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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. 12mo. 370p. 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 for the most wanton exposure of licentious manners, that the loose tale has been decently finished with some common place moral reflections. No accusation of 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 [sic] 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. page 2.
'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 [454] 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 with 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 the mischief-maker, "I believe I know your 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 had 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 instantly depart: "Don't you see we want to secure ourselves 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 any thing to cover them; the rain will chill their little bosoms, or perhaps the lightning 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 [455] 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 bear 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.
[complete] Provided by Julie Shaffer, August 1999.
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