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tum est.'-Terence-Hem. Waiter! [Bawling.] Gad, tidings, Dick. I-I should be loath to think our I've reached the right reading at last! kindness was a cooling.

'I've often wished that I had, clear, For life, six hundred pounds a-year.' Swift-Hem. Waiter!

Dick. That's right; tell him to pop my clothes and linen into the carriage; they are in that bundle.

Enter WAITER.

Pang. Waiter! Here, put all the Honourable Mr Dowlas's clothes and linen into his father's, Lord Daberly's, chariot.

Waiter. Where are they all, sir? Pang. All wrapt up in the Honourable Mr Dowlas's pocket handkerchief. [Exit waiter with bundle. Dick. See 'em safe in, doctor, and I'll be with you directly.

Pang. I go, most worthy pupil. Six hundred pounds a-year! However deficient in the classics, his knowledge of arithmetic is admirable!

'I've often wished that I had, clear,
For life-

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Zek. Well, I han't been long.

Dick. No, you are come time enough, in all conscience. [Coolly. Zek. Cicely ha' gotten the place. I be e'en almost stark wild wi' joy. Such a good-natured young madam! Why, you don't seem pleased, man; sure, and sure, you be glad of our good fortune, Dick?

Dick. Dick! Why, what do you-oh! but he doesn't know yet that I am a lord's son. I rejoice to hear of your success, friend Zekiel.

Zek. Why, now, that's hearty. But, eh! Why,

Dick. Oh no. Rely on my protection.

Zek. Why, lookye, Dick Dowlas; as to protection, and all that, we ha' been old friends; and if I should need it from you, it be no more nor my right to expect it, and your business to give it me: but Cicely ha' gotten a place, and I ha' hands and health to get a livelihood." Fortune, good or bad, tries the man, they do say; and if I should hap to be made a lord to-morrow (as who can say what may betide, since they ha' made one out of an old chandler)—

Dick. Well, sir, and what then?

Zek. Why, then, the finest feather in my lordship's cap would be, to show that there would be as much shame in slighting an old friend because he be poor, as there be pleasure in owning him when it be in our power to do him service.

Dick. You mistake me, Zekiel. I-I-s'death! I'm quite confounded! I'm trying to be as fashionable here as my neighbours, but nature comes in, and knocks it all on the head. [Aside.] Zekiel, give me your hand.

Zek. Then there be a hearty Castleton slap for you. The grasp of an honest man can't disgrace the hand of a duke, Dick.

Dick. You're a kind soul, Zekiel. I regard you sincerely; I love Cicely, and-hang it, I'm going too far now for a lord's son. Pride and old friendship are now fighting in me till I'm almost bewildered. [Aside]. You shall hear from me in a few hours. Good-by, Zekiel; good-by. [Exit.

Zek. I don't know what ails me, but I be almost ready to cry. Dick be a high-mettled youth, and this news ha' put him a little beside himself. I should make a bit of allowance. His heart, I do think, be in the right road; and when that be the case, he be a hard judge that wont pardon an old friend's spirits when they do carry him a little way out on't. [Exit. [From The Poor Gentleman.']

you look mortal heavy and lumpish, Dick. No bad SIR CHARLES CROPLAND at breakfast; his Valet de Chambre tidings since we ha' been out, I hope?

Dick. Oh no.

Zek. Eh? Let's ha' a squint at you. Od rabbit it, but summut have happened. You have seen your father, and things ha' gone crossish. Who have been here, Dick?

Dick. Only a gentleman, who had the honour of being deputed ambassador from my father. Zek. What a dickens-an ambassador! Pish, now you be a queering a body. An ambassador sent from an old chandler to Dick Dowlas, Lawyer Latitat's clerk Come, that be a good one, fegs!

Dick. Dick Dowlas! and lawyer's clerk! Sir, the gentleman came to inform me that my father, by being proved next of kin to the late lord, is now Lord Duberly; by which means I am now the Honourable Mr Dowlas.

Zek. Ods flesh! gi'e us your fist, Dick! I ne'er shook the fist of an honourable afore in all my born days. Old Daniel made a lord! I be main glad to hear it. This be news indeed. But, Dick, I hope he ha' gotten some ready along wi' his title; for a lord without money be but a foolish wishy-washy kind of a thing a'ter all.

