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Mrs. Mary Robinson, Written by Herself,

by Mary Robinson · English · Gutenberg #9822 · 430,125 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Mrs. Mary Robinson, Written by Herself,

Author: Mary Robinson
        Mrs. A. T. Thomson
        Philip Wharton


        
Release date: February 1, 2006 [eBook #9822]
                Most recently updated: December 26, 2020

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Stan Goodman and PG Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. MARY ROBINSON, WRITTEN BY HERSELF, ***




Produced by Stan Goodman and PG Distributed Proofreaders









[Frontispiece:
The Attempted Abduction
Original painting by B. Wesley Rand]




Beaux & Belles of England

Mrs. Mary Robinson

Written by Herself

With the Lives of the Duchesses of Gordon
and Devonshire by Grace and Philip Wharton

London

EDITION DE LUXE




INTRODUCTION TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION


The following brief memoirs of a beautiful, engaging, and, in many
respects, highly gifted woman require little in the way of introduction.
While we may trace same little negative disingenuousness in the writer,
in regard to a due admission of her own failings, sufficient of
uncoloured matter of fact remains to show the exposed situation of an
unprotected beauty--or, what is worse, of a female of great personal and
natural attraction, exposed to the gaze of libertine rank and fashion,
under the mere nominal guardianship of a neglectful and profligate
husband. Autobiography of this class is sometimes dangerous; not so that
of Mrs. Robinson, who conceals not the thorns inherent in the paths
along which vice externally scatters roses; For the rest, the
arrangement of princely establishments in the way of amour is pleasantly
portrayed in this brief volume, which in many respects is not without
its moral. One at least is sufficiently obvious, and it will be found in
the cold-hearted neglect which a woman of the most fascinating mental
and personal attractions may encounter from those whose homage is merely
sensual, and whose admiration is but a snare.




EDITOR'S PREFACE


The author of these memoirs, Mary Robinson, was one of the most
prominent and eminently beautiful women of her day. From the description
she furnishes of her personal appearance, we gather that her complexion
was dark, her eyes large, her features expressive of melancholy; and
this verbal sketch corresponds with her portrait, which presents a face
at once grave, refined, and charming. Her beauty, indeed, was such as to
attract, amongst others, the attentions of Lords Lyttelton and
Northington, Fighting Fitzgerald, Captain Ayscough, and finally the
Prince of Wales; whilst her talents and conversation secured her the
friendship and interest of David Garrick, Richard Brinsley Sheridan,
Charles James Fox, Joshua Reynolds, Arthur Murphy, the dramatist, and
various other men of distinguished talent.

Though her memoirs are briefly sketched, they are sufficiently vivid to
present us with various pictures of the social life of the period of
which she was the centre. Now we find her at the Pantheon, with its
coloured lamps and brilliant music, moving amidst a fashionable crowd,
where large hoops and high feathers abounded, she herself dressed in a
habit of pale pink satin trimmed with sable, attracting the attention of
men of fashion. Again she is surrounded by friends at Vauxhall Gardens,
and barely escapes from a cunning plot to abduct her,--a plot in which
loaded pistols and a waiting coach prominently figure; whilst on another
occasion she is at Ranelagh, where, in the course of the evening, half a
dozen gallants "evinced their attentions;" and ultimately she makes her
first appearance as an actress on the stage of Drury Lane, before a
brilliant house, David Garrick, now retired, watching her from the
orchestra, whilst she played Juliet in pink satin richly spangled with
silver, her head ornamented with white feathers.

The fact of her becoming an actress brought about the turning-point in
her life; it being whilst she played Perdita in "The Winter's Tale"
before royalty that she attracted the Prince of Wales, afterward George
IV., who was then in his eighteenth year. The incidents which follow are
so briefly treated in the memoirs that explanations are necessary to
those who would follow the story of her life.

The performance of the play in which the prince saw her, probably for
the first time, took place on the 3d of December, 1779. It was not until
some months later, during which the prince and Perdita corresponded,
that she consented to meet him at Kew, where his education was being
continued and strict guard kept upon his conduct. During 1780 he urged
his father to give him a commission in the army, but, dreading the
liberty which would result from such a step, the king refused the
request. It was, however, considered advisable to provide the prince
with a small separate establishment in a wing of Buckingham House; this
arrangement taking place On the 1st of January, 1781.

Being now his own master, the prince became a man about town, attended
routs, masquerades, horse-races, identified himself with politicians
detested by the king, set up an establishment for Mrs. Robinson,
gambled, drank, and in a single year spent ten thousand pounds on
clothes. He now openly appeared in the company of Perdita at places of
public resort and amusement; she, magnificently dressed, driving a
splendid equipage which had cost him nine hundred guineas, and
surrounded by his friends. We read that: "To-day she was a _paysanne,_
with her straw hat tied at the back of her head. Yesterday she perhaps
had been the dressed belle of Hyde Park, trimmed, powdered, patched,
painted to the utmost power of rouge and white lead; to-morrow she would
be the cravated Amazon of the riding-house; but, be she what she might,
the hats of the fashionable promenaders swept the ground as she passed."

This life lasted about two years, when, just as the prince, on his
coming of age, was about to take possession of Carlton House, to receive
£30,000 from the nation toward paying his debts, and an annuity of
£63,000, he absented himself from Perdita, leaving her in ignorance of
the cause of his change, which was none other than an interest in Mrs.
Grace Dalrymple Elliott.

In the early fervour of his fancy, he had assured Mrs. Robinson his love
would remain unchangeable till death, and that he would prove
unalterable to his Perdita through life. Moreover, his generosity being
heated by passion, he gave her a bond promising to pay her £20,000 on
his coming of age.

On the prince separating from her, Perdita found herself some £7,000 in
debt to tradespeople, who became clamorous for their money, whereon she
wrote to her royal lover, who paid her no heed; but presently she was
visited by his friend, Charles James Fox, when she agreed to give up her
bond in consideration of receiving an annuity of £500 a year.

She would now gladly have gone back to the stage, but that she feared
the hostility of public opinion. Shortly after, she went to Paris, and
on her return to England devoted herself to literature. It was about
this time she entered into relations with Colonel--afterward Sir
Banastre--Tarleton, who was born in the same year as herself, and had
served in the American army from 1776 until the surrender of Yorktown,
on which he returned to England. For many years he sat in Parliament as
the representative of Liverpool, his native town; and in 1817 he gained
the grade of lieutenant-general, and was created a baronet. His
friendship with Mrs. Robinson lasted some sixteen years.

It was whilst undertaking a journey on his behalf, at a time when he was
in pecuniary difficulties, that she contracted the illness that resulted
in her losing the active use of her lower limbs. This did not prevent
her from working, and she poured out novels, poems, essays on the
condition of women, and plays. A communication written by her to John
Taylor, the proprietor of the _Sun_ newspaper and author of various
epilogues, prologues, songs, etc., gives a view of her life. This
letter, now published for the first time, is contained in the famous
Morrison collection of autograph letters, and is dated the 5th of
October, 1794.

"I was really happy to receive your letter. Your silence gave me no
small degree of uneasiness, and I began to think some demon had broken
the links of that chain which I trust has united us in friendship for
ever. Life is such a scene of trouble and disappointment that the
sensible mind can ill endure the loss of any consolation that renders it
supportable. How, then, can it be possible that we should resign,
without a severe pang, the first of all human blessings, the friend we
love? Never give me reason again, I conjure you, to suppose you have
wholly forgot me.

"Now I will impart to you a secret, which must not be revealed. I think
that before the 10th of December next I shall quit England for ever. My
dear and valuable brother, who is now in Lancashire, wishes to persuade
me, and the unkindness of the world tends not a little to forward his
hopes. I have no relations in England except my darling girl, and, I
fear, few friends. Yet, my dear Juan, I shall feel a very severe
struggle in quitting those paths of fancy I have been childish enough to
admire,--false prospects. They have led me into the vain expectation
that fame would attend my labours, and my country be my pride. How have
I been treated? I need only refer you to the critiques of last month,
and you will acquit me of unreasonable instability. When I leave
England,--adieu to the muse for ever,--I will never publish another line
while I exist, and even those manuscripts now finished I will destroy.

"Perhaps this will be no loss to the world, yet I may regret the many
fruitless hours I have employed to furnish occasions for malevolence and
persecution.

"In every walk of life I have been equally unfortunate, but here shall
end my complaints.

"I shall return to St. James's Place for a few days this month to meet
my brother, who then goes to York for a very short time, and after his
return (the end of November), I depart. This must be secret, for to my
other misfortunes pecuniary derangement is not the least. Let common
sense judge how I can subsist upon £500 a year, when my carriage (a
necessary expense) alone costs me £200. My mental labours have failed
through the dishonest conduct of my publishers. My works have sold
handsomely, but the profits have been theirs.

"Have I not reason to be disgusted when I see him to whom I ought to
look for better fortune lavishing favours on unworthy objects,
gratifying the avarice of ignorance and dulness, while I, who sacrificed
reputation, an advantageous profession, friends, patronage, the
brilliant hours of youth, and the conscious delight of correct conduct,
am condemned to the scanty pittance bestowed on every indifferent page
who holds up his ermined train of ceremony?

"You will say, 'Why trouble me with all this?' I answer, 'Because when I
am at peace, you may be in possession of my real sentiments and defend
my cause when I shall not have the power of doing it.'

"My comedy has been long in the hands of a manager, but whether it will
ever be brought forward time must decide. You know, my dear friend, what
sort of authors have lately been patronised by managers; their pieces
ushered to public view, with all the advantages of splendour; yet I am
obliged to wait two long years without a single hope that a trial would
be granted. Oh, I am tired of the world and all its mortifications. I
promise you this shall close my chapters of complaints. Keep them, and
remember how ill I have been treated."

Eight days later she wrote to the same friend:

"In wretched spirits I wrote you last week a most melancholy letter.
Your kind answer consoled me. The balsam of pure and disinterested
friendship never fails to cure the mind's sickness, particularly when it
proceeds from disgust at the ingratitude of the world."

The play to which she referred was probably that mentioned in the sequel
to her memoirs, which was unhappily a failure. It is notable that the
principal character in the farce was played by Mrs. Jordan, who was
later to become the victim of a royal prince, who left her to die in
poverty and exile.

The letter of another great actress, Sarah Siddons, written to John
Taylor, shows kindness and compassion toward Perdita.

"I am very much obliged to Mrs. Robinson," says Mrs. Siddons, "for her
polite attention in sending me her poems. Pray tell her so with my
compliments. I hope the poor, charming woman has quite recovered from
her fall. If she is half as amiable as her writings, I shall long for
the possibility of being acquainted with her. I say the possibility,
because one's whole life is one continual sacrifice of inclinations,
which to indulge, however laudable or innocent, would draw down the
malice and reproach of those prudent people who never do ill, 'but feed
and sleep and do observances to the stale ritual of quaint ceremony.'
The charming and beautiful Mrs. Robinson: I pity her from the bottom
of my soul."

Almost to the last she retained her beauty, and delighted in receiving
her friends and learning from them news of the world in which she could
no longer move. Reclining on her sofa in the little drawing-room of her
house in St. James's Place, she was the centre of a circle which
comprised many of those who had surrounded her in the days of her
brilliancy, amongst them being the Prince of Wales and his brother the
Duke of York.

Possibly, for the former, memory lent her a charm which years had not
utterly failed to dispel.

J. Fitzgerald Molloy.




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


The Attempted Abduction

Lady Lyttleton

William Brereton in The Character Of Douglas

The First Meeting of Mrs. Robinson and the Prince of Wales

Mrs. Robinson

The Prince of Wales

Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire




MRS. MARY ROBINSON


At the period when the ancient city of Bristol was besieged by Fairfax's
army, the troops being stationed on a rising ground in the vicinity of
the suburbs, a great part of the venerable minster was destroyed by the
cannonading before Prince Rupert surrendered to the enemy; and the
beautiful Gothic structure, which at this moment fills the contemplative
mind with melancholy awe, was reduced to but little more than one-half
of the original fabric. Adjoining to the consecrated hill, whose antique
tower resists the ravages of time, once stood a monastery of monks of
the order of St. Augustine. This building formed a part of the spacious
boundaries which fell before the attacks of the enemy, and became a part
of the ruin, which never was repaired or re-raised to its former Gothic
splendours.

On this spot was built a private house, partly of simple, and partly of
modern architecture. The front faced a small garden, the gates of which
opened to the Minster Green (now called the College Green); the west
side was bounded by the cathedral, and the back was supported by the
ancient cloisters of St. Augustine's monastery. A spot more calculated
to inspire the soul with mournful meditation can scarcely be found
amidst the monuments of antiquity.

In this venerable mansion there was one chamber whose dismal and
singular constructure left no doubt of its having been a part of the
original monastery. It was supported by the mouldering arches of the
cloisters, dark, Gothic, and opening on the minster sanctuary, not only
by casement windows that shed a dim midday gloom, but by a narrow
winding staircase, at the foot of which an iron-spiked door led to the
long gloomy path of cloistered solitude. This place remained in the
situation in which I describe it in the year 1776, and probably may, in
a more ruined state, continue so to this hour.

In this awe-inspiring habitation, which I shall henceforth denominate
the Minster House, during a tempestuous night, on the 27th of November,
1758, I first opened my eyes to this world of duplicity and sorrow. I
have often heard my mother say that a mare stormy hour she never
remembered. The wind whistled round the dark pinnacles of the minster
tower, and the rain beat in torrents against the casements of her
chamber. Through life the tempest has followed my footsteps, and I have
in vain looked for a short interval of repose from the perseverance
of sorrow.

In the male line I am descended from a respectable family in Ireland,
the original name of which was MacDermott. From an Irish estate, my
great-grandfather changed it to that of Darby. My father, who was born
in America, was a man of strong mind, high spirit, and great personal
intrepidity. Many anecdotes, well authenticated, and which, being
irrefragable, are recorded as just tributes to his fame and memory,
shall, in the course of these memoirs, confirm this assertion.

My mother was the grandchild of Catherine Seys, one of the daughters and
co-heiresses of Richard Sey's, Esq., of Boverton Castle, in
Glamorganshire. The sister of my great-grandmother, named Anne, married
Peter, Lord King, who was nephew, in the female line, to the learned and
truly illustrious John Locke--a name that has acquired celebrity which
admits of no augmented panegyric.

Catherine Seys was a woman of great piety and virtue--a character which
she transferred to her daughter, and which has also been acknowledged as
justly due to her sister, Lady King.[1] She quitted this life when my
grandmother was yet a child, leaving an only daughter, whose father also
died while she was in her infancy. By this privation of paternal care my
grandmother became the _élève_ of her mother's father, and passed the
early part of her life at the family castle in Glamorganshire. From this
period till the marriage of my mother, I can give but a brief account.
All I know is, that my grandmother, though wedded unhappily, to the
latest period of her existence was a woman of amiable and simple
manners, unaffected piety, and exemplary virtue. I remember her well;
and I speak not only from report, but from my own knowledge. She died in
the year 1780.

My grandmother Elizabeth, whom I may, without the vanity of
consanguinity, term a truly good woman, in the early part of her life
devoted much of her time to botanic study. She frequently passed many
successive months with Lady Tynt, of Haswell, in Somersetshire, who was
her godmother, and who was the Lady Bountiful of the surrounding
villages. Animated by so distinguished an example, the young Elizabeth,
who was remarkably handsome,[2] took particular delight in visiting the
old, the indigent, and the infirm, resident within many miles of
Haswell, and in preparing such medicines as were useful to the maladies
of the peasantry. She was the village doctress, and, with her worthy
godmother, seldom passed a day without exemplifying the benevolence of
her nature.

My mother was born at Bridgwater, in Somersetshire, in the house near
the bridge, which is now occupied by Jonathan Chub, Esq., a relation of
my beloved and lamented parent, and a gentleman who, to acknowledged
worth and a powerful understanding, adds a superior claim to attention
by all the acquirements of a scholar and a philosopher.

My mother, who never was what may be called a handsome woman, had
nevertheless, in her youth, a peculiarly neat figure, and a vivacity of
manner which obtained her many suitors. Among others, a young gentleman
of good family, of the name of Storr, paid his addresses. My father was
the object of my mother's choice, though her relations rather wished her
to form a matrimonial alliance with Mr. S. The conflict between
affection and duty was at length decided in favour of my father, and the
rejected lover set out in despair for Bristol. From thence, in a few
days after his arrival, he took his passage in a merchantman for a
distant part of the globe; and from that hour no intelligence ever
arrived of his fate or fortune. I have often heard my mother speak of
this gentleman with regret and sorrow.

My mother was between twenty and thirty years of age at the period of
her marriage. The ceremony was performed at Dunyatt, in the county of
Somerset. My father was shortly after settled at Bristol, and during the
second year after their union a son was born to bless and
honour them.[3]

Three years after my mother gave birth to a daughter, named Elizabeth,
who died of the smallpox at the age of two years and ten months. In the
second winter following this event, which deeply afflicted the most
affectionate of parents, I was born. She had afterward two sons:
William, who died at the age of six years; and George, who is now a
respectable merchant at Leghorn, in Tuscany.

All the offspring of my parents were, in their infancy, uncommonly
handsome, excepting myself. The boys were fair and lusty, with auburn
hair, light blue eyes, and countenances peculiarly animated and lovely,
I was swarthy; my eyes were singularly large in proportion to my face,
which was small and round, exhibiting features peculiarly marked with
the most pensive and melancholy cast.

The great difference betwixt my brothers and myself, in point of
personal beauty, tended much to endear me to my parents, particularly to
my father, whom I strongly resembled. The early propensities of my life
were tinctured with romantic and singular characteristics; some of which
I shall here mention, as proofs that the mind is never to be diverted
from its original bent, and that every event of my life has more or less
been marked by the progressive evils of a too acute sensibility.

