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She was her parents only joy: They had but one — one darling child.
ROMEO AND JULIET
Her form was faultless, and her mind, Untainted yet by art, Was nobly, just, humane, and kind, And virtue warm'd her heart. But ah! the cruel spoiler came —
"IT may be a Tale of Truth, for it is not unnatural, and it is a tale of real distress — Charlotte, by the artifice of a teacher, recommended to a school, from humanity rather than a conviction of her integrity, or the regularity of her former conduct, is enticed from her governess, and accompanies a young officer to America. — The marriage ceremony, if not forgotten, is postponed, and Charlotte dies a martyr to the inconstancy of her lover and treachery of his friend. — The situations are artless and affecting — the descriptions natural and pathetic; we should feel for Charlotte, if such a person ever existed, who, for one error, scarcely, perhaps, deserved so severe a punishment. If it is a fiction, poetic justice is not, we think, properly distributed." — Crit. Review, April 1791, page 468.
FOR the perusal of the young and thoughtless of the fair sex, this Tale of Truth is designed; and I could wish my fair readers to consider it as not merely the effusion of Fancy, but as a reality. The circumstances on which I have founded this novel were related to me some little time since by an old lady who had personally known Charlotte, though she concealed the real names of the characters, and likewise the place where the unfortunate scenes were acted: yet as it was impossible to offer a relation to the public in such an imperfect state, I have thrown over the whole a slight veil of fiction, and substituted names and places according to my own fancy. The principal characters in this little tale are now consigned to the silent tomb: it can therefore hurt the feelings of no one; and may, I flatter myself, be of service to some who are so un fortunate as to have neither friends to advise, or un derstanding to direct them, through the various and unexpected evils that attend a young and unprotected woman in her first entrance into life.
While the tear of compassion still trembled in my eye for the fate of the
unhappy Charlotte, I may have children of my own, said I, to whom this recital
Sensible as I am that a novel writer, at a time when such a variety of works are ushered into the world under that name, stands but a poor chance for fame in the annals of literature, but conscious that I wrote with a mind anxious for the happiness of that sex whose morals and conduct have so power ful an influence on mankind in general; and convinced that I have not wrote a line that conveys a wrong idea to the head or a corrupt wish to the heart, I shall rest satisfied in the purity of my own intentions, and if I merit not applause, I feel that I dread not censure.
If the following tale should save one hapless fair one from the errors which ruined poor Charlotte, or rescue from impending misery the heart of one anxious parent, I shall feel a much higher gratification in reflecting on this trifling performance, than could possibly result from the applause which might attend the most elegant finished piece of literature whose tendency might deprave the heart or mislead the understanding.
"ARE you for a walk," said Montraville to his companion, as they arose from table, "are you for a walk? or shall we order the chaise and proceed to Portsmouth?" Belcour preferred the former and they sauntered out to view the town, and to make remarks on the inhabitants, as they returned from church.
Montraville was a Lieutenant in the army: Belcour was his brother officer: they had been to take leave of their friends previous to their departure for America, and were now returning to Portsmouth, where the troops waited orders for embarkation. They had stopped at Chichester to dine; and knowing they had sufficient time to reach the place of destination before dark, and yet allow them a walk, had resolved, it being Sunday afternoon, to take a survey of the Chichester ladies as they returned from their devotions.
They had gratified their curiosity, and were preparing to return to the inn
without honouring any of the belles with particular notice, when
"She is the sweetest girl in the world," said he, as he entered the inn. Belcour stared. "Did you not notice her?" continued Montraville: she had on a blue bonnet, and with a pair of lovely eyes of the same colour, has contrived to make me feel devilish odd about the heart."
"Pho," said Belcour, "a musket ball from our friends, the Americans, may in less than two months make you feel worse."
"I never think of the future," replied Montra ville; but am determined to
make the most of
But no kind Familiar at that time appearing, and the chaise which they had ordered driving up to the door, Montraville and his companion were obliged to take leave of Chichester and its fair inhabitant, and proceed on their journey.
But Charlotte had made too great an impression on his mind to be easily eradicated: having therefore spent three whole days in thinking on her and in endeavouring to form some plan for seeing her, he determined to set off for Chichester, and trust to chance either to favour or frustrate his designs. Arriving at the verge of the town, he dismounted, and sending the servant forward with the horses, proceeded toward the place, where, in the midst of an extensive pleasure ground, stood the mansion which contained the lovely Charlotte Temple. Montraville leaned on a broken gate, and looked earnestly at the house. The wall which surrounded it was high, and perhaps the Argus's who guarded the Hesperian fruit within, were more watchful than those famed of old.
"'Tis a romantic attempt," said he; "and should I even succeed in seeing and
conversing with her, it can be productive of no good: I must of necessity
leave England in a few days, and
The evening now was closed; a serene stilness reigned; and the chaste Queen of Night with her silver crescent faintly illuminated the hemisphere. The mind of Montraville was hushed into composure by the serenity of the surrounding objects. "I will think on her no more," said he, and turned with an intention to leave the place; but as he turned, he saw the gate which led to the pleasure grounds open and two women come out, who walked arm-in-arm across the field.
"I will at least see who these are," said he. He overtook them, and giving them the compliments of the evening, begged leave to see them into the more frequented parts of the town: but how was he delighted, when, waiting for an answer, he discovered, under the concealment of a large bonnet, the face of Charlotte Temple.
He soon found means to ingratiathe himself with her companion, who was a French teacher at the school, and, at parting, slipped a letter he had purposely written, into Charlotte's hand, and five guineas into that of Mademoiselle, who promised she would endeavour to bring her young charge into the field again the next evening.
MR. Temple was the youngest son of a noble man whose fortune was by no means adequate to the antiquity, grandeur, and I may add, pride of the family. He saw his elder brother made completely wretched by marrying a disagreeable woman, whose fortune helped to prop the sinking dignity of the house; and he beheld his sisters legally prostituted to old, decrepit men, whose titles gave them consequence in the eyes of the world, and whose affluence rendered them splendidly miserable. "I will not sacrifice internal happiness for outward show," said he: "I will seek Content; and, if I find her in a cottage, will embrace her with as much cordiality as I should if seated on a throne."
Mr. Temple possessed a small estate of about five hundred pounds a year; and with that he resolved to preserve independence, to marry where the feelings of his heart should direct him, and to confine his expenses within the limits of his income. He had a heart open to every generous feeling of humanity, and a hand ready to dispense to those who wanted part of the blessings he enjoyed himself.
As he was universally known to be the friend
"You are a benevolent fellow," said a young officer to him one day; "and I have a great mind to give you a fine subject to exercise the goodness of your heart upon."
"You cannot oblige me more," said Temple, "than to point out any way by which I can be serviceable to my fellow creatures."
"Come along then," said the young man, "we will go and visit a man who is not in so good a lodging as he deserves; and, were it not that he has an angel with him, who comforts and supports him, he must long since have sunk under his misfortunes." The young man's heart was too full to proceed; and Temple, unwilling to irritate his feeling by making further enquiries, followed him in silence, till they arrived at the fleet prison.
The officer enquired for Captain Eldridge: a person led them up several pair of dirty stairs, and pointing to a door which led to a miserable, small apartment, said that was the Captain's room, and retired.
The officer, whose name was Blakeney, tapped at the door, and was bid to
enter by a voice
The apartment, though small, and bearing strong marks of poverty, was neat in the extreme. In an arm-chair, his head reclined upon his hand, his eyes fixed on a book which lay open before him, sat an aged man in a Lieutenant's uniform, which, though threadbare, would sooner call a blush of shame into the face of those who could neglect real merit, than cause the hectic of confusion to glow on the cheeks of him who wore it.
Beside him sat a lovely creature busied in painting a fan mount. She was fair as the lily, but sorrow had nipped the rose in her cheek before it was half blown. Her eyes were blue; and her hair, which was light brown, was slightly confined under a plain muslin cap, tied round with a black ribbon; a white linnen gown and plain lawn handkerchief composed the remainder of her dress; and in this simple attire, she was more irresistibly charming to such a heart as Temple's, than she would have been, if adorned with all the splendor of a courtly belle.
When they entered, the old man arose from his seat, and shaking Blakeney by the hand with great cordiality, offered Temple his chair; and there being but three in the room, seated himself on the side of his little bed, with evident composure.
Here the philosopher was lost in the father. He rose hastily from his seat, and walking toward the window, wiped of a tear which he was afraid would tarnish the cheek of a sailor.
Temple cast his eye on Miss Eldridge; a pellucid drop had stolen from her eyes, and fallen upon a rose she was painting. It blotted and discoloured the flower. "'Tis emblematic," said he mentally: "the rose of youth and health soon fades when watered by the tear of affliction."
"My friend Blakeney," said he, addressing the old man, "told me I could be of service to you: be so kind then, dear Sir, as to point out some way in which I can relieve the anxiety of your heart and increase the pleasures of my own."
"My good young man," said Eldridge, "you know not what you offer. While
deprived of my liberty I cannot be free from anxiety on my own account; but
that is a trifling concern; my anxious thoughts extend to one more dear a
thousand times than life: I am a poor weak old man, and must expect in a few
years to sink into silence and oblivion;
"Oh, my father!" cried Miss Eldridge, tenderly taking his hand, "be not anxious on that account; for daily are my prayers offered to heaven that our lives may terminate at the same instant, and one grave receive us both; for why should I live when deprived of my only friend."
Temple was moved even to tears. "You will both live many years," said he, :and I hope see much happiness. Cheerly, my friend, cheerly; these passing clouds of adversity will serve only to make the sun shine of prosperity more pleasing. But we are losing time: you might ere this have told me who were your creditors, what were their demands, and other particulars necessary to your liberation."
"My story is short," said Mr. Eldridge, "but there are some particulars which will wring my heart barely to remember; yet to one whose offers of friendship appear so open and disinterested, I will relate every circumstance that led to my present, painful situation. But my child, continued he, addressing his daughter, "let me prevail on you to take this opportunity, while my friends are with me, to enjoy the benefit of air and exercise. Go, my love; leave me now; to-morrow at your usual hour I will expect you."
Miss Eldridge impressed on his cheek the kiss of filial affection, and obeyed.
"MY life," said Mr. Eldridge, "till within these few years was marked by no particular circumstance deserving notice. I early embraced the life of a sailor, and have served my King with unremitted ardour for many years. At the age of twenty-five I married an amiable woman; one son and the girl who just now left us, were the fruits of our union. My boy had genious and spirit. I straitened my little income to give him a liberal education, but the rapid progress he made in his studies amply compensated for the inconvenience. At the academy where he received his education he commenced an acquaintance with a Mr. Lewis, a young man of affluent fortune: as they grew up their intimacy ripened into friendship, and they became almost inseparable companions.
"George chose the profession of a soldier. I had neither friends or money to procure him a commission, and had wished him to embrace a nautical life: but this was repugnant to his wishes, and I ceased to urge him on the subject.
"The friendship subsisting between Lewis and my son was of such a nature as
gave him free access to our family; and so specious was his manner that
"I embraced the offer, and gave him my note for the payment of it, but he would not suffer me to mention any stipulated time, as he said I might do it whenever most convenient to myself. About this time my dear Lucy returned from school, and I soon began to imagine Lewis looked at her with eyes of affection. I gave my child a caution to be ware of him, and to look on her mother as her friend. She was unaffectedly artless; and when, as I suspected, Lewis made professions of love, she confided in her parents, and assured us her heart was perfectly unbiassed in his favour, and she would chearfully submit to our direction.
"I took an early opportunity of questioning him concerning his intentions towards my child: he gave an equivocal answer, and I forbade him the house.
"The next day he sent and demanded payment of his money. It was not in my
power to comply with the demand. I requested three days to endeavour to
raise it, determining in that time to mortgage my half pay, and live on a
small annuity which my wife possessed, rather than be under an obligation to
so worthless a man: but this short time was not allowed me; for that
evening, as I
"My wife had been for some time in a declining state of health: ruin at once so unexpected and inevitable was a stroke she was not prepared to bear, and I saw her faint into the arms of our servant, as I left my own habitation for the comfortless walls of a prison. My poor Lucy, distracted with her fears for us both, sunk on the floor and endeavoured to detain me by her feeble efforts; but in vain; they forced open her arms; she shrieked, and fell prostrate. But pardon me. The horrors of that night unman me. I cannot proceed."
He rose from his seat, and walked several times across the room: at length, attaining more compo sure, he cried — "What a mere infant I am! Why, Sir, I never felt thus in the day of battle."
"No," said Temple; "but the truly brave soul is tremblingly alive to the feelings of humanity."
"True," replied the old man, (something like satisfaction darting across his
features) "and painful as these feelings are, I would not exchange them for
that torpor which the stoic mistakes for philosophy. How many exquisite
delights should I have passed by unnoticed, but for these keen sensations,
this quick sense of happiness or misery?
"This is true philosophy," said Temple.
"'Tis the only way to reconcile ourselves to the cross events of life," replied he. "But I forgot myself. I will not longer intrude on your patience, but proceed in my melancholy tale.
"The very evening that I was taken to prison, my son arrived from Ireland, where he had been some time with his regiment. From the distracted expressions of his mother and sister, he learnt by whom I had been arrested; and, late as it was, flew on the wings of wounded affection, to the house of his false friend, and earnestly enquired the cause of this cruel conduct. With all the calmness of a cool deliberate villain, he avowed his passion for Lucy; declared her situation in life would not permit him to marry her; but offered to release me immediately, and make any settlement on her, if George would persuade her to live, as he impiously termed it, a life of honour.
"Fired at the insult offered to a man and a soldier, my boy struck the
villain, and a challenge ensued. He then went to a coffee-house in the neigh
bourhood and wrote a long affectionate letter to me, blaming himself
severely for having introduced
"This letter was delivered to me early in the morning. It would be in vain to attempt describing my feelings on the perusal of it; suffice it to say, that a merciful Providence interposed, and I was for three weeks insensible to miseries almost beyond the strength of human nature to support.
"A fever and strong delirium seized me, and my life was despaired of. At length nature, overpowered with fatigue, gave way to the salutary power of rest, and a quiet slumber of some hours restored me to reason, though the extreme weakness of my frame prevented my feeling my distress so acutely as I otherways should.
"The first object that struck me on awaking, was Lucy sitting by my bedside; her pale countenance and sable dress prevented my enquiries for poor George: for the letter I had received from him, was the first thing that occurred to my memory. By degrees the rest returned: I recollected being arrested, but could no ways account for being in this apartment, whither they had conveyed me during my illness.
"Where is your mother?" said I, faintly.
"The poor girl could not answer: she shook her head in expressive silence; and throwing herself on the bed, folded her arms about me, and burst into tears.
"What! both gone said I.
"Both, she replied, endeavouring to restrain her emotions: "but they are happy, no doubt."
Here Mr. Eldridge paused: the recollection of the scene was too painful to permit him to proceed.
"IT was some days," continued Mr. Eldridge, recovering himself, "before I
could venture to enquire the particulars of what had happened during my
illness at length I assumed courage to ask my dear girl how long her mother
and brother had been dead: she told me, that the morning after my arrest,
George came home early to enquire after his mother's health, staid with them
but a few minutes, seemed greatly agitated at parting, but gave them strict
charge to keep up their spirits, and hope every thing would turn out for the
best.
