The Corvey Novels Project at the University of Nebraska
— Studies in British Literature of the Romantic Period —
Mary Robinson
Mrs. M. Robinson. Vancenza; or, The Dangers of Credulity. 3 vols.
London: Bell, 1792.
Contemporary Reviews
Analytical Review 12 (1792): 339-41.
ART. XLIX. Vancenza, or the Dangers of Credulity. By Mrs. M. Robinson.
Authoress of the Poems of Laura Maria, Ainsi va le Monde, &c. 2 vols.
Fools-cap 8vo. 280 pages. pr. 5s. sewed. Bell. 1792.
That a person may write many pretty little detached pieces of poetry, who
cannot render a tale interesting, experience has repeatedly proved before
the appearance of Mrs. R.'s novel; yet we expected to have met with more
passion and character in the production of a female who has not been an
idle spectator of life. This story, however, wants a connecting thread,
and the episodes are, literally speaking, introduced to spin it out; yet
are not in the smallest degree interwoven with the woof. Moral the tale
is, most undoubtedly; but very insipid. The very incident on which the catastrophe
turns is trite, a mouse creeping out of a mountain, that had long been rumbling;
and then the heroine is allowed to depart to the tomb of all the milk and
water heroines without a sigh, because the close of the volume is anticipated
when she bows her head and dies. Some remarks are just and well expressed;
but the descriptions of nature, which are for ever recurring, are seldom
poetical, and always so redundant, that they scarcely leave a distinct idea
in the mind, and the language is as artificial as the sentiments are common.
The first description, written with care, is a favourable specimen: P. 1
'Upon the side of a beautiful forest, sheltered from the northern blasts
by a chain of mountains, bordered with trees and shrubs, the growth of many
centuries, rising above a canopy of luxuriant foliage, the gilded vanes
of Vancenza glistened to the eyes of the far-distant traveler-while the
lofty turrets cast their long shadows across an extensive lake, that partly
overspread the neighbouring valley.
'The towering precipice, from whose dizzy height the fearful shepherds gazed
with terror and astonishment, hung over its woody skirts tremendously sublime;
while down its winding paths the rushing torrents scattered their white
foam, sometimes lost in unseen channels, at other dividing in small currents
towards the lake beneath!
'So wild, so romantic a spot, seemed rather the work of inchantment, than
the earthly habitation of any thing mortal! The harmonious warblings of
the feathered minstrels; the murmuring sound of intermingling streams; the
lulling moan of the confined breezes, amidst the flint-rooted pines, that
waved their tall heads, rocking their callow tenants in leafy cradles; the
verdant glades, here and there opening to the skies, and scattered over
with sheep and wild goats; the adjacent hills hanging their dark brows over
a vast sheet of quivering water: presented a scene so magnificent, so abstracted
from the busy world, that the beholder's heart thrilled with delicious transport,
harmonized by the sublime sensations of enchanting melancholy.
'The castle of Vancenza had been built in the beginning of the twelfth century;
the structure consisting of a spacious court- / yard, encircled with a vast
pile of architecture, of the most exquisite order; at each corner a lofty
tower commanded a variety of luxuriant prospects; the front facing the lake
was raised upon an invulnerable rampart, whose ivy-covered battlements formed
a beautiful and extensive terrace. The southern aspect presented innumerable
avenues, cut through the venerable forest which led to the boundaries of
Old Castle. The northern view was terminated by mountains grandly romantic.
The valley beyond the lake led to a verdant opening of some miles in length,
revealing at once a thousand undescribable and fascinating attractions!"
Critical Review 4 (1792): 268-72
Vancenza; or, the Dangers of Credulity. By Mrs. Robinson. 2 Vols.
Small 8 vo. 5 s. Bell. 1792.
Mrs. Robinson's eager, particle, and injudicious friends, have misled and
injured her; nor are we wholly free from the inconveniencies which they
have occasioned. The merits of Vancenza have so often met our eyes;
it has been so often styled excellent, admirable; the world has been so
frequently called on to confirm this suffrage with their plaudits, that
we dare not hint a fault, or hesitate dislike. What we disapprove, we must
speak of plainly, and, if our gallantry is called in question, the blame
will fall on those who have compelled us to be explicit. After this introduction
we need not say that we think this novel unworthy of the high reputation
of its author, a reputation the source of which it is not our present business
to examine.
In estimating the merits of Vancenza, it is not necessary, with all the
formality of an Aristarchus, to lay down rules for the conduct of an epopeia
of the familiar kind. It is enough that the plot be artfully involved and
naturally unraveled, while each part co-operates to produce the event. In
reality, nothing extraneous should be introduced, and each trifling episode
should be remotely connected with the catastrophe. This, however, is a rule
which must occasionally be dispensed with. Ornaments are often required
in such works, and they cannot always be parts of one whole; nor should
be have objected that the pilgrim's story, in the second volume of the novel
before us, was an isolated appendage, if the slightest contrivance had not
been sufficient to have connected it with the principal event, and to have
explained the only part in which the denouement seems too artificial; --we
mean the removal of the pictures to discover the fatal panel. These are
supposed to have hung there for many years, nor was it within the circle
of expected contingencies, that they should be re- / moved in the life-time
of Elvira: so that the whole of the history might be lost for ever, the
prince Almanza might have married his sister, and their innocent progeny
never known the crimes to which they owed their birth. In other respects
the story is conducted with skill.