The nursery in which I passed my hours of infancy was so near the great
aisle of the minster that the organ, which reechoed its deep tones,
accompanied by the chanting of the choristers, was distinctly heard both
at morning and evening service. I remember with what pleasure I used to
listen, and how much I was delighted whenever I was permitted to sit on
the winding steps which led from the aisle to the cloisters. I can at
this moment recall to memory the sensations I then experienced--the
tones that seemed to thrill through my heart, the longing which I felt
to unite my feeble voice to the full anthem, and the awful though
sublime impression which the church service never failed to make upon my
feelings. While my brothers were playing on the green before the
minster, the servant who attended us has often, by my earnest
entreaties, suffered me to remain beneath the great eagle which stood in
the centre of the aisle, to support the book from which the clergyman
read the lessons of the day; and nothing could keep me away, even in the
coldest seasons, but the stern looks of an old man, whom I named Black
John from the colour of his beard and complexion, and whose occupations
within the sacred precincts were those of a bell-ringer and sexton.

As soon as I had learned to read, my great delight was that of learning
epitaphs and monumental inscriptions. A story of melancholy import never
failed to excite my attention; and before I was seven years old I could
correctly repeat Pope's "Lines to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady;"
Mason's "Elegy on the Death of the Beautiful Countess of Coventry," and
many smaller poems on similar subjects. I had then been attended two
years by various masters. Mr. Edmund Broadrip taught me music, my father
having presented me with one of Kirkman's finest harpsichords, as an
incitement to emulation. Even there my natural bent of mind evinced
itself. The only melody which pleased me was that of the mournful and
touching kind. Two of my earliest favourites were the celebrated ballad
by Gay, beginning, "'Twas when the sea was roaring," and the simple
pathetic stanzas of "The Heavy Hours," by the poet Lord Lyttelton.
These, though nature had given me but little voice, I could at seven
years of age sing so pathetically that my mother, to the latest hour of
her life,' never could bear to hear the latter of them repeated. They
reminded her of sorrows in which I have since painfully learned to
sympathise.

The early hours of boarding-school study I passed under the tuition of
the Misses More, sisters to the lady of that name whose talents have
been so often celebrated.[4] The education of their young pupils was
undertaken by the five sisters. "In my mind's eye," I see them now
before me; while every circumstance of those early days is minutely and
indelibly impressed upon my memory.

I remember the first time I ever was present at a dramatic
representation: it was the benefit of that great actor[5] who was
proceeding rapidly toward the highest paths of fame, when death, dropped
the oblivious curtain, and closed the scene for ever. The part which he
performed was King Lear; his wife, afterward Mrs. Fisher, played
Cordelia, but not with sufficient _éclat_ to render the profession an
object for her future exertions. The whole school attended, Mr. Powel's
two daughters being then pupils of the Misses More. Mrs. John Kemble,
then Miss P. Hopkins, was also one of my schoolfellows, as was the
daughter of Mrs. Palmer, formerly Miss Pritchard, and afterward Mrs.
Lloyd. I mention these circumstances merely to prove that memory does
not deceive me.

In my early days my father was prosperous, and my mother was the
happiest of wives. She adored her children; she devoted her thoughts and
divided her affections between them and the tenderest of husbands. Their
spirits now, I trust, are in happier regions, blest, and reunited
for ever.

If there could be found a fault in the conduct of my mother toward her
children, it was that of a too unlimited indulgence, a too tender care,
which but little served to arm their breast against the perpetual arrows
of mortal vicissitude. My father's commercial concerns were crowned with
prosperity. His house was opened by hospitality, and his generosity was
only equalled by the liberality of fortune: every day augmented his
successes; every hour seemed to increase his domestic felicity, till I
attained my ninth year, when a change took place as sudden as it was
unfortunate, at a moment when every luxury, every happiness, not only
brightened the present, but gave promise of future felicity. A scheme
was suggested to my father, as wild and romantic as it was perilous to
hazard, which was no less than that of establishing a whale fishery on
the coast of Labrador, and of civilising the Esquimaux Indians, in order
to employ them in the extensive undertaking. During two years this
eccentric plan occupied his thoughts by day, his dreams by night: all
the smiles of prosperity could not tranquillise the restless spirit, and
while he anticipated an acquirement of fame, he little considered the
perils that would attend his fortune.

My mother (who, content with affluence and happy in beholding the
prosperity of her children, trembled at the fear of endangering either),
in vain endeavoured to dissuade my father from putting his favourite
scheme in practice. In the early part of his youth he had been
accustomed to a sea life, and, being born an American, his restless
spirit was ever busied in plans for the increase of wealth and honour to
his native country, whose fame and interest were then united to those of
Britain. After many dreams of success and many conflicts betwixt
prudence and ambition, he resolved on putting his scheme in practice;
the potent witchery possessed his brain, and all the persuasive powers
of reason shrunk before its magic.

Full of the important business, my misguided parent repaired to the
metropolis, and on his arrival laid the plan before the late Earl of
Hilsborough, Sir Hugh Palliser, the late Earl of Bristol, Lord Chatham
(father to the present Mr. William Pitt), the chancellor Lord
Northington, who was my godfather, and several other equally
distinguished personages; who all not only approved the plan, but
commended the laudable and public spirit which induced my father to
suggest it. The prospect appeared full of promise, and the Labrador
whale fishery was expected to be equally productive with that of
Greenland. My parent's commercial connections were of the highest
respectability, while his own name for worth and integrity gave a
powerful sanction to the eccentric undertaking.

In order to facilitate this plan, my father deemed it absolutely
necessary to reside at least two years in America. My mother, who felt
an invincible antipathy to the sea, heard his determination with grief
and horror. All the persuasive powers of affection failed to detain him;
all the pleadings of reason, prudence, a fond wife, and an infant
family, proved ineffectual. My father was determined on departing, and
my mother's unconquerable timidity prevented her being the companion of
his voyage. From this epocha I date the sorrows of my family.

He sailed for America. His eldest son, John, was previously placed in a
mercantile house at Leghorn. My younger brothers and myself remained
with my mother at Bristol. Two years was the limited time of his
absence, and, on his departure, the sorrow of my parents was reciprocal.
My mother's heart was almost bursting with anguish; but even death would
to her have been preferable to the horrors of crossing a tempestuous
ocean and quitting her children, my father having resolved on leaving my
brothers and myself in England for education.

Still the comforts, and even the luxuries of life distinguished our
habitation. The tenderness of my mother's affection made her lavish of
every elegance; and the darlings of her bosom were dressed, waited on,
watched, and indulged with a degree of fondness bordering on folly. My
clothes were sent for from London; my fancy was indulged to the extent
of its caprices; I was flattered and praised into a belief that I was a
being of superior order. To sing, to play a lesson on the harpsichord,
to recite an elegy, and to make doggerel verses, made the extent of my
occupations, while my person improved, and my mother's indulgence was
almost unexampled.

My father, several years before his departure for America, had removed
from the Minster House, and resided in one larger and more convenient
for his increased family. This habitation was elegantly arranged; all
the luxuries of plate, silk furniture, foreign wines, etc., evinced his
knowledge of what was worth enjoying, and displayed that warm
hospitality which is often the characteristic of a British merchant.
This disposition for the good things of the world influenced even the
disposal of his children's comforts. The bed in which I slept was of the
richest crimson damask; the dresses which we wore were of the finest
cambric; during the summer months we were sent to Clifton Hill for the
advantages of a purer air; and I never was permitted to board at school,
or to pass a night of separation from the fondest of mothers.

Many months elapsed, and my mother continued to receive the kindest
letters from that husband whose rash scheme filled her bosom with regret
and apprehension. At length the intervals became more frequent and
protracted. The professions of regard, no longer flowing from the heart,
assumed a laboured style, and seemed rather the efforts of honourable
feeling than the involuntary language of confidential affection. My
mother felt the change, and her affliction was infinite.

At length a total silence of several months awoke her mind to the
sorrows of neglect, the torture of compunction; she now lamented the
timidity which had divided her from a husband's bosom, the natural
fondness which had bound her to her children; for while her heart bled
with sorrow and palpitated with apprehension, the dreadful secret was
unfolded, and the cause of my father's silence was discovered to be a
new attachment--a mistress, whose resisting nerves could brave the
stormy ocean, and who had consented to remain two years with him in the
frozen wilds of America.

This intelligence nearly annihilated my mother, whose mind, though not
strongly organised, was tenderly susceptible. She resigned herself to
grief. I was then at an age to feel and to participate in her sorrows. I
often wept to see her weep; I tried all my little skill to soothe her,
but in vain; the first shock was followed by calamities of a different
nature. The scheme in which my father had embarked his fortune failed,
the Indians rose in a body, burnt his settlement, murdered many of his
people, and turned the produce of their toil adrift on the wide and
merciless ocean. The noble patrons of his plan deceived him in their
assurances of marine protection, and the island of promise presented a
scene of barbarous desolation. This misfortune was rapidly followed by
other commercial losses; and to complete the vexations which pressed
heavily on my mother, her rash husband gave a bill of sale of his whole
property, by the authority of which we were obliged to quit our home,
and to endure those accumulated vicissitudes for which there appeared
no remedy.

It was at this period of trial that my mother was enabled to prove, by
that unerring touchstone, adversity, who were her real and disinterested
friends. Many, with affected commiseration, dropped a tear--or rather
seemed to drop one--on the disappointments of our family; while others,
with a malignant triumph, condemned the expensive style in which my
father had reared his children, the studied elegance which had
characterised my mother's dress and habitation, and the hospitality,
which was now marked by the ungrateful epithet of prodigal luxuriance,
but which had evinced the open liberality of my father's heart.

At this period my brother William died. He was only six years of age,
but a promising and most lovely infant. His sudden death, in consequence
of the measles, nearly deprived my mother of her senses. She was deeply
affected; but she found, after a period of time, that consolation which,
springing from the bosom of an amiable friend, doubly solaced her
afflictions. This female was one of the most estimable of her sex; she
had been the widow of Sir Charles Erskine, and was then the wife of a
respectable medical man who resided at Bristol.

In the society of Lady Erskine my mother gradually recovered her
serenity of mind, or rather found it soften into a religious
resignation. But the event of her domestic loss by death was less
painful than that which she felt in the alienation of my father's
affections. She frequently heard that he resided in America with his
mistress, till, at the expiration of another year, she received a
summons to meet him in London.

Language would but feebly describe the varying emotions which struggled
in her bosom. At this interesting era she was preparing to encounter the
freezing scorn, or the contrite glances, of either an estranged or a
repentant husband; in either case her situation was replete with
anticipated chagrin, for she loved him too tenderly not to participate
even in the anguish of his compunction. His letter, which was coldly
civil, requested particularly that the children might be the companions
of her journey. We departed for the metropolis.

I was not then quite ten years old, though so tall and formed in my
person that I might have passed for twelve or thirteen. My brother
George was a few years younger. On our arrival in London we repaired to
my father's lodgings in Spring Gardens. He received us, after three
years' absence, with a mixture of pain and pleasure; he embraced us with
tears, and his voice was scarcely articulate. My mother's agitation was
indescribable; she received a cold embrace at their meeting--it was the
last she ever received from her alienated husband.

As soon as the first conflicts seemed to subside, my father informed my
mother that he was determined to place my brother and myself at a school
in the vicinity of London; that he purposed very shortly returning to
America, and that he would readily pay for my mother's board in any
private and respectable family. This information seemed like a
death-blow to their domestic hopes. A freezing, formal, premeditated
separation from a wife who was guiltless of any crime, who was as
innocent as an angel, seemed the very extent of decided misery. It was
in vain that my mother essayed to change his resolution, and influence
his heart in pronouncing a milder judgment: my father was held by a
fatal fascination; he was the slave of a young and artful woman, who had
availed herself of his American solitude, to undermine his affections
for his wife and the felicity of his family.

This deviation from domestic faith was the only dark shade that marked
my father's character. He possessed a soul brave, liberal, enlightened,
and ingenuous. He felt the impropriety of his conduct. Yet, though his
mind was strongly organised, though his understanding was capacious, and
his sense of honour delicate even to fastidiousness, he was still the
dupe of his passions, the victim of unfortunate attachment.

Within a few days of our arrival in London we were placed for education
in a school at Chelsea. The mistress of this seminary was perhaps one of
the most extraordinary women that ever graced, or disgraced, society;
her name was Meribah Lorrington. She was the most extensively
accomplished female that I ever remember to have met with; her mental
powers were no less capable of cultivation than superiorly cultivated.
Her father, whose name was Hull, had from her infancy been the master of
an academy at Earl's Court, near Fulham; and early after his marriage
losing his wife, he resolved on giving his daughter a masculine
education. Meribah was early instructed in all the modern
accomplishments, as well as in classical knowledge. She was mistress of
the Latin, French, and Italian languages; she was said to be a perfect
arithmetician and astronomer, and possessed the art of painting on silk
to a degree of exquisite perfection. But, alas! with all these
advantages, she was addicted to one vice, which at times so completely
absorbed her faculties as to deprive her of every power, either mental
or corporeal. Thus, daily and hourly, her superior acquirements, her
enlightened understanding, yielded to the intemperance of her ruling
infatuation, and every power of reflection seemed lost in the unfeminine
propensity.

All that I ever learned I acquired from this extraordinary woman. In
those hours when her senses were not intoxicated, she would delight in
the task of instructing me. She had only five or six pupils, and it was
my lot to be her particular favourite. She always, out of school, called
me her little friend, and made no scruple of conversing with me
(sometimes half the night, for I slept in her chamber), on domestic and
confidential affairs. I felt for her a very sincere affection, and I
listened with peculiar attention to all the lessons she inculcated. Once
I recollect her mentioning the particular failing which disgraced so
intelligent a being. She pleaded, in excuse of it, the immitigable
regret of a widowed heart, and with compunction declared that she flew
to intoxication as the only refuge from the pang of prevailing sorrow. I
continued more than twelve months under the care of Mrs. Lorrington,
during which period my mother boarded in a clergyman's family at
Chelsea. I applied rigidly to study, and acquired a taste for books,
which has never, from that time, deserted me. Mrs. Lorrington frequently
read to me after school hours, and I to her. I sometimes indulged my
fancy in writing verses, or composing rebuses, and my governess never
failed to applaud the juvenile compositions I presented to her. Some of
them, which I preserved and printed in a small volume shortly after my
marriage, were written when I was between twelve and thirteen years of
age; but as love was the theme of my poetical fantasies, I never showed
them to my mother till I was about to publish them.

It was my custom, every Sunday evening, to drink tea with my mother.
During one of those visits a captain in the British navy, a friend of my
father's, became so partial to my person and manners that a proposal of
marriage shortly after followed. My mother was astonished when she heard
it, and, as soon as she recovered from her surprise, inquired of my
suitor how old he thought me; his reply was, "About sixteen." My mother
smiled, and informed him that I was then not quite thirteen. He appeared
to be skeptical on the subject, till he was again assured of the fact,
when he took his leave with evident chagrin, but not without expressing
his hopes that, on his return to England,--for he was going on a two
years' expedition,--I should be still disengaged. His ship foundered at
sea a few months after, and this amiable gallant officer perished.

I had remained a year and two months with Mrs. Lorrington, when
pecuniary derangements obliged her to give up her school. Her father's
manners were singularly disgusting, as was his appearance; for he wore a
silvery beard which reached to his breast; and a kind of Persian robe
which gave him the external appearance of a necromancer. He was of the
Anabaptist persuasion, and so stern in his conversation that the young
pupils were exposed to perpetual terror. Added to these circumstances,
the failing of his daughter became so evident, that even during school
hours she was frequently in a state of confirmed intoxication. These
events conspired to break up the establishment, and I was shortly after
removed to a boarding-school at Battersea.

The mistress of this seminary, Mrs. Leigh, was a lively, sensible, and
accomplished woman; her daughter was only a few years older than myself,
and extremely amiable as well as lovely. Here I might have been happy,
but my father's remissness in sending pecuniary supplies, and my
mother's dread of pecuniary inconvenience, induced her to remove me; my
brother, nevertheless, still remained under the care of the Reverend Mr.
Gore, at Chelsea.

Several months elapsed, and no remittance arrived from my father. I was
now near fourteen years old, and my mother began to foresee the
vicissitudes to which my youth might be exposed, unprotected, tenderly
educated, and without the advantages of fortune. My father's
impracticable scheme had impoverished his fortune, and deprived his
children of that affluence which, in their in fancy, they had been
taught to hope for. I cannot speak of my own person, but my partial
friends were too apt to flatter me. I was naturally of a pensive and
melancholy character; my reflections on the changes of fortune
frequently gave me an air of dejection which perhaps etched an interest
beyond what might have been awakened by the vivacity or bloom of
juvenility.

I adored my mother. She was the mildest, the most unoffending of
existing mortals; her temper was cheerful, as her heart was innocent;
she beheld her children as it seemed fatherless, and she resolved, by
honourable means, to support them. For this purpose a convenient house
was hired at Little Chelsea, and furnished, for a ladies'
boarding-school. Assistants of every kind were engaged, and I was deemed
worthy of an occupation that flattered my self-love and impressed my
mind with a sort of domestic consequence. The English language was my
department in the seminary, and I was permitted to select passages both
in prose and verse for the studies of my infant pupils. It was also my
occupation to superintend their wardrobes, to see them dressed and
undressed by the servants or half-boarders, and to read sacred and moral
lessons on saints' days and Sunday evenings.

