This gentleman, who seems to have led a very comfortable life, his
circumstances being easy, was unfortunate in his death; for he lost
his life in a disorderly house, in the parish of St. Clement Danes,
not without suspicion of having been murthered; which accident
happened to him, on his birth day in the 58th year of his age, 1718.
His body was interred in his own parish church, being that of St. Mary
Ax, in the city of London.
* * * * *
Mrs. MANLEY,
The celebrated authoress of the Atalantis, was born in Hampshire, in
one of those islands which formerly belonged to France, of which her
father Sir Roger Manley was governor; who afterwards enjoyed the same
post in other places in England. He was the second son of an ancient
family; the better part of his estate was ruined in the civil war by
his firm adherence to Charles I. He had not the satisfaction of
ever being taken notice of, nor was his loyalty acknowledged at the
restoration. The governor was a brave gallant man, of great honour and
integrity.
He became a scholar in the midst of the camp, having left the
university at the age of sixteen, to follow the fortunes of Charles
I. His temper had too much of the Stoic in it to attend much to the
interest of his family. After a life spent in the civil and foreign
wars, he began to love ease and retirement, devoting himself to his
study, and the charge of his little post, without following the court;
his great virtue and modesty, debaring him from solliciting favours
from such persons as were then at the helm of affairs, his deserts
were buried, and forgotten. In this solitude he wrote several tracts
for his own amusement, particularly his Latin Commentaries of the
Civil Wars of England. He was likewise author of the first volume
of that admired work, the Turkish Spy. One Dr. Midgley, an ingenious
physician, related to the family by marriage, had the charge of
looking over his papers. Amongst them he found that manuscript, which
he reserved to his proper use, and by his own pen, and the assistance
of some others, continued the work till the eighth volume was
finished, without having the honesty to acknowledge the author of the
first.
The governor likewise wrote the History of the Rebellion in England,
Scotland and Ireland; wherein the most material passages, battles,
sieges, policies, and stratagems of war, are impartially related
on both sides, from the year 1640, to the beheading of the duke of
Monmouth 1688, in three parts, printed in octavo, in the year 1691.
His daughter, our authoress, received an education suitable to her
birth, and gave very early discoveries of a genius, not only above her
years, but much superior to what is usually to be found amongst her
own sex. She had the misfortune to lose her mother, while she was
yet an infant, a circumstance, which laid the foundation of many
calamities, which afterwards befell her.
The brother of Sir Roger Manley, who was of principles very opposite
to his, joined with the Parliamentarian party; and after Charles I.
had suffered, he engaged with great zeal in the cause of those who
were for settling a new form of government, in which, however, they
were disappointed by the address of Cromwell, who found means
to transfer the government into his own hands, and in place of
instituting a republic, restored monarchy under another name, and
erected a tyranny as dangerous, perhaps, in its consequences, as
that which he had contributed to overthrow. During these heats and
divisions, Mr. Manley, who adhered to the most powerful party, was
fortunate enough to amass an estate, and purchased a title; but these,
upon the restoration, reverted back to the former possessor; so that
he was left with several small children unprovided for. The eldest of
these orphans, Sir Roger Manley took under his protection, bestowed
a very liberal education on him, and endeavoured to inspire his mind
with other principles, than those he had received from his father.
This young gentleman had very promising parts, but under the
appearance of an open simplicity, he concealed the most treacherous
hypocrisy. Sir Roger, who had a high opinion of his nephew's honour,
as well as of his great abilities, on his death-bed bequeathed to him
the care of our authoress, and her youngest sister.
This man had from nature a very happy address, formed to win much upon
the hearts of unexperienced girls; and his two cousins respected him
greatly. He placed them at the house of an old, out-of-fashion aunt,
who had been a keen partizan of the royal cause during the civil wars;
she was full of the heroic stiffness of her own times, and would read
books of Chivalry, and Romances with her spectacles.
This sort of conversation, much infected the mind of our poetess,
and fill'd her imagination with lovers, heroes, and princes; made
her think herself in an inchanted region, and that all the men who
approached her were knights errant. In a few years the old aunt died,
and left the two young ladies without any controul; which as soon as
their cousin Mr. Manley heard, he hasted into the country, to visit
them; appeared in deep mourning, as he said for the death of his wife;
upon which the young ladies congratulated him, as they knew his wife
was a woman of a most turbulent temper, and ill fitted to render the
conjugal life tolerable.
