Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith

by Charlotte Smith

  “I repress the inclination I feel to fill up these desultory outlines; — the figures would appear in terrible relief, were I to finish them. — But why should one employ one’s pencil, like Salvator, to describe banditti? — No, I will rather direct your eyes to more pleasing figures that memory presents to me; yet, even that, I cannot do but with regret; for many of them, friends of my early youth, have vanished with the morning sun by which I beheld them.

  “Like some gay creatures of the element,” they have occasionally been replaced — It is true, when “poverty and request of friends” first made me publish, the public were pleased and I obtained some degree of fashion. Then came forth many kind and gentle patronesses, who not only praised what I had done, but would have informed me how I might do better — and many real friends, some of whom, I hope, I retain; and among them; alas! one I do not retain, a champion as eminent for his talents, as for his forensic knowledge, whose love of literature and literary ladies, was equalled only by his wit and his eloquence. Unfortunately he did not always find these muses, who shared his heart with Themis, such perfectly amiable beings as his ardent fancy had pourtrayed portrayed them — nor could he say,

  “Once and but once my heedless youth was bit,”

  “And liked that dangerous thing, a female wit.”

  For Cosmopolita accused him of detaining her precious manuscripts, and Herma Melissa urgently used her gentle pen in opposite politics notwithstanding all he had, in his zeal, done for her. — But benevolence hopeth all things — endureth all things; — and though thus discouraged by these defections, he came forward in my service, with active perseverance all his own, which he vowed should last till mine enemies were abashed before me; and I, on my part, vowed eternal gratitude.

  “Three years did he combat for me. — The patron of England never banged about the damsel-devouring Dragon; — Hercules never encountered the Hydra with more zeal and vigour, than this champion of literary dames in distress exerted on my behalf; — and many were the frauds he detected, many the latent iniquities he brought to light. He docked the bills of attorneys, and amputated accounts of compound interest for money advanced to orphans, while the very persons who charged it, had money of those orphans in their hands. In a word, this good friend seemed to set about in earnest cleansing the Augean stable, where the evils-doers had been acting their works of darkness; and papers were dragged from their holes in dusty compting-houses, which were said to be mislaid, or even lost ; when suddenly something or other happened I know not what, nor can I in gratitude even try to guess, which most abruptly ended his knight-errantry. — The age of chivalry was, peradventure, passed with the little valourous St. George, who, though he had but

  “Scotched the snake, not killed him,”

  declined the combat — and only saying,

  “I have served the poor gentle woman to the very verge of my modesty,”

  he left me to continue the perilous warfare as I could, aided by no sitter weapon than that unfortunate wit, which he often assured me would do me no good — though it could, he thought, do nobody much harm; being more calculated to dazzle than to wound. Alas! it was unequal, even to light skirmishes, with the hose of triumphant foes to which he left me; for my oppressors were invulnerable to its shafts. Neither wisdom nor wit could affect attornies, to whose mercies I was consigned. Neither reason nor humanity, however forcibly pleaded, could influence such men; and though it has been said,— “Q’un soupir de l’innocence opprimée remuera le monde;” these men were neither moved by the innocence of my children, whose prospects in life they have blasted, nor by the simple laws of justice; and I have ever since been struggling with the dark and overwhelming storm of adversity.

  “So fares the pilot, when his ship is tost

  On troubled seas, and all its steerage lost.”

  “Alas! I had till within these last nine or ten months, one dear, dear friend, whose heart was as excellent as her talents were brilliant; — she seemed life a benignant star to

  “Gild the horrors of the deep.”

  But that friendly light is set for ever. She was lost in the meridian of light, when her eminent beauty, the least of her perfections, had suffered only from the least of her perfections, had suffered only from sickness; for time had not diminished it. I dare not trust my pen on this subject; I dare hardly trust myself to think of the irreparable loss I have sustained. I cannot dwell upon it — my heart is still to much oppressed — and I exclaim with the wretched Lear,

  “Why should a rat, a dog, and horse, have life,

  “And thou no breath at all? thou’lt come no more!

  Oh! never, never, never, never, never!

  “There are others, my dear Sir, to whose long unwearied friendship I ought to give the tribute of gratitude. But I am not at liberty to express, even to you, what I feel, since they are of that description who

  “Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.”

  But among such, I cannot help remarking, that though I lately inhabited his house, I cannot reckon Lord Aberdore. — Here then shall end, for the present, my history, which is “very long very dull, and all about myself;” and I will talk of beings, to me, at least, infinitely more interesting; yet, before I quit the irksome subject on which your request urged me too long to dwell, I must bid you consider even this slight etching of the group to whom I and my family owe our present distressed situation; and tell me, if it does not make my apology for the misanthropy you have sometimes told me was a blemish in my character; — at least, you will allow, that the contemplation of it may well cure me of national prejudice; and when I suffer from oppressors, who would not be injured by being compared to some of the most odious of those characters in France that we turn from with abhorrence; I cannot agree with those who claim all merit and honour, exclusively, for the English. But there needed not this apology to you for my partial preference of the Chevalier D’Alonville; you know his merit, and love him as he deserves. But where is he? Alas! we have not heard from him — we fondly hoped that you had — and very bitter is it to me, to learn that you have no intelligence of him. I dare not say to Angelina, all I think about him; she passes many hours every day with Gabrielle — and they find a mournful pleasure in weeping together; while Madame de Touranges and I, veterans in calamity, can weep, can hope no more.

