Here must the sweet delusion end,
That charmed my senses many a year,
Through smiling summers, winters drear.
Oh, friendship! am I doomed to find
Thou art a phantom of the mind?
A glitt'ring shade, an empty name,
An air-born vision's vap'rish flame?
And yet, the dear deceit so long
Has wak'd to joy my matin song,
Has bid my tears forget to flow,
Chas'd ev'ry pain, sooth'd ev'ry woe;
That truth, unwelcome to my ear,
Swells the deep sigh, recalls the tear,
Gives to the sense the keenest smart,
Checks the warm pulses of the heart,
Darkens my fate, and steals away
Each gleam of joy through life's sad day.
"Britain, farewell! I quit thy shore;
My native country charms no more;
No guide to mark the toilsome road;
No destin'd clime; no fix'd abode:
Alone and sad, ordain'd to trace
The vast expanse of endless space;
To view, upon the mountain's height,
Through varied shades of glimm'ring light,
The distant landscape fade away
In the last gleam of parting day:
Or, on the quiv'ring lucid stream,
To watch the pale moon's silv'ry beam;
Or when, in sad and plaintive strains,
The mournful Philomel complains,
In dulcet tones bewails her fate,
And murmurs for her absent mate;
Inspir'd by sympathy divine,
I'll weep her woes--for they are mine.
Driv'n by my fate, where'er I go,
O'er burning plains, o'er hills of snow,
Or on the bosom of the wave,
The howling tempest doom'd to brave,--
Where'er my lonely course I bend,
Thy image shall my steps attend;
Each object I am doom'd to see,
Shall bid remembrance picture thee.
Yes; I shall view thee in each flow'r,
That changes with the transient hour:
Thy wand'ring fancy I shall find
Borne on the wings of every wind:
Thy wild impetuous passions trace
O'er the white waves' tempestuous space;
In every changing season prove
An emblem of thy wav'ring love.
"Torn from my country, friends, and you,
The world lies open to my view;
New objects shall my mind engage;
I will explore th' historic page;
Sweet poetry shall soothe my soul;
Philosophy each pang control:
The muse I'll seek--her lambent fire
My soul's quick senses shall inspire;
With finer nerves my heart shall beat,
Touch'd by heav'n's own Promethean heat;
Italia's gales shall bear my song
In soft-link'd notes her woods among;
Upon the blue hill's misty side,
Thro' trackless deserts waste and wide,
O'er craggy rocks, whose torrents flow
Upon the silver sands below.
Sweet land of melody! 'tis thine
The softest passions to refine;
Thy myrtle groves, thy melting strains,
Shall harmonise and soothe my pains.
Nor will I cast one thought behind,
On foes relentless, friends unkind:
I feel, I feel their poison'd dart
Pierce the life-nerve within my heart;
'Tis mingled with the vital heat
That bids my throbbing pulses beat;
Soon shall that vital heat be o'er,
Those throbbing pulses beat no more!
No--I will breathe the spicy gale;
Plunge the clear stream, new health exhale;
O'er my pale cheek diffuse the rose,
And drink oblivion to my woes."
This _improvisatore_ produced in her auditor not less surprise than
admiration, when solemnly assured by its author that this was the first
time of its being repeated. Mr. Burke[47] entreated her to commit the
poem to writing, a request which was readily complied with. Mrs.
Robinson had afterward the gratification of finding this offspring of
her genius inserted in the _Annual Register_, with a flattering encomium
from the pen of the eloquent and ingenious editor.
