Chapter 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

"LINES

"TO HIM WHO WILL UNDERSTAND THEM

"Thou art no more my bosom's friend; Here must the sweet delusion end, That charmed my senses many a year, Through smiling summers, winters drear. Oh, friendship! am I doomed to find Thou art a phantom of the mind? A glitt'ring shade, an empty name, An air-born vision's vap'rish flame? And yet, the dear deceit so long Has wak'd to joy my matin song, Has bid my tears forget to flow, Chas'd ev'ry pain, sooth'd ev'ry woe; That truth, unwelcome to my ear, Swells the deep sigh, recalls the tear, Gives to the sense the keenest smart, Checks the warm pulses of the heart, Darkens my fate, and steals away Each gleam of joy through life's sad day.

"Britain, farewell! I quit thy shore; My native country charms no more; No guide to mark the toilsome road; No destin'd clime; no fix'd abode: Alone and sad, ordain'd to trace The vast expanse of endless space; To view, upon the mountain's height, Through varied shades of glimm'ring light, The distant landscape fade away In the last gleam of parting day: Or, on the quiv'ring lucid stream, To watch the pale moon's silv'ry beam; Or when, in sad and plaintive strains, The mournful Philomel complains, In dulcet tones bewails her fate, And murmurs for her absent mate; Inspir'd by sympathy divine, I'll weep her woes--for they are mine. Driv'n by my fate, where'er I go, O'er burning plains, o'er hills of snow, Or on the bosom of the wave, The howling tempest doom'd to brave,-- Where'er my lonely course I bend, Thy image shall my steps attend; Each object I am doom'd to see, Shall bid remembrance picture thee. Yes; I shall view thee in each flow'r, That changes with the transient hour: Thy wand'ring fancy I shall find Borne on the wings of every wind: Thy wild impetuous passions trace O'er the white waves' tempestuous space; In every changing season prove An emblem of thy wav'ring love.

"Torn from my country, friends, and you, The world lies open to my view; New objects shall my mind engage; I will explore th' historic page; Sweet poetry shall soothe my soul; Philosophy each pang control: The muse I'll seek--her lambent fire My soul's quick senses shall inspire; With finer nerves my heart shall beat, Touch'd by heav'n's own Promethean heat; Italia's gales shall bear my song In soft-link'd notes her woods among; Upon the blue hill's misty side, Thro' trackless deserts waste and wide, O'er craggy rocks, whose torrents flow Upon the silver sands below. Sweet land of melody! 'tis thine The softest passions to refine; Thy myrtle groves, thy melting strains, Shall harmonise and soothe my pains. Nor will I cast one thought behind, On foes relentless, friends unkind: I feel, I feel their poison'd dart Pierce the life-nerve within my heart; 'Tis mingled with the vital heat That bids my throbbing pulses beat; Soon shall that vital heat be o'er, Those throbbing pulses beat no more! No--I will breathe the spicy gale; Plunge the clear stream, new health exhale; O'er my pale cheek diffuse the rose, And drink oblivion to my woes."

This _improvisatore_ produced in her auditor not less surprise than admiration, when solemnly assured by its author that this was the first time of its being repeated. Mr. Burke[47] entreated her to commit the poem to writing, a request which was readily complied with. Mrs. Robinson had afterward the gratification of finding this offspring of her genius inserted in the _Annual Register_, with a flattering encomium from the pen of the eloquent and ingenious editor.