"Late as it was when this event took place, my affectionate Lucy insisted on coming to me. 'What must he feel,' said she, 'at our apparent neglect, and how shall I inform him of the afflictions with which it has pleased heaven to visit us?"
"She left the care of the dear departed ones to some neighbours who had
kindly come in to com fort
"How she supported herself in these trying moments, I know not: heaven, no doubt, was with her; and her anxiety to preserve the life of one parent in some measure abated her affliction for the loss of the other.
"My circumstances were greatly embarrassed, my acquaintance few, and those few utterly unable to assist me. When my wife and son were com mitted to the kindred earth, my creditors seized my house and furniture, which not being sufficient to discharge all their demands, detainers were lodged against me. No friend stepped forward to my relief; from the grave of her mother, my be loved Lucy followed an almost dying father to this melancholy place."
"Here we have been nearly a year and a half. My half-pay I have given up to
satisfy my creditors, and my child supports me by her industry: some times
by fine needlework, sometimes by painting. She leaves me every night, and
goes to a lodging near the bridge: but returns in the morning, to chear me
with her smiles, and bless me by her duteous affection. A lady once offered
her an asylum in her family; but she would not leave me. 'We are all the
world to each other,' said she. 'I thank God, I have health and spirits to
improve
"But where is this inhuman persecutor?" said Temple.
"He has been abroad ever since," replied the old man; "but he has left orders with his lawyer never to give up the note till the utmost farthing is paid."
"And how much is the amount of your debts in all?" said Temple.
"Five hundred pounds," he replied.
Temple started: it was more than he expected.
"But something must be done," said he: "that sweet maid must not wear out her life in a prison. I will see you again to-morrow, my friend," said he, shaking Eldridge's hand: "keep up your spirits: light and shade are not more happily blend ed than are the pleasures and pains of life; and the horrors of the one serve only to increase the splen dor of the other."
"You never lost a wife and son," said Eldridge.
"No." replied he, "but I can feel for those
When they got without the walls of the prison, Temple thanked his friend Blakeney for introducing him to so worthy a character; and telling him he had a particular engagement in the city, wished him a good evening.
"And what is to be done for this distressed man," said Temple, as he walked up Ludgate Hill. "Would to heaven I had a fortune that would enable me instantly to discharge his debt; what exquisite transport, to see the expressive eyes of Lucy beaming at once with pleasure for her father's de liverance, and gratitude for her deliverer: but is not my fortune affluence," continued he, "nay superfluous wealth, when compared to the extreme indigence of Eldridge; and what have I done to de serve ease and plenty, while a brave worthy officer starves in a prison? Three hundred a year is surely sufficient for all my wants and wishes: at any rate Eldridge must be relieved."
When the heart has will, the hands can soon find means to execute a good action.
Temple was a young man, his feelings warm and impetuous; unacquainted with
the world, his heart had not been rendered callous by being convinced of its
fraud and hypocrisy. He pitied their sufferings, overlooked their faults,
thought every bo som as generous as his own, and would chearfully
No wonder then that such a man (without waiting a moment for the interference of Madam Prudence) should resolve to raise money sufficient for the relief of Eldridge, by mortgaging part of his fortune.
We will not enquire too minutely into the cause which might actuate him in this instance: suffice it to say, he immediately put the plan in execution; and in three days from the time he first saw the unfortunate Lieutenant he had the superlative felicity of seeing him at liberty, and receiving an ample reward in the tearful eye and half articulated thanks of the grateful Lucy.
"And pray, young man," said his father to him one morning, "what are your designs in visiting thus constantly that old man and his daughter?"
Temple was at a loss for a reply: he had never asked himself the question: he hesitated and his father continued —
"It was not till within these few days that I heard in what manner your acquaintance first commenced, and cannot suppose any thing but attachment to the daughter could carry you such imprudent lengths for the father: it certainly must be her art that drew you in to mortgage part of your fortune."
"Every thing that is amiable and lovely," said his father, interrupting him ironically: "no doubt in your opinion she is a pattern of excellence for all her sex to follow; but come, Sir, pray tell me what are your designs toward this paragon. I hope you do not intend to complete your folly by marrying her."
"Were my fortune such as would support her according to her merit, I don't know a woman more formed to ensure happiness in the married state."
"Then prithee, my dear lad," said his father, since your rank and fortune
are so much beneath what your Princess might expect,
be so kind as to turn your eyes to Miss Weatherby; who having only an estate
of three thousand a year is more upon a level with you, and whose father
yesterday solicited the mighty honour of your alliance. I shall leave you to
consider on this offer; and pray remember, that your union with Miss
Weatherby will put it in your power to be more liberally the friend of Lucy
Eldridge."
The old gentleman walked in a stately manner out of the room; and Temple stood almost petrified with astonishment, contempt, and rage.
MISS Weatherby was the only child of a wealthy man, almost idolized by her parents, flattered by her dependants, and never contradicted even by those who called themselves her friends: I cannot give a better description than by the follow ing lines.
Such was Miss Weatherby: her form lovely as nature could make it, but her mind uncultivated, her heart unfeeling, her passions impetuous, and her brain almost turned with flattery, dissipation, and pleasure; and such was the girl, whom a partial grandfather left independent mistress of the fortune before mentioned.
She had seen Temple frequently; and fancying she could never be happy
without him, nor once
The Earl had received the offer courteously: he thought it a great match for Henry: and was too fashionable a man to suppose a wife could be any impediment to the friendship he professed for Eldridge and his daughter.
Unfortunately for Temple, he thought quite otherwise: the conversation he had just had with his father, discovered to him the situation of his heart; and he found that the most affluent fortune would bring no increase of happiness unless Lucy Eldridge shared it with him; and the knowledge of the purity of her sentiments, and the integrity of his own heart, made him shudder at the idea his father had started, of marrying a woman for no other reason than because the affluence of her fortune would enable him to injure her by maintaining in splendour the woman to whom his heart was devoted: he therefore resolved to refuse Miss Weatherby, and be the event what it might, offer his heart and hand to Lucy Eldridge.
Full of this determination, he sought his father, declared his resolution,
and was commanded never more to appear in his presence. Temple bowed: his
heart was too full to permit him to speak; he left the house precipitately,
and hastened to relate the
In the meantime, the Earl, vexed to the soul that such a fortune should be lost, determined to offer himself a candidate for Miss Weatherby's favour.
What wonderful changes are wrought by that reigning power, ambition the love-sick girl, when first she heard of Temple's refusal, wept, raved, tore her hair, and vowed to found a protestant nunnery with her fortune; and by commencing abbess, shut herself up from the sight of cruel ungrateful man for ever.
Her father was a man of the world: he suffered this first transport to subside, and then very delibe rately unfolded to her the offers of the old Earl, expatiated on the many benefits arising from an elevated title, painted in glowing colours the sur prise and vexation of Temple when he should see her figuring as a Countess and his mother-in-law, and begged her to consider well before she made any rash vows.
The distressed fair one dried her tears, listened patiently, and at
length declared she believed the surest method to revenge the slight put on
her by the son would be to accept the father: so said so done, and in a few
days she became the Countess D — .
Temple heard the news with emotion: he had
Lucy smiled; and Temple saw it was a smile of approbation. He sought and
found a cottage suited to his taste; thither, attended my Love and Hymen,
the happy trio retired; where, during many years of uninterrupted felicity,
they cast not a wish beyond the little boundaries of their own tenement.
Plenty, and her handmaid, Prudence, presided at their board, Hospitality
stood at their
Such were the parents of Charlotte Temple, who was the only pledge of their mutual love, and who, at the earnest entreaty of a particular friend, was permitted to finish the education her mother had begun, at Madame Du Pont's school, where we first introduced her to the acquaintance of the reader.
MADAME Du Pont was a woman every way calculated to take the care of young
ladies, had that care entirely devolved on herself: but it was impossible to
attend the education of a numerous school without proper assistants: and
those assistants were not always the kind of people whose conversation and
morals were exactly such as parents of delicacy and refinement would wish a
daughter to copy. Among the teachers at Madame Du Pont's school, was
Mademoiselle La Rue, who added to a pleasing person and insinuating address,
a liberal education and the manners of a gentlewoman. She was recommended to
the school by a lady whose humanity overstepped the bounds
The mind of youth eagerly catches at promised pleasure: pure and innocent by
nature, it thinks not of the dangers lurking beneath those pleasures, till
too late to avoid them: when Mademoiselle asked Charlotte to go with her,
she mentioned the gentleman as a relation, and spoke in such high terms of
the elegance of his gardens, the sprightliness
Madame Du Pont was gone out for the evening, and the rest of the ladies retired to rest, when Charlotte and the teacher stole out at the back gate, and in crossing the field, were accosted by Montraville, as mentioned in the first chapter.
Charlotte was disappointed in the pleasure she had promised herself from this visit. The levity of the gentlemen and the freedom of their conversation disgusted her. She was astonished at the liberties Mademoiselle permitted them to take; grew thoughtful and uneasy, and heartily wished herself at home again in her own chamber.
Perhaps one cause of that wish might be, an earnest desire to see the contents of the letter which had been put into her hand by Montraville.
Any reader who has the least knowledge of the world, will easily imagine the
letter was made up of encomiums on her beauty, and vows of everlast ing love
and constancy; nor will he be surprised that a heart open to every gentle,
generous senti ment, should feel itself warmed by gratitude for a man who
professed to feel so much for her; nor is
In affairs of love, a young heart is never in more danger than when attempted by a handsome young soldier. A man of an indifferent appearance, will, when arrayed in a military habit, show to advantage; but when beauty of person, elegance of manner, and an easy method of paying compliments, are united to the scarlet coat, smart cockade, and military sash, ah! well-a-day for the poor girl who gazes on him: she is in imminent danger; but if she listens to him with pleasure, 'tis all over with her, and from that moment she has neither eyes nor ears for any other object.
Now, my dear sober matron, (if a sober matron should design to turn over
these pages, before she trusts them to the eye of a darling daughter,) let
me intreat you not to put on a grave face, and throw down the book in a
passion and declare 'tis enough to turn the heads of half the girls in Eng
land; I do solemnly protest, my dear madam, I mean no more by what I have
here advanced, than to ridicule those romantic girls who foolishly imagine a
red coat and silver epaulet constitute the fine gentleman; and should that
fine gentleman make half a dozen fine speeches to them, they will imagine
themselves so much in love as to fancy it a meritorious action to jump out
of a two pair of stairs
Gracious heaven! when I think on the miseries that must rend the heart of a doting parent, when he sees the darling of his age at first seduced from his protection, and afterwards abandoned, by the very wretch whose promises of love decoyed her from the paternal roof — when he sees her poor and wretched, her bosom torn between remorse for her crime and love for her vile betrayer — when fancy paints to me the good old man stooping to raise the weeping penitent, while every tear from her eye is numbered by drops from his bleeding heart, my bosom glows with honest indignation, and I wish for power to extirpate those monsters of seduction from the earth.
Oh my dear girls — for to such only am I writing — listen not to the voice of love, unless sanctioned by paternal approbation: be assured, it is now past the days of romance: no woman can be run away with contrary to her own inclination: then kneel down each morning, and request kind heaven to keep you free from temptation, or, should it please to suffer you to be tried, pray for fortitude to resist the impulse of inclination when it runs counter to the precepts of religion and virtue.
"I Cannot think we have done exactly right in going out this evening, Mademoiselle," said Charlotte, seating herself when she entered her apartment: "nay, I am sure it was not right; for I expected to be very happy, but was sadly disappointed."
"It was your own fault, then," replied Mademoiselle: "for I am sure my cousin omitted no thing that could serve to render the evening agreeable."
"True," said Charlotte: "but I thought the gentlemen were very free in their manner: I won der you would suffer them to behave as they did."
"Prithee, don't be such a foolish little prude," said the artful woman, affecting anger: "I invited you to go in hopes it would divert you, and be an agreeable change of scene; however, if your delicacy was hurt by the behaviour of the gentlemen, you need not go again; so there let it rest."
"I do not intend to go again," said Charlotte, gravely taking off her bonnet, and beginning to prepare for bed: "I am sure, if Madame Du Pont knew we had been out to-night, she would be very angry; and it is ten to one but she hears of it by some means or other."
This was touching Charlotte in the most vulnerable part: she rose from her seat, and taking Mademoiselle's hand — "You know, my dear La Rue," said she, "I love you too well, to do any thing that would injure you in my governess's opinion: I am only sorry we went out this evening."
"I don't believe it, Charlotte," said she, assuming a little vivacity; "for if you had not gone out, you would not have seen the gentleman who met us crossing the field; and I rather think you were pleased with his conversation."
"I had seen him once before," replied Charlotte, "and thought him an
agreeable man; and you know one is always pleased to see a person
"Read it, to be sure," returned Mademoiselle.
"I am afraid I ought not," said Charlotte: "my mother has often told me, I should never read a letter given me by a young man, without first giving it to her."
"Lord bless you, my dear girl," cried the teacher smiling; "have you a mind to be in leading strings all your lifetime. Prithee open the letter, read it and judge for yourself; if you show it your mother, the consequence will be, you will be taken from school, and a strict guard kept over you: so you will stand no chance of ever seeing the smart young officer again."
"I should not like to leave school yet," replied Charlotte, "till I have attained a greater proficiency in my Italian and music. But you can, if you please, Mademoiselle, take the letter back to Montraville, and tell him I wish him well, but cannot, with any propriety, enter into a clandestine correspondence with him." She laid the letter on the table, and began to undress herself.
"Well," said La Rue, "I vow you are an un accountable girl: have you no
curiosity to see the inside now? for my part I could no more let a letter
"'Tis well enough," said Charlotte, drawing it towards her.
"He is a genteel young fellow," said La Rue carelessly, folding up her apron at the same time: "but I think he is marked with the small pox."
"Oh you are greatly mistaken," said Charlotte eagerly; "he has a remarkable clear skin and fine complexion."
"His eyes, if I could judge by what I saw," said La Rue, "are gray and want expression."
"By no means," replied Charlotte; "they are the most expressive eyes I ever saw."
"Well, child, whether they are gray or black is of no consequence: you have determined not to read his letter; so it is likely you will never either see or hear from him again."
Charlotte took up the letter, and Mademoiselle continued —
"He is most probably going to America: and if ever you should hear any
account of him, it may possibly be that he is killed; and though he loved
you ever so fervently, though his last breath should be spent in a prayer
for your happiness, it can be nothing to you: you can feel nothing for the
fate of the man, whose letters you will not open, and
Charlotte still held the letter in her hand: her heart swelled at the conclusion of Mademoiselle's speech, and a tear dropped upon the wafer that closed it.
"The wafer is not dry yet," said she, "and sure there can be no great harm — " She hesitated. La Rue was silent. "I may read it, Mademoiselle, and return it afterwards."
"Certainly," replied Mademoiselle.
"At any rate I am determined not to answer it," continued Charlotte, as she opened the letter.