Shortly after my mother had established herself at Chelsea, on a
summer's evening, as I was sitting at the window, I heard a deep sigh,
or rather a groan of anguish, which suddenly attracted my attention. The
night was approaching rapidly, and I looked toward the gate before the
house, where I observed a woman evidently labouring under excessive
affliction; I instantly descended and approached her. She, bursting into
tears, asked whether I did not know her. Her dress was torn and filthy;
she was almost naked; and an old bonnet, which nearly hid her face, so
completely disfigured her features that I had not the smallest idea of
the person who was then almost sinking before me. I gave her a small sum
of money, and inquired the cause of her apparent agony. She took my hand
and pressed it to her lips. "Sweet girl," said she, "you are still the
angel I ever knew you!" I was astonished. She raised her bonnet--her
fine dark eyes met mine. It was Mrs. Lorrington. I led her into the
house; my mother was not at home. I took her to my chamber, and, with
the assistance of a lady who was our French teacher, I clothed and
comforted her. She refused to say how she came to be in so deplorable a
situation, and took her leave. It was in vain that I entreated, that I
conjured her to let me know where I might send to her. She refused to
give me her address, but promised that in a few days she would call on
me again. It is impossible to describe the wretched appearance of this
accomplished woman! The failing to which she had now yielded, as to a
monster that would destroy her, was evident even at the moment when she
was speaking to me. I saw no more of her; but to my infinite regret, I
was informed some years after that she had died, the martyr of a
premature decay, brought on by the indulgence of her propensity to
intoxication, in the workhouse of Chelsea!

The number of my mother's pupils in a few months amounted to ten or
twelve, and just at a period when an honourable independence promised to
cheer the days of an unexampled parent, my father unexpectedly returned
from America. The pride of his soul was deeply wounded by the step which
my mother had taken; he was offended even beyond the bounds of reason:
he considered his name as disgraced, his conjugal reputation tarnished,
by the public mode which his wife had adopted of revealing to the world
her unprotected situation. A prouder heart never palpitated in the
breast of man than that of my father: tenacious of fame, ardent in the
pursuit of visionary schemes, he could not endure the exposure of his
altered fortune; while Hope still beguiled him with her flattering
promise that time would favour his projects, and fortune, at some future
period, reward him with success.

At the expiration of eight months my mother, by my father's positive
command, broke up her establishment and returned to London. She engaged
lodgings in the neighbourhood of Marylebone. My father then resided in
Green Street, Grosvenor Square. His provision for his family was scanty,
his visits few. He had a new scheme on foot respecting the Labrador
coast, the particulars of which I do not remember, and all his zeal,
united with all his interest, was employed in promoting its
accomplishment. My mother, knowing that my father publicly resided with
his mistress, did not even hope for his returning affection. She devoted
herself to her children, and endured her sorrows with the patience of
conscious rectitude.

At this period my father frequently called upon us, and often attended
me while we walked in the fields near Marylebone. His conversation was
generally of a domestic nature, and he always lamented that fatal
attachment, which was now too strongly cemented by time and obligations
ever to be dissolved without an ample provision for Elenor, which was
the name of my father's mistress. In one of our morning walks we called
upon the Earl of Northington, my father having some commercial business
to communicate to his lordship. Lord Northington then resided in
Berkeley Square, two doors from Hill Street, in the house which is now
occupied by Lord Robert Spencer. We were received with the most marked
attention and politeness (I was presented as the goddaughter of the late
Chancellor Lord Northington), and my father was requested to dine with
his lordship a few days after. From this period I frequently saw Lord
Northington, and always experienced from him the most flattering and
gratifying civility. I was then a child, not more than fourteen years
of age.

The finishing points of my education I received at Oxford House,
Marylebone. I was at this period within a few months of fifteen years of
age, tall, and nearly such as my partial friends, the few whose
affection has followed me from childhood, remember me. My early love for
lyric harmony had led me to a fondness for the more sublime scenes of
dramatic poetry. I embraced every leisure moment to write verses; I even
fancied that I could compose a tragedy, and more than once
unsuccessfully attempted the arduous undertaking.

The dancing-master at Oxford House, Mr. Hussey, was then ballet-master
at Covent Garden Theatre. Mrs. Hervey, the governess, mentioned me to
him as possessing an extraordinary genius for dramatic exhibitions. My
figure was commanding for my age, and (my father's pecuniary
embarrassments augmenting by the failure of another American project) my
mother was consulted as to the propriety of my making the stage my
profession. Many cited examples of females who, even in that perilous
and arduous situation, preserved an unspotted fame, inclined her to
listen to the suggestion, and to allow of my consulting some master of
the art as to my capability of becoming an ornament to the theatre.

Previous to this idea my father had again quitted England. He left his
wife with assurances of good-will, his children with all the agonies of
parental regret. When he took leave of my mother, his emphatic words
were these,--I never shall forget them--"Take care that no dishonour
falls upon my daughter. If she is not safe at my return, I will
annihilate you!" My mother heard the stern injunction, and trembled
while he repeated it.

I was, in consequence of my wish to appear on the stage, introduced to
Mr. Hull,[6] of Covent Garden Theatre; he then resided in King Street,
Soho. He heard me recite some passages of the character of Jane Shore,
and seemed delighted with my attempt. I was shortly after presented by a
friend of my mother's, to Mr. Garrick;[7] Mr. Murphy,[8] the celebrated
dramatic poet, was one of the party, and we passed the evening at the
house of the British Roscius in the Adelphi. This was during the last
year that he dignified the profession by his public appearance. Mr.
Garrick's encomiums were of the most gratifying kind. He determined that
he would appear in the same play with me on the first night's trial; but
what part to choose for my début was a difficult question. I was too
young for anything beyond the girlish character, and the dignity of
tragedy afforded but few opportunities for the display of such juvenile
talents. After some hesitation my tutor fixed on the part of Cordelia.
His own Lear can never be forgotten.

It was not till the period when everything was arranged for my
appearance that the last solemn injunction, so emphatically uttered by
my father, nearly palsied my mother's resolution. She dreaded the
perils, the temptations to which an unprotected girl would be exposed in
so public a situation; while my ardent fancy was busied in contemplating
a thousand triumphs in which my vanity would be publicly gratified
without the smallest sacrifice of my private character.

While this plan was in agitation, I was one evening at Drury Lane
Theatre with my mother and a small party of her friends, when an officer
entered the box. His eyes were fixed on me, and his persevering
attention at length nearly overwhelmed me with confusion. The
entertainment being finished, we departed. The stranger followed us. At
that period my mother resided in Southampton Buildings, Chancery Lane,
for the protection which a venerable and respectable friend offered at a
moment when it was so necessary. This friend was the late Samuel Cox,
Esq., the intimate friend of Mr. Garrick, and an honour to those laws of
which he was a distinguished professor.

It was Mr. Garrick's particular request that I would frequent the
theatre as much as possible till the period fixed on for my appearance
on the stage. I had now just completed my fifteenth year, and my little
heart throbbed with impatience for the hour of trial. My tutor was most
sanguine in his expectations of my success, and every rehearsal seemed
to strengthen his flattering opinion.

It happened that, several evenings following, the stranger officer,
whose name, for motives of delicacy toward his family, I forbear to
mention, followed me to and from the theatre. It was in vain that he
offered his attentions in the box; my mother's frown and assiduous care
repulsed them effectually. But the perseverance of a bad mind in the
accomplishment of a bad action is not to be subdued. A letter was
written and conveyed to me through the hands of a female servant; I
opened it; I read a declaration of the most ardent love. The writer
avowed himself the son of Lady----, and offered marriage; he was
graceful and handsome. I instantly delivered the letter to my mother,
and, shortly after, he was, by an acquaintance, presented with
decorous ceremony.

The idea of my appearing on the stage seemed to distract this
accomplished suitor. My mother, who but half approved a dramatic life,
was more than half inclined to favour the addresses of Captain ----. The
injunction of my father every hour became more indelibly impressed on
her memory; she knew his stern and invincible sense of honour too well
to hazard the thought of awakening it to vengeance.

After a short period, the friend who had presented Captain----, alarmed
for my safety, and actuated by a liberal wish to defend me from the
artifice of his associate, waited on my mother, and, after some
hesitation, informed her that my lover was already married; that he had
a young and amiable wife in a sister kingdom, and that he apprehended
some diabolical stratagem for the enthralment of my honour. My mother's
consternation was infinite. The important secret was communicated to me,
and I felt little regret in the loss of a husband when I reflected that
a matrimonial alliance would have compelled me to relinquish my
theatrical profession.

I had, also, at this period, another professed admirer, a man of
splendid fortune, but nearly old enough to be my grandfather. This suit
I never would listen to; and the drama, the delightful drama, seemed the
very criterion of all human happiness.

I now found myself an object of attention whenever I appeared at the
theatre. I had been too often in public not to be observed, and it was
buzzed about that I was the juvenile pupil of Garrick,--the promised
Cordelia. My person improved daily; yet a sort of dignified air, which
from a child I had acquired, effectually shielded me from the attacks of
impertinence or curiosity. Garrick was delighted with everything I did.
He would sometimes dance a minuet with me, sometimes request me to sing
the favourite ballads of the day; but the circumstance which most
pleased him was my tone of voice, which he frequently told me closely
resembled that of his favourite Cibber.[9]

Never shall I forget the enchanting hours which I passed in Mr.
Garrick's society; he appeared to me as one who possessed more power,
both to awe and to attract, than any man I ever met with. His smile was
fascinating, but he had at times a restless peevishness of tone which
excessively affected his hearers; at least it affected me so that I
never shall forget it.

Opposite to the house in which I resided lived John Vernon, Esq., an
eminent solicitor. I observed a young inmate of his habitation
frequently watching me with more than ordinary attention. He was
handsome in person, and his countenance was overcast by a sort of
languor, the effect of sickness, which rendered it peculiarly
interesting. Frequently, when I approached the window of our
drawing-room, this young observer would bow or turn away with evident
emotion. I related the circumstance to my mother, and from that time the
lower shutters of our windows were perpetually closed. The young lawyer
often excited my mirth, and my mother's indignation; and the injunction
of my father was frequently repeated by her, with the addition of her
wish, that I was "once well married."

Every attention which was now paid to me augmented my dear mother's
apprehensions. She fancied every man a seducer, and every hour an hour
of accumulating peril! I know what she was doomed to feel, for that
Being who formed my sensitive and perpetually aching heart knows that I
have since felt it.

Among other friends who were in the habit of visiting my mother there
was one, a Mr. Wayman, an attorney of whom she entertained the highest
opinion. He was distinguished by the patronage of Mr. Cox, and his
reputation required no other voucher. One evening a party of six was
proposed for the following Sunday; with much persuasion my mother
consented to go, and to allow that I should also attend her. Greenwich
was the place fixed on for the dinner, and we prepared for the day of
recreation. It was then the fashion to wear silks. I remember that I
wore a nightgown of pale blue lustring, with a chip hat trimmed with
ribands of the same colour. Never was I dressed so perfectly to my own
satisfaction; I anticipated a day of admiration. Heaven can bear witness
that to me it was a day of fatal victory!

On our stopping at the "Star and Garter," at Greenwich, the person who
came to hand me from the carriage was our opposite neighbour in
Southampton Buildings. I was confused, but my mother was indignant. Mr.
Wayman presented his young friend,--that friend who was ordained to be
my husband!

Our party dined, and early in the evening we returned to London. Mr.
Robinson remained at Greenwich for the benefit of the air, being
recently recovered from a fit of sickness. During the remainder of the
evening Mr. Wayman expatiated on the many good qualities of his friend
Mr. Robinson: spoke of his future expectations a rich old uncle; of his
probable advancement in his profession; and, more than all, of his
enthusiastic admiration of me.

A few days after, Mr. Robinson paid my mother a visit. We had now
removed to Villars Street, York Buildings. My mother's fondness for
books of a moral and religious character was not lost upon my new lover,
and elegantly bound editions of Hervey's "Meditations," with some others
of a similar description, were presented as small tokens of admiration
and respect. My mother was beguiled by these little interesting
attentions, and soon began to feel a strong predilection in favour of
Mr. Robinson.

Every day some new mark of respect augmented my mother's favourable
opinion; till Mr. Robinson became so great a favourite that he seemed to
her the most perfect of existing beings. Just at this period my brother
George sickened for the smallpox; my mother idolised him; he was
dangerously ill. Mr. Robinson was indefatigable in his attentions, and
my appearance on the stage was postponed till the period of his perfect
recovery. Day and night Mr. Robinson devoted himself to the task of
consoling my mother, and of attending to her darling boy; hourly, and
indeed momentarily, Mr. Robinson's praises were reiterated with
enthusiasm by my mother. He was "the kindest, the best of mortals!" the
least addicted to worldly follies, and the man, of all others, whom she
should adore as a son-in-law.

My brother recovered at the period when I sickened from the infection of
his disease. I felt little terror at the approaches of a dangerous and
deforming malady; for, I know not why, but personal beauty has never
been to me an object of material solicitude. It was now that Mr.
Robinson exerted all his assiduity to win my affections; it was when a
destructive disorder menaced my features and the few graces that nature
had lent them, that he professed a disinterested fondness; every day he
attended with the zeal of a brother, and that zeal made an impression of
gratitude upon my heart, which was the source of all my
succeeding sorrows.

During my illness Mr. Robinson so powerfully wrought upon the feelings
of my mother, that she prevailed on me to promise, in case I should
recover, to give him my hand in marriage. The words of my father were
frequently repeated, not without some innuendoes that I refused my ready
consent to a union with Mr. Robinson from a blind partiality to the
libertine Captain----. Repeatedly urged and hourly reminded of my
father's vow, I at last consented, and the banns were published while I
was yet lying on a bed of sickness. I was then only a few months
advanced in my sixteenth year.

My mother, whose affection for me was boundless, notwithstanding her
hopes of my forming an alliance that would be productive of felicity,
still felt the most severe pain at the thought of our approaching
separation. She was estranged from her husband's affections; she had
treasured up all her fondest hopes in the society of an only daughter;
she knew that no earthly pleasure can compensate for the loss of that
sweet sympathy which is the bond of union betwixt child and parent. Her
regrets were infinite as they were evident, and Mr. Robinson, in order
to remove any obstacle which this consideration might throw in the way
of our marriage, voluntarily proposed that she should reside with us. He
represented me as too young and inexperienced to superintend domestic
concerns; and while he flattered my mother's _armour propre_, he rather
requested her aid as a sacrifice to his interest than as an obligation
conferred on her.

The banns were published three successive Sundays at St. Martin's
Church, and the day was fixed for our marriage,--the twelfth of April.
It was not till all preliminaries were adjusted that Mr. Robinson, with
much apparent agitation, suggested the necessity of keeping our union a
secret. I was astonished at the proposal; but two reasons were given for
his having made it, both of which seemed plausible; the first was, that
Mr. Robinson had still three months to serve before his articles to
Messrs. Vernon and Elderton expired; and the second was, the hope which
a young lady entertained of forming a matrimonial union with Mr.
Robinson as soon as that period should arrive. The latter reason alarmed
me, but I was most solemnly assured that all the affection was cherished
on the lady's part; that Mr. Robinson was particularly averse to the
idea of such a marriage, and that as soon as he should become of age his
independence would place him beyond the control of any person
whatsoever.

I now proposed deferring our wedding-day till that period. I pleaded
that I thought myself too young to encounter the cares and important
duties of domestic life; I shrunk from the idea of everything
clandestine, and anticipated a thousand ill consequences that might
attend on a concealed marriage. My scruples only seemed to increase Mr.
Robinson's impatience for that ceremony which should make me his for
ever. He represented to my mother the disapprobation which my father
would not fail to evince at my adopting a theatrical life in preference
to engaging in an honourable and prosperous connection. He so powerfully
worked upon the credulity of my beloved parent that she became a decided
convert to his opinions. My youth, my person, he represented as the
destined snares for my honour on a public stage, where all the
attractions of the mimic scene would combine to render me a fascinating
object. He also persuaded her that my health would suffer by the
fatigues and exertions of the profession, and that probably I might be
induced to marry some man who would not approve of a mother's forming a
part in our domestic establishment.

These circumstances were repeatedly urged in favour of the union. Still
I felt an almost instinctive repugnance at the thought of a clandestine
marriage. My mother, whose parental fondness was ever watchful for my
safety, now imagined that my objections proceeded from a fixed
partiality toward the libertine Captain----, who, though he had not the
temerity to present himself before my mother, persisted in writing to
me, and in following me whenever I appeared in public. I never spoke to
him after the story of his marriage was repeated to my mother; I never
corresponded with him, but felt a decided and proud indignation whenever
his name was mentioned in my presence.

My appearance on the stage had been put off from time to time, till Mr.
Garrick became impatient, and desired my mother to allow of his fixing
the night of important trial. It was now that Mr. Robinson and my mother
united in persuading me to relinquish my project; and so perpetually,
during three days, was I tormented on the subject, so ridiculed for
having permitted the banns to be published, and afterward hesitating to
fulfil my contract, that I consented--and was married.

As soon as the day of my wedding was fixed, it was deemed necessary that
a total revolution should take place in my external appearance. I had
till that period worn the habit of a child, and the dress of a woman, so
suddenly assumed, sat rather awkwardly upon me. Still, so juvenile was
my appearance, that, even two years after my union with Mr. Robinson, I
was always accosted with the appellation of "Miss" whenever I entered a
shop or was in company with strangers. My manners were no less childish
than my appearance; only three months before I became a wife I had
dressed a doll, and such was my dislike to the idea of a matrimonial
alliance that the only circumstance which induced me to marry was that
of being still permitted to reside with my mother, and to live
separated, at least for some time, from my husband.

My heart, even when I knelt at the altar, was as free from any tender
impression as it had been at the moment of my birth. I knew not the
sensation of any sentiment beyond that of esteem; love was still a
stranger to my bosom. I had never, then, seen the being who was destined
to inspire a thought which might influence my fancy or excite an
interest in my mind, and I well remember that, even while I was
pronouncing the marriage vow, my fancy involuntarily wandered to that
scene where I had hoped to support myself with _éclat_ and reputation.

The ceremony was performed by Doctor Saunders, the venerable vicar of
St. Martin's, who, at the conclusion of the ceremony, declared that he
had never before performed the office for so young a bride. The clerk
officiated as father; my mother and the woman who opened the pews were
the only witnesses to the union. I was dressed in the habit of a
Quaker,--a society to which, in early youth, I was particularly partial.
From the church we repaired to the house of a female friend, where a
splendid breakfast was waiting; I changed my dress to one of white
muslin, a chip hat adorned with white ribbons, a white sarsnet
scarf-cloak, and slippers of white satin embroidered with silver. I
mention these trifling circumstances because they lead to some others of
more importance.

