Charlotte Temple

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CHARLOTTE TEMPLE

By Susanna Haswell Rowson



Contents:

CHAPTER I. A Boarding School.

CHAPTER II. Domestic Concerns.

CHAPTER III. Unexpected Misfortunes.

CHAPTER IV. Change of Fortune.

CHAPTER V. Such Things Are.

CHAPTER VI. An Intriguing Teacher.

CHAPTER VII. Natural Sense of Propriety Inherent in the Female Bosom.

CHAPTER VIII. Domestic Pleasures Planned.

CHAPTER IX. We Know Not What a Day May Bring Forth.

CHAPTER X. When We Have Excited Curiosity, It Is But an Act of
Good Nature to Gratify it.

CHAPTER XI. Conflict of Love and Duty.

CHAPTER XII. 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 falln'!--

CHAPTER XIII. Cruel Disappointment.

CHAPTER XIV. Maternal Sorrow.

CHAPTER XV. Embarkation.

CHAPTER XVI. Necessary Digression.

CHAPTER XVII. A Wedding.


VOLUME II.

CHAPTER XVIII. Reflections.

CHAPTER XIX. A Mistake Discovered.

CHAPTER XX. Virtue never appears so amiable as when reaching forth her
hand to raise a fallen sister. Chapter of Accidents.

CHAPTER XXI. Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault I see,
That mercy I to others show That mercy show to me. POPE.

CHAPTER XXII. Sorrows of the Heart.

CHAPTER XXIII. A Man May Smile, and Smile, and Be a Villain.

CHAPTER XXIV. Mystery Developed.

CHAPTER XXV. Reception of a Letter.

CHAPTER XXVI. What Might Be Expected.

CHAPTER XXVII. Pensive she mourn'd, and hung her languid head, Like a
fair lily overcharg'd with dew.

CHAPTER XXVIII. A Trifling Retrospect.

CHAPTER XXIX. We Go Forward Again.

CHAPTER XXX. 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.

CHAPTER XXXI. Subject Continued.

CHAPTER XXXII. Reasons Why and Wherefore.

CHAPTER XXXIII. Which People Void of Feeling Need Not Read.

CHAPTER XXXIV. Retribution.

CHAPTER XXXV. Conclusion.





PREFACE.

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
unfortunate as to have neither friends to advise, or understanding 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 may be of use, and if to your own children, said
Benevolence, why not to the many daughters of Misfortune who, deprived
of natural friends, or spoilt by a mistaken education, are thrown on an
unfeeling world without the least power to defend themselves from the
snares not only of the other sex, but from the more dangerous arts of
the profligate of their own.

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 powerful 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.




CHARLOTTE TEMPLE,




VOLUME I



CHAPTER I.

A BOARDING SCHOOL.

"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
Madame Du Pont, at the head of her school, descended from the church.
Such an assemblage of youth and innocence naturally attracted the young
soldiers: they stopped; and, as the little cavalcade passed, almost
involuntarily pulled off their hats. A tall, elegant girl looked at
Montraville and blushed: he instantly recollected the features of
Charlotte Temple, whom he had once seen and danced with at a ball at
Portsmouth. At that time he thought on her only as a very lovely child,
she being then only thirteen; but the improvement two years had made in
her person, and the blush of recollection which suffused her cheeks as
she passed, awakened in his bosom new and pleasing ideas. Vanity led him
to think that pleasure at again beholding him might have occasioned the
emotion he had witnessed, and the same vanity led him to wish to see her
again.

"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 Montraville; "but am determined
to make the most of the present, and would willingly compound with any
kind Familiar who would inform me who the girl is, and how I might be
likely to obtain an interview."

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 probably may never return;
why then should I endeavour to engage the affections of this lovely
girl, only to leave her a prey to a thousand inquietudes, of which at
present she has no idea? I will return to Portsmouth and think no more
about her."

The evening now was closed; a serene stillness 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 ingratiate 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.




CHAPTER II.

DOMESTIC CONCERNS.

MR. Temple was the youngest son of a nobleman 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,
decrepid 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 shew," 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 of the unfortunate, his
advice and bounty was frequently solicited; nor was it seldom that he
sought out indigent merit, and raised it from obscurity, confining his
own expenses within a very narrow compass.

"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 feelings by making
further enquiries, followed him in silence, til 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 melodiously soft. He opened the door, and discovered to
Temple a scene which rivetted him to the spot with astonishment.

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 linen 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.

"This is a strange place," said he to Temple, "to receive visitors of
distinction in; but we must fit our feelings to our station. While I am
not ashamed to own the cause which brought me here, why should I blush
at my situation? Our misfortunes are not our faults; and were it not for
that poor girl--"

Here the philosopher was lost in the father. He rose hastily from his
seat, and walking toward the window, wiped off 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; but when I am
gone, who will protect that fair bud of innocence from the blasts of
adversity, or from the cruel hand of insult and dishonour."

"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 sunshine 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.




CHAPTER III.

UNEXPECTED MISFORTUNES.

"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 genius 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 we hesitated not to state to him all our little difficulties in
regard to George's future views. He listened to us with attention, and
offered to advance any sum necessary for his first setting out.

"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 beware 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 cheerfully 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 was sitting down to supper, unsuspicious of
danger, an officer entered, and tore me from the embraces of my family.

"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 composure, 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? Then let us, my
friend, take the cup of life as it is presented to us, tempered by the
hand of a wise Providence; be thankful for the good, be patient under
the evil, and presume not to enquire why the latter predominates."

"This is true philosophy," said Temple.

"'Tis the only way to reconcile ourselves to the cross events of life,"
replied he. "But I forget 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 neighbourhood and wrote a long affectionate letter to me, blaming
himself severely for having introduced Lewis into the family, or
permitted him to confer an obligation, which had brought inevitable
ruin on us all. He begged me, whatever might be the event of the ensuing
morning, not to suffer regret or unavailing sorrow for his fate, to
increase the anguish of my heart, which he greatly feared was already
insupportable.

"This letter was delivered to me early in the morning. It would be 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.

"I was so weak as to be almost unable to speak. I pressed Lucy's hand,
and looked earnestly round the apartment in search of another dear
object.

"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.




CHAPTER IV.

CHANGE OF FORTUNE.

"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. In about two hours after, as they
were sitting at breakfast, and endeavouring to strike out some plan to
attain my liberty, they heard a loud rap at the door, which Lucy running
to open, she met the bleeding body of her brother, borne in by two men
who had lifted him from a litter, on which they had brought him from
the place where he fought. Her poor mother, weakened by illness and the
struggles of the preceding night, was not able to support this shock;
gasping for breath, her looks wild and haggard, she reached the
apartment where they had carried her dying son. She knelt by the bed
side; and taking his cold hand, 'my poor boy,' said she, 'I will not be
parted from thee: husband! son! both at once lost. Father of mercies,
spare me!' She fell into a strong convulsion, and expired in about two
hours. In the mean time, a surgeon had dressed George's wounds; but they
were in such a situation as to bar the smallest hopes of recovery. He
never was sensible from the time he was brought home, and died that
evening in the arms of his sister.

"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?'