  “I beseech you, my dear young friend, to write to us immediately, should you procure any intelligence, either of D’Alonville or De Touranges. Alas! what is become of them both? — I dare not trust myself with conjectures. May you be preserved from the perils of war to return to friends who love you, and a country to which you do honour. — None can more sincerely wish this, than, dear Sir,

  Your most obedient and obliged servant,

  HENRIETTA DENZIL.”

  “P.S, Your uncle Caverly often sends us testimonies of his friendly recollection.”

  Mrs. Denzil’s letter served only to add to the inquietude of Ellesmere. But of his friend D’Alonville, he had no means of obtaining intelligence; yet from his spirit and coolness, he had more hope of his escaping from the scene of desolation, into which he had thrown himself, than he had of the safety of De Tournages; whom he considered, with his excellent Mentor, the Abbé de St. Remi, as lost.

  CHAPTER X.

  “Le vrai courage, est de scavoir souffrit.”

  WHILE Edward Ellesmere was lamenting, in Flanders, the cruel destiny of friends in England whom he so highly esteemed; while trembling for the hopes of D’Alonville in regard to his union with Angelina, which prudence seemed wholly to forbid, he sometimes imagined to himself, with great concern, how probable it was that D’Alonville himself was already the victim of the sanguinary faction that prevailed in France; — the subject of his friendly solicitude was travelling, as he believed, towards Paris, but so slowly, that he almost doubted whether it was really intended he should arrive there. His conductors had been twice changed, and those persons who had now the charge of him were so careless, that he c
ould easily have escaped from them; and he sometimes fancied it was meant that he should do so; but without money, and without arms, he could have escaped only to be retaken, and, perhaps, to have been treated with greater ignominy. It was even possible, he was so loosely guarded, that he might, by attempting to fly, furnish an excuse for more sever treatment, or for the putting him immediately to death.

  The carriage in which he was confined did not proceed more than four or five leagues in a day, sometimes not more than three; one or other of his guards often slept in it the greater part of the time; and sometimes they both became instances of another change in the manners of the lower French people, among whom drunkenness had become much more frequent than before the revolution. It was already April, and ten or fourteen days of warm showery weather had wholly changed the appearance of the country, which now exhibited all the vivid beauty of spring; while every soft shower, and every hour of warm sun, visibly improved those scenes among which D’Alonville was passing a prisoner to the place where inevitable death awaited him.

  With sensations how different from those he now felt, had only two years before hailed the return of spring! — When his course of education at Paris being finished, he received a summons from his father to follow him to his estate in Picardy, where he had retired to avoid being present at scenes which he entirely disapproved; at concessions made by his sovereign, from which his soul recoiled, though he was far from foreseeing whither they would lead. D’Alonville now saw around him the same natural beauties; the tender verdure of the trees; and the ground; though in many places uncultivated, yet covered with grass and flowers. France, which has at no other time the lively green of England, now smiled on her wretched sons with promises of almost spontaneous plenty; and D’Alonville, though not much accustomed to moralize, could not fail of being struck with a sentiment with Goldsmith (for truth and nature are in every country, and in every season of life of same, with much propriety, gives to his Vicar of Wakefield “How much kinder is Heaven to us, than we are to ourselves! “ “What a wretched being is man,” exclaimed he, “who throws from him blessings which he might possess; or converts them into curses!” — While he thus reflected, they came in sight of a lonely cottage, embosomed within beech woods, now just coming into leaf; before it lay a small vineyard spreading to the south; a potagerie was divided from it by a hedge of white thorn in flower; and there was an air of neatness about it, unusual to French houses of so humble an appearance. The morning was warm, and D’Alonville’s two guards felt no small desire to taste the wine of this vineyard, of which they supposed there might be a provision within the house. Dans la France regeneré, every thing ought to be in common, and one of them went in to demand a fraternal flask of the cultivateur. He returned with a large one, which he had already begun, and protested to his companion, as he poured him out a glass, that it was the very best vin du pais that he had ever tasted. “Those fellows always took care of themselves,” said he, “this house belonged to the curé; the old crow has flown, but has left the best part of him behind. — What if we go in and rest ourselves a little? Come, Monsieur l’Aristocrat, with your good leave you shall go with us; there’s nobody in the house now but an old woman; though I warrant when the jolly old fellow was here himself, he had a pretty niece, or a black-eyed housekeeper.” — They now released D’Alonville from his flight confinement, and he walked between them into the house.

