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[Frontispiece:
The Attempted Abduction
Original painting by B. Wesley Rand]
Beaux & Belles of England
Mrs. Mary Robinson
Written by Herself
With the Lives of the Duchesses of Gordon
and Devonshire by Grace and Philip Wharton
London
EDITION DE LUXE
INTRODUCTION TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION
The following brief memoirs of a beautiful, engaging, and, in many
respects, highly gifted woman require little in the way of introduction.
While we may trace same little negative disingenuousness in the writer,
in regard to a due admission of her own failings, sufficient of
uncoloured matter of fact remains to show the exposed situation of an
unprotected beauty--or, what is worse, of a female of great personal and
natural attraction, exposed to the gaze of libertine rank and fashion,
under the mere nominal guardianship of a neglectful and profligate
husband. Autobiography of this class is sometimes dangerous; not so that
of Mrs. Robinson, who conceals not the thorns inherent in the paths
along which vice externally scatters roses; For the rest, the
arrangement of princely establishments in the way of amour is pleasantly
portrayed in this brief volume, which in many respects is not without
its moral. One at least is sufficiently obvious, and it will be found in
the cold-hearted neglect which a woman of the most fascinating mental
and personal attractions may encounter from those whose homage is merely
sensual, and whose admiration is but a snare.
EDITOR'S PREFACE
The author of these memoirs, Mary Robinson, was one of the most
prominent and eminently beautiful women of her day. From the description
she furnishes of her personal appearance, we gather that her complexion
was dark, her eyes large, her features expressive of melancholy; and
this verbal sketch corresponds with her portrait, which presents a face
at once grave, refined, and charming. Her beauty, indeed, was such as to
attract, amongst others, the attentions of Lords Lyttelton and
Northington, Fighting Fitzgerald, Captain Ayscough, and finally the
Prince of Wales; whilst her talents and conversation secured her the
friendship and interest of David Garrick, Richard Brinsley Sheridan,
Charles James Fox, Joshua Reynolds, Arthur Murphy, the dramatist, and
various other men of distinguished talent.
Though her memoirs are briefly sketched, they are sufficiently vivid to
present us with various pictures of the social life of the period of
which she was the centre. Now we find her at the Pantheon, with its
coloured lamps and brilliant music, moving amidst a fashionable crowd,
where large hoops and high feathers abounded, she herself dressed in a
habit of pale pink satin trimmed with sable, attracting the attention of
men of fashion. Again she is surrounded by friends at Vauxhall Gardens,
and barely escapes from a cunning plot to abduct her,--a plot in which
loaded pistols and a waiting coach prominently figure; whilst on another
occasion she is at Ranelagh, where, in the course of the evening, half a
dozen gallants "evinced their attentions;" and ultimately she makes her
first appearance as an actress on the stage of Drury Lane, before a
brilliant house, David Garrick, now retired, watching her from the
orchestra, whilst she played Juliet in pink satin richly spangled with
silver, her head ornamented with white feathers.
The fact of her becoming an actress brought about the turning-point in
her life; it being whilst she played Perdita in "The Winter's Tale"
before royalty that she attracted the Prince of Wales, afterward George
IV., who was then in his eighteenth year. The incidents which follow are
so briefly treated in the memoirs that explanations are necessary to
those who would follow the story of her life.
The performance of the play in which the prince saw her, probably for
the first time, took place on the 3d of December, 1779. It was not until
some months later, during which the prince and Perdita corresponded,
that she consented to meet him at Kew, where his education was being
continued and strict guard kept upon his conduct. During 1780 he urged
his father to give him a commission in the army, but, dreading the
liberty which would result from such a step, the king refused the
request. It was, however, considered advisable to provide the prince
with a small separate establishment in a wing of Buckingham House; this
arrangement taking place On the 1st of January, 1781.
Being now his own master, the prince became a man about town, attended
routs, masquerades, horse-races, identified himself with politicians
detested by the king, set up an establishment for Mrs. Robinson,
gambled, drank, and in a single year spent ten thousand pounds on
clothes. He now openly appeared in the company of Perdita at places of
public resort and amusement; she, magnificently dressed, driving a
splendid equipage which had cost him nine hundred guineas, and
surrounded by his friends. We read that: "To-day she was a _paysanne,_
with her straw hat tied at the back of her head. Yesterday she perhaps
had been the dressed belle of Hyde Park, trimmed, powdered, patched,
painted to the utmost power of rouge and white lead; to-morrow she would
be the cravated Amazon of the riding-house; but, be she what she might,
the hats of the fashionable promenaders swept the ground as she passed."
This life lasted about two years, when, just as the prince, on his
coming of age, was about to take possession of Carlton House, to receive
£30,000 from the nation toward paying his debts, and an annuity of
£63,000, he absented himself from Perdita, leaving her in ignorance of
the cause of his change, which was none other than an interest in Mrs.
Grace Dalrymple Elliott.
