Widow Reviews

The Corvey Novels Project at the University of Nebraska

— Studies in British Literature of the Romantic Period —

Mary Robinson

Mrs. M. Robinson. The Widow, or, a Picture of Modern Times. A Novel, in a Series of Letters. In TwoVolumes. 2 vols.

London: Hookham and Co, 1794.

Contemporary Reviews

Analytical Review 18 (1794): 453-55.

ART. XLVIII. The Widow, or a Picture of Modern Times. A Novel, in a Series of Letters. In two Volumes. By Mrs. M. Robinson, Author of Poems, Ainsi va le Monde, Vancenza, Modern Manners, &c. &c. 370 p. Price 6s. sewed. Hookham and Co. 1794.

PICTURES of modern times have often been exhibited by novelists, in a manner rather suited to foster libertinism, than to restrain it: and it has been thought a sufficient apology fro the most wanton exposure of licentious manners, that the loose tale has been decently finished with some common place moral reflections. No accusation for this kind, however, can be laid against the present novel. Though the characters and manners are evidently drawn from an intimate acquaintance with the fashionable world, the picture by no means represents it's follies and vices in a light suited to captivate and seduce; it rather exhibits examples of fashionable folly, affected sensibility, and abandoned libertinism, bringing themselves into circumstances of disgrace and wretchedness abundantly sufficient to leave upon the reader's mind strong impressions of contempt and disgust.

If the following be a true representation of the manner in which the great often sport with the happiness of their inferiours, we shall be obliged to admit a worse idea of high life than we have hitherto entertained. Julia, the amiable and unfortunate widow who is the principal subject of the story, writes as follows:—Vol. II. Page2.

'Lady Seymour, Mrs. Vernon, and sir Charles, came after dinner, to request that I would accompany them to a farm house, at two miles distance, where they frequently went to drink tea, in all the enchanting neatness of rustic life. I was not much inclined to attend them, but their earnest entreaties at length prevailed. We found, at / the farm, an old man, his wife, and a young woman, their daughter, about eighteen years of age, extremely handsome, and perfectly modest. Mrs. Vernon had scarcely rested after the fatigue of her walk, before she began to ask the young women the most taunting questions, who knew not how to answer but the truth and simplicity, "when do you mean to get a husband?" "next week, madam;" said the girl, curtsying; "what I suppose you are going to marry some stupid clodpole of your own species?" "yes, ma'am," said the timid damsel, not comprehending her language. "And are you such a fool as to throw yourself away upon a poor stupid peasant, who will soon hate you, and render you miserable?" said Mrs. Vernon. "Besides," continued to mischief-maker, "I believe I know you charming swain; he comes every day to the castle, and flirts with the maids." The poor girl, reddening like scarlet, burst into tears, and sobbed as if her heart was breaking; sir Charles, who observed her distress, looked at me, and shook his head; then taking her by the hand, entreated her to be pacified, and not to believe one word of what Mrs. Vernon had been saying. "Well," said lady Seymour, affecting great resentment, "this is the most extraordinary instance of effrontery I ever beheld; to receive the caresses of my husband before my face! Now I have discovered my rival, I shall make an example of her." The trembling girl earnestly protested her innocence, and said, 'she never had seen the gentleman, except when he came to the farm, sometimes with that lady," pointing to Mrs. Vernon. Here a new and real source of suspicion spread the blush of indignation on the cheek of lady Seymour. Mrs. Vernon was overwhelmed with confusion, when sir Charles, giving the girl a handful of money, told her to go and seek her sweetheart, and not grieve about the stories she had heard; for that they were wholly untrue, and only invented to torment her. The damsel thanked him; and her countenance resumed its natural serenity.

