Beaux and Belles of England

M >> Mary Robinson >> Beaux and Belles of England

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

On the arrival of the fair foreigner, the Duke d'Orleans quitted the
king, on whom he was then in waiting, to procure her a place, where the
queen might have an opportunity of observing those charms by the fame of
which her curiosity had been awakened.

The _grand convert_, at which the king acquitted himself with more
alacrity than grace, afforded a magnificent display of epicurean luxury.
The queen ate nothing. The slender crimson cord, which drew a line of
separation between the royal epicures and the gazing plebeians, was at
the distance but of a few feet from the table. A small space divided the
queen from Mrs. Robinson, whom the constant observation and loudly
whispered encomiums of her Majesty most oppressively flattered. She
appeared to survey, with peculiar attention, a miniature of the Prince
of Wales, which Mrs. Robinson wore on her bosom, and of which, on the
ensuing day, she commissioned the Duke of Orleans to request the loan.
Perceiving Mrs. Robinson gaze with admiration on her white and polished
arms, as she drew on her gloves, the queen again uncovered them, and
leaned for a few moments on her hand. The duke, on returning the
picture, gave to the fair owner a purse, netted by the hand of
Antoinette, and which she had commissioned him to present, from her, to
_la belle Anglaise_. Mrs. Robinson not long after these events quitted
Paris, and returned to her native country.

In 1784 her fate assumed a darker hue. She was attacked by a malady, to
which she had nearly fallen a victim. By an imprudent exposure to the
night air in travelling, when, exhausted by fatigue and mental anxiety,
she slept in a chaise with the windows open, she brought on a fever,
which confined her to her bed during six months. The disorder terminated
at the conclusion of that period in a violent rheumatism, which
progressively deprived her of the use of her limbs. Thus, at four and
twenty years of age, in the pride of youth and the bloom of beauty, was
this lovely and unfortunate woman reduced to a state of more than
infantile helplessness. Yet, even under so severe a calamity, the powers
of her mind and the elasticity of her spirits triumphed over the
weakness of her frame. This check to the pleasures and vivacity of
youth, by depriving her of external resource, led her to the more
assiduous cultivation and development of her talents. But the
resignation with which she had submitted to one of the severest of human
calamities gave place to hope, on the assurance of her physician, that
by the mild air of a more southern climate she might probably be
restored to health and activity.

The favourite wish of her heart, that of beholding her relations, from
whom she had been so many years divided, it was now in her power to
gratify. From her elder brother she had frequently received invitations,
the most pressing and affectionate, to quit for ever a country where an
unprotected woman rarely fails to become the victim of calumny and
persecution, and to take shelter in the bosom of domestic tranquillity,
where peace, to which she had long been a stranger, might still await
her. Delighted with the idea of combining with the object of her travels
an acquisition so desirable, and after which her exhausted heart panted,
she eagerly embraced the proposal, and set out to Paris, with the
resolution of proceeding to Leghorn. But a letter, on her arrival, from
her physician, prescribing the warm baths of Aix-la-Chapelle in Germany,
as a certain restorative for her complaints, frustrated her plans. Once
more she proceeded in melancholy pursuit of that blessing which she was
destined never more to obtain.

During her sojourn at Aix-la-Chapelle, a dawn of comparative
tranquillity soothed her spirits. Secure from the machinations of her
enemies, she determined, though happiness seemed no more within her
reach, to endeavour to be content. The assiduities and attentions shown
her by all ranks of people presented a striking medium between the
volatility and libertine homage offered to her at Paris, and the
persevering malignity which had followed her in her native land. Her
beauty, the affecting state of her health, the attraction of her
manners, and the powers of her mind, interested every heart in her
favour; while the meekness with which she submitted to her fate excited
an admiration not less fervent, and more genuine, than her charms in the
full blaze of their power had ever extorted.