Dick. My father's estate is fifteen thousand a-year. Zek. Mercy on us!-you ha' ta'en away my breath! Dick. Well, Zekiel, Cis and you shall hear from me

soon.

Zek. Why, you ben't a going, Dick?

Dick. I must pay my duty to his lordship; his

chariot waits for me below. We have been some time acquainted, Zekiel, and you may depend upon my good offices.

Zek. You do seem a little flustrated with these

adjusting his hair.

that I arrived last night? Sir Cha. Has old Warner, the steward, been told

Valet. Yes, Sir Charles; with orders to attend you this morning.

of fashion do with himself in the country at this Sir Cha. [Yawning and stretching.] What can a man wretchedly dull time of the year!

Valet. It is very pleasant to-day out in the park, Sir Charles.

Sir Cha. Pleasant, you booby! How can the country be pleasant in the middle of spring? All the

world's in London.

Charles, when the corn is coming up.
Valet. I think, somehow, it looks so lively, Sir

Yet

Sir Cha. Blockhead! Vegetation makes the face of a country look frightful. It spoils hunting. for my pleasures elsewhere, my journey is a wise one. as my business on my estate here is to raise supplies What day of the month was it yesterday, when I left town on this wise expedition?

Valet. The first of April, Sir Charles.

Sir Cha. Umph! When Mr Warner comes, show him in.

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again. I hope you mean to stay on the spot for some time, Sir Charles?

Sir Cha. A very tedious time. Three days, Mr Warner.

Warner. Ah, good sir! things would prosper better if you honoured us with your presence a little more. I wish you lived entirely upon the estate, Sir Charles.

Sir Cha. Thank you, Warner; but modern men of fashion find it difficult to live upon their estates.

Warner. The country about you so charming! Sir Cha. Look ye, Warner-I must hunt in Leicestershire for that's the thing. In the frosts and the spring months, I must be in town at the clubs-for that's the thing. In summer I must be at the watering places for that's the thing. Now, Warner, under these circumstances, how is it possible for me to reside upon my estate? For my estate being in Kent

Warner. The most beautiful part of the county.
Sir Cha. Psha, beauty! we don't mind that in
Leicestershire. My estate, I say, being in Kent-
Warner. A land of milk and honey!

Sir Cha. I hate milk and honey.
Warner. A land of fat!

of delight, love and campaigning! Hope you come to sojourn, Sir Charles. Shouldn't be always on the wing-that's being too flighty. He, he, he! Do you take, good sir-do you take?

Sir Cha. Oh yes, I take. But, by the cockade in your hat, Ollapod, you have added lately, it seems, t your avocations. Olla. He! he! yes, Sir Charles. I have now the honour to be cornet in the Volunteer Association corps of our town. It fell out unexpected-pop, on a sudden; like the going off of a field-piece, or an alderman in an apoplexy.

Sir Cha. Explain.

Olla. Happening to be at home-rainy day-no going out to sport, blister, shoot, nor bleed-was busy behind the counter. You know my shop, Sir Charles -Galen's head over the door-new gilt him last week, by the by-looks as fresh as a pill.

Sir Cha. Well, no more on that head now. Preceed.

one.

Olla. On that head! he, he, he! That's very wellvery well, indeed! Thank you, good sir; I owe you Churchwarden Posh, of our town, being ill of an indigestion from eating three pounds of measly pork at a vestry dinner, I was making up a cathartic

Sir Cha. Hang your fat!-listen to me-my estate for the patient, when who should strut into the shop being in Kent

Warner. So woody!

Sir Cha. Curse the wood! No-that's wrong; for it's convenient. I am come on purpose to cut it.

Warner. Ah! I was afraid so! Dice on the table, and then the axe to the root! Money lost at play, and then, good lack! the forest groans for it.

Sir Cha. But you are not the forest, and why do you groan for it?

Warner. I heartily wish, Sir Charles, you may not encumber the goodly estate. Your worthy ancestors had views for their posterity.

Sir Cha. And I shall have views for my posterityI shall take special care the trees shan't intercept their prospect.

Enter SERVANT.

Servant. Mr Ollapod, the apothecary, is in the hall, Sir Charles, to inquire after your health.

Sir Cha. Show him in. [Exit servant.] The fellow's a character, and treats time as he does his patients. He shall kill a quarter of an hour for me this morning. In short, Mr Warner, I must have three thousand pounds in three days. Fell timber to that amount immediately. 'Tis my peremptory order, sir.