From the house of my mother's friend we set out for the inn at
Maidenhead Bridge, Mr. Robinson and myself in a phaeton, my mother in a
post-chaise; we were also accompanied by a gentleman by the name of
Balack, a very intimate acquaintance and schoolfellow of my husband, who
was not apprised of our wedding, but who nevertheless considered Mr.
Robinson as my avowed suitor.

On his first seeing me, he remarked that I was "dressed like a bride."
The observation overwhelmed me with confusion. During the day I was more
than pensive,--I was melancholy; I considered all that had passed as a
vision, and would scarcely persuade myself that the union which I had
permitted to be solemnised was indissoluble. My mother frequently
remarked my evident chagrin; and in the evening, while we strolled
together in the garden which was opposite the inn, I told her, with a
torrent of tears, the vouchers of my sincerity, that I was the most
wretched of mortals! that I felt the most perfect esteem for Mr.
Robinson, but that, according to my ideas of domestic happiness, there
should be a warm and powerful union of soul, to which I was yet totally
a stranger.

During my absence from town, a letter was written to Mr. Garrick,
informing him that an advantageous marriage (for my mother considered
Mr. Robinson as the legal heir to a handsome fortune, together with an
estate in South Wales) had induced me to relinquish my theatrical
prospects; and a few weeks after, meeting Mr. Garrick in the street, he
congratulated me on my union, and expressed the warmest wishes for my
future happiness.

The day after our marriage, Mr. Robinson proposed dining at
Henley-upon-Thames. My mother would not venture in the phaeton, and Mr.
Balack occupied the place which was declined by her. On taking his seat
between Robinson and myself, he remarked, "Were you married, I should
think of the holy anathema,--Cursed is he that parteth man and wife." My
countenance was suddenly suffused with the deepest scarlet; I cautiously
concealed the effect which his remarks had produced, and we proceeded on
our journey.

Descending a steep hill, betwixt Maidenhead Thicket and Henley, we met a
drove of oxen. The comic opera of the "Padlock" was then in high
celebrity, and our facetious little friend a second time disconcerted me
by saying, in the words of Don Diego, "I don't like oxen, I wish they
had been a flock of sheep!" I now began to discover the variety of
unpleasant sensations which, even undesignedly, must arise from
conversation, in the presence of those who were clandestinely married. I
also trembled with apprehension, lest anything disgraceful should attach
itself to my fame, by being seen under doubtful circumstances in the
society of Mr. Robinson.

On our return to London, after ten days' absence, a house was hired in
Great Queen Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields. It was a large, old-fashioned
mansion, and stood on the spot where the Freemasons' Tavern has been
since erected. This house was the property of a lady, an acquaintance of
my mother, the widow of Mr. Worlidge, an artist of considerable
celebrity. It was handsomely furnished, and contained many valuable
pictures by various masters. I resided with my mother; Mr. Robinson
continued at the house of Messrs. Vernon and Elderton, in Southampton
Buildings.

The stated time of concealment elapsed, and still my husband was
perpetually at chambers in Lincoln's Inn. Still he was evidently under
the control of his articles, and still desirous that our marriage should
be kept a secret. My mother began to feel a considerable degree of
inquietude upon the subject; particularly as she was informed that Mr.
Robinson was not exactly in that state of expectation which he had
represented. She found that he was already of age, and that he had still
some months to serve of his clerkship. She also heard that he was not
the nephew and heir, but the illegitimate son of the man from whom he
expected a handsome fortune; though he had an elder brother, now
Commodore William Robinson, who was then in India, reaping the fruits of
industry under the patronage of Lord Clive.

It was now for the first time that my mother repented the influence she
had used in promoting our union. She informed Mr. Robinson that she
apprehended some gross deception on his part, and that she would no
longer consent to our marriage being kept a secret. The reputation of a
darling child, she alleged, was at stake; and though during a few weeks
the world might have been kept in ignorance of my marriage, some
circumstances that had transpired, now rendered an immediate disclosure
absolutely necessary.

Mr. Robinson, finding my mother inexorable, resolved on setting out for
Wales, in order to avow our marriage, and to present me to his "uncle,"
for such he still obstinately denominated his father. My mother wished
to avail herself of this opportunity to visit her friends at Bristol,
and accordingly we set out on the journey. We passed through Oxford;
visited the different colleges; proceeded to Blenheim, and made the tour
a tour of pleasure, with the hope of soothing my mother's resentment,
and exhilarating my spirits, which were now perpetually dejected. I
cannot help mentioning that, shortly after my marriage, I formed an
acquaintance with a young lady, whose mind was no less romantic than my
own, and while Mr. Robinson was occupied at chambers, we almost daily
passed our morning hours in Westminster Abbey. It was to me a soothing
and a gratifying scene of meditation. I have often remained in the
gloomy chapels of that sublime fabric till I became, as it were, an
inhabitant of another world. The dim light of the Gothic windows, the
vibration of my footsteps along the lofty aisles, the train of
reflections that the scene inspired, were all suited to the temper of my
soul; and the melancholy propensities of my earliest infancy seemed to
revive with an instinctive energy, which rendered them the leading
characteristics of my existence. Indeed, the world has mistaken the
character of my mind; I have ever been the reverse of volatile and
dissipated. I mean not to write my own eulogy, though with the candid
and sensitive mind I shall, I trust, succeed in my vindication.

On our arrival at Bristol, Mr. Robinson thought it most advisable to
proceed toward Tregunter, the seat of his "uncle," alone, in order to
prepare him for my cordial reception, or to avoid the mortification I
should experience, should he refuse to sanction our union. Mr. Robinson
left me a few guineas, and promised that his absence should be short,
and his affection increasing.

I had now been married near four months; and, though love was not the
basis of my fidelity, honour, and a refined sense of feminine rectitude,
attached me to the interest as well as to the person of my husband. I
considered chastity as the brightest ornament that could embellish the
female mind, and I regulated my conduct to that tenor which has
principle more than affection to strengthen its progress.

At Bristol my mother experienced the most gratifying reception; all her
former friends rejoiced to see her; I was invited daily to feasts of
hospitality, and I found that fortune was to common minds a never
failing passport. Mr. Robinson was represented as a young man of
considerable expectations, and his wife was consequently again received
as the daughter of Mr. Darby. The house in which I first opened my eyes
to this world of sorrow, the minster, its green, the schoolhouse where I
had passed many days, the tomb of my lost relatives in the church of St.
Augustine, were all visited by me with a sweet and melancholy interest.
But the cathedral, the brass eagle in the middle aisle, under which,
when an infant, I used to sit and join in the loud anthem, or chant the
morning service, most sensibly attached me. I longed again to occupy my
place beneath its expanding wings, and once I went before the service
began to gratify my inclination.

Language cannot describe the sort of sensation which I felt when I heard
the well-known, long-remembered organ flinging its loud peal through the
Gothic structure. I hastened to the cloisters. The nursery windows were
dim and shattered; the house was sinking to decay. The mouldering walk
was gloomy, and my spirits were depressed beyond description: I stood
alone, rapt in meditation, "Here," said I, "did my infant feet pace to
and fro; here did I climb the long stone bench, and swiftly measure it
at the peril of my safety. On those dark and winding steps did I sit and
listen to the full-toned organ, the loud anthem, the bell which called
the parishioners to prayer." I entered the cathedral once more; I read
and re-read the monumental inscriptions; I paused upon the grave of
Powell; I dropped a tear on the small square ground tablet which bore
the name of Evelyn. Ah! how little has the misjudging world known of
what has passed in my mind, even in the apparently gayest moments of my
existence! How much have I regretted that ever I was born, even when I
have been surrounded with all that could gratify the vanity of woman!

Mr. Robinson, on his arrival at Tregunter, despatched a letter informing
me that his "uncle" seemed disposed to act handsomely, but that he had
only ventured to avow an intention to marry, fearful of abruptly
declaring that he had been already some months a husband. Mr. Harris,
for that was the name of my father-in-law, replied that "he hoped the
object of his choice was not too young!" At this question Mr. Robinson
was somewhat disconcerted. "A young wife," continued Mr. Harris, "cannot
mend a man's fortune. How old is the girl you have chosen?"

"She is nearly seventeen!"

I was then only fifteen and a few months.[10]

"I hope she is not handsome," was the second observation. "You say she
is not rich; and beauty without money is but a dangerous sort
of portion."

"Will you see her?"

"I have no objection," said Mr. Harris.

"She is now with her mother at Bristol,--for," continued Mr. Robinson,
with some hesitation, "she is my wife."

Mr. Harris paused, and then replied, "Well! stay with me only a few
days, and then you shall fetch her. If the thing is done, it cannot be
undone. She is a gentlewoman, you say, and I can have no reason to
refuse seeing her."

The same letter which contained this intelligence also requested me to
prepare for my journey, and desired me to write to a person whom Mr.
Robinson named in London, and whom I had seen in his company, for a sum
of money which would be necessary for our journey. This person was Mr.
John King, then a money-broker in Goodman's Fields; but I was an entire
stranger to the transaction which rendered him the temporary source of
my husband's finances.

One or two letters passed on this subject, and I waited anxiously for my
presentation at Tregunter. At length the period of Mr. Robinson's return
arrived, and we set out together, while my mother remained with her
friends at Bristol. Crossing the old passage to Chepstow in an open
boat, a distance, though not extended, extremely perilous, we found the
tide so strong and the night so boisterous that we were apprehensive of
much danger. The rain poured and the wind blew tempestuously. The boat
was full of passengers, and at one end of it were placed a drove of
oxen. My terror was infinite; I considered this storm as an ill omen,
but little thought that at future periods of my life I should have cause
to regret that I had not perished!

During our journey Robinson entreated me to overlook anything harsh that
might appear in the manners of his "uncle,"--for he still denied that
Mr. Harris was his father. But above all things he conjured me to
conceal my real age, and to say that I was some years older than he knew
me to be. To this proposal I readily consented, and I felt myself firm
in courage at the moment when we came within sight of Tregunter.

Mr. Harris was then building the family mansion, and resided in a pretty
little decorated cottage which was afterward converted into domestic
offices. We passed through a thick wood, the mountains at every break
meeting our eyes, covered with thin clouds, and rising in a sublime
altitude above the valley. A more romantic space of scenery never met
the human eye! I felt my mind inspired with a pensive melancholy, and
was only awakened from my reverie by the postboy stopping at the mansion
of Tregunter.

Mr. Harris came out to receive me. I wore a dark claret-coloured
riding-habit, with a white beaver hat and feathers. He embraced me with
excessive cordiality, while Miss Robinson, my husband's sister, with
cold formality led me into the house. I never shall forget her looks or
her manner. Had her brother presented the most abject being to her, she
could not have taken my hand with a more frigid demeanour. Miss
Robinson, though not more than twenty years of age, was Gothic in her
appearance and stiff in her deportment; she was of low stature and
clumsy, with a countenance peculiarly formed for the expression of
sarcastic vulgarity--a short snub nose, turned up at the point, a head
thrown back with an air of _hauteur_; a gaudy-coloured chintz gown, a
thrice-bordered cap, with a profusion of ribbons, and a countenance
somewhat more ruddy than was consistent with even pure health, presented
the personage whom I was to know as my future companion and kinswoman!

Mr. Harris looked like a venerable Hawthorn; a brown fustian coat, a
scarlet waistcoat edged with narrow gold, a pair of woollen
spatter-dashes, and a gold-laced hat, formed the dress he generally
wore. He always rode a small Welsh pony, and was seldom in the house,
except at eating-time, from sunrise to the close of the evening.

There was yet another personage in the domestic establishment, who was
by Mr. Harris regarded as of no small importance: this was a venerable
housekeeper of the name of Mary Edwards. Mrs. Molly was the female
Mentor of the family; she dined at the table with Mr. Harris; she was
the governess of the domestic department; and a more overbearing,
vindictive spirit never inhabited the heart of mortal than that which
pervaded the soul of the ill-natured Mrs. Molly.

It may easily be conjectured that my time passed heavily in this
uninteresting circle. I was condemned either to drink ale with "the
squire," for Mr. Harris was only spoken of by that title, or to visit
the Methodistical seminary which Lady Huntingdon had established at
Trevecca, another mansion house on the estate of Mr. Harris. Miss
Robinson was of this sect; and though Mr. Harris was not a disciple of
the Huntingdonian school, he was a constant church visitor on every
Sunday. His zeal was indefatigable; and he would frequently fine the
rustics (for he was a justice of the peace, and had been sheriff of the
county) when he heard them swear, though every third sentence he uttered
was attended by an oath that made his hearers shudder.

I soon became a considerable favourite of "the squire," but I did not
find any yielding qualities about the hearts of Miss Betsy or Mrs.
Molly. They observed me with jealous eyes; they considered me as an
interloper, whose manners attracted Mr. Harris's esteem, and who was
likely to diminish their divided influence in the family. I found them
daily growing weary of my society; I perceived their sidelong glances
when I was complimented by the visiting neighbours on my good looks or
taste in the choice of my dresses. Miss Robinson rode on horseback in a
camlet safeguard, with a high-crowned bonnet; I wore a fashionable
habit, and looked like something human. Envy at length assumed the form
of insolence, and I was taunted perpetually on the folly of appearing
like a woman of fortune; that a lawyer's wife had no right to dress like
a duchess; and that, though I might be very accomplished, a good
housewife had no occasion for harpsichords and books,--they belonged to
women who brought wherewithal to support them. Such was the language of
vulgar, illiberal natures! Yet for three weeks I endured it patiently.

Knowing that Mr. Harris was disposed to think favourably of me,--that he
even declared he should "have liked me for his wife, had I not married
Tom," though he was then between sixty and seventy years of age, I
thought it most prudent to depart, lest, through the machinations of
Miss Betsy and Mrs. Molly, I should lose the share I had gained in his
affections. My mother was still at Bristol; and the morning of our
departure being arrived, to my infinite astonishment Mr. Harris proposed
accompanying us thither. It was in vain that Molly and Miss interfered
to prevent him; he swore that he would see me safe across the channel,
whatever might be the consequence of his journey. We set out together.

On our arrival at Bristol, Mr. Harris was presented to my mother, and by
her introduced to many respectable friends. He was consequently invited
to several dinner-parties. I was his idol; he would dance with me; when
he had taken the evening draught, he would sing with me, and I was to
him the most delightful of beings. Many embellishments for Tregunter
House were submitted to my taste and choice; and I remember, on his
giving orders for the marble chimney-pieces, he said, "Choose them as
you like them, Mrs. Robinson, for they are all for you and Tom when I am
no more." Indeed, he frequently assured me, while I was at Tregunter,
that the estate should be my husband's.

After passing many days at Bristol Mr. Harris returned to Wales, and our
party set out for London. Mr. Robinson's mind was easy, and his hopes
were confirmed by the kindness of his uncle; he now considered himself
as the most happy of mortals. We removed from Great Queen Street to a
house, No. 13, in Hatton Garden, which had been recently built. Mr.
Robinson hired it, and furnished it with peculiar elegance. I frequently
inquired into the extent of his finances, and he as often assured me
that they were in every respect competent to his expenses. In addition
to our domestic establishment, Mr. Robinson purchased a handsome
phaeton, with saddle-horses for his own use; and I now made my début,
though scarcely emerged beyond the boundaries of childhood, in the broad
hemisphere of fashionable folly.

A new face, a young person dressed with peculiar but simple elegance,
was sure to attract attention at places of public entertainment. The
first time I went to Ranelagh, my habit was so singularly plain and
Quaker-like that all eyes were fixed upon me. I wore a gown of light
brown lustring with close round cuffs (it was then the fashion to wear
long ruffles); my hair was without powder, and my head adorned with a
plain round cap and a white chip hat, without any ornaments whatever.

The second place of polite entertainment to which Mr. Robinson
accompanied me was the Pantheon concert, then the most fashionable
assemblage of the gay and the distinguished. At this place it was
customary to appear much dressed; large hoops and high feathers were
universally worn. My habit was composed of pale pink satin, trimmed with
broad sable; my dear mother presented me a suit of rich and valuable
point lace, which she had received from my father as a birthday gift,
and I was at least some hours employed in decorating my person for this
new sphere of fascination; I say some hours, because my shape at that
period required some arrangement, owing to the visible increase of my
domestic solicitudes.

As soon as I entered the Pantheon rotunda, I never shall forget the
impression which my mind received; the splendour of the scene, the dome
illuminated with variegated lamps, the music, and the beauty of the
women, seemed to present a circle of enchantment. I recollect that the
most lovely of fair forms met my eyes in that of Lady Almeria Carpenter.
The countenance which most pleased me was that of the late Mrs.
Baddeley.[11] The first Countess of Tyrconnel also appeared with
considerable _éclat_. But the buzz of the room, the unceasing murmur of
admiration, attended the Marchioness Townshend. I took my seat on a sofa
nearly opposite to that on which she was sitting, and I observed two
persons, evidently men of fashion, speaking to her, till one of them,
looking toward me, with an audible voice inquired of the other, "Who
is she?"

Their fixed stare disconcerted me; I rose, and, leaning on my husband's
arm, again mingled in the brilliant circle. The inquirers followed us;
stopping several friends, as we walked around the circle, and repeatedly
demanding of them, "Who is that young lady in the pink dress trimmed
with sable?" My manner and confusion plainly evinced that I was not
accustomed to the gaze of impertinent high breeding. I felt uneasy, and
proposed returning home, when I perceived that our two followers were
joined by a third, who, on looking at me, said, "I think I know her." It
was the late Earl of Northington.[12]

We had now to pass the group in order to quit the rotunda. Lord
Northington, leaving his companions, approached me. "Miss Darby, or I am
mistaken," said he, with a bow of marked civility. I replied that my
name was now changed to that of Robinson, and, to prevent any awkward
embarrassment, presented my husband, on whose arm I was still leaning.
Lord Northington continued to walk around the Pantheon with us, made
many inquiries after my father, complimented me on the improvement of my
person, and "hoped that he should be permitted to pay his respects to
Mr. and Mrs. Robinson."

