Angelina Reviews

The Corvey Novels Project at the University of Nebraska

— Studies in British Literature of the Romantic Period —

Mary Robinson

Mrs. Mary Robinson. Angelina; a Novel, in Three Volumes. 3 vols.

London: Hookham and Carpenter, 1796.

Contemporary Reviews

Critical Review 16 (1796): 397-400.

Angelina; a Novel, in three Volumes. By Mrs. Mary Robinson, Author of Poems, Vancenza, The Widow, &c. &c. &c. 12 mo. 13 s. 6 d. Boards. Hookham and Carpenter. 1796.

Were we permitted to consider this novel as a burlesque upon the extremes of romantic absurdity, we should certainly pronounce it a work of considerable merit. We have seldom seen the nonsensical jargon of mock sentiment, and overstrained hyperbole, more happily exposed to ridicule.

'During the period of my confinement in my chamber, lord Acreland employed himself with his violoncello, or in making visits to the neighboring nobility; while Mr. Belmont passed every day at my favourite hermitage, frequently remained there till the4 last gleam of light faded from the surrounding landscape. I used to observe him from my window; his pace was slow, his arms were folded, an air of melancholy marked his steps. I could see him distinctly, till he reached the wood; and, with a telescope which I had removed from the library to view the distant scenery, I could perceive him at the window of the hermitage, leaning pensively on hid hand, and for whole hours unvarying his attitude. What an extraordinary being! My fathers thinks him deranged in his intellects;; and lady Watkins says he informed sir Philip, that he was afraid he should "make nothing of him."

'Oh! Tasteless, undiscriminating thought! Can the plodding occupations of sordid minds tend to polish such a gem of nature? He is already perfect! Inestimable in value, but dangerous to contemplate!' Vol. i. P. 175.

Such is the description given by a merchant's daughter of one of her father's clerks! Ridiculous as the inflated language of this and similar descriptions may appear to the enlightened reader,--on the imagination of a poor romantic girl, it is calculated to produce more serious effects. The story itself, when told is plain language, is too absurd to injure the mind of the most romantic miss; but when the immoral conduct of the heroines is wrapped in the tinseled veil of sentiment, the youthful mind loses sight of its deformity; and as the imagination warms, the distinctions of vice and virtue are forgotten. Angelina is introduced to our acquaintance as the cast- / off mistress of Lord Acreland, who, on the report of his death, had traveled into Wales, and there, in the language of the book, becomes 'the beauteous inmate of the Welch mountains.' She is thus described by a young baronet, who was sent in search of her by lord Acreland, at the very moment when his lordship had resolved to repair his shattered fortune by marring the daughter of a West-India merchant——

'I approached gently; she started, at seeing me, and rose from her seat. I bowed with veneration. She was all grace, beauty, and gentleness! She was silent, but the enlightened soul beamed in her large eyes; they were rendered powerful by their softness, and captivating by that solemn sensibility which seemed the effects of deep and melancholy musing.

'She was drest in white muslin; a narrow black zone served to fasten the drapery, which gave her the appearance of a Grecian statue: her head was unadorned, except by nature, which had bestowed a profusion of dark auburn hair, that waved about her shoulders, and partly shaded her white forehead; her eye-brows were nearly black; her eyes of the deepest blue; her nose beautifully formed; her cheek—O grief! What a banquet hadst thou there! It had lost the bloom of youth, of health, of sweet repose! She endeavoured to smile when I approached her. She could not: long accustomed to mournful sufferance, she had forgot the very semblance of delight. Is it possible that any being, blessed with reason, sentiment, or humanity, could destroy the peace of such an angel? Hold; I did not recollect that I was writing to Lord Acreland.

'Her's was not the morning of juvenile luster! She must have been more strikingly brilliant, more wonderfully lovely! But she never could have appeared so interesting as she did at the moment in which I describe her! She displayed not the freshness of the rose, but she convinced m that twice eighteen summers can mature a myrtle, sweet to the sense, and decorated with that sober grace which can rival the most animated tints of the gaudiest flower! She is a gem formed by the bewitching hand of nature; not glowing with the dazzling rays of the brilliant, but mildly graced, as the more modest pearl, intrinsically rare, and elegantly unassuming!' Vol. i. p. 216.

Lord Acreland continues to prosecute his marriage,—the young lady shows little or no repugnance to the alliance, till captivated by the placid and manly countenance of a young man, who had unfortunately, just at this juncture, been placed in her father's counting-house, by his patron sir Philip Watkins. The young lady soon discovers that uncommon merit of this hero of the counting-house,—their sentimental conver- / sations in the grottoes and hermitages,—their apropos meetings, when, according to the custom of ladies in romances, they went to wander at midnight in the woods, afford ample subject for the ladies' pens. At length her father's jealousy is alarmed,—the young clerk makes his escape,—his mistress follows his example. The morning on which she was to have been married to lord Acreland, she elopes from her father's house, and flies to London on the outside of a stage-coach,—hears that her lover has gone on board the fleet as a volunteer,—that he is wounded,—has a fever of course,—eludes the vigilance of her attendants,—and, in her robe de chamber, takes a walk to Portsmouth! Thither, likewise fascinated by the enchanting mien of the young clerk, went sir James Montagu, a sentimental city banker, who, sallying forth at midnight, thus described his meeting with our heroine upon the ramparts—

'Two nights since, soon after my arrival at Portsmouth, being little inclined to rest, and much to meditation, I strolled towards the ramparts. The moon shone clearly, and the sea was more than usually agitated. Yet the scene was more melancholy than terrific. I stood for a considerable time, contemplating the ocean, and listening to the successive waves that rolling towards the shore dashed against the fortress.

'The fleet which was visible at Spithead occasioned a thousand mournful reflections in my mind; I naturally thought on those who had perished; I fancied that I could hear their dying groans; see their deep wounds, and trace the torrents of blood, that, gushing from them, ran in mingling streams along the decks. I then started, as if roused by the thundering cannon; I almost believed that the air thickened with the clouds of sulfur rising from the floating bulwarks. My ideas then were filled with the cries of helpless infants, left to bewail a gallant father. I saw, in fancy, the despairing widow, the aged parent, hosts of kindred, weeping, raving, lamenting, perhaps, their only hope! While he, a mangled corpse, was consigned to the howling deep-sinking fathoms down the terrible abyss—cold—insensible!

"And for what was this miserable warfare first invented?" said I. While I asked myself the question I observed something dart swiftly by me: it roused me from my reverie; for the lateness of the hour, it being near midnight, rendered the spot as solitary as a desert.

'So suddenly did the figure glide before me, that I almost instantly lost sight of it: I was inclined to believe imagination had conjured up that which was not real; and that the deception originated in my situation, and the surrounding scenery. /

'I proceeded along the ramparts, and in a few minutes again beheld the form, which had so startled me, standing on the point of one of the bastions.

'Curiosity made me hasten towards it. When I came within a few yards of the figure, I plainly perceived, that it was a female, elegantly formed, and of no mean condition: her dress, which was white and transparent, was contrasted by her long dark hair, which floated in the wind. She had placed herself in a situation so perilous, that the least surprise, or the shortest step forward, would have hurled her headlong into the furious ocean!

'I listened for some moments, but she was silent. Indeed, had she spoke, I could not have heard her, owing to the united clamours of the contending elements.

'I began to fear that she meditated self destruction; and I resolved to make some effort for her preservation, even at the risk of the worst that could happen. I stole unperceived, until I came within reach of her; the whistling of the wind prevented her hearing me; and her eyes were too intently fixed upon the sea to observe any other object: fortunately I caught her in my arms before she was sensible of my approach. She made no resistance, but looked wistfully at me;--such a countenance never did I behold; it had something about it diving! Yet not so placid as the consciousness of bliss would have made it. It was melancholy, yet impatient and imploring. Her beautiful mouth was twice preparing to speak, and as often she shook her head to indicate that the powers of articulation failed.

'The moon continued to throw a clear light on the rampart where we stood. The forlorn wanderer looked like a statue. Her eyes were still bent on the ocean; she smiled, but it was a ghastly smile; every feature bore the marks of unspeakable affliction. Her face was pale as the whitest marble; and her countenance was rendered doubly interesting, by her having bound a white handkerchief round her forehead, beneath which I could just discern her dark and penetrating eyes!' Vol. iii. P. 2.

After four subsequent elopements from her father, this pattern of female propriety and decorum is at length united to her lover, who, according to the laws of romance, is then discovered to be a lord!—the son of the lord who would have married her himself, and of that angelic Angelina, who, after having lived with him so many years as his mistress, is at length acknowledged as his wife! Such are the outlines of the story;—but it would far exceed our bounds, should we attempt to point out all the circumstances which outrage nature, probability, and common sense.

Analytical Review 23 (1796): 293-94.

ART. XXIV. Angelina. A Novel. In a Series of Letters. By Mrs. Mary Robinson. 3 vols. 12 mo. About 900 pages. Price 10s. 6d. in boards. Hookham and Carpenter. 1796.

OUR readers, we doubt not, will be pleased to see, that we are indebted for Angelina to the elegant pen of Mrs. R. To the merit of the author, as a poet and a novelist, we have already, on several occasions, born our testimony; and we conceive that the production, which is now before us, will in no respect detract from her well-earned reputation. Unwilling by anticipation to diminish the pleasure which our readers may receive from the perusal of these volumes, we forbear to enter on the subject of the piece. We shall only observe, that it's principal object is to expose the folly and the iniquity of those parents who attempt to compel the inclinations of their children into whatever conjugal connections their mercenary spirit may choose to prescribe, and to hold forth to just detestation the cruelty of those, who scruple not to barter a daughter's happiness, perhaps through life, for a founding title or a glittering coronet. The characters in the piece are in general naturally pourtrayed and distinctly marked. The most prominent figure, though the novel bears the name of Angelina, is Sophia Clarendon, a young lady of amiable disposition, and highly accomplished. Her father, sir Edward, a rich city merchant, is a perfect picture of gothic ignorance and barbarity, combined with that pride of wealth, and contemptible ambition, which characterize low and vulgar minds. Belmont, a young man, who had been educated as an orphan, and on whom Sophia places her affections, is distinguished by the ardency of reciprocal attachment, the nicest sense of honour, an enlightened mind, with a generous and undaunted spirit. His rival, lord Acreland, though chargeable with some enormous errours, is, notwithstanding, a character rather weak than vicious,--the dupe of the malignant machinations of his sister lady Solina. In the portrait of Angelina we behold an assemblage of almost every excellence which can adorn the female mind beaming mildly through / clouds of affliction and melancholy. Her situation will interest the feelings of the reader, and the disclosure of her history and character forms an agreeable and important scene in the catastrophe. The sentiments contained in these volumes are just, animated, and rational. They breathe a spirit of independence, and a signified superiority to whatever is unessential to the true respectability and genuine excellence of human beings. The story, though it will not greatly rouse or deeply agitate, is yet sufficiently interesting to excite and prolong the attention of the reader; and the phraseology is at once correct and appropriate. There is one errour however, of which, though to some it may appear trifling, we deem it our duty to admonish the author. The errour we allude to is writing "laying" for "lying," and confounding the active with the neuter verb, which she has oftener than once committed.

Monthly Review 19 (March 1796): 350-51.

Art. 25. Angelina. By Mrs. Mary Robinson. 12 mo. 3 Vols. 13s 6d. Boards. Hookham and Carpenter. 1796.

Interesting as these volumes are, we should be negligent of our duty to the public, were we to bestow on them unqualified approbation; and we trust that the fair authoress herself will take in good part the strictures which we are about to make. Of the host of novels, with which the press groans, the generality are of so very inferior a nature as hardly to deserve notice; it is possible therefore, on this account, that we may not be altogether free from prejudice, when perusing the very best specimens of this branch of literature. Perfect impartiality and freedom from prepossession rank not among the privileges of any tribunal, and the decrees of criticism are awarded without any peculiar claim to infallibility. We have however always studies, and ever will study, to be as equitable as possible in the nice administration of literary justice.

With regard to the present work, we are of opinion that the conduct of Sophia towards Charles Belmont, in the scenes at Clarendon Abbey, is by no means consistent with female delicacy; she is willing, as a sacrifice to the prejudices of her father, to become the wife of Lord Acreland, at the same time that she takes no care to check her rising attachment for another; instead of avoiding his society, she seems rather to invite his notice. As Belmont is in some degree the hero of the piece, we should have been better pleased, had he not talked so much of the wounds which his honour had received from the intemperate language of Sir Edward Clarendon; for surely the situation, in which he and Sophia were found, might well have justified the suspicions of a cooler and less interested observer than Sir Edward. The story is altogether destitute of unity. The suffering Angelina, who gives name to the novel, the persecuted Sophia, the impetuous Belmont, the romantic Fairford, and Lord Acreland, together with a multitude of interesting under characters, cause such confusion, that, as soon as attention is excited for one, it is immediately called to another.—Such appear to us to be the defects of a work, which with all its faults we are little inclined to condemn; for we are persuaded that it cannot but excite a lively interest in those who read it, (not, as we are obliged to do, with the view of criticizing,) but solely / with a wish to be pleased; as that every Sun, whose surface at first appears to the astronomers to be deformed by spots, is all radiance to the naked eye.

***Mrs. R. did not, we suppose, know that the title, Angelina, has not the merit of novelty: it was given to a work belonging to the same class, some years ago. See our General Index, vol. I. p. 481. Nor is this the only instance which we recollect.

English Review 27 (1796): 74-75.

ART. XXIII. Angelina; a Novel. In Three Volumes. By Mrs. Mary Robinson, Author of Poems, Vancenza, the Widow, &c. &c. London: printed for the Author; and sold by Hookham and Carpenter, No. 147, New Bond Street. 1795.

WE think the fair author has mistaken the name of her heroine. Sophia Clarendon, not Angelina, seems to be the first figure. This novel is written in an easy and elegant style; though we must say, that this is not the most interesting performance of Mrs. Robinson.

A Young nobleman, who has, by his own account, dissipated a large fortune, goes to the city in search of a rich wife.

'You know, my dear friend, that though my estate is one of the most spacious in the kingdom, a variety of circumstances have conspired to load it with incumbrances that will not easily be removed. Thus situated, the old expedient, a rich wife, appeared the most certain and probable remedy I could adopt. We always find this blessed consolation in the last extremity, where rank holds out the temptation; ambition grasps at the shadow, we enjoy the substance; in other words, we sell what is of little use to us, and obtain for our bargain that which will purchase all the gratification this world can afford. Every circle in this over grown metropolis presents wealthy upstarts; who, to varnish over this original insignificance, are on the watch for needy nobility, whose wants may reduce them to the humiliation of forming connexions from which their pride shrinks with abhorrence. Indeed, we constantly behold young women of little birth, and great fortune, as indelicately exposed to sale as our horses, or our hounds; with this difference only, that we are not permitted, on any account whatever, to inquire the pedigree of our purchase; we have only to give them a name, and they pass for thoroughbred in all the circles of fashionable dissipation.'

This is an example of that knowledge of fashionable life, and / the ways of the world in general, which, as well as a just discrimination of individual characters, appears throughout these volumes. This novel is agreeably interspersed with effusions of a tender and melancholy kind, in harmonious versification.