Mrs. W⸺,
than whom a more eccentric and extraordinary character has not in modern times appeared upon the theatre of the world. Few individuals have combined qualities and talents so various, and so contradictory; very few females have experienced more or greater vicissitudes, and none ever employed their time and abilities on subjects so much at variance with the common feelings and opinions of mankind.
Her life and memoirs were given at length, by the person whom, after living with him for some time as his wife, she finally consented to marry, in condescension to the foolish prejudices of the world. It cannot be at all wonderful, that these two persons should be brought together by a strong magnetic attraction; the only matter of surprize is, that they did not come together sooner: for they seemed to be inspired with one soul, one common sentiment, one feeling, and one object. They agreed with the most perfect harmony in contemptuously disregarding whatever in religion, or morals, or politics, was sanctioned by the veneration of ages, and in introducing, with the most audacious perseverance, wild, preposterous, and pernicious theories.
This lady’s first entrance into life was characterized by the most striking peculiarities, and she seems to have imbibed very unaccountable notions of political justice, in contra-distinction to those of nature and of duty.
As long as we continue uncorrupted by the world, the love of parents in most minds, grows with our growth, and strengthens with our strength. This good lady, on the contrary, was not eminently distinguished by her filial piety, and at a very early period of her youth, she left her father’s house with abruptness and disgust.
We next hear of her as having, in conjunction with a friend, the direction of a day-school; but this friend’s delicate health requiring her to seek a milder climate, Miss W. soon afterwards gave up her employment, and crossed the sea to join her companion. On the above lady’s death, Miss W. returned to England, and became a governess in a noble family, where, however, she did not continue long; nor with her fantastical (not to say mischievous) ideas on the subject of female education, was it likely that she should. She then settled in London, and, if we mistake not, became an authoress by profession; and it was at the house formerly mentioned, which at that period was a general receptacle for the friends of learning of both sexes, that the writer saw and became slightly acquainted with her.
In London, as indeed every where else, she was characterized by the wildest extravagance of sentiment, and really appeared to think, that to obey the first impulses of inclination, uncontrouled by the sobriety of thought, or interposition of judgment, was the only true wisdom. She formed at this period the most violent attachment to a man of genius and talent, who, whatever might be his claims to reputation, was old enough to be her father, and certainly did not possess those external recommendations, which usually conciliate the partiality of women. This circumstance relating to an individual, for whom, on account of his talents, it is impossible not to feel sentiments of respect, would not have been introduced, had not the lady’s biographer spoken of the fact without reserve.
The gentleman alluded to, it may be apprehended, did not return her predilection in his favour with equal ardour, and therefore to get rid of the torment of unrequited love, or, as the event proved, to change its object, she went to Paris, to which place also congenial propensities had at about the same period attracted others of our countrywomen, as Anna Maria Williams, Miss P., &c. &c. of whom more hereafter.
At Paris our heroine fell in the way of a plain downright man of business from America, with no particular recommendation either of fortune, person, or talent; but strange to tell, she almost instantaneously conceived for him a passion yet more violent and uncontroulable than that which she had formerly experienced for Mr. F. To him she sacrificed every thing, even her modesty; for though she without scruple lived with him as his wife, she refused to be married to him even according to the slight and unsatisfactory ceremonial then observed in France. Her reasons for this conduct were somewhat whimsical. She did not choose that he should be made liable to debts formerly incurred by her, and she also entertained the idea, that an avowed marriage with her, would expose him to certain family inconveniencies and embarrassments.
But alas! for such hasty attachments! neither did our American return her passion with a suitable enthusiasm. He left her at Paris in a state of pregnancy, under pretext of business, which required his presence at one of the sea-ports, and with a promise of speedy return. He did not perform this promise. She followed him to the sea-side. Here she was delivered of a daughter. The cold-blooded American pleaded business in London; but promised her, that if she would go quietly back to Paris, he would soon return from England, and rejoin her. But though they did meet again, passion was quite exhausted on his part, never more, by any arts or exertions of her’s, to be revived. To be brief—he chose another companion, and recommended to her to do the same. This was rather too much to be endured. The lady did not indeed, in imitation of Sappho, precipitate herself from another Leucadian rock; she chose a more vulgar mode of death; she put some lead into her pockets, and threw herself into the water. She did not, however, use lead enough, as there was still gas sufficient left in her head to counterpoise it. She was rescued from the watery bier, and lived again to experience the feverish varieties of the tender passion.
