H⸺ M⸺ W⸺.
What and how great a contrast is exhibited between this female’s first appearance on the theatre of the public, and her last fatal ending! Lively, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable, of pleasing person, simple and gentle manners, without pride, or asserting any pretensions to distinction, she received the respect and attention of many of the most considerable persons in this country, both for talent and for rank. What is she now? If she lives, (and whether she does or not, few know, and nobody cares) she is a wanderer—an exile, unnoticed and unknown.
The moment that the torch of anarchy was displayed from the turrets of the Thuilleries, she caught the flame, and, as it were by magic, the form of every thing was changed to the visual ray of her understanding. She forgot the lessons of her youth, despised the precepts of her early instructors, and forsook the land of her forefathers. The perfectibility of man, the rights of women, the cap of liberty, alone occupied and overpowered her mind. She must needs go where alone these fascinating idols received the culture and the homage which in her imagination they deserved. To France then she hurried, connected herself instantaneously with the great tragedians of the day, was initiated in their mysteries, and adopted the whole of their gipsy jargon. She became in every particular a French woman. Nothing was in her eyes fair, or wise, or great, or good, but what was French; and as for poor old England, its inhabitants, and its manners, nothing could be more paltry—nothing more contemptible.
Her friend, Mrs. W. had taught her, by her example, that female modesty might be laid aside without any compunctious visitations; and, like her prototype, she formed an attachment to a Frenchman, who in Paris was generally considered as a spy of the police; even if he did not sometimes perform in a far less honourable character. This man had a wife living at the time, and Miss W. probably knew it; but this opposed but a trifling obstacle. The morality which then prevailed in the French metropolis, found a very convenient confederate in the facility with which divorces were obtained. But it is far from certain, that even this slight ceremony was observed. Be this as it may, under this paramour’s benignant auspices, she wrote about France, its politics, its new-fangled manners, Robespierre, and Danton, and Marat, and all that Stygian crew, with unrestrained volubility; and with a presumptuousness and impertinence, a determination to palliate and excuse the horrid atrocities she had witnessed, such as to excite a mixture of contempt and resentment.
Perhaps the following may be exhibited as an accurate epitome of her creed at this period, (we say at this period) for if she yet lives, she must be a greater fool than we think her, to persist in some of the articles of her political faith:—
“The guilt of the unfortunate king was clear.”—“The horrid murders and massacres were partial evils.”—“The French Revolution was destined to break the fetters of mankind throughout the world.”
This and far worse garbage than this, was the reader compelled to wade through in the various publications of this perverted writer.
All this is wondrous pitiful, but pity ’tis, ’tis true. When accident first introduced our Sexagenarian to H. M. W. she was young and lovely, ingenuous and innocent. By the proper exercise of her talents, she might have been an ornament to society, and useful to the world. Her decline of life might have tranquilly been passed under the shadow of her own vine, honoured and beloved. If she exists, she can have no other reflections but those which must be truly mortifying. She cannot fail now to be sensible, that she deserted substance for shadow, real liberty for ideal dreams about its phantom, a long list of honourable friends, comprehending some of the fairest names among us—for whom?—for Mrs. W., Thomas Paine, Danton, for her friend, or her lover, or her husband, (by whichever name she wishes him to be distinguished) for Ramond, Madame Roland, O’Connor, Santerre, &c. &c. To finish in a word, she exchanged the prospect of honourable fame, for neglect and contempt.
There still remain a few more of this class of females, with whom an introduction took place, by the means of common friends engaged in literary pursuits. It may be as well to bring them together and get rid of them at once. Recollection does not regard them with complacency. Indeed, they were so amiable on first acquaintance, (and if the expression may be allowed, they so degenerated afterwards) that memory is oppressed with looking back upon them.
Another disciple of this fantastic school was—