To the adventitious ornaments our censure must be chiefly directed. The
language is in general highly and poetically laboured. It is refined into
obscurity; and perspicuity of description is often sacrificed to a flowing
period. There are many instances where, but from the future pages, it is
difficult to discover the events in the blaze of description: a particular
one now lies before us in the assassination of the count of Vancenza. The
old observation may be well applied to Mrs. Robinson: if you intended the
language to be prose, it is too poetical; if to be poetry, it is very faulty.-But
to the proof
'After passing an hour in restless rumination, the broad beams of light, penetrating through his curtains, roused him from his lethargy of thought: he started from his pillow feverish and dejected, and, scarcely knowing wither he bent his way, passed through the long gallery which opened to the terrace facing the lake. The sun diffused its most splendid glories over the grateful bosom of the humid earth: the wild fowl hovering over the glittering water. Sweeping its lucid surface with their variegated wings; the soft music of the mountain breezes; the hollow sound of falling cascades; the distant precipice still hiding its blue head amidst the severing clouds that floated in feathery folds before the breath of morning; the flocks and herds bounding and frisking along, the verdant openings on the side of the valley; the intermingling notes of woodland melody presented a picture so exquisitely sublime, that Del Vero, fascinated with delight, forgot for a moment even the graces of Elvira.'
We need not point out that some of these epithets are unnecessary, some inconsistent, and some improper. In the next passage that we shall select, we find the earth decorated with gems: this may be; but these gems are also enameled; nor are they in their usual situations. If we suppose too, that the gems so enameled may be flowers, we must not imagine that they grow in the usual way: the enameled gems at Vancenza are shook from the wings of summer, the wings are perfumed, and summer blushes: while the flowers are gems, the corn is of gold, the hills slope, and a vineyard is neither yellow nor black, but tawny. The whole, however, is too luxuriant for analysis.
'It was in that delightful season of the year, when nature dis- / plays her richest foliage, and decorates the earth with a thousand enameled gems, shook from the perfumed wings of blushing summer; the brid attuned their throats to the wild melodies of love: and the face of the creation glowed with exulting beauty; the vale was covered with sheaves of golden grain; and the sides of the sloping hills concealed by the rich mantle of the tawny vineyard: they passed through groves of citron and myrtle, intermingling with thick clusters of pomegranates, forming a perpetual alcove, through which the rays of the sun could scarcely penetrate! As evening advanced, the grey shadows of twilight stole over the valley; while the burning orb, retiring to its western canopy, cast a crimson luster over the acute summits of the distance mountains.'
Some of the metaphors are ludicrous or incorrect. 'The manners of the Spanish
beauties, when compared with those of Elvira, sink into contempt as the
twinkling of the glow-worm fades before the orient day.' Again: 'true merit
defies the honeyed tongue of flattery, as the diamond mocks the fire of
the consuming crucible.' These are not solitary instances; yet we ought
to add, that the metaphors are sometimes animated, sometimes elegant-'Chastity
exposed to the breath of slander is like the waxen model placed in the rays
of a meridian sun: by degrees it loses its finest traits, till at length
it becomes an insipid mass of useless deformity.' Again: 'here he turned
aside to wipe away the involuntary tear wrung from his bursting heart by
the hard grasp of unrelenting conscience.'
Mrs. Robinson's partiality for the ornamented language of poetry has led
her also to employ it improperly, as in the following passage.
'When the hand that writes, and the heart that dictates these lines, are freezing on the dreary pallet of the grave; when the faint traces of my sorrows shall fade before the obliterating wing of time; perchance some kindred eye may drop the last commiserating tear, and wash out the remembrance of my woes for ever.'
Polished and figurative language like this is the production of a mind at
ease; and the passage we have quoted is written in a moment of the most
poignant agony, at a time when the tears flowing, had, in a great degree,
defaced the manuscript, and the passage was, on that account, 'with difficulty
deciphered.'
Elvira, at the age of fifteen, is described as in 'the noon of cultivated
youth;' and we find, in these volumes, the true criterion, we have formerly
noticed, of a female pen, the discriminate use of the epithet 'fine.' No
milliner's apprentice / scrawls a love-scene without introducing her hero
as a man of fine sense, fine accomplishments, as well as fine eyes. Mrs.
Robinson should have avoided it; but she has 'fine passions,' 'a fine sense
of honour,' 'fine accomplishments,' &c. The female author is conspicuous
in other circumstances. After the death of the heroine, she stays to tell
us that prince Almanza was chief mourner; at the revival of Almanza from
his insensibility, into which he had fallen in consequence of the accident
in hunting the wild boar, he addresses Elvira with all the rapture of Aimwell,
declaring himself in Elysium and the object of his attention an angel: this
we suppose the ladies may consider as 'quite in nature;' but we are too
old to join in the opinion.
There are some other errors, perhaps more important, if the young ladies,
in their rapid glances over these enchanting volumes, can be for a moment
supposed capable of imbibing information.-In the beginning of the second
volume, we have a description of am almost Lapland winter in Spain, while
the more tender plants are placed in the same spot. We know that snow sometimes
falls even in this climate; and that, on the mountains, it is permanent.
But such violent storms in the vallies which defend the citrons are scarcely
ever seen. The Spanish ladies, in general, as represented as courting admiration,
instead of the secluded modesty, or more natural reserve, with which travelers
have decorated them. Indeed the ladies, is we except the marchioness and
Elvira, are of our own metropolis; and the heroes differ but in titles from
fashionable Englishmen. There is one circumstance which we have professed
always to treat with indignation-viz. every attempt to gloss over the follies
of popery, or to represent its absurdities as sacred. The pilgrim does penance
for crimes. He had stolen a young woman from a convent, and, in his own
defence, killed her brother. The latter could not be a crime: is it for
the former then that 'Conscience wrings the tear from his bursting heart?'
