Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works

by Charlotte Smith

  This melancholy soliloquy silently passed without Rosalie’s answering, or seemed to attend to, what Walsingham had said, though she slowly followed the way which he led.

  They hardly spoke during their walk, except that Rosalie, observing the heavy cloud that hung over the sun, now sinking westward, inquired of Walsingham, if he did not think there would be a thunder storm? — He answered, certainly not; and they proceeded still silently, for neither were disposed for conversation.

  About half a mile to the eastward of their descent they reached that stupendous sea mark, the high cliff called Beachy Head, which is seen half channel over, and is the first land made in crossing from the opposite coast. On looking up towards its summit, Walsingham seemed to be struck with some painful recollection; he paused a moment, and said, sighing, “Ah! how long it is since the sight of this head-land made my heart bound with transport — since the cry of Beachy! Beachy! by the sailors, after a night passed in struggling against faint and contrary winds, announced the joyful appearance of an old friend — but now all local attachments are at an end! — England is still my country, but I am more wretched, I think, in it than ever, much more wretched than when I am wandering about.”

  Rosalie, by a deep sigh, showed that she sympathised in his unhappiness, and another long pause.

  “In this cavern, (continued Walsingham, turning towards a deep excavation in the rock), Tradition says, a solitary being, of the name of Darby, took up his abode....There are times when I am disposed to try some such experiment myself. I think I should enjoy the horrors of a storm, in a cave under Beachy Head. I can imagine the raging of the elements; the swelling and foaming of the mountain billows dashing on the rock; and the isolated hermit patiently awaiting the surge that should overwhelm him....I could fancy, even now fancy, the sullen waves, which we actually hear breaking regularly and monotonously on the shore, to be the hollow murmur of the subsiding storm. The solitary man having escaped the tempest, ventures forth from his cave! — he heard, amid the whirlwinds of the night, the cries of the wretch driven on the inhospitable coast, then he could not save them! — but he now looks along the beach for their said remains; he tries with his feeble hands to bury them....He sees a drowned man, which, another wave will cast at his feet, he steps forward — .”

  “In God’s sake, Mr. Walsingham, (cried Rosalie shuddering), forbear to draw such images of horror!”— “I will forbear, (answered he), if they distress you, Mrs. Montalbert, but to me they present not images of horror........Ah! no — at this moment I envy those who are dead; I almost wish I were so!”

  Rosalie had often heard him talk in a desponding style, but now there was in his manner dejection mixed with something of wildness, that made her tremble. Stunned as her mind was by its recent loss, every vague idea had force to torment her, and she now again apprehended that Walsingham might know something of Montalbert, which the agitation she expressed at their meeting in the morning, might have deprived him of courage to tell her; and that he was, by this unusual style of conversation, preparing her for it; but a moment’s reflection served to dissipate this fear. Had it been necessary to inflict another wound on her heart, it was not to a scene so remote as that which they were now in, that he would have led her; for he had seen in the morning how ill she could bear such intelligence as Blagham had abruptly given her.

  Walsingham then was unhappy, more than usually unhappy, and from some cause which did not personally concern Rosalie. The gratitude she owed him, and the friendship she felt for him, now called upon her to rouse herself and appear less depressed, in hopes that he might become more calm. She tried, therefore, but evidently with effort, to speak on common and uninteresting subjects. In their former conversations, Walsingham had frequently given her easy lessons on botany, which, with almost every other science, he understood, she now, with a view to detach his mind from the subjects that so painfully engaged it, gathered a branch of the sea poppy, and another of the eryngium, that grew among the stones of the beach, and began to talk of marine plants, and of those of structure more singular which lived under the waves; she remarked that these inhabiting the immediate margin of the sea, apparently formed the link between marine and terraqueous vegetables, and was proceeding thus, when, looking at her with an expression of countenance, which said, as plainly as if he had spoken it— “Ah! you would not now have found spirits to talk on such subjects, if you did not exert those spirits for me!” — he said ——

