|
ART. VII. The Widow, or a Picture of Modern Times. A Novel. In a Series of Letters. By Mrs Mary Robinson. 12mo. 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 are 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 of the reader in favour of virtue. We shall not except, from the latter part of this commendation, the following delicate plea in behalf of the unfortunate and contrite female wanderer:
[39] '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 prey 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, the 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 splendor; 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 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 from 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 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 [40] tranquil hour, which perverse fortune cannot darken, or even the 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. [complete]
Provided by Julie A. Shaffer, September 1999.
|
