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For the Literary Magazine.

female authorship.

An Example.

THE great number of females
who at present in Great Britain pur-
sue writing for a subsistence is a re-
markable circumstance in the pic-
ture of our own times. One is natu-
rally inquisitive into the destinies
and motives of these unaccustomed
votaries of literature. I have, how-
ever, never met with any authentic
detail of the life of any of these lite-
rary ladies, except the following,
which contains so many striking and
affecting, and yet natural circum-
stances, as to induce me to repeat it.



Miss Eliza Ryves, says her bio-
grapher, died in May, 1797. She
was descended from a family of dis-
tinction in Ireland. She was depriv-
ed of an affluent independence, by
the unfavourable decision of a law-
suit; or, as she expressed it, “she
had been deprived of her birth-
right by the chicanery of law.” The
female part of the family had been
left with an insignificant portion,
while the paternal estate had gone
to support the name and honour of
an elder brother. All she had was
expended in the law-suit for this
portion.

I first met with her at the British
Museum. The singularity of her
occupation could not fail of exciting
curiosity. She had before her the
superb and voluminous manuscript
of old Froissart, the historian, which
she seemed to translate. Lord Ber-
ner's version, published in the reign
of Henry VIII, lay at her side. It
was evident, that his lordship was
employed by our authoress as a spy
on Froissart, to inform her of what
was going forward in the French
camp; but his lordship himself
wanted an interpreter, and spoke
in a language not much more intelli-
gible than was the ancient French
of Froissart.

Literature was a magnet that
equally attracted us. She was
known and esteemed by a friend of
mine; and the gift of some of her
poems proved to me that she was
no vulgar writer. Some visits were
reciprocally given. It was in these
I partially learned her misfortunes,
and admired the singular exertions
of her literary powers. In her for-
mer hours of tranquillity, she had
published two volumes of poems,
which are harmonious and elegant.
Her poetical talent was, however,
improved, I think, after this publi-
cation, and the close of their recol-
lections will afford a proof of the
pathetic tenderness of her mind.
She had written a tragedy, and se-
veral comedies, which were all in
MS. But latterly, when her dis-
tresses were of the most urgent na-
ture, she looked up to her pen for a

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resource. We can easily conceive
the impediments which a female
must encounter, in her attempts of
trafficking with booksellers. She
has frequently returned from their
shops, to hasten to her bed; ex-
hausted by misery, she sought, in a
disturbed repose, some temporary
oblivion of her grief; but even the
dreams of the unfortunate, with a
cruel sport of the imagination, re-
vive and prolong the miseries of the
day.

She had written for a newspaper,
much political matter, for which
she had been ill paid; much poetry
for another, in which she had been
one of the correspondents of Della
Crusca; and in payment of her
verses, got nothing but verses: but
the most astonishing exertion from
a female pen, was that of having
composed entirely the historical and
political parts of some annual work,
which I suspect was an annual re-
gister.

All these laborious exertions were
not profitable. A bookseller advis-
ed her to adopt the mode of transla-
tion. She was ignorant of the
French language. She purchased
some elementary works, retired to
an obscure part of Islington, and in
less than two months, she acquired
the language sufficiently to give the
public a version of Rousseau's “So-
cial Compact,” which is well trans-
lated, but which sold little. After-
wards, she translated the Abbé
Raynal's Letter to the National As-
sembly; and, at length, De la
Croix's “Review of the Constitu-
tions of the principal states in Eu-
rope,” with intelligent notes, in two
thick volumes, 8vo. These indefa-
tigable and masculine attempts for
an honest independence were all
fruitless; they not only left her as
they found her, but with a health
now much broken, and with spirits
now almost exhausted.

During her labours of translation,
hope had breathed a whisper in her
lonely ear. For some years her
comedies were in possession of the
managers, who found in them
too much merit to refuse them a re-

presentation. Year passed over
year, and the last always promised
her a crowded audience, and an an-
nual fame. I was favoured with a
reading of her “Debt of Honour,”
the comedy from which the great-
est expectations had been formed.
It had been bandied from one house
to another; Covent-Garden and
Drury-lane had both approved it;
but want of patronage, perhaps, had
retarded their acceptance of it. “I
feel (said miss Ryves) the necessity
of some powerful patronage, to bring
them forward to the world with
eclat, and secure them an admira-
tion, which, should it even be de-
served, is seldom bestowed, unless
some leading judge of literary me-
rit gives the sanction of his ap-
plause; and then the world will
chime in with his opinion, without
taking the trouble to inform them-
selves whether it be founded in jus-
tice or partiality.” Here is much
truth, of importance to literary per-
sons. It is astonishing, how many
fine pieces of composition are writ-
ten by some men of letters, who are
now neglected, and whose talents
are perhaps equal to the first litera-
ry works, which they will never
undertake, because they have not
the skill of slavering the face of pa-
tronage, and resolutely refuse to
practise the artifices of some fa-
vourites of literary fashion, who en-
joy an usurped reputation.

Of this comedy, I can now recol-
lect little. There was also present
a beautiful woman, whose penetrat-
ing eyes, expressive manners, and
interesting character, made me all
eye. I listened but little to the five
long acts. What an error in the
authoress, to place me near a form,
diffusing all the enchantment of
beauty! A man placed between two
females, is but an indifferent audi-
tor, at the recitation of a play. This
notice may be of use to future reci-
tators. In this comedy there cer-
tainly was no vis comica.

