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This biographical sketch is published in four issues of The Monthly Mirror; each new section is headed by publication information.
The Monthly Mirror 3 (May 1797): 259-264 Biographical Sketch of
MRS. INCHBALD
(with a portrait[*])
'Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.' To the middle class of these characters belongs the subject of the present memoir. She has achieved it too by the mere dint of her own genius and resolution, and owes no obligation to circumstance which. the world would call favourable in her outset, to patronage it her pursuit of greatness, or to favour in her attainment of it. Few women have had more of the difficulties of life to encounter than Mrs. Inchbald, and still fewer have had the mag-nanimity to find their way through them. The sketch that is to follow, for which we are in a great part indebted to a work not now in circulation, will very forcibly illustrate the truth of this remark. - Our readers may rely with confidence on its authenticity.
The beginning of the present century was distinguished by what has been properly denominated a constellation of geniuses, composed of men, whose names will all descend to posterity; whilst the transactions of some of them are already lost in oblivion; and we search in vain for genuine accounts of several writers, from whose labours we derive instruction and amusement. If the morning of the present age was thus rendered brilliant by such men, a constellation of female genius, no less splendid, illumines the evening, and gives peculiar grace to the close of that century which will speedily be gone, for ever.
It is an usual observation, and commonly true, that the life of an author is seldom sufficiently diversified to be generally entertaining. An exception to this general rule is furnished us in the memoirs of Mrs. Inchbald, who by her various dramatic pieces, has rendered her welfare an object of public concern, and her memoirs an object of public inquiry.
Mr. Simpson, a very reputable farmer, near Bury St. Edmund's, in Suffolk, was happy in being surrounded with a family of children, remarkably handsome, among whom our heroine was more particularly distinguished for beauty. In her infancy Mr. Simpson died; and her mother, who appears to have been a person of great goodness [260] and discretion, continued to occupy the farm, and brought up her children with the most decent respectability. We have said that our heroine was extremely beautiful; but nature seldom produces per-fection; and Miss Simpson was almost prevented the power of articulation, by an impediment which rendered all she attempted to say unintelligible to such as had not been accustomed to hear her. This misfortune so greatly intimidated her, before strangers, and preyed so much upon her spirits, that in her earliest days she preferred solitude to all society, and 'Melancholy marked her for her own.'- Under this affliction, books became her chief companions, and she particularly delighted in such as contained descriptions of life directly opposite to her own. And thus it generally happens, that they who are in the immediate enjoyment of solitude are captivated with the ideal pleasures of active society; whilst those who are obliged to bear the heat and burden of the day in the acquisition of a competence, sigh for the felicities of retirement.
The disposition our heroine had shewn for solitude, was forced upon her by an incapacity to enjoy the delights of social intercourse; but habit had rendered it apparently natural. Curiosity, however, strengthened by her reading, induced her at the age of thirteen, frequently to declare, 'that she would rather die than live any longer without seeing the world.' Anxious to become acquainted with such customs and manners as she had read of in newspapers and magazines, and, above all, to see the metropolis, of which young minds ever entertain the most romantic ideas, she proposed many plans for the accomplishment of her purpose, but they were constantly rejected by her friends, and she was positively enjoined not to indulge a thought so dangerous to her own safety, and the peace of the family.
But this desire increasing with her years, she at length resolved to effect by stratagem the design which she could not accomplish by permission. She was now sixteen years of age, and was become still more beautiful: her hair was of that bright gold-colour, so much celebrated by eminent poets and painters: her complexion was the glow of loveliness itself: her eyes dark, and her teeth exquisitely white: she was tall, and the symmetry of her person was elegant and correspondent to every description of perfect drawing. Such was our heroine, when, in the year 1772, about the end of February, at an early hour in the morning, she stole away unperceived by any of the family, furnished only with a few necessaries, which she had previously packed up in a band-box, and ran about two miles across some fields to the London road, where, with an indescribable perturbation, [261] she waited the coining of the Diligence, which speedily conveyed her to 'that spot of glory, and that world of woe,' the metropolis.