Here let me stop to make one remark, and trust me my very heart aches while I write it; but certain I am, that when once a woman has stifled the sense of shame in her own bosom, when once she has lost sight of the basis on which reputation, honour, every thing that should be dear to the female heart, rests, she grows hardened in guilt, and will spare no pains to bring down innocence and beauty to the shocking level with herself: and this proceeds from that diabolical spirit of envy, which repines at seeing another in the full possession of that respect and esteem which she can no longer hope to enjoy.
Mademoiselle eyed the unsuspecting Charlotte, as she perused the letter,
with a malignant pleasure.
"I Think, my dear," said Mrs. Temple, laying her hand on her husband's arm as they were walking together in the garden, "I think next Wednesday is Charlotte's birth day: now I have formed a little scheme in my own mind, to give her an agreeable surprise; and if you have no objection, we will send for her home on that day." Temple pressed his wife's hand in token of approbation, and she proceeded. — "You know the little alcove at the bottom of the garden, of which Charlotte is so fond? I have an inclination to deck this out in a fanciful manner, and invite all her little friends to partake of a collation of fruit, sweet meats, and other things suitable to the general taste of young guests; and to make it more pleasing to Charlotte, she shall be mistress of the feast, and entertain her visitors in this alcove. I know she will be delighted; and to complete all, they shall have some music, and finish with a dance."
"She is the only child we have," said Mrs. Temple, the whole tenderness of a mother adding animation to her fine countenance; but it was withal tempered so sweetly with the meek affection and submissive duty of the wife, that as she paused expecting her husband's answer, he gazed at her tenderly, and found he was unable to refuse her request.
"She is a good girl," said Temple.
"She is, indeed," replied the fond mother exultingly, "a grateful, affectionate girl; and I am sure will never lese fight of the duty she owes her parents."
"If she does," said he, "she must forget the example set her by the best of mothers."
Mrs. Temple could not reply; but the delightful sensation that dilated her heart sparkled in her intelligent eyes, and heightened the vermillion on her cheeks.
Of all the pleasures of which the human mind is sensible, there is none equal to that which warms and expands the bosom, when listening to com mendations bestowed on us by a beloved object, and are conscious of having deserved them.
Ye giddy flutterers in the fantastic round of dissipation,
Look, my dear friends, at yonder lovely Virgin arrayed in a white robe
devoid of ornament; behold the meekness of her countenance, the modesty of
her gait; her handmaids are Humility, Filial Piety,
Conjugal Affection, Industry and Benevolence; her name is Content; she holds
in her hand the cup of true felicity, and when once you have formed an
intimate acquaintance with these her attendants, nay, you must admit them as
your bosom friends and chief counsellors, then, what ever may be your
situation in life, the meek eyed Virgin will immediately take up her abode
with you.
Is your state mediocrity? — she will heighten every blessing you enjoy, by informing you how grateful you should be to that bountiful Providence who might have placed you in the most abject situation; and, by teaching you to weigh your blessings against your deserts, show you how much more you receive than you have a right to expect.
Are you possessed of affluence? — what an inexhaustible fund of happiness will she lay before you! To relieve the distressed, redress the injured, in short, to perform all the good works of peace and mercy.
Content, my dear friends, will blunt even the arrows of adversity, so that they cannot materially harm you. She will dwell in the humblest cottage: she will attend you even to a prison. Her parent is religion; her sisters, Patience and Hope. She will pass with you through life, smoothing the rough paths and tread to earth those thorns which every one must meet with as they journey onward to the appointed goal. She will soften the pains of sickness, continue with you even in the cold gloomy hour of death, and, cheering you with the smiles of her heaven-born sister, Hope, lead you triumphant to a blissful eternity.
I confess I have rambled strangely from my
Merciful heaven! who would exchange the rap ture of such a reflexion for all the gaudy tinsel which the world calls pleasure!
But to return. — Content dwelt in Mrs. Temple's bosom, and spread a charming animation over her countenance, as her husband led her in, to lay the plan she had formed (for the celebration of Charlotte's birth day,) before Mr. Eldridge.
VARIOUS were the sensations which agitated the mind of Charlotte, during the day preceding the evening in which she was to meet Montraville. Several times did she almost resolve to go to her governess, show her letter, and be guided by her advice: but Charlotte had taken one step in the ways of imprudence; and when that is once done, there are always innumerable obstacles to prevent the erring person returning to the path of rectitude: yet these obstacles, however forcible they may appear in general, exist chiefly in imagination.
Charlotte feared the anger of her governess: she loved her mother, and the very idea of incurring her displeasure, gave her the greatest uneasiness; but there was a more forcible reason still remaining: should she show the letter to Madame Du Pont, she must confess the means by which it came into her possession; and what would be the consequence? Mademoiselle would be turned out of doors.
"I must not be ungrateful," said she, "La Rue is very kind to me besides I
can when I see Mon traville inform him of the impropriety of our continuing
to see or correspond with each other,
However prudent Charlotte might be in these resolutions, she certainly did not take a proper method to confirm herself in them. Several times in the course of the day she indulged herself in reading over the letter, and each time she read it, the contents sunk deeper in her heart. As evening drew near, she caught herself frequently consulting her watch. "I wish this foolish meeting was over," said she, by way of apology to her own heart, "I wish it was over; for when I have seen him, and convinced him my resolution is not to be shaken, I shall feel my mind much easier.
The appointed hour arrived. Charlotte and Mademoiselle eluded the eye of vigilance; and Montraville who had waited their coming with impatience, received them with rapturous and unbounded acknowledgments for their condescension: he had wisely brought Belcour with him to entertain Mademoiselle while he enjoyed an uninterrupted conversation with Charlotte.
Belcour was a man whose character might be comprised in a few words; and as
he will make some figure in the ensuing pages, I shall here describe him. He
possessed a genteel fortune, and had a liberal education; dissipated,
thoughtless; and capricious, he paid little regard to the moral duties, and
less to religious ones: eager in the pursuit of pleasure, he minded not the
miseries she inflicted on
But Montraville was a different character: generous in his disposition,
liberal in his opinions, and good-natured almost to a fault; yet eager and
impetuous in the pursuit of a favourite object, he staid not to reflect on
the consequence which might follow the attainment of his wishes; with a mind
ever open to conviction, had he been so fortunate as to possess a friend who
would have pointed out the cruelty of endeavouring to gain the heart of an
innocent artless girl, when he knew it was utterly impossible for him to
marry her, and when the gratification of his passion would be unavoidable
infamy and misery to her, and a cause of never ceasing remorse to himself:
had these dreadful consequences been placed before him in a proper light,
the humanity of his nature would have urged him to give up the pursuit; but
Belcour was not this friend; he rather encouraged the growing passion of
Montraville; and being pleased with the vivacity
Charlotte had, when she went out to meet Montraville, flattered herself that her resolution was not to be shaken, and that, conscious of the impropriety of her conduct in having a clandestine intercourse with a stranger, she would never repeat the indiscretion.
But alas! poor Charlotte, she knew not the deceitfulness of her own heart, or she would have avoided the trial of her stability.
Montraville was tender, eloquent, ardent, and yet respectful. "Shall I not see you once more," said he, "before I leave England? will you not bless me by an assurance, that when we are divided by a vast expanse of sea I shall not be for gotten?"
Charlotte sighed.
"Why that sigh, my dear Charlotte? could I flatter myself that a fear for my safety, or a wish for my welfare occasioned it, how happy would it make me."
"I shall ever wish you well, Montraville," said she; "but we must meet no more."
"Oh say not so, my lovely girl: reflect, that
"I can hear no more," said Charlotte in a tremulous voice, "I must leave you."
"Say you will see me once again."
"I dare not," said she.
"Only for one half hour to-morrow evening: 'tis my last request. I shall never trouble you again, Charlotte."
"I know not what to say," cried Charlotte, struggling to draw her hands from him: "let me leave you now."
"And you will come to-morrow," said Montraville.
"Perhaps I may," said she.
"Adieu then. I will live upon that hope till we meet again."
He kissed her hand. She sighed an adieu, and catching hold of Mademoiselle's arm, hastily entered the garden gate.
MONTRAVILLE was the youngest son of a gentleman of fortune, whose family
being
"My daughters," said he, "have been educated like gentlewomen; and should I die before they are settled, they must have some provision made, to place them above the snares and temptations which vice ever holds out to the elegant, accomplished female, when oppressed by the frowns of poverty and the sting of dependence: my boys, with only moderate incomes, when placed in the church, at the bar, or in the field, may exert their talents, make themselves friends, and raise their fortunes on the basis of merit."
When Montraville chose the profession of arms, his father presented him with
a commission, and made him a handsome provision for his private purse. "Now,
my boy," said he, "go! seek glory in the field of battle. You have received
from me all I shall ever have it in my power to bestow: it is certain I have
interest to gain you promotion; but be assured that interest shall never be
exerted, unless by your future conduct you deserve it. Remember, therefore,
your success in life depends entirely on yourself. There is one thing I
think it my duty to caution you against; the precipitancy with which young
men frequently rush into matrimonial engagements, and by their
thoughtlessness draw many a deserving woman
As this conversation passed but a few hours be fore Montraville took leave of his father, it was deeply impressed on his mind: when, therefore, Belcour came with him to the place of assignation with Charlotte, he directed him to enquire of the French woman what were Miss Temple's expectations in regard to fortune.
Mademoiselle informed him, that though Charlotte's father possessed a
genteel independence, it was by means probable that he could give his
daughter more than a thousand pounds; and in case she did not marry to his
liking, it was possible he might not give her a single sous; nor did it ap pear the least likely, that Mr. Temple would
agree to her union with a young man on the point of embarking for the seat
of war.
Montraville therefore concluded it was impossible he should ever marry Charlotte Temple; and what end he proposed to himself by continuing the acquaintance he had commenced with her, he did not at that moment give himself time to enquire.
ALMOST a week was now gone, and Char lotte continued every evening to meet Montraville, and in her heart every meeting was resolved to be the last; but alas! when Montraville at parting would earnestly intreat one more interview, that treacherous heart betrayed her; and, forgetful of its resolution, pleaded the cause of the enemy so powerfully, that Charlotte was unable to resist. Another and another meeting succeeded; and so well did Montraville improve each opportunity, that the heedless girl at length confessed no idea could be so painful to her as that of never seeing him again.
"Then we will never be parted," said he.
"Ah, Montraville," replied Charlotte, forcing a smile, "how can it be avoided? My parents would never consent to our union; and even could they be brought to approve of it, how should I bear to be separated from my kind, my beloved mother?"
"Then you love your parents more than you do me, Charlotte?"
"I hope I do," said she, blushing and looking down, "I hope my affection for them will ever keep me from infringing the laws of filial duty."
"Well, Charlotte," said Montraville gravely,
"Oh stay, unkind Montraville," cried she catching hold of his arm, as he pretended to leave her, "stay, and to calm your fears, I will here protest that was it not for the fear of giving pain to the best of parents, and returning their kindness with ingratitude, I would follow you through every danger, and, in studying to promote your happiness, insure my own. But I cannot break my mother's heart. Montraville; I must not bring the grey hairs of my doting grand-father with sorrow to the grave, or make my beloved father perhaps curse the hour that gave me birth." She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.
"All these distressing scenes, my dear Charlotte." cried Montraville, "are
merely the chimeras
Belcour and Mademoiselle heard this last speech, and conceiving it a proper time to throw in their advice and persuasions , approached Char lotte, and so well seconded the intreaties of Mon traville, that finding Mademoiselle intended going with Belcour, and feeling her own treacherous heart too much inclined to accompany them, the hapless Charlotte, in an evil hour consented that the next evening they should bring a chaise to the end of the town, and that she would leave her friends, and throw herself entirely on the protection of Montra ville. "But should you," said she, looking earnestly at him, her eyes full of tears "should you, forgetful of your promises, and repenting the engagements you here voluntarily enter into, forsake and leave me on a foreign shore — "
"Judge not so meanly of me," said he. "The moment we reach our place of
destination, Hymen
"Ah," said Charlotte, leaning on Mademoiselle's arm as they walked up the garden together, "I have forgot all that I ought to have remembered, in consenting to this intended elopement."
"You are a strange girl," said Mademoiselle: "you never know your own mind two minutes at a time. Just now you declared Montraville's happiness was what you prized most in the world; and now I suppose you repent having insured that happiness by agreeing to accompany him abroad."
"Indeed I do repent," replied Charlotte, "from my soul: but while discretion points out the impropriety of my conduct, inclination urges me on to ruin."
"Ruin! fiddlestick!" said Mademoiselle; "am not I going with you? and do I feel any of these qualms?"
"You do not renounce a tender father and mother," said Charlotte.
"But I hazard my dear reputation," replied Mademoiselle, bridling.
"True," replied Charlotte, "but you do not feel what I do." She then bade her good night: but sleep was a stranger to her eyes, and the tear of anguish watered her pillow.
Nature's last, best gift:
Creature in whom excell'd,
whatever could
To sight or thought be nam'd!
Holy, divine!
good, amiable, and sweet!
How thou art fall'n! —
WHEN Charlotte left her restless bed, her languid eye and pale cheek discovered to Madame Du Pont the little repose she had tasted.
"My dear child," said the affectionate governess, "what is the cause of the langour so apparent in your frame? Are you not well?"
"Yes, my dear Madam, very well," replied Charlotte, attempting to smile, "but I know not how it was; I could not sleep last night, and my spirits are depressed this morning."
"Come cheer up, my love," said the governess; "I believe I have brought a cordial to revive them I have just received a letter from your good moma, and here is one for yourself."
Charlotte hastily took the letter: it contained these words —
"As to-morrow is the anniversary of the happy day that gave my beloved
girl to the anxious wishes of a maternal heart, I have requested your
governess to let you come home and spend it with us; and as I know you
to be a good affectionate child, and
"Gracious heaven!" cried Charlotte, forgetting where she was, and raising her streaming eyes as in earnest supplication.
Madame Du Pont was surprised. "Why these tears, my love?" said she. "Why this seeming agitation? I thought the letter would have rejoiced, instead of distressing you.
"It does rejoice me," replied Charlotte, endeavouring at composure, "but I was praying for merit to deserve the unremitted attentions of the best of parents."
"You do right," said Madame Du Pont, "to ask the assistance of heaven that you may continue to deserve their love. Continue, my dear Charlotte, in the course you have ever pursued, and you will insure at once their happiness and your own."
She arose from her seat, and flew to the apart ment of La Rue. "Oh Mademoiselle!" said she, "I am snatched by a miracle from destruction! This letter has saved me: it has opened my eyes to the folly I was so near committing. I will not go, Mademoiselle: I will not wound the hearts of those dear parents who make my happiness the whole study of their lives."
"Well," said Mademoiselle, "do as you please, Miss; but pray understand that
my resolution is taken, and it is not in your power to alter it. I shall
meet the gentlemen at the appointed hour, and shall not be surprized at any
outrage which Montraville may commit, when he finds himself disappointed.
Indeed I should not be astonished, was he to come immediately here, and
reproach you for your instability in the hearing of the whole school: and
what will be the consequence? you will bear the odium of having formed the
resolution of eloping, and every girl of spirit will laugh at your want of
fortitude to put it in execution, while prudes and fools will load you with
reproach and contempt. You will have lost
This eloquent harangue was given with such volubility, that Charlotte could not find an opportunity to interrupt her, or to offer a single word till the whole was finished, and then found her ideas so confused, that she knew not what to say.