The anguish of her grief did not endure any very considerable time, for within a few months she united herself to a man, whose peculiarities of opinion were as strange and as preposterous as her own. Mark, reader, she did not marry him. No! that would have been pitiful, wondrous pitiful, on both sides. She had already demonstrated her amorous creed, the great maxim of which was, that
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
Her new lover had, on the subject of marriage, already and solemnly declared, that “so long as he should seek to engross one woman to himself, and to prohibit his neighbour from proving his superior desert, and reaping the fruits of it, he would be guilty of the most odious of all monopolies.”
The mind sickens at the continuation of a narrative, so replete with folly, and so offensive to every thing which piety, delicacy, and human obligations render sacred. The lady, on her return to this country, was considered as the wife of her American lover, and in this character, on account of her talents, which nobody will presume to call in question, was visited by several very respectable females. But when in open defiance, and in contempt of all decency and good order, she cohabited with the author of P⸺ J⸺, our precise sturdy countrywomen thought that this was carrying the jest somewhat too far, and accordingly withdrew themselves from her acquaintance.
Such a proceeding at first excited the astonishment of the lady, and the scorn of the philosopher; indeed the latter pretended to make it a matter of ridicule, but all would not do; and it is understood that the lady condescended to use her influence with her lover, and, in spite of his public avowed hostility to marriage, he became her legal husband.
The union did not long continue; it was dissolved by that which dissolves all things—the unrelenting hand of death. Mrs. G. died in child-bed, at no great distance from the time of the marriage ceremony having been performed.
No one would surely speak with levity of human sorrows; and it is impossible not to revere the grief which is excited by the irreparable loss of relatives and friends. Yet there was something in the dogmas and maxims of the author of P⸺ J⸺, so very extraordinary, representing so contemptuously the tender ties of nature, and what have hitherto been regarded as the strong obligations of duty, that his conduct after his domestic privation, necessarily excited some degree of wonder.
There were so many vulnerable parts in Mrs. W.’s character and conduct, the principles which she avowed, and the system of education which she recommended: the maxims which she vindicated, were so dangerous to female virtue, and so obnoxious to the universal sentiments of the wise and good, that on her decease, much and unreserved discussion concerning her took place. The result was undoubtedly not very honourable to her fair fame as a woman, whatever it might be to her reputation as an author. To have been consistent with himself, and with his writings, the philosopher might have been expected to have disregarded all these animadversions as unworthy of his notice, and beneath the dignity of his character. Far otherwise. Nature, it may be presumed, triumphed over philosophy. He was the victim of rage and resentment. He who had contended that man was a mere machine, that every thing which happens is the result of absolute necessity, that gratitude, the relative affections, parental love, filial duty, &c. are vices—bounced and raved at the “calumnies which the virulence of a party spirit hitherto unexampled, had, on the occasion of her death, poured upon the memory of the most excellent and admirable woman that it was ever his lot to know.” He went even further still. Not satisfied with his own weapons, he employed those of certain intemperate and injudicious friends, whose skill and adroitness in wielding them were not only inferior to his own, but who exposed their own inefficiency, as well as the weakness of the cause they so precipitately undertook to defend.
The following character of this extraordinary woman appeared not long after her death, and with this, the article relating to her may not improperly conclude.
“She was a woman of strong intellect, and of ungovernable passions. To the latter, when once she had given the reins, she seems to have yielded on all occasions with little scruple, and as little delicacy. She appears in the strongest sense a voluptuary and sensualist, but without refinement. We compassionate her errors, and respect her talents, but our compassion is lessened by the mischievous tendency of her doctrines and example; and our respect is certainly not extended or improved, by her exclaiming against prejudices, of some of the most dangerous of which, she was herself perpetually the victim, by her praises of virtue, the sanctity of which she habitually violated, and by her pretences to philosophy, whose real mysteries she did not understand, and the dignity of which, in various instances, she sullied and disgraced.”
Multa in muliebrem levitatem cœpit jactare. Quam facile adamarent. Quam cito etiam Philorum obliviscerentur. Nullamque esse feminam tam pudicam, quæ non peregrina usque ad furorem averteretur.