received with the warmest proofs of friendship. My little girl, to whom
I was still a nurse, generally accompanied me, and always experienced
the kindest caresses from my admired patroness, my liberal and
affectionate friend. Frequently the duchess inquired most minutely into
the story of my sorrows, and as often gave me tears of the most
spontaneous sympathy. But such was my destiny, that while I cultivated
the esteem of this best of women, by a conduct which was above the reach
of reprobation, my husband, even though I was the partner of his
captivity, the devoted slave to his necessities, indulged in the lowest
and most degrading intrigues; frequently, during my short absence with
the duchess,--for I never quitted the prison but to obey her
summons,--he was known to admit the most abandoned of their sex, women
whose low, licentious lives were such as to render them the shame and
outcasts of society. These disgraceful meetings were arranged, even
while I was in my own apartment, in a next room, and by the assistance
of an Italian, who was also there a captive. I was apprised of the
proceeding, and I questioned Mr. Robinson upon the subject. He denied
the charge; but I availed myself of an opportunity that offered, and was
convinced that my husband's infidelities were both frequent and
disgraceful.
Still I pursued my plan of the most rigid domestic propriety; still I
preserved my faith inviolate, my name unsullied. At times I endured the
most poignant sufferings, from the pain of disappointed hope, and the
pressure of pecuniary distresses.
During my long seclusion from society, for I could not associate with
those whom destiny had placed in a similar predicament, not one of my
female friends even inquired what was become of me. Those who had been
protected and received with the most cordial hospitality by me in my
more happy hours now neglected all the kind condolence of sympathetic
feeling, and shunned both me and my dreary habitation. From that hour I
have never felt the affection for my own sex which perhaps some women
feel; I have never taught my heart to cherish their friendship, or to
depend on their attentions beyond the short perspective of a prosperous
day. Indeed, I have almost uniformly found my own sex my most inveterate
enemies; I have experienced little kindness from them, though my bosom
has often ached with the pang inflicted by their envy, slander, and
malevolence.
The Italian whom I took occasion to mention as the _cicerone_ of my
husband's gallantries was named Albanesi. He was the husband to a
beautiful Roman woman of that name, who had some years before attracted
considerable attention in the hemisphere of gallantry, where she had
shone as a brilliant constellation. She had formerly been the mistress
of a Prince de Courland, and afterward of the Covet de Belgeioso, the
imperial ambassador; but at the period in which I first saw her she was,
I believe, devoted to a life of unrestrained impropriety. She frequently
came to visit her husband, who had held a situation an the opera-house
during the management of Mr. Hobart,[22] now Earl of Buckinghamshire. I
remember she was one of the handsomest women I had ever seen, and that
her dress was the most extravagantly splendid. Satins, richly
embroidered, or trimmed with point lace, were her daily habiliments; and
her personal attractions were considerably augmented by the peculiar
dignity and grace with which she walked: in a few words, this woman was
a striking sample of beauty and of profligacy.
Whenever she came to visit her _sposo_, she never failed to obtrude
herself on my seclusion. Mr. Rabinson rather encouraged than shunned her
visits, and I was obliged to receive the beautiful Angelina (for such
was her Christian name), however repugnant such an associate was to my
feelings. At every interview she took occasion to ridicule my romantic
domestic attachment; laughed at my folly in wasting my youth (for I was
not then eighteen years of age) in such a disgraceful obscurity; and
pictured, in all the glow of fanciful scenery, the splendid life into
which I might enter, if I would but know my own power, and break the
fetters of matrimonial restriction. She once told me that she had
mentioned to the Earl of Pembroke that there was a young married lady in
the most humiliating captivity with her husband; she said that she had
described my person, and that Lord Pembroke was ready to offer me
his services.