In the early fervour of his fancy, he had assured Mrs. Robinson his love
would remain unchangeable till death, and that he would prove
unalterable to his Perdita through life. Moreover, his generosity being
heated by passion, he gave her a bond promising to pay her £20,000 on
his coming of age.
On the prince separating from her, Perdita found herself some £7,000 in
debt to tradespeople, who became clamorous for their money, whereon she
wrote to her royal lover, who paid her no heed; but presently she was
visited by his friend, Charles James Fox, when she agreed to give up her
bond in consideration of receiving an annuity of £500 a year.
She would now gladly have gone back to the stage, but that she feared
the hostility of public opinion. Shortly after, she went to Paris, and
on her return to England devoted herself to literature. It was about
this time she entered into relations with Colonel--afterward Sir
Banastre--Tarleton, who was born in the same year as herself, and had
served in the American army from 1776 until the surrender of Yorktown,
on which he returned to England. For many years he sat in Parliament as
the representative of Liverpool, his native town; and in 1817 he gained
the grade of lieutenant-general, and was created a baronet. His
friendship with Mrs. Robinson lasted some sixteen years.
It was whilst undertaking a journey on his behalf, at a time when he was
in pecuniary difficulties, that she contracted the illness that resulted
in her losing the active use of her lower limbs. This did not prevent
her from working, and she poured out novels, poems, essays on the
condition of women, and plays. A communication written by her to John
Taylor, the proprietor of the _Sun_ newspaper and author of various
epilogues, prologues, songs, etc., gives a view of her life. This
letter, now published for the first time, is contained in the famous
Morrison collection of autograph letters, and is dated the 5th of
October, 1794.
"I was really happy to receive your letter. Your silence gave me no
small degree of uneasiness, and I began to think some demon had broken
the links of that chain which I trust has united us in friendship for
ever. Life is such a scene of trouble and disappointment that the
sensible mind can ill endure the loss of any consolation that renders it
supportable. How, then, can it be possible that we should resign,
without a severe pang, the first of all human blessings, the friend we
love? Never give me reason again, I conjure you, to suppose you have
wholly forgot me.
"Now I will impart to you a secret, which must not be revealed. I think
that before the 10th of December next I shall quit England for ever. My
dear and valuable brother, who is now in Lancashire, wishes to persuade
me, and the unkindness of the world tends not a little to forward his
hopes. I have no relations in England except my darling girl, and, I
fear, few friends. Yet, my dear Juan, I shall feel a very severe
struggle in quitting those paths of fancy I have been childish enough to
admire,--false prospects. They have led me into the vain expectation
that fame would attend my labours, and my country be my pride. How have
I been treated? I need only refer you to the critiques of last month,
and you will acquit me of unreasonable instability. When I leave
England,--adieu to the muse for ever,--I will never publish another line
while I exist, and even those manuscripts now finished I will destroy.
"Perhaps this will be no loss to the world, yet I may regret the many
fruitless hours I have employed to furnish occasions for malevolence and
persecution.
"In every walk of life I have been equally unfortunate, but here shall
end my complaints.
"I shall return to St. James's Place for a few days this month to meet
my brother, who then goes to York for a very short time, and after his
return (the end of November), I depart. This must be secret, for to my
other misfortunes pecuniary derangement is not the least. Let common
sense judge how I can subsist upon £500 a year, when my carriage (a
necessary expense) alone costs me £200. My mental labours have failed
through the dishonest conduct of my publishers. My works have sold
handsomely, but the profits have been theirs.
"Have I not reason to be disgusted when I see him to whom I ought to
look for better fortune lavishing favours on unworthy objects,
gratifying the avarice of ignorance and dulness, while I, who sacrificed
reputation, an advantageous profession, friends, patronage, the
brilliant hours of youth, and the conscious delight of correct conduct,
am condemned to the scanty pittance bestowed on every indifferent page
who holds up his ermined train of ceremony?
"You will say, 'Why trouble me with all this?' I answer, 'Because when I
am at peace, you may be in possession of my real sentiments and defend
my cause when I shall not have the power of doing it.'
"My comedy has been long in the hands of a manager, but whether it will
ever be brought forward time must decide. You know, my dear friend, what
sort of authors have lately been patronised by managers; their pieces
ushered to public view, with all the advantages of splendour; yet I am
obliged to wait two long years without a single hope that a trial would
be granted. Oh, I am tired of the world and all its mortifications. I
promise you this shall close my chapters of complaints. Keep them, and
remember how ill I have been treated."
Eight days later she wrote to the same friend:
"In wretched spirits I wrote you last week a most melancholy letter.
Your kind answer consoled me. The balsam of pure and disinterested
friendship never fails to cure the mind's sickness, particularly when it
proceeds from disgust at the ingratitude of the world."
The play to which she referred was probably that mentioned in the sequel
to her memoirs, which was unhappily a failure. It is notable that the
principal character in the farce was played by Mrs. Jordan, who was
later to become the victim of a royal prince, who left her to die in
poverty and exile.