Elopements usually excite romantic ideas; though, that a lovesick girl should risk every thing for the man she loves, is surely not very wonderful; but that a young and beautiful female, without communicating her intention to any one, destitute, not only of a lover, but even of a confidant, should 'wander forth, to see the world, alone,' is a phenomenon which would better suite the page of fiction than of history.
But the most romantic projects of youth are seldom adopted without a reference to the accomplishment of some rational purpose, or the attainment of some particular pleasure. Curiosity after every thing worthy of curiosity, and that knowledge of the world, which is so frequently extolled as the most laudable acquisition, induced our fair adventurer to pursue a conduct which, at first, strikes us with an idea of singular indiscretion. She did not, however, quit her home without some settled plan. She had often heard her family speak of the wife of a tradesman, who was a distant relation, and lived opposite to Northumberland House, in the Strand. To this relation she determined to apply, and conceived that, after having made herself known, she should be permitted to remain under her care till she had indulged that curiosity by which she had been prompted to take this extraordinary step, and for which she intended to solicit her mother's pardon by writing to her from this asylum. But alas! to our adventurer no such asylum was open; for, on arriving at the house in a hackney-coach, which she took on quitting the Diligence she had the inconceivable mortification to find that it was no longer occupied by persons related to her; they had retired from business, and taken up their residence in Wales; a circumstance with which her friends were unacquainted, as no regular correspondence was held between the two families.
It was near ten at night when our heroine received these dismal tidings. The surprise and the distress discovered in her countenance could not but claim the attention of those to whom she was speaking. She appeared before them harassed, alarmed, and evidently without a place to shelter in. She acknowledged her situation, and requested they would permit her to remain with them till she had time to consider whither to go for the remainder of the night. Touched with pity, the people of the house complied with her request; and this civility, more than her situation, filling her eyes with tears, her hospitable friends were induced to promise that she should stay the whole [262] night; and desired that she would make herself easy, with a kindness and good-nature so unexpected as to raise in her mind suspicions of a more alarming nature than any which she had yet conceived on finding herself in London without a friend to receive her.
As her knowledge of the world had been chiefly gathered from the perusal of novels, she had read too many stories of the various arts of seduction, and was too handsome, riot to render the motives of peculiar civility in strangers extremely suspicious; and she now began to imagine herself the immediate object of seducing artifice. In this idea she was confirmed by having heard the people in the shop whisper, as she passed through it, 'How beautiful!' and the coachman, on receiving his fare, and leaving her to their protection, significantly bade them 'make the most of her.' But what more fully convinced her was the entrance of an elderly corpulent woman, so perfectly answerable to the usual description, in novels, of a procuress, that our heroine deemed her safety to consist in another elopement. Therefore, snatching up her band-box, she suddenly, and without a single word, rushed out of the house, leaving the good people, in the midst of their tenderness and compassion, to stare at each other, and to reprove their ill-timed pity.
Fatigued at length with the precipitancy of her flight, she stopped a moment to rest her box upon a post in the street; and now the horrors of her situation presented themselves in colours more dreadful than ever. To procure a lodging for the remainder of the night, without exposing herself to the arts and impositions of licentious men, or of mercenary women, she thought would be impracticable without having recourse to stratagem; for the inexperienced are too apt to conclude that deceit only can prevail against deceit, and that artifice is to be undermined only by artifice. After ruminating some time, a thought suggested itself, that could she conceal the circumstance of her being a country girl, she would have nothing to dread from those whom she considered as the unprincipled and inhuman destroyers of female innocence. Without reflecting, then, on what questions might be asked her under any assumed character, she spiritedly entered the first house which she saw exhibit Lodgings to let; saying, that 'she was a milliner's apprentice, accustomed to London, and wanted lodgings only for a night or two, because her mistress having unexpectedly a number of visitors from the country, was obliged to give up all her beds.' The people to whom this tale was addressed, expressed their doubts of her veracity, which she strongly asserted, when turning her head, she beheld the identical tradesman, [263] from whose house she had just escaped, an attentive auditor to her new story. He had made bold to trace his uncommon visitor, and, confronting her with the relation she had given him, of being just arrived from the country, gave her a sense of shame and of guilt, to which her bosom had hitherto been an utter stranger.