Mrs. Robinson continued to indulge in this solace for her dejected spirits, and in sonnets, elegies, and odes, displayed the powers and versatility of her mind. On one of these nights of melancholy inspiration she discovered from her window a small boat, struggling in the spray, which dashed against the wall of her garden. Presently two fishermen brought on shore in their arms a burthen, which, notwithstanding the distance, Mrs. Robinson perceived to be a human body, which the fishermen, after covering with a sail from their boat, left on the land and disappeared. But a short time elapsed before the men returned, bringing with them fuel, with which they vainly endeavoured to reanimate their unfortunate charge. Struck with a circumstance so affecting, which the stillness of the night rendered yet more impressive, Mrs. Robinson remained some time at her window, motionless with horror. At length, recovering her recollection, she alarmed the family; but before they could gain the beach the men had again departed. The morning dawned, and day broke in upon the tragical scene. The bathers passed and reprised with little concern, while the corpse continued extended on the shore, not twenty yards from the Steine. During the course of the day, many persons came to look on the body, which still remained unclaimed and unknown. Another day wore away, and the corpse was unburied, the lord of the manor having refused to a fellow being a grave in which his bones might decently repose, alleging as an excuse that he did not belong to that parish. Mrs. Robinson, humanely indignant at the scene which passed, exerted herself, but without success, to procure by subscription a small sum for performing the last duties to a wretched outcast. Unwilling, by an ostentatious display of her name, to offend the higher and more fastidious female powers, she presented to the fishermen her own contribution, and declined further to interfere. The affair dropped; and the body of the stranger, being dragged to the cliff, was covered by a heap of stones, without the tribute of a sigh or the ceremony of a prayer.

These circumstances made on the mind of Mrs. Robinson a deep and lasting impression; even at a distant period she could not repeat them without horror and indignation. This incident gave rise to the poem entitled "The Haunted Beach," written but a few months before her death.

In the winter of 1790, Mrs. Robinson entered into a poetical correspondence with Mr. Robert Merry, under the fictitious names of "Laura," and "Laura Maria;" Mr. Merry assuming the title of "Della Crusca."[48]

Mrs. Robinson now proceeded in her literary career with redoubled ardour; but, dazzled by the false metaphors and rhapsodical extravagance of some contemporary writers, she suffered her judgment to be misled and her taste to be perverted; an error of which she became afterward sensible. During her poetical disguise, many complimentary poems were addressed to her; several ladies of the Blue Stocking Club, while Mrs. Robinson remained unknown, even ventured to admire, nay more, to recite her productions in their learned and critical coterie.

The attention which this novel species of correspondence excited, and the encomiums which were passed on her poems, could not fail to gratify the pride of the writer, who sent her next performance, with her own signature, to the paper published under the title of _The World_, avowing herself at the same time the author of the lines signed "Laura," and "Laura Maria." This information being received by Mr. Bell, though a professed admirer of the genius of Mrs. Robinson, with some degree of skepticism, he replied, "That the poem with which Mrs. Robinson had honoured him was vastly pretty; but that he was well acquainted with the author of the productions alluded to." Mrs. Robinson, a little disgusted at this incredulity, immediately sent for Mr. Bell, whom she found means to convince of her veracity, and of his own injustice.

In 1791 Mrs. Robinson produced her quarto poem, entitled "Ainsi va le Monde." This work, containing three hundred and fifty lines, was written in twelve hours, as a reply to Mr. Merry's "Laurel of Liberty," which was sent to Mrs. Robinson on a Saturday; on the Tuesday following the answer was composed and given to the public.

Encouraged by popular approbation beyond her most sanguine hopes, Mrs. Robinson now published her first essay in prose, in the romance of "Vancenza," of which the whole edition was sold in one day, and of which five impressions have since followed. It must be confessed that this production owed its popularity to the celebrity of the author's name, and the favourable impression of her talents given to the public by her poetical compositions, rather than to its intrinsic merit. In the same year the poems of Mrs. Robinson were collected and published in one volume. The names of nearly six hundred subscribers, of the most distinguished rank and talents, graced the list which precedes the work.

The mind of Mrs. Robinson, beguiled by these pursuits from preying upon itself, became gradually reconciled to the calamitous state of her health; the mournful certainty of total and incurable lameness, while yet in the bloom and summer of life, was alleviated by the consciousness of intellectual resource, and by the activity of a fertile fancy. In 1791 she passed the greater part of the summer at Bath, occupied in lighter poetical compositions. But even from this relief she was now for awhile debarred; the perpetual exercise of the imagination and intellect, added to a uniform and sedentary life, affected the system of her nerves, and contributed to debilitate her frame. She was prohibited by her physician, not merely from committing her thoughts to paper, but, had it been possible, from thinking at all. No truant, escaped from school, could receive more pleasure in eluding a severe master, than did Mrs. Robinson, when, the vigilance of her physician relaxing, she could once more resume her books and her pen.