  “I am a miserable being to-night, and fit for nothing that belongs to science, or perhaps to reason. But as there are cold unfeeling mortals, who say, and perhaps truly, that poetry has nothing to do with either, I may possible be the better disposed to read to you what I once wrote, not many miles from this part of the coast of Suffex. It was soon after my return from the continent, when I thought all my fondest hopes of happiness would be realized, but when I found them vanished from my grasp for ever! — a friend, who loved me, would not suffer me to remain brooding over my sorrows, at a house I had taken, (ah! how fruitlessly taken), in London; but though it was late in the year, not far, indeed, from mid-winter, he was going to pass a month at Brighthelmstone, and he took me with him, careless of whither I went, and only in desiring not to be molested by condolence or inquiries........For some time (continued Walsingham sighing) the vigilant kindness of my friend would hardly suffer me out of his sight. At length convinced that I had courage to live, he allowed me to do as I would, and the use I made of my liberty was to wander of a night along the beach, or on the cliffs, on which the sea is continually encroaching. After a long succession of stormy weather, with heavy rains, great fragments of rock fell on the belt of stones beneath: the crash of their separation and fall echoed along the shore, like thunder intermingled with the incessant roar of the wintry waves....My gloomy disposition was gratified in describing the effect of this, and thus assimulating outward circumstances to my own sad sensations ——

  “The night flood rakes upon the stony shore,

  “Along the rugged cliffs, and chalky caves,

  “Mourns the hoarse Ocean, seeming to deplore

  “All that lie buried in his restless waves. —

  “Mined, by corrosive tides, the hollow rock

  “Falls prone; and, rushing from its turfy height,

  “Shakes the board beach, with long resounding shock

  “Loud thundering on the ear of sullen night. —

  “Above the desolate and stormy deep,

  “Gleams the wan moon by floating mists oppress’d,

  “Yet here, while youth, and health, and labour, sleep,

  “Alone I wander; — calm untroubled rest,

  ‘Nature’s soft nurse,’ deserts the sigh-swollen breast,

  “And flies the wretch, who only ‘wakes to weep!”

  CHAPTER 33

  FROM the temper of mind which Rosalie was in, the lines she had just heard Walsingham recite in a full yet mournful voice, could hardly fail of affecting her; and, while he a second time repeated them at her request, the tears slowly fell from her eyes, and it might possibly have been some time before she was enough recovered from the mournful reverie into which she had fallen, had not she and Walsingham been equally startled by the sudden appearance of two females figures from behind a projection of the cliff, on a fragment of which they had been sitting. One of them suddenly advancing to Walsingham, said, “Upon my honour, my dear Sir, you must excuse me if I break through common rules: — but I do so doat on talents — I am such an enthusiast in regard to poetry! —— Your name is Walsingham, I think — I have often had the happiness of hearing you, and once of seeing you, at dear Mrs. Paramount’s. — I should be mortified — oh! mortified beyond measure, if I supposed it possible for you to forget it!”

  Walsingham, very little delighted with this bold and abrupt address, and recollecting at once who the lady was, determined to give her this measureless mortification. — He, therefore, answered drily, “That he was sorry to say his memory refu
sed him the pleasure of acknowledging, as his acquaintance, a lady who did him so much honour.” —— Turning from him with an air of pique, the admirer of talents then addressed herself to Rosalie, and, with confidence, not at all checked by the coldness of her reception, said, “I have been determined, my dear Madam, to make myself known to you ever since I first saw you, and your charming boy.....What a sweet creature! — a perfect angel! —— I was told when first I saw you, that you were an Italian lady of rank, which only increased my violent inclination to be admitted among the number of your friends; but my acquaintance, Mademoiselle Claudine, undeceived me.”