This proposal fully proclaimed the meaning of Signora Albanesi's visits,
and I resolved in future to avoid all conversation with her. She was at
that time between thirty and forty years of age, and her day of
splendour was hourly sinking to the obscurity of neglect; she was
nevertheless still reluctant to resign the dazzling meteors which
fashion had scattered in her way, and, having sacrificed every personal
feeling for the gratification of her vanity, she now sought to build a
gaudy, transient fabric on the destruction of another. In addition to
her persuasions, her husband, Angelo Albanesi, constantly made the world
of gallantry the subject of his conversation. Whole evenings has he
sitten in our apartment, telling long stories of intrigue, praising the
liberality of one nobleman, the romantic chivalry of another, the
sacrifice which a third had made to an adored object, and the splendid
income which a fourth would bestow on any young lady of education and
mental endowments who would accept his protection, and be the partner of
his fortune. I always smiled at Albanesi's innuendoes; and I still found
some amusement in his society, when he thought fit to divest his
conversation of his favourite topic. This Italian, though neither young
nor even tolerably well-looking, was uncommonly entertaining; he could
sing, likewise imitate various musical instruments, was an excellent
buffoon, and a very neat engraver; some of his plates were executed
under the inspection of Sherwin, and he was considered as a very
promising artist.
Were I to describe one-half of what I suffered during fifteen months'
captivity, the world would consider it as the invention of a novel. But
Mr. Robinson knows what I endured, and how patiently, how correctly I
suited my mind to the strict propriety of wedded life; he knows that my
duty as a wife was exemplary, my chastity inviolate; he knows that
neither poverty nor obscurity, neither the tauntings of the world, nor
his neglect, could tempt me even to the smallest error; he knows that I
bore my afflicting humiliations with a cheerful, uncomplaining spirit;
that I toiled honourably for his comfort; and that my attentions were
exclusively dedicated to him and to my infant.
The period now arrived when Mr. Robinson, by setting aside some debts,
and by giving fresh bonds and fresh securities for others, once more
obtained his liberty. I immediately conveyed the intelligence to my
lovely Duchess of Devonshire, and she wrote me a letter of kind
congratulation; she was then at Chatsworth.
The first moments of emancipation were delightful to the senses. I felt
as though I had been newly born; I longed to see all my old and intimate
associates, and almost forgot that they had so unworthily neglected me.
Everything that had passed now appeared like a melancholy vision. The
gloom had dissolved, and a new perspective seemed to brighten before me.
The first place of public entertainment I went to was Vauxhall. I had
frequently found occasion to observe a mournful contrast when I had
quitted the elegant apartment of Devonshire House, to enter the dark
galleries of a prison; but the sensation which I felt on hearing the
music, and beholding the gay throng, during this first visit in public
after so long a seclusion, was indescribable. During the evening we met
many old acquaintances,--some who pretended ignorance of our past
embarrassments, and others who joined us with the ease of fashionable
apathy; among these was Lord Lyttelton, who insolently remarked, "that,
notwithstanding all that had passed, I was handsomer than ever." I made
no reply but by a look of scornful indignation, which silenced the bold,
the unfeeling commentator, and convinced him that, though fallen in
fortune; I was still high in pride.
Mr. Robinson having once more obtained his liberty, how were we to
subsist honourably and above reproach? He applied to his father, but
every aid was refused; he could not follow his profession, because he
had not completed his articles of clerkship. I resolved on turning my
thoughts toward literary labour, and projected a variety of works, by
which I hoped to obtain at least a decent independence. Alas! how little
did I then know either the fatigue or the hazard of mental occupations!
How little did I foresee that the day would come when my health would be
impaired, my thoughts perpetually employed, in so destructive a pursuit!
At the moment that I write this page, I feel in every fibre of my brain
the fatal conviction that it is a destroying labour.
[Illustration: William Brereton in the Character of Douglas From a
painting by N. Hone]
It was at this moment of anxiety, of hope, of fear, that my thoughts
once more were turned to a dramatic life; and, walking with my husband
in St. James's Park, late in the autumn, we were accosted by Mr.
Brereton, of Drury Lane Theatre. I had not seen him during the last two
years, and he seemed rejoiced in having met us. At that period we lodged
at Lyne's, the confectioner, in Old Bond Street. Mr. Brereton went home
and dined with us; and after dinner the conversation turned on my
partiality to the stage, which he earnestly recommended as a scene of
great promise to what he termed my promising talents. The idea rushed
like electricity through my brain. I asked Mr. Robinson's opinion, and
he now readily consented to my making the trial. He had repeatedly
written to his father, requesting even the smallest aid toward our
support until he could embark in his profession; but every letter
remained unanswered, and we had no hope but in our own mental exertions.
