Beaux and Belles of England | Page 3

a severe pang, the first of all human blessings, the friend we
love? Never give me reason again, I conjure you, to suppose you have
wholly forgot me.
"Now I will impart to you a secret, which must not be revealed. I think
that before the 10th of December next I shall quit England for ever. My
dear and valuable brother, who is now in Lancashire, wishes to
persuade me, and the unkindness of the world tends not a little to

forward his hopes. I have no relations in England except my darling
girl, and, I fear, few friends. Yet, my dear Juan, I shall feel a very
severe struggle in quitting those paths of fancy I have been childish
enough to admire,--false prospects. They have led me into the vain
expectation that fame would attend my labours, and my country be my
pride. How have I been treated? I need only refer you to the critiques of
last month, and you will acquit me of unreasonable instability. When I
leave England,--adieu to the muse for ever,--I will never publish
another line while I exist, and even those manuscripts now finished I
will destroy.
"Perhaps this will be no loss to the world, yet I may regret the many
fruitless hours I have employed to furnish occasions for malevolence
and persecution.
"In every walk of life I have been equally unfortunate, but here shall
end my complaints.
"I shall return to St. James's Place for a few days this month to meet my
brother, who then goes to York for a very short time, and after his
return (the end of November), I depart. This must be secret, for to my
other misfortunes pecuniary derangement is not the least. Let common
sense judge how I can subsist upon £500 a year, when my carriage (a
necessary expense) alone costs me £200. My mental labours have failed
through the dishonest conduct of my publishers. My works have sold
handsomely, but the profits have been theirs.
"Have I not reason to be disgusted when I see him to whom I ought to
look for better fortune lavishing favours on unworthy objects,
gratifying the avarice of ignorance and dulness, while I, who sacrificed
reputation, an advantageous profession, friends, patronage, the brilliant
hours of youth, and the conscious delight of correct conduct, am
condemned to the scanty pittance bestowed on every indifferent page
who holds up his ermined train of ceremony?
"You will say, 'Why trouble me with all this?' I answer, 'Because when
I am at peace, you may be in possession of my real sentiments and
defend my cause when I shall not have the power of doing it.'
"My comedy has been long in the hands of a manager, but whether it
will ever be brought forward time must decide. You know, my dear
friend, what sort of authors have lately been patronised by managers;
their pieces ushered to public view, with all the advantages of

splendour; yet I am obliged to wait two long years without a single
hope that a trial would be granted. Oh, I am tired of the world and all
its mortifications. I promise you this shall close my chapters of
complaints. Keep them, and remember how ill I have been treated."
Eight days later she wrote to the same friend:
"In wretched spirits I wrote you last week a most melancholy letter.
Your kind answer consoled me. The balsam of pure and disinterested
friendship never fails to cure the mind's sickness, particularly when it
proceeds from disgust at the ingratitude of the world."
The play to which she referred was probably that mentioned in the
sequel to her memoirs, which was unhappily a failure. It is notable that
the principal character in the farce was played by Mrs. Jordan, who was
later to become the victim of a royal prince, who left her to die in
poverty and exile.
The letter of another great actress, Sarah Siddons, written to John
Taylor, shows kindness and compassion toward Perdita.
"I am very much obliged to Mrs. Robinson," says Mrs. Siddons, "for
her polite attention in sending me her poems. Pray tell her so with my
compliments. I hope the poor, charming woman has quite recovered
from her fall. If she is half as amiable as her writings, I shall long for
the possibility of being acquainted with her. I say the possibility,
because one's whole life is one continual sacrifice of inclinations,
which to indulge, however laudable or innocent, would draw down the
malice and reproach of those prudent people who never do ill, 'but feed
and sleep and do observances to the stale ritual of quaint ceremony.'
The charming and beautiful Mrs. Robinson: I pity her from the bottom
of my soul."
Almost to the last she retained