At length she determined that she would go with Mademoiselle to the place of assignation, convince Montraville of the necessity of adhering to the re solution of remaining behind; assure him of her affection, and bid him adieu.
Charlotte formed this plan in her mind, and exalted in the certainty of its success. "How shall I rejoice," said she, "in this triumph of reason over inclination, and when in the arms of my affectionate parents, lift up my soul in gratitude to heaven as I look back on the langers I have escaped!
The hour of assignation arrived: Mademoiselle put what money and valuables she possessed in her pocket, and advised Charlotte to do the same; but she refused: "my resolution is fixed," said the; I will sacrifice love to duty."
"Now," said Montraville, taking Charlotte in his arms, "you are mine forever."
"No," said she, withdrawing from his embrace "I am come to take an everlasting farewel."
It would be useless to repeat the conversation that here ensued; suffice it to say, that Montraville used every argument that had formerly been successful, Charlotte's resolution began to waver, and he drew her almost imperceptibly towards the chaise.
"I cannot go," said she: "cease, dear Montraville, to persuade. I must not: religion, duty, forbid."
"Cruel Charlotte," said he, "if you disappoint my ardent hopes, by all that is sacred, this hand shall put a period to my existence. I cannot — will not live without you."
"Alas! my torn heart!" said Charlotte, "how shall I act?"
"Let me direct you," said Montraville, listing her into the chaise.
"Oh! my dear forsaken parents!" cried Charlotte.
The chaise drove off. She shrieked, and fainted into the arms of her betrayer.
"WHAT pleasure," cried Mr. Eldridge, as he stepped into the chaise to go for his grand-daughter, "what pleasure expands the heart of an old man when he beholds the progeny of a beloved child growing up in every virtue that adorned the minds of her parents. I foolishly thought, some few years since, that every sense, of joy was buried in the graves of my dear partner and my son; but my Lucy, by her filial affection, soothed any soul to peace, and this dear Charlotte has twined herself round my heart, and opened such new scenes of delight to my view, that I almost forget I have ever been unhappy."
When the chaise stopped, he alighted with the alacrity of youth; so much do the emotions of the soul influence the body.
It was half past eight o'clock: the ladies were assembled in the schoolroom, and Madame Du Pont was preparing to offer the morning sacrifice of prayer and praise, when it was discovered, that Mademoiselle and Charlotte were missing.
"She is busy, no doubt," said the governess, "in preparing Charlotte for her little excursion; but pleasure shall never make us forget our duty to our Creator. Go, one of you, and bid them both attend prayers."
"Good heaven!" cried Madame Du Pont, "this is very strange:" and turning pale with terror, she went hastily to the door and ordered it to be forced open. The apartment instantly discovered, that no person had been in it the preceding night, the beds appearing as though just made. The house was instantly a scene of confusion: the garden, the pleasure grounds were searched to no purpose, every apartment rung with the names of Miss Temple and Mademoiselle; but they were too distant to hear; and every face wore the marks of disappointment.
Mr. Eldridge was sitting in the parlour, eagerly expecting his grand-daughter to descend, ready equipped for her journey: he heard the confusion that reigned in the house; he heard the name of Charlotte frequently repeated. "What can be the matter?" said he, rising and opening the door: "I fear some accident has befallen my dear girl."
The governess entered. The visible agitation of her countenance discovered that something extraor dinary had happened.
"Where is Charlotte?" said he, "Why does not my child come to welcome her doting parent?"
"Madam," cried the old man, with an angry look, "has my child been accustomed to go out without leave, with no other company or protector than that French woman. Pardon me, Madam, I mean no reflections on your country, but I never did like Mademoiselle La Rue; I think she was a very improper person to be entrusted with the care of such a girl as Charlotte Temple, or to be suffered to take her from under your immediate protection."
"You wrong me, Mr. Eldridge," said she, "If you suppose I have ever permitted your granddaughter to go out unless with the other ladies. I would to heaven I could form any probable conjecture concerning her absence this morning, but it is a mystery which her return can alone unravel."
Servants were now dispatched to every place where there was the least hope
of hearing any tidings of the fugitives, but in vain. Dreadful were the
hours of horrid suspense which Mr. Eldridge passed till twelve o'clock, when
that suspense was
Mr. Eldridge was preparing, with a heavy heart, to return to his anxiously-expecting children, when Madame Du Pont received the following note with out either name or date.
"Miss Temple is well and wishes to relieve the anxiety of her parents, by letting them know she has voluntarily put herself under the protection of a man whose future study shall be to make her happy. Pursuit is needless; the measures taken to avoid discovery are too effectual to be eluded. When she thinks her friends are reconciled to this precipitate step, they may perhaps be informed of her place of residence. Mademoiselle is with her."
As Madame Du Pont read these cruel lines, she turned pale as ashes, her limbs trembled, and she was forced to call for a glass of water. She loved Charlotte truly: and when she reflected on the innocence and gentleness of her disposition, she concluded that it must have been the advice and machinations of La Rue, which led her to this imprudent action; she recollected her agitation at the receipt of her mother's letter, and saw in it the conflict of her mind.
"Does that letter relate to Charlotte?" said Mr. Eldridge, having waited some time in expectation of Madame Du Pont's speaking.
"Not return, Madam? where is she? who will detain her from her fond expecting parents?"
"You distract me with these questions, Mr. Eldridge. Indeed I know not where she is, or who has seduced her from her duty."
The whole truth now rushed at once upon Mr. Eldridge's mind. "She has eloped then," said he "My child is betrayed; the darling, the comfort of my aged heart, is lost. Oh would to heaven I had died but yesterday."
A violent gush of grief in some measure relieved him, and, after several vain attempts, he at length assumed sufficient composure to read the note.
"And how shall I return to my children?" said he: "how approach that mansion, so late the habitation of peace? Alas! my dear Lucy, how will you support these heart-rending tidings? or how shall I be enabled to console you, who need so much consolation myself?"
The old man returned to the chaise, but the light step and cheerful
countenance were no more; sor row filled his heart, and guided his motions;
he seated himself in the chaise, his venerable head reclined upon his bosom,
his hands were folded, his eye fixed on vacancy, and the large drops of
sorrow rolled silently down his cheeks. There was a mixture of anguish and
resignation depicted in
SLOW and heavy passed the time while the carriage was conveying Mr. Eldridge home; and yet when he came in sight of the house, he wished a longer reprieve from the dreadful task of informing Mr. and Mrs. Temple of their daughter's elopement.
It is easy to judge the anxiety of these affectionate parents, when they
found the return of their father delayed so much beyond the expected time.
They were now met in the dining parlour, and several of the young people who
had been invited were already arrived. Each different part of the company
was employed in the same manner, looking out at the windows which faced the
road. At length the long expected chaise appeared. Mrs. Temple ran out to
receive and welcome her darling: her young companions flocked round the
door, each one eager to give her joy on the return of her
Mr. Eldridge could not answer: he took hold of his daughter's hand and led her into the house; and sinking on the first chair he came to, burst into tears, and sobbed aloud.
"She is dead," cried Mrs. Temple. "Oh my dear Charlotte!" and clasping her hands in an agony of distress, fell into strong hysterics.
Mr. Temple who had stood speechless with surprize and fear, now ventured to enquire if indeed his Charlotte was no more. Mr. Eldridge led him into another apartment; and putting the fatal note into his hand, cried — "Bear it like a Christian, and turned from him, endeavouring to suppress his own too visible emotions.
It would be vain to attempt describing what Mr. Temple felt whilst he hastily ran over the dreadful lines: when he had finished, the paper dropt from his unnerved hand. "Gracious heaven!" said he, "could Charlotte act thus?" Neither tear nor sigh escaped him; and he sat the image of mute sorrow, till roused from his stupor by the repeated shrieks of Mrs. Temple. He rose hastily, and rushing into the apartment where she was, folded his arms about her and saying — "Let us be patient, my dear Lucy," nature relieved his almost bursting heart by a friendly gush of tears.
Mrs. Temple beginning to be a little more com posed, but still imagining her child was dead, her husband, gently taking her hand, cried — "You are mistaken, my love. Charlotte is not dead."
"Then she is very ill, else why did she not come? But I will go to her: the chaise is still at the door: let me go instantly to the dear girl. If I was ill, she would fly to attend me, to alleviate my sufferings, and cheer me with her love."
"Be calm, my dearest Lucy, and I will tell you all," said Mr. Temple. "You must not go, indeed you must not: it will be of no use."
"Temple," said she, assuming a look of firmness and composure, "tell me the truth I beseech you. I cannot bear this dreadful suspense. What misfortune has befallen my child? Let me know the worst, and I will endeavour to bear it as I ought."
"Lucy," replied Mr. Temple, "imagine your daughter alive, and in no danger of death: what misfortune would you then dread?"
"There is one misfortune which is worse than death. But I know my child too well to suspect — "
"Be not too confident, Lucy."
"She has forgot us all, my love; she has preferred the love of a stranger to the affectionate protection of her friends."
"Not eloped?" cried she eagerly.
Mr. Temple was silent.
"You cannot contradict it," said she. "I see my fate in those tearful eyes. Oh Charlotte! Charlotte! how ill have you requited our tenderness! But, Father of Mercies," continued she, sinking on her knees, and raising her streaming eyes and clasped hands to heaven, "this once vouchsafe to hear a fond, a distracted mother's prayer. Oh let thy bounteous Providence watch over and protect the dear thoughtless girl, save her from the miseries which I fear will be her portion, and oh! of thine infinite mercy, make her not a mother, lest she should one day feel what I now suffer."
The last words faltered on her tongue, and she fell fainting into the arms of her husband, who had involuntarily dropped on his knees beside her.
A mother's anguish, when disappointed in her tenderest hopes none but a
mother can conceive. Yet, my dear young readers, I would have you read this
scene with attention, and reflect that you may yourselves one day be
mothers. Oh my
Then once more read over the sorrows of poor Mrs. Temple, and remember, the mother whom you so dearly love and venerate will feel the same, when you, forgetful of the respect due to your maker and yourself, forsake the paths of virtue for those of vice and folly.
IT was with the utmost difficulty that the united efforts of Mademoiselle and Montraville could support Charlotte's spirits during their short ride from Chichester to Portsmouth, where a boat waited to take them immediately on board the ship in which they were to embark for America.
The tears streamed incessantly while she was writing, and she was frequently obliged to lay down her pen: but when the task was completed, and she had committed the letter to the care of Montraville to be sent to the post office, she became more calm, and indulging the delightful hope of soon receiving an answer that would seal her pardon, she in some measure assumed her usual chearfulness.
But Montraville knew too well the consequences that must unavoidably ensue, should this letter reach Mr. Temple: he therefore wisely resolved to walk on the deck, tear it in pieces, and commit the fragments to the care of Neptune, who might or might not, as it suited his convenience, convey them on shore.
All Charlotte's hopes and wishes were now centered in one, namely that the
fleet might be detained at Spithead till she could receive a letter
In the mean time every enquiry that could be thought of was made by Mr. and Mrs. Temple: for many days did they indulge the fond hope that she was merely gone off to be married, and that when the indissoluble knot was once tied, she would return with the partner she had chosen, and entreat their blessing and forgiveness.
"And shall we not forgive her?" said Mr. Temple.
"Forgive her!" exclaimed the mother. "Oh yes, whatever be our errors, is she not our child? and though bowed to the earth even with shame and remorse, is it not our duty to raise the poor penitent, and whisper peace and comfort to her desponding soul? would she but return, with rapture would I fold her to my heart, and bury every remembrance of her faults in the dear embrace."
But still day after day passed on, and Charlotte did not appear, nor were any tidings to be heard of her: yet each rising morning was welcomed by some new hope — the evening brought with it disappointment. At length hope was no more; despair usurped her place; and the mansion which was once the mansion of peace, became the habitation of pale, dejected melancholy.
"Since," said she, "the severest scrutiny can not charge me with any breach of duty to have deserved this severe chastizement, I will bow before the power who inflicts it with humble resignation to his will; nor shall the duty of a wife be totally absorbed in the feelings of the mother; I will endeavour to appear more cheerful, and by appearing in some measure to have conquered my own sorrow, alleviate the sufferings of my husband, and rouse him from that torpor into which this misfortune has plunged him. My father too demands my care and attention: I must not, by a selfish indulgence of my own grief, forget the interest those two dear objects take in my happiness or misery: I will wear a smile on my face, though the thorn rankles in my heart: and if by so doing, I in the smallest degree contribute to restore their peace of mind, I shall be amply rewarded for the pain the concealment of my own feelings may occasion.
Thus argued this excellent woman: and in the execution of so laudable a resolution we shall leave her, to follow the fortunes of the hapless victim of imprudence and evil counsellors.
ON board of the ship in which Charlotte and Mademoiselle were embarked, was an officer of large unincumbered fortune and elevated rank, and whom I shall call Crayton.
He was one of those men, who having travel led in their youth, pretend to have contracted a peculiar fondness for every thing foreign, and to hold in contempt the productions of their own country; and this affected partiality extended even to the women.
With him therefore the blushing modesty and unaffected simplicity of
Charlotte passed unnoticed; but the forward pertness of La Rue, the freedom
of her conversation, the elegance of her person, mixed with a certain
engaging je ne sais quoi, perfectly enchanted him.
The reader no doubt has already developed the character of La Rue; designing
artful, and selfish, she had accepted the devoirs of Belcour because she was
heartily weary of the retired life she led at the school, wished to be
released from what she deemed a slavery, and to return to that vortex of
folly and dissipation which had once plunged her into the deepest misery;
but her plan she flattered herself was now better formed: she resolved to
put herself under the protection of no man till she
Crayton was possessed of many amiable qualities, though the peculiar trait in his character, which we have already mentioned, in a great measure threw a shade over them. He was beloved for his humanity and benevolence by all who knew him, but he was easy and unsuspicious himself, and be came a dupe to the artifice of others.
Crayton was melted by the affected contrition and distress of La Rue: he would converse with her for hours, read to her, play cards with her, listen to all her complaints, and promise to protect her to the utmost of his power. La Rue easily saw his character; her sole aim was to awaken a passion in his bosom that might turn out to her advantage, and in this aim she was but too successful, for before the voyage was finished the infatuated Colonel gave her from under his hand a promise of marriage on their arrival at New-York, under forfeiture of five thousand pounds.
And how did our poor Charlotte pass her time during a tedious and
tempestuous passage? naturally delicate, the fatigue and sickness which she
endured rendered her so weak as to be almost entirely confined to her bed:
yet the kindness and attention of Montraville in some measure contributed
But during the voyage a great revolution took place not only in the fortune of La Rue but in the bosom of Belcour: whilst in pursuit of his amour with Mademoiselle, he had attended little to the interesting, inobtrusive charms of Charlotte, but when, cloyed by possession, and disgusted with the art and dissimulation of one, he beheld the simplicity and gentleness of the other, the contrast became too striking not to fill him at once with surprise and admiration. He frequently conversed with Charlotte; he found her sensible, well informed, but diffident and unassuming. The languor which the fatigue of her body and perturbation of her mind spread over her delicate features, served only in his opinion to render her more lovely: he knew that Montraville did not design to marry her, and he formed a resolution to endeavour to gain her himself whenever Montraville should leave her.