Mrs. Robinson continued to indulge in this solace for her dejected
spirits, and in sonnets, elegies, and odes, displayed the powers and
versatility of her mind. On one of these nights of melancholy
inspiration she discovered from her window a small boat, struggling in
the spray, which dashed against the wall of her garden. Presently two
fishermen brought on shore in their arms a burthen, which,
notwithstanding the distance, Mrs. Robinson perceived to be a human
body, which the fishermen, after covering with a sail from their boat,
left on the land and disappeared. But a short time elapsed before the
men returned, bringing with them fuel, with which they vainly
endeavoured to reanimate their unfortunate charge. Struck with a
circumstance so affecting, which the stillness of the night rendered yet
more impressive, Mrs. Robinson remained some time at her window,
motionless with horror. At length, recovering her recollection, she
alarmed the family; but before they could gain the beach the men had
again departed. The morning dawned, and day broke in upon the tragical
scene. The bathers passed and reprised with little concern, while the
corpse continued extended on the shore, not twenty yards from the
Steine. During the course of the day, many persons came to look on the
body, which still remained unclaimed and unknown. Another day wore away,
and the corpse was unburied, the lord of the manor having refused to a
fellow being a grave in which his bones might decently repose, alleging
as an excuse that he did not belong to that parish. Mrs. Robinson,
humanely indignant at the scene which passed, exerted herself, but
without success, to procure by subscription a small sum for performing
the last duties to a wretched outcast. Unwilling, by an ostentatious
display of her name, to offend the higher and more fastidious female
powers, she presented to the fishermen her own contribution, and
declined further to interfere. The affair dropped; and the body of the
stranger, being dragged to the cliff, was covered by a heap of stones,
without the tribute of a sigh or the ceremony of a prayer.
These circumstances made on the mind of Mrs. Robinson a deep and lasting
impression; even at a distant period she could not repeat them without
horror and indignation. This incident gave rise to the poem entitled
"The Haunted Beach," written but a few months before her death.
In the winter of 1790, Mrs. Robinson entered into a poetical
correspondence with Mr. Robert Merry, under the fictitious names of
"Laura," and "Laura Maria;" Mr. Merry assuming the title of "Della
Crusca."[48]
Mrs. Robinson now proceeded in her literary career with redoubled
ardour; but, dazzled by the false metaphors and rhapsodical extravagance
of some contemporary writers, she suffered her judgment to be misled and
her taste to be perverted; an error of which she became afterward
sensible. During her poetical disguise, many complimentary poems were
addressed to her; several ladies of the Blue Stocking Club, while Mrs.
Robinson remained unknown, even ventured to admire, nay more, to recite
her productions in their learned and critical coterie.
The attention which this novel species of correspondence excited, and
the encomiums which were passed on her poems, could not fail to gratify
the pride of the writer, who sent her next performance, with her own
signature, to the paper published under the title of _The World_,
avowing herself at the same time the author of the lines signed "Laura,"
and "Laura Maria." This information being received by Mr. Bell, though a
professed admirer of the genius of Mrs. Robinson, with some degree of
skepticism, he replied, "That the poem with which Mrs. Robinson had
honoured him was vastly pretty; but that he was well acquainted with the
author of the productions alluded to." Mrs. Robinson, a little disgusted
at this incredulity, immediately sent for Mr. Bell, whom she found means
to convince of her veracity, and of his own injustice.
In 1791 Mrs. Robinson produced her quarto poem, entitled "Ainsi va le
Monde." This work, containing three hundred and fifty lines, was written
in twelve hours, as a reply to Mr. Merry's "Laurel of Liberty," which
was sent to Mrs. Robinson on a Saturday; on the Tuesday following the
answer was composed and given to the public.
Encouraged by popular approbation beyond her most sanguine hopes, Mrs.
Robinson now published her first essay in prose, in the romance of
"Vancenza," of which the whole edition was sold in one day, and of which
five impressions have since followed. It must be confessed that this
production owed its popularity to the celebrity of the author's name,
and the favourable impression of her talents given to the public by her
poetical compositions, rather than to its intrinsic merit. In the same
year the poems of Mrs. Robinson were collected and published in one
volume. The names of nearly six hundred subscribers, of the most
distinguished rank and talents, graced the list which precedes the work.
The mind of Mrs. Robinson, beguiled by these pursuits from preying upon
itself, became gradually reconciled to the calamitous state of her
health; the mournful certainty of total and incurable lameness, while
yet in the bloom and summer of life, was alleviated by the consciousness
of intellectual resource, and by the activity of a fertile fancy. In
1791 she passed the greater part of the summer at Bath, occupied in
lighter poetical compositions. But even from this relief she was now for
awhile debarred; the perpetual exercise of the imagination and
intellect, added to a uniform and sedentary life, affected the system of
her nerves, and contributed to debilitate her frame. She was prohibited
by her physician, not merely from committing her thoughts to paper, but,
had it been possible, from thinking at all. No truant, escaped from
school, could receive more pleasure in eluding a severe master, than did
Mrs. Robinson, when, the vigilance of her physician relaxing, she could
once more resume her books and her pen.