Warner. I shall obey you, Sir Charles; but 'tis with a heavy heart! Forgive an old servant of the family if he grieves to see you forget some of the duties for which society has a claim upon you.

Sir Cha. What do you mean by duties? Warner. Duties, Sir Charles, which the extravagant man of property can never fulfil-such as to support the dignity of an English landholder for the honour of old England; to promote the welfare of his honest tenants; and to succour the industrious poor, who naturally look up to him for assistance. But I shall obey you, Sir Charles. [Exit. Sir Cha. A tiresome old blockhead! But where is this Ollapod? His jumble of physic and shooting may enliven me; and, to a man of gallantry in the country, his intelligence is by no means uninteresting, nor his services inconvenient. Ha, Ollapod!

Enter OLLAPOD.

Ollapod. Sir Charles, I have the honour to be your slave. Hope your health is good. Been a hard winter here. Sore throats were plenty; so were woodcocks. Flushed four couple one morning in a halfmile walk from our town to cure Mrs Quarles of a quinsey. May coming on soon, Sir Charles-season |

but Lieutenant Grains, the brewer-sleek as a drayhorse in a smart scarlet jacket, tastily turned up with a rhubarb-coloured lapelle. I confess his figure struck me. I looked at him as I was thumping the mortar, and felt instantly inoculated with a military ardour.

Sir Cha. Inoculated! I hope your ardour was of a favourable sort?

Olla. Ha ha! That's very well-very well, indeed! Thank you, good sir; I owe you one. We first talked of shooting. He knew my celebrity that way, Sir Charles. I told him the day before I had killed six brace of birds. I thumpt on at the mortar. We then talked of physic. I told him the day before I had killed-lost, I mean-six brace of patients. I thumpt on at the mortar, eyeing him all the while; for he looked very flashy, to be sure; and I felt an itching to belong to the corps. The medical and military both deal in death, you know; so 'twas natural. He! he! Do you take, good sir-do you take?

Sir Cha. Take? Oh, nobody can miss.

Olla. He then talked of the corps itself; said it was sickly; and if a professional person would administer to the health of the Association-dose the men and drench the horse-he could perhaps procure him a cornetcy.

Sir Cha. Well, you jumped at the offer!

Olla. Jumped! I jumped over the counter, kicked down Churchwarden Posh's cathartic into the pocket of Lieutenant Grains' small scarlet jacket, tastily turned up with a rhubarb-coloured lapelle; embraced him and his offer; and I am now Cornet Ollapod, apothecary at the Galen's Head, of the Association Corps of Cavalry, at your service.

Sir Cha. I wish you joy of your appointment. You may now distil water for the shop from the laurels you gather in the field.

Olla. Water for-oh! laurel water-he! he! Come, that's very well-very well indeed! Thank you, good sir; I owe you one. Why, I fancy fame will follow when the poison of a small mistake I made has ceased to operate.

Sir Cha. A mistake?

Olla. Having to attend Lady Kitty Carbuncle on a grand field-day, I clapt a pint bottle of her lady. ship's diet-drink into one of my holsters, intending to proceed to the patient after the exercise was over. I reached the martial ground, and jalloped - gal lopped, I mean-wheeled, and flourished, with great eclat; but when the word 'Fire' was given, meaning

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Luc. I beg, sir, you will be seated.

Olla. Oh, dear madam! [Sitting down.] A charming chair to bleed in! [Aside. Luc. I am sorry Mr Worthington is not at home to receive you, sir.

very well indeed! Thank you, good madam; I owe you one. Galenicals, madam, are medicines. Luc. Medicines !

Olla. Yes, physic: buckthorn, senna, and so forth. Luc. [Rising.] Why, then, you are an apothecary! Olla. [Rising too, and bowing.] And man-midwife at your service, madam.

Luc. At my service, indeed!

Olla. Yes, madam! Cornet Ollapod at the gilt Galen's Head, of the Volunteer Association Corps of

Cavalry-as ready for the foe as a customer; always willing to charge them both. Do you take, good

madam-do you take?

Luc. And has the Honourable Miss Lucretia

MacTab been talking all this while to a petty dealer in drugs?

Olla. Drugs! Why, she turns up her honourable nose as if she was going to swallow them! [Aside.] No man more respected than myself, madam. Courted by the corps, idolised by invalids; and for a shot-ask my friend Sir Charles Cropland.

