NORFOLK AND NORWICH, AND THEIR INHABITANTS; YOUNG LOVE; THE
DRAMA; SONG WRITING AND CROMER; POLITICS; VISIT TO LONDON;
LETTERS FROM THENCE; THE OLD BAILEY TRIALS.
Mr. Holcroft, in his Autobiography, writes thus of East Anglia:—
“I have seen more of the county of Norfolk than of its
inhabitants; of which county I remark, that, to the best of my
recollection, it contains more churches, more flints, more
turkeys, more turnips, more wheat, more cultivation, more
commons, more cross roads, and from that token probably more
inhabitants, than any county I ever visited. It has another
distinguishing and paradoxical feature, if what I hear be true;
it is said to be more illiterate than any other part of England,
and yet, I doubt, if any county of like extent have produced an
equal number of famous men.”
The praises of Norwich were written thus, in old monkish rhymes in days
of yore;
“Urbs speciosa situ, nitidis pulcherrima tectis,
Grata peregrinis, deliciosa suis.”
If common fame speak true, the Inhabitants of the old City have been
noted for three peculiarities—the resolute purpose and strongly marked
character of her men; the fair looks of her women; and the deep-rooted
attachment which is entertained for her by those born and bred within
her walls. The subject of this memoir certainly shared largely in this
love for the city of her birth. During the eight and twenty years of her
life which preceded her marriage, with the exception of occasional
visits to London and elsewhere, she remained in her native town and in
her father’s house; and when, at the expiration of nine years, she
became a widow, she returned to live under her father’s roof again; nor
at his death did she manifest a desire to quit the place endeared to her
by the recollections of so many long and happy years.
At the period to which we have arrived in her history, she possessed the
advantages of a pleasing personal appearance. Her friend, Mrs. Taylor,
delicately alludes to the graces of “person, mind, and manner,” so
happily united in her; and Mr. Opie’s portraits fully bear testimony to
the truth of these friendly representations. Her countenance was
animated, bright, and beaming; her eyes soft and expressive, yet full of
ardour; her hair was abundant and beautiful, of auburn hue, and waving
in long tresses; her figure was well formed; her carriage fine; her
hands, arms, and feet, well shaped;—and all around and about her was
the spirit of youth, and joy, and love. What wonder if she early loved,
and was beloved! She used to own that she had been guilty of the
“girlish imprudence” of love at sixteen. From the following lines in one
of her poems, it should seem that this fancy of her youth was but a
day-dream destined to pass away like the rest!
I’ve gazed on the handsome, have talked with the wise,
With the witty have laugh’d, untouched by love’s power,
And tho’ long assailed by young Corydon’s eyes,
They charmed for a day, and were thought of no more!
But once, I confess, (t’was at tender sixteen,)
Love’s agents were busy indeed round my heart,
And nought but good fortune’s assistance I ween,
Could ere from my bosom have warded the dart.
Numerous admirers, indeed, seem to have paid her homage, and courted her
favour in those days. Some perhaps enjoyed a short season of hope, and
there were two or three, whose rapturous effusions were committed to
some secret receptacle, there to await a season of leisure when their
claims might be considered. But alas! none such came; they lay
forgotten; and only came to light when she, whose bright young charms
they told of, had closed a long life.
High spirits, uninterrupted health, a lively fancy, and poetic talent,
were hers; and she fully enjoyed and exercised these natural advantages.
One of her earliest tastes was a love of the drama, and Mr. Capel Lofft,
writing to her in 1808, observes, “Your uncle, the barrister, was saying
yesterday evening, how struck he was, almost in your childhood, with
your power of dramatic diction and recitation, and that he had never
thought it equalled by any one.” This taste she cultivated; and, when
not more than eighteen years of age, wrote a tragedy, entitled
“Adelaide,” which is still extant. It was acted for the amusement of her
friends; she herself performing the heroine’s part, while Mr. Robert
Harvey played the rôle of “the old father.”
It should seem from an expression in one of her letters, that this was
not a solitary effort in theatrical composition, and that she even
aspired to see some of her plays performed in public. It was probably
this taste which early introduced her to an acquaintance with the Kemble
family; as she says, in a very early letter to her father, signing
herself ‘Euridice,’ “My claim to this name was revived in my mind the
other day, by Mr. Kemble coming up to me, saying, ‘Euridice, the woods,
Euridice, the floods,’ &c.” She ever entertained an ardent admiration
for the illustrious Mrs. Siddons; an admiration mingled with a warm
sentiment of personal regard. This was manifested in a touching and
natural manner after the death of that lady, when, as she was one day
visiting the Soanian museum, (in company with the friend who now records
the fact,) happening unexpectedly to see a cast of Mrs. Siddons’ face,
taken after death, and unable to control her emotion, she burst into a
passionate flood of tears!
Mrs. Taylor was probably right in her judgment when she said to Mrs.
Opie, “You ought to rest your fame upon song writing.” Many of the most
popular songs she published after her marriage had been early
productions of her pen; and were, perhaps, not excelled by any efforts
of that kind in her later years. Some of them first appeared separately
in newspapers and magazines, and a few in a periodical miscellany called
“The Cabinet.”
The Lay to the memory of her mother was written (as we have said) at
Cromer, in the year 1791; and is the first in an old manuscript book
containing her earlier poems, many of which she afterwards published.
