The False Friend Reviews

The Corvey Novels Project at the University of Nebraska

— Studies in British Literature of the Romantic Period —

Mary Robinson

Mary Robinson. The False Friend; A Domestic Story. 4vols.

London: Longman and Rees, 1799.

Contemporary Reviews

Monthly Review 30 (Sept. 1799): 98

Art. 26. The False Friend; A Domestic Story. By Mary Robinson, Author of Poems, Walsingham, Angelina, Hubert de Sevrac, &c. 12 mo. 4 vols. 16 s. sewed. Longman and Rees. 1799.

This novel is written in a series of letters a form the most favourable for that ardency of expression which is to be found in the compositions of this lady. The story is of a melancholy cast, and composed of events not the most probable; yet it is interesting, and would have been so in a much greater degree, if the proprieties of character had been more observed. The conversations, of which there are many, and most of them among people in high life, abound in coarse and ill-mannered repartees, such as we (unused to company so very fashionable) have never seen tolerated. This indiscreet indulgence is extended to characters intended to be respectable, by which they lose much of their interest with the reader."

British Critic 14 (Sept. 1799): 74-75

Art. 23. The False Friend. A domestic Story. By Mary Robinson, Author of Poems, Walsingham, Angelina, Hubert de Sevrac, &c. In 4 vols. 16s. Longman, 1799.

If we are sometimes dissatisfied with the incidental tendency of sentiments, which occur in this writer's works, it is impossible / to deny her the praise of sensibility and taste. Her style is generally good, and her language often elegant. The merit of this work, if it does not exceed, is by no means inferior to that of her other productions of the same kind. But having so often exercised her pen in this way, she appears, in the present instance, to have been somewhat at a loss in her choice of names, otherwise such uncouth appellations as Lady Upas, Mrs. Blouzely, Lord Limingford, Mrs. Ferret, Miss Ashgrove, would not have been introduced.

Critical Review 26 (May 1799): 117

The False Friend; a domestic Story. By Mary Robinson. 4 Vols. 12 mo. 16s. Boards. Longman. 1799.

Mrs. Robinson is one of those writers who possess more genius than judgment. The plot of her novel is intricate, and the language frequently forcible; byut many of her characters are 'monsters that the world ne'er saw,' unnaturally (we might almost say, impossibly) impudent and wicked. The heroine is distinguished by that delicate sensibility which it seems improper to represent as amiable.

Monthly Magazine supplement 7 (20 July 1799): 541.

Mrs. Robinson's False Friend, as a novel, has most of the faults which belong to her Walsingham: the characters are extravagant, the incidents crowded and perplexing, and the style diffuse: as a domestic story, in which the author tells the tale of her own woes, it excites our sincerest sympathy.

Analytical Review 1 (Feb. 1799): 209-10.

Art. XLII. The false Friend: a domestic Story. By Mary Robinson, Author of Poems, Walsingham, Angelina, Hubert de Sevrac, &c. In 4 vols. Price 16s. Longman. 1799

We are at a loss to give a critique on this production: the story appears to us wild, romantic, abounding in inconsistency and improbability; the characters, in general, overcharged. The deep, dark colouring which overshadows it is, sometimes, abruptly broken by lighter tints, that spoil the repose, and deform rather than relieve. The style is diffuse, the work too long, and perplexities wearisome, even to oppression—the whole, perhaps, too desultory, loose, and inartificial, reducible to no rules. Yet let not the fair writer be pained by the severity of our remarks: amidst theses disadvantages, we have felt, and we acknowledge her power; losing sight of the story, we perceive in her production only the author, whose eloquent, plaintive sensibility penetrates the heart, and harasses the feelings, leaving a deep impression of pity and sadness. We would gladly believe the sorrow that breathes through this production to be fictitious, but, in truth, it bears marks too affecting and characteristic. Cold must be the bosom in which it awakens no interest, and hard the nature that melts not in sympathy. As a specimen we select the following reflections: Vol. iv. P. 91.

