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 thecommon placecharacter of the Review had been endangered; and the first opportunity was seized to retrieve the mistake, by retractingtheir opinionhautementin 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 afriend 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 theFratres 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 fiveguineas. 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 farmerOwen. 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 12l.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.