Let not the reader imagine Belcour's designs were honourable. Alas! when once a woman has forgot the respect due to herself, by yielding to the solicitations of illicit love, they lose all their consequence even in the eyes of the man whose art has betrayed them, and for whose sake they have sacrificed every valuable consideration.
The heedless Fair,who stoops to guilty joys,A man may pity — but he must despise. Nay, every libertine will think he has a right to insult her with his licentious passion; and should the un happy creature shrink from the insolent overture, he will sneeringly taunt her with pretence of modesty.
ON the day before their arrival at New-York, after dinner, Crayton arose from his seat, and placing himself by Mademoiselle, thus addressed the company —
"As we are now nearly arrived at our destined port, I think it but my duty
to inform you, my friends, that this lady," (taking her hand,) "has placed
herself under my protection. I have seen and severely felt the anguish of
her heart, and through every shade which cruelty or malice may throw over
her, can discover the most amiable qualities. I thought it but necessary to
mention my esteem for her before our disembarkation, as it is my fixed
resolution, the morning after we land, to give her an undoubted title to my
favour and protection by honourably uniting my fate to hers. I would wish
every gentleman here there fore to remember that her honour henceforth is
Belcour cast at him a smile of contempt, and bowing profoundly low, wished Mademoiselle much joy in the proposed union; and assuring the Colonel that he need not be in the least apprehensive of any one throwing the least odium on the character of his lady, shook him by the hand with ridiculous gravity, and left the cabin.
The truth was he was glad to be rid of La Rue, and so he was but freed from her, he cared not who fell a victim to her infamous arts.
The inexperienced Charlotte was astonished at what she heard. She thought La Rue had, like herself, only been urged by the force of her attach ment to Belcour, to quit her friends, and follow him to the seat of war: how wonderful then, that she should resolve to marry another man. It was certainly extremely wrong. It was indelicate. She mentioned her thoughts to Montraville. He laughed at her simplicity, called her a little idiot, and patting her on the cheek, said she knew nothing of the world. "If the world sanctifies such things, 'tis a very bad world I think," said Charlotte. "Why I always understood that they were to have been married when they arrived at New-York. I am sure Mademoiselle told me Belcour promised to marry her."
"Why, he should be obliged to keep his word I think."
"Well, but I suppose he has changed his mind," said Montraville, "and then you know the case is altered."
Charlotte looked at him attentively for a moment. A full sense of her own situation rushed upon her mind. She burst into tears, and remained silent. Montraville too well understood the cause of her tears. He kissed her cheek, and bidding her not make herself uneasy, unable to bear the silent but keen remonstrance, hastily left her.
The next morning by sun-rise they found themselves at anchor before the city of New-York. A boat was ordered to convey the ladies on shore. Crayton accompanied them; and they were shewn to a house of public entertainment. Scarcely were they seated when the door opened, and the Colonel found himself in the arms of his daughter, who had landed a few minutes before him. The first transport of meeting subsided, Crayton introduced his daughter to Mademoiselle La Rue, as an old friend of her mother's, (for the artful French woman had really made it appear to the credulous Colonel that she was in the same convent with his first wife, and, though much younger, had received many tokens of her esteem and regard.)
"If, Mademoiselle," said Mrs. Beauchamp,
"Mademoiselle will soon honour our family," said Crayton, "by supplying the place that valua ble woman filled: and as you are married, my dear, I think you will not blame — "
"Hush, my dear Sir," replied Mrs. Beauchamp: "I know my duty too well to scrutinize your conduct. Be assured, my dear father, your happiness is mine. I shall rejoice in it, and sincerely love the person who contributes to it. "But tell me," continued she, turning to Charlotte, "who is this lovely girl? Is she your sister, Mademoiselle?"
A blush, deep as the glow of the carnation, suffused the cheeks of Charlotte.
"It is a young lady," replied the Colonel, "who came in the same vessel with us from England." He then drew his daughter aside, and told her in a whisper, Charlotte was the mistress of Montraville.
"What a pity!" said Mrs. Beauchamp softly, (casting a most compassionate glance at her.) "But surely her mind is not depraved. The goodness of her heart is depicted in her ingenuous countenance."
Charlotte caught the word pity. "And am I already fallen so low?" said she.
A sigh escaped her, and a tear was ready to start, but Montra ville
"AND am I indeed fallen so low," said Charlotte, "as to be only pitied? Will the voice of approbation no more meet my ear? and shall I never again possess a friend, whose face will wear a smile of joy whenever I approach? Alas! how thoughtless, how dreadfully imprudent have I been! I know not which is most painful to endure, the sneer of contempt, or the glance of compassion, which is depicted in the various countenances of my own sex: they are both equally humiliating. Ah! my dear parents, could you now see the child of your affections, the daughter whom you so dearly loved, a poor solitary being, without society, here wearing out her heavy hours in deep regret and anguish of heart, no kind friend of her own sex to whom she can unbosom her griefs, no beloved mother, no woman of character will appear in my company, and low as your Charlotte is fallen, she cannot associate with infamy."
Who can form an adequate idea of the sorrow that preyed upon the mind of
Charlotte? The wife, whose breast glows with affection to her husband, and
who in return meets only indifference, can but faintly conceive her anguish.
Dreadfully painful is the situation of such a woman, but she has many
comforts of which our poor Charlotte was deprived. The duteous, faithful
wife though treated with indifference, has one solid pleasure within her own
bosom, she can reflect that she has not deserved neglect — that she has ever
fulfilled the duties of her station with the strictest exactness; she may
hope, by constant assiduity and unremitted attention, to recall her
wanderer, and be doubly happy in his returning affection; she knows he
cannot leave her to unite himself to another: he cannot cast her out to
poverty and contempt; she looks around her, and sees the smile of friendly
welcome, or the tear of affectionate consolation, on the face of every
person whom she favours with her esteem; and from all these circumstances
she gathers comfort: but the poor girl by thoughtless passion led astray,
who, in parting with her honour, has forfeited the
"Thou had'st thy faults, but sure thy suf ferings have expiated them: thy
errors brought thee to an early grave; but thou wert a fellow-creature
Then, as she stoops to pluck the noxious weed from off the sod, a tear will fall and consecrate the spot to Charity.
For ever honoured be the sacred drop of humanity: the angel of mercy shall record its source, and the soul from whence it sprang shall be immortal.
My dear Madam contract not your brow into a frown of disapprobation. I mean not to extenuate the faults of those unhappy women who fall victims to guilt and folly; but surely, when we reflect how many errors we are ourselves subject to, how many secret faults lie hid in the recesses of our hearts, which we should blush to have brought into open day (and yet those faults require the lenity and pity of a benevolent judge, or awful would be our prospect of futurity) I say my dear Madam, when we consider this, we surely may pity the faults of others.
Believe me, many an unfortunate female, who has once strayed into the thorny paths of vice, would gladly return to virtue, was any generous friend to endeavour to raise and re-assure her; but alas! it cannot be, you say; the world would de ride and scoff. Then let me tell you, Madam, 'tis a very unfeeling world, and does not deserve half the blessings which a bountiful Providence show ers upon it.
JULIA Franklin was the only child of a man of large property, who, at the age of eighteen, left her independent mistress of an unincumbered income of seven hundred a year; she was a girl of a lively disposition, and humane, susceptible heart: she resided in New-York with an uncle, who loved her too well, and had too high an opinion of her prudence, to scrutinize her actions of much as would have been necessary with many young ladies, who were not blest with her discretion: she was, at the time Montraville arrived at New-York, the life of society, and the universal toast. Montra ville was introduced to her by the following accident.
One night when he was upon guard, a dreadful fire broke our near Mr.
Franklin's house, which, in a few hours, reduced that and several others to
ashes; fortunately no lives were lost, and, by the assiduity of the
soldiers, much valuable property
He was immediately introduced, found she was the owner of the jewels, and was invited to breakfast the next morning in order to their restoration. This whole evening Montraville was honoured with Julia's hand; the lively sallies of her wit, the elegance of her manner, powerfully charmed him: he forgot Charlotte, and indulged himself in saying everything that was polite and tender to Julia. But on retiring, recollection returned "What am I about?" said he: "though I cannot marry Charlotte, I cannot be villain enough to forsake her, nor must I dare to trifle with the heart of Julia Franklin. I will return this box," said he, "which has been the source of so much uneasiness already, and in the evening pay a visit to my poor melancholy Charlotte, and endeavour to forget this fascinating Julia."
He arose, dressed himself, and taking the picture out, "I will reserve this from the rest," said he, "and by presenting it to her when she thinks it is lost, enhance the value of the obligation." He repaired to Mr. Franklin's, and found Julia in the breakfast parlor alone.
"How happy am I, Madam," said he, that being the fortunate instrument of
saving these jewels
"But where is the picture, Sir?" said Julia.
"Here, Madam. I would not willingly part with it."
"It is the portrait of my mother," said she, taking it from him: "'tis all that remains." She pressed it to her lips, and a tear trembled in her eyes. Montraville glanced his eye on her grey night gown and black ribbon, and his own feelings prevented a reply.
Julia Franklin was the very reverse of Charlotte Temple: she was tall, elegantly shaped, and possessed much of the air and manner of a woman of fashion; her complexion was a clear brown, enlivened with the glow of health, her eyes, full, black, and sparkling, darted their intelligent glances through long silken lashes; her hair was shining brown, and her features regular and striking; there was an air of innocent gaiety that played about her countenance, where good humour fat triumphant.
"I have been mistaken," said Montraville. "I imagined I loved Charlotte: but
alas! I am now too late convinced my attachment to her was merely the
impulse of the moment. I fear I have not only entailed lasting misery on
that poor girl, but also thrown a barrier in the way of my own happiness,
Full of these painful thoughts, Montraville walk out to see Charlotte: she saw him approach, and ran out to meet him: she banished from her countenance the air of discontent which ever appeared when he was absent, and met him with a smile of joy.
"I thought you had forgot me, Montraville," said she, "and was very unhappy."
"I shall never forget you, Charlotte," he replied, pressing her hand.
The uncommon gravity of his countenance, and the brevity of his reply, alarmed her.
"You are not well," said she; "your hand is hot; your eyes are heavy; you are very ill."
"I am a villain," said he mentally, as he turned from her to hide his emotions.
"But come," continued she tenderly, "you shall go to bed, and I will sit by, and watch yon; you will be better when you have slept."
Montraville was glad to retire, and by pretending sleep, hid the agitation of his mind from her penetrating eye. Charlotte watched by him till a late hour, and then, lying softly down, by his side, sunk into a profound sleep, from whence she awoke not till late the next morning.
Virtue never appears so amiable as when reaching forth her hand to raise a fallen sister.
-Chapter of Accidents.
WHEN Charlotte awoke, she missed Montraville; but thinking he might have arisen early to enjoy the beauties of the morning, she was preparing to follow him, when casting her eye on the table, she saw a note, and opening it hastily, found these words —
"My dear Charlotte must not be surprised, if she does not see me again for
some time: unavoidable business will prevent me that pleasure: be assured I
am quite well this morning; and what your fond imagination magnified into
illness, was nothing more than fatigue, which a few hours rest has entirely
removed. Make yourself happy and be certain of the unalterable friendship of
MONTRAVILLE."
"Friendship!" said Charlotte emphatically, as she
finished the note, "is it come to this at last? Alas! poor forsaken
Charlotte, thy doom is now but too apparent. Montraville is no longer
interested in thy happiness; and shame, remorse, and disappointed love will
henceforth be thy only attendents."
Though these were the ideas that involuntarily
Just as she had by this manner of reasoning brought her mind to some
tolerable degree of composure, she was surprised by a visit from Belcour.
The dejection visible in Charlotte's countenance, her swoln eyes and
neglected attire, at once told him she was unhappy: he made no doubt but
Montraville had, by his coldness, alarmed her suspicions, and was resolved,
if possible, to rouse her to jealousy, urge her to reproach him, and by that
means occasion a breach between them. "If I can once convince her that she
has a rival," said he, "she will listen to my passion if it is only to
revenge his slights." Belcour knew but little of the female heart; and what
he did know was only of those of loose and dissolute lives. He had no idea
that a woman might fall a victim to imprudence, and yet retain so strong a
sense of honour,
His visit was not long, but before he went he fixed a scorpion in the heart of Charlotte, whose venom embittered every future hour of her life.
We will now return for a moment to Colonel Crayton. He had been three months married, and in that little time had discovered that the conduct of his lady was not so prudent as it ought to have been: but remonstrance was vain; her temper was violent; and to the Colonel's great misfortune he had conceived a sincere affection for her: she saw her own power and, with the art of a Circe, made every action appear to him in what light she pleased: his acquaintance laughed at his blindness his friends pitied his infatuation, his amiable daughter, Mrs. Beauchamp, in secret deplored the loss of her father's affection, and grieved that he should be so entirely swayed by an artful, and, she much feared, infamous woman.
Mrs. Beauchamp was mild and engaging; she loved not the hurry and bustle of
a city, and had prevailed on her husband to take a house a few miles from
New-York. Chance led her into the same neighbourhood with Charlotte; their
houses stood
The longer Mrs. Beauchamp was a witness to the solitary life Charlotte led, the more she wished to speak to her, and often as she saw her cheeks wet with the tears of anguish, she would say — "Dear sufferer, how gladly would I pour into your heart the balm of consolation, where it not for the fear of derision."
But an accident soon happened which made her resolve to brave even the scoffs of the world rather than not enjoy the heavenly satisfaction of comforting a desponding fellow-creature.
"'Tis poor Charlotte!" said Mrs. Beauchamp, the pellucid drop of humanity stealing down her cheek.
Captain Beauchamp was alarmed at her emotion. "What Charlotte?" said he; "do you know her?"
In the accent of a pitying angel did she disclose
"Exalted woman!" cried Beauchamp, embracing her, "how dost thou rise every moment in my esteem. Follow the impulse of thy generous heart, my Emily. Let prudes and fools censure if they dare, and blame a sensibility they never felt: I will exultingly tell them that the heart that is truly virtuous is ever inclined to pity and forgive the errors of its fellow creatures."
A beam of exulting joy played round the animated countenance of Mrs. Beauchamp at these encomiums bestowed on her by a beloved husband, the most delightful sensations pervaded her heart, and, having breakfasted, she prepared to visit Charlotte.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see,
That mercy I to other show,
That mercy show to me.
-Pope.
WHEN Mrs. Beauchamp was dressed, she began to feel embarrassed at the thought of beginning an acquaintance with Charlotte, and was distressed how to make the first visit. "I cannot go without some introduction," said she, "it will look so like impertinent-curiosity." At length recollecting herself, she stepped into the garden, and gathering a few fine cucumbers, took them in her hand by way of apology for her visit.
A glow of conscious shame vermillioned Charlotte's face as Mrs. Beauchamp entered.
"You will pardon me, Madam," said she, "for not having before paid my respects to so amiable a neighbour; but we English people always keep up that reserve which is the characteristic of our nation wherever we go. I have taken the liberty to bring you a few cucumbers, for I observed you had none in your garden."