In this dilemma, the unfortunate wanderer, sharply casting her in the attempt, and the door was locked. As a detected impostor, eye on the band-box, meditated another elopement. She was stopped in the attempt, and the door was locked. As a detected impostor, she was now obliged to endure the harsh menaces of those around her, who threatened to send her to a prison, unless she discovered her abettors, and the end proposed by her imposition. Reduced to this extremity, she again had recourse to sincerity, and, with a flood of tears, once more candidly confessed who and what she was; protesting that her own preservation, rather than the wrong of another, tempted her to use the falshoods [sic] of which she had been guilty. But truth itself was now of little avail: and the woman of the house, with a sort of savage love of honesty, was on the point of ordering a constable, when a sudden exclamation directed the attention of all to another object. A boy, about twelve years of age, with a heart as tender as his years, pitying the distress, and moved by the supplications of the lovely wanderer, cried to see her cry, and loudly threatened his mother never to go to school again if she did not let the young lady go without sending for a constable. This oratory proved irresistible: the outrageous justice of the woman subsided. Our poor adventurer, after being insultingly told to 'Repent!' was turned out of doors near midnight, and with an aching heart and streaming eyes, left to wander the streets of London.
Exposed to those insults which females usually encounter when unprotected they ramble the streets at midnight, our heroine wandered where chance directed her, till the clock struck two, when she found herself at Holborn bridge, and saw a stage coach setting, off for York, hearing, at the same time, the coachman tell a person who asked for a place, that there was not one to spare; it immediately occurred to her to ask the same question, and on receiving the same answer, to solicit for lodgings at the inn, as a disappointed passenger, and thus escape the frightful hazards to which she was liable in the streets. - Happily this scheme succeeded; but not without evident suspicions of her character, on the part of her host and hostess. These suspicions, however, afforded her the consolation of an assurance that she had nothing to apprehend in this house, where her youth and beauty seemed the only bar to a kind reception; the landlady taking the pre-[264]caution to lock the door of the wretched place in which Miss Simpson was permitted to sleep, and, like a careful duenna, wisely putting the key in her pocket.
Our adventurer arose at her usual hour; but having no bell, or any means, from the height she was lodged, to let the family know she was up, and they sagaciously concluding, that ladies who go to bed at two in the morning,, are in no haste to rise, she was left to ruminate on her situation till noon. She could not but deplore her fate; and yet she was more inclined to pursue it, than to return home, and suffer the reproach of indiscretion, with the still further mortification of not having gratified that curiosity, which had led her into a situation at once so extraordinary and disagreeable. 'Mine hostess' at length released her fair prisoner, and informed her that the York coach would set out again that evening. This information was delivered with an air of severity, and as if she suspected that her lodger had no intention of becoming a passenger. Our poor adventurer had not courage to justify that suspicion, but laid down her whole stock of money, to the last half-crown, for the purpose of securing herself a place in the machine for a journey which she never intended to take. This, however, satisfied the landlady, who desired Miss Simpson to walk down to breakfast ; but she excused herself, under the pretence that she was in haste to call on a relation in another part of the town, in order to inform her of the disappointment she had experienced in not leaving London the preceding evening. By this apology she saved the expence of a breakfast, which she was by no means inclined to taste, and thought she could thus secure another night's lodging at an unsuspected house. On her return to the inn, therefore, she said her relation had requested her to remain in town a few days longer; and by this artifice secured her wretched apartment ; and while our unfortunate heroine daily took a walk merely to purchase what her slender finances could afford, the people of the inn supposed Miss Simpson to be feasting with her relations. She was now in the utmost distress: it is a fact, that two half-penny rolls, with water from the bottle in her chamber, were all that she subsisted on during the last ten days she was at the inn.
[To be continued.]
The Monthly Mirror 3 (June 1797): 329-333.
