insult them by sitting down! The sofas swelled
in such luxurious state, that for an author to breathe upon them would
be contamination! I made the daring experiment of pressing with a
single finger upon the proud cushion, and the moment the pressure was
removed, it rose again with elastic arrogance; an apt prototype of the
dignity it was meant to sustain. Though alone, I blushed at my own
littleness! Two or three times the familiars of the mansion skipped
and glided by me; in at this door, and out at that; seeing, yet not
noticing me. It was well they did not, or I should have sunk with the
dread of being mistaken for a thief, that had gained a furtive
entrance, to load himself with some parcel of the magnificence, that
to poverty appeared so tempting! This time, however, I was not wholly
disappointed: I had a sight of the duchess, or rather a glimpse. “Her
carriage was waiting. She had been so infinitely delayed by my lord
and my lady, and his highness, and Signora!—Was exceedingly
sorry!—Would speak to me another time, to-morrow at three o’clock, but
had not a moment to spare at present, and so vanished!” Shall I say
she treated me proudly, and made me feel my insignificance? No; the
little that she did say was affable; the tone was conciliating, the
eye encouraging, and the countenance expressed the habitual desire of
conferring kindness. But these were only aggravating circumstances,
that shewed the desirableness of that intercourse which to me was
unattainable. I say to me, for those who had a less delicate sense of
propriety, who were more importunate, more intruding, and whose
forehead was proof against repulse, were more successful. By such
people she was besieged; on such she lavished her favours, till report
said that she impoverished herself; for a tale of distress, whether
feigned or real, if obtruded upon her, she knew not how to
resist.’—Hugh Trevor, Vol. iii.

Footnote 7:

The Count was at the head of that party in France, who either did, or
affected to admire Shakspeare.

Footnote 8:

It was not Rivington the Bookseller, but John Rivington, the Printer,
of St. John’s Square, who died about the time of Mr Holcroft’s return,
or (I believe) before it. He was one of the sons of Mr Rivington, then
bookseller of St. Paul’s Church Yard, whose other sons still carry on
the business of book-selling. Mr John Rivington engaged in an
agreement, or adventure with Mr Holcroft, that works were to be
selected, and translated by him, and published for their joint and
equal account, he (Mr Rivington,) advancing money to Mr Holcroft, as a
loan for his expenses.—The reason why he was not punctual in his
remittances was, that he was much distressed for money to carry on his
own extensive business of printing. John Rivington was a good-natured,
worthy man, much esteemed by his friends. He died before the middle
period of life, of a typhous fever, some time about the year 1785, or
1786.

Footnote 9:

I believe it is in The Connoisseurs, that a yawning scene was
introduced by the author, who being also the manager, found great
difficulty in getting it acted to his mind. He was met one morning by
Macklin, coming out from a rehearsal, and looking rather discontented,
the other asked what was the matter? ‘I can’t get these fellows to
yawn,’ was the answer. ‘Oh if that’s all, said Macklin, you have only
to read them the first act of The Man of Business’; a dull play of
that name, by Colman.

Footnote 10:

Mr Holcroft, as it appears from this letter, had brought his son
William with him from France.

Footnote 11:

Mr Holcroft long projected a work, of which Frederick II. was to have
been the hero, and the subject the effects of war and despotism. He
made considerable preparations for this work; for he had completely
lined a large closet with books, which were to furnish the materials,
direct or collateral, for writing his history of _bad_ governments.

Footnote 12:

Sophy, Mr Holcroft’s second daughter, had a little before been married
to Mr Cole, a merchant at Exeter.

Footnote 13:

The remainder of Mr Holcroft’s pamphlet is taken up with Letters to
different persons concerned in the prosecution, and the larger defence
which he had prepared in case he should be brought to a trial. They
evidently shew more virtue, firmness, and honesty, than prudence or
management, and denote something of the raised tone of the public
mind. In the letter to Erskine, which is a truly eloquent composition,
the following _trait_ is mentioned. While Erskine was examining the
spy Alexander, who, had he not been detected, might have sworn away
the life of Hardy; this eminent barrister, observing his downcast
countenance, and suddenly interrupting him, exclaimed—‘Look at the
jury, Sir! Don’t look at me. I have seen enough of you.’

Mr Holcroft, in the second part of his defence, labours the point of a
parliamentary reform; and among other proofs of the corrupt state of
representation, cites the following curious one.

