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Art. XLII. The False Friend: a domestic Story. By Mary Robinson, Author of Poems, Walsingham, Angelina, Hubert de Sevrac, &c. In 4 vols. 12mo. Price 16s. Longman. 1799.
We are at a loss to give a critique of 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 tinges, that spoil the repose, and deform rather than relieve. The style is diffuse, the work too long, the 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 seeming severity of our remarks: amidst these disadvantages, we have felt, and we acknowledge her powers; 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 my 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 sense; how inevitably dost 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-[210]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 what 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 splendor, 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.' [complete]
Provided by Julie A. Shaffer, November 1999.
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