This gentleman, who had seen a great deal of the world, and was
acquainted with all the artifices of seducing, lost no time in making
love to his cousin, who was no otherwise pleased with it, than as
it answered something to the character she had found in those books,
which had poisoned and deluded her dawning reason. Soon after these
protestations of love were made, the young lady fell into a fever,
which was like to prove fatal to her life.
The lover and her sister never quitted the chamber for sixteen nights,
nor took any other repose than throwing themselves alternately upon a
little pallet in the same room. Having in her nature a great deal of
gratitude, and a very tender sense of benefits; she promised upon
her recovery to marry her guardian, which as soon as her health
was sufficiently restored, she performed in the presence of a maid
servant, her sister, and a gentleman who had married a relation. In a
word, she was married, possessed, and ruin'd.
The husband of our poetess brought her to London, fixed her in a
remote quarter of it, forbad her to stir out of doors, or to receive
the visits of her sister, or any other relations, friends, or
acquaintance. This usage, she thought exceeding barbarous, and it
grieved her the more excessively, since she married him only because
she imagined he loved and doated on her to distraction; for as
his person was but ordinary, and his age disproportioned, being
twenty-years older than she, it could not be imagined that she was in
love with him.--She was very uneasy at being kept a prisoner; but
her husband's fondness and jealousy was made the pretence. She always
loved reading, to which she was now more than ever obliged, as so
much time lay upon her hands: Soon after she proved with child, and
so perpetually ill, that she implored her husband to let her enjoy the
company of her sister and friends. When he could have no relief from
her importunity (being assured that in seeing her relations, she must
discover his barbarous deceit) he thought it was best to be himself
the relator of his villany; he fell upon his knees before her, with so
much seeming confusion, distress and anguish, that she was at a loss
to know what could mould his stubborn heart to such contrition. At
last, with a thousand well counterfeited tears, and sighs, he stabb'd
her with the wounding relation of his wife's being still alive; and
with a hypocrite's pangs conjured her to have some mercy on a lost
man as he was, in an obstinate, inveterate passion, that had no
alternative but death, or possession.
He urged, that could he have supported the pain of living without
her, he never would have made himself so great a villain; but when the
absolute question was, whether he should destroy himself, or betray
her, self-love had turned the ballance, though not without that
anguish to his soul, which had poisoned all his delights, and planted
daggers to stab his peace. That he had a thousand times started in
his sleep with guilty apprehensions; the form of her honoured father
perpetually haunting his troubled dreams, reproaching him as a traitor
to that trust which in his departing moments he had reposed in him;
representing to his tortured imagination the care he took of his
education, more like a father than an uncle, with which he had
rewarded him by effecting the perdition of his favourite daughter, who
was the lovely image of his benefactor.
With this artful contrition he endeavoured to sooth his injured wife:
But what soothing could heal the wounds she had received? Horror!
amazement! sense of honour lost! the world's opinion! ten thousand
distresses crowded her distracted imagination, and she cast looks upon
the conscious traitor with horrible dismay! Her fortune was in his
hands, the greatest part of which was already lavished away in the
excesses of drinking and gaming. She was young, unacquainted with the
world; had never experienced necessity, and knew no arts of redressing
it; so that thus forlorn and distressed, to whom could she run for
refuge, even from want, and misery, but to the very traitor that had
undone her. She was acquainted with none that could or would espouse
her cause, a helpless, useless load of grief and melancholy! with
child! disgraced! her own relations either unable, or unwilling to
relieve her.
Thus was she detained by unhappy circumstances, and his prevailing
arts to wear away three wretched years with him, in the same house,
though she most solemnly protests, and she has a right to be believed,
that no persuasion could ever again reconcile her to his impious arms.
Whenever she cast her eyes upon her son, it gave a mortal wound to her
peace: The circumstances of his birth glared full on her imagination;
she saw him, in future, upbraided with his father's treachery, and
his mother's misfortunes. Thus forsaken of all the world, in the
very morning of her life, when all things should have been gay, and
promising, she wore away three wretched years. Mean time her betrayer
had procured for himself a considerable employment; the duties of
which obliged him to go into the country where his first wife lived.
He took leave of his injured innocent, with much seeming tenderness;
and made the most sacred protestations, that he would not suffer her,
nor her child ever to want.
He endeavoured to persuade her to accompany him into the country, and
to seduce, and quiet her conscience, shewed her a celebrated piece
written in defence of Polygamy, and Concubinage: When he was gone,
he soon relapsed into his former extravagances, forgot his promise
of providing for his child, and its mother; and inhumanly left them
a prey to indigence and oppression. The lady was only happy in being
released from the killing anguish, of every day having before her eyes
the object of her undoing.