  Rosalie, recognizing the lady who had so often spoken to Claudine, was never so little willing as now to make her acquaintance, and was, in truth, unable to answer all these fine speeches as the laws of common civility required; she, therefore, suffered the stranger to proceed, only muttering something which her new acquaintance deemed sufficient encouragement for her to go on talking.

  While this passed, the other lady sidled up to Walsingham, and, in the softest whisper of affection, her head reclined and her eyes half shut, said, “Is it then indeed possible, that Mr. Walsingham can have suffered the remarkable traces Lady Llancarrick must leave on every heart, to be obliterated! — That wonderful being! whose talents, whose virtues, have been the admiration of the age in which we live — and whose person, worshipped as it has been and is, is the least of her astonishing perfections!”

  Walsingham, however he abhorred ever kind of affectation, might, at another time, have found a momentary amusement in the fine sentimental phrases and ridiculous contorsions of this young woman. He recollected her to be a Miss Gillman, whom he had seen at parties in town, and who had acquired the name of “The Muse.” But he was at this time so disgusted with her folly, and so impatient at being thus broke in upon, that nothing less than the consideration of her being a woman, and in inferior circumstances, (for she was a humble dependent on the scientific dames of better fortune), could have induced him to even the little show of civility with which he answered— “That it was his misfortune to have forgotten Lady Llancarrick, owing, perhaps, to his long residence in other countries.” — — “Oh! then (eagerly interrupted Miss Gillman) you have never, perhaps, seen any of her productions. — She writes the most divine things! — there is an originality or sublimity undescribable in her compositions — the effect of the strongest understanding guiding the amiable propensities of the softest heart! — She did me the very high honour to desire I would walk down to this singular scenery, where ——

  “The beetling rock frowns o’er the foaming tide.”

  For she is writing something wherein she thought the wonders of nature might assist her imagination.....We were sitting pensively together my friend invoking the muse! — and I waiting in silence the happy effusions of her fine fancy, when we were struck with pleasing surprise on hearing the beautiful lines you recited. They are, I am persuaded, from your own ingenious pen — I hope you will give them to the world.”

  As little more was necessary in answer to this rhapsody than a bow, Walsingham now turned a sorrowful look towards Rosalie, who was suffering even a severer penance than he had undergone, and was much less able to disengage herself. — They had risen on the first appearance of Lady Llancarrick and her poetical associate, and were now walking towards home; but this did not promise to afford them the means of escape, for the ladies declared they also were returning that way. Little more, however, was required during the remainder of their walk than to listen: for Lady Llancarrick having now got somebody to hear her, to whom she thought all the fine things she had collected were entirely new, and who could not doubt of exciting wonder and admiration, was soaring into the most elevated regions — and common life and common sense were left at an immeasurable distance. She mistook the silence of Walsingham (which arose from vexation and impatience) for profound attention and silent admiration. From the first time of meeting him, she thought him an object well worth trying to attract, and wished to find out the nature of his attachment to Rosalie; though, be it what it might, it impeded not her views, for it was one among her many real or affected singularities, that she pretended to have the most profound contempt for beauty, while her own figure and face betrayed the great pains she took to acquire or preserve in her own person the advantage she contemned.

  She knew that Walsingham was reckoned a man of the first understanding and information, and was fully persuaded that Rosalie’s youth and beauty would be weak attractions, when opposed to her charms, and those talents, which alone, she thought had power to fix a man of his genius.