As an example of the facility and rapidity with which she composed, the following anecdote may be given. Returning one evening from the bath, she beheld, a few paces before her chair, an elderly man, hurried along by a crowd of people, by whom he was pelted with mud and stones. His meek and unresisting deportment exciting her attention, she inquired what were his offences, and learned with pity and surprise that he was an unfortunate maniac, known only by the appellation of "mad Jemmy." The situation of this miserable being seized her imagination and became the subject of her attention. She would wait whole hours for the appearance of the poor maniac, and, whatever were her occupations, the voice of mad Jemmy was sure to allure her to the window. She would gaze upon his venerable but emaciated countenance with sensations of awe almost reverential, while the barbarous persecutions of the thoughtless crowd never failed to agonise her feelings.

One night after bathing, having suffered from her disorder more than usual pain, she swallowed, by order of her physician, near eighty drops of laudanum. Having slept for some hours, she awoke, and calling her daughter, desired her to take a pen and write what she should dictate. Miss Robinson, supposing that a request so unusual might proceed from the delirium excited by the opium, endeavoured in vain to dissuade her mother from her purpose. The spirit of inspiration was not to be subdued, and she repeated, throughout, the admirable poem of "The Maniac,"[49] much faster than it could be committed to paper.

She lay, while dictating, with her eyes closed, apparently in the stupor which opium frequently produces, repeating like a person talking in her sleep. This affecting performance, produced in circumstances so singular, does no less credit to the genius than to the heart of the author.

On the ensuing morning Mrs. Robinson had only a confused idea of what had passed, nor could be convinced of the fact till the manuscript was produced. She declared that she had been dreaming of mad Jemmy throughout the night, but was perfectly unconscious of having been awake while she composed the poem, or of the circumstances narrated by her daughter.

Mrs. Robinson, in the following summer, determined on another continental tour, purposing to remain some time at Spa. She longed once more to experience the friendly greeting and liberal kindness which even her acknowledged talents had in her native country failed to procure. She quitted London in July, 1792, accompanied by her mother and daughter. The susceptible and energetic mind, fortunately for its possessor, is endowed with an elastic power, that enables it to rise again from the benumbing effects of those adverse strokes of fortune to which it is but too vulnerable. If a lively imagination add poignancy to disappointment, it also has in itself resources unknown to more equal temperaments. In the midst of the depressing feelings which Mrs. Robinson experienced in once more becoming a wanderer from her home, she courted the inspiration of the muse, and soothed, by the following beautiful stanzas, the melancholy sensations that oppressed her heart.

"STANZAS

"WRITTEN BETWEEN DOVER AND CALAIS,

"JULY 20, 1792

"Bounding billow, cease thy motion, Bear me not so swiftly o'er; Cease thy roaring, foamy ocean, I will tempt thy rage no more.

"Ah! within my bosom beating, Varying passions wildly reign; Love, with proud Resentment meeting, Throbs by turns, of joy and pain.

"Joy, that far from foes I wander, Where their taunts can reach no more; Pain, that woman's heart grows fonder When her dream of bliss is o'er!

"Love, by fickle fancy banish'd, Spurn'd by hope, indignant flies; Yet when love and hope are vanish'd, Restless mem'ry never dies.

"Far I go, where fate shall lead me, Far across the troubled deep; Where no stranger's ear shall heed me, Where no eye for me shall weep.

"Proud has been my fatal passion! Proud my injured heart shall be! While each thought, each inclination, Still shall prove me worthy thee!

"Not one sigh shall tell my story; Not one tear my cheek shall stain; Silent grief shall be my glory,-- Grief, that stoops not to complain!