When she again came abroad into the world, she was looked upon with
cold indifference; that which had been her greatest misfortune, was
imputed to her as the most enormous guilt; and she was every
where sneered at, avoided, and despised. What pity is it, that an
unfortunate, as well as a false step, should damn a woman's fame!
In what respect was Mrs. Manley to blame? In what particular was she
guilty? to marry her cousin, who passionately professed love to her,
and who solemnly vowed himself a widower, could not be guilt; on
the other hand, it had prudence and gratitude for its basis. Her
continuing in the house with him after he had made the discovery,
cannot be guilt, for by doing so, she was prevented from being exposed
to such necessities as perhaps would have produced greater ruin. When
want and beggary stare a woman in the face, especially one accustomed
to the delicacies of life, then indeed is virtue in danger; and they
who escape must have more than human assistance.
Our poetess now perceived, that together with her reputation, she had
lost all the esteem, that her conversation and abilities might have
else procured her; and she was reduced to the deplorable necessity of
associating with those whose fame was blasted by their indiscretion,
because the more sober and virtuous part of the sex did not care
to risk their own characters, by being in company with one so much
suspected, and against whom the appearance of guilt was too strong.
Under this dilemma, it is difficult to point out any method of
behaviour, by which she would not be exposed to censure: If she had
still persisted in solitude, the ill-natured world would have imputed
to it a cause, which is not founded on virtue; besides, as the means
of support were now removed, by the perfidy of Mr. Manley, she must
have perished by this resolution.
In this case, the reader will not be much surprized to find our
authoress, under the patronage of the duchess of Cleveland, a mistress
of king Charles the IId's, who was justly reckoned one of the most
celebrated beauties of that age. Mrs. Manley was paying a visit to
a lady of her grace's acquaintance, when she was introduced into the
favour of this royal courtezan; and as the duchess of Cleveland was
a woman of parts and genius, she could not but be charmed with the
sprightliness of her conversation. She was fond of new faces, and
immediately contracted the greatest intimacy with our poetess, and
gave her a general invitation to her table. The lady at whose house
the duchess became acquainted with Mrs. Manley, soon perceived her
indiscretion in bringing them together; for the love of novelty so far
prevailed on the duchess, that herself was immediately discarded, and
the affection formerly bestowed upon her, was lavished on Mrs. Manley.
This procured our poetess an inveterate enemy; and the greatest blow
that was ever struck at her reputation, was by that woman, who had
been before her friend. She was not content to inform persons who
began to know and esteem Mrs. Manley, that her marriage was a
cheat; but even endeavoured to make the duchess jealous of her new
favourite's charms, in respect of Mr. Goodman the player, who at
that time had the honour of approaching her grace's person, with the
freedom of a gallant.
As the duchess of Cleveland was a woman of a very fickle temper,
in six months time she began to be tired of Mrs. Manley. She was
quarrelsome, loquacious, fierce, excessively fond, or downright rude;
when she was disgusted with any person, she never failed to reproach
them, with all the bitterness of wit she was mistress of, with such
malice, and ill-nature, that she was hated, not only by all the world,
but by her own children and servants: The extremes of prodigality,
and covetousness, of love, and hatred, of dotage, and fondness, met
in her. A woman of this temper will be at no loss for the means of
effecting any one's ruin, and having now conceived an aversion to our
poetess, she was resolved to drive her from her house, with as much
reproach as possible; and accordingly gave out, that she had detected
Mrs. Manley in an intrigue with her own son, and as she did not care
to give encouragement to such amours, she thought proper to discharge
her. Whether or not there was any truth in this charge, it is
impossible for us to determine: But if Mrs. Manley's own word may be
taken, in such a case, she was perfectly innocent thereof.
When our authoress was dismissed by the duchess, she was sollicited by
lieutenant-general Tidcomb, to pass some time with him at his country
seat; but she excused herself by telling him, she must be in love with
a man, before she could think of residing with him, which she could
not, without a violation of truth, profess for him. She told him her
love of solitude was improved, by her disgust of the world, and
since it was impossible for her to be public with reputation, she was
resolved to remain in it concealed.
It was in this solitude she composed her first tragedy, which was much
more famous for the language, fire, and tenderness, than the conduct.