The letter of another great actress, Sarah Siddons, written to John
Taylor, shows kindness and compassion toward Perdita.
"I am very much obliged to Mrs. Robinson," says Mrs. Siddons, "for her
polite attention in sending me her poems. Pray tell her so with my
compliments. I hope the poor, charming woman has quite recovered from
her fall. If she is half as amiable as her writings, I shall long for
the possibility of being acquainted with her. I say the possibility,
because one's whole life is one continual sacrifice of inclinations,
which to indulge, however laudable or innocent, would draw down the
malice and reproach of those prudent people who never do ill, 'but feed
and sleep and do observances to the stale ritual of quaint ceremony.'
The charming and beautiful Mrs. Robinson: I pity her from the bottom
of my soul."
Almost to the last she retained her beauty, and delighted in receiving
her friends and learning from them news of the world in which she could
no longer move. Reclining on her sofa in the little drawing-room of her
house in St. James's Place, she was the centre of a circle which
comprised many of those who had surrounded her in the days of her
brilliancy, amongst them being the Prince of Wales and his brother the
Duke of York.
Possibly, for the former, memory lent her a charm which years had not
utterly failed to dispel.
J. Fitzgerald Molloy.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The Attempted Abduction
Lady Lyttleton
William Brereton in The Character Of Douglas
The First Meeting of Mrs. Robinson and the Prince of Wales
Mrs. Robinson
The Prince of Wales
Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire
MRS. MARY ROBINSON
At the period when the ancient city of Bristol was besieged by Fairfax's
army, the troops being stationed on a rising ground in the vicinity of
the suburbs, a great part of the venerable minster was destroyed by the
cannonading before Prince Rupert surrendered to the enemy; and the
beautiful Gothic structure, which at this moment fills the contemplative
mind with melancholy awe, was reduced to but little more than one-half
of the original fabric. Adjoining to the consecrated hill, whose antique
tower resists the ravages of time, once stood a monastery of monks of
the order of St. Augustine. This building formed a part of the spacious
boundaries which fell before the attacks of the enemy, and became a part
of the ruin, which never was repaired or re-raised to its former Gothic
splendours.
On this spot was built a private house, partly of simple, and partly of
modern architecture. The front faced a small garden, the gates of which
opened to the Minster Green (now called the College Green); the west
side was bounded by the cathedral, and the back was supported by the
ancient cloisters of St. Augustine's monastery. A spot more calculated
to inspire the soul with mournful meditation can scarcely be found
amidst the monuments of antiquity.
In this venerable mansion there was one chamber whose dismal and
singular constructure left no doubt of its having been a part of the
original monastery. It was supported by the mouldering arches of the
cloisters, dark, Gothic, and opening on the minster sanctuary, not only
by casement windows that shed a dim midday gloom, but by a narrow
winding staircase, at the foot of which an iron-spiked door led to the
long gloomy path of cloistered solitude. This place remained in the
situation in which I describe it in the year 1776, and probably may, in
a more ruined state, continue so to this hour.
In this awe-inspiring habitation, which I shall henceforth denominate
the Minster House, during a tempestuous night, on the 27th of November,
1758, I first opened my eyes to this world of duplicity and sorrow. I
have often heard my mother say that a mare stormy hour she never
remembered. The wind whistled round the dark pinnacles of the minster
tower, and the rain beat in torrents against the casements of her
chamber. Through life the tempest has followed my footsteps, and I have
in vain looked for a short interval of repose from the perseverance
of sorrow.
In the male line I am descended from a respectable family in Ireland,
the original name of which was MacDermott. From an Irish estate, my
great-grandfather changed it to that of Darby. My father, who was born
in America, was a man of strong mind, high spirit, and great personal
intrepidity. Many anecdotes, well authenticated, and which, being
irrefragable, are recorded as just tributes to his fame and memory,
shall, in the course of these memoirs, confirm this assertion.
My mother was the grandchild of Catherine Seys, one of the daughters and
co-heiresses of Richard Sey's, Esq., of Boverton Castle, in
Glamorganshire. The sister of my great-grandmother, named Anne, married
Peter, Lord King, who was nephew, in the female line, to the learned and
truly illustrious John Locke--a name that has acquired celebrity which
admits of no augmented panegyric.
Catherine Seys was a woman of great piety and virtue--a character which
she transferred to her daughter, and which has also been acknowledged as
justly due to her sister, Lady King.[1] She quitted this life when my
grandmother was yet a child, leaving an only daughter, whose father also
died while she was in her infancy. By this privation of paternal care my
grandmother became the _élève_ of her mother's father, and passed the
early part of her life at the family castle in Glamorganshire. From this
period till the marriage of my mother, I can give but a brief account.
All I know is, that my grandmother, though wedded unhappily, to the
latest period of her existence was a woman of amiable and simple
manners, unaffected piety, and exemplary virtue. I remember her well;
and I speak not only from report, but from my own knowledge. She died in
the year 1780.