'We left the farm, and strolled across the fields towards home; on a sudden the sky grew dark, and it began to thunder most awfully; we ran towards a large tree at some distance; the storm encreased, the rain poured in torrents, and the flashes of lightning were frequent and dreadful; we there found (sheltering themselves from the enraged elements) a poor woman, and two little children, the eldest about five years old; one was in her arms, the other hid itself under its mother's tattered gown, and was crying mournfully. Mrs. Vernon, looking at them with an air of disdain, and keeping at a distance, as though she dreaded some dangerous infection, bid them from the storm?" said she; "I really wonder at your assurance." My heart palpitated with indignation at her want of feeling. "Dear madam," said I, "let the good woman remain where she is; consider, the affrighted children have scarcely an thing to cover them; the rain will chill their little bosoms, or perhaps the lightning will destroy them; here is shelter enough for us all; or if you have not room sufficient, I will resign my place with pleasure!" "I am astonished to hear you talk such nonsense," replied Mrs. Vernon; "why they are not like us; they are used to all sorts of hardships; the rain / won't hurt them: and as to the lightning, if it should please Heaven to take the poor things, it would be but merciful; for I am sure they look as if they were starving!" The woman took the infant she was nourishing from her bosom, tenderly kissed it, and, with tears starting from her eyes, left the tree without uttering a syllable. I watched her until she was at the distance of twenty yards, wishing to avoid the ostentation of charity. But my heart was bursting with pity: I could not hear it; I ran after her, and gave her my purse, containing, not much, heaven knows; but it made her smile, and I was happy.

'I had scarcely quitted the poor woman, when I heard a shriek from the spot which I had just left. I instantly perceived the tree shattered by the lightning, and Mrs. Vernon, terrified and pale, flying across the field. Though I was deeply impressed with what had passed, I could not help smiling at her apparent alarm. Lady Seymour was unable to proceed for laughing; and sir Charles, taking me by the hand, said, "Mrs. St. Laurence, I see you know the luxury of doing good! But you will never be forgiven by Mrs. Vernon, for the event of this evening, because little minds cannot pardon the superiority that shames them."

The novel is written in an easier style than the author's former productions of this class, and in incident and sentiment is sufficiently interesting to ensure it a favourable reception.

British Critic 3 (1794): 338.

ART. 18. The Widow, or a Picture of Modern Times, a Novel, in a Series of Letters, in Two Volumes. By Mrs. M. Robison, Author of Poems, Vancenza, &c &c.

If this be a picture of modern times, the times are bad indeed! —Mrs. Robinson's is a sprightly, entertaining, and interesting pen.—we can commend this novel for its good writing and real merit.—We think some of the characters rather too highly drawn, and there is an inconsistency in supposing Mr. Howard, the traveling tutor of a young nobleman, and yet at his death, without any apparent cause, able to leave the heroine of the tale a fortune adequate to the rendering her a suitable wife for Lord Allford.

Critical Review 12 (1794): 102.

The Widow, or a Picture of Modern Times. A Novel, in a Series of Letters. In Two Volumes. By Mrs. M. Robinson. 2 Vols. Small 8vo. 6s. Boards. Hookham and Carpenter. 1794.

This is one of the most insipid novels which, in the course of our labours, we have had occasion to peruse. The characters are fashionably vicious, without any fashionable brilliancy to compensate for the depravity. O! for a warning voice to prevent those, at least, in whom age has not yet destroyed the capabilities of improvement, from dreaming away their hours in turning over publications like these, while the interesting walks of history, and the fair fields of fancy, and the rich mines of science, solicit their notice, and offer their treasures to their persevering investigation!

English Review 24 (1794): 59-61.

ART. XIII. The Widow; or, a Picture of Modern Times. A Novel, in a Series of Letters. In Two Volumes. By Mrs. M. Robinson, Author of Poems, Ainsi va le Monde, Vancenza, Modern Manners, &c. &c. pp. 369. 12 mo. London: printed for Hookham and Carpenter, Bond-Street. 1794.

Julia, a beautiful and accomplished girl, the daughter of an American merchant, marries an English officer, who shortly afterwards quits Philadelphia with his regiment. Julia, supposing he has departed for England, leaves her family to follow him. On her passage the ship is wrecked, and only a few passengers survive; amongst others, Julia and a Mr. Morton escape.—Sidney, her husband, returns to Philadelphia, and, finding Julia gone, obtains leave to return home. He arrived in England, hears of the ship wreck, and concludes that she has perished. In a few months after he marries a second wife, rich, but of the most vulgar and detestable mind. Here the story commences: Julia, not daring the return to her family, with the assistance of Mr. Morton, an amiable character, hires a cottage in Devonshire, in the neighborhood of the castle of Sir Charles Seymour, which is the scene of much fashionable dissipation.—She becomes the object of curiosity and envy in the women, and universal admiration in the men. Accompanies Lady Seymour to London—is persecuted by a profligate peer, who by a base stratagem entraps her in his snare-she is rescued by Sir Charles Seymour—the libertine draws his sword, is wounded, and dies. Sir Charles flies to the continent, but leaves Julia under the protection of an honourable friend. She is dangerously ill—loses her senses—this friend visits her, and proves to be her husband, who had changed his name, and succeeded to the title of Lord Allford. His second wife, by a course of gaming, intrigue, and every species of depravity, is at length divorced. He remarries Julia, she recovers, and is restored to happiness.