We now entered the tea-room; there was not a seat vacant; I was
considerably fatigued, and somewhat faint with the heat of the rotunda.
I quitted the tea-room, and seated myself on a sofa near the door. In a
few minutes Lord Northington brought me a cup of tea, for Mr. Robinson
did not like to leave me alone, and at the same time presented his two
inquisitive friends, Lord Lyttelton and Captain Ayscough.[13]

I now proposed departing. Mr. Robinson accompanied me to the vestibule,
and while he was seeking the carriage Lord Lyttelton offered his
services. I had never till that evening heard his name, but there was an
easy effrontery in his address that completely disgusted, while his
determined gaze distressed and embarrassed me, and I felt inexpressible
satisfaction when Mr. Robinson returned to tell me that the carriage
was ready.

On the following morning Lords Northington, Lyttelton, and Colonel
Ayscough made their visits of ceremony. Mr. Robinson was not at home,
but I received them, though not without some embarrassment. I was yet a
child, and wholly unacquainted with the manners of the world; yet, young
as I was, I became the traveller of its mazy and perilous paths. At an
age when girls are generally at school, or indeed scarcely emancipated
from the nursery, I was presented in society as a wife--and very nearly
as a mother.

Lord Lyttelton, who was perhaps the most accomplished libertine that any
age or country has produced, with considerable artifice inquired after
Mr. Robinson, professed his earnest desire to cultivate his
acquaintance, and, on the following day, sent him a card of invitation.
Lyttelton was an adept in the artifices of fashionable intrigue. He
plainly perceived that both Mr. Robinson and myself were uninitiated in
its mysteries; he knew that to undermine a wife's honour he must become
master of the husband's confidence, and Mr. Robinson was too much
pleased with the society of a man whose wit was only equalled by his
profligacy, to shrink from such an association.

Fortunately for me, Lord Lyttelton was uniformly my aversion. His
manners were overbearingly insolent, his language licentious, and his
person slovenly even to a degree that was disgusting. Mr. Robinson was
in every respect the very reverse of his companion: he was unassuming,
neat, and delicate in his conversation. I had not a wish to descend from
the propriety of wedded life, and I abhorred, decidedly abhorred, the
acquaintance with Lord Lyttelton.

In the course of a few days his lordship presented me the works of Miss
Aitken[14] (now Mrs. Barbauld). I read them with rapture. I thought them
the most beautiful poems I had ever seen, and considered the woman who
could invent such poetry as the most to be envied of human creatures.
Lord Lyttelton had some taste for poetical compositions, and wrote
verses with considerable facility.

On the following Monday I again visited the Pantheon. My dress was then
white and silver. Again I was followed with attention. Lord Lyttelton
was my _cavaliere servente_ that evening, though, as usual, his chief
attention was paid to Mr. Robinson. During the concert he presented the
Count de Belgeioso, the imperial ambassador, one of the most
accomplished foreigners I ever remember having met with. Lord Valentia
was also introduced, but as his lordship had recently made some _éclat_
by his attentions to the celebrated Mrs. Elliot, I rather avoided than
wished to cultivate his acquaintance.

Mr. Robinson's intercourse with the world was now rapidly augmenting.
Every day was productive of some new association. Lord Lyttelton
presented many of his friends; among others, Captain O'Byrne, and Mr.
William Brereton, of Drury Lane Theatre. In the course of a short time
we also became acquainted with Sir Francis Molyneux, Mr. Alderman Sayer,
and the late unfortunate George Robert Fitzgerald.[15] Lord Northington
was also a constant visitor, and frequently rallied me on what he
thought my striking likeness to his family.

Among my female friends, those for whom I entertained the strongest
esteem were Lady Yea, the wife of Sir William Yea, and the sister of Sir
John Trevellyan. She was a lovely and accomplished woman. Mrs. Parry,
the wife of the Rev. Doctor Parry, and the author of "Eden Vale," a
novel, was also one of my most favourite acquaintances. Mrs. Parry was a
woman of considerable talents, a wit, and of remarkably
pleasing manners.

Of those who frequented our house Lord Lyttelton was most decidedly my
abhorrence; I knew that he frequently led my husband from the paths of
domestic confidence to the haunts of profligate debasement. Toward me
his lordship affected great indifference. He has even in my presence
declared that no woman under thirty years of age was worth admiring;
that even the antiquity of forty was far preferable to the insipidity of
sixteen; and he generally concluded his observations by hoping he had
not made "the pretty child angry."

I soon discovered that his intercourse with Lord Lyttelton produced a
very considerable change in Mr. Robinson's domestic deportment. They
were constantly together, and the neglect which I experienced began to
alarm me. I dedicated all my leisure hours to poetry; I wrote verses of
all sorts; and Mr. Robinson having mentioned that I had proposed
appearing on the stage, previous to my marriage, in the character of
Cordelia, Lord Lyttelton facetiously christened me the Poetess Corry.

It was with extreme regret, and frequently with uncontrollable
indignation, that I endured the neglect of my husband and the tauntings
of the profligate Lyttelton. "The child"--for so he generally called
me--was deserted for the society of the most libertine men and the most
abandoned women. Mr. Robinson became not only careless of his wife, but
of his pecuniary finances, while I was kept in total ignorance as to the
resources which supported his increasing expenses.

Among my other friends, Lady Yea frequently inquired by what means my
husband supported his household disbursements. Our table was elegantly,
though not profusely, served. Mr. Robinson seldom attended to his
profession, and I was too young, as well as too inexperienced, to look
after family affairs. My younger brother George, whom, upon my marriage,
Mr. Robinson and myself adopted as our own, now finding his health
impaired, my mother attended him at Bristol, so that I had no friend to
advise me who felt any real interest in my welfare. Dress, parties,
adulation, occupied all my hours. Mr. Robinson's easy temper was
influenced by the counsel of his friend Lyttelton, and he every hour
sunk more deeply in the gulf of dissipation.

Among the most dangerous of my husband's associates was George Robert
Fitzgerald. His manners toward women were interesting and attentive. He
perceived the neglect with which I was treated by Mr. Robinson, and the
pernicious influence which Lord Lyttelton had acquired over his mind; he
professed to feel the warmest interest in my welfare, lamented the
destiny which had befallen me in being wedded to a man incapable of
estimating my value, and at last confessed himself my most ardent and
devoted admirer. I shuddered at the declaration, for, amidst all the
allurements of splendid folly, my mind, the purity of my virtue, was
still uncontaminated.

I repulsed the dangerous advances of this accomplished person, but I did
not the less feel the humiliation to which a husband's indifference had
exposed me. God can bear witness to the purity of my soul, even
surrounded by temptations and mortified by neglect. Whenever I ventured
to inquire into pecuniary resources, Mr. Robinson silenced me by saying
that he was independent; added to this assurance, Lord Lyttelton
repeatedly promised that, through his courtly interest, he would very
shortly obtain for my husband some honourable and lucrative situation.

I confess that I reposed but little confidence in the promises of such a
man, though my husband believed them inviolable. Frequent parties were
made at his lordship's house in Hill Street, and many invitations
pressed for a visit to his seat at Hagley. These I peremptorily refused,
till the noble hypocrite became convinced of my aversion, and adopted a
new mode of pursuing his machinations.

One forenoon Lord Lyttelton called in Hatton Garden, as was almost his
daily custom, and, on finding teat Mr. Robinson was not at home,
requested to speak with me on business of importance. I found him
seemingly much distressed. He informed me that he had a secret to
communicate of considerable moment both to my interest and happiness.
I started.

"Nothing, I trust in Heaven, has befallen my husband!" said I, with a
voice scarcely articulate.

Lord Lyttelton hesitated.

"How little does that husband deserve the solicitude of such a wife!"
said he; "but," continued his lordship, "I fear that I have in some
degree aided in alienating his conjugal affections. I could not bear to
see such youth, such merit, so sacrificed--"

"Speak briefly, my lord," said I.

"Then," replied Lord Lyttelton, "I must inform you that your husband is
the most false and undeserving of that name! He has formed connection
with a woman of abandoned character; he lavishes on her those means of
subsistence which you will shortly stand in need of."

"I do not believe it," said I, indignantly.

"Then you shall be convinced," answered his lordship; "but remember, if
you betray me, your true and zealous friend, I must fight your husband;
for he never will forgive my having discovered his infidelity."

"It cannot be true," said I. "You have been misinformed."

"Then it has been by the woman who usurps your place in the affections
of your husband," replied Lord Lyttelton. "From her I received the
information. Her name is Harriet Wilmot; she resides in Soho. Your
husband daily visits her."

I thought I should have fainted; but a torrent of tears recalled the
ebbing current of my heart, and I grew proud in fortitude, though
humbled in self-love.

"Now," said Lord Lyttelton, "if you are a woman of spirit, you will be
_revenged_!" I shrunk with horror, and would have quitted the room.
"Hear me," said he. "You cannot be a stranger to my motives for thus
cultivating the friendship of your husband. My fortune is at your
disposal. Robinson is a ruined man; his debts are considerable, and
nothing but destruction can await you. Leave him! Command my powers to
serve you."

I would hear no more,--broke from him, and rushed out of the apartments.
My sensations, my sufferings were indescribable.

I immediately took a hackney-coach, and proceeded to Prince's Street,
Soho,--Lord Lyttelton having given me the address of my rival. Language
cannot describe what I suffered till I arrived at the lodgings of Miss
Wilmot. The coachman knocked, a dirty servant girl opened the door. Her
mistress was not at home. I quitted the coach and ascended to the
drawing-room, where the servant left me, after informing me that Miss W.
would return in a very short time. I was now left alone.

I opened the chamber door which led from the drawing-room. A new white
lustring sacque and petticoat lay on the bed. While I was examining the
room, a loud knocking at the street door alarmed me. I reëntered the
front apartment, and waited with a palpitating bosom till the being
whose triumph had awakened both my pride and my resentment appeared
before me.

She was a handsome woman, though evidently some years older than myself.
She wore a dress of printed Irish muslin, with a black gauze cloak and a
chip hat, trimmed with pale lilac ribbons; she was tall, and had a very
pleasing countenance. Her manner was timid and confused; her lips as
pale as ashes. I commiserated her distress, desired her not to be
alarmed, and we took our seats, with increased composure.

"I came to inquire whether or not you are acquainted with a Mr.
Robinson," said I.

"I am," replied Miss Wilmot. "He visits me frequently." She drew off her
glove as she spoke, and passing her hand over her eyes, I observed on
her finger a ring, which I knew to have been my husband's.

"I have nothing more to say," added I, "but to request that you will
favour me with Mr. Robinson's address; I have something which I wish to
convey to him."

She smiled, and cast her eyes over my figure. My dress was a morning
_déshabille_ of India muslin, with a bonnet of straw, and a white lawn
cloak bordered with lace.

"You are Mr. Robinson's wife," said she, with a trembling voice. "I am
sure you are; and probably this ring was yours; pray receive it--"

I declined taking the ring. She continued, "Had I known that Mr.
Robinson was the husband of such a woman--"

I rose to leave her. She added, "I never will see him more,--unworthy
man,--I never will again receive him."

I could make no reply, but rose and departed.

On my return to Hatton Garden, I found my husband waiting dinner. I
concealed my chagrin. We had made a party that evening to Drury Lane
Theatre, and from thence to a select concert at the Count de
Belgeioso's, in Portman Square. Lord Lyttelton was to join us at both
places. We went to the play; but my agitation had produced such a
violent headache that I was obliged to send an apology for not keeping
our engagement at the imperial ambassador's.

On the following morning I spoke to Mr. Robinson respecting Miss Wilmot.
He did not deny that he knew such a person, that he had visited her; but
he threw all the blame of his indiscretion on Lord Lyttelton. He
requested to know who had informed me of his conduct. I refused to tell;
and he had too high an opinion of his false associate to suspect him of
such treachery.

At one of Mrs. Parry's card parties I met Mrs. Abington.[16] I thought
her the most lively and bewitching woman I had ever seen; her manners
were fascinating, and the peculiar tastefulness of her dress excited
universal admiration. My imagination again wandered to the stage, and I
thought the heroine of the scenic art was of all human creatures the
most to be envied.

About this period I observed that Mr. Robinson had frequent visitors of
the Jewish tribe; that he was often closeted with them, and that some
secret negotiation was going forward to which I was a total stranger.
Among others, Mr. King was a constant visitor; indeed, he had often been
with my husband on private business ever since the period of our
marriage. I questioned Mr. Robinson upon the subject of these strange
and repeated interviews. He assured me that the persons I had seen came
merely upon law business, and that in his profession it was necessary to
be civil to all ranks of people. Whenever I urged a farther explanation,
he assumed a tone of displeasure, and requested me not to meddle with
his professional occupations. I desisted; and the parlour of our house
was almost as much frequented by Jews as though it had been their
synagogue.

Mr. Robinson's mornings were devoted to his bearded friends, his
evenings to his fashionable associates; but my hours were all dedicated
to sorrow, for I now heard that my husband, even at the period of his
marriage, had an attachment which he had not broken, and that his
infidelities were as public as the ruin of his finances was inevitable.
I remonstrated--I was almost frantic. My distress was useless, my wishes
to retrench our expenses ineffectual. Mr. Robinson had, previous to our
union, deeply involved himself in a bond debt of considerable magnitude,
and he had from time to time borrowed money on annuity,--one sum to
discharge the other,--till every plan of liquidation appeared
impracticable. During all this time my mother was at Bristol.

Lord Lyttelton, finding every plan of seduction fail, now rested his
only hope of subduing my honour in the certainty of my husband's ruin.
He therefore took every step, embraced every opportunity of involving
him more deeply in calamity. Parties were made to Richmond and Salt
Hill, to Ascot Heath and Epsom races, in all of which Mr. Robinson bore
his share of expense, with the addition of post-horses. Whenever he
seemed to shrink from his augmenting indiscretion, Lord Lyttelton
assured him that, through his interest, an appointment of honourable and
pecuniary importance should be obtained, though I embraced every
opportunity to assure his lordship that no consideration upon earth
should ever make me the victim of his artifice.

[Illustration: _Lady Lyttelton_ Engraved by Chas. Townley from the
painting by Richard Casway]

Mr. Fitzgerald still paid me unremitting attention. His manners toward
women were beautifully interesting. He frequently cautioned me against
the libertine Lyttelton, and as frequently lamented the misguided
confidence which Mr. Robinson reposed in him. Lord Lyttelton's shameless
conduct toward an amiable wife, from whom he was separated, and his
cruel neglect of a lady of the name of Dawson, who had long been
attached to him, marked the unworthiness of his character. He was the
very last man in the world for whom I ever could have entertained the
smallest partiality; he was to me the most hateful of existing beings.
Probably these pages will be read when the hand that writes them
moulders in the grave, when that God who judges all hearts will know how
innocent I was of the smallest conjugal infidelity. I make this solemn
asseveration because there have been malevolent spirits who, in the
plenitude of their calumny, have slandered me by suspecting my fidelity
even at this early period of my existence. These pages are the pages of
truth, unadorned by romance and unembellished by the graces of
phraseology, and I know that I have been sufficiently the victim of
events too well to become the tacit acquiescer where I have been grossly
misrepresented. Alas! of all created beings, I have been the most
severely subjugated by circumstances more than by inclination.

About this time a party was one evening made to Vauxhall. Mr. Fitzgerald
was the person who proposed it, and it consisted of six or eight
persons. The night was warm and the gardens crowded. We supped in the
circle which has the statue of Handel in its centre. The hour growing
late,--or rather early in the morning,--our company dispersed, and no
one remained excepting Mr. Robinson, Mr. Fitzgerald, and myself.
Suddenly a noise was heard near the orchestra. A crowd had assembled,
and two gentlemen were quarrelling furiously. Mr. R. and Fitzgerald ran
out of the box. I rose to follow them, but they were lost in the throng,
and I thought it most prudent to resume my place, which I had just
quitted, as the only certain way of their finding me in safety. In a
moment Fitzgerald returned. "Robinson," said he, "is gone to seek you at
the entrance-door. He thought you had quitted the box."

"I did for a moment," said I, "but I was fearful of losing him in the
crowd, and therefore returned."

"Let me conduct you to the door; we shall certainly find him there,"
replied Mr. Fitzgerald. "I know that he will be uneasy."

I took his arm and we ran hastily toward the entrance-door on the
Vauxhall Road.

Mr. Robinson was not there. We proceeded to look for our carriage. It
stood at some distance. I was alarmed and bewildered. Mr. Fitzgerald
hurried me along. "Don't be uneasy; we shall certainly find him," said
he, "for I left him here not five minutes ago." As he spoke, he stopped
abruptly. A servant opened a chaise door. There were four horses
harnessed to it; and by the light of the lamps on the side of the
footpath, I plainly perceived a pistol in the pocket of the door which
was open. I drew back. Mr. Fitzgerald placed his arm around my waist,
and endeavoured to lift me up the step of the chaise, the servant
watching at a little distance. I resisted, and inquired what he meant
by such conduct. His hand trembled excessively, while he said, in a low
voice, "Robinson can but fight me." I was terrified beyond all
description. I made him loose his hold, and ran toward the
entrance-door. Mr. Fitzgerald now perceived Mr. Robinson. "Here he
comes!" exclaimed he, with easy nonchalance. "We had found the wrong
carriage, Mr. Robinson. We have been looking after you, and Mrs.
Robinson is alarmed beyond expression."