My grandmother Elizabeth, whom I may, without the vanity of
consanguinity, term a truly good woman, in the early part of her life
devoted much of her time to botanic study. She frequently passed many
successive months with Lady Tynt, of Haswell, in Somersetshire, who was
her godmother, and who was the Lady Bountiful of the surrounding
villages. Animated by so distinguished an example, the young Elizabeth,
who was remarkably handsome,[2] took particular delight in visiting the
old, the indigent, and the infirm, resident within many miles of
Haswell, and in preparing such medicines as were useful to the maladies
of the peasantry. She was the village doctress, and, with her worthy
godmother, seldom passed a day without exemplifying the benevolence of
her nature.
My mother was born at Bridgwater, in Somersetshire, in the house near
the bridge, which is now occupied by Jonathan Chub, Esq., a relation of
my beloved and lamented parent, and a gentleman who, to acknowledged
worth and a powerful understanding, adds a superior claim to attention
by all the acquirements of a scholar and a philosopher.
My mother, who never was what may be called a handsome woman, had
nevertheless, in her youth, a peculiarly neat figure, and a vivacity of
manner which obtained her many suitors. Among others, a young gentleman
of good family, of the name of Storr, paid his addresses. My father was
the object of my mother's choice, though her relations rather wished her
to form a matrimonial alliance with Mr. S. The conflict between
affection and duty was at length decided in favour of my father, and the
rejected lover set out in despair for Bristol. From thence, in a few
days after his arrival, he took his passage in a merchantman for a
distant part of the globe; and from that hour no intelligence ever
arrived of his fate or fortune. I have often heard my mother speak of
this gentleman with regret and sorrow.
My mother was between twenty and thirty years of age at the period of
her marriage. The ceremony was performed at Dunyatt, in the county of
Somerset. My father was shortly after settled at Bristol, and during the
second year after their union a son was born to bless and
honour them.[3]
Three years after my mother gave birth to a daughter, named Elizabeth,
who died of the smallpox at the age of two years and ten months. In the
second winter following this event, which deeply afflicted the most
affectionate of parents, I was born. She had afterward two sons:
William, who died at the age of six years; and George, who is now a
respectable merchant at Leghorn, in Tuscany.
All the offspring of my parents were, in their infancy, uncommonly
handsome, excepting myself. The boys were fair and lusty, with auburn
hair, light blue eyes, and countenances peculiarly animated and lovely,
I was swarthy; my eyes were singularly large in proportion to my face,
which was small and round, exhibiting features peculiarly marked with
the most pensive and melancholy cast.
The great difference betwixt my brothers and myself, in point of
personal beauty, tended much to endear me to my parents, particularly to
my father, whom I strongly resembled. The early propensities of my life
were tinctured with romantic and singular characteristics; some of which
I shall here mention, as proofs that the mind is never to be diverted
from its original bent, and that every event of my life has more or less
been marked by the progressive evils of a too acute sensibility.
The nursery in which I passed my hours of infancy was so near the great
aisle of the minster that the organ, which reechoed its deep tones,
accompanied by the chanting of the choristers, was distinctly heard both
at morning and evening service. I remember with what pleasure I used to
listen, and how much I was delighted whenever I was permitted to sit on
the winding steps which led from the aisle to the cloisters. I can at
this moment recall to memory the sensations I then experienced--the
tones that seemed to thrill through my heart, the longing which I felt
to unite my feeble voice to the full anthem, and the awful though
sublime impression which the church service never failed to make upon my
feelings. While my brothers were playing on the green before the
minster, the servant who attended us has often, by my earnest
entreaties, suffered me to remain beneath the great eagle which stood in
the centre of the aisle, to support the book from which the clergyman
read the lessons of the day; and nothing could keep me away, even in the
coldest seasons, but the stern looks of an old man, whom I named Black
John from the colour of his beard and complexion, and whose occupations
within the sacred precincts were those of a bell-ringer and sexton.
As soon as I had learned to read, my great delight was that of learning
epitaphs and monumental inscriptions. A story of melancholy import never
failed to excite my attention; and before I was seven years old I could
correctly repeat Pope's "Lines to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady;"
Mason's "Elegy on the Death of the Beautiful Countess of Coventry," and
many smaller poems on similar subjects. I had then been attended two
years by various masters. Mr. Edmund Broadrip taught me music, my father
having presented me with one of Kirkman's finest harpsichords, as an
incitement to emulation. Even there my natural bent of mind evinced
itself. The only melody which pleased me was that of the mournful and
touching kind. Two of my earliest favourites were the celebrated ballad
by Gay, beginning, "'Twas when the sea was roaring," and the simple
pathetic stanzas of "The Heavy Hours," by the poet Lord Lyttelton.
These, though nature had given me but little voice, I could at seven
years of age sing so pathetically that my mother, to the latest hour of
her life,' never could bear to hear the latter of them repeated. They
reminded her of sorrows in which I have since painfully learned to
sympathise.
