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Toward the latter end of June, 1816, Mrs. Jordan's companion wrote to one of that lady's daughters, informing her that her mother had died after a few days' illness at St.-Cloud. At the same time her death was announced in the morning journals. Three days afterward a second letter was received from the same writer, saying that she had been deceived by Mrs. Jordan's appearance, and that she was still alive but very ill. While the daughter was preparing to go to her, there came a third letter, announcing that Mrs. Jordan was really dead. General Hawker himself then went to Paris to ascertain the fact, and arrived there three days after her interment. When Sir Jonah Barrington went to St.-Cloud to gather the particulars of his poor friend's death, the landlord of the house in which she died gave him a most minute description of the sad event: how upon his returning from the post-office with the old report of "no letters" she had fallen back and almost instantly expired. Yet he made no mention of the resuscitation. This total forgetfulness of so remarkable an event, if it ever took place, is, to say the least, remarkable. In consequence of these discrepancies a report got abroad that she was not really dead. Boaden himself was strongly impressed with this belief, from a circumstance which I will relate in his own words:

"The dear lady was not an every-day sort of woman. She was near-sighted, and wore a glass attached to a gold chain about her neck; her manner of using this to assist her sight was extremely peculiar. I was taking a very usual walk before dinner, and I stopped at a bookseller's window on the left side of Piccadilly, to look at some new publication that struck my eye. On a sudden a lady stood by my side who had stopped with a similar impulse; to my conviction it was Mrs. Jordan. As she did not speak, but dropped a long, white veil immedi

ately over her face, I concluded that she did not wish to be recognized; and, therefore, however I should have wished an explanation of what surprised me, I yielded to her pleasure upon the occasion."

About the same time, and without any knowledge of the above circumstance, her daughter Mrs. Alsop believed she saw her mother in the Strand; so terrible was the shock to her that she fell down in a fit, and could never be convinced to her dying day that she had been deceived.

The duke ever cherished her memory with the most profound respect. "She was one of the best of women!" he exclaimed one day to Mathews the elder, whom he discovered gazing upon the portrait which still adorned the walls of Bushey long after the original had passed away; and he uttered the words in a tone that drew tears from the hearer. There is little doubt that he had good reason for such words. elevated her eldest son to the

When he became king he peerage as Earl of Muns

ter, and gave precedence to her remaining sons and daughters.

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Mary Robinson's Unfortunate Surroundings.-She becomes an Idol of the London Public.-The Prince of Wales falls in Love with her.-His Cruel Desertion of her.-"Perdita" falls from her High Estate and dies in Misery and Destitution.

In all stage annals, and it is saying a great deal, there is no sadder romance than the one we are about to narrate. The whole story, as told by Mrs. Robinson herself, is so like a novel of the last century, that we can

scarcely believe but that it is the adventures of some persecuted but fictitious heroine we are perusing. There is little doubt, however, but that the record is, in the main, true-that she was far more sinned against than sinning. Even so rigid a moralist as Hannah More could not condemn her. Cynical Horace Walpole, who scarcely ever uttered a word of pity for human frailty, could say, "I make the greatest allowance for inexperience and novel passions; " and straitlaced Sarah Siddons exclaimed, "Poor Perdita! I pity her from my very heart!"

The opening of the story is as weird and mysterious as anything Mrs. Radcliffe could have invented, and fills the reader at once with dread anticipations.

Imagine an ancient house adjoining a cathedral, almost a part of it, with chambers supported by the mouldering arches of the cloisters, opening on the minster sanctuary; approached by a narrow, winding staircase, dimly lit even at noonday; at the end an iron-spiked door which "led to the long gloomy path of cloistered solitude." "In this awe-inspiring habitation," she writes,." during a tempestuous night, on the 27th of November, 1758, I first opened my eyes to this world of duplicity and sorrow. I have often heard my mother say that a more stormy hour she never remembered. The wind whistled round the dark pinnacles of the minster towers, and the rain beat in torrents against the casements of the chamber. Through life the tempest has followed my footsteps, and I have in vain looked for a short interval of repose from the perseverance of sorrow." She describes herself when a child as being swarthy, with very large eyes, and melancholy features, and that the early propensities of her life were romantic and singular; she

loved to creep into the cathedral aisle, or to sit beneath the great brass-eagle reading-desk, and listen to the pealing of the organ and the chanting of the choir. At a very early age she began to write poems in accordance with such habits. The school to which she was sent was kept by the Misses More, sisters of Hannah More, and there she had for schoolmates Priscilla Hopkins, afterward Mrs. John Kemble, and a daughter of Mrs. Pritchard, the great actress.

Her father, whose name was Darby, was half-Irish, half-American-a combination not so common in those days as these, and a merchant of some wealth and position in the city of Bristol, and his home was replete with every comfort, and in some of the elegancies of life. Mary tells us, with some pride, that the bed she slept in 66 was of the richest crimson damask." Being an only daughter, she seems to have been petted and spoiled. "My clothes," she says, 66 were sent for from London; my fancy was indulged to the extent of its caprices; I was flattered and praised into a belief that I was a being of superior order. To sing, to play a lesson on the harpsichord, to recite an elegy, and to make doggerel verses, made the extent of my occupations."

By-and-by a disagreeable change came over the family circumstances. Mr. Darby was a speculative man, and conceived the design of founding a great fishing settlement in Labrador. He laid his plans before the Earl of Chatham and other members of the ministry, received their approval, and started to America to carry it into effect. Within three years the Indians had destroyed the settlement, and its founder's fortune with it. He had desired that his wife should accompany him, but, as we shall see more fully presently, she was a poor, weak

minded, lymphatic creature, whose fear of a sea-voyage was greater than her love for her husband-and she reaped the consequence-Mr. Darby formed a connection abroad. He returned to England at the end of the three years, but did not remain long. The home of the Darby family was broken up, and they removed to London. Mrs. Darby was compelled to open a small school at Chelsea to eke out a subsistence; but the late merchant, returning unexpectedly, was so indignant at what he styled this degradation of his name, that he compelled her to break it up, although it would seem that he contributed but little to the family support.

During this time Mary had been growing a remarkably beautiful girl of fourteen or fifteen, so precociously developed as to be taken for seventeen or eighteen. In all her parents' vicissitudes due care seems to have been bestowed upon her education, and she was as clever and accomplished in mind as she was charming in person. By-and-by the father disappears again; his parting words to his wife are highly characteristic-"Take care that no dishonor falls upon my daughter; if she is not safe at my return I will annihilate you." These words greatly influenced the girl's future destiny.

Among her other talents was one for dramatic recitation, and her dancing-master was so struck with her abilities that he persuaded her to take to the stage, and procured an introduction to Garrick, who was then about retiring. She passed an evening at his house, and recited to Roscius, who was so pleased that he arranged she should appear as Cordelia to his Lear, no other part being suitable to her extreme youth. She now became a frequent visitor at Adelphi Terrace. "Garrick," she says, was delighted with everything I did. He would

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