Author: Bristow, Amelia (dates uncertain; fl. 1810-33)
Title: The Maniac, A Tale; or a View of Bethlem Hospital. And the Merits of Women, a Poem from the French: With Poetical Pieces on Various Subjects, Original and Translated.
Date: 1810
Contemporary Reviews of this Volume
British Critic, 36 (Nov.1810), 520-21.
Art. 16. The Maniac, a Tale; or, a View of Bethlem Hospital: and the Merits of Women a Poem from the French, with Poetical Pieces on various Subjects, original and translated. By A. Bristow. 8vo. 10s. 6d. Hatchard, 1810.
The first of these poems is melancholy indeed, but the conclusion is pious and consolatory. Of the poetry we shall say but little, the long and most respectable list of subscribers, present a powerful shield between any trifling demerits, and austere criticisms. We have not often met with French poetry, particularly modern French poetry, which we have thought deserving of translation. The poem in this collection on the merits of women, is however pleasing, and the Episode at the conclusion very impressive. The following may serve as a specimen of the minor compositions.
Virtus rosa suavior, sole calrior.
Virtue is sweeter than the rose, and brighter than the sun. Motto to the arms of the Skipp family.
I.
See natures’ loveliest blooming flower,
Whose balmy sweets perfume the air;
Pride of gay Summer’s proudest hour;
Can aught for scent with that compare?
II.
Yes, Virtue, sweeter than the rose,
Does fragrance far more rich dispense,
More soul-exalting bliss bestows,
Greets with more joy the raptur’d sense.
III.
Behold the golden orb of day,
To numerous worlds diffusing light,
Yet still with undiminished ray,
Is aught so gloriously bright?
IV.
Yes, Virtue brighter than the sun,
More hallowed influence beams around,
Points out with happier aim to shun,
If darkness the abyss profound.
V.
The flowers that from its essence spring,
Fear not life’s roughest witery fale,
‘Midst wrecks of worlds it light shall fling,
Where light of suns and stars shall fail.
Gentleman’s Magazine, 80 pt.2 (Nov. 1810), 454.
Art.39. The Maniac, a Tale; or, a View of Bethlem Hospital: and the Merits of Women a Poem from the French, with Poetical Pieces on various Subjects, original and translated. By A. Bristow. Crown 8vo; Pp. 145; Hatchard; 1810.
The Authoress has been encouraged to publish this volume by a very numerous list of subscribers; and it will not discredit her talents, or their patronage. If we do not meet with much of the inspiration, we have at least the purity and elegance of the language of poetry, and many tender sentiments and poetical images vigorously expressed. Her devotional poetry seems to come from the heart; but, perhaps the best in the collection is “The Maniac.” The episode of Albert is well told, and fraught with instruction. “The Merits of Women” appear to us rather tedious, and in some places flat; but the Authoress has, probably, done justice to her original. Upon the whole, Mrs. Bristow is entitled to a respectable place among the numerous candidates for poetic fame.
Literary Panorama, 8 (Aug. 1810), 668-70.
The Maniac, a Tale; or, a View of Bethlem Hospital: and the Merits of Women a Poem from the French, with Poetical Pieces on various Subjects, original and translated. By A. Bristow. Crown 8vo. Pp. 145. Price 10s 6d. Hatchard London, 1810.