  Lady Llancarrick began life as a young woman whom accidental connections had raised into society much above her fortune, and who thought herself happy to be put on a level with them by marrying Sir Lodowick Llancarrick, a Welsh Baronet: but having unsuccessfully tried the charms of domestic felicity, she had, for some years, been one of those characters which the undistinguishing multitude have called — Veteran Women of Fashion — High Flyers — and other appellations which are doubtless quite undeserved.......The “universal passion,” according to Dr. Young’s description, was never more strongly exemplified — never did a female breast pant so vehemently for fame as that of Lady Llancarrick; and, after many struggles to raise herself to notoriety, she found every eminence pre-occupied that might have been obtained by singularity of dress or demeanour; she could not drive into the temple of Fame in a Phaeton, four in hand, without being incommoded by equal of superior skill — or ride thither without being crossed and jostled; neither could she leap a five-barred gate, or do many other feats to make people stare, without having innumerable rivals. One avenue to immortality, however, was less crowded, and Lady Llancarrick followed it: she became a poet and a politician — with a very moderate skill in her own language, she was certainly a singular, if not a successful, candidate for the Poetic Crown; but having neither the judgement that arises from natural good sense, or that which is acquired by study, her political opinions, and her poetical flights, were equally inconsistent and absurd. Together, however, they answered her purpose, for she became wonderful, if not admirable: some humble retainers of the Tuneful Nine were always ready to celebrate her genius; and she furnished so many paragraphs for the newspapers, that the editors could hardly fail of being grateful.

  But with so much genius could she escape being susceptible? — Alas! — no. — Many instances were given of the softness of her heart, and many men of the very first world had been supposed to wear her chains. In proportion as these became fragile through time, she had covered them with flowers, almost the last fortunate captive, who had escaped this charming bondage, was Sommers Walsingham; which, perhaps, from family partiality, inspired Lady Llancarrick with her present inclination to throw the same pleasing fetters over his cousin.

  Perfectly unconscious, however, of her design, hardly hearing, and not at all attending to the excellent things she was saying, Walsingham walked by her side, accusing his destiny of cruelty in compelling him to part with Rosalie for some time, and to leave her in such a state of mind, without having an opportunity of saying to her much that he had postponed till he took leave, and which now appeared absolutely necessary to his own peace, if not for the guidance and consolation of his interesting unhappy friend. Yet, however, he wished to have a long conversation with Rosalie before he rode back to Hastings, he was persuaded that Lady Llancarrick and Miss Gillman had forced themselves thus into his notice, only to gratify impertinent curiosity, or find ground for malignant remark in regard to Rosalie, that he determined, whatever it might cost him, not to put it in their power. For a moment he thought of returning to her lodging, after they had shaken off their unwelcome companions; but, conscious that so unusual a visit much excite the invidious remarks of the woman of the house, and suspecting that Lady Llancarrick and her companion would watch his steps, he found himself compelled, on Rosalie’s account, to relinquish the idea of seeing her again that evening; but
rage and vexation seized him, and he no longer wore even the semblance of civility, though Lady Llancarrick did not, or would not, perceive it. Their way lay near the door of the inn where Walsingham’s horses were put up. His groom was walking before it waiting his orders; he called to him impatiently, and bade him bring the horses out; they followed him in an instant, when, approaching Rosalie, he wished her a good night, and said, in a low voice, that he would see her in a very few days; then, coldly bowing to the other two ladies, he mounted his horse, and was out of sight in a moment.

  Rosalie, trying to suppress a sigh that arise partly from regret at his going so suddenly, and partly from recollection of the state of mind in which she knew he was, was now very coldly and formally courtesying her good night to her two unwished-for companions; but they did not intend to let her off so easily, and Lady Llancarrick, bidding her dear Gillman take the arm of her sweet friend, said, “Oh! we will see her safe to her lodgings, you know!”

  The distance was not far, but Rosalie thought it now lengthened on purpose: both the ladies besetting her with questions which she could not answer truly, and would very fain have been excused from answering at all. Indeed, during the former part of their walk, while Lady Llancarrick had engaged Walsingham, the gentle, sentimental Erminia Eliza Gillman had, albeit in the sweetest accents and with the most insinuating softness, put so many questions to poor Rosalie, that greater art and knowledge of the world, than she possessed, would have been necessary to prevent the sly sentimentalist from discovering that there was a great deal of mystery in her affairs, and that their obscurity arose from their being of a nature which she dared not reveal, yet knew not how artfully to hide.