Charlotte, though naturally polite and well bred, was so confused she could
hardly speak. Her kind visitor endeavoured to relieve her by not noticing
her embarrassment. "I am come, Madam,"
"Your friendship, Madam," said Charlotte blushing, "is an honour to all who are favoured with it. Little as I have seen of this part of the world, I am no stranger to Mrs. Beauchamp's goodness of heart and known humanity: but my friendship — " She paused, glanced her eyes upon her own visible situation, and, spite of her endeavours to suppress them, burst into tears.
Mrs. Beauchamp guessed the source from whence those tears flowed. "You seem unhappy, Madam," said she: shall I be thought worthy your confidence! will you entrust me with the cause of your sorrow, and rest on my assurances to exert my utmost power to serve you." Charlotte returned a look of gratitude, but could not speak, and Mrs. Beauchamp con tinued — "My heart was interested in your behalf the first moment I saw you, and I only lament I had not made earlier overtures towards an acquaintance; but I flatter myself you will henceforth consider me as your friend."
"Oh Madam!" cried Charlotte, "I have forfeited the good opinion of all my friends; I have forsaken them, and undone myself."
"Come, come, my dear," said Mrs. Beauchamp, "you must not indulge these
gloomy
At the dining hour Charlotte repaired to Mrs. Beauchamp's, and during dinner assumed as composed an aspect as possible; but when the cloth was removed, she summoned all her resolution and determined to make Mrs. Beauchamp acquainted with every circumstance preceding her unfortunate elopement, and the earnest desire she had to quit a way of life so repugnant to her feelings.
With the benignant aspect of an angel of mercy did Mrs. Beauchamp listen to the artless tale: she was shocked to the soul to find how large a share La Rue had in the seduction of this amiable girl, and a tear fell, when she reflected so vile a woman was now the wife of her father. When Charlotte had finished, she gave her a little time to collect her scattered spirits, and then asked her if she had never written to her friends.
"Oh yes, Madam," said she, "frequently: but I have broke their hearts; they are either dead or have cast me of for ever, for I have never received a single line from them."
"Would I!" said Charlotte, clasping her hands; "would not the poor sailor, tost on a tempestuous ocean, threatened every moment with death, gladly return to the shore he had left to trust to its deceitful calmness; Oh, my dear Madam, I would return, though to do it I were obliged to walk barefooted over a burning desert, and beg a scanty pittance of each traveller to support my existence. I would endure it all cheerfully, could I but once more see my dear blessed mother, hear her pronounce my pardon, and bless me before I died; but alas! I shall never see her more; she has blotted the ungrateful Charlotte from her remembrance, and I shall sink to the grave loaded with her's and my father's curse."
Mrs. Beauchamp endeavoured to sooth her "You shall write to them again," said she, "and I will see that the letter is sent by the first packet that sails for England; in the meantime keep up your spirits, and hope everything, by daring to deserve it.
She then turned the conversation, and Charlotte having taken a cup of tea, wished her benevolent friend a good evening.
WHEN Charlotte got home she endeavoured to collect her thoughts, and took up a pen in order to address those dear parents, whom, spite of her errors, she still loved with the utmost tenderness, but vain was every effort to write with the least coherence; her tears fell so fast they almost blinded her: and as she proceeded to describe her unhappy situation, she became so agitated that she was obliged to give over the attempt and retire to bed, where, overcome with the fatigue her mind had undergone, she fell into a slumber which greatly refreshed her, and she arose in the morning with spirits more adequate to the painful talk she had to perform, and, after several attempts, at length concluded the following letter to her mother —
"Will my once kind, my ever beloved mo ther, deign to receive a letter from
her guilty, but repentant child? or has she, justly incensed at my
ingratitude, driven the unhappy Charlotte from her remembrance? Alas! thou
much injured mother? Shouldst thou even disown me, I dare not complain,
because I know I have deserved it: but yet, believe me, guilty as I am, and
cruelly as I have disap pointed
CHARLOTTE."
WHILE Charlotte was enjoying some small degree of comfort in the consoling
friend ship
He communicated his uneasiness to Belcour: it was the very thing this
pretended friend had wished. "And do you really." said he, laughing,
"hesitate at marrying the lovely Julia, and becoming master of her fortune,
because a little foolish, fond girl chose to leave her friends, and run away
with you to America? Dear Montraville,
"Would to heaven," said Montraville, "I had never seen her; my regard for her was but the momentary passion of desire, but I feel I shall love and revere Julia Franklin as long as I live; yet to leave poor Charlotte in her present situation would be cruel beyond description."
"Oh my good sentimental friend," said Belcour, "do you imagine no body has a right to provide for the brat but yourself."
Montraville started. "Sure," said he, "you cannot mean to insinuate that Charlotte is false."
"I don't insinuate it," said Belcour, "I know it."
Montraville turned pale as ashes. "Then there is no faith in woman," said he.
"While I thought you attached to her," said Belcour with an air of indifference, "I never wished to make you uneasy by mentioning her perfidy, but as I know you love and are beloved by Miss Franklin, I was determined not to let these foolish scruples of honour step between you and happiness, or your tenderness for the peace of a perfidious girl prevent your uniting yourself to a woman of honour."
"Good heavens!" said Montraville, "what
"So far," replied he, "that I myself have received advances from her which I would not take advantage of out of regard to you: but hang it, think no more about her. I dined at Franklin's to day, and Julia bid me seek and bring you to tea: so come along my lad, make good use of opportunity, and seize the gifts of fortune while they are within your reach."
Montraville was too much agitated to pass a happy evening even in the company of Julia Franklin: he determined to visit Charlotte early the next morning, tax her with her falsehood, and take an everlasting leave of her; but when the morning came, he was commanded on duty, and for six weeks was prevented from putting his design in execution. At length he found an hour to spare, and walked out to spend it with Charlotte: it was near four o'clock in the afternoon when he arrived at her cottage: she was not in the parlour, and without calling the servant he walked up stairs, thinking to find her in her bed room. He opened the door, and the first object that met his eyes was Charlotte asleep on the bed, and Belcour by her side.
"Death and distraction," said he, stamping, "this is too much. Rise,
villain, and defend your self."
"Treacherous infamous girl," said he, "can you ask? How came he here?" pointing to Belcour.
"As heaven is my witness," replied she weeping. "I do not know. I have not seen him for these three weeks."
"Then you confess he sometimes visits you?"
"He came sometimes by your desire."
"'Tis false; I never desired him to come, and you know I did not: but mark me, Charlotte, from this instant our connexion is at an end. Let Belcour, or any other of your favoured lovers, take you and provide for you: I have done with you forever."
He was then going to leave her: but starting wildly from the bed, she threw herself on her knees before him, protesting her innocence and entreating him not to leave her. "Oh Montraville," said she, "kill me, for pity's sake kill me, but do not doubt my fidelity. Do not leave me in this horrid situation; for the sake of your unborn child, oh! spurn not the wretched mother from you."
"Charlotte," said he, with a firm voice, "I
Belcour cast on Montraville a smile of contempt: it irritated him almost to madness; he broke from the feeble arms of the distressed girl; she shrieked and fell prostrate on the floor.
Montraville instantly left the house and returned hastily to the city.
UNFORTUNATELY for Charlotte, about three weeks before this unhappy
rencontre, Captain Beauchamp, being ordered to Rhode-Island, his lady had
accompanied him, so that Charlotte was deprived of her friendly advice and
consoling society. The afternoon on which Montraville had visited her she
had found herself languid and fatigued, and after making a very slight
dinner had lain down to endeavour to recruit her exhausted spirits, and,
contrary to her expectations, had fallen asleep. She had not long been
When Montraville spurned the weeping Char lotte from him, and left her almost distracted with terror and despair, Belcour raised her from the floor, and leading her down stairs, assumed the part of a tender, consoling friend; she listened to the arguments he advanced with apparent composure; but this was only the calm of a moment: the remembrance of Montraville's recent cruelty again rushed upon her mind: she pushed him from her with some violence, and crying — "Leave me, Sir, I beseech you leave me, for much I fear you have been the cause of my fidelity being suspected; go, leave me to the accumulated miseries my own imprudence has brought upon me."
She then left him with precipitation, and retiring to her own apartment,
threw herself on the
It now occurred to Belcour that she might possibly write to Montraville, and endeavour to convince him of her innocence: he was well aware of her pathetic remonstrances, and, sensible of the tenderness of Montraville's heart, resolved to prevent any letters ever reaching him: he therefore called the servant, and, by the powerful persuasion of a bribe, prevailed with her to promise whatever letters her mistress might write should be sent to him. He then left a polite, tender note for Charlotte, and returned to New-York. His first business was to seek Montraville, and endeavour to convince him that what had happened would ultimately tend to his happiness: he found him in his apartment, solitary, pensive, and wrapped in dis agreeable reflexions.
"Why how now, whining, pining lover?" said he, clapping him on the shoulder. Montra ville started; a momentary flush of resentment crossed his cheek, but instantly gave place to a death like paleness, occasioned by painful remembrance — remembrance awakened by that monitor, whom, though we may in vain endeavour, we can never entirely silence.
"Belcour," said he, "you have injured me in a tender point."
"Prithee, Jack," replied Belcour, "do not
"True," said Montraville; "but she was innocent when I first knew her. It was I seduced her, Belcour. Had it not been for me, she had still been virtuous and happy in the affection and protection of her family."
"Pshaw," replied Belcour, laughing, "if you had not taken advantage of her easy nature, some other would, and where is the difference, pray?"
"I wish I had never seen her," cried he passionately, and starting from his seat. "Oh that cursed French woman," added he with vehemence, "had it not been for her, I might have been happy — " He paused.
"With Julia Franklin," said Belcour. The name, like a sudden spark of
electric fire, seemed for a moment to suspend his faculties — for a moment
he was transfixed; but recovering, he caught Belcour's hand, and cried —
"Stop! stop! I beseech you, name not the lovely Julia and the wretched
Montraville in the same breath. I am a seducer, a mean, ungenerous seducer
of unsuspecting innocence. I dare not hope that purity like her's would
stoop to unite itself with black, premeditated guilt: yet by heavens I
swear, Belcour, I thought I loved the lost, abandoned Charlotte till I saw
Julia — I thought I never could for sake
At that instant Julia Franklin passed the win dow, leaning on her uncle's
arm. She curtsied as she passed, and, with the bewitching smile of modest
cheerfulness, cried — "Do you bury your selves in the house this fine
evening, gents?" There was something in the voice the manner! the look! that
was altogether irresistible. "Perhaps she wishes my company," said
Montraville mentally, as he snatched up his hat: "if I thought she loved me,
I would confess my errors, and trust to her generosity to pity and pardon
me." He soon overtook her, and offering her his arm, they sauntered to
pleasant but unfrequented walks. Belcour drew Mr. Franklin on one side and
entered into a political discourse: they walked faster than the young
people, and Belcour by some means contrived entirely to lose sight of them.
It was a fine evening in the beginning of autumn; the last remains of
day-light faintly streaked the western sky, while the moon, with pale and
virgin lustre, in the room of gorgeous gold and purple, ornamented the
canopy of heaven with silver, fleecy clouds, which now and then half hid her
lovely face, and, by partly concealing, heightened every beauty; the zephyrs
"I am sorry," she replied, "that you have any cause of inquietude. I am sure if you were as happy as you deserve, and as all your friends wish you — " She hesitated. "And might I," replied he with some animation, "presume to rank the amiable Julia in that number?"
"Certainly," said she, "the service you have rendered me, the knowledge of your worth, all com bine to make me esteem you."
"Alas!" said Julia, "I pity you."
"Oh thou condescending charmer," said he, "how that sweet word cheers my sad heart. Indeed if you knew all, you would pity; but at the same time I fear you would despise me."
Just then they were again joined by Mr. Franklin and Belcour. It had interrupted an interesting discourse. They found it impossible to converse on indifferent subjects, and proceeded home in silence. At Mr. Franklin's door Montraville again pressed Julia's hand, and faintly articulating "good night," retired to his lodgings dispirited and wretched from a consciousness that he deserved not the affection, with which he plainly saw he was honoured.
"AND where now is our poor Charlotte?" said Mr. Temple one evening, as the
cold blasts of autumn whistled rudely over the heath, and the yellow
appearance of the distant wood,
"Gracious heaven," said Mr. Temple, start ing from his seat, "who would wish to be a father, to experience the agonizing pangs inflicted on a parent's heart by the ingratitude of a child?" Mrs. Temple wept; her father took her hand; he would have said, "be comforted my child," but the words died on his tongue. The sad silence that ensued was interrupted by a loud rap at the door. In a moment a servant entered with a letter in his hand.
"Oh, shall we not forgive the dear penitent?" said Mrs. Temple. "We must, we will my love; she is willing to return, and 'tis our duty to receive her."
"Father of mercy," said Mr. Eldridge, raising his clasped hands, "let me but live once more to see the dear wanderer restored to her afflicted parents, and take me from this world of sorrow when ever it seemeth best to thy wisdom."
"Yes, we will receive her," said Mr. Temple; "we will endeavour to heal her wounded spirit, and speak peace and comfort to her agitated soul. I will write to her to return immediately."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Temple, "I would if possible fly to her support and cheer
the dear sufferer in the approaching hour of distress, and tell her how
nearly penitence is allied to virtue. Cannot we go and conduct her home, my
love?" continued
"You cannot go, my Lucy," said Mr. Temple: "the delicacy of your frame would but poorly sustain the fatigue of a long voyage; but I will go and bring the gentle penitent to your arms; we may still see many years of happiness."
The struggle in the bosom of Mrs. Temple between maternal and conjugal tenderness was long and painful. At length the former triumphed, and she consented that her husband should set forwad to New-York by the first opportunity: she wrote to her Charlotte in the tenderest, most consoling manner, and looked forward to the happy hour, when she should again embrace her, with the most animated hope.
IN the meantime the passion Montraville had conceived for Julia Franklin
daily increased, and he saw evidently how much he was beloved by that
amiable girl: he was likewise strongly prepossessed with an idea of
Charlotte's perfidy. What wonder then if he gave himself up to the
delightful sensation which pervaded his bosom; and finding no obstacle
"Though Charlotte, by her abandoned con duct, has thrown herself from my protection, I still hold myself bound to support her till relieved from her present condition, and also to provide for the child. I do not intend to see her again, but I will place a sum of money in your hands, which will amply supply her with every convenience; but should she require more, let her have it, and I will see it repaid. I wish I could prevail on the poor deluded girl to return to her friends: she was an only child, and I make no doubt but that they would joyfully receive her; it would shock me greatly to see her henceforth leading a life of infamy, as I should always accuse myself of being the primary cause of all her errors. If she should chuse to remain under your protection, be kind to her, Belcour, I conjure you. Let not satiety prompt you to treat her in such a manner, as may drive her to actions which necessity might urge her to, while her better reason disapproved them: she shall never want a friend while I live, but I never more desire to behold her; her presence would be always painful to me, and a glance from her eye would call the blush of conscious guilt into my cheek.
"I will write a letter to her, which you may
Belcour promised to fulfil the request of his friend, though nothing was farther from his intentions, than the least design of delivering the letter, or making Charlotte acquainted with the provision Montraville had made for her; he was bent on the complete ruin of the unhappy girl, and supposed, by reducing her to an entire dependence on him, to bring her by degrees to consent to gratify his ungenerous passion.