The crime is their's who, from motives of avarice or ambition, could counteract
the designs of providence by the seclusion of helpless, reluctant, females.
If our casuistry has any credit, we do not hesitate in declaring, that the
rescuing one of these is an action that might atone for many sins: but we
forget-we are relapsing into one of the tenets of the religion we have reprobated.
We have hinted at the principal faults which occur to our notice in this
work, and they are such as we think confirm the opinion given in the beginning
of this article. It is with reluctance that we have engaged in this disquisition;
but whatever may be the splendour of a name, we have never scrupled offer-
/ ing our opinion. The public will ultimately decide, and to their supreme
tribunal we leave the decision, scarcely apprehending that the judgement
will be reversed.
English Review 20 (1792): 111-13.
ART. VII. Vancenza; or, the Dangers of Credulity. By Mrs. M. Robinson,
Authoress of the Poems of Laura Maria, Ainsi va le Monde, &c. pp. 286.
12 mo. 2 vols. 5s. sewed. Bell, London. 1792.
There have been so many elegant proofs of the poetical powers of Mrs. ROBINSON,
that the most churlish critic cannot refuse to bear testimony in favour
of her genius. Indeed, considering the number and variety of her productions,
we are disposed to think that she has more successfully climbed Parnassian
heights than any female votary of the muses which this country has produced.
The novel before us is, we believe, her first attempt to obtain an equal
degree of reputation in prose; and though we certainly cannot place it upon
a level with her poetical compositions, we cannot withhold from it a tribute
of warm commendation; and such, we hope, will induce her to persevere in
a species of literature for which she seems to be admirably qualified.
The story is simple, and judiciously expanded. There is an interesting contrast
in the characters. The family of VANCENZA are represented as highly amiable,
and are drawn with those touches of sensibility that excite in the reader
a high respect for the mind which could conceive, and so well exhibit, such
a charming series of moral portraits. In striking opposition to this amiable
assemblage, are the sordid, despicable, and unprincipled troop of fashionable
wretches whom they encounter at Madrid.
As this work is entirely the offspring of fancy, we cannot forgive the fair
author for not having more regard to poetical justice. We confess that it
does not appear to us necessary that, in a mere work of imagination, the
good should be the victims of misfortune, and that any of the flagitious
characters she has introduced should be dismissed without due punishment.
In this respect we think the lady counteracts her own purpose, and while
she 'sends her readers weeping to their 'beds,' has not more effectually
directed the moral object in view. Mrs. Robinson, however, had certainly
a right to dispose as she pleased of the beings she had created; and we
think her for the pleasure she has excited, and the feelings she has exercised,
by her elegant and affecting little tale.
Of the language, to speak with the candour of criticism, we must say, that
though it is elevated and poetical in many parts, it is in general too florid;
and too ornamented for prose, though indeed we consider that exceptionable
quality as the effect of / warm affections, and an exuberant fancy, that
has been chiefly conversant with poetical images.
There is a very pretty episode entitled THE PILGRIM'S STORY, and two effusions
of poesy, that are highly creditable to the taste and tenderness of the
plaintive muse. We cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of submitting the
latter to the sensible and sympathizing reader.
'THE chilling gale that nipt the rose,
Now murmuring sinks to soft repose;
The shad'wy vapours sail away,
Upon the silv'ry floods of day:
Health breathes on every face I see,
But ah! She breathes no more on ME!
The woodbine wafts its odours meek,
To kiss the rose's glowing cheek;
Pale twilight shed her vagrant showr's,
To wake Aurora's infant flow'rs;
May smiles on every face I see,
But ah! She smiles no more on ME!
Perchance, when youth's delicious bloom
Shall fade unheeded in the tomb,
Fate may direct a daughter's eye
To where my mould'ring reliques lie;
And, touch'd by sacred sympathy,
That eye may drop a tear for ME!
Betray'd by love; of hope bereft;
No gentle gleam of comfort left;
Bow'd by the hand of sorrow low;
No pitying friend to weep my wo:
Save her, who, spar'd by Heav'n's decree,
Shall live to sigh, and think on ME!
Oh! I would wander where no ray
Breaks through the gloom of doubtful day;
There would I court the wint'ry hour,
The ling'ring dawn, the midnight show'r;
For cold and comfortless shall be
Each future scene—ordain'd for ME!'______________________________'WITHIN this drear and silent gloom
The lost Louisa pines, unknown;
Fate shroud her in a living tomb,
And Heaven relentless heard her groan:
Yet, 'midst the murky shades of woe,
The tear of fond regret shall flow.
Yon lofty wall, that mocks my grief,
Still echoes with my ev'ning pray'r;
The gale that fans the trembling lead
Shall waft it to the realms of air,
'Till prostrate at the throne of Heav'n,
Unpity'd Love shall be forgiv'n!
Or, if to endless sorrow born—
If doom'd to fade a victim here;
Still pining, friendless, and forlorn,
Ah! Let Religion drop one tear;
Like holy incense shall it prove,
To heal the wounds of hopeless Love.
Ye black'ning clouds that sail along,
Oh! Hide me in your shade profound;
Ye whisp'ring breezes catch my song,
And bear it to the woods around.
Perchance some hapless Petrarch's feet
May wander near this dread retreat.
Ah! Tell him Love's delicious strain
No rapture yields, no joy inspires,
Where cold Religion's icy chain
Has long subdu'd its quiv'ring fires;
No ray of comfort gilds the gloom,
That makes the hopeless vestal's tomb!