Among the many illustrious and enlightened persons then resident at
Aix-la-Chapelle, who honoured Mrs. Robinson by their friendship, she
received from the late amiable and unfortunate Duke and Duchess du
Chatelet peculiar marks of distinction. The duke had, while ambassador
in England, been the friend and associate of the learned Lord Mansfield;
his duchess, the _eleve_ of Voltaire, claimed as her godmother Gabrielle
Emilia, Baroness du Chatelet, so celebrated by that lively and admirable
writer. This inestimable family, consisting of the duke and duchess,
their nephews the Counts de Damas, and a niece married to the Duke de
Simianne, were indefatigable in their efforts to solace the affliction
and amuse the mind of their fair friend. Balls, concerts, rural
breakfasts, succeeded to each other in gay and attractive variety; the
happy effects produced on the health and spirits of Mrs. Robinson were
considered by this English family as an ample compensation for their
solicitude. When compelled by severer paroxysms of her malady to seclude
herself from their society, a thousand kind stratagems were planned and
executed to relieve her sufferings, or soften the dejection to which
they unavoidably gave rise. Sometimes, on entering her dark and
melancholy bath, the gloom of which was increased by high grated
windows, she beheld the surface of the water covered with rose-leaves,
while the vapour baths were impregnated with aromatic odours. The
younger part of the family, when pain deprived Mrs. Robinson of rest,
frequently passed the night beneath her windows, charming her sufferings
and beguiling her of her sorrows, by singing her favourite airs to the
accompaniment of the mandolin.

Thus, in despite of sickness, glided away two agreeable winters, when
the transient gleam of brightness became suddenly obscured, and her
prospects involved in deeper shade.

About this period Mrs. Robinson had the misfortune to lose her brave and
respected father,--a blow as forcible as unexpected, which nearly shook
her faculties, and, for a time, wholly overwhelmed her spirits. Captain
Darby had, on the failure of his fortunes, been presented to the command
of a small ordnance vessel, through the interest of some of his noble
associates in the Indian expedition. Not having been regularly bred to
the sea, this was the only naval appointment which he could receive.
Enthusiastically attached to his profession, he omitted no occasion of
signalising himself. The siege of Gibraltar, in the year 1783, afforded
to him an opportunity after which he had long panted, when his small
vessel and gallant crew extorted by their courage and exertions the
admiration and applause of the fleet. Having fought till his rigging was
nearly destroyed, he turned his attention to the sinking Spaniards, whom
he sought to snatch from the flaming wrecks, floating around him in all
directions, and had the satisfaction to preserve, though at the hazard
of his life, some hundreds of his fellow beings. The vessel of Captain
Darby was the first that reached the rock by nearly an hour. On his
landing, General Elliot received and embraced him with the plaudits due
to his gallant conduct.

In the presence of his officers, the general lamented that so brave a
man had not been bred to a profession to which his intrepidity would
have done distinguished honour. To this eulogium he added, that, with
the courage of a lion, Captain Darby possessed the firmness of the rock
which he had so bravely defended.

To his care was entrusted by the commander a copy of the despatches,
which Captain Darby delivered four and twenty hours before the arrival
of the regular vessel. For this diligence, and the conduct which had
preceded it, he received the thanks of the Board of Admiralty, while on
the other captain was bestowed the more substantial recompense of five
hundred pounds. An injustice so glaring was not calculated to lessen
Captain Darby's distaste for England, which he quitted, after taking of
his unhappy family an affectionate farewell.

At sixty-two years of age, he set out to regain in a foreign country the
fortune he had sacrificed in the service of his own. With powerful
recommendations from the Duke of Dorset and the Count de Simolin, he
proceeded to Petersburg. From the Count de Simolin he continued to
experience, till the latest period of his existence, a steady and
zealous friendship. Captain Darby had been but two years in the Russian
imperial service when he was promoted to the command of a seventy-four
gun ship, with a promise of the appointment of admiral on the first
vacancy. On the 5th of December, 1785, death put a stop to his career.
He was buried with military honours, and attended to the grave by his
friends, Admiral Greig, the Counts Czernichef and De Simolin, with the
officers of the fleet.[43]

This honourable testimony to her father's worth was the only consolation
remaining to his daughter, whose enfeebled health and broken spirits
sunk beneath these repeated strokes.

