  MEMOIRS OF THOMAS HOLCROFTThe 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.’
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).
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. 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.
1. Mr Holcroft has made use of this incident in the first Volume of Hugh Trevor, see p. 40. 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. 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. 4. Hugh Trevor, vol. iii. 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. 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. 7. The Count was at the head of that party in France, who either did, or affected to admire Shakspeare. 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. 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. 10. Mr Holcroft, as it appears from this letter, had brought his son William with him from France. 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. 12. Sophy, Mr Holcroft’s second daughter, had a little before been married to Mr Cole, a merchant at Exeter. 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.” 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. 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.] 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. 17. The Pantisocrasy Scheme. 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. 19. This letter is a translation from the French. 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. 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. 22. Milton was a beautiful youth, and yet he wrote Paradise Lost. 23. ‘Leviathan.’ |
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