The ruby gem within my breast,
Now faintly flows with vital heart;
Each warring passion sinks to rest:
My freezing pulses slowly beat.
Soon shall these languid eyelids close,
And Death's stern mandate seal my woes.
Then, when the virgin's matin song
Shall 'midst the vaulted roof resound,
Haply the tuneful seraph throng
Shall whisper gentle pity round;
While VIRTUE, sighing o'er my bier,
Shall drop unseen—A SAINTED TEAR!'
European Magazine 21 (May 1792): 344-48.
Vancenza; or, The Dangers of Credulity. By Mrs. Maria Robinson. 2
Vols. 12 mo. 6s. Bell.
SCARCELY had the refined mental pleasure subsided, which the Poems of this
justly admired Authoress had afforded to every feeling heart, when the elegant
prosaic composition now before us made its appearance. / It is a tale more
than well told, full of horror, exciting pity, and commanding admiration.
We are not favoured with any features of its origin; yet, from many circumstances,
we are led to believe that it is not altogether fiction; but that species
of romance, the superstructure of which is raised upon the foundation of
historic truth. An ancient Spanish record of domestic woe, extremely interesting
and pathetic, has been decorated by the pen of our fair enchantress with
peculiar taste, elegance, and variety.
We do not believe this lady has ever read that part of "Mason on Elocution,"
which treats of the power of numbers in prosaic composition; but certain
we are, that by the impulse of a fine natural genius, she has been enabled
to exhibit a perfect model of that rare species of writing. Every period
is full and harmonic, and not one sentence throughout the descriptive part
terminates flatly, that is to say, with an insignificant particle, which
Mason calls "a lame foot." To extract the essence of this entertaining
bagatelle, that may be read through in two or three hours, would be
something like the conduct of those petty depredators, who being admitted
into a beautiful flower-garden, and allowed to cull a few choice flowers
for a nosegay, are not content with this indulgence, but dig up the best
by the roots, in order to transplant them into their own parterre.
With concern we have observed the plot and chief incidents of these slender
volumes thus purloined under the specious title of Reviews; and disapproving
of such manæuvres, we shall confine ourselves to specimens of the
uncommon, and, in our opinion, truly excellent style of the descriptive
and sentimental parts, leaving the story untouched, as well for the benefit
of the Authoress, as of many a youth and many a maid, who will eagerly pursue
all its winding mazes with unremitted attention, till 'the long confined
swelling tear, gushing from its lucid orb, shall fall involuntarily on the
concluding pages, and half obliterate the dreadful catastrophe.
The opening scene, which conducts us to the Castle of Vancenza, we produce,
in evidence of the strength and beauty of her descriptive powers:
"Upon the side of a beautiful forest, sheltered from the northern blasts by a chain of mountains, bordered with trees and shrubs, the growth of many centuries, rising above a canopy of luxuriant foliage, the gilded vanes of Vancenza glistened to the eye of the far-distant traveler, while the lofty turrets cast their long shadows across an extensive lake, that partly overspread the neighbouring valley.
'The towering precipice, from whose giddy height the fearful shepherds gazed with terror and astonishment, hung over its woody skirts, tremendously sublime, while down its winding paths the rushing torrents scattered their white foam, sometimes lost in unseen channels, at other dividing in small currents towards the lake beneath!
"So wild, so romantic a spot, seemed rather the work of enchantment than the earthly habitation of anything mortal! The harmonious warblings of the feathered minstrels--the murmuring sound of intermingling streams--the lulling moan of the confined breezes, amidst the flint-rooted pines, that waved their tall heads, rocking their callow tenants in leafy cradles--the verdant glades here and there opening to the skies, and scattered over with sheep and wild goats--the adjacent hills hanging their dark brows over a vast sheet of quivering water, presented a scene so magnificent, so abstracted from the busy world, that the beholder's heart thrilled with delicious transport, harmonized by the sublime sensations of enchanting melancholy.
"The Castle of Vancenza had been built in the beginning of the twelfth century. The structure consisted of a spacious court-yard, encircled with a vast pile of architecture, of the most exquisite order. At each corner a lofty tower commanded a variety of luxuriant prospects. The front facing the lake was raised upon an invulnerable rampart, whose ivy-covered battlements formed a beautiful and extensive terrace. The southern aspect presented innumerable avenues, cut through the venerable forest which led to the boundaries of Old Castle. The northern view was terminated by mountains grandly romantic. The valley beyond the lake led to a verdant opening of some miles in length, revealing at once a thousand undescribable and fascinating attractions!
"The numberless small cottages besprinkled in the vicinity of the castle, bespoke the hospitality of its lord. The happiness and good fellowship of the rustics conferred a degree of luster on his name, that idle ostentation might have blushed to behold; while he enjoyed in this secluded paradise that health and tranquility of mind, which is rarely to be found in the palaces of the most splendid cities."
Of the beautiful Elvira, the Orphan of the Castle, the object of universal adoration, the principal character in the story, whom the neighbouring rustics in their / enthusiastic fondness had named "The Rose of Vancenza," we have the following beautiful delination.