When we, not long ago, had occasion to hint at the variety of interesting subjects that poetry might find for the purpose of exciting compassion, in a hospital,* we alluded among others, to those too frequent cases of alienated understanding, which such institutions humanely relieve. When, therefore Mrs. Bristow, by her title page, referred us to “ Bethlem Hospital,” we expected to find “ a View” of the suffering inhabitants of that melancholy asylum. Our expectations have been disappointed. After an introduction which is not particularly descriptive of that “tremendous pile,” we are presented with a story of sufferings so severe and complicated, as to deprive the unfortunate Alfred of his reason.--But, this incident is Irish; and therefore, has no connection with Bethlem Hospital. We fear, that the late rebellion in the western island, was but too prolific of domestic animosities; and as this lady asserts, brought many bosom friends into hostile array against each other. It is the unhappy distinction of civil commotion. The story would be unintelligible in extracts. To the next subject- “the Merits of Women,” no poet can do justice : whatever fancy may conceive of tender, affectionate, engaging, animating, delightful, falls short of fact. Nevertheless, a impartial estimate of the sex, requires due notice of demerit as well as merit. The Historian must not allow the wonderful intrepidity of many heroines in France during the Revolution, to exclude from his pages the ferocity of the Poissardes, and the incredibly barbarities of the Dames de la Halle. Poetry is not bound by the same laws as history; but may choose a subject ad libitum, and may view it in what aspect she thinks proper. We acknowledge that the honourable view of the sex, is most grateful to our mind; and we with pleasure consecrate a page to the memory of those women, the just boast of their country, who braved the host of terrors from which the stronger sex shrunk, appalled with fear.
Sunk in despondence, whilst our men gave way,
To fears enervate, or to wild dismay,
Whilst looking round, of every hope bereft,
Women alone, seemed for their succour left;
Each, film, collected, active to defend,
Sire, son or husband, brother, lover, friend;
Pleaded, knelt, wept, implored! If still denied,
With them, or for them, willing victims died!
One instance to adduce, impressive scene!
With me recall that execrable reign,
When dire September’s horrors, days of fear!
To death and carnage oped the long career:
When sleeping laws held forth no power to save;
Nor a distracted senate succour gave:
When age, nor rank, nor sex exemption found
From rage infernal, spreading havoc round.
Fiends borne by Bacchus, and the Furies fell,
To the prisons flew, death armed! with horrid yell.
There dead on dead, dying on dying thrown;
Shuddering, all heaved on universal groan
*Midst this dire scene of anguish and despair,
A maid rushed through the throng, with frenzied air;
Sombreuil, in youth’s fresh bloom, one victim spied;
“Barbarians!’ tis my father!” loud she cried;
“Oh! spare him!” kneeling, pity she demand s;
Clasps their hard knees; kisses their blood-stained hands.
When cried, tears, nor entreaties aught avail,
Desperate, she even with force now dares assai l:
Arrests the arm raised o’er his reverend head;
Against the murderous steel, extended spread
Her form, to save that honored form more dear:
Grasps him-then looses hold-again gets near!
Her struggles, dangers, her devoted zeal,
In nature’s sacred cause, even teach to feel
The murderers! a moment, they suspend
The work of death! that moment, pity’s friend!
She seized with eager joy! strained in her arms,
Her sire adored, rescued from present harms.
Quick lifting, from the homicides she bore
Her burden, through those walls, all smeared with gore!
Then hailed, in safety placed, with smiles serene,
The wondering object of this wondrous scene.
Enjoy, and oh! accept thy med of praise
Thou biest Antigone of modern days!
Whilst thrones and people mutual umbrage give,
Thy sainted name from age to age shall live
Long as a world sweet filail love admires;
Of daughters bright exemplar, boast of sires!
⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯
Thus nobly soar, on virtue’s wings up-borne,
Those whom proud man affects to view with scorn!
Man, whom when trembling on the brink of fate,
They fly to save; or join, self-immolate!
To them for soft support misfortune clings:
From them felicity’s first blessing springs.
When age has shed its winters o’er man’s head,
Fond retrospects imagination led,
To joys in life’s delightful prime bestowed,
By her, his sweet companion through its road:
And who, even on the borders of the tomb,
Can teach some bright perrennial flowers to bloom.
Decked with each charm of native loveliness,
A daughter too, exerts her power to bless;
Performs each tender office love can claim
To sooth pain’s couch, support the nerveless frame.
Thus cheered, thus comforted, old age appears
No toilsome burden; death no terrors wears:
And ere his lingering eyes for ever close,
Their last fond looks on those loved forms repose.
This is a favorable specimen of this lady’s poetry. Critics will detect incorrectness by which the merit of other parts is abated.