[329] Biographical Sketch of
MRS INCHBALD
[Continued from Page 267 (sic)]
In one of Mrs I's daily rambles, among the many whom her appearance attracted, was the admired Mr R--- of Drury-Lane theatre, who, not to be repulsed by difficulties, employed every art to obtain repeated interviews, to learn the nature of her situation, and to offer such plausible advice as might render his real views unsuspected. - He, at length, succeeded to her confidence, and the stage was pointed out to her as a most probable scheme of support. It had, also, the advantage of being extremely well adapted for the gratification of one whose sole motive for relinquishing her home was to see the world. But an acquaintance thus formed with a man of intrigue was not long to continue: our heroine soon discovered Mr R---'s real views, and, rejecting them, was, one more, left destitute; but not of every prospect she had formed of a livelihood from the stage: for this performer had assured her, that the impediment in her speech was no insurmountable obstacle to her arriving at a certain situation in a theatre; as a particular attention to, and frequent repetition of, her parts, would enable her to repeat them before an audience, so as to obtain, with the advantage of so charming a person, a respectable, if not a brilliant situation in the theatre. In an aspiring and persevering mind, hope is soon converted into resolution, not to be baffled by petty disappointments, nor to be conquered by the intrusion of apparent impossibilities - and such was the mind of our heroine. Left, once more, to provide for herself, she had no sooner discarded her libertine admirer, than she determined to profit by his plan, however doubtful she might be of the sincerity of him who proposed it. As a total stranger, without recommendation, and with a defect in her speech that must have struck every one, at first hearing her, as an invincible bar to all public speaking, she immediately applied to Mr King, of Drury-Lane theatre, then manager of the Bristol house during the summer. His surprise, and the replies she made to his interrogations, have furnished so many different Green-room anecdotes, that, however whimsical and entertaining each of them may be, we are here obliged to decline them all, lest we risk our veracity, by adopting those which are fictitious: suffice it to say, that this was, perhaps, one of the most comic scenes Mr King was ever engaged in; and that, notwithstanding all impediments, after having rehearsed with her a short time, he did not wholly discourage her idea of being an actress; but declined giving her any engagement.
[330] Disappointed in this application, she consulted the play-bills; she remembered the name of Mr Inchbald, who was then of Drury-Lane theatre; having seen him perform, several seasons together, at Bury St Edmund's, the town near the village from whence she came. With this gentleman she had not the least acquaintance, but she felt a confidence in him, which his having been frequently in that neighbourhood had alone inspired. The most remote tie was now a near one, while it had any reference to a place she was, at this time, brought to reflect upon with the most tender regret, having at length seen something of the world, and, doubtless, convinced of the happiness of home. To Mr Inchbald she resolved to apply for advice respecting an engagement at some theatre. Mr Inchbald, at that time a man of noted gallantry and intrigue, was struck with her beauty, but, just then attached to the wife of Col. ---, and engaged in other adventures, he was not tempted to the seduction of that innocence which now sought his friendship; but introduced our heroine to Mr D--- of Drury-Lane house, who had purchased a share in a country theatre, to which he was going as acting manager.
At the first sight of Miss Simpson, D--- hesitated not a moment, but, without any trial, immediately engaged her as his pupil: gave her many parts to study, in spite of the impediment in her speech, which he promised to render at least articulate; and became her instructor. She was now supplied with every convenience, in the prospect, as she supposed, of future services as an actress, and began to think the world growing kind, when, one evening, having been reciting a part to her new master, a most violent quarrel arose, which, from a reserved behaviour on her part, drew him at last coolly, but firmly, to tell her, that he meant to be repaid for the engagement he had assigned her as an actress, with other services than those required for the theatre; and that by such an acquiescence he was willing to hold the agreement, but on no other terms. The tea equipage happened then to be on the table, and our heroine, not so happily blessed as most women are with the powers of loquacity, replied to this speech by proxy; the comedian soon felt the effects of a bason of scalding water on his face and bosom; and, before he had time to recover from his surprise, and the immediate sensation of pain, his pupil had flown down stairs, and was gone for ever.