The story is interspersed with a variety of scenes that it would be difficult to describe, though they are evidently taken from nature. The most striking characters are Julia, Mrs. Vernon, Lord Woodley, Sir Charles Seymour, and Mr. Howard. The following extracts will exhibit a just specimen of this composition:

'Lord ALLFORD to Sir CHARLES SEYMOUR.
Lyons, April 179—

'WITH some difficulty we passed through this hostile country, and are now safely arrived within a few posts of the Alps; those stupendous mountains covered with snow, and replete with wonders! My adorable Julia is already much recovered, and I have hopes that the temperate air of Naples will perfectly restore her.

'It is impossible to describe the beauty of the scenes through which we have traveled; but a warlike spirit seems to prevail, and to inspire every bosom, with the maddest enthusiasm. I lament, my dear Seymour, that anarchy treads so closely upon the heels of emancipation; and when I see the devastation spreading around me, I bless my nature land, and think the poorest peasant an object to be envied. Nothing shall persuade that virtue is not the natural inmate of the human breast; and I believe that the vast difference of rank, and the vices of those favoured with the gifts of fortune, are entirely productive of all the ills that threaten humanity.

'The insolence of what is called the higher order of society, creates that sort of murmuring which awakens the slumbering mind; in those who are most enlighten[e]d, it produces a restlessness which soon grows into contempt! Contempt banishes respect, and produces hatred. The next idea is revenge! Reason them begins to ruminate on what are the real claims of superiority, and the powers of intellect assert their right to pre-eminence. We shudder at the horrors of a civil war! We shrink when we behold a torrent of human blood appeasing the thirst of an incensed multitude. But the ignorance in which the obscure order of the people are nursed, and the perpetual subjection in which they are educated, prevent the expansion of the mind, and make them only sensible of wrongs, and eager for redress. Take the tiger from his den, will he not seek for blood? Will not the solitude in which he has grown into strength render him savage? And the sight of an assailant urge him on to slaughter? It is not thus with the domestic animal; he, tamed by mercy, nourished with gentleness, and prompted by instinct to gratitude, licks the hand that fed him, and, familiarised by kindness, in his turn, protects his humane preserver.

'The brute creation are subdued to our service, because they are unconscious of their strength. But MAN is a SUPERIOR CREATURE; he is guided by more than instinct; and oppression is the certain means of awakening reflection. How far it is safe to rouse the thinking multitude, time will discover. But while the enlightened mind knows and values its own claims, as well may the waves attempt to remove the rock from its foundation, as proud oppression to triumph over reason.

'Seymour, you are happy in Britain. Its glorious constitution (as long as its native purity is preserved) will make it the envy of the world! You are a legislator; be it your task to prop the fabric, and you will enjoy repose under its sublime protection. Let the philosopher travel before he forms his opinions; and he will, I think, unite with the laurels of CONQUEST the roses of PHILANTHROPY.'

The following is written in a strain of profound admiration for a prince, who is certainly possessed of many amiable and princely qualities: /

'Where a people, prosperous and liberal, not only feel their present happiness, but look forward to its continuance under a prince, graced with all the attributes of nature! Whose exalted birth, receives the proud confirmation of superior splendour, by the virtues of his heart! And whose mind (improved by education and experience) deserves that adoration which it is beyond the reach of earthly power to exact! Allford, you are sensible that I am no courtier; but where is the man at an early period of life soars above the highest claims of rank; where illustrious sentiments shed glory on hereditary eights; I am the first to acknowledge their supremacy!'

There are some elegant pieces of poetry occasionally introduced; a great variety of incidents appear in succession throughout the work, which cannot be described in the limits of our critique: but they are all of a moral tendency, and are written in an easy and familiar style. Many of the sentiments do honour to the mind and heart of our authoress.

