A Simple Story | Page 6

marriage, with brief notes as to her state of mind during each. The list
has fortunately survived, and some of the later entries are as follows:--
1791. London; after my novel, Simple Story ... very happy.
1792. London; in Leicester Square ... cheerful, content, and sometimes
rather happy....
1794. Extremely happy, but for poor Debby's death.
1795. My brother George's death, and an intimate acquaintance with Dr.
Gisborne--not happy....
1797. After an alteration in my teeth, and the death of Dr. Warren--yet
far from unhappy.
1798. Happy, but for suspicion amounting almost to certainty of a rapid
appearance of age in my face....
1802. After feeling wholly indifferent about Dr. Gisborne--very happy
but for ill health, ill looks, &c.
1803. After quitting Leicester Square probably for ever--after caring
scarce at all or thinking of Dr. Gisborne ... very happy....

1806.... After the death of Dr. Gisborne, too, often very unhappy, yet
mostly cheerful, and on my return to London nearly happy.
The record, with all its quaintness, produces a curious impression of
stoicism--of a certain grim acceptance of the facts of life. It would have
been a pleasure, certainly, but an alarming pleasure, to have known Mrs.
Inchbald.
In the early years of the century, she gradually withdrew from London,
establishing herself in suburban boarding-houses, often among sisters
of charity, and devoting her days to the practice of her religion. In her
early and middle life she had been an indifferent Catholic: "Sunday.
Rose late, dressed, and read in the Bible about David, &c."--this is one
of the very few references in her diary to anything approaching a
religious observance during many years. But, in her old age, her views
changed; her devotions increased with her retirement; and her
retirement was at last complete. She died, in an obscure Kensington
boarding-house, on August 1, 1821. She was buried in Kensington
churchyard. But, if her ghost lingers anywhere, it is not in Kensington:
it is in the heart of the London that she had always loved. Yet, even
there, how much now would she find to recognize? Mrs. Inchbald's
world has passed away from us for ever; and, as we walk there to-day
amid the press of the living, it is hard to believe that she too was
familiar with Leicester Square.
G. L. STRACHEY.
[1] The following account is based upon the Memoirs of Mrs. Inchbald,
including her familiar correspondence with the most distinguished
persons of her time, edited by James Boaden, Esq.--a discursive, vague,
and not unamusing book.

A
SIMPLE STORY,
IN FOUR VOLUMES,

BY
MRS. INCHBALD.
VOL. I.
THE FOURTH EDITION.
LONDON:
Printed for G. G. and J. ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1799.

PREFACE.
It is said, a book should be read with the same spirit with which it has
been written. In that case, fatal must be the reception of this--for the
writer frankly avows, that during the time she has been writing it, she
has suffered every quality and degree of weariness and lassitude, into
which no other employment could have betrayed her.
It has been the destiny of the writer of this Story to be occupied
throughout her life, in what has the least suited either her inclination or
capacity--with an invincible impediment in her speech, it was her lot
for thirteen years to gain a subsistence by public speaking--and, with
the utmost detestation to the fatigue of inventing, a constitution
suffering under a sedentary life, and an education confined to the
narrow boundaries prescribed her sex, it has been her fate to devote a
tedious seven years to the unremitting labour of literary
productions--whilst a taste for authors of the first rank has been an
additional punishment, forbidding her one moment of those
self-approving reflections, which are assuredly due to the industrious.
But, alas! in the exercise of the arts, industry scarce bears the name of
merit. What then is to be substituted in the place of genius? GOOD
FORTUNE. And if these volumes should be attended by the good
fortune that has accompanied her other writings, to that divinity, and

that alone, she shall attribute their success.
Yet, there is a first cause still, to whom I cannot here forbear to
mention my obligations.
The Muses, I trust, will pardon me, that to them I do not feel myself
obliged--for, in justice to their heavenly inspirations, I believe they
have never yet favoured me with one visitation; but sent in their
disguise NECESSITY, who, being the mother of Invention, gave me all
mine--while FORTUNE kindly smiled, and was accessory to the cheat.
But this important secret I long wished, and endeavoured to conceal;
yet one unlucky moment candidly, though unwittingly, divulged it--I
frankly owned, "That Fortune having chased away Necessity, there
remained no other incitement to stimulate me to a labour I abhorred." It
happened