Not the least extraordinary determination of this author, is the omission of the extremely affecting anecdotes which M. Le Gouvé had collected and recorded in his notes. That they are terrible is true; but their very terror is uncommonly expressive, and therefore, we shall supply the omission of the duty in MRs. Bristow, in a following number of our work; and the rather as some of the parties were not unknown to us-they will form an interesting companion to the anecdotes recorded in the first volume of Panorama, pages 64, 533, 747, 995, verifying the curious prophecy of M. de Cazotte, found in the papers of M. de la Harpe at his death.
Monthly Review, 63 (Oct. 1810), 211-12
Art. 30. The Maniac, a Tale; or, a View of Bethlem Hospital: and the Merits of Women a Poem from the French, with Poetical Pieces on various Subjects, original and translated. By A. Bristow. Crown 8vo. Pp. 145. Price 10s 6d. Hatchard London, 1810.
If Mrs. Bristow does not appear to be a first-rate-poet, she certainly possesses a respectable portion of talent, and her little volume affords proofs both of correct judgement and of poetic fancy. She pays less attention than some of her contemporaries to the harmony of her numbers, but her serious pieces evince taste and reflection. She has translated the Abbé Delille’s description of a stag-hunt (in L’Homme des Champs ) with spirit and feeling nearly equal to his own; and her poem on ‘the Merits of Women,’ which appears to have been written con amore, has all the animation of an original composition. The passage descriptive of maternal solicitude and tenderness contains so much truth and nature, that we hope to be applauded for transcribing it:
‘Grave censors of the sex, whose eyes severs
View these fine talents with contemptuous sneer,
At least can warmest gratitude, ah! say,
Their useful fond exertions e’er repay?
Ere yet existence breathes the vital air,
Their cares for us commence; their love we share.
When, after months of langour, terrors, pain
The pangs still more acute doomed to sustain,
The patient sufferer to maternal arms
Receive her pledge of love: its infant charms
Raising enthusiastic rapture high,
She vows, with a thankful heart, and tear-fraught eye,
To him she will devote with anxious care:
No tois remit, no tender office space,
To shield his infant state from infant woes.
She o’er him hangs to watch his soft repose:
Chases the insect, who, with buzzing sound,
Or brushing wing, might break his rest profound.
Dark midnight’s shade no pause in feeling makes;
Her ear attentive, ‘midst deep silence, wakes,
To catch the slightest noise that might annoy
The tranquil comfort of her precious boy.
Or, should, at length, sleep’s balmy pressure close
Her heavy eye-lids in a short repose,
E’en dreams her tender vigilance alarm;
She starts; flies to repel the threatened harm:
In fixed attention o’er her treasure bent,
Long she contemplates him with looks intent;
Then, scarcely satisfied her fears were vain,
Resumes her couch to watch and wake again.
Anon, when stretched, his little hands are spread,
And gentle clamours speak his slumbers fled,
Clasped in her arms, she quick, to still his cries,
The pure, health-yielding nourishment applies,
By Nature given, who nothing gives in vain,
Our feeble state to comfort and sustain.’
Poetical Register, 8 (1810), 570-71.
The Maniac, a Tale; or, a View of Bethlem Hospital: and the Merits of Women a Poem from the French, with Poetical Pieces on various Subjects, original and translated. By A. Bristow. Crown 8vo. pp.145.
Mrs. Bristow’s poetical talents never rise above mediocrity, and sometimes sink below it. The Maniac is spun out too much. Had the story been told in half the number of pages, it would have been more interesting. The translations of “The Merits of Women,” and of “The Rural Sage,” are deficient in spirit. These two poems, and the Maniac are written in the heroic couplet, a metre which Mrs. Bristow manages badly. There is neither melody nor variety in her ten syllable verse. In eight syllable verse she is more successful. Her Address to Fortune, in this metre, is not without merit, and her translations from Dorat’s fables are easy and pleasing.
Prepared by Lia Havlena, University of Nebraska, April 2018
© Lia Havlena, 2018