The early hours of boarding-school study I passed under the tuition of
the Misses More, sisters to the lady of that name whose talents have
been so often celebrated.[4] The education of their young pupils was
undertaken by the five sisters. "In my mind's eye," I see them now
before me; while every circumstance of those early days is minutely and
indelibly impressed upon my memory.
I remember the first time I ever was present at a dramatic
representation: it was the benefit of that great actor[5] who was
proceeding rapidly toward the highest paths of fame, when death, dropped
the oblivious curtain, and closed the scene for ever. The part which he
performed was King Lear; his wife, afterward Mrs. Fisher, played
Cordelia, but not with sufficient _éclat_ to render the profession an
object for her future exertions. The whole school attended, Mr. Powel's
two daughters being then pupils of the Misses More. Mrs. John Kemble,
then Miss P. Hopkins, was also one of my schoolfellows, as was the
daughter of Mrs. Palmer, formerly Miss Pritchard, and afterward Mrs.
Lloyd. I mention these circumstances merely to prove that memory does
not deceive me.
In my early days my father was prosperous, and my mother was the
happiest of wives. She adored her children; she devoted her thoughts and
divided her affections between them and the tenderest of husbands. Their
spirits now, I trust, are in happier regions, blest, and reunited
for ever.
If there could be found a fault in the conduct of my mother toward her
children, it was that of a too unlimited indulgence, a too tender care,
which but little served to arm their breast against the perpetual arrows
of mortal vicissitude. My father's commercial concerns were crowned with
prosperity. His house was opened by hospitality, and his generosity was
only equalled by the liberality of fortune: every day augmented his
successes; every hour seemed to increase his domestic felicity, till I
attained my ninth year, when a change took place as sudden as it was
unfortunate, at a moment when every luxury, every happiness, not only
brightened the present, but gave promise of future felicity. A scheme
was suggested to my father, as wild and romantic as it was perilous to
hazard, which was no less than that of establishing a whale fishery on
the coast of Labrador, and of civilising the Esquimaux Indians, in order
to employ them in the extensive undertaking. During two years this
eccentric plan occupied his thoughts by day, his dreams by night: all
the smiles of prosperity could not tranquillise the restless spirit, and
while he anticipated an acquirement of fame, he little considered the
perils that would attend his fortune.
My mother (who, content with affluence and happy in beholding the
prosperity of her children, trembled at the fear of endangering either),
in vain endeavoured to dissuade my father from putting his favourite
scheme in practice. In the early part of his youth he had been
accustomed to a sea life, and, being born an American, his restless
spirit was ever busied in plans for the increase of wealth and honour to
his native country, whose fame and interest were then united to those of
Britain. After many dreams of success and many conflicts betwixt
prudence and ambition, he resolved on putting his scheme in practice;
the potent witchery possessed his brain, and all the persuasive powers
of reason shrunk before its magic.
Full of the important business, my misguided parent repaired to the
metropolis, and on his arrival laid the plan before the late Earl of
Hilsborough, Sir Hugh Palliser, the late Earl of Bristol, Lord Chatham
(father to the present Mr. William Pitt), the chancellor Lord
Northington, who was my godfather, and several other equally
distinguished personages; who all not only approved the plan, but
commended the laudable and public spirit which induced my father to
suggest it. The prospect appeared full of promise, and the Labrador
whale fishery was expected to be equally productive with that of
Greenland. My parent's commercial connections were of the highest
respectability, while his own name for worth and integrity gave a
powerful sanction to the eccentric undertaking.
In order to facilitate this plan, my father deemed it absolutely
necessary to reside at least two years in America. My mother, who felt
an invincible antipathy to the sea, heard his determination with grief
and horror. All the persuasive powers of affection failed to detain him;
all the pleadings of reason, prudence, a fond wife, and an infant
family, proved ineffectual. My father was determined on departing, and
my mother's unconquerable timidity prevented her being the companion of
his voyage. From this epocha I date the sorrows of my family.
He sailed for America. His eldest son, John, was previously placed in a
mercantile house at Leghorn. My younger brothers and myself remained
with my mother at Bristol. Two years was the limited time of his
absence, and, on his departure, the sorrow of my parents was reciprocal.
My mother's heart was almost bursting with anguish; but even death would
to her have been preferable to the horrors of crossing a tempestuous
ocean and quitting her children, my father having resolved on leaving my
brothers and myself in England for education.
Still the comforts, and even the luxuries of life distinguished our
habitation. The tenderness of my mother's affection made her lavish of
every elegance; and the darlings of her bosom were dressed, waited on,
watched, and indulged with a degree of fondness bordering on folly. My
clothes were sent for from London; my fancy was indulged to the extent
of its caprices; I was flattered and praised into a belief that I was a
being of superior order. To sing, to play a lesson on the harpsichord,
to recite an elegy, and to make doggerel verses, made the extent of my
occupations, while my person improved, and my mother's indulgence was
almost unexampled.