  The poor old woman who remained in charge of it, received them with trembling submission, and gave them the keys which they demanded, without any enquiry into the legality of their demand. While they were rummaging the cellars for wine of a still better vintage than that they had already tasted, their prisoner placed himself at the window, and contemplated the prospect before him — nothing could be so lovely, unless that the same view might be itself more beautiful when the vine under its broad foliage half discovered its rich clusters purpling in the sun. “What a paradise would this little place be to me,” said D’Alonville, musing, “if I could here find Angelina, and tranquility — my ambition would go no higher — most willingly would I resign the distinction of birth and live unknown, if I might live with her; — but ah! no, loveliest of creatures, may a happier fortune await thee! — this distracted, this polluted country is unworthy to receive thee! Ah! wherefore should I, whose life a few days, nay, perhaps a few hours will terminate — why should I indulge myself with visions like these? — cut off in the morning of my days, I die, and I leave no memorial or my short existence, unless thou, Angelina, wilt remember me!” His mournful reverie was here interrupted by the woman, who placed herself opposite to him, yet so near that he manifested his amazement. “I pray you, pardon me,” said she, “Monsieur; I am ordered to watch you by the two officers below, and to cry out if you attempt to run away; and so,” added she, lowering her voice, “and so you are a prisoner! Jesu Marie! What! will they kill so young and good-looking a gentleman?” D’Alonville could hardly help smiling at the simplicity of the poor woman. “Yes,” replied he, “I believe, my good woman, they will; and I fear you run some hazard in expressing your pity for me, without the possibility of doing me any good.”

  “Hist! hist! replied she, “you had better speak low, though they are, I believe, thoroughly engaged in the cellar, and will scarcely hear us, — Where are you going, Sir?”

  “That is more than I know, I assure you,” answered D’Alonville; “Because, Sir,” whispered the woman, “Because I heard them argue just now about the time they must be at the place, wherever it is, where you are expected this evening; one on them seemed afraid of staying here too long; the other said, bah! it would be quite time enough if you were there by nightfall, and that a person, whose name I could not hear, had told him it would be sufficient if he arrived then, and would be best for their business.”

  “That business,” said D’Alonville, “is probably my execution; but why they have dragged me so many miles, when they might as well have settled the matter ten days ago at Rennes, it is impossible to conceive.”

  “Oh, Saint Vierge!” exclaimed the woman, “to execution! Such a young Seigneur! I wish Monsieur could escape.”

  I thank you sincerely, my good friend,” answered D’Alonville, “but I should not attempt it any way, certainly not, where it would bring you into any difficulties; for life, I assure, is to me but of little value!” One of the guards now staggered up with some of the ci-devant curé’s very best liquor, of which he poured out a large glass and gave it to D’Alonville, and then another for the woman, and then a yet larger potation for himself. It was difficult to say which was the most drunk, he or his companion; the latter, however, reminding him, with very little reserve, of the appointment they had for the evening, they contrived to reel together to the cart, with D’Alonville between them; and having rewarded the patience of the driver with some wine, of which they brought as many bottles away as they could carry, they once more proceeded on their way. D’Alonville now endeavoured to discover whither they were going, and who they were to meet; but they both either were, or affected to be, so intoxicated, that he could make out nothing from their answers, except that their journey was to end that night.

  D’Alonville was very sure they could not reach Paris that night, though he did not know the way they had passed, and fancied they had repeatedly crossed the country, and wandered far from the strait road to the capital, which he thought must be more than ten leagues distant. It was in vain to attempt forming conjectures as to what was the purpose of the persons who thus seemed to refine on cruelty, by protracting the pain of uncertainty; but, after every possible supposition, he at length concluded that Heurthofen found a malicious pleasure in prolonging his sufferings, and was unwilling to let him die when he was prepared to meet death with fortitude. This day nearly passed as the others had passed before. Towards evening they reached a little town, it appeared melancholy and deserted, hardly an inhabitant was to be seen, while the grass in abundance made its way through the pavement; the few perso
ns that were in the streets, were meagre and squalid. D’Alonville enquired of his conductors the name of this town, but they evaded his question; they told him, however, that here he must pass the night, and drove under an high and dark gateway; there he was taken out of the cart and conducted through a miserable room, where two or three shabby ill-looking men went drinking, then across a large yard, and up a narrow stair cafe. A woman, who seemed to have expected their arrival (for she asked no questions), walked before them with a candle; she shewed them into a small room, where the bare walls were become green and black through damp, and where there was a bedstead with a mattrass, which perfectly answered to the appearance of the chamber; it had one high window, whose broken panes had been recently repaired with the wood, while the iron bars which crossed it, seemed to have been lately put there for security. “It is here we are directed to leave you, Monsieur,” said one of the men; “we wish you well; for though it is your fortune to be an aristocrat, you may alter your mind, perhaps — you are young, and it is better to change from bad principles, than to die by the guillotine — we must say, that, as a prisoner, you have given us no trouble.”