"I am, indeed!" said I. Mr. Robinson now took my hand. We stepped into
the coach, and Mr. Fitzgerald followed. As we proceeded toward Hatton
Garden, the sky incessantly flashed lightning. I was terrified by the
combination of events, and I was in a situation which rendered any alarm
peculiarly dangerous, for I was several months advanced in that state
which afterward terminated by presenting to me my only child, my darling
Maria.[17]

I had often heard of Mr. Fitzgerald's propensity to duelling. I
recollected my own delicate situation; I valued my husband's safety. I
therefore did not mention the adventure of the evening, particularly as
Mr. Fitzgerald observed, on our way to Hatton Garden, that he had
"nearly made a strange mistake, and taken possession of another person's
carriage." This remark appeared so plausible that nothing further was
said upon the subject.

From that evening I was particularly cautious in avoiding Fitzgerald. He
was too daring and too fascinating a being to be allowed the smallest
marks of confidence. Whenever he called, I was denied to him, and at
length, perceiving the impracticability of his plan, he desisted, and
seldom called, excepting to leave his name as a visitor of ceremony.

I do not recount these events, these plans for my enthralment, with a
view to convey anything like personal vanity, for I can with truth
affirm that I never thought myself entitled to admiration that could
endanger my security or tempt the libertine to undermine my husband's
honour. But I attribute the snares that were laid for me to three
causes: the first, my youth and inexperience, my girlish appearance and
simplicity of manners; secondly, the expensive style in which Mr.
Robinson lived, though he was not known as a man of independent fortune;
and thirdly, the evident neglect which I experienced from my husband,
whom Lord Lyttelton's society had marked as a man of universal
gallantry.

I was now known by name at every public place in and near the
metropolis. Our circle of acquaintances enlarged daily. My friend Lady
Yea was my constant companion. Mr. Robinson became desperate, from a
thorough conviction that no effort of economy or professional labour
could arrange his shattered finances, the large debt which he owed
previous to his marriage with me having laid the foundation of every
succeeding embarrassment.

The moment now approached when the arcanum was to be developed, and an
execution on Mr. Robinson's effects, at the suit of an annuitant,
decided the doubts and fears which had long afflicted me. I was in a
great degree prepared for this event by the evident inquietude of my
husband's mind, and his frequent interviews with persons of a mysterious
description. Indeed, this crisis seemed rather consolatory than
appalling, for I hoped and trusted that the time was now arrived when
reason would take place of folly, and experience point out those thorns
which strew the pleasurable paths of dissipation.

At this period, had Mr. Harris generously assisted his son, I am fully
and confidently persuaded that he would have pursued a discreet and
regular line of conduct. His first involvement was the basis of all his
misfortunes. The impossibility of liquidating that debt (the motive for
which it was contracted is to this hour unknown to me) rendered him
desperate. Indeed, how could a young man, well educated,[18] subsist in
such a metropolis without some provision? Mr. Harris was a man of
fortune, and he ought to have known that necessity is the most dangerous
associate of youth; that folly may be reclaimed by kindness, but seldom
fails to be darkened into vice by the severity of unpitying natures.

From Hatton Garden we removed to a house which was lent to us by a
friend at Finchley. Here I hoped at least to remain tranquil till the
perilous moment was passed which was to render me a mother. I here
devoted my time to making my infant's little wardrobe; my finest muslin
dresses I converted into frocks and robes, with my lace I fondly trimmed
them. It was a sweetly pleasing task, and I often smiled when I
reflected that only three years before this period I had dressed a waxen
doll nearly as large as a new-born infant.

Mr. Robinson had much business to transact in London, and I was almost
perpetually alone at Finchley. Of our domestic establishment there was
only one who did not desert us, and he was a negro!--one of that
despised, degraded race, who wear the colour on their features which too
often characterises the hearts of their fair and unfeeling oppressors. I
have found, during my journey through life, that the two male domestics
who were most attached to my interest and most faithful to my fortunes
were both negroes!

My mother now returned from Bristol, and I had the consolation of her
society. I divided my time betwixt reading, writing, and making a little
wardrobe for my expected darling. I little regretted the busy scenes of
life; I sighed not for public attention. I felt by this change of
situation as though a weighty load were taken from my heart, and solaced
my mind in the idea that the worst had happened which could befall us.
Gracious Heaven! How should I have shuddered, had I then contemplated
the dark perspective of my destiny!

Mr. Robinson went almost daily to London, and sometimes my brother
George, who was still a boy, accompanied him upon a little pony. One
day, after returning from one of their rides, my brother informed me
that he had been with Mr. Robinson to Marylebone, and that he had waited
and held Mr. Robinson's horse, while he made a morning visit. I had then
no acquaintance that resided at Marylebone. I questioned my brother as
to the place, and he persisted in his original story. "But," added he,
"if you say anything about it to Mr. Robinson, I never will tell you
where we go in future." I promised not to mention what he had said, and
my mind was deeply engaged in a variety of conjectures.

A few days after, Mr. Robinson made another visit, and my brother was
introduced to the lady. From the manner and conversation of both
parties, even a youth scarcely in his teens could draw conclusions of no
favourable nature. By the side of the chimney hung my watch, which I had
supposed lost in the general wreck of our property. It was enamelled
with musical trophies, and very remarkable for a steel chain of singular
beauty. The moment my brother described it my suspicions were confirmed;
and Mr. Robinson did not even attempt to deny his infidelity.

Mr. Robinson, finding his creditors inexorable, and fearing that he
might endanger his personal liberty by remaining near London, informed
me that I must, in a few days, accompany him to Tregunter. I felt a
severe pang in the idea of quitting my adored mother at a moment when I
should stand so much in need of a parent's attentions. My agony was
extreme. I fancied that I never should behold her more; that the
harshness and humiliating taunts of my husband's kindred would send me
prematurely to the grave; that my infant would be left among strangers,
and that my mother would scarcely have fortitude sufficient to survive
me. Then I anticipated the inconvenience of so long a journey, for
Tregunter House was within a few miles of Brecon. I dreaded to encounter
the scornful vulgarity and the keen glances of Miss Betsy and Mrs.
Molly. I considered all these things with horror; but the propriety of
wedded life commanded the sacrifice, and I readily consented to make it.

With tender regret, with agonising presentiments, I took leave of my
mother and my brother. Such a parting would but mock the powers of
language! My delicate situation, my youth, my affection for my best of
mothers, all conspired to augment my sorrow; but a husband's repose, a
husband's liberty were at stake, and my Creator can bear witness that,
had I been blessed with that fidelity and affection which I deserved, my
heart was disposed to the observance of every duty, every claim which
would have embellished domestic propriety.

We set out for Tregunter. On our arrival there, I instantly perceived
that our misfortunes had outstripped our speed. Miss Robinson scarcely
bade us welcome, and Molly was peevish, even to insulting displeasure.

Mr. Harris was from home when we arrived. But he returned shortly after.
His greeting was harsh and unfeeling. "Well! so you have escaped from a
prison, and now you are come here to do penance for your follies? Well!
and what do you want?" I could not reply. I entered the house, and
instantly hastened to my old chamber, where my tears gave relief to that
heart which was almost bursting with agony.

Still Mr. Robinson conjured me to bear his uncle's wayward temper
patiently, I did, though every day I was taunted with idle and inhuman
questions, such as, "How long do you think that I will support you? What
is to become of you in a prison? What business have beggars to marry?"
With many others, equally feeling and high-minded!

The mansion of Tregunter presented but few sources of amusement for the
female mind. Mr. Harris had acquired a considerable fortune in trade,
and, however the art of accumulating wealth had been successfully
practised, the finer pursuits of mental powers had been totally
neglected. Books were unknown at Tregunter, excepting a few magazines or
periodical publications, which at different periods Miss Robinson
borrowed from her juvenile neighbours. There was, however, an old spinet
in one of the parlours. Music had been one of my early delights, and I
sometimes vainly endeavoured to draw a kind of jingling harmony from
this time-shaken and neglected instrument. These attempts, however,
frequently subjected me to insult. "I had better think of getting my
bread; women of no fortune had no right to follow the pursuits of fine
ladies. Tom had better married a good tradesman's daughter than the
child of a ruined merchant who was not capable of earning a living."
Such were the remarks of my amiable and enlightened father-in-law!

One day, I particularly remember, Mr. Harris had invited a large party
to dinner, John and Charles Morgan, Esqrs., members of Parliament, with
an old clergyman of the name of Jones, and several others were present.
I was then within a fortnight of my perilous moment. One of the company
expressed his satisfaction that I was come to give Tregunter a little
stranger; and turning to Mr. Harris, added:

"You have just finished your house in time for a nursery."

"No, no," replied Mr. Harris, laughing, "they came here because prison
doors were open to receive them."

I felt my face redden to scarlet; every person present seemed to
sympathise in my chagrin, and I was near sinking under the table with
confusion. Mr. Robinson's indignation was evident; but it was restrained
by duty as well as by necessity.

The manor-house was not yet finished; and a few days after our arrival
Mr. Harris informed me that he had no accommodation for my approaching
confinement. Where was I to go? was the next question. After many family
consultations, it was decided that I should remove to Trevecca House,
about a mile and a half distant, and there give to this miserable world
my first-born darling.

I removed to Trevecca; it was a spacious mansion at the foot of a
stupendous mountain, which, from its form, was called the Sugar-loaf. A
part of the building was converted into a flannel manufactory, and the
inhabitants were of the Huntingdonian school. Here I enjoyed the sweet
repose of solitude; here I wandered about woods entangled by the wild
luxuriance of nature, or roved upon the mountain's side, while the blue
vapours floated around its summit. Oh, God of Nature! Sovereign of the
universe of wonders! in those interesting moments how fervently did I
adore thee!

How often have I sat at my little parlour window and watched the pale
moonbeams darting amidst the sombre and venerable yew-trees that shed
their solemn shade over the little garden! How often have I strolled
down the woody paths, spangled with the dew of morning, and shaken off
the briery branches that hung about me! How tranquil did I feel, escaped
from kindred tyranny, and how little did I regret the busy scenes of
fashionable folly! Unquestionably the Creator formed me with a strong
propensity to adore the sublime and beautiful of his works! But it has
never been my lot to meet with an associating mind, a congenial spirit,
who could (as it were abstracted from the world) find a universe in the
sacred intercourse of soul, the sublime union of sensibility.

At Trevecca House I was tranquil, if not perfectly happy. I there
avoided the low taunts of uncultivated natures, the insolent vulgarity
of pride, and the overbearing triumphs of a family, whose loftiest
branch was as inferior to my stock as the small weed is beneath the
tallest tree that overshades it. I had formed a union with a family who
had neither sentiment nor sensibility; I was doomed to bear the society
of ignorance and pride; I was treated as though I had been the most
abject of beings, even at a time when my conscious spirit soared as far
above their powers to wound it as the mountain towered over the white
battlements of my then solitary habitation.

After my removal to Trevecca, I seldom saw Miss Robinson or Mrs. Molly;
Mr. Harris never called on me, though I was not more than a mile and a
half from Tregunter. At length the expected, though to me most perilous,
moment arrived, which awoke a new and tender interest in my bosom, which
presented to my fondly beating heart my child,--my Maria. I cannot
describe the sensations of my soul at the moment when I pressed the
little darling to my bosom, my maternal bosom; when I kissed its hands,
its cheeks, its forehead, as it nestled closely to my heart, and seemed
to claim that affection which has never failed to warm it. She was the
most beautiful of infants! I thought myself the happiest of mothers; her
first smile appeared like something celestial,--something ordained to
irradiate my dark and dreary prospect of existence.

Two days after my child was presented to this world of sorrow, my nurse,
Mrs. Jones, a most excellent woman, was earnestly desired by the people
of the manufactory to bring the infant among them; they wished to see
the "young squire's baby, the little heiress to Tregunter." It was in
vain that I dreaded the consequences of the visit, for it was in the
month of October; but Mrs. Jones assured me that infants in that part of
the world were very frequently carried into the open air on the day of
their birth; she also hinted that my refusal would hurt the feelings of
the honest people, and wear the semblance of pride more than of maternal
tenderness. This idea decided my acquiescence; and my little darling,
enveloped in the manufacture of her own romantic birthplace, made her
first visit to her kind but unsophisticated countrywomen.

No sooner did Mrs. Jones enter the circle than she was surrounded by the
gazing throng. The infant was dressed with peculiar neatness, and
nothing mortal could appear more lovely. A thousand and a thousand
blessings were heaped upon the "heiress of Tregunter," for so they
fancifully called her; a thousand times did they declare that the baby
was the very image of her father. Mrs. Jones returned to me; every word
she uttered soothed my heart; a sweet and grateful glow, for the first
time, bespoke the indescribable gratification which a fond parent feels
in hearing the praises of a beloved offspring. Yet this little absence
appeared an age; a variety of fears presented dangers in a variety of
shapes, and the object of all my care, of all my affection, was now
pressed closer to my heart than ever.

Amidst these sweet and never-to-be-forgotten sensations, Mr. Harris
entered my chamber. He abruptly inquired how I found myself, and,
seating himself by the side of my bed, began to converse family affairs.
I was too feeble to say much; and he had not the delicacy to consider
that Mrs. Jones, my nurse, and almost a stranger to me, was a witness to
our conversation.

"Well!" said Mr. Harris, "and what do you mean to do with your child?"

I made no answer.

"I will tell you," added he. "Tie it to your back and work for it."

I shivered with horror.

"Prison doors are open," continued Mr. Harris. "Tom will die in a gaol;
and what is to become of you?"

I remained silent.

Miss Robinson now made her visit. She looked at me without uttering a
syllable; but while she contemplated my infant's features, her innocent
sleeping face, her little dimpled hands folded on her breast, she
murmured, "Poor little wretch! Poor thing! It would be a mercy if it
pleased God to take it!" My agony of mind was scarcely supportable.

About three weeks after this period, letters arrived, informing Mr.
Robinson that his creditors were still inexorable, and that the place of
his concealment was known. He was cautioned not to run the hazard of an
arrest; indeed, he knew that such an event would complete his ruin with
Mr. Harris, from whom he should not receive any assistance. He
communicated this intelligence to me, and at the same time informed me
that he must absolutely depart from Trevecca immediately. I was still
extremely feeble, for my mental sufferings had impaired my corporeal
strength almost as much as the perils I had recently encountered. But
the idea of remaining at Trevecca without my husband was more terrible
than the prospect of annihilation, and I replied, without a hesitating
thought, "I am ready to go with you."

My good nurse, who was a very amiable woman, and under forty years of
age, conjured me to delay my journey. She informed me that it would be
dangerous to undertake it in my then weak state. My husband's liberty
was in danger, and my life appeared of little importance; for even at
that early period of my days I was already weary of existence.

On the succeeding morning we departed. Mrs. Jones insisted on
accompanying me on the first day's journey. Mr. Robinson, my nurse, and
myself occupied a post-chaise; my Maria was placed on a pillow on Mrs.
Jones's lap. The paleness of death overspread my countenance, and the
poor honest people of the mountains and the villages saw us depart with
sorrow, though not without their blessings. Neither Mr. Harris nor the
enlightened females of Tregunter expressed the smallest regret or
solicitude on the occasion. We reached Abergavenny that evening. My
little remaining strength was exhausted, and I could proceed no farther.
However singular these persecutions may appear, Mr. Robinson knows that
they are not in the smallest degree exaggerated.

At Abergavenny I parted from Mrs. Jones, and, having no domestic with
me, was left to take the entire charge of Maria. Reared in the tender
lap of affluence, I had learnt but little of domestic occupation; the
adorning part of education had been lavished, but the useful had never
been bestowed upon a girl who was considered as born to independence.
With these disadvantages, I felt very awkwardly situated, under the
arduous task I had to perform; but necessity soon prevailed, with the
soft voice of maternal affection, and I obeyed her dictates as the
dictates of nature.

Mrs. Jones, whose excellent heart sympathised in all I suffered, would
not have parted from me in so delicate a moment, but she was the widow
of a tradesman at Brecon, and having quitted her home, where she had
left two daughters,--very pretty young women,--to attend me, she was
under the necessity of returning to them. With repeated good wishes, and
some tears of regret flowing from her feeling and gentle heart,
we parted.

On the following day we proceeded to Monmouth. Some relations of my
mother residing there, particularly my grandmother, I wished to remain
there till my strength was somewhat restored. We were received with
genuine affection; we were caressed with unfeigned hospitality. The good
and venerable object of my visit was delighted to embrace her
great-grandchild, and the family fireside was frequently a scene of calm
and pleasing conversation. How different were these moments from those
which I had passed with the low-minded inhabitants of Tregunter!

My grandmother, though then near seventy years of age, was still a
pleasing woman; she had in her youth been delicately beautiful; and the
neat simplicity of her dress, which was always either brown or black
silk, the piety of her mind, and the mildness of her nature, combined to
render her a most endearing object.

As soon as my strength recovered, I was invited to partake of many
pleasant entertainments. But the most favourite amusement I selected was
that wandering by the river Wye, or of exploring the antique remains of
Monmouth Castle, a part of which reached the garden of my grandmother's
habitation. I also constantly accompanied my amiable and venerable
relative to church; and I have often observed, with a mixture of
delight, and almost of envy, the tranquil resignation which religion
diffused over her mind, even at the very close of human existence. This
excellent woman expired of a gradual decay in the year 1780.

We had resided at Monmouth about a month, when I was invited to a ball.
My spirits and strength had been renovated by the change of scenery, and
I was persuaded to dance. I was at that time particularly fond of the
amusement, and my partial friends flattered me by saying that I measured
the mazy figure like a sylph. I was at that period a nurse; and, during
the evening, Maria was brought to an antechamber to receive the only
support she had ever yet taken. Unconscious of the danger attendant on
such an event, I gave her her accustomed nourishment immediately after
dancing. It was agitated by the violence of exercise and the heat of the
ballroom, and, on my return home, I found my infant in strong
convulsions.