"Let the bosom prone to ranging, Still by ranging seek a cure; Mine disdains the thought of changing, Proudly destin'd to endure.

"Yet, ere far from all I treasur'd, ----ere I bid adieu; Ere my days of pain are measur'd, Take the song that's still thy due!

"Yet, believe, no servile passions Seek to charm thy vagrant mind; Well I know thy inclinations, Wav'ring as the passing wind.

"I have lov'd thee,--dearly lov'd thee, Through an age of worldly woe; How ungrateful I have prov'd thee Let my mournful exile show!

"Ten long years of anxious sorrow, Hour by hour I counted o'er; Looking forward, till to-morrow, Every day I lov'd thee more!

"Pow'r and splendour could not charm me; I no joy in wealth could see! Nor could threats or fears alarm me, Save the fear of losing thee!

"When the storms of fortune press'd thee, I have wept to see thee weep When relentless cares distress'd thee, I have lull'd those cares to sleep!

"When with thee, what ills could harm me? Thou couldst every pang assuage; But when absent, nought could charm me; Every moment seem'd an age.

"Fare thee well, ungrateful lover! Welcome Gallia's hostile shore: Now the breezes waft me over; Now we part--to meet no more."

On landing at Calais, Mrs. Robinson hesitated whether to proceed. To travel through Flanders, then the seat of war, threatened too many perils to be attempted with impunity; she determined, therefore, for some time to remain at Calais, the insipid and spiritless amusements of which presented little either to divert her attention or engage her mind. Her time passed in listening to the complaints of the impoverished aristocrats, or in attending to the air-built projects of their triumphant adversaries. The arrival of travellers from England, or the return of those from Paris, alone diversified the scene, and afforded a resource to the curious and active inquirer.

The sudden arrival of her husband gave a turn to the feelings of Mrs. Robinson: he had crossed the channel for the purpose of carrying back to England his daughter, whom he wished to present to a brother newly returned from the East Indies. Maternal conflicts shook on this occasion the mind of Mrs. Robinson, which hesitated between a concern for the interests of her beloved child, from whom she had never been separated, and the pain of parting from her. She resolved at length on accompanying her to England, and, with this view, quitted Calais on the memorable 2d of September, 1792,[50] a day which will reflect on the annals of the republic an indelible stain.

They had sailed but a few hours when the _arret_ arrived, by which every British subject throughout France was restrained.

Mrs. Robinson rejoiced in her escape, and anticipated with delight the idea of seeing her daughter placed in wealthy protection, the great passport in her own country to honour and esteem. Miss Robinson received from her new relation the promise of protection and favour, upon condition that she renounced for ever the filial tie which united her to both parents. This proposal was rejected by the young lady with proper principle and becoming spirit.

In the year 1793 a little farce, entitled "Nobody," was written by Mrs. Robinson. This piece, designed as a satire on female gamesters, was received at the theatre, the characters distributed, and preparations made for its exhibition. At this period one of the principal performers gave up her part, alleging that the piece was intended as a ridicule on her particular friend. Another actress also, though in "herself a host," was intimidated by a letter, informing her that "'Nobody' should be damned!" The author received likewise, on the same day, a scurrilous, indecent, and ill-disguised scrawl, signifying to her that the farce was already condemned. On the drawing up of the curtain, several persons in the galleries, whose liveries betrayed their employers, were heard to declare that they were sent to do up "Nobody." Even women of distinguished rank hissed through their fans. Notwithstanding these manoeuvres and exertions, the more rational part of the audience seemed inclined to hear before they passed judgment, and, with a firmness that never fails to awe, demanded that the piece should proceed. The first act was accordingly suffered without interruption; a song in the second being unfortunately encored, the malcontents once more ventured to raise their voices, and the malignity that had been forcibly suppressed burst forth with redoubled violence. For three nights the theatre presented a scene of confusion, when the authoress, after experiencing the gratification of a zealous and sturdy defence, thought proper wholly to withdraw the cause of contention.[51]