Luc. Is Sir Charles Cropland a friend of yours, sir?

Olla. Intimate. He doesn't make wry faces at physic, whatever others may do, madam. This village flanks the intrenchments of his park-full of fine fat venison; which is as light a food for digestion

as

Luc. But he is never on his estate here, I am told. Olla. He quarters there at this moment. Luc. Bless me! has Sir Charles thenOlla. Told me all-your accidental meeting in the metropolis, and his visits when the lieutenant

was out.

Luc. Oh, shocking! I declare I shall faint.

Olla. Faint! never mind that, with a medical man in the room. I can bring you about in a twinkling. Luc. And what has Sir Charles Cropland presumed to advance about me?

Olla. You are a relation of the lieutenant, madam? Luc. I only by his marriage, I assure you, sir. Aunt to his deceased wife: but I am not surprised Olla. Oh, nothing derogatory. Respectful as a duckat your question. My friends in town would won-legged drummer to a commander-in-chief. der to see the Honourable Miss Lucretia MacTab, sister to the late Lord Lofty, cooped up in a farmhouse.

Olla. [Aside.] The honourable! humph! a bit of quality tumbled into decay. The sister of a dead peer in a pig-stye!

Luc. You are of the military, I am informed, sir? Olla. He he! Yes, madam. Cornet Ollapod, of our volunteers-a fine healthy troop-ready to give the enemy a dose whenever they dare to attack us.

Luc. I was always prodigiously partial to the military. My great grandfather, Marmaduke Baron Lofty, commanded a troop of horse under the Duke of Marlborough, that famous general of his age.

Olla. Marlborough was a hero of a man, madam; and lived at Woodstock-a sweet sporting country; where Rosamond perished by poison-arsenic as likely 13 anything.

Luc. And have you served much, Mr Ollapod! Olla. He, he! Yes, madam; served all the nobility and gentry for five miles round.

Luc. Sir!

Olla. And shall be happy to serve the good lieutenant and his family. [Bowing. Luc. We shall be proud of your acquaintance, sir. A gentleman of the army is always an acquisition among the Goths and Vandals of the country, where very sheepish squire has the air of an apothecary. Olla. Madam! An apothe-Zounds!-hum!He! he! I-You must know, I-1 deal a little in Galenicals myself [Sheepishly].

Luc. Galenicals! Oh, they are for operations, I suppose, among the military?

Olla. Operations! he! he! Come, that's very well

Luc. I have only proceeded in this affair from the purest motives, and in a mode becoming a MacTab. Olla. None dare to doubt it.

Luc. And if Sir Charles has dropt in to a dish of tea with myself and Emily in London, when the lieutenant was out, I see no harm in it.

Ola. Nor I neither: except that tea shakes the nervous system to shatters. But to the point: the baronet's my bosom friend. Having heard you were here, 'Ollapod,' says he, squeezing my hand in his own, which had strong symptoms of fever-Ollapod,' says he, you are a military man, and may be trusted.' I'm a cornet,' says I, and close as a pill-box.' Fly, then, to Miss Lucretia MacTab, that honourable picture of prudence

Luc. He! he! Did Sir Charles say that?

Olla. [Aside.] How these tabbies love to be toaded! Luc. In short, Sir Charles, I perceive, has appointed you his emissary, to consult with me when he may have an interview.

Olla. Madam, you are the sharpest shot at the truth I ever met in my life. And now we are in consultation, what think you of a walk with Miss Emily by the old elms at the back of the village this evening?

Luc. Why, I am willing to take any steps which may promote Emily's future welfare.

Ola. Take steps! what, in a walk? He! he! Come, that's very well-very well indeed! Thank you, good madam; I owe you one. I shall communicate to my friend with due despatch. Command Cornet Ollapod on all occasions; and whatever the gilt Galen's Head can produce

Luc. [Curtsying.] Oh, sir!

Olla. By the by, I have some double-distilled

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lavender water, much admired in our corps. Permit He had a patient lying at death's door, ine to send a pint bottle by way of present. Luc. Dear sir, I shall rob you.

Olla. Quite the contrary; for I'll set it down to Sir Charles as a quart. [Aside. Madam, your slave. You have prescribed for our patient like an able physician. Not a step.

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The Newcastle Apothecary.

