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.