"Elvira had just attained her fifteenth year. Her form was the animated portrait of her mind: truth, benignity, pure and unstudied delicacy, the meekness of sensibility, and the dignity of innate virtue, claimed the esteem, while the exquisite beauty of her bewitching countenance captivated the heart of every beholder. She was tall, and finely proportioned; her complexion was neither the insipid whiteness of the lily-bosomed Circassian, nor the masculine shade of the Gallic brunette: the freshness of health glowed upon her cheek, while the luster of her dark blue eye borrowed its splendour from the unsullied flame that gave her mind the perfection of intellect! Her voice was mild as the cooings of the ring-dove, and her smile the gentle harbinger of tenderness and complacency!-She was everything that fancy could picture, or conviction adore! -Perfection could go no farther. The lovely maid had acquired considerable eminence in the science of harmony; her voice was the seraphic echo of her lute*, whose chord spoke to the soul, under the magic of her skilful fingers. She was well acquainted with the works of the most celebrated French and Italian authors; the beauties of Ariosto and Petrarch by turns captivated her heart; she felt the force of their compositions, though she was a stranger to the sensations that inspired them. Happy Elvira! Who, nursed in the tranquil bosom of retirement, feared not the vicissitudes of fortune, nor the corroding pangs of agonizing disquietude."
Almanza, a Spanish Prince, who becomes the hero of this moral tale, in
the hot pursuit of the chace leaves his attendants far behind, and encountering
the wild boar, is so dreadfully wounded by the tusks of the enraged animal,
near the Castle of Vancenza, that his page, in consternation, on approaching
his Royal Master, called aloud for help. The Count flew, with the eagerness
pity ever prompts to succour the unhappy. At the outward gate he met the
bleeding stranger, borne in the arms of two friends, whose afflicted countenances
proclaimed the virtues of their illustrious associate. He was instantly
conveyed to a lower apartment, and, surrounded by a train of attendants,
laid upon a couch, pallid, and to all appearance lifeless. Affliction seemed
to prey on every bosom! "They lovely and tender Elvira, who stood like
a weeping angel over the reliques of a martyred saint, raising her fine
eyes towards Heaven in silent invocation, drew from her polished brow a
veil of transparent lawn, and, unmindful of the group that stood wondering
at her exquisite beauty, began to bind it round the lacerated arm of the
unfortunate Prince-then, recollecting the impropriety she had been guilty
of in exposing her face to the prying eyes of so many strangers, burst into
tears, and retired to a window at the farthest end of the apartment."
It is the standing etiquette of all novels and romances, that every perfect
beauty should have a number of admirers, and at least two contending lovers;
one to be made happy, and the other miserable.-it was a case in point, in
the present tale, to make the Prince the fortunate man, and, by way of contrast,
to throw into the back-ground a fiery Don, a Duke del Vero, the bosom-friend
of the Prince, who according to custom, and the manners of the well bred
gentlemen of "St. James's air," turns out an arrant traitor when
all-seducing lovely woman steps between him and his friendship to the Prince;
and the sequel presents us a chain of perfidious contrivances to gain the
new mistress of his affections, which are described upon similar occasions,
in such strong terms, in our newspaper details of trials for crim.con.
that we shall take the liberty to pass them over, and, pursuing our first
intention, notice only the following energetic remark:--"The tender
passion, when it takes root in stern and violent natures, like the raging
o a fever in the strongest constitutions, becomes more fatal from the force
that opposes it, and, perpetually fed by its own fire, frequently consumes
the object it encounters."
The recovered Prince takes a grateful leave of his noble Host and the fair
Elvira, between whom a fond exchange of hearts had taken place, and the
probably hope of his speedy return consoled the solitary maiden for his
absence. The interval is seized by the Duke del Vero, who suddenly leaves
Madrid (to which city his duty had obliged him to attend the Prince), returns
to a village near the castle, and, lurking in disguise, imposes, by/
*The Reviewer, in confidence, imparts to the Reader a small alteration.-Substitute for the lute the forte piano, make some grains of allowance for maternal fond partiality, and you will have a just portrait of the amiable Miss Robinson, the only child of Mrs. M. Robinson.
An artful stratagem, on the credulity of Elvira, who is induced
to believe, she should meet the Prince at a certain cottage, and is thereby
exposed to the dangers of Credulity, the secondary title of our moral tale.
She escapes from the snare, however, without ruffling a single feather in
the pinion of chastity: but the risk furnishes a fine lesson for the ladies,
and a lecture for those insolently-presumptuous married women, who glorying
in the single virtue of chastity, and considering it as a full compensation
fro the want of every other amiable, endearing qualification, domineer over
their wretched husbands, with a conscious sense that the captive for life
cannot break the galling chain without deranging his worldly affairs, and
exposing himself to the ill natured reflections of a censorious world. Thus
pride, domestic tyranny, insolence to inferiors, moroseness and rigour to
children, and callous insensibility, are sanctioned and protected under
matrimonial rights, while the discontented, secretly-repining Benedick droops,
sickens, and dies a martyr to the high-vaunted chastity of his all-commanding
wife; and thus the town is filled with buxom widows!
"Elvira felt unusual delight on entering the gate of the castle, that seemed as if thrown open to receive the oppressed.-As the poor mariner, escaped from the tempestuous surge, gazes in speechless wonder on the foaming ocean, she looked back with horror and dismay upon the gulph she had avoided. The reflections that followed were both natural and useful: Bred in the society of Innocence and Honour, she was the dupe of her own purity. She now perceived, that to be and to seem were very distinct things: Villainy frequently assumes the most specious appearance; and the heart where Rectitude holds unsullied dominion, seldom has the cunning to guard against that duplicity to which it is a stranger.