A man in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with death to wrestle;
Entering the field against the grimly foe,
Armed with a mortar and a pestle.
Yet some affirm, no enemies they are;
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother:
So (many a suffering patient saith)
Though the apothecary fights with Death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.
A member of this Esculapian line,
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill,

Or make a bill;

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed;
Or give a clyster.

Of occupations these were quantum suff.:
Yet still he thought the list not long enough;
And therefore midwifery he chose to pin to't.
This balanced things; for if he hurled

A few score mortals from the world,

He made amends by bringing others into't. His fame full six miles round the country ran; In short, in reputation he was solus:

All the old women called him a fine man!'
His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade

(Which oftentimes will genius fetter), Read works of fancy, it is said,

And cultivated the belles lettres.
And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic?
Of poetry, though patron god,

Apollo patronises physic.

Bolus loved verse, and took so much delight in't, That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't.

No opportunity he c'er let pass

Of writing the directions on his labels
In dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables,
Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.
Apothecary's verse! and where's the treason!
'Tis simply honest dealing; not a crime;
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.

Some three miles from the town, it might be four;
To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article
In pharmacy that's called cathartical.
And on the label of the stuff

He wrote this verse,

Which one would think was clear enough, And terse:

"When taken,

To be well shaken.'
Next morning early, Bolus rose,
And to the patient's house he goes
Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had:
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;
But that's of course;

For what's expected from a horse,
With an apothecary on his back?
Bolus arrived, and gave a doubtful tap,
Between a single and a double rap.

Knocks of this kind

Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance;
By fiddlers, and by opera-singers;
One loud, and then a little one behind,
As if the knocker fell by chance
Out of their fingers.

The servant lets him in with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place-
Portending some disaster;
John's countenance as rueful looked and grim,
As if the apothecary had physiced him,
And not his master.

'Well, how's the patient? Bolus said;
John shook his head.
'Indeed!-hum! ha!-that's very odd!
He took the draught? John gave a nod.

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Well, how? what then? speak out, you dunce! 'Why, then,' says John, we shook him once.' 'Shook him!-how?' Bolus stammered out. "We jolted him about.'

Zounds! shake a patient, man!-a shake won't do' 'No, sir, and so we gave him two.'

Two shakes! od's curse!

"Twould make the patient worse.'

'It did so, sir, and so a third we tried.' 'Well, and what then?' Then, sir, my master died."

Lodgings for Single Gentlemen.

Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, Has seen Lodgings to Let' stare him full in the face; Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well

known,

Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.
Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only;
But Will was so fat, he appeared like a ton,
Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one.
He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated,
But all the night long he felt fevered and heated;
And though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,
He was not by any means heavy to sleep.
Next night 'twas the same; and the next, and the

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For his skin, 'like a lady's loose gown,'hung about him. He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny;

I have lost many pounds-make me well—there's a guinea.'

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The doctor looked wise; 'A slow fever,' he said:
Prescribed sudorifics and going to bed.
'Sudorifics in bed,' exclaimed Will, are humbugs!
I've enough of them there without paying for drugs!'
Will kicked out the doctor; but when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed;
So, calling his host, he said, 'Sir, do you know,
I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago?
Look'e, landlord, I think,' argued Will with a grin,
'That with honest intentions you first took me in:
But from the first night-and to say it I'm bold-
I've been so hanged hot, that I'm sure I caught cold.'
Quoth the landlord, Till now, I ne'er had a dispute;
I've let lodgings ten years; I'm a baker to boot;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven;
And your bed is immediately over my oven.'
'The oven!' says Will. Says the host, 'Why this
passion?

In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.

a taking,

Why so crusty, good sir?' 'Zounds!' cries Will, in 'Who wouldn't be crusty with half a year's baking? Will paid for his rooms; cried the host, with a sneer, 'Well, I see you've been going away half a year.' 'Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel,' Will said;

'But I'd rather not perish while you make your bread.'

MRS ELIZABETH INCHBALD.