It was, I fear, deficient in a vi-
gorous conception of character, and
diversification of incident; it might
be elegant, but not pointed and bril-


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liant: sentimental it certainly was;
but there was a monotony, which
was not interrupted by gaiety that
exhilirates, and humour that pro-
vokes our laughter. Alas! the au-
thoress, whatever might be her ta-
lents, had never an opportunity to
perfect them. It was in sorrow she
composed comedies, and her fine
taste disdained to employ that stage
artifice, and those temporary cir-
cumstances which now disgrace our
modern theatre. To the credit of
the manager of one of the theatres,
when he returned her comedy, she
was presented with a bank-note of
a hundred pounds.

Like a perfume that has been
crushed and bruised, she now
breathed forth her last sweets in a
work of imagination. It is a little
volume entitled, “The Hermit of
Snowdon.” A tale formed on a ve-
ry delicate, and not unfrequent act
of the mind of a man of great re-
finement in love. Albert, the her-
mit, having felt, when opulent and
fashionable, a passion for Lavinia,
meets from her the kindest return.
But having imbibed an ill opinion of
women, from his licentious connec-
tions, he conceived they were slaves
of passion or of avarice. He wrongs
the generous nature of Lavinia, by
suspecting her of mercenary views.
Hence arises the ingenuous perplex-
ities of the hearts of both. Lavinia
is reduced to poverty, and Albert
affects to be alike ruined, and
spreads a report of an advantage-
ous match. Lavinia feels all the
delicacy of her situation, she loves,
but “she never told her love.” She
seeks her existence from her litera-
ry labours, and dies the victim of
her sensibility, and the suspicions of
Albert. The danger of trifling with
a feeling heart is admirably mo-
ralized.

This little volume is well written,
and curiosity is interested to the
last page. But a new interest arises,
when we know that the history of
Lavinia must be the history of Eli-
za Ryves. Whether the passion of
Albert or Lavinia was verified in
the person of the authoress, I know

not; Miss Ryves was not beautiful
or interesting in her person; and
when there is no personal beauty or
elegance, it is difficult to conceive
how a romantic passion can be felt,
with all its enthusiasm, by any man.
Love is a mingled desire of sensual
gratification and intellectual sympa-
hy; any other love never racks
and rends the heart; it may breathe
itself in sonnets, it may play about
the head, but the heart remains cold
and inert.

If we except the passion and
events of Albert, all the rest des-
cribes the situation and pursuits of
this amiable and unhappy woman:
the dreadful solitude to which she
was latterly condemned, when in
the last stages of her poverty; her
frugal mode of life; her acute sen-
sations; her defrauded hopes, and
her exalted fortitude. She has here
formed a register of all that occur-
red to her solitary existence. Not
without a tear, could I read an ex-
pression, and a circumstance, which
speak so well and so finely. I shall
write the parts I allude to, and
which is a scene at which I was
present.

“Lavinia's lodgings were about
two miles from town, in an obscure
situation. I was showed up to a
mean apartment, where Lavinia
was sitting at work, and in a dress
which indicated the greatest econo-
my. I enquired what success she
had met with in her dramatic pur-
suits? She waved her head, and
with a melancholy smile, replied,
“that her hopes of ever bringing
any piece on the stage were now en-
tirely over; for she found, that
more interest was necessary for the
purpose than she could command;
and that she had, for that reason,
laid aside her comedy for ever.”
While she was talking, came in a
favourite dog of Lavinia's, which I
had used to caress. The creature
sprung to my arms, and I received
him with my usual fondness. Lavi-
nia endeavoured to conceal a tear,
which trickled down her cheek.
Afterwards she says, “Now that I
live entirely alone, I show Juno more

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attention than I had used to do for-
merly. The heart wants
something to be kind to—and
it consoles us for the loss of society,
to see even an animal derive happi-
ness from the endearments we be-
stow upon it.“ —

The heart wants some-
thing to be kind to! —O, elo-
quent truth! What sensibility in
this sweet and sympathetic expres-
sion! What delicacy in the circum-
stance! —How must it be experi-
enced by the sorrowing and forsak-
en female, who, like Eliza Ryves,
was virtuous amidst despair, and
evinced a heroic fortitude, while her
soul shuddered with all the delica-
cy of a feminine softness.

The authoress, with the melan-
choly sagacity of genius, foresaw,
and has described her own death!
The affecting manner of Lavinia's
death, occasioned by a broken heart,
was strictly that of Eliza Ryves;
Lavinia dies of a broken heart, oc-
casioned by a disappointed passion,
and an individual neglect; in truth,
Eliza Ryves died of disappointment
and neglect; and when the heart is
literally broken, whether it was
love, or grief, will signify nothing.

I believe this volume procured no
temporary aid to its author's pover-
ty. I have in vain sought for it in
our journals; and not being there
noticed, shows the extreme obscu-
rity with which it was ushered into
the literary world.

I shall conclude these hasty recol-
lections with something that will in-
terest the reader of sensibility. —
Miss Ryves favoured me with the
following stanzas, a short time be-
fore her death, with a significant
gesture, which too plainly express-
ed who was the object of her me-
lancholy muse. The verse is very
elegant and flowing; but the cir-
cumstance is much more interest-
ing than the verse:


a song.

A new-fallen lamb, as mild Emmeline
    past,
In pity she turn'd to behold
How it shiver'd and shrunk from the
    merciless blast,
Then fell, all benumb'd with the cold.

She rais'd it, and touch'd by the inno-
    cent's fate,
Its soft form to her bosom she prest;
But the tender relief was afforded too
    late,
It bleated, and died on her breast.

The moralist then, as the corpse she re-
    sign'd,
And, weeping, spring flow'rs o'er it
    laid:
Thus mused: “So it fares with the de-
    licate mind,
“To the tempests of fortune betray'd.

“Too tender, like thee, the rude shock
    to sustain,
“And deny'd the relief which would
    save;
“'Tis lost, and when pity and kindness
    are vain,
“Thus we dress the poor sufferer's
    grave!”

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