Some time after this period, we removed to a more quiet situation, and
occupied a very neat and comfortable suite of apartments in Newman
Street. I was then some months advanced in a state of domestic
solicitude, and my health seemed in a precarious state, owing to my
having too long devoted myself to the duties of a mother in nursing my
eldest daughter Maria. It was in this lodging that, one morning, wholly
unexpectedly, Mr. Brereton made us a second visit, bringing with him a
friend, whom he introduced on entering the drawing-room. This stranger
was Mr. Sheridan.[23]
I was overwhelmed with confusion. I know not why, but I felt a sense of
mortification when I observed that my appearance was carelessly
_déshabillé_, and my mind as little prepared for what I guessed to be
the motive of his visit. I, however, soon recovered my recollection, and
the theatre was consequently the topic of discourse.
At Mr. Sheridan's earnest entreaties, I recited some passages from
Shakespeare. I was alarmed and timid; but the gentleness of his manners,
and the impressive encouragement he gave me, dissipated my fears and
tempted me to go on.
Mr. Sheridan had then recently purchased a share of Drury Lane Theatre,
in conjunction with Mr. Lacey and Doctor Ford; he was already celebrated
as the author of "The Rivals" and "The Duenna," and his mind was
evidently portrayed in his manners, which were strikingly and
bewitchingly attractive.
The encouragement which I received in this essay, and the praises which
Mr. Sheridan lavishly bestowed, determined me to make a public trial of
my talents; and several visits, which were rapidly repeated by Mr.
Sheridan, at length produced an arrangement for that period. My
intention was intimated to Mr. Garrick, who, though he had for some
seasons retired from the stage, kindly promised protection, and as
kindly undertook to be my tutor.
The only objection which I felt to the idea of appearing on the stage
was my then increasing state of domestic solicitude. I was, at the
period when Mr. Sheridan was first presented to me, some months advanced
in that situation which afterward, by the birth of Sophia, made me a
second time a mother. Yet such was my imprudent fondness for Maria, that
I was still a nurse; and my constitution was very considerably impaired
by the effects of these combined circumstances.
An appointment was made in the greenroom of Drury Lane Theatre. Mr.
Garrick, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Brereton, and my husband were present; I
there recited the principal scenes of Juliet (Mr. Brereton repeating
those of Romeo), and Mr. Garrick, without hesitation, fixed on that
character as the trial of my debut.
It is impossible to describe the various emotions of hope and fear that
possessed my mind when the important day was announced in the playbills.
I wrote to the Duchess of Devonshire at Chatsworth, informing her of my
purposed trial, and received a kind letter of approbation, sanctioning
my plan and wishing me success. Every longing of my heart seemed now to
be completely gratified; and, with zeal bordering on delight, I prepared
for my approaching effort.
Mr. Garrick had been indefatigable at the rehearsals, frequently going
through the whole character of Romeo himself until he was completely
exhausted with the fatigue of recitation. This was only a short period
before the death of that distinguished actor.
The theatre was crowded with fashionable spectators; the greenroom and
orchestra (where Mr. Garrick sat during the night) were thronged with
critics. My dress was a pale pink satin, trimmed with crape, richly
spangled with silver; my head was ornamented with white feathers, and my
monumental suit, for the last scene, was white satin, and completely
plain, excepting that I wore a veil of the most transparent gauze, which
fell quite to my feet from the back of my head, and a string of beads
around my waist, to which was suspended a cross appropriately fashioned.
When I approached the side wing, my heart throbbed convulsively; I then
began to fear that my resolution would fail, and I leaned upon the
nurse's arm, almost fainting. Mr. Sheridan and several other friends
encouraged me to proceed; and at length, with trembling limbs and
fearful apprehension, I approached the audience.
The thundering applause that greeted me nearly overpowered all my
faculties. I stood mute and bending with alarm, which did not subside
till I had feebly articulated the few sentences of the first short
scene, during the whole of which I had never once ventured to look at
the audience.
On my return to the greenroom I was again encouraged, as far as my looks
were deemed deserving of approbation; for of my powers nothing yet could
be known, my fears having as it were palsied both my voice and action.