As an example of the facility and rapidity with which she composed, the
following anecdote may be given. Returning one evening from the bath,
she beheld, a few paces before her chair, an elderly man, hurried along
by a crowd of people, by whom he was pelted with mud and stones. His
meek and unresisting deportment exciting her attention, she inquired
what were his offences, and learned with pity and surprise that he was
an unfortunate maniac, known only by the appellation of "mad Jemmy." The
situation of this miserable being seized her imagination and became the
subject of her attention. She would wait whole hours for the appearance
of the poor maniac, and, whatever were her occupations, the voice of mad
Jemmy was sure to allure her to the window. She would gaze upon his
venerable but emaciated countenance with sensations of awe almost
reverential, while the barbarous persecutions of the thoughtless crowd
never failed to agonise her feelings.
One night after bathing, having suffered from her disorder more than
usual pain, she swallowed, by order of her physician, near eighty drops
of laudanum. Having slept for some hours, she awoke, and calling her
daughter, desired her to take a pen and write what she should dictate.
Miss Robinson, supposing that a request so unusual might proceed from
the delirium excited by the opium, endeavoured in vain to dissuade her
mother from her purpose. The spirit of inspiration was not to be
subdued, and she repeated, throughout, the admirable poem of "The
Maniac,"[49] much faster than it could be committed to paper.
She lay, while dictating, with her eyes closed, apparently in the stupor
which opium frequently produces, repeating like a person talking in her
sleep. This affecting performance, produced in circumstances so
singular, does no less credit to the genius than to the heart of
the author.
On the ensuing morning Mrs. Robinson had only a confused idea of what
had passed, nor could be convinced of the fact till the manuscript was
produced. She declared that she had been dreaming of mad Jemmy
throughout the night, but was perfectly unconscious of having been awake
while she composed the poem, or of the circumstances narrated by
her daughter.
Mrs. Robinson, in the following summer, determined on another
continental tour, purposing to remain some time at Spa. She longed once
more to experience the friendly greeting and liberal kindness which even
her acknowledged talents had in her native country failed to procure.
She quitted London in July, 1792, accompanied by her mother and
daughter. The susceptible and energetic mind, fortunately for its
possessor, is endowed with an elastic power, that enables it to rise
again from the benumbing effects of those adverse strokes of fortune to
which it is but too vulnerable. If a lively imagination add poignancy to
disappointment, it also has in itself resources unknown to more equal
temperaments. In the midst of the depressing feelings which Mrs.
Robinson experienced in once more becoming a wanderer from her home, she
courted the inspiration of the muse, and soothed, by the following
beautiful stanzas, the melancholy sensations that oppressed her heart.
"STANZAS
"WRITTEN BETWEEN DOVER AND CALAIS,
"JULY 20, 1792
"Bounding billow, cease thy motion,
Bear me not so swiftly o'er;
Cease thy roaring, foamy ocean,
I will tempt thy rage no more.
"Ah! within my bosom beating,
Varying passions wildly reign;
Love, with proud Resentment meeting,
Throbs by turns, of joy and pain.
"Joy, that far from foes I wander,
Where their taunts can reach no more;
Pain, that woman's heart grows fonder
When her dream of bliss is o'er!
"Love, by fickle fancy banish'd,
Spurn'd by hope, indignant flies;
Yet when love and hope are vanish'd,
Restless mem'ry never dies.
"Far I go, where fate shall lead me,
Far across the troubled deep;
Where no stranger's ear shall heed me,
Where no eye for me shall weep.
"Proud has been my fatal passion!
Proud my injured heart shall be!
While each thought, each inclination,
Still shall prove me worthy thee!
"Not one sigh shall tell my story;
Not one tear my cheek shall stain;
Silent grief shall be my glory,--
Grief, that stoops not to complain!
"Let the bosom prone to ranging,
Still by ranging seek a cure;
Mine disdains the thought of changing,
Proudly destin'd to endure.
"Yet, ere far from all I treasur'd,
----ere I bid adieu;
Ere my days of pain are measur'd,
Take the song that's still thy due!