My father, several years before his departure for America, had removed
from the Minster House, and resided in one larger and more convenient
for his increased family. This habitation was elegantly arranged; all
the luxuries of plate, silk furniture, foreign wines, etc., evinced his
knowledge of what was worth enjoying, and displayed that warm
hospitality which is often the characteristic of a British merchant.
This disposition for the good things of the world influenced even the
disposal of his children's comforts. The bed in which I slept was of the
richest crimson damask; the dresses which we wore were of the finest
cambric; during the summer months we were sent to Clifton Hill for the
advantages of a purer air; and I never was permitted to board at school,
or to pass a night of separation from the fondest of mothers.
Many months elapsed, and my mother continued to receive the kindest
letters from that husband whose rash scheme filled her bosom with regret
and apprehension. At length the intervals became more frequent and
protracted. The professions of regard, no longer flowing from the heart,
assumed a laboured style, and seemed rather the efforts of honourable
feeling than the involuntary language of confidential affection. My
mother felt the change, and her affliction was infinite.
At length a total silence of several months awoke her mind to the
sorrows of neglect, the torture of compunction; she now lamented the
timidity which had divided her from a husband's bosom, the natural
fondness which had bound her to her children; for while her heart bled
with sorrow and palpitated with apprehension, the dreadful secret was
unfolded, and the cause of my father's silence was discovered to be a
new attachment--a mistress, whose resisting nerves could brave the
stormy ocean, and who had consented to remain two years with him in the
frozen wilds of America.
This intelligence nearly annihilated my mother, whose mind, though not
strongly organised, was tenderly susceptible. She resigned herself to
grief. I was then at an age to feel and to participate in her sorrows. I
often wept to see her weep; I tried all my little skill to soothe her,
but in vain; the first shock was followed by calamities of a different
nature. The scheme in which my father had embarked his fortune failed,
the Indians rose in a body, burnt his settlement, murdered many of his
people, and turned the produce of their toil adrift on the wide and
merciless ocean. The noble patrons of his plan deceived him in their
assurances of marine protection, and the island of promise presented a
scene of barbarous desolation. This misfortune was rapidly followed by
other commercial losses; and to complete the vexations which pressed
heavily on my mother, her rash husband gave a bill of sale of his whole
property, by the authority of which we were obliged to quit our home,
and to endure those accumulated vicissitudes for which there appeared
no remedy.
It was at this period of trial that my mother was enabled to prove, by
that unerring touchstone, adversity, who were her real and disinterested
friends. Many, with affected commiseration, dropped a tear--or rather
seemed to drop one--on the disappointments of our family; while others,
with a malignant triumph, condemned the expensive style in which my
father had reared his children, the studied elegance which had
characterised my mother's dress and habitation, and the hospitality,
which was now marked by the ungrateful epithet of prodigal luxuriance,
but which had evinced the open liberality of my father's heart.
At this period my brother William died. He was only six years of age,
but a promising and most lovely infant. His sudden death, in consequence
of the measles, nearly deprived my mother of her senses. She was deeply
affected; but she found, after a period of time, that consolation which,
springing from the bosom of an amiable friend, doubly solaced her
afflictions. This female was one of the most estimable of her sex; she
had been the widow of Sir Charles Erskine, and was then the wife of a
respectable medical man who resided at Bristol.
In the society of Lady Erskine my mother gradually recovered her
serenity of mind, or rather found it soften into a religious
resignation. But the event of her domestic loss by death was less
painful than that which she felt in the alienation of my father's
affections. She frequently heard that he resided in America with his
mistress, till, at the expiration of another year, she received a
summons to meet him in London.
Language would but feebly describe the varying emotions which struggled
in her bosom. At this interesting era she was preparing to encounter the
freezing scorn, or the contrite glances, of either an estranged or a
repentant husband; in either case her situation was replete with
anticipated chagrin, for she loved him too tenderly not to participate
even in the anguish of his compunction. His letter, which was coldly
civil, requested particularly that the children might be the companions
of her journey. We departed for the metropolis.
I was not then quite ten years old, though so tall and formed in my
person that I might have passed for twelve or thirteen. My brother
George was a few years younger. On our arrival in London we repaired to
my father's lodgings in Spring Gardens. He received us, after three
years' absence, with a mixture of pain and pleasure; he embraced us with
tears, and his voice was scarcely articulate. My mother's agitation was
indescribable; she received a cold embrace at their meeting--it was the
last she ever received from her alienated husband.
As soon as the first conflicts seemed to subside, my father informed my
mother that he was determined to place my brother and myself at a school
in the vicinity of London; that he purposed very shortly returning to
America, and that he would readily pay for my mother's board in any
private and respectable family. This information seemed like a
death-blow to their domestic hopes. A freezing, formal, premeditated
separation from a wife who was guiltless of any crime, who was as
innocent as an angel, seemed the very extent of decided misery. It was
in vain that my mother essayed to change his resolution, and influence
his heart in pronouncing a milder judgment: my father was held by a
fatal fascination; he was the slave of a young and artful woman, who had
availed herself of his American solitude, to undermine his affections
for his wife and the felicity of his family.