The second scene being the masquerade, I had time to collect myself. I
never shall forget the sensation which rushed through my bosom when I
first looked toward the pit. I beheld a gradual ascent of heads. All
eyes were fixed upon me, and the sensation they conveyed was awfully
impressive; but the keen, the penetrating eyes of Mr. Garrick, darting
their lustre from the centre of the orchestra, were, beyond all others,
the objects most conspicuous.[24]
As I acquired courage, I found the applause augment; and the night was
concluded with peals of clamorous approbation. I was complimented on all
sides; but the praise of one object, whom most I wished to please, was
flattering even to the extent of human vanity. I then experienced, for
the first time in my life, a gratification which language could not
utter. I heard one of the most fascinating men, and the most
distinguished geniuses of the age, honour me with partial approbation. A
new sensation seemed to awake in my bosom; I felt that emulation which
the soul delights to encourage, where the attainment of fame will be
pleasing to the esteemed object. I had till that period known no impulse
beyond that of friendship; I had been an example of conjugal fidelity;
but I had never known the perils to which the feeling heart is subjected
in a union of regard wholly uninfluenced by the affections of the soul.
The second character which I played was Amanda, in "A Trip to
Scarborough."[25] The play was altered from Vanbrugh's "Relapse;" and
the audience, supposing it was a new piece, on finding themselves
deceived, expressed a considerable degree of disapprobation. I was
terrified beyond imagination when Mrs. Yates, no longer able to bear the
hissing of the audience, quitted the scene, and left me alone to
encounter the critic tempest. I stood for some moments as though I had
been petrified. Mr. Sheridan, from the side wing, desired me not to quit
the boards; the late Duke of Cumberland,[26] from the stage-box, bade me
take courage: "It is not you, but the play, they hiss," said his Royal
Highness. I curtseyed; and that curtsey seemed to electrify the whole
house, for a thundering appeal of encouraging applause followed. The
comedy was suffered to go on, and is to this hour a stock play at Drury
Lane Theatre.
The third character I played was Statira, in "Alexander the Great." Mr.
Lacey, then one of the proprietors of Drury Lane Theatre, was the hero
of the night, and the part of Roxana was performed by Mrs. Melmoth.
Again I was received with an _éclat_ that gratified my vanity. My dress
was white and blue, made after the Persian costume; and though it was
then singular on the stage, I wore neither a hoop nor powder; my feet
were bound by sandals richly ornamented, and the whole dress was
picturesque and characteristic.
Though I was always received with the most flattering approbation, the
characters in which I was most popular were Ophelia, Juliet, and
Rosalind. Palmira was also one of my most approved representations. The
last character which I played was Sir Harry Revel, in Lady Craven's
comedy of "The Miniature Picture;" and the epilogue song in "The Irish
Widow"[27] was my last farewell to the labour of my profession.
Mr. Sheridan now informed me he wished that I would accustom myself to
appear in comedy, because tragedy seemed evidently, as well as my
_forte_, to be my preference. At the same time he acquainted me that he
wished me to perform a part in "The School for Scandal." I was now so
unshaped by my increasing size that I made my excuses, informing Mr.
Sheridan that probably I should be confined to my chamber at the period
when his since celebrated play would first make its appearance. He
accepted the apology, and in a short time I gave to the world my second
child, Sophia. I now resided in Southampton Street, Covent Garden.
Previous to this event I had my benefit night, on which I performed the
part of Fanny, in "The Clandestine Marriage." Mr. King, the Lord Ogleby;
Miss Pope, Miss Sterling; and Mrs. Heidelberg, Mrs. Hopkins.
Mr. Sheridan's attentions to me were unremitting. He took pleasure in
promoting my consequence at the theatre; he praised my talents, and he
interested himself in my domestic comforts. I was engaged previous to my
début, and I received what at that time was considered as a handsome
salary. My benefit was flatteringly attended. The boxes were filled with
persons of the very highest rank and fashion, and I looked forward with
delight both to celebrity and to fortune.
At the end of six weeks I lost my infant. She expired in my arms in
convulsions, and my distress was indescribable. On the day of its
dissolution Mr. Sheridan called on me; the little sufferer was on my
lap, and I was watching it with agonising anxiety. Five months had then
elapsed since Mr. Sheridan was first introduced to me; and though,
during that period, I had seen many proofs of his exquisite sensibility,
I never had witnessed one which so strongly impressed my mind his
countenance on entering my apartment. Probably he has forgotten the
feeling of the moment, but its impression will by me be remembered
for ever.
I had not power to speak. All he uttered was, "Beautiful little
creature!" at the same time looking on my infant, and sighing with a
degree of sympathetic sorrow which penetrated my soul. Had I ever heard
such a sigh from a husband's bosom? Alas! I never knew the sweet,
soothing solace of wedded sympathy; I never was beloved by him whom
destiny allotted to be the legal ruler of my actions. I do not condemn
Mr. Robinson; I but too well know that we cannot command our affections.