"Yet, believe, no servile passions
Seek to charm thy vagrant mind;
Well I know thy inclinations,
Wav'ring as the passing wind.
"I have lov'd thee,--dearly lov'd thee,
Through an age of worldly woe;
How ungrateful I have prov'd thee
Let my mournful exile show!
"Ten long years of anxious sorrow,
Hour by hour I counted o'er;
Looking forward, till to-morrow,
Every day I lov'd thee more!
"Pow'r and splendour could not charm me;
I no joy in wealth could see!
Nor could threats or fears alarm me,
Save the fear of losing thee!
"When the storms of fortune press'd thee,
I have wept to see thee weep
When relentless cares distress'd thee,
I have lull'd those cares to sleep!
"When with thee, what ills could harm me?
Thou couldst every pang assuage;
But when absent, nought could charm me;
Every moment seem'd an age.
"Fare thee well, ungrateful lover!
Welcome Gallia's hostile shore:
Now the breezes waft me over;
Now we part--to meet no more."
On landing at Calais, Mrs. Robinson hesitated whether to proceed. To
travel through Flanders, then the seat of war, threatened too many
perils to be attempted with impunity; she determined, therefore, for
some time to remain at Calais, the insipid and spiritless amusements of
which presented little either to divert her attention or engage her
mind. Her time passed in listening to the complaints of the impoverished
aristocrats, or in attending to the air-built projects of their
triumphant adversaries. The arrival of travellers from England, or the
return of those from Paris, alone diversified the scene, and afforded a
resource to the curious and active inquirer.
The sudden arrival of her husband gave a turn to the feelings of Mrs.
Robinson: he had crossed the channel for the purpose of carrying back to
England his daughter, whom he wished to present to a brother newly
returned from the East Indies. Maternal conflicts shook on this occasion
the mind of Mrs. Robinson, which hesitated between a concern for the
interests of her beloved child, from whom she had never been separated,
and the pain of parting from her. She resolved at length on accompanying
her to England, and, with this view, quitted Calais on the memorable 2d
of September, 1792,[50] a day which will reflect on the annals of the
republic an indelible stain.
They had sailed but a few hours when the _arrêt_ arrived, by which every
British subject throughout France was restrained.
Mrs. Robinson rejoiced in her escape, and anticipated with delight the
idea of seeing her daughter placed in wealthy protection, the great
passport in her own country to honour and esteem. Miss Robinson received
from her new relation the promise of protection and favour, upon
condition that she renounced for ever the filial tie which united her to
both parents. This proposal was rejected by the young lady with proper
principle and becoming spirit.
In the year 1793 a little farce, entitled "Nobody," was written by Mrs.
Robinson. This piece, designed as a satire on female gamesters, was
received at the theatre, the characters distributed, and preparations
made for its exhibition. At this period one of the principal performers
gave up her part, alleging that the piece was intended as a ridicule on
her particular friend. Another actress also, though in "herself a host,"
was intimidated by a letter, informing her that "'Nobody' should be
damned!" The author received likewise, on the same day, a scurrilous,
indecent, and ill-disguised scrawl, signifying to her that the farce was
already condemned. On the drawing up of the curtain, several persons in
the galleries, whose liveries betrayed their employers, were heard to
declare that they were sent to do up "Nobody." Even women of
distinguished rank hissed through their fans. Notwithstanding these
manoeuvres and exertions, the more rational part of the audience seemed
inclined to hear before they passed judgment, and, with a firmness that
never fails to awe, demanded that the piece should proceed. The first
act was accordingly suffered without interruption; a song in the second
being unfortunately encored, the malcontents once more ventured to raise
their voices, and the malignity that had been forcibly suppressed burst
forth with redoubled violence. For three nights the theatre presented a
scene of confusion, when the authoress, after experiencing the
gratification of a zealous and sturdy defence, thought proper wholly to
withdraw the cause of contention.[51]
Mrs. Robinson in the course of this year lost her only remaining parent,
whom she tenderly loved and sincerely lamented. Mrs. Darby expired in
the house of her daughter, who, though by far the least wealthy of her
children, had proved herself through life the most attentive and
affectionate. From the first hour of Mr. Darby's failure and
estrangement from his family, Mrs. Robinson had been the protector and
the support of her mother. Even when pressed herself by pecuniary
embarrassment, it had been her pride and pleasure to shelter her widowed
parent, ands preserve her from inconvenience.
Mrs. Darby had two sons, merchants, wealthy and respected in the
commercial world; but to these gentlemen Mrs. Robinson would never
suffer her mother to apply for any assistance that was not voluntarily
offered. The filial sorrow of Mrs. Robinson on her loss, for many months
affected her health; even to the latest hour of her life her grief
appeared renewed when any object presented itself connected with the
memory of her departed mother.
Few events of importance occurred during the five following years,
excepting that through this period the friends of Mrs. Robinson observed
with concern the gradual ravages which indisposition and mental anxiety
were daily making upon her frame. An ingenuous, affectionate,
susceptible heart is seldom favourable to the happiness of the
possessor. It was the fate of Mrs. Robinson to be deceived where she
most confided, to experience treachery and ingratitude where she had a
title to kindness and a claim to support. Frank and unsuspicious, she
suffered her conduct to be guided by the impulse of her feelings; and,
by a too credulous reliance on the apparent attachment of those whom she
loved, and in whom she delighted to trust, she laid herself open to the
impositions of the selfish, and the stratagems of the crafty.
In 1799 her increasing involvements and declining health pressed heavily
upon her mind. She had voluntarily relinquished those comforts and
elegancies to which she had been accustomed; she had retrenched even her
necessary expenses, and nearly secluded herself from society. Her
physician had declared that by exercise only could her existence be
prolonged; yet the narrowness of her circumstances obliged her to forego
the only means by which it could be obtained. Thus, a prisoner in her
own house, she was deprived of every solace but that which could be
obtained by the activity of her mind, which at length sank under
excessive exertion and inquietude.
Indisposition had for nearly five weeks confined her to her bed, when,
after a night of extreme suffering and peril, through which her
physician hourly expected her dissolution, she had sunk into a gentle
and balmy sleep. At this instant her chamber door was forcibly pushed
open, with a noise that shook her enfeebled frame nearly to
annihilation, by two strange and ruffian-looking men, who entered with
barbarous abruptness. On her faintly inquiring the occasion of this
outrage, she was informed that one of her unwelcome visitors was an
attorney, and the other his client, who had thus, with as little decency
as humanity, forced themselves into the chamber of an almost expiring
woman. The motive of this intrusion was to demand her appearance, as a
witness, in a suit pending against her brother, in which these men were
parties concerned. No entreaties could prevail on them to quit the
chamber, where they both remained, questioning, in a manner the most
unfeeling and insulting, the unfortunate victim of their audacity and
persecution. One of them, the client, with a barbarous and unmanly
sneer, turning to his confederate, asked, "Who, to see the lady they
were now speaking to, could believe that she had once been called the
beautiful Mrs. Robinson?" To this he added other observations not less
savage and brutal; and, after throwing on the bed a subpoena, quitted
the apartment. The wretch who could thus, by insulting the sick, and
violating every law of humanity and common decency, disgrace the figure
of a man, was a professor and a priest of that religion which enjoins us
"not to break the bruised reed," "and to bind up the broken in heart!"
His name shall be suppressed, through respect to the order of which he
is an unworthy member. The consequences of this brutality upon the poor
invalid were violent convulsions, which had nearly extinguished the
struggling spark of life.
By slow degrees her malady yielded to the cares and skill of her medical
attendants, and she was once more restored to temporary convalescence;
but from that time her strength gradually decayed. Though her frame was
shaken to its centre, her circumstances compelled her still to exert the
faculties of her mind.
The sportive exercises of fancy were now converted into toilsome labours
of the brain,--nights of sleepless anxiety were succeeded by days of
vexation and dread.
About this period she was induced to undertake the poetical department
for the editor of a morning paper,[52] and actually commenced a series
of satirical odes, on local and temporary subjects, to which was affixed
the signature of "Tabitha Bramble." Among these lighter compositions,
considered by the author as unworthy of a place with her collected
poems, a more matured production of her genius was occasionally
introduced, of which the following "Ode to Spring," written April 30,
1780, is a beautiful and affecting example:
"ODE TO SPRING