The evening before the day appointed for the nuptials of Montraville and
Julia, the former retired early to his apartment; and ruminating on the past
scenes of his life, suffered the keenest remorse in the remembrance of
Charlotte's seduction. "Poor girl," said he, "I will at least write and bid
her adieu; I will too endeavour to awaken that love of virtue in her bosom
which her unfortunate attachment to me has extinguished." He took up the pen
and began to write, but words were denied him. How could he address the
woman whom he had seduced, and whom, though he thought unworthy his
tenderness, he was about to bid adieu for ever? How should he tell her that
he was going to abjure her, to enter into the most indissoluble ties with
another, and that he could not even own the infant which she bore as his
child? Several letters
"Though I have taken up my pen to address you, my poor injured girl, I feel I am inadequate to the task yet, however painful the endeavour, I could not resolve upon leaving you for ever without one kind line to bid you adieu, to tell you how my heart bleeds at the remembrance of what you was, before you saw the hated Montraville. Even now imagination paints the scene, when, torn by contending passions, when, struggling between love and duty, you fainted in my arms, and I lifted you into the chaise: I see the agony of your mind, when, recovering, you found yourself on the road to Portsmouth: but how, my gentle girl, how could you, when so justly impressed with the value of virtue, how could you, when loving as I thought you loved me, yield to the solicitations of Belcour?
"Oh Charlotte, conscience tells me it was I, villain that I am, who
first taught you the allurements of guilty pleasure; it was I who
dragged you from the calm repose which innocence and virtue ever enjoy;
and can I, dare I tell you, it was not love prompted to the horrid deed?
No, thou dear, fallen angel, believe your repentant Montraville, when he
tells you the man who truly loves will never betray the object of his
affection. Adieu, Charlotte: could you still find charms in a life of
"To-morrow — but no, I cannot tell you what to-morrow will produce; Belcour will inform you: he also has cash for you, which I beg you will ask for whenever you may want it. Once more adieu: believe me, could I hear you was returned to your friends, and enjoying that tranquillity of which I have robbed you, I should be as completely happy as even you, in your fondest hours, could wish me, but till then a gloom will obscure the brightest prospects of
After he had sealed this letter he threw himself on the bed, and enjoyed a few hours repose. Early in the morning Belcour tapped at his door: he arose hastily, and prepared to meet his Julia at the altar.
"This is the letter to Charlotte," said he, giving it to Belcour: "take it to her when we are gone to Eustatia; and I conjure you, my dear friend, not to use any sophistical arguments to prevent her return to virtue; but should she incline that way, encourage her in the thought, and assist her to put her design in execution.
Pensive she mourn'd, and hung her languid head,
Like a
fair lily overcharg'd with dew.
CHARLOTTE had now been left almost three months a prey to her own melancholy
reflexions — sad companions indeed; nor did anyone break in upon her
solitude but Belcour, who once or twice called to enquire after her health,
and tell her he had in vain endeavoured to bring Montraville to hear reason;
and once, but only once, was her mind cheered by the receipt of an
affectionate letter from Mrs. Beauchamp. Often had she wrote to her
perfidious seducer, and with the most persuasive eloquence endeavoured to
convince him of her innocence; but these letters were never suffered to
reach the hands of Montraville, or they must, though on the very eve of
marriage, have prevented his deserting the wretched girl. Real anguish of
heart had in a great measure faded her charms, her cheeks were pale from
want of rest, and her eyes, by frequent, indeed almost continued weeping,
were sunk and heavy. Sometimes a gleam of hope would play about her heart
when she thought of her parents — "They cannot surely," she would say,
"refuse to forgive me; or should they deny their pardon to me, they will not
hate my innocent infant on account of its mother's errors."
She was sitting one afternoon, wrapped in these melancholy reflexions, when she was interrupted by the entrance of Belcour. Great as the alteration was which incessant sorrow had made on her person she was still interesting still charming; and the unhallowed flame, which had urged Belcour to plant dissension between her and Montraville, still raged in his bosom: he was determined if possible, to make her his mistress; nay, he had even conceived the diabolical scheme of taking her to New-York, and making her appear in every public place where it was likely she should meet Montraville, that he might be a witness to his unmanly triumph.
When he entered the room where Charlotte was sitting, he assumed the look of tender, consolatory friendship. "And how does my lovely Charlotte?" said he, taking her hand: "I fear you are not so well as I could wish."
"I am not well, Mr. Belcour," said she, "very far from it; but the pains and infirmities of the body I could easily bear, nay, submit to them with patience, were they not aggravated by the most insupportable anguish of my mind."
"Alas!" replied she mournfully, shaking her head, "how can I be happy, deserted and forsaken as I am, without a friend of my own sex to whom I can unburthen my full heart, nay, my fidelity suspected by the very man for whom I have sacrificed every thing valuable in life, for whom I have made myself a poor despised creature, an outcast from society, an object only of contempt and pity."
"You think too meanly of yourself, Miss Temple: there is no one who would dare to treat you with contempt: all who have the pleasure of knowing you must admire and esteem. You are lonely here, my dear girl; give me leave to conduct you to New-York, where the agreeable society of some ladies, to whom I will introduce you, will dispel these sad thoughts, and I shall again see returning chearfulness animate those lovely features."
"Oh never! never!" cried Charlotte emphatically; "the virtuous part of my
sex will scorn me, and I will never associate with infamy. No, Belcour, here
let me hide my shame and sorrow, here let me spend my few remaining days in
obscurity, unknown and unpitied, here let me die unlamented, and my name
sink to oblivion." Here her tears stopped her utterance.
Something like humanity was awakened in Belcour's breast by this pathetic speech: he arose and walked towards the window; but the selfish passion which had taken possession of his heart soon stifled these finer emotions; and he thought if Charlotte was once convinced she had no longer any dependance on Montraville, she would more readily throw herself on his protection. Determined, therefore, to inform her of all that had happened, he again resumed his seat; and finding she began to be more composed, enquired if she had ever heard from Montraville since the unfortunate rencontre in her bed chamber.
"Ah no," said she. "I fear I shall never hear from him again."
At the word "attached" a death-like paleness overspread the countenance of Charlotte, but she applied to some hartshorn which stood beside her, and Belcour proceeded.
"He has been for some time past greatly attached to one Miss Franklin, a pleasing lively girl, with a large fortune."
"She may be richer, may be handsomer," cried Charlotte, "but cannot love him so well. Oh may she beware of his art, and not trust him too far as I have done."
"He addresses her publicly," said he, "and it was rumoured they were to be married before he sailed for Eustatia, whither his company is ordered."
"Belcour," said Charlotte, seizing his hand, and gazing at him earnestly, while her pale lips trembled with convulsive agony, "tell me, and tell me truly I beseech you, do you think he can be such a villain as to marry another woman, and leave me to die with want and misery in a strange land: tell me what you think; I can bear it very well; I will not shrink from this heaviest stroke of fate; I have deserved my afflictions, and I will endeavour to bear them as I ought."
"I fear," said Belcour, "he can be that villain."
"Well then my dear girl," said he, deceived by her appearance, "they were married on Thursday, and yesterday morning they sailed for Eustatia."
"Married — gone — say you?" cried she in a distracted accent, "what without a last farewell, without one thought on my unhappy situation! Oh Montraville, may God forgive your perfidy." She shrieked, and Belcour sprang forward just in time to prevent her falling to the floor.
Alarming faintings now succeeded each other, and she was conveyed to her
bed, from whence she earnestly prayed she might never more arise. Belcour
staid with her that night, and in the morning found her in a high fever. The
fits she had been seized with had greatly terrified him; and confined as she
now was to a bed of sickness, she was no longer an object of desire: it is
true for several days he went constantly to see her, but her pale, emaciated
appearance disgusted him: his visits became less frequent; he forgot the
solemn charge given him by Montraville; he even forgot the money entrusted
to his care; and, the burning blush of indignation
"BLESS my heart," cries my young volatile reader, "I shall never have
patience to get through these volumes, there are so many ahs! and ohs! so
much fainting, tears, and distress, I am sick to death of the subject." My
dear, cheerful, innocent girl, for innocent I will suppose you to be, or you
would acutely feel the woes of Char lotte, did conscience say, thus might it
have been with me, had not Providence interposed to snatch me from
destruction: therefore, my lively, innocent girl, I must request your
patience; I am writing a tale of truth: I mean to write it to the heart: but
if perchance the heart is rendered impenetrable by unbounded prosperity, or
a continuance in vice,
Yes, my young friends, the tear of compassion shall fall for the fate of Charlotte, while the name of La Rue shall be detested and despised. For Charlotte, the soul melts with sympathy; for La Rue, it feels nothing but horror and contempt. But perhaps your gay hearts would rather follow the fortunate Mrs. Crayton through the scenes of pleasure and dissipation in which she was engaged, than listen to the complaints and miseries of Charlotte. I will for once oblige you: I will for once follow her to midnight revels, balls, and scenes of gaiety, for in such was she constantly engaged.
I have said her person was lovely; let us add that she was surrounded by splendor and affluence, and he must know but little of the world who can wonder, (however faulty such a woman's conduct,) at her being followed by the men, and her company courted by the women: in short, Mrs. Crayton was the universal favourite: she set the fashions, she was toasted by all the gentlemen, and copied by all the ladies.
Colonel Crayton was a domestic man. Could he be happy with such a woman?
impossible! Remonstrance was vain: he might as well have preached to the
winds, as endeavour to persuade her from any action, however ridiculous, on
which she had set her mind: in short, after a little
But as you have led to the subject, I think we may as well return to the distressed Charlotte, and not, like the unfeeling Mrs. Crayton, shut our hearts to the call of humanity.
THE strength of Charlotte's constitution combated against her disorder, and
she began slowly to recover, though she still laboured under a violent
depression of spirits: how must that depression be encreased, when, upon
examining her little store, she found herself reduced to one solitary
guinea, and that during her illness the attendance of an apothecary and
nurse, together with many other unavoidable expences, had involved her in
debt, from which she saw no method of extricating herself. As to the faint
hope which she had entertained of hearing from and being relieved by her
parents; it now entirely forsook her, for it was above
Never did any human being wish for death with greater fervency or with juster cause; yet she had too just a sense of the duties of the Christian religion to attempt to put a period to her own existence. "I have but to be patient a little longer," she would cry, "and nature, fatigued and fainting, will throw off this heavy load of mortality, and I shall be released from all my sufferings."
It was one cold stormy day in the latter end of December, as Charlotte sat by a handful of fire, the low state of her finances not allowing her to replenish her stock of fuel, and prudence teaching her to be careful of what she had, when she was surprised by the entrance of a farmer's wife, who, without much ceremony, seated herself, and began this curious harangue.
"I'm come to see if as how you can pay your rent, because as how we hear Captain Montable is gone away, and it's fifty to one if he b'ant killed afore he comes back again; and then, Miss, or Ma'am, or whatever you may be, as I was saying to my husband, where are we to look for our money."
Alas poor Charlotte, how confined was her knowledge of human nature, or she
would have been convinced that the only way to ensure the friendship and
assistance of your surrounding ac quaintance is to convince them you do not
require it, for when once the petrifying aspect of distress and penury
appears, whose qualities, like Medusa's head, can change to stone all that
look up on it; when once this Gorgon claims acquaintance with us, the
phantom of friendship, that before courted our notice, will vanish into
unsubstantial air, and the whole world before us appear a barren waste.
Pardon me, ye dear spirits of benevolence, whose benign smiles and cheerful
giving hand have strewed sweet flowers on many a
"Indeed, Madam," said poor Charlotte in a tremulous accent, "I am at a loss what to do. Montraville placed me here, and promised to defray all my expenses: but he has forgot his promise, he has forsaken me, and I have no friend who has either power or will to relieve me. Let me hope, as you see my unhappy situation, your charity — "
"Charity," cried the woman impatiently interrupting her, "charity indeed:
why, Mistress, charity begins at home, and I have seven children at home,
honest, lawful children, and it is my duty to
keep them; and do you think I will give away my property to a nasty,
impudent hussey, to maintain her and her bastard: an I was saying to my
husband the other day what will this world come to; honest women are nothing
now-a-days, while the harlotings are set up for fine ladies, and
"Oh heavens," cried Charlotte, clasping her hands, "what will become of me?"
"Come on ye!" retorted the unfeeling wretch: "why go to the barracks and work for a morsel of bread; wash and mend the soldiers cloaths, an cook their victuals, and not expect to live in idleness on honest people's means. Oh I wish I could see the day when all such cattle were obliged to work hard and eat little: it's only what they deserve."
"Father of mercy," cried Charlotte, "I acknowledge thy correction just: but prepare me, I beseech thee, for the portion of misery thou may'st please to lay upon me."
"Well," said the woman, "I shall go an tell my husband as how you can't pay; and so d'ye see, Ma'am, get ready to be packing away this very night, for you should not stay another night in this house, though I was sure you would lay in the street."
Charlotte bowed her head in silence; but the anguish of her heart was too great to permit her to articulate a single word.
And what is friendship but a name;
A charm that lulls to
sleep,
A shade that follows wealth and fame,
But leaves
the wretch to weep.
WHEN Charlotte was left to herself, she began to think what course she must take, or to whom she could apply, to prevent her perishing for want, or perhaps that very night falling a victim to the inclemency of the season. After many perplexed thoughts, she at last determined to set out for New-York, and enquire out Mrs. Crayton, from whom she had no doubt but she should obtain immediate relief as soon as her distress was made known; she had no sooner formed this resolution than she resolved immediately to put it in execution: she therefore wrote the following little billet to Mrs. Crayton, thinking if she should have company with her it would be better to send it in than to re quest to see her.
"When we left our native land, that dear happy land which now contains
all that is dear to the wretched Charlotte, our prospects were the same;
we both, pardon me, Madam, if I say, we both too easily followed the
impulse of our treacherous
It may be asked by those, who, in a work of this kind, love to cavil at every trifling omission, whether Charlotte did not possess any valuable of which she could have disposed, and by that means have supported herself till Mrs. Beauchamp's return, when she would have been certain of receiving every tender attention which compassion and friend ship could dictate: but let me entreat these wise, penetrating gentlemen to reflect, that when Charlotte left England, it was in such haste that there was no time to purchase any thing more than what was wanted for immediate use on the voyage, and after her arrival at New-York, Montraville's affection soon began to decline, so that her whole wardrobe consisted of only necessaries, and as to baubles, with which fond lovers often load their mistresses, she possessed not one, except a plain gold locket of small value, which contained a lock of her mother's hair, and which the greatest extremity of want could not have forced her to part with.
I hope, Sir, your prejudices are now removed
The distance from the house which our suffering heroine occupied, to New-York, was not very great, yet the snow fell so fast, and the cold so in tense, that, being unable from her situation to walk quick, she found herself almost sinking with cold and fatigue before she reached the town, her garments, which were merely suitable to the summer season, being an undress robe of plain white muslin, were wet through, and a thin black cloak and bonnet, very improper habiliments for such a climate, but poorly defended her from the cold. In this situation she reached the city, and enquired of a foot soldier whom she met, the way to Colonel Crayton's.
