The Comedy of Seduction appeared in the year 1787, and was received with very great applause. Some few hints for this play were taken fromLes 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, MrHolcroft 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 timeto fatherthe 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 onLe Glorieuxof 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.
‘EnterCount,bowing.
‘EnterCount,bowing.
‘EnterCount,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 parishporpers! 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 theCount,deep in thought, and much agitated.
Re-enter theCount,deep in thought, and much agitated.
Re-enter theCount,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 yourselfthe 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 themis under ground.’
‘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 themis under ground.’
‘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 themis under ground.’
‘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 themis 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 friendsbefore 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 sortcomes in at least fifty times, and is just as unexpected and lively the last time as the first, for no other reason than because Goldfinchhas 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 possessionwhich 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 hisson. 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, whichwas 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 15l., 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