"There is nothing to difficult to preserve as female reputation; as it is rare, it creates universal envy: those who possess it, proud of the treasure, often become its detractors, merely because they cannot brook the presumption of a rival; while they practice, with insolent superiority, every vice that can contaminate the soul! How ridiculous is the woman who conceives a single perfection, which chiefly benefits herself, sufficient to counterbalance the total want of every social virtue!-Small is the triumph of chastity that has never been assailed by the cunning of the seducer. The snows of Lapland preserve their whiteness and solidity as long as they escape the dissolving glances of the burning orb. The female heart has little right to exult in its resolution, till it has resisted the fascinations of pleasure, the voice of insidious flattery, and the fatal allurements of corrupt example. No woman can say, I will venture so far, and then recede; for chastity exposed to the breath of slander, is like a waxen model placed in the rays of the meridian sun; by degrees it loses its finest traits, till at length it becomes an insipid mass of useless deformity."
The annexed outline of the Duke del Vero's character seems to be a stor5ke
aimed at a person of higher rank, nearer home than Spain:--"Hitherto
he had followed the dictates of warm imagination, and dashed through the
broad torrent of dissipation; vanity for his guide, and intemperate gratifications
the objects of his pursuits." So skilled as our fair Monitor must be
allowed to be, it would be unpardonable to omit her advice to her own sex
on the management of a lover; and we cannot close our account of this pleasing
performance, which has nearly passed through three editions in a very short
time, more agreeably.
"A lover should be perpetually employed; he soul have every-thing to fear, and very little to hope for; take from him the necessity of constant assiduity, and he will very soon lose the wish to please. Security is the poison of love: the little God, if suffered to be conscious of possessing wings, will never rest till her has tried their strength; and if once permitted to soar from the shackles of allurement, he never will return, except to reproach his tyrant for past inhumanity.
"Every thing that lives delights in liberty, except the lover; like the feathered warbler, who, long confined, sings contentedly in his wiry habitation, he enjoys his slavery: give him his freedom, and he roves a miserable wanderer, seeking new pleasures and new chains: nor does he recover his wonted felicity till he is against fascinated by the spell of female enchantment.-If we have no object to please, we soon lose the desire of appearing amiable. If you would secure the affections of your lover, teach him to deserve you, by a proper respect for your own attractions, and he assured that the moment he ceases to dread the punishment of losing you, you will have no farther claims upon his constancy or affection.
"Why do we often see the assiduous and doating lover metamorphosed into the churlish and splenetic husband? Not because the object of his passion becomes less/ amiable or desirable. Why thus he spurns from him the kind assiduities of social comfort, the attentions of friendship, and the endearing solicitudes of affection? Not because his mind is incapable of enjoying these delights, but that the heart, gratified in every wish, has nothing more to hope for! The appetite palls upon a banquet of unvarying sweets: and when we repine at the fluctuations of fortune, and the little vicissitudes of the world, we are guilty of injustice towards Heaven."
M.
Gentleman's Magazine 62 (June 1792): 553.
129. Vancenza; or, the Dangers of Credulity. By Mrs. Robinson. The
Third Edition.
The taste, and we may say the genius, which this lady displayed in her volume
of poems before commended by us, justified the expectation that, if she
condescended to exercise herself in this species of writing, she would deserve
and obtain popularity. That she had done this sufficiently appears from
her works having passed through three editions in a very short space of
time. Indeed, amongst the abundance of trash which, under the appellation
of Novel, is poured upon the publick, we eagerly seize any opportunity which
may offer us of discriminating from the heterogeneous mass good writing
or moral sentiment. The sentiment is unexceptionably good; of her style
we cannot speak, as we could wish; but, as this is her first prose essay,
we consider her style as not yet formed. She will do well to study simplicity
of expression, the sweetest charm of writing, and the truest characteristick
of excellence.
Monthly Review (Mar. 1791): 300.
ART. XI Vancenza; or, the Dangers of Credulity. By Mrs. M. Robinson.
Authoress of the Poems of Laura Maria, Ainsi va le Monde, &c.
&c. 12 mo. 5s. sewed. Bell. 1792.
STYLE, like dress, admits of various degrees of ornament, between the limits
of perfect plainness and finished elegance, each of which has its proper
use and peculiar excellence; and it would be absurd to expect all writers
to express themselves in the same style, as to require all men to appear
in an uniform habit. Simplicity and ease in language and characters, which,
/ when they do not degenerate into insipidity and negligence, will be always
pleasing: but it would be carrying the matter too far, to measure the merit
of all writers by this standard. Rich birth-day suits are not thrown aside,
because the poet has said of beauty, that it is, "when unadorned, adorned
the most;" nor will true criticism, because it is pleased with the
modest simplicity of a Gay or a Parnel, refuse its tribute of admiration
to the studied graces of a Pope or a Thomson.
We have said thus much to prevent the unfavourable impression which the
language of this novel may possibly, on the first perusal, make on the minds
of some readers. Vancenza, it is true, is not written in the simple
style: but it is written, and in our opinion well-written, in the style
of elegance peculiar to Mrs. R. The richness of fancy and of language, which
the fair author had so successfully displayed in her poetical productions,
(see our review of her poems, vol. vi. New Series, p. 448) she has transferred
to prose narration; and has produced a tale, which, we venture to predict,
will be much read and admired.
The outline of the story is as follows: scene SPAIN.
In the fifteenth century, at a castle from which the family took its name,
lived the Count Vancenza. His family consisted of the Marchioness of Vallorie,
his sister; he daughter, the Countess Carline; and Elvira, a beautiful orphan,
the object of universal admiration in the castle and neighborhood, where
she was called the Rose of Vancenza.