"Bless you, my sweet lady," said the soldier with a voice and look of compassion, "I will shew you the way with all my heart; but if you are going to make a petition to Madam Crayton it is all to no purpose I assure you: if you please I will conduct you to Mr. Franklin's; though Miss Julia is married and gone now, yet the old gentleman is very good."
"Julia Franklin," said Charlotte; "is she not married to Montraville?"
"Yes," replied the soldier, "and may God bless them, for a better officer never lived, he is so good to us all; and as to Miss Julia, all the poor folk almost worshipped her."
The soldier now shewed her Colonel Crayton's door, and with a beating heart, she knocked for ad mission.
WHEN the door was opened, Charlotte, in a voice rendered scarcely articulate, through cold and the extreme agitation of her mind, demanded whether Mrs. Crayton was at home. The servant hesitated: he knew that his lady was engaged at a game of picquet with her dear Corydon, nor could he think she would like to be disturbed by a person whose appearance spoke her of so little consequence as Charlotte; yet there was something in her countenance that rather interested him in her favour, and he said his lady was engaged, but if she had any particular message he would deliver it.
"Take up this letter," said Charlotte: "tell her the unhappy writer of it waits in her hall for an answer."
The tremulous accent, the tearful eye, must have moved any heart not composed of adamant. The man took the letter from the poor suppliant, and hastily ascended the stair case.
Mrs. Crayton glanced her eye carelessly over the contents. "What stuff is this;" cried she haughtily; "have not I told you a thousand times that I will not be plagued with beggars, and petitions from people one knows nothing about? Go tell the woman I can't do any thing in it. I'm sorry, but one can't relieve every body."
The servant bowed, and heavily returned with this chilling message to Charlotte.
"Surely," said she, "Mrs. Crayton has not read my letter. Go, my good friend, pray go back to her; tell her it is Charlotte Temple who request beneath her hospitable roof to find shelter from the inclemency of the season."
"Prithee, don't plague me, man," cried Mrs. Crayton impatiently, as the servant advanced some thing in behalf of the unhappy girl. I tell you I don't know her."
"Not know me," cried Charlotte, rushing into the room, (for she had followed the man up stairs) "not know me, not remember the ruined Charlotte Temple, who, but for you, perhaps might still have been innocent, still have been happy. Oh! La Rue, this is beyond every thing I could have believed possible."
"Upon my honour, Miss," replied the unfeeling woman with the utmost
effrontery, "this is a
"Oh God," cried Charlotte, clasping her hands in an agony, "this is too much; what will become of me? but I will not leave you; they shall not tear me from you; here on my knees I conjure you to save me from perishing in the streets: if you really have forgot me, oh for charity's sweet sake this night let me be sheltered from the winter's piercing cold."
The kneeling figure of Charlotte in her affecting situation might have moved the heart of a stoic to compassion: but Mrs, Crayton remained in flexible. In vain did Charlotte recount the time they had known each other at Chichester, in vain mention their being in the same ship, in vain were the names of Montraville and Belcour mentioned. Mrs. Crayton could only say she was sorry for her imprudence, but could not think of having her own reputation endangered by encouraging a woman of that kind in her own house, besides she did not know what trouble and expense she might bring upon her husband by giving shelter to a woman in her situation.
"I can at least die here," said Charlotte, "I feel I cannot long survive
this dreadful conflict.
"Take her away," said Mrs. Crayton, "she will really frighten me into hysterics; take her away I say this instant."
"And where must I take the poor creature?" said the servant with a voice and look of compassion.
"Any where," cried she hastily, only don't let me ever see her again. I declare she has flurried me so, I shan't be myself again this fortnight.
John, assisted by his fellow-servant, raised and carried her down stairs. "Poor soul," said he, "you shall not lay in the street this night. I have a bed and a poor little hovel, where my wife and her little ones rest them, but they shall watch to night, and you shall be sheltered from danger." They placed her in a chair; and the benevolent man, assisted by one of his comrades, carried her to the place where his wife and children lived. A surgeon was sent for: he bled her, she gave signs of returning life, and before the dawn, gave birth to a female infant. After this event she lay for some hours in a kind of stupor; and if at any time she spoke, it was with a quickness and incoherence that plainly evinced the total deprivation of her reason.
THE reader of sensibility may perhaps be astonished to find Mrs. Crayton
could so positively deny any knowledge of Charlotte; it is wherefore but
just that her conduct should in some measure be accounted for. She had ever
been fully sensible of the superiority of Charlotte's sense and virtue; she
was conscious that she had never swerved from rectitude, had it not been for
her bad precepts and worse example. These were things as yet unknown to her
husband, and she wished not to have that part of her conduct exposed to him,
as she had great reason to fear she had already lost considerable part of
that power she once maintained over him. She trembled whilst Charlotte was
in the house, lest the Colonel should return; she perfectly well remembered
how much he seemed interested in her favour whilst on their passage from
England, and made no doubt, but, should he see her in her present distress,
he would offer her an asylum, and protect her to the utmost of his power. In
that case she feared the unguarded nature of Charlotte might discover to the
Colonel the part she had taken in the unhappy girl's elopement, and she well
knew the contrast between her own and Charlotte's conduct would make the
Just so it happened with Mrs. Crayton: her servants made no scruple of mentioning the cruel conduct of their lady to a poor distressed lunatic who claimed her protection; every one joined in reprobating her inhumanity; nay, even Corydon thought she might at least have ordered her to be taken care of, but he dare not even hint it to her, for he lived but in her smiles, and drew from her lavish fondness large sums to support an extravagance to which the state of his own finances was very inadequate; it cannot therefore be supposed that he wished Mrs. Crayton to be very liberal in her bounty to the afflicted suppliant; yet vice had not so entirely seared over his heart, but the sorrows of Charlotte could find a vulnerable part.
Charlotte had now been three days with her humane preservers, but she was totally insensible of every thing: she raved incessantly for Montraville and her father: she was not conscious of being a mother, nor took the least notice of her child, except to ask whose it was, and why it was not carried to its parents.
Such were the dreadful images that haunted her distracted mind, and nature was sinking fast under the dreadful malady which medicine had no power to remove. The surgeon who attended her was a humane man; he exerted his utmost abilities to save her, but he saw she was in want of many necessaries and comforts, which the poverty of her hospitable host rendered him unable to provide: he therefore determined to make her situation known to some of the officers' ladies, and endeavour to make a collection for her relief.
When he returned home, after making this resolution, he found a message from
Mrs. Beauchamp, who had just arrived from Rhode-Island, requesting he would
call and see one of her chil dren, who was very unwell. "I do not know,"
said he, as he was hastening to obey the summons,
"And where is she," cried Mrs. Beauchamp, when he had prescribed something for the child, and told his little pathetic tale, "where is she, Sir? we will go to her immediately. Heaven forbid that I should be deaf to the calls of humanity. Come, we will go this instant." Then seizing the doctor's arm, they sought the habitation that contained the dying Charlotte.
WHEN Mrs. Beauchamp entered the apart ment of the poor sufferer, she started
back with horror. On a wretched bed, without hangings, and but poorly
supplied with covering, lay the emaciated figure of what still retained the
semblance of a lovely woman, though sickness had so altered her features
that Mrs. Beauchamp had not the least recollection of her person. In one
corner of the room stood a woman washing, and, shiver ing
Mrs. Beauchamp had, during the time Charlotte was speaking, seated herself
on the bed and taken one of her hands; she looked at her attentively, and at
the name of Charlotte she perfectly conceived the whole shocking affair. A
faint sickness came over her. "Gracious heaven," said she, "is this
possible?" and bursting into tears, she reclined the burning head of
Charlotte on her own
She then made an effort to get out of bed; but being prevented, her frenzy again returned, and she raved with the greatest wildness and incoherence. Mrs. Beauchamp, finding it was impossible for her to be removed, contented herself with ordering the apartment to be made more comfortable, and procuring a proper nurse for both mother and child? and having learnt the particulars of Charlotte's fruitless application to Mrs. Crayton from honest John, she amply rewarded him for his benevolence, and returned home with a heart oppressed with many painful sensations, but yet rendered easy by the reflexion that she had performed her duty towards a distressed fellow-creature.
Early the next morning she again visited Char lotte, and found her tolerably
composed; she called her by name, thanked her for her goodness, and when her
child was brought to her, pressed it
Being asked how she found herself, she replied — "Why better, much better,
doctor. I hope now I have but little more to suffer. I had last night a few
hours sleep, and when I awoke recovered the full power of recollection. I am
quite sensible of my weakness I feel I have but little longer to combat with
the shafts of affliction. I have an humble confidence in the mercy of him
who died to save the world, and trust that my sufferings in this state of
mortality, joined to my unfeigned repentance, through his mercy, have
blotted my offences from the sight of my offended maker. I have but one care
— my poor infant! Father of mercy," continued she, raising her eyes, "of thy
infinite goodness, grant that the sins of the parent be not visited on the
unoffending child. May those who taught me to despise thy laws be forgiven;
lay not my offences to their charge, I beseech thee; and oh! shower the
choicest of thy
She was exhausted by this fervent address to the throne of mercy, and though her lips still moved her voice became inarticulate: she lay for some time as it were in a doze, and then recovering, faintly pressed Mrs. Beauchamp's hand, and requested that a clergyman might be sent for.
On his arrival she joined fervently in the pious office, frequently mentioning her ingratitude to her parents as what lay most heavy at her heart. When she had performed the last solemn duty, and was preparing to lie down, a little bustle on the outside door occasioned Mrs. Beauchamp to open it, and enquire the cause. A man in appearance about forty, presented himself, and asked for Mrs. Beauchamp.
"That is my name, Sir," said she.
"Oh then, my dear Madam," cried he, tell "me where I may find my poor, ruined, but repentant child."
Mrs. Beauchamp was surprised and affected; she knew not what to say; she foresaw the agony this interview would occasion Mr. Temple, who had just arrived in search of his Charlotte, and yet was sensible that the pardon and blessing of her father would soften even the agonies of death to the daughter.
The ardent manner in which he uttered these words occasioned him to raise his voice. It caught the ear of Charlotte: the knew the beloved sound: and uttering a loud shriek, she sprang forward as Mr. Temple entered the room. "My adored father." "My long lost child." Nature could support no more, and they both sunk lifeless into the arms of the attendants.
Charlotte was again put into bed, and a few moments restored Mr. Temple: but to describe the agony of his sufferings is past the power of any one, who, though they may readily conceive, cannot delineate the dreadful scene. Every eye gave testimony of what each heart felt — but all were silent.
When Charlotte recovered, she found herself supported in her father's arms. She cast on him a most expressive look, but was unable to speak. A reviving cordial was administered. She then asked, in a low voice, for her child: it was brought to her: she put it in her father's arms. "Protect her," said she, "and bless your dying — "
Unable to finish the sentence, she sunk back on her pillow: her countenance
was serenely composed;
IN the meantime Montraville having received orders to return to New-York, arrived, and having still some remains of compassionate tenderness for the woman whom he regarded as brought to shame by himself, he went out in search of Belcour, to enquire whether she was safe, and whether the child lived. He found him immersed in dissipation, and could gain no other intelligence than that Charlotte had left him, and that he knew not what was become of her.
"I cannot believe it possible" said Montra ville, "that a mind once so pure as Charlotte Temple's, should so suddenly become the mansion of vice. Beware, Belcour," continued he, "beware if you have dared to behave either unjust or dishonourably to that poor girl, your life shall pay the forfeit: — I will revenge her cause."
He immediately went into the country, to the house where he had left
Charlotte. It was desolate. After much enquiry he at length found the
servant girl who had lived with her. From her he
Tortured almost to madness by this shocking account, he returned to the city
but, before he reached it, the evening was drawing to a close. In entering
the town he was obliged to pass several little huts, the residence of poor
women who supported themselves by washing the cloaths of the officers and
soldiers. It was nearly dark: he heard from a neighbouring steeple a solemn
toll that seemed to say some poor mortal was going to their last mansion;
the sound struck on the heart of Montraville, and he involuntarily stopped,
when, from one of the houses he saw the appearance of a funeral. Almost
unknowing what he did, he followed at a small distance; and as they let the
coffin into the grave, he enquired of a soldier who stood by, and had just
brushed off a tear that did honour to his heart, who it was that was just
buried. "An please your honour," said the man, "'tis a poor girl that was
brought from her friends by a cruel man, who left her when she was big with
child and married another." Montraville stood motionless, and the man
proceeded — "I met her myself not a fortnight since one night all wet and
cold in the street; she went to Madam
"Rash young man," said Mr. Temple," who "art thou that thus disturbest the last mournful rites of the dead, and rudely breakest in upon the grief of an afflicted father."
"If thou art the father of Charlotte Temple," said he, gazing at him with mingled horror and amazement — "if thou art her father — I am Montraville." Then falling on his knees, he con tinued — "Here is my bosom. I bare it to receive the stroke I merit. Strike — strike now, and save me from the misery of reflection."
"Alas!" said Mr. Temple, "if thou wert the seducer of my child, thy own
reflections be thy pu nishment. I wrest not the power from the hand of
omnipotence. Look on that little heap of earth, there hast thou buried the
only joy of a fond father. Look at it often; and may thy heart feel such
true sorrow as shall merit the mercy of heaven." He turned from him; and
Montraville starting up from
SHORTLY after the interment of his daughter, Mr. Temple, with his dear
little charge and her nurse, set forward for England. It would be impossible
to do justice to the meeting scene between him, his Lucy, and her aged
father. Every heart
It was about ten years after these painful events, that Mr. and Mrs. Temple, having buried their father, were obliged to come to London on particular business, and brought the little Lucy with them. They had been walking one evening, when on their return they found a poor wretch sitting on the steps of the door. She attempted to rise as they approached, but from extreme weakness was unable, and after several fruitless efforts fell back in a fit. Mr. Temple was not one of those men who stand to consider whether by assisting an object in distress they shall not inconvenience themselves, but instigated by the impulse of a noble feeling heart, immediately ordered her to be carried into the house, and proper restoratives applied.
She soon recovered; and fixing her eyes on Mrs. Temple, cried — "You know
not, Madam, what you do; you know not whom you are relieving, or you would
curse me in the bitterness of your heart. Come not near me, Madam, I shall
contaminate you. I am the viper that stung your peace. I am the woman who
turned the poor Charlotte out to perish in the street. Heaven have mercy! I
see her now," continued she
It was in vain that Mr. and Mrs. Temple in treated her to be composed and to take some refreshment. She only drank half a glass of wine; and then told them that she had been separated from her husband seven years, the chief of which she had passed in riot, dissipation, and vice, till, overtaken by poverty and sickness, she had been reduced to part with every valuable, and thought only of ending her life in a prison; when a benevolent friend paid her debts and released her; but that her illness encreasing, she had no possible means of supporting herself, and her friends were weary of relieving her. "I have fasted," said she, "two days, and last night lay my acting head on the cold pavement: indeed it was but just that I should experience those miseries myself which I had unfeelingly inflicted on others."
Greatly as Mr. Temple had reason to detest Mrs. Crayton, he could not behold her in this distress without some emotions of pity. He gave her shelter that night beneath his hospitable roof, and the next day got her admission into an hospital; where having lingered a few weeks, she died, a striking example that vice, however prosperous in the beginning, in the end leads only to misery and shame.