'Lord Denmore has avowed his attachment to another; he is regardless of my sorrows; he insults my pride; he wounds my sensibility. There are moments when I experience an agitation of mind which menaces my reason. I endeavour to methodize by feelings; I summons the resisting powers of pride and scorn; they do not calm my feverish brain; they agitate its fibres almost to frenzy. I seek the dissipating charm of mixed society; there too I sicken into sadness; I fancy every scene disgusting; I behold every object with a jaundiced eye: Oh, Sensibility! Thou curse to woman! Thou bane of all our hopes, thou source of exultation to our tyrant man! How abject dost thou render even the most exalted minds; how decidedly dost thou fasten on the senses; how inevitably doest thou annihilate all that is dignified and noble: how infinitely do thy pangs exceed thy pleasures: how transient are thy triumphs; how destructive are thy sorrows! In what respect does the human heart derive an advan- / tage from sensibility? Are not even its raptures agonizing? Does not the tumult of excessive joy inflict a degree of agitation which amounts to pain? Will not an act of generosity experienced thrill through the brain, excite our tears, convulse the bosom, and convey through every fibre a sense of torturing ecstacy? Oh! Frances! There is no soothing opiate for the mind but apathy: to feel is to be wretched.'

P. 239.—'What has produced this change in my opinions? What has nerved this sensitive bosom even at the moment when it was nearly vanquished? Pride, Frances! The pride of an insulted heart! The indignant glow which conscious rectitude never fails to feel, when it is persecuted by the world's unkindness! It is no arduous task for beings, nursed in the lap of luxury, to smile and to be tranquil: they sleep undisturbed by dreams of anguish; they awake to experience all the advantages of fortune; they meet with the homage of an unthinking multitude; and they find, among the venal herd, fools and sycophants, who fawn them into self-approbation. Well may such beings assume a tranquil exterior; smile through their day of apathy; exult in which they call philosophy; and condemn the weary, restless, and repining spirit, which is stung and goaded by a disastrous fortune.

'How little does the mortal, born in an exalted sphere, and nursed in luxurious splendour, know mankind! How superficially does he read the human heart! How falsely does he judge the world, through the deceptive medium which fortune holds betwixt him and his fellow-creatures! It is adversity alone that unfolds the page of knowledge: it is experience whose pencil justly delineates the rational, the reasoning atom, Man. It is truth alone that can sustain the mind; and nothing less than conscious truth can arm it in its journey through this mazy, this perplexing scene, to resist, to combat, and to vanquish.

'You will be surprised, my dear Frances, when you read this philosophical letter: yet from a mind so perpetually agitated by contending conflicts, a world-sickened disgust might naturally be expected. I have long loathed all earthly scenes: I am become weary even of the delusions of hope, the chimeras of imagination: I sink hourly into a species of lassitude, which, but for the stimulating power of scorn, would soon produce inanity.

'I trust that a short period will effect a change in my mental system, which will be productive of repose: for the sorrows of sensibility, when they reach a certain climax, rise into fortitude, or soften into resignation; as the wild surge rolls onward to the rocky shore, and there breaks in a soft murmur on the sand; or, dashing with resistless fury, braves the stupendous bulwark that receives it.'

AntiJacobin Review 3 (May 1799): 39-42.

ART. VIII. The False Friend: a Domestic Story. By Mary Robinson, Author of Walsingham, &c. &c. in four Vols. About 330 pages each. Price 16s. Longman. London. 1799.

We have already delivered our opinion concerning the literary talents of this writer, and also on the direction which she has frequently chosen to give to her abilities. We find nothing in this performance that tends to change our judgement.

We observed, in our review of Walsingham, that while she confined herself to an exhibition of the surface of life she was not without success; but that when she attempted to dive into moral and political causes, she went far beyond her depth. We also remarked, that she excelled much more in describing feeling than intellect. The novel before us has confirmed us in the notion that we formed, that from Mrs. Robinson we may expect pathetic descriptions much more confidently than either virtuous inculcation, humorous painting, sound reasoning, or just reflection. Her favourite characters are the creatures of sentimental refinement; and that sensibility not being fortified by moral principle, and enlightened by a clear and discriminating understanding, leads them frequently into the most unwarrantable actions. The author delights in presenting situations, in which passion, especially the passion of love, triumphs over virtue and reason. Though far from denying that such circumstances frequently occur in real life, we cannot see that to hold them frequently up to public view can answer any good purpose. Neither do we think that those are, by any means, the characters most worthy of imitation which allow excessive scope to sensibility. Sensibility is a quality of doubtful advantage to the possessor; it may be instrumental to benevolence and to happiness, but leads to vice and misery as soon as it becomes the master/ instead of being the servant of reason and conscience. That which Mrs. Robinson presents may be called a morbid sensibility; a constitution, or state of mind, rarely to be found among the virtuous and wise. If we once open a door to feeling as the excuse of every action which it may produce, we may bid farewell to morality, to order, and to every thing valuable in society.