Monthly Review (May 1794): 38-40.

ART. VII.. The Widow, or a Picture of Modern Times. A Novel, In a series of Letters. By Mrs. Mary Robinson. 12 mo. 2 Vols. 6s. Boards. Hookham. 1794.

THOUGH poems and novels are both works of fancy, the transition from the former species of writing to the latter is not easy. The constant effort, which the poet commonly thinks it necessary to make in order to enrich his language, forms a habit of elevated diction little suited to familiar narrative; and those flights of imagination, which are the soul of poetry, can seldom be properly introduced in stories which are supposed to be copied from real life. Mrs. Robinson, to whose poetical merit we have often had occasion to bear testimony, appears to have found some difficulty in passing from the fictions of verse to those of prose. In the present novel, however, she has succeeded better than in her former prose productions, in attempting to throw off the pomp of poetical diction, and to reduce her style to the tone of polite epistolary correspondence:—but the principal merit of these volumes is their exhibiting a picture of modern times, in which the features of fashionable folly and depravity are drawn with a skilful hand, and with such strokes of deformity as well adapted to excite contempt and indignation. The incidents are well contrived and arranged; the characters are agreeably diversified and strongly marked; and the sentiments, throughout, are such as ought to leave a due impression on the mind for the reader in favour of virtue. We shall not except from the letter part of this commendation, the following delicate plea in behalf of the unfortunate and contrite female wanderer: /

'We are all (says Mrs. St. Lawrence) subject to error, and the feeling, considerate mind readily embraces every occasion to commend, rather than depreciate. Let those who censure, examine their own hearts; let them, before they condemn, prove themselves immaculate. The frailty of our sex depends on a thousand circumstances, and ought to claim the tenderest indulgence. A woman may be weak without being vicious; a variety of events may conspire to undermine the most powerful rectitude; and the severity frequently exercised by relations in the education of youth, gives an habitual discontent, which renders every scene of life dull and insipid. The mind, so tinged with peevish indifference, shrinks from the energies of virtue, and easily becomes a pretty to the designing. There are women who have no opportunities to wander from the paths of propriety; peculiar deficiency in personal attractions will often shield the weakest heart from the attacks of the seducer; others are placed on such an eminence of delight, so surrounded by all the comforts, and luxuries of life, blessed with the attentions of amiable kindred (while every wish is anticipated by the affections of a worthy husband) that to deviate from virtue would be unpardonable. But let the unprejudiced observer turn to that woman, who, perhaps, tenderly educated in the bosom of affluence, with a mind exquisitely sensible, driven upon the mercy of an unfeeling world; young, beautiful, stricken with poverty, shrinking under oppression, assailed by flattery, and allured by splendour; surely the most obdurate heart must sigh for such a wanderer, and confess that, if any thing can palliate indiscretion, it is the combination of such circumstances. But, alas! How few will examine with candour, or judge with lenity! How few will look back upon past provocation, in order to extenuate present culpability! For my own part, I confess I never beheld the blush of contrition, without feeling an involuntary impulse to bathe it with a tear of pity! The happy do not want the aids of compassion, and I trust I shall cease to exist when I withhold a sigh from the unfortunate.

'You know, my amiable friend, I was always a melancholy being; and the solitude that surrounds me tends to cherish every mournful propensity. Guilt only flies form the stillness of seclusion, where it dares not scrutinize its own heart; for my own choice,

I love the labyrinth, the silent glade,
For soft repose, and conscious rapture made;
The melancholy murmurs of the rill,
The moaning zephyrs and the breezy hill,
The torrent roaring from the flinty steep,
The morning gales that o'er the landscape sweep,
The shade that dusky twilight meekly draws,
O'er the calm interval of nature's pause;
'Till the chaste MOON slow stealing o'er the plain,
Wraps the dark mountain in her silv'ry train,
Soothing with sympathetic tears the breast
That seeks for SOLITUDE, and sighs for REST.

'You see, my dear Madam, I am still an humble handmaid of the MUSES; they are my best companions, for to them I owe many a / tranquil hour, which perverse fortune cannot darken, or event he envy of the world wrest from me.'

It would be easy to make other pleasing extracts from this novel, but we will not forestall the pleasure which our readers will derive from the perusal of the whole.

A second volume of Mrs. R.'s poems is under perusal.