This deviation from domestic faith was the only dark shade that marked
my father's character. He possessed a soul brave, liberal, enlightened,
and ingenuous. He felt the impropriety of his conduct. Yet, though his
mind was strongly organised, though his understanding was capacious, and
his sense of honour delicate even to fastidiousness, he was still the
dupe of his passions, the victim of unfortunate attachment.
Within a few days of our arrival in London we were placed for education
in a school at Chelsea. The mistress of this seminary was perhaps one of
the most extraordinary women that ever graced, or disgraced, society;
her name was Meribah Lorrington. She was the most extensively
accomplished female that I ever remember to have met with; her mental
powers were no less capable of cultivation than superiorly cultivated.
Her father, whose name was Hull, had from her infancy been the master of
an academy at Earl's Court, near Fulham; and early after his marriage
losing his wife, he resolved on giving his daughter a masculine
education. Meribah was early instructed in all the modern
accomplishments, as well as in classical knowledge. She was mistress of
the Latin, French, and Italian languages; she was said to be a perfect
arithmetician and astronomer, and possessed the art of painting on silk
to a degree of exquisite perfection. But, alas! with all these
advantages, she was addicted to one vice, which at times so completely
absorbed her faculties as to deprive her of every power, either mental
or corporeal. Thus, daily and hourly, her superior acquirements, her
enlightened understanding, yielded to the intemperance of her ruling
infatuation, and every power of reflection seemed lost in the unfeminine
propensity.
All that I ever learned I acquired from this extraordinary woman. In
those hours when her senses were not intoxicated, she would delight in
the task of instructing me. She had only five or six pupils, and it was
my lot to be her particular favourite. She always, out of school, called
me her little friend, and made no scruple of conversing with me
(sometimes half the night, for I slept in her chamber), on domestic and
confidential affairs. I felt for her a very sincere affection, and I
listened with peculiar attention to all the lessons she inculcated. Once
I recollect her mentioning the particular failing which disgraced so
intelligent a being. She pleaded, in excuse of it, the immitigable
regret of a widowed heart, and with compunction declared that she flew
to intoxication as the only refuge from the pang of prevailing sorrow. I
continued more than twelve months under the care of Mrs. Lorrington,
during which period my mother boarded in a clergyman's family at
Chelsea. I applied rigidly to study, and acquired a taste for books,
which has never, from that time, deserted me. Mrs. Lorrington frequently
read to me after school hours, and I to her. I sometimes indulged my
fancy in writing verses, or composing rebuses, and my governess never
failed to applaud the juvenile compositions I presented to her. Some of
them, which I preserved and printed in a small volume shortly after my
marriage, were written when I was between twelve and thirteen years of
age; but as love was the theme of my poetical fantasies, I never showed
them to my mother till I was about to publish them.
It was my custom, every Sunday evening, to drink tea with my mother.
During one of those visits a captain in the British navy, a friend of my
father's, became so partial to my person and manners that a proposal of
marriage shortly after followed. My mother was astonished when she heard
it, and, as soon as she recovered from her surprise, inquired of my
suitor how old he thought me; his reply was, "About sixteen." My mother
smiled, and informed him that I was then not quite thirteen. He appeared
to be skeptical on the subject, till he was again assured of the fact,
when he took his leave with evident chagrin, but not without expressing
his hopes that, on his return to England,--for he was going on a two
years' expedition,--I should be still disengaged. His ship foundered at
sea a few months after, and this amiable gallant officer perished.
I had remained a year and two months with Mrs. Lorrington, when
pecuniary derangements obliged her to give up her school. Her father's
manners were singularly disgusting, as was his appearance; for he wore a
silvery beard which reached to his breast; and a kind of Persian robe
which gave him the external appearance of a necromancer. He was of the
Anabaptist persuasion, and so stern in his conversation that the young
pupils were exposed to perpetual terror. Added to these circumstances,
the failing of his daughter became so evident, that even during school
hours she was frequently in a state of confirmed intoxication. These
events conspired to break up the establishment, and I was shortly after
removed to a boarding-school at Battersea.
The mistress of this seminary, Mrs. Leigh, was a lively, sensible, and
accomplished woman; her daughter was only a few years older than myself,
and extremely amiable as well as lovely. Here I might have been happy,
but my father's remissness in sending pecuniary supplies, and my
mother's dread of pecuniary inconvenience, induced her to remove me; my
brother, nevertheless, still remained under the care of the Reverend Mr.
Gore, at Chelsea.
Several months elapsed, and no remittance arrived from my father. I was
now near fourteen years old, and my mother began to foresee the
vicissitudes to which my youth might be exposed, unprotected, tenderly
educated, and without the advantages of fortune. My father's
impracticable scheme had impoverished his fortune, and deprived his
children of that affluence which, in their in fancy, they had been
taught to hope for. I cannot speak of my own person, but my partial
friends were too apt to flatter me. I was naturally of a pensive and
melancholy character; my reflections on the changes of fortune
frequently gave me an air of dejection which perhaps etched an interest
beyond what might have been awakened by the vivacity or bloom of
juvenility.