MRS ELIZABETH INCHBALD, an actress, dramatist, and novelist, produced a number of popular plays. Her two tales, The Simple Story, and Nature and Art, are the principal sources of her fame; but her light dramatic pieces are marked by various talent. Her first production was a farce entitled The Mogul Tale, brought out in 1784, and from this time, down to 1805, she wrote nine other plays and farces. By some of these pieces (as appears from her memoirs) she received considerable sums of money. Her first production realised £100; her comedy of Such Things Are (her greatest dramatic performance) brought her in £410, 12s.; The Married Man, £100; The Wedding Day, £200; The Midnight Hour, £130; Every One Has His Fault, £700; Wives as they Were, and Maids as they Are, £427, 10s.; Lovers' Vows, £150; &c. The personal history of this lady is as singular as any of her dramatic plots. She was born of Roman Catholic parents residing at Standyfield, near Bury St Edmunds, in the year 1753. At the age of sixteen, full of giddy romance, she ran off to London, having with her a small sum of money, and some wearing apparel in a bandbox. After various adventures, she obtained an engagement for a country theatre, but suffering some personal indignities in her unprotected state, she applied to Mr Inchbald, an actor whom she had previously known. The gentleman counselled marriage. But who would marry me?' cried the lady. I would,' replied her friend, if you would have me.' 'Yes, sir, and would for ever be grateful'-and married they were in a few days. The union thus singularly brought about seems to have been happy enough; but Mr Inchbald died a few years afterwards. Mrs Inchbald performed the first parts in the Edinburgh theatre for four years, and continued on the stage, acting in London, Dublin, &c. till 1789, when she quitted it for ever. Her exemplary prudence, and the profits of her works, enabled her not only to live, but to save money. The applause and distinction with which she was greeted never led her to deviate from her simple and somewhat parsimonious habits. 'Last Thursday,' she writes, I finished scouring my bed-room, while a coach with a coronet and two

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footmen waited at my door to take me an airing.' She allowed a sister who was in ill health £100 ayear. Many a time this winter,' she records in her diary, when I cried for cold, I said to myself, “but, thank God! my sister has not to stir from her room; she has her fire lighted every morning; all her provisions bought and brought ready cooked; she is now the less able to bear what I bear; and how much more should I suffer but for this reflection." This was noble and generous self-denial. The income of Mrs Inchbald was now £172 per annum, and, after the death of her sister, she went to reside in a boarding house, where she enjoyed more of the comforts of life. Traces of female weakness break out in her private memoranda amidst the sterner records of her struggle for independence. The following entry is amusing: 1798. London. Rehearsing "Lovers' Vows;" happy, but for a suspicion, amounting to a certainty, of a rapid appearance of age in my face.' Her last literary labour collection of plays, in twenty-five volumes; a colwas writing biographical and critical prefaces to a lection of farces, in seven volumes; and the Modern Theatre, in ten volumes. Phillips, the publisher, offered her a thousand pounds for her memoirs, but she declined the tempting offer. This autobiography was, by her own orders, destroyed after her decease; but in 1833, her Memoirs were published by Mr Boaden, compiled from an autograph journal which she kept for above fifty years, and from her letters written to her friends. Mrs Inchbald died in a boarding-house at Kensington on the 1st of August 1821. By her will, dated four months before her decease, she left about £6000, judiciously divided amongst her relatives. One of her legacies marks the eccentricity of thought and conduct which was mingled with the talents and virtues of this originalminded woman: she left £20 each to her late laundress and hair-dresser, provided they should inquire of her executors concerning her decease.

THOMAS HOLCROFT.

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THOMAS HOLCROFT, author of the admired comedy, The Road to Ruin, and the first to introduce the melo-drama into England, was born in London on the 10th of December 1745. Till I was six years old,' says Holcroft, my father kept a shoemaker's shop in Orange Court; and I have a faint recollection that my mother dealt in greens and oysters.' Humble as this condition was, it seems to have been succeeded by greater poverty, and the future dramatist and comedian was employed in the country by his parents to hawk goods as a pedlar. He was afterwards engaged as a stable-boy at Newmarket, and was proud of his new livery. A charitable person, who kept a school at Newmarket, taught him to read. He was afterwards a rider on the turf; and when sixteen years of age, he worked for some time with his father as a shoemaker. A passion for books was at this time predominant, and the confinement of the shoemaker's stall not agreeing with him, he attempted to raise a school in the country. He afterwards became a provincial actor, and spent seven years in strolling about England, in every variety of wretchedness, with different companies. In 1780 Holcroft appeared as an author, his first work being a novel, entitled Alwyn, or the Gentleman Comedian. In the following year his comedy of Duplicity was acted with great success at Covent Garden. Another comedy, The Deserted Daughter, experienced a very favourable reception; but The Road to Ruin is universally acknowledged to be the best of his dramatic works. This comedy,' says Mrs Inchbald, ranks among the most successful of

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