Mrs. Barry distinguished herself in it, and the author was often heard
to express great surprize, that a man of Mr. Betterton's grave sense,
and judgment, should think well enough of the productions of a young
woman, to bring it upon the stage, since she herself in a more mature
age could hardly bear to read it. But as the play succeeded, she
received such unbounded incense from admirers, that her apartment
was crowded with men of wit, and gaiety. There is a copy of verses
prefixed to her play, said to be written by a very great hand which
deserve notice.
What! all our sex in one sad hour undone?
Lost are our arts, our learning, our renown
Since nature's tide of wit came rolling down.
Keen were your eyes we knew, and sure their darts;
Fire to our soul they send, and passion to our heart!
Needless was an addition to such arms,
When all mankind were vassals to your charms:
That hand but seen, gives wonder and desire,
Snow to the fight, but with its touches fire!
Who sees thy yielding Queen, and would not be
On any terms, the best, the happy he;
Entranc'd we fancy all is extasy.
Quote Ovid, now no more ye am'rous swains,
Delia, than Ovid has more moving strains.
Nature in her alone exceeds all art,
And nature sure does nearest touch the heart.
Oh! might I call the bright discoverer mine,
The whole fair sex unenvied I'd resign;
Give all my happy hours to Delia's charms,
She who by writing thus our wishes warms,
What worlds of love must circle in her arms?
They who had a regard for Mrs. Manley could not but observe with
concern, that her conduct was such, as would soon issue in her ruin.
No language but flattery approached her ear; the Beaux told her, that
a woman of her wit, was not to be confined to the dull formalities of
her own sex, but had a right to assume the unreserved freedom of the
male, since all things were pardonable to a lady, who knew to give
laws to others, yet was not obliged to keep them herself. General
Tidcomb, who seems to have been her sincerest friend, took the
privilege of an old acquaintance to correct her ill taste, and the
wrong turn she gave her judgment, in admitting adulation from such
wretches, whose praise could reflect but little honour, and who would
be ready to boast of favours they never received, nor indeed ever
endeavoured to obtain.
This salutary council was rejected; she told him, that she did not
think fit to reform a conduct, which she reckoned very innocent;
and still continued to receive the whispers of flatterers, 'till
experience taught her the folly of her behaviour, and she lived to
repent her indiscretion.
Her virtue was now nodding, and she was ready to fall into the arms of
any gallant, like mellow fruit, without much trouble in the gathering.
Sir Thomas Skipwith, a character of gaiety of those times, and, who
it seems had theatrical connections, was recommended to her, as being
very able to promote her design in writing for the stage. This knight
was in the 50th year of his age, and in the 60th of his constitution,
when he was first introduced to her, and as he had been a long
practised gallant, he soon made addresses to her, and whether or no
this knight, who was more dangerous to a woman's reputation, than her
virtue, was favoured by her, the world was so much convinced of it,
that her character was now absolutely lost. Sir Thomas was a weak,
vain, conceited coxcomb, who delighted in boasting of his conquests
over women, and what was often owing to his fortune, and station in
life, he imputed to his address, and the elegance of his manner, of
both which he was totally destitute. He even published Mrs. Manley's
dishonour, and from that time our sprightly poetess was considered, by
the sober part of the sex, quite abandoned to all shame.
When her affair with this superannuated knight was over, she soon
engaged in another intrigue, still more prejudicial to her character;
for it was with a married man, one Mr. Tilly, a gentleman of the Law;
with whom she lived a considerable time: while he underwent at
home many of those severe lectures, which the just provocation, and
jealousy of his wife taught her to read him. Mrs. Tilly at last died,
and our gallant was left at his freedom to marry the object of his
passion; but unluckily his finances were in such a situation, that he
was obliged to repair them by marrying a woman of fortune. This was a
cruel circumstance; for he really loved, and doated upon Mrs. Manley,
and had the felicity of a reciprocal passion. She agreed however, in
order to repair his fortune, that he should marry a rich young widow,
whom he soon won by the elegance of his address, while our authoress
retired into the country to spend her days in solitude and sorrow, and
bid an everlasting farewel to the pleasures of love and gallantry.
Mr. Tilly did not many years survive this reparation: his life was
rendered miserable at home by the jealousy of his young wife, who had
heard of his affair with Mrs. Manley; he lost his senses, and died in
a deplorable situation.