When Elvira had attained her fifteenth year, she was one morning awakened
by the sound of the horn; and calling her friend, they ascended one of the
turrets of the castle, where they observed a numerous train of horsemen
engaged in the pursuit of a wild boar; and their appearance denoted them
to be persons of the higher order. One of the party, the Prince Almanza,
was dangerously wounded, and brought to the castle. The family hastened
to relieve him; and, among the rest, Elvira. From the impulse of sympathy,
she tore her veil; and with it bound up the stranger's wound, while he remained
insensible to every attention. At length, returning to life, his opening
eyes beheld his lovely benefactress; he was charmed with her beauty and
tenderness; and, after three days, he left the castle impressed with an
indelible passion for Elvira.
On the other side, Almanza's figure and manner had made an equal impression
on the heart of the fair orphan. Among Almanza's companions, was the Duke
del Vero; who, while at the castle Vancenza, had become deeply enamoured
of Elvira, but was too proud to think of allying himself to a maid whose
parents were unknown. He however concealed himself / near the castle, and
appeared under Elvira's window in the assumed character of Almanza, whom
his jealous eye perceived to be the object of her love. After repeated importunities,
he prevailed on her to consent to an interview at the cottage of Ursuline,
an old pensionary of the family:--but when she discovered the imposition,
her confusion and indignation were extreme, and she returned precipitately
to the castle. Self-reproach for her indiscretion, and apprehension left
Del Vero, from what had passed, should frame a tale that might injure her
in the opinion of Almanza, overpowered her sensible mind, and a dangerous
illness was the consequence. On her recovery, in hopes of restoring her
spirits, the Count Vancenza proposed an excursion to Madrid, to which she
consented. On the day before she left the castle, her melancholy was increased
by reading the following plaintive verses, written on a window by a lady,
who (as the Count informed her,) had met with great trials, and was now
dead:
'The chilling gale that nip'd the rose,
Now murmuring sinks to soft repose;
The shad'wy vapours sail away,
Upon the silv'ry floods of day;
Health breathes on every face I see,
But, ah! she breathes no more on ME!
The woodbine wafts its odours meek
To kiss the rose's glowing cheek;
Pale twilight shed her vagrant showr's
To wake Aurora's infant flow'rs:
May smiles on every face I see,
But ah! she smiles no more on ME!
Perchance, when youth's delicious bloom
Shall fade unheeded in the tomb,
Fate may direct a daughter's eye
To where my mould'ring reliques lie;
And, touch'd by sacred sympathy,
That eye may drop a tear for ME!
Betray'd by love; of hope bereft;
No gentle gleam of comfort left;
Bow'd by the hand of sorrow low;
No pitying friend to weep my woe:
Save her, who, spar'd by Heav'n's decree,
Shall live to sigh, and think on ME!
Oh! I would wander where no ray
Breaks through the gloom of doubtful day,
There would I court the wint'ry hour,
The ling'ring dawn, the midnight show'r;
For cold and comfortless shall be
Each future scene—ordain'd for ME!'
During their stay at Madrid, Elvira was frequently seen my Almanza, who
retained his love for her. It happened that the good Count Vancenza was
mortally wounded in rescuing his niece from the assault of a villain. Just
before he expired, he took an affectionate leave of Elvira, and presented
to her a key of curious workmanship, telling her it was the last solemn
gift of—here death stopped his voice, and it was left to time to explain
this mystery. After the Count's death, the Marchioness, with Carline and
Elvira, returned to the castle; which, after the interval of a year, was
to pass over to another family. During this interval, while Elvira was lamenting
her loss, deploring her dependent state, and fostering her passion for Almanza,
the Prince, finding his attachment to Elvira invincible, determined that
false pride should not prevent him from offering her his hand. He accordingly
visited the castle of Vancenza;; and after some embarrassment, arising from
a misapprehension entertained by the Marchioness concerning the object of
Elvira's passion, he obtained from Elvira an acknowledgment of her regard,
and the promise of her hand. While the Prince returned to Madrid to prepare
the palace for her reception, the family at Vancenza was busy in providing
for the nuptials. The picture gallery, which was to be one principal scene
of the approaching festival, was cleared of the old pictures, to be splendidly
ornamented for the occasion. On removing one of the family portraits, Elvira
observed a panel, in which was a curious lock; and presenting the mysterious
key, she unlocked the door, and found within the recess a casket, containing
a manuscript, from which she learned, that she was the daughter of Madeline
Vancenza, sister of the Count, who had been basely seduced and betrayed
by the father of Almanza: thus finding, that the man, whom she had so long
loved, was her brother, she was unable to support the shock of this
discovery, and, after a few days, expired.
A beautiful episode is introduced, entitled, The Pilgrim's Story.
As a specimen of the poetic style of the work, we extract the following
relation of what passed when Almanza first left the castle:
'Elvira, whose gentle bosom, for the first time felt the pang of separation from a beloved object, unobserved by the rest of the family retired to her chamber, and opening the lattice, with tearful eyes and a palpitating heart, followed the cavalcade, until the objects lessening to the view, at length diminished to a mass of moving atoms, scarcely perceptible; except when the setting sun caught the polish of their shining accoutrements, and reflected a / dazzling glance of transitory luster. Elvira Remained at the window till the shades of night hung over the outstretched landscape: the last sound of Almanza's voice was still vibrating upon her brain, when the evening bell summoned her to supper.
'Carline, whose vivacity was proof against every attack upon the heart, rallied her friend upon the solemnity of her manner: the Count, who knew the human mind, and had traced the passions through all its intricate mazes, observed with silent concern the pearly drop of sorry that hung upon the down-cast eye, spangling its fringed lid with the gem of sensibility; he felt that the refined soul shrinks from the coarse gaze of prying curiosity: he trembled to offend, he dreaded to be convinced-he was silent.