I only lament that he did not observe some decency in his infidelities;
and that while he gratified his own caprice, he forgot how much he
exposed his wife to the most degrading mortifications.
The death of Sophia so deeply affected my spirits that I was rendered
totally incapable of appearing again that season. I therefore obtained
Mr. Sheridan's permission to visit Bath for the recovery of my repose.
From Bath I went to Bristol--to Bristol! Why does my pen seem suddenly
arrested while I write the word? I know not why, but an undefinable
melancholy always follows the idea of my native birthplace. I instantly
behold the Gothic structure, the lonely cloisters, the lofty aisles, of
the antique minster,--for, within a few short paces of its wall, this
breast, which has never known one year of happiness, first palpitated on
inhaling the air of this bad world! Is it within its consecrated
precincts that this heart shall shortly moulder? Heaven only knows, and
to its will I bow implicitly.
I transcribe this passage on the 29th of March, 1800. I feel my health
decaying, my spirit broken. I look back without regret that so many of
my days are numbered; and, were it in my power to choose, I would not
wish to measure them again. But whither am I wandering? I will resume my
melancholy story.
Still restless, still perplexed with painful solicitudes, I returned to
London. I had not then, by many months, completed my nineteenth year. On
my arrival I took lodgings in Leicester Square. Mr. Sheridan came to see
me on my return to town, and communicated the melancholy fate of Mr.
Thomas Linley,[28] the late brother of Mrs. Sheridan,--he was
unfortunately drowned at the Duke of Ancaster's. In a few days after,
Mr. Sheridan again made me a visit, with a proposal for an engagement to
play during the summer at Mr. Colman's theatre in the Haymarket.[29] I
had refused several offers from provincial managers, and felt an almost
insurmountable aversion to the idea of strolling. Mr. Sheridan
nevertheless strongly recommended me to the acceptance of Mr. Colman's
offer; and I at last agreed to it, upon condition that the characters I
should be expected to perform were selected and limited. To this Mr.
Colman readily consented.
The first part which was placed in the list was Nancy Lovel, in the
comedy of "The Suicide." I received the written character, and waited
the rehearsal; but my astonishment was infinite when I saw the name of
Miss Farren[30] announced in the bills. I wrote a letter to Mr. Colman,
requesting an explanation. He replied that he had promised the part to
Miss Farren, who had then performed one or two seasons at the Haymarket
Theatre. I felt myself insulted. I insisted on Mr. Colman fulfilling his
engagement, or on giving me liberty to quit London: the latter he
refused. I demanded to perform the part of Nancy Lovel. Mr. Colman was
too partial to Miss Farren to hazard offending her. I refused to play
till I had this first character, as by agreement, restored to me, and
the summer passed without my once performing, though my salary was paid
weekly and regularly.
During the following winter I performed, with increasing approbation,
the following characters:
Ophelia, in "Hamlet."
Viola, in "Twelfth Night."
Jacintha, in "The Suspicious Husband."
Fidelia, in "The Plain Dealer."
Rosalind, in "As You Like It."
Oriana, in "The Inconstant."
Octavia, in "All for Love."
Perdita, in "The Winter's Tale."
Palmira, in "Mahomet."
Cordelia, in "King Lear."
Alinda, in "The Law of Lombardy."
The Irish Widow.
Araminta, in "The Old Bachelor."
Sir Harry Revel, in "The Miniature Picture."
Emily, in "The Runaway."
Miss Richley, in "The Discovery."
Statira, in "Alexander the Great."
Juliet, in "Romeo and Juliet."
Amanda, in "The Trip to Scarborough."
Lady Anne, in "Richard the Third."
Imogen, in "Cymbeline."
Lady Macbeth,[31] in "Macbeth," etc.
It was now that I began to know the perils attendant on a dramatic life.
It was at this period that the most alluring temptations were held out
to alienate me from the paths of domestic quiet,--domestic happiness I
cannot say, for it never was my destiny to know it. But I had still the
consolation of an unsullied name. I had the highest female patronage, a
circle of the most respectable and partial friends.
During this period I was daily visited by my best of mothers. My
youngest brother had, the preceding winter, departed for Leghorn, where
my eldest had been many years established as a merchant of the first
respectability.