They were produced in this and the following year, and are inscribed
“Verses written at Cromer.” This place seems to have been, throughout
life, very dear to her; owing no doubt, in part, to the fact that she
had frequently spent the summer season there with her mother in her
childhood; hence it became associated in her mind with these earliest
recollections.
There she indulged in fond memories and fancies, spending the long
summer days roving along the shore, and weaving her thoughts into verse,
grave or gay. She deplores her fate when compelled to leave
These scenes belov’d upon whose tranquil shores,
Thoughtless of ill, I breathed my earliest songs,
While childish sports and hopes—a joyous throng—
In soft enchantment bound the guiltless hours.
And concludes,
Here I would wander, from day’s earliest dawn,
Till o’er the western summit steals dark night;
And from the rugged cliff or dewy lawn,
Reluctant fades the last pale gleam of light.
Visits among her numerous friends, and excursions on business and
pleasure, in which she not unfrequently accompanied her father,
occasionally afforded themes for her pen, and her wanderings may often
be tracked by the titles she gave to these effusions. “A sonnet written
in Cumberland,” bears date 1790. Another “in a bower in Wroxham
Churchyard,” August, 1792. A serio-comic poem written at Windermere, in
a letter to her father, gives an account of the merry antics played by
herself and a gay party of young folks with whom she made the trip, and
one, which we give to the reader, was
“WRITTEN ON SEEING A BUST OF MINERVA AT FELBRIGG
HALL, THROWN INTO A CORNER AMONGST RUBBISH.”
Who should have thought in Windham’s breast
Ingratitude to find!
Who should have thought that _he_ could prove
To his best friend unkind!
Yet sure I am, my eyes beheld
In Felbrigg hall this morn,
Unmeaning heads exalted high,
And Wisdom left forlorn!
* * * * * *
From these tranquil scenes we must make a somewhat abrupt transition,
and carry the reader to the busy world of London, where we find her in
1794, and writing to her friend, Mrs. T., from thence. The allusions to
political events, contained in these letters, render it necessary to say
a few words respecting the opinions entertained by Dr. Alderson, and the
friends with whom he associated on these subjects; as his daughter’s
views were naturally to a great degree formed after those of her father
and his companions.
During the later years of the last century, at the time when this
country was so vehemently excited by the great changes then occurring in
France, and which were regarded by many as the commencement of a new and
happier era for the nations of Europe generally; party strife ran to a
fearful height, and scarcely any, even of the weaker sex, remained
passive spectators of the struggle.
Dr. Alderson was among those who hailed the dawn of the French
revolution with pleasure; and, though he afterwards saw cause to
moderate his expectations as to the results of that movement, he seems
(in common with many sincere patriots) to have held his allegiance true
to the original revolutionary cause. It is well known that at this time
various societies were organized, in different parts of the kingdom, for
the purpose of discussing the political questions then agitating the
public mind, and Norwich was among the foremost in these associations. A
local society was instituted, in which were canvassed reforms and
changes, many of which, advocated by the most influential statesmen of
our day, have since been safely yielded to the irresistible force of
public opinion. Three of the leading measures contended for were the
Abolition of Negro Slavery, the repeal of the Corporation and Test Acts,
and the reform of the House of Commons.
The policy of the government was, however, (not without reason,) hostile
to associations such as these, and severe measures were adopted to put
them down, and to bring their leaders under the fearful ban of high
treason.
During Miss Alderson’s stay in London, in 1794, she attended the famous
trials of Horne Tooke, Holcroft, and others, for treason, at the Old
Bailey; and in her letters home she gave her father a lively account of
the events which transpired. It is known that Dr. Alderson, after
reading these letters to his confidential friends, thought it prudent to
destroy them. A few letters, to Mrs. Taylor, written previous to her
marriage, have been preserved; but as that lady was in the habit of
reading those addressed to Dr. Alderson by his daughter, they contain no
account of the events which she described to him. The three which follow
were written in 1794, during her visit to some friends who lived near
London, but her letters being mostly without date, cannot always be
arranged with certainty. It is evident that a fellowship in political
opinions was the only bond which united her to many with whom, at this
time, she associated. Her own good sense and firm rectitude of
principle, happily preserved her from the follies and errors into which
not a few around her were led, by their extravagant zeal for a liberty
which speedily degenerated into license. She too, was enthusiastic,
ardent, perhaps imprudent, at least so she seems to have judged in
cooler moments; but there was too much of the pure womanly character in
her, to suffer her ever to sympathize with the assertors of “woman’s
rights,” (so called;) and she was not to be spoiled even though exposed
to the influence of Horace Walpole’s “philosophising serpents, the
Paines, the Tookes, and the Wollstonecrofts.”
Tuesday, 1794.
MY DEAR MRS. T.
At length I have found an opportunity of writing to you at my
leisure, but now, though I have begun with the resolution of
being very grave and very sentimental, I feel such an
inclination to run into plain matters of fact and narration,
that I shall beg leave to content myself with a recital of the
events of my journey to town yesterday, requesting at the same
time a recital of the events of your life, since I saw you, in
return. We will leave gravity and sentiment to be the order of
the evening when we resume our Wednesday _tête à têtes_, and
rejoice in the absence of husband and father.
Mr. J. Boddington and I set off for town yesterday by way of
Islington, that we might pay our first visit to Godwin, at
Somers’ Town. After a most delightful ride through some of the
richest country I ever beheld, we arrived at about one o’clock
at the philosopher’s house, whom we found with his hair _bien
poudré