I adored my mother. She was the mildest, the most unoffending of
existing mortals; her temper was cheerful, as her heart was innocent;
she beheld her children as it seemed fatherless, and she resolved, by
honourable means, to support them. For this purpose a convenient house
was hired at Little Chelsea, and furnished, for a ladies'
boarding-school. Assistants of every kind were engaged, and I was deemed
worthy of an occupation that flattered my self-love and impressed my
mind with a sort of domestic consequence. The English language was my
department in the seminary, and I was permitted to select passages both
in prose and verse for the studies of my infant pupils. It was also my
occupation to superintend their wardrobes, to see them dressed and
undressed by the servants or half-boarders, and to read sacred and moral
lessons on saints' days and Sunday evenings.
Shortly after my mother had established herself at Chelsea, on a
summer's evening, as I was sitting at the window, I heard a deep sigh,
or rather a groan of anguish, which suddenly attracted my attention. The
night was approaching rapidly, and I looked toward the gate before the
house, where I observed a woman evidently labouring under excessive
affliction; I instantly descended and approached her. She, bursting into
tears, asked whether I did not know her. Her dress was torn and filthy;
she was almost naked; and an old bonnet, which nearly hid her face, so
completely disfigured her features that I had not the smallest idea of
the person who was then almost sinking before me. I gave her a small sum
of money, and inquired the cause of her apparent agony. She took my hand
and pressed it to her lips. "Sweet girl," said she, "you are still the
angel I ever knew you!" I was astonished. She raised her bonnet--her
fine dark eyes met mine. It was Mrs. Lorrington. I led her into the
house; my mother was not at home. I took her to my chamber, and, with
the assistance of a lady who was our French teacher, I clothed and
comforted her. She refused to say how she came to be in so deplorable a
situation, and took her leave. It was in vain that I entreated, that I
conjured her to let me know where I might send to her. She refused to
give me her address, but promised that in a few days she would call on
me again. It is impossible to describe the wretched appearance of this
accomplished woman! The failing to which she had now yielded, as to a
monster that would destroy her, was evident even at the moment when she
was speaking to me. I saw no more of her; but to my infinite regret, I
was informed some years after that she had died, the martyr of a
premature decay, brought on by the indulgence of her propensity to
intoxication, in the workhouse of Chelsea!
The number of my mother's pupils in a few months amounted to ten or
twelve, and just at a period when an honourable independence promised to
cheer the days of an unexampled parent, my father unexpectedly returned
from America. The pride of his soul was deeply wounded by the step which
my mother had taken; he was offended even beyond the bounds of reason:
he considered his name as disgraced, his conjugal reputation tarnished,
by the public mode which his wife had adopted of revealing to the world
her unprotected situation. A prouder heart never palpitated in the
breast of man than that of my father: tenacious of fame, ardent in the
pursuit of visionary schemes, he could not endure the exposure of his
altered fortune; while Hope still beguiled him with her flattering
promise that time would favour his projects, and fortune, at some future
period, reward him with success.
At the expiration of eight months my mother, by my father's positive
command, broke up her establishment and returned to London. She engaged
lodgings in the neighbourhood of Marylebone. My father then resided in
Green Street, Grosvenor Square. His provision for his family was scanty,
his visits few. He had a new scheme on foot respecting the Labrador
coast, the particulars of which I do not remember, and all his zeal,
united with all his interest, was employed in promoting its
accomplishment. My mother, knowing that my father publicly resided with
his mistress, did not even hope for his returning affection. She devoted
herself to her children, and endured her sorrows with the patience of
conscious rectitude.
At this period my father frequently called upon us, and often attended
me while we walked in the fields near Marylebone. His conversation was
generally of a domestic nature, and he always lamented that fatal
attachment, which was now too strongly cemented by time and obligations
ever to be dissolved without an ample provision for Elenor, which was
the name of my father's mistress. In one of our morning walks we called
upon the Earl of Northington, my father having some commercial business
to communicate to his lordship. Lord Northington then resided in
Berkeley Square, two doors from Hill Street, in the house which is now
occupied by Lord Robert Spencer. We were received with the most marked
attention and politeness (I was presented as the goddaughter of the late
Chancellor Lord Northington), and my father was requested to dine with
his lordship a few days after. From this period I frequently saw Lord
Northington, and always experienced from him the most flattering and
gratifying civility. I was then a child, not more than fourteen years
of age.
The finishing points of my education I received at Oxford House,
Marylebone. I was at this period within a few months of fifteen years of
age, tall, and nearly such as my partial friends, the few whose
affection has followed me from childhood, remember me. My early love for
lyric harmony had led me to a fondness for the more sublime scenes of
dramatic poetry. I embraced every leisure moment to write verses; I even
fancied that I could compose a tragedy, and more than once
unsuccessfully attempted the arduous undertaking.