My distraction, my despair, was terrible; my state of mind rendered it
impossible for me to afford any internal nourishment to the child, even
when her little mouth was parched, or the fit in the smallest degree
abated. I was little less than frantic; all the night I sat with her on
my arms; an eminent medical man attended. The convulsions continued, and
my situation was terrible; those who witnessed it cautiously avoided
informing me that the peril of my infant proceeded from my dancing; had
I known it at that period, I really believe I should have lost
my senses.

In this desperate state, with only short intervals of rest, my darling
continued till the morning. All my friends came to make inquiries, and,
among others, a clergyman who visited at my grandmother's. He saw the
child, as it was thought, expiring; he saw me still sitting where I had
taken my place of despair on the preceding night, fixed in the stupor of
unutterable affliction. He conjured me to let the child be removed. I
was in a raging fever; the effects of not having nourished my child
during twelve hours began to endanger my own existence, and I looked
forward to my dissolution as the happiest event that could befall me.

Still Maria lay upon my lap, and still I resisted every attempt that was
made to remove her. Just at this period the clergyman recollected that
he had seen one of his children relieved from convulsions by a simple
experiment, and he requested my permission to try its effects. The child
was given over by my medical attendant, and I replied, "However
desperate the remedy, I conjure you to administer it."

He now mixed a tablespoonful of spirit of aniseed with a small quantity
of spermaceti, and gave it to my infant. In a few minutes the convulsive
spasms abated, and in less than an hour she sunk into a sweet and
tranquil slumber. What I felt may be pictured to a fond mother's fancy,
but my pen would fail in attempting to describe it.

Some circumstances now occurred which gave Mr. Robinson reason to
believe that he was not safe at Monmouth, and we prepared for a removal
to some other quarter. The day was fixed for commencing our journey,
when an execution arrived for a considerable sum, and Mr. Robinson was
no longer at liberty to travel. My alarm was infinite; the sum was too
large for the possibility of liquidation, and, knowing Mr. Robinson's
desperate fortune, I thought it unjust as well as ungenerous to attempt
the borrowing of it. Fortunately the sheriff for the county was a friend
of the family. He was a gentlemanly and amiable man, and offered--to
avoid any unpleasant dilemma--to accompany us to London. We set out the
same evening, and never slept till we arrived in the metropolis.

I immediately hastened to my mother, who resided in Buckingham Street,
York Buildings, now the Adelphi. Her joy was boundless. She kissed me a
thousand times, she kissed my beautiful infant; while Mr. Robinson
employed the day in accommodating the business which had brought him to
London. He had been arrested by a friend, with a hope that, so near a
father's habitation, such a sum would have been paid; at least, such is
the reason assigned for such unfriendly conduct![19]

The matter was, however, arranged on an explanation taking place, and
Mr. Robinson engaged a lodging near Berners Street, whither we repaired
on the same evening. My little collection of poems, which I had arranged
for publication, and which had been ready ever since my marriage, I now
determined to print immediately. They were indeed trifles, very trifles;
I have since perused them with a blush of self-reproof, and wondered how
I could venture on presenting them to the public. I trust that there is
not a copy remaining, excepting that which my dear, partial mother
fondly preserved, and which is now in my possession.

I had been in town a few days, when some female friends persuaded me to
accompany a party which they had formed to Ranelagh. Mr. Robinson
declined going, but after much entreaty I consented. I had now been
married near two years; my person was considerably improved; I was grown
taller than when I became Mr. Robinson's wife, and I had now more the
manners of a woman of the world than those of girlish simplicity, which
had hitherto characterised me, though I had been some months absent from
London, and a part of them rusticated among mountains. The dress which I
wore was plain and simple; it was composed of pale lilac lustring. My
head had a wreath of white flowers; I was complimented on my looks by
the whole party, and with little relish for public amusements, and a
heart throbbing with domestic solicitude, I accompanied the party
to Ranelagh.

The first person I saw, on entering the rotunda, was George Robert
Fitzgerald. He started as if he had received a shock of electricity. I
turned my head away, and would have avoided him; but he instantly
quitted two friends with whom he was walking, and presented himself to
me. He expressed great pleasure at seeing me once more in "the world;"
was surprised at finding me for the first time in public without my
husband, and requested permission to pay his respects to me at my house.
I replied that I was "on a visit to some friends." He bowed, and
rejoined his companions.

During the evening, however, he never ceased to follow me. We quitted
the rotunda early; and, as we were waiting for the carriage, I again
observed Fitzgerald in the antechamber. We passed the vestibule, and at
the door his own carriage was waiting.

On the following noon I was correcting a proof-sheet of my volume, when
the servant abruptly announced Mr. Fitzgerald!

I was somewhat disconcerted by this unexpected visit, and received Mr.
Fitzgerald with a cold and embarrassed mien, which evidently mortified
him; I also felt a little worldly vanity in the moment of surprise, for
my morning dress was more calculated to display maternal assiduity than
elegant and tasteful _déshabille_. In a small basket near my chair slept
my little Maria; my table was spread with papers, and everything around
me presented the mixed confusion of a study and a nursery.

From the period of Mrs. Jones's quitting me at Abergavenny, I had made
it an invariable rule always to dress and undress my infant. I never
suffered it to be placed in a cradle, or to be fed out of my presence. A
basket of an oblong shape with four handles (with a pillow and a small
bolster) was her bed by day; at night she slept with me. I had too often
heard of the neglect which servants show to young children, and I
resolved never to expose an infant of mine either to their ignorance or
inattention. It was amidst the duties of a parent, that the gay, the
high-fashioned Fitzgerald now found me; and whenever either business,
or, very rarely, public amusements drew me from the occupation, my
mother never failed to be my substitute.

Mr. Fitzgerald said a thousand civil things; but that which charmed me,
was the admiration of my child. He declared that he had never seen so
young a mother, or so beautiful an infant. For the first remark I
sighed, but the last delighted my bosom; she indeed was one of the
prettiest little mortals that ever the sun shone upon.

The nest subject was praise of my poetry. I smile while I recollect how
far the effrontery of flattery has power to belie the judgment. Mr.
Fitzgerald took up the proof-sheet and read one of the pastorals. I
inquired by what means he had discovered my place of residence; he
informed me that his carriage had followed me home on the preceding
night. He now took his leave.

On the following evening he made us another visit; I say us, because Mr.
Robinson was at home. Mr. Fitzgerald drank tea with us, and proposed
making a party on the next day to dine at Richmond. To this I gave a
decided negative; alleging that my duties toward my child prevented the
possibility of passing a day absent from her.

On the Wednesday following, Mr. Robinson accompanied me again to
Ranelagh. There we met Lord Northington, Lord Lyttelton, Captain
O'Bryan, Captain Ayscough, Mr. Andrews, and several others, who all, in
the course of the evening, evinced their attentions. But as Mr.
Robinson's deranged state of affairs did not admit of our receiving
parties at home, I made my excuses by saying that we were at a friend's
house and not yet established in a town residence. Lord Lyttelton was
particularly importunate; but he received the same answer which I had
given to every other inquirer.

A short time after, Mr. Robinson was arrested. Now came my hour of
trial. He was conveyed to the house of a sheriff's officer, and in a few
days detainers were lodged against him to the amount of twelve hundred
pounds, chiefly the arrears of annuities and other demands from Jew
creditors; for I can proudly and with truth declare that he did not at
that time, or at any period since, owe fifty pounds for me, or to any
tradesmen on my account whatever.

Mr. Robinson knew that it would be useless to ask Mr. Harris's
assistance; indeed, his mind was too much depressed to make an exertion
for the arrangement of his affairs. He was, therefore, after waiting
three weeks in the custody of a sheriff's officer (during which time I
had never left him for a single hour, day or night), obliged to submit
to the necessity of becoming a captive.

For myself I cared but little; all my anxiety was for Mr. Robinson's
repose and the health of my child. The apartment which we obtained was
in the upper part of the building, overlooking a racket-ground. Mr.
Robinson was expert in all exercises of strength or activity, and he
found that amusement daily which I could not partake of. I had other
occupations of a more interesting nature,--the care of a beloved and
still helpless daughter.[20]

During nine months and three weeks, never once did I pass the threshold
of our dreary habitation; though every allurement was offered, every
effort was made, to draw me from my scene of domestic attachment.
Numberless messages and letters from Lords Northington and Lyttelton,
from Mr. Fitzgerald and many others, were conveyed to me. But they all,
excepting Lord Northington's, were dictated in the language of
gallantry, were replete with professions of love, and wishes to release
me from my unpleasant and humiliating situation,--and were therefore
treated with contempt, scorn, and indignation. For God can bear witness
that, at that period, my mind had never entertained a thought of
violating those vows which I had made to my husband at the altar.

What I suffered during this tedious captivity! My little volume of poems
sold but indifferently; my health was considerably impaired; and the
trifling income which Mr. Robinson received from his father was scarcely
sufficient to support him. I will not enter into a tedious detail of
vulgar sorrows, of vulgar scenes; I seldom quitted my apartment, and
never till the evening, when for air and exercise I walked on the
racket-ground with my husband.

It was during one of these night walks that my little daughter first
blessed my ears with the articulation of words. The circumstance made a
forcible and indelible impression on my mind. It was a clear moonlight
evening; the infant was in the arms of her nursery-maid; she was dancing
her up and down, and was playing with her; her eyes were fixed on the
moon, to which she pointed with her small forefinger. On a sudden a
cloud passed over it, and the child, with a slow falling of her hand,
articulately sighed, "All gone!" This had been a customary expression
with her maid, whenever the infant wanted anything which it was deemed
prudent to withhold or to hide from her. These little nothings will
appear insignificant to the common reader, but to the parent whose heart
is ennobled by sensibility they will become matters of important
interest. I can only add, that I walked till near midnight, watching
every cloud that passed over the moon, and as often, with a rapturous
sensation, hearing my little prattler repeat her observation.

Having much leisure and many melancholy hours, I again turned my
thoughts toward the muses. I chose "Captivity" for the subject of my
pen, and soon composed a quarto poem of some length; it was superior to
my former production, but it was full of defects, replete with weak or
laboured lines. I never now rend my early compositions without a
suffusion on my cheek, which marks my humble opinion of them.

At this period I was informed that the Duchess of Devonshire[21] was the
admirer and patroness of literature. With a mixture of timidity and hope
I sent her Grace a neatly bound volume of my poems, accompanied by a
short letter apologising for their defects, and pleading my age as the
only excuse for their inaccuracy. My brother, who was a charming youth,
was the bearer of my first literary offering at the shrine of nobility.
The duchess admitted him, and with the most generous and amiable
sensibility inquired some particulars respecting my situation, with a
request that on the following day I would make her a visit.

I knew not what to do. Her liberality claimed my compliance; yet, as I
had never, during my husband's long captivity, quitted him for half an
hour, I felt a sort of reluctance that pained the romantic firmness of
my mind, while I meditated what I considered as a breach of my domestic
attachment. However, at the particular and earnest request of Mr.
Robinson, I consented, and accordingly accepted the duchess's
invitation.

During my seclusion from the world, I had adapted my dress to my
situation. Neatness was at all times my pride; but now plainness was the
conformity to necessity. Simple habiliments became the abode of
adversity; and the plain brown satin gown, which I wore on my first
visit to the Duchess of Devonshire, appeared to me as strange as a
birthday court-suit to a newly married citizen's daughter.

To describe the duchess's look and manner when she entered the back
drawing-room of Devonshire House would be impracticable; mildness and
sensibility beamed in her eyes and irradiated her countenance. She
expressed her surprise at seeing so young a person, who had already
experienced such vicissitude of fortune; she lamented that my destiny
was so little proportioned to what she was pleased to term my desert,
and with a tear of gentle sympathy requested that I would accept a proof
of her good wishes. I had not words to express my feelings, and was
departing, when the duchess requested me to call on her very often, and
to bring my little daughter with me.

I made frequent visits to the amiable duchess, and was at all times
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.

Were I to mention the names of those who held forth the temptations of
fortune at this moment of public peril, I might create some reproaches
in many families of the fashionable world. Among others who offered most
liberally to purchase my indiscretion was the late Duke of Rutland; a
settlement of six hundred pounds per annum was proposed as the means of
estranging me entirely from my husband. I refused the offer. I wished to
remain, in the eyes of the public, deserving of its patronage. I shall
not enter into a minute detail of temptations which assailed my
fortitude.

The flattering and zealous attentions which Mr. Sheridan evinced were
strikingly contrasting with the marked and increasing neglect of my
husband. I now found that he supported two women, in one house, in
Maiden Lane, Covent Garden. The one was a figure-dancer in Drury Lane
Theatre; the other, a woman of professed libertinism. With these he
passed all his hours that he could steal from me; and I found that my
salary was at times inadequate to the expenses which were incurred by an
enlarged circle of new acquaintance, which Mr. Robinson had formed since
my appearance in the dramatic scene. Added to this, the bond creditors
became so clamorous, that the whole of my benefits were appropriated to
their demands; and on the second year after my appearance at Drury Lane
Theatre, Mr. Robinson once more persuaded me to make a visit at
Tregunter.

I was now received with more civility, and more warmly welcomed, than I
had been on any former arrival. Though the assumed sanctity of Miss
Robinson's manners condemned a dramatic life, the labour was deemed
profitable, and the supposed immorality was consequently tolerated!
However repugnant to my feelings this visit was, still I hoped that it
would promote my husband's interest, and confirm his reconciliation to
his father; I therefore resolved on undertaking it. I now felt that I
could support myself honourably; and the consciousness of independence
is the only true felicity in this world of humiliations.

Mr. Harris was now established in Tregunter House, and several parties
were formed, both at home and abroad, for my amusement. I was consulted
as the very oracle of fashions; I was gazed at and examined with the
most inquisitive curiosity. Mrs. Robinson, the promising young actress,
was a very different personage from Mrs. Robinson who had been
overwhelmed with sorrows, and came to ask an asylum under the roof of
vulgar ostentation. I remained only a fortnight in Wales, and then
returned to London, to prepare for the opening of the theatre.

We stopped at Bath on our way to town, where Mr. Robinson met with Mr.
George Brereton, with whom, at Newmarket, he had some time before become
acquainted. Mr. Brereton was a man of fortune, and married to his
beautiful cousin, the daughter of Major Brereton, then master of the
ceremonies at Bath. At a former period Mr. Robinson had owed a sum of
money to Mr. George Brereton, for which he had given a promissory note.
On our arrival at Bath we received a visit from this creditor, who
assured Mr. Robinson that he was in no haste for the payment of his
note, and at the same time very earnestly pressed us to remain a few
days in that fashionable city. We were in no hurry to return to London,
having still more than three weeks' holidays. We resided at the "Three
Tuns," one of the best inns, and Mr. Brereton was on all occasions
particularly attentive.

The motive of this assiduity was at length revealed to me, by a violent
and fervent declaration of love, which astonished and perplexed me. I
knew that Mr. Brereton was of a most impetuous temper; that he had
fought many duels; that he was capable of any outrage; and that he had
my husband completely in his power. Every advance which he had the
temerity to make was by me rejected with indignation. I had not
resolution to inform Mr. Robinson of his danger, and I thought that the
only chance of escaping it was to set out immediately for Bristol, where
I wished to pass a few days, previous to my return to the metropolis.

On the following morning, as we were quitting the inn in Temple Street,
to visit Clifton, Mr. Robinson was arrested at the suit of Mr. George
Brereton, who waited himself in an upper room in order to see the writ
executed. I forget the exact sum for which Mr. Robinson had given his
promissory note, but I well remember that it was in magnitude beyond his
power to pay. Our consternation was indescribable.

In a few minutes after, I was informed that a lady wished to speak with
me. Concluding that it was some old acquaintance, and happy to feel that
in this perplexing dilemma I had still a friend to speak to, I followed
the waiter into another room. Mr. Robinson was detained by the
sheriff's officer.

On entering the apartment, I beheld Mr. Brereton.

"Well, madam," said he, with a sarcastic smile, "you have involved your
husband in a pretty embarrassment! Had you not been severe toward me,
not only this paltry debt would have been cancelled, but any sum that I
could command would have been at his service. He has now either to pay
me, to fight me, or to go to a prison; and all because you treat me with
such unexampled rigour."

I entreated him to reflect before he drove me to distraction.

"I have reflected," said he, "and I find that you possess the power to
do with me what you will. Promise to return to Bath--to behave more
kindly--and I will this moment discharge your husband."

I burst into tears.

"You cannot be so inhuman as to propose such terms!" said I.

"The inhumanity is on your side," answered Mr. Brereton. "But I have no
time to lose; I must return to Bath; my wife is dangerously ill; and I
do not wish to have my name exposed in a business of this nature."

"Then for Heaven's sake release my husband!" said I. Mr. Brereton smiled
as he rang the bell, and ordered the waiter to look for his carriage. I
now lost all command of myself, and, with the most severe invective,
condemned the infamy of his conduct. "I will return to Bath," said I;
"but it shall be to expose your dishonourable, your barbarous
machinations. I will inform that lovely wife how treacherously you have
acted. I will proclaim to the world that the common arts of seduction
are not sufficiently depraved for the mind of a libertine and a
gamester."

I uttered these words in so loud a tone of voice that he changed colour,
and desired me to be discreet and patient.

"Never, while you insult me, and hold my husband in your power," said I.
"You have carried outrage almost to its fullest extent; you have
awakened all the pride and all the resentment of my soul, and I will
proceed as I think proper."

He now endeavoured to soothe me. He assured me that he was actuated by a
sincere regard for me; and that, knowing how little my husband valued
me, he thought it would be an act of kindness to estrange me from him.
"His neglect of you will justify any step you may take," added he; "and
it is a matter of universal astonishment that you, who upon other
occasions can act with such becoming spirit, should tamely continue to
bear such infidelities from a husband." I shuddered; for this plea had,
in many instances, been urged as an excuse for libertine advances; and
the indifference with which I was treated was, in the theatre, and in
all my circle of friends, a subject of conversation.

Distressed beyond the power of utterance at this new humiliation, I
paced the room with agonising inquietude.