During the four succeeding years of the life of Mrs. Robinson, but few
events occurred worthy of remark. In search of lost health, which she
had so long and vainly pursued, she determined to repair to the baths of
St. Amand, in Flanders, those receptacles of loathsome mud, and of
reptiles, unknown to other soils, which fasten on the bodies of those
who bathe. Mrs. Robinson made many visits to these distasteful ditches
before she could prevail on herself to enter them. Neither the example
of her fellow sufferers, nor the assurance of cures performed by their
wonderful efficacy, could for a long time overcome her disgust. At
length, solicitude for the restoration of her health, added to the
earnest remonstrances of her friends, determined her on making the
effort. For the purpose of being near the baths, which must be entered
an hour before the rising of the sun, she hired a small but beautiful
cottage near the spring, where she passed the summer of 1787. These
peaceful vales and venerable woods were, at no distant period, destined
to become the seat of war and devastation, and the very cottage in which
Mrs. Robinson resided was converted into the headquarters of a
Republican French general.[44]

[Illustration: The Prince of Wales From a painting by Sir Thomas
Lawrence]

Every endeavour to subdue her disorder proving ineffectual, Mrs.
Robinson relinquished her melancholy and fruitless pursuit, and resolved
once more to return to her native land. Proceeding through Paris, she
reached England in the beginning of 1787, from which period may be dated
the commencement of her literary career. On her arrival in London she
was affectionately received by the few friends whose attachment neither
detraction nor adverse fortunes could weaken or estrange. During an
absence of five years death had made inroads in the little circle of her
connections; many of those whose idea had been her solace in affliction,
and whose welcome she had delighted to anticipate, were now, alas!
no more.[45]

Once more established in London, and surrounded by social and rational
friends, Mrs. Robinson began to experience comparative tranquillity. The
Prince of Wales, with his brother the Duke of York, frequently honoured
her residence with their presence; but the state of her health, which
required more repose, added to the indisposition of her daughter, who
was threatened by a consumptive disorder, obliged her to withdraw to a
situation of greater retirement. Maternal solicitude for a beloved and
only child now wholly engaged her attention; her assiduities were
incessant and exemplary for the restoration of a being to whom she had
given life, and to whom she was fondly devoted.

In the course of the summer she was ordered by her physician to
Brighthelmstone, for the benefit of sea bathing. During hours of tedious
watching over the health of her suffering child, Mrs. Robinson beguiled
her anxiety by contemplating the ocean, whose successive waves, breaking
upon the shore, beat against the wall of their little garden. To a mind
naturally susceptible, and tinctured by circumstances with sadness, this
occupation afforded a melancholy pleasure, which could scarcely be
relinquished without regret. Whole nights were passed by Mrs. Robinson
at her window in deep meditation, contrasting with her present situation
the scenes of her former life.

Every device which a kind and skilful nurse could invent to cheer and
amuse her charge was practised by this affectionate mother, during the
melancholy period of her daughter's confinement. In the intervals of
more active exertion, the silence of a sick-chamber proving favourable
to the muse, Mrs. Robinson poured forth those poetic effusions which
have done so much honour to her genius and decked her tomb with unfading
laurels. Conversing one evening with Mr. Richard Burke,[46] respecting
the facility with which modern poetry was composed, Mrs. Robinson
repeated nearly the whole of those beautiful lines, which were afterward
given to the public, addressed: "To him who will understand them."

"LINES

"TO HIM WHO WILL UNDERSTAND THEM

"Thou art no more my bosom's friend;
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.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17