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 theimperfectionof 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 ofOxford, 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 weredistinctly 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 preachesAgainst 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 yearAre 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!”’
‘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 preachesAgainst 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 yearAre 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!”’
‘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!”
‘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!”
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 preachesAgainst worldly riches;But ne’er gives a mite to the poor,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 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 yearAre all for the flush and the fair,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!”’
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!”’