This momentary revenge imparted a gleam of transport as she quitted D---'s house, but, by the time she had reached her own, her mind was clouded by dismal reflections, and her heart torn with bitter anguish. She found herself deceived, insulted, friendless, and forlorn. In this unhappy state she flew to Mr Inchbald; to him [331] she revealed her sorrows, and recounted every circumstance that had happened, not omitting the bason of water: - 'But why did you so, my dear?' he cried. 'Because I could not speak - if I had not stuttered, I would have said such things! - but I could not speak, and therefore I was obliged to do something, or perhaps he would not have known I had been angry; but I believe he now thinks I am.' Here a flood of tears relieved her, and she repeatedly exclaimed, 'What shall I do? - what will become of me?' Mr Inchbald, affected by her sorrow, endeavoured to soothe it, by mentioning other projects of introduction; but she solemnly declined all further thoughts of the stage, and requested he would propose something less humiliating than attendance on managers. 'My dear,' said Mr Inchbald, 'I know of nothing - no situation where you can be secure, except in marriage.' - 'Yes, Sir, but who would marry me?' - 'I would,' replied he, with warmth; 'but perhaps you would not have me.' 'Yes Sir, and would for ever think myself obliged to you.' - 'And will you,' he asked, 'love me?' Here she hesitated: but he, trusting that a sentiment of that kind would easily be inspired by tenderness and affection, and becoming, at this time, weary of a dissipated life, urged that question no further, nor suffered any subsequent reflection to frustrate the design he had that instant conceived - and, in a few days, they were married.
Thus, in an unexpected moment, and in an unexpected manner, our heroine became both a wife and an actress. Mr Inchbald introduced her on the stage in Scotland, where they remained four years, and the two succeeded years they passed at York. Respecting Mrs Inchbald's theatrical career, there is little to relate. Her defects as an actress were generally forgiven in respect to her personal attraction; and, by a most amiable private character, she acquired the esteem of some of the first people in those places where she chanced to have a temporary residence.
That she well merited this esteem, is particularly evident from a circumstance which we are now about to notice. From the day of his marriage, Mr Inchbald constantly evinced the most perfect, and even romantic attachment, love, and fidelity; yet was he never able to realize the hope he had fondly indulged of some time converting into an affection, equally ardent with his own, that indifference which, whilst single, our heroine repeatedly confessed she entertained for him, and always, when urged, possessed too little deception not to acknowledge. But a heart like hers could not remain insensible to the influence of that power which, sooner or later, it is said [332] every mortal must obey; and she must have possessed a very high, and, therefore, a very proper sense of duty, obligation, and gratitude, to resist the attacks of a passion which, for some time, had wounded her peace. Feelingly alive to every duty of a wife, unshaken in the principles of virtue and obedience, she opposed all the arts of seduction, though exerted by one peculiarly formed to inspire the passion which, till that period, had been a stranger to her bosom; one who, to high birth and an elegant person, added those accomplishments which rarely fail to make strong impressions on the female mind. Reason seldom triumphs over the struggles of the youthful passion without a sacrifice of health; and this our heroine experienced in a very extensive degree. The situation of her heart she found equally alarming. This was a crisis of her fate; and in this important moment she acted like a heroine indeed! she seized the desperate, though, perhaps, the only laudable expedient left her: Sincerity suggested the idea, and confidence in her husband's most tender love gave her power to execute it. She confessed to him the violation which her mind had suffered; begged his pity and forgiveness; and proposed to go with him to whatever place he should prefer, in order to escape a further injury of her principles, for which, she candidly confessed, she could no longer be answerable. Her health, by this time, was so much impaired, that the physicians in Scotland had advised a tour to the South of France, as the only means of recovery. This advice was now adopted. The re-establishment of her health may, in some measure, be attributed to her distance from him by whom her peace had been invaded, but, more especially, to the tenderness of a man who, struck with the generosity of her sentiments, and lamenting the languishing and declining state to which she was reduced, repaid that generosity, and became, instead of a jealous husband, the faithful confidante, the careful adviser, the affectionate comforter; who not only pitied her weakness, but alledged every thing in her favour that could possibly extenuate it, and reconcile her to herself. He even urged the disparity of their years; he assured her of his perfect forgiveness; and consoled her with the hope that absence would effectually eradicate those fatal impressions which had proved so injurious to her health and her peace. Nor was the hope vain: our heroine conquered those impressions, and recovered her tranquility.