"How little does such a husband deserve such a wife!" continued Mr.
Brereton; "how tasteless must he be, to leave such a woman for the very
lowest and most degraded of the sex! Quit him, and fly with me. I am
ready to make any sacrifice you demand. Shall I propose to Mr. Robinson
to let you go? Shall I offer him his liberty on condition that he allows
you to separate yourself from him? By his conduct he proves that he does
not love you; why then labour to support him?"

I was almost frantic.

"Here, madam," continued Mr. Brereton, after pausing four or five
minutes, "here is your husband's release." So saying, he threw a written
paper on the table. "Now," added he, "I rely on your generosity."

I trembled, and was incapable of speaking. Mr. Brereton conjured me to
compose my spirits, and to conceal my distress from the people of the
inn. "I will return to Bath," said he. "I shall there expect to see
you." He now quitted the room. I saw him get into his chaise and drive
from the inn door. I then hastened to my husband with the discharge; and
all expenses of the arrest being shortly after settled, we set out
for Bath.

Mr. Robinson scarcely inquired what had passed; but I assured him that
my persuasions had produced so sudden a change in Mr. Brereton's
conduct. I said that I hoped he would never again place his freedom in
the hands of a gamester, or his wife's repose in the power of a
libertine. He seemed insensible of the peril attending both the one and
the other.

Expecting letters by the post, we waited the following day, which was
Sunday, at Bath; though, in order to avoid Mr. Brereton, we removed to
the White Lion Inn. But what was my astonishment, in the afternoon,
when, standing at the window, I saw Mr. George Brereton walking on the
opposite side of the way, with his wife and her no less lovely sister! I
now found that the story of her dangerous illness was untrue, and I
flattered myself that I was not seen before I retired from the window.

We now sat down to dinner, and in a few minutes Mr. George Brereton was
announced by the waiter. He coldly bowed to me, and instantly made a
thousand apologies to Mr. Robinson; declared that he had paid the note
away; that he was menaced for the money; and that he came to Bristol,
though too late, to prevent the arrest which had happened. Mr. Robinson
skeptically replied that it was now of little importance; and Mr.
Brereton took his leave, saying that he should have the honour of seeing
us again in the evening. We did not wait for his company, but
immediately after dinner set out for London.

On my arrival in town I saw Mr. Sheridan, whose manner had lost nothing
of its interesting attention. He continued to visit me very frequently,
and always gave me the most friendly counsel. He knew that I was not
properly protected by Mr. Robinson, but he was too generous to build his
gratification on the detraction of another. The happiest moments I then
knew were passed in the society of this distinguished being. He saw me
ill-bestowed upon a man who neither loved nor valued me; he lamented my
destiny, but with such delicate propriety that it consoled while it
revealed to me the unhappiness of my situation. On my return to town the
Duke of Rutland renewed his solicitations. I also received the most
unbounded professions of esteem and admiration from several other
persons. Among the list, I was addressed with proposals of libertine
nature by a royal duke, a lofty marquis, and a city merchant of
considerable fortune, conveyed through the medium of milliners,
mantua-makers, etc. Just at this period my eldest brother visited
England; but such was his unconquerable aversion to my profession as an
actress, that he only once, during a residence of some months in London,
attempted to see me perform. He then only attempted it; for, on my
advancing on the boards, he started from his seat in the stage-box, and
instantly quitted the theatre. My dear mother had no less a dislike to
the pursuit; she never beheld me on the stage but with a painful regret.
Fortunately, my father remained some years out of England, so that he
never saw me in my professional character.

My popularity increasing every night that I appeared, my prospects, both
of fame and affluence, began to brighten. We now hired the house which
is situated between the Hummums and the Bedford Arms, in Covent Garden;
it had been built (I believe) by Doctor Fisher, who married the widow of
the celebrated actor Powel; but Mr. Robinson took the premises of Mrs.
Mattocks, of Covent Garden Theatre. The house was particularly
convenient in every respect; but, above all, on account of its vicinity
to Drury Lane. Here I hoped to enjoy, at least, some cheerful days, as I
found that my circle of friends increased almost hourly.

One of those who paid me most attention was Sir John Lade. The
good-natured baronet, who was then just of age, was our constant
visitor, and cards contributed to beguile those evenings that were not
devoted to dramatic labour. Mr. Robinson played more deeply than was
discreet, but he was, at the end of a few weeks, a very
considerable winner.

In proportion as play obtained its influence over my husband's mind, his
small portion of remaining regard for me visibly decayed. We now had
horses, a phaeton and ponies; and my fashions in dress were followed
with flattering avidity. My house was thronged with visitors, and my
morning levées were crowded so that I could scarcely find a quiet hour
for study. My brother by this time had returned to Italy.

Mr. Sheridan was still my most esteemed of friends. He advised me with
the gentlest anxiety, and he warned me of the danger which expense would
produce, and which might interrupt the rising progress of my dramatic
reputation. He saw the trophies which flattery strewed in my way; and he
lamented that I was on every side surrounded with temptations. There was
a something beautifully sympathetic in every word he uttered; his
admonitions seemed as if dictated by a prescient power, which told him
that I was destined to be deceived!

Situated as I was at this time, the effort was difficult to avoid the
society of Mr. Sheridan. He was manager of the theatre. I could not
avoid seeing and conversing with him at rehearsals and behind the
scenes, and his conversation was always such as to fascinate and charm
me. The brilliant reputation which he had justly acquired for superior
talents, and the fame which was completed by his celebrated "School for
Scandal," had now rendered him so admired, that all ranks of people
courted his society. The greenroom was frequented by nobility and men of
genius; among these were Mr. Fox[32] and the Earl of Derby. The stage
was now enlightened by the very best critics, and embellished by the
very highest talents; and it is not a little remarkable that the drama
was uncommonly productive, the theatre more than usually attended,
during that season when the principal dramatic characters were performed
by women under the age of twenty. Among these were Miss Farren (now Lady
Derby), Miss Walpole (now Mrs. Atkins), Miss P. Hopkins (now Mrs. John
Kemble), and myself.

I had then been married more than four years; my daughter Maria
Elizabeth was nearly three years old. I had been then seen and known at
all public places from the age of fifteen; yet I knew as little of the
world's deceptions as though I had been educated in the deserts of
Siberia. I believed every woman friendly, every man sincere, till I
discovered proofs that their characters were deceptive.

I had now performed two seasons, in tragedy and comedy, with Miss Farren
and the late Mr. Henderson. My first appearance in Palmira (in
"Mahomet") was with the Zaphna of Mr. J. Bannister, the preceding year;
and though the extraordinary comic powers of this excellent actor and
amiable man have established his reputation as a comedian, his first
essay in tragedy was considered as a night of the most distinguished
promise. The Duchess of Devonshire still honoured me with her patronage
and friendship, and I also possessed the esteem of several respectable
and distinguished females.

The play of "The Winter's Tale" was this season commanded by their
Majesties.[33] I never had performed before the royal family; and the
first character in which I was destined to appear was that of Perdita. I
had frequently played the part, both with the Hermione of Mrs. Hartley
and of Miss Farren: but I felt a strange degree of alarm when I found my
name announced to perform it before the royal family.[34]

In the greenroom I was rallied on the occasion; and Mr. Smith,[35] whose
gentlemanly manners and enlightened conversation rendered him an
ornament to the profession, who performed the part of Leontes,
laughingly exclaimed, "By Jove, Mrs. Robinson, you will make a conquest
of the prince, for to-night you look handsomer than ever." I smiled at
the unmerited compliment, and little foresaw the vast variety of events
that would arise from that night's exhibition!

As I stood in the wing opposite the prince's box, waiting to go on the
stage, Mr. Ford, the manager's son, and now a respectable defender of
the laws, presented a friend who accompanied him; this friend was Lord
Viscount Malden, now Earl of Essex.[36]

We entered into conversation during a few minutes, the Prince of Wales
all the time observing us, and frequently speaking to Colonel (now
General) Lake, and to the Honourable Mr. Legge, brother to Lord
Lewisham, who was in waiting on his Royal Highness. I hurried through
the first scene, not without much embarrassment, owing to the fixed
attention with which the Prince of Wales honoured me. Indeed, some
flattering remarks which were made by his Royal Highness met my ear as I
stood near his box, and I was overwhelmed with confusion.

The prince's particular attention was observed by every one, and I was
again rallied at the end of the play. On the last curtsey, the royal
family condescendingly returned a bow to the performers; but just as the
curtain was falling my eyes met those of the Prince of Wales, and with a
look that I never shall forget, he gently inclined his head a second
time; I felt the compliment, and blushed my gratitude.

During the entertainment Lord Malden never ceased conversing with me. He
was young, pleasing, and perfectly accomplished. He remarked the
particular applause which the prince had bestowed on my performance;
said a thousand civil things; and detained me in conversation till the
evening's performance was concluded.

I was now going to my chair, which waited, when I met the royal family
crossing the stage. I was again honoured with a very marked and low bow
from the Prince of Wales. On my return home, I had a party to supper;
and the whole conversation centred in encomiums on the person, graces,
and amiable manners of the illustrious heir-apparent.

Within two or three days of this time, Lord Malden made me a morning
visit. Mr. Robinson was not at home, and I received him rather
awkwardly. But his lordship's embarrassment far exceeded mine. He
attempted to speak--paused, hesitated, apologised; I knew not why. He
hoped I would pardon him; that I would not mention something he had to
communicate; that I would consider the peculiar delicacy of his
situation, and then act as I thought proper. I could not comprehend his
meaning, and therefore requested that he would be explicit.

After some moments of evident rumination, he tremblingly drew a small
letter from his pocket. I took it, and knew not what to say. It was
addressed to Perdita. I smiled, I believe rather sarcastically, and
opened the _billet_. It contained only a few words, but those
expressive of more than common civility; they were signed Florizel.[37]

"Well, my lord, and what does this mean?" said I, half angry.

"Can you not guess the writer?" said Lord Malden.

"Perhaps yourself, my lord," cried I, gravely.

"Upon my honour, no," said the viscount. "I should not have dared so to
address you on so short an acquaintance."

I pressed him to tell me from whom the letter came. He again hesitated;
he seemed confused, and sorry that he had undertaken to deliver it.

"I hope that I shall not forfeit your good opinion," said he; "but--"

"But what, my lord?"

"I could not refuse--for the letter is from the Prince of Wales."

I was astonished; I confess that I was agitated; but I was also somewhat
skeptical as to the truth of Lord Malden's assertion. I returned a
formal and a doubtful answer, and his lordship shortly after took
his leave.

A thousand times did I read this short but expressive letter. Still I
did not implicitly believe that it was written by the prince; I rather
considered it as an experiment made by Lord Malden, either on my vanity
or propriety of conduct. On the next evening the viscount repeated his
visit. We had a card-party of six or seven, and the Prince of Wales was
again the subject of unbounded panegyric. Lord Malden spoke of his Royal
Highness's manners as the most polished and fascinating; of his temper
as the most engaging; and of his mind, the most replete with every
amiable sentiment. I heard these praises, and my heart beat with
conscious pride, while memory turned to the partial but delicately
respectful letter which I had received on the preceding morning.

The next day Lord Malden brought me a second letter. He assured me that
the prince was most unhappy lest I should be offended at his conduct,
and that he conjured me to go that night to the Oratorio, [38] where he
would by some signal convince me that he was the writer of the letters,
supposing I was still skeptical as to their authenticity.

I went to the Oratorio; and, on taking my seat in the balcony-box, the
prince almost instantaneously observed me. He held the printed bill
before his face, and drew his hand across his forehead, still fixing his
eyes on me. I was confused, and knew not what to do. My husband was with
me, and I was fearful of his observing what passed. Still the prince
continued to make signs, such as moving his hand on the edge of the box
as if writing, then speaking to the Duke of York[39] (then Bishop of
Osnaburg), who also looked toward me with particular attention.

I now observed one of the gentlemen in waiting bring the prince a glass
of water; before he raised it to his lips he looked at me. So marked was
his Royal Highness's conduct that many of the audience observed it;
several persons in the pit directed their gaze at the place where I sat;
and, on the following day, one of the diurnal prints observed that there
was one passage in Dryden's Ode which seemed particularly interesting to
the Prince of Wales, who--
        "Gazed on the fair
        Who caused his care,
      And sigh'd, and look'd, and sigh'd again."[40]

However flattering it might have been to female vanity to know that the
most admired and most accomplished prince in Europe was devotedly
attached to me; however dangerous to the heart such idolatry as his
Royal Highness, during many months, professed in almost daily letters,
which were conveyed to me by Lord Malden, still I declined any interview
with his Royal Highness. I was not insensible to all his powers of
attraction; I thought him one of the most amiable of men. There was a
beautiful ingenuousness in his language, a warm and enthusiastic
adoration, expressed in every letter, which interested and charmed me.
During the whole spring, till the theatre closed, this correspondence
continued, every day giving me some new assurance of inviolable
affection.

After we had corresponded some months without ever speaking to each
other (for I still declined meeting his Royal Highness, from a dread of
the _éclat_ which such a connection would produce, and the fear of
injuring him in the opinion of his royal relatives), I received, through
the hands of Lord Malden, the prince's portrait in miniature, painted by
the late Mr. Meyer. This picture is now in my possession. Within the
case was a small heart cut in paper, which I also have; on one side was
written, _"Je ne change qu'en mourant;"_ on the other, "Unalterable to
my Perdita through life."

During many months of confidential correspondence, I always offered his
Royal Highness the best advice in my power; I disclaimed every sordid
and interested thought; I recommended him to be patient till he should
become his own master; to wait till he knew more of my mind and manners,
before he engaged in a public attachment to me; and, above all, to do
nothing that might incur the displeasure of his Royal Highness's family.
I entreated him to recollect that he was young, and led on by the
impetuosity of passion; that should I consent to quit my profession and
my husband, I should be thrown entirely on his mercy. I strongly
pictured the temptations to which beauty would expose him; the many arts
that would be practised to undermine me in his affections; the public
abuse which calumny and envy would heap upon me; and the misery I should
suffer, if, after I had given him every proof of confidence, he should
change in his sentiments toward me. To all this I received repeated
assurances of inviolable affection; and I most firmly believe that his
Royal Highness meant what he professed--indeed, his soul was too
ingenuous, his mind too liberal, and his heart too susceptible, to
deceive premeditatedly, or to harbour even for a moment the idea of
deliberate deception.

At every interview with Lord Maiden I perceived that he regretted the
task he had undertaken; but he assured me that the prince was almost
frantic whenever he suggested a wish to decline interfering. Once I
remember his lordship's telling me that the late Duke of Cumberland had
made him a visit early in the morning, at his house in Clarges Street,
informing him that the prince was most wretched on my account, and
imploring him to continue his services only a short time longer. The
prince's establishment was then in agitation; at this period his Royal
Highness still resided in Buckingham House.

A proposal was now made that I should meet his Royal Highness at his
apartments, in the disguise of male attire. I was accustomed to perform
in that dress, and the prince had seen me, I believe, in the character
of the Irish Widow. To this plan I decidedly objected. The indelicacy of
such a step, as well as the danger of detection, made me shrink from the
proposal. My refusal threw his Royal Highness into the most distressing
agitation, as was expressed by the letter which I received on the
following morning. Lord Malden again lamented that he had engaged
himself in the intercourse, and declared that he had himself conceived
so violent a passion for me that he was the most miserable and
unfortunate of mortals.

During this period, though Mr. Robinson was a stranger to my epistolary
intercourse with the prince, his conduct was entirely neglectful. He was
perfectly careless respecting my fame and my repose; passed his leisure
hours with the most abandoned women, and even my own servants complained
of his illicit advances. I remember one, who was plain even to ugliness;
she was short, ill-made, squalid, and dirty; once, on my return from a
rehearsal, I found that this woman was locked with my husband in my
chamber. I also knew that Mr. Robinson continued his connection with a
female who lodged in Maiden Lane, and who was only one of the few that
proved his domestic apostacy.

His indifference naturally produced an alienation of esteem on my side,
and the increasing adoration of the most enchanting of mortals hourly
reconciled my mind to the idea of a separation. The unbounded assurances
of lasting affection which I received from his Royal Highness in many
scores of the most eloquent letters, the contempt which I experienced
from my husband, and the perpetual labour which I underwent for his
support, at length began to weary my fortitude. Still I was reluctant to
become the theme of public animadversion, and still I remonstrated with
my husband on the unkindness of his conduct.

       *       *       *       *       *

_[The narrative of Mrs. Robinson closes here.]_




CONTINUATION

BY A FRIEND


Among those persons who have at various periods attracted the attention
of the public, there are few whose virtues have been so little known, or
whose characters have been so unfairly estimated, as the subject of the
preceding memoir. To compress within narrow limits the numerous
circumstances by which the later years of Mrs. Robinson's life were
chequered, will be a task of no little difficulty. The earlier periods
of her existence, rendered more interesting as narrated by her own pen,
have doubtlessly been justly appreciated by the reflecting and candid
reader, whose sympathy they could not fail to awaken. That she lived not
to conclude the history of a life scarcely less eventful than
unfortunate, cannot but afford a subject of sincere regret.

The conflicts which shook the mind, and the passions which succeeded to
each other in the breast of Mrs. Robinson, at the period when her
narrative closes, a crisis perhaps the most important in her life, may
be more easily conceived than described. A laborious though captivating
profession, the profits of which were unequal to the expenses of her
establishment, and the assiduities of her illustrious lover, to whom she
naturally looked for protection, combined to divide her attention and
bewilder her inexperienced mind. The partiality of her royal admirer had
begun to excite observation, to awaken curiosity, and to provoke the
malignant passions which, under an affected concern for decorum, assumed
the guise of virtue. The daily prints teemed with hints of the favour of
Mrs. Robinson with "one whose manners were resistless, and whose smile
was victory." These circumstances, added to the constant devoirs of Lord
Malden, whose attentions were as little understood as maliciously
interpreted, conspired to distract a young creature, whose exposed
situation, whose w

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