'Elvira rose from the table; she caught the eye of Carline, and smiled: it was the smile of self-reproach, rather than that of an unruffled mind. The Count, observing her embarrassment, retired to rest. Elvira, released from her perplexing situation, repaired to her chamber: an involuntary sensation led her to the lattice; she opened it, and, recollecting that it was no longer the a sweet hour of placid twilight, blushed at her folly, and began to divest herself of her day apparel. She enveloped her fair form in a robe of muslin, and, binding an embroidered handkerchief about her head, took up her lute and began to sing a melancholy air adapted to the words of her favourite Metastasio.
'She approached the window. The moon was just risen above the trees of the forest, tipping their waving heads with silvery luster; the nightingale echoed harmonious warblings to the tones of her instrument. The casement opened to a long balcony, that overlooked the rampart facing the avenue. All was serene; the transparent clouds were born upon the wings of silent winds along the vast expanse. The quivering leaves, reflecting their shadows upon the openings between the trees, pictured to the pensive eye of the fair mourner a thousand fantastic forms and airy visions. Her fingers forgot their office, and her cold hand rested in languid inactivity upon the chords of her lute. The clock proclaimed the witching hour of midnight: the solemn sound awed her into profound attention, when, on a sudden, she distinctly heard a kind of rustling among the trees, and at the same moment she perceived the figure of a man, wrapped in a white cloak, the front of which was ornamented with shining clasps; his pace was quick, but at times hesitating. She was almost petrified with fear and astonishment, when the stranger, advancing as near as the situation permitted, in an empassioned tone thus addressed her:
"If thou art not a phantom, formed by the fond imagination of love to cheat my eyes with the semblance of Elvira,, oh! Strike again the strings of heavenly harmony, and, by their magic softness, sooth a mind distracted and despairing."
'Elvira, terrified by this extraordinary and unexpected salutation, hastened from the balcony, without making any answer. She passed the night in melancholy reflections; fancy gave to her view all the perfections of Almanza; she reproached herself for not having replied to his empassioned address, and frequently opened the / casement, in hopes that he still remained beneath the walls of the castle.'
There is something playful in the conceit of the pearly drop of sorrow
spangling the fringed lid with the gem of sensibility. The authoress is
too fond of this sort of ornament, and often overcharges her language with
luxuriant imagery: nevertheless, on the whole, it will not be immoderate
panegyric, to say of this elegant little work, that it is the pleasing production
of a fertile fancy, and a feeling heart.
›››We have just seen a third edition of this work, 'corrected
and enlarged.'
New Annual Register 13 (1792): 300.
Among the Novels which were published during the year 1792, either as original,
or translations from foreign languages, the following have been spoken of,
as possessing superior merit in this style of writing: "Desmond, in
3 Vols. By Charlotte Smith;"
"The Romance of the Forest, in 3 Vols. [by Ann Radcliffe]" "Vancenza,
or the Dangers of Credulity, in 2 Vols. by Mrs. Robinson;" "Anecdotes
of the Delborough Family, in 5 Vols. by Mrs. Gunning;" "Anna St.
Ives, in 7 Vols. by Mr. Holcroft;" "Arabian Tales, translated
from the French, in 4 Vols. by R. Heron;" "Gonzalva or Cordova,
or Granada reconquered, an historical Romance, from the French of Florian,
in 3 Vols.;" "New Tales, from the French of Florian:" and
"the German Gil Blas, from the German of Baron Kuiegge, in 3 Vols."
--To the same class belong, "the Castle of St. Vallery, an ancient
Story;" "Frederick and Louisa, in 4 Vols." "the History
of the Duchess of York, in 2 Vols;" "the noble Enthusiast, in
3 Vols;" Modern Miniature, in 2 Vols;" "Man as He is, in
4 Vols;" "the Fair Impostor, in 3 Vols;" "Elizabeth
Percy, in 2 Vols;" "Juliana Ormeston, the fraternal Victim, in
4 Vols;" "Slavery, or the Times, in 2 Vols;" "the Count
de Hoensdern, a German Tale, in 3 Vols; "the peaceful Villa, in 2 Vols;"
"the Excursion of Osman, a political Romance;" "Adelfrida,
in 4 Vols;" "the Family party, in 3 Vols:" "Fanny, or
the distressed Daughter, in 2 Vols;" "Lady Jane Gray, in 2 Vols;'
"the Double Marriage, in 3 Vols:' "Philario & Eleanora, in
2 Vols;" "Leon, a Spartan Story, in 2 Vols;' "the Rock of
Modrec, in 2 Vols;" "Delineations of the Heart, in 3 Vols;"
"Elvina, in 2 Vols;" "Terentia, in 2 Vols;" "Butler's
Diary, in 2 Vols; "the Female Werther, in 2 Vols; and "Memoirs
of a Baroness, in 2 vols." [irregular punctuation in original.]
Town and Country Magazine 24 (1792): 172.
Vancenza; or, the Dangers of Credulity. By Mrs. Robinson. 2 Vols.
8vo. 5s. Bell.
THIS performance will not greatly add to the reputation which Mrs. Robinson
has acquired by her very excellent poems. The language, which is highly
and poetically laboured, is neither verse nor prose. It is, however, upon
the whole, a pleasing kind of romance.
Prepared by Lisa M. Wilson, SUNY-Potsdam, July 2006.
© Lisa M. Wilson, 2006.