After staying abroad about a year, Mr and Mrs Inchbald returned to England, from whence they had been absent near five years. They constantly avoided the gentleman who had nearly proved so fatal to their happiness, and continued to live in the most perfect [333] harmony near two years, when Mr Inchbald's death gave our heroine a new occasion of testifying how much she had 'ever thought herself obliged to him,' by an unaffected concern for his memory, and by a firm regard to a strict vow which she had taken, never again to behold the man who had once designed the ruin of her peace, and the injury of her husband.
[to be continued.]
The Monthly Mirror 4 (July 1797): 11-14
[11] Biographical Sketch of
MRS. INCHBALD
[Continued from Page 267 (sic)]
Once more left to herself, her former wishes and her former curiosity returned; and, notwithstanding all the difficulties she had heretofore encountered, she again resolved 'to see a little more of the world,' and again turned her attention to London; and though, upon her arrival, she immediately obtained a situation in one of the theatres, she, for four long years, experienced little more than poverty, aggravated by persecution. For some trifling inattention, or a rejection of some peculiar article required by the manager, but repugnant to her feelings, she was one winter expelled the theatre, and obliged to take refuge, under some hard terms, in Ireland. We well recollect the event of her going to Dublin that season; but the particular circumstances that occasioned her quitting London, or her unhappy [12] situation in it, or what induced her return, and reinstatement in the very same theatre from whence she was, during the season of playing, suddenly discharged, we cannot take upon us to state: these are private occurrences, which come not within the verge of our knowledge; and we shall not stain the authenticity, of these memoirs, by giving, as facts, the conclusions of conjecture.
Thus oppressed and unhappy, and living in the most retired manner, our heroine, probably to divert her mind from a too frequent recollection of these circumstances, directed her attention to dramatic composition, in which she has so happily succeeded, that, whatever cause induced her to 'woo the muse,' the public have reason to re-joice in the effect.
It was in the fourth year of Mrs. Inchbald's engagement at Covent-Garden theatre, that the Mogul Tale was sent to Mr. Colman. This was the first piece which she brought upon the stage; though the comedy of I'll tell you what was written near three years before, and had lain all that time unread, in Mr. Colman's possession. Appearing in a female hand, and sent by an anonymous author, that gentleman probably concluded it unworthy of his perusal. The Mogul Tale was sent in the same manner; its brevity seems to have been its recommendation for speedy attention; and its success induced Mrs. Inchbald to remind the manager of her comedy: his reply was, 'I'll go home and read it.' - He read, and approved: and in the following summer the town was delighted with that popular piece, to which Mr.Colman gave the title of I'll tell you what.
'Success,' they say, 'makes people vain:' but Mrs. Inchbald's success seems to have had no other effect than that of stimulating her to new exertions; and she moves in the dramatic hemisphere with the rapidity and the brilliancy of those fascinating fires 'that charm, but hurt not.' The comedy of I'll tell you what, was succeeded by Appearance is against them; The Widow's Vow; and Such Things are. It is needless to descant on the merits of compositions so well known to the public, and from which they will yet derive much profitable pleasure; for it is the almost exclusive property of Mrs. Inchbald's dramatic productions, that their merit ranks them in the list of what are called 'stock plays:' plays which are likely to amuse succeeding generations. To these works of genius we may also add Animal Magnetism, the Midnight Hour, and the play of the Child of Nature, in four acts, all of them translated from the French.
The comedy of I'll tell you what, was written at the age of twenty-[13]four, and the remainder of the pieces at periods of life so remarkably early, that we are naturally reminded of the praise bestowed by Dr. Johnson on one of the poets: 'When it is remembered,' he says, 'that this author produced these four plays before he had passed his twenty-fifth year; before other men, even such as are, sometime, to shine in eminence, have passed their probation of literature, or presume for any other notice than such as is bestowed on diligence and inquiry, I doubt whether any one can be produced that more surpassed the common limits of nature than be.' The appropriation to our authoress of this striking sentence, and we think that appropriation but mere justice, redounds more to the honour of Mrs. Inchbald than any praise immediately directed to herself. And were we even to divest her writings of all that popularity and fashion which have so fortunately attended them, still it must be acknowledged, and her works evidently prove, that she has more than accomplished the desire which first led her from home. she has not only 'seen the world,' but largely contributed to i
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