‘The Borough of Gatton, within these two years, was publicly
advertised for sale by auction: not sold for a single parliament; but
the fee-simple of the Borough, with the power of nominating the two
representatives for ever. On the day of sale, the celebrated
auctioneer scarcely noticed the value of the estate. The rental, the
mansion, the views, the woods and waters, were unworthy regard,
compared to what he called _an elegant contingency_! Yes, the right of
nominating two members to parliament, without the embarrassment of
voters, was _an elegant contingency_! “Need I tell you, gentlemen,”
said he, glancing round the room with ineffable self-satisfaction, and
exulting in what he called “the jewel, the unique, which was under his
hammer; need I tell you, gentlemen, that this _elegant contingency_ is
the only infallible source of fortune, titles, and honours, in this
happy country? That it leads to the highest situations in the state?
And that, meandering through the tempting sinuosities of ambition, the
purchaser will find the margin strewed with roses, and his head
quickly crowned with those precious garlands that flourish in full
vigour round the fountain of honour? On this halcyon sea, if any
gentleman who has made his fortune in either of the Indies chooses
once more to embark, he may repose in perfect quiet. No hurricanes to
dread; no tempestuous passions to allay; no tormenting claims of
insolent electors to evade; no tinkers’ wives to kiss; no impossible
promises to make; none of the toilsome and not very clean paths of
canvassing to drudge through: but, his mind at ease and his conscience
clear, with this elegant contingency in his pocket, the honours of the
state await his plucking, and with its emoluments his purse will
overflow.”

Footnote 14:

The above passage was written in a state of perfect security against
the return of that pleasant phrase, _divine right_. Every thing is by
comparison.

Footnote 15:

Though the character of Mr Windham, as a statesman and orator, was
less developed at that time, than it has been since, it seems to have
been justly appreciated by our author. He considered him as the
disciple of Mr Burke; and it is certainly some distinction to be able
to understand the arguments, and follow the enthusiastic flights of
that great, but irregular mind. He is at present (with one exception)
the ablest speaker in the House of Commons: but he is still, and ever
will be nothing more than an imitator of Burke. There is in all his
speeches, an infinite fund of wit, of information, of reading, of
ingenuity, of taste, of refinement, of every thing but force and
originality: but of these last, there is a total absence. All is
borrowed, artificial, cast like plaster figures in a mould. The
creations of his mind are as multiplied, and they are as brittle.
Perhaps it may be thought that the want of originality is the last
thing which should be objected to this delightful speaker, all whose
sentences sparkle with singularity and paradox. But this effect is
equally mechanical with the rest. Real originality produces
occasional, not systematic paradox. He who always waits to contradict
others, has no opinion of his own. It is as easy to predict the side
which Mr Windham will take on any question as to guess what the first
old woman you meet, would think on the same subject; for you may be
sure that his opinion will be the contrary of hers. His creed is a
sort of antithesis to common sense, and he is as much the slave of
vulgar prejudices in always opposing, as if he always yielded to them.
Originality consists in considering things as they are, independently
of what others think, singularity is mere common-place transposed. The
one requires the utmost exercise of the judgment, the other suspends
the use of it altogether. [These remarks were written in 1810, before
Mr Windham’s death.]

Footnote 16:

The late Rev. Joseph Fawcett, author of The Art of War, &c. It was he
who delivered the Sunday evening lectures at the Old Jewry, which were
so popular about twenty years ago. He afterwards retired to Hedgegrove
in Hertfordshire. It was here that I first became acquainted with him,
and passed some of the pleasantest days of my life. He was the friend
of my early youth. He was the first person of literary eminence, whom
I had then known; and the conversations I had with him on subjects of
taste and philosophy, (for his taste was as refined as his powers of
reasoning were profound and subtle) gave me a delight, such as I can
never feel again.

The writings of Sterne, Fielding, Cervantes, Richardson, Rousseau,
Godwin, Goethe, &c. were the usual subjects of our discourse, and the
pleasure I had had, in reading these authors, seemed more than
doubled. Of all the persons I have ever known, he was the most
perfectly free from every taint of jealousy or narrowness. Never did a
mean or sinister motive come near his heart. He was one of the most
enthusiastic admirers of the French Revolution; and I believe that the
disappointment of the hopes he had cherished of the freedom and
happiness of mankind, preyed upon his mind, and hastened his death.

EDITOR.

Footnote 17:

The Pantisocrasy Scheme.

Footnote 18:

The Marquis de Dampierre, with whom I was very intimate at Paris in
1783. He received a mortal wound on the 8th of May, 1793, of which he
died on the 10th, when he was Commander in Chief, and which battle the
French gained.

T. H.

Footnote 19:

This letter is a translation from the French.

Footnote 20:

‘Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year.’

So they begin. It was the month of May; the cuckoo sang shrouded in
some woody copse; the showers fell between whiles; my friend repeated
the lines with native enthusiasm in a clear manly voice, still
resonant of youth and hope. Mr Wordsworth will excuse me, if in these
circumstances I declined entering the field with his profounder
metaphysical strain, and kept my preference to myself.

Footnote 21:

There is a pleasant instance of this mentioned in the Tatler. There
was an actor of that day who could play nothing but the Apothecary in
Romeo and Juliet. He succeeded so well in this, that he grew fat upon
it, when he was set aside; and having then nothing to do, pined away
till he become qualified for the part again, and had another run in
it.

Footnote 22:

Milton was a beautiful youth, and yet he wrote Paradise Lost.

Footnote 23:

‘Leviathan.’

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as
printed.
3. Footnotes have been re-indexed using numbers and collected together
at the end of the last chapter.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
5. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.
6. Superscripts are denoted by a caret before a single superscript
character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in
curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The collected works of William Hazlitt, Vol. 2 (of 12)" ***

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