During her retirement, our authoress, who had a most confirmed
aversion to the Whig ministry, wrote her Atalantis, which was meant as
a representation of the characters of some of those, who had effected
the Revolution. A warrant was granted from the secretary of state's
office, to seize the Printer and Publisher of these volumes. This
circumstance reduced the writer to a very troublesome dilemma; she
could not bear the thoughts that innocent people should suffer on her
account, and she judged it cruel to remain concealed, while they who
were only inferior instruments, were suffering for her. She consulted,
on this occasion, her best friend, general Tidcomb, who, after
rallying her for exposing people, who had never in particular injured
her, he advised her to go into France, and made her an offer of
his purse for that purpose. This advice she rejected, and came to
a determined resolution, that no person should ever suffer on her
account. The general asked her, how she should like to be confined in
Newgate? to which she answered, that she would rather lye in a prison,
after having discharged her conference, than riot in a palace under
its reproaches. The general upon this replied, that these things
sounded very heroic, but there was a great difference between real and
imaginary sufferings, 'that she had chosen to declare herself for the
Tories, a party, who never could keep their own, nor other people's
secrets, and were ever forgetful of such as served them; that the most
severe critics upon the Tory writings, were the Tories themselves, who
never considering the design, or honest intention of the author, would
examine the performance only, and that too with as much severity,
as they would an enemy's, and at the same time value themselves
upon being impartial against their friends. Then as to gratitude,
or generosity, the Tories did not approach to the Whigs, who never
suffered any man to go unrewarded, however dull, or insignificant,
provided he declared himself to be for them; whereas the Tories had no
general interest, and consequently no particular, each person refusing
to contribute towards the benefit of the whole; and if it should
happen, that she should perish, through want, in a Jail, they would
sooner condemn her folly, than pity her sufferings.'
This did not deter our poetess from voluntarily preferring herself
before the Court of King's Bench, as the author of the Atalantis.
When she was examined before the secretary (then lord Sunderland)
he was assiduous to know from whom she had got information of some
particulars, which they imagined were above her own intelligence. Her
defence was with much humility and sorrow, at the same time denying
that any persons were concerned with her, or that she had a farther
design than writing for her own amusement, and diversion in the
country, without intending particular reflexions, or characters; when
this was not believed, and the contrary urged against her by several
circumstances, she said, 'then it must be by inspiration, because
knowing her own innocence, she could account for it no other way.' The
secretary replied, 'that inspiration used to be upon a good account,
and her writings were stark naught.' She, with an air of penitence,
'acknowledged, that his lordship's observation might be true, but that
there were evil angels, as well as good, so that nevertheless what she
had wrote, might still be by inspiration.'
In consequence of this examination, our authoress was close shut up
in a messenger's house, without being allowed pen, ink, and paper.
However her council sued out her Habeas Corpus at the King's-Bench
Bar, and she was admitted to bail.
Whether those in power were ashamed to bring a woman to her trial,
for writing a few amorous trifles, or our laws were defective, as
was generally conjectured, because she had disguised her satire under
romantic names, and a feigned scene of action, she was discharged,
after several times exposing her in person, to cross the court before
the Bench of Judges, with her three attendants, the Printer, and two
Publishers.
Not long after this a total change of the ministry ensued,
the statesmen to whom she had been obnoxious were removed, and
consequently all her fears upon that score dissipated; her native
gaiety, and good humour returned, and she again employed herself in
writing a tragedy for the stage, and resolved never more to deal in
politics, as being much out of the natural sphere of a woman, she was
persuaded it was folly in one in her station, to disoblige any party
by a pen, equally qualified to divert all. Being advanced to the
autumn of her charms, she conversed with the opposite sex, in a manner
very delicate, sensible, and agreeable, and when she felt that time
had left his impression upon her brow, she did not court praise and
flattery. The greatest genius's of the times conversed freely with
her, and gave her daily proofs of esteem, and friendship, except Sir
Richard Steele, with whom it seems she was at variance; and indeed Sir
Richard sufficiently exposed himself by his manner of taking revenge;
for he published to the world that it was his own fault he was not
happy with Mrs. Manley, for which omission he publickly, and gravely
asked her pardon.
Those are the most material incidents in the life of our poetess; a
lady, who was born with high powers from nature, which were afterwards
cultivated by enjoying the brightest conversation; the early part of
her life was unfortunate, she fell a sacrifice to a seducer, who laid
the foundation for those errors she afterwards committed, and of those
sufferings she underwent; she had a high relish for the pleasures
of life; she was extremely susceptible of the passion of love, and
treated it with a peculiar vivacity.