A Simple Story | Page 6

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 to be in the power of the person to whom I confided this secret, to send NECESSITY once more. Once more, then, bowing to its empire, I submit to the task it enjoins.
This case has something similar to a theatrical anecdote told (I think) by Colly Cibber:
"A performer of a very mean salary, played the Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet so exactly to the satisfaction