Mary Wollstonecraft could plead her feelings in justification of her concubinage and her attempted suicide. Most females who began their career in the same way, and who may have afterwards arrived at a more advanced stage of profligacy, might plead their feelings as a justification of their conduct. We doubt not, that even Newgate has considerable supplies from the victims of sensibility; or, in other words, from those who are propelled by present impulse instead of being guided by duty. Perfectly coinciding with Mrs. Robinson, that sentiment, to a certain degree, is necessary to virtue and to happiness, we cannot help thinking that she, very probably without intending it, inculcates sensibility much farther than is beneficial, and so far would be hurtful to its votaries. We allow that she represents goodness in a just and amiable light; but her writings tend to soften and enervate the mind. These strictures apply to the tendency of Mrs. Robinson's writings; those that shall follow respect her invention.

In all her fables the author shews herself to possess a lively imagination, but by no means habitually subjected to the controul of judgement. She delights in the marvelous, and is very deficient in the probable. Marvellous writing, indeed, is much easier than imitation of nature; consequently is commonly resorted to by those who wish to represent men and manners, without the power or opportunity of previous examination. Paradoxes in pretended philosophy, and extravagancies in fiction, arise most frequently from want of knowledge and of genius. The giants of Amadis of Gaul, the ghosts of modern manufacturers of novels and plays, require infinitely less ability than Gil Blas and Tom Jones; than Sophia and Cecilia. We critics, therefore, think ourselves not uncandid when we ascribe unnatural and improbably fictions to the want of power to provide the natural and the probable.

The following is the story of the False Friend:—Gertrude St. Leger has been educated in Ireland as the orphan ward of Lord Denmore; at seventeen, brought over to the house of her guardian, a married man. The fine feelings of the young lady are so much affected by the kindness, and also the countenance and figure of my Lord, that she falls desperately in /love with him; an effusion of sentiment by no means relished by my lady, especially as she finds her husband very much attached to this sentimental Miss. My lady, to balance accounts, allows her feelings to operate in favour of a handsome parson; she elopes. A third lady, it seems, has the same sort of feelings, but is divided in her affections; one half of which belongs to my Lord, and the other half to the parson. Thus Miss Cecil is, at once, the rival of the sentimental Miss as the lover of his Lordship, and the rival of her Ladyship as the lover of his reverence. She persuades Gertrude to elope; why, we do not clearly perceive: Miss, however, soon returns, and finds Lady Denmore dead, and my Lord gone to the country to give directions for her interment: when, strange to tell! Gertrude entering into the room in which the corpse lay, drops the candle; in her confusion breaks the string of a harp, which makes such a crush as to rouze the dead Lady, who is restored to lie, and elopes a second time with the Reverend Mr. Treville, when she dies in good earnest. Miss Gertrude is (unjustly) believed an accessory to her death; and though conscious of her innocence, disappears, to avoid a prosecution, and the supposed anger of Lord Denmore. After many hair-breadth escapes and perplexities, the detail and reasons of which we could not always comprehend, she is again brought back to Lord Denmore's house and favourable opinion. It now comes to light, that Gertrude, a supposed poor dependent, is heiress of a countless fortune. Sir William St. Leger returns from India, and acknowledges her to be his daughter, born, after his departure, at Denmore Castle, her mother having been consigned to the care of his Lordship. Sir William, understanding from Gertrude, that there is a mutual affection between her and my lord, intends to make all parties happy; but, on discussing the subject with Denmore, finds that Denmore's love to Gertrude was that of one who could not be her husband; for that he (Denmore) had been A FALSE FRIEND to Sir William, secluded the affections of his wife, and was actually Gertrude's father! Sir William and he fight, Denmore is killed, Gertrude dies of grief. While these matters were going on among the principal personages, the inferior characters were not idle. The clergyman first-named, Treville, afterwards (for an estate) Somerton, having caused the death of one unmarried lady, and one married lady, elopes with a second married lady, is, with his fair friend, drowned in sailing from Yarmouth (perhaps the writer meant Falmouth,) to Lisbon. There are five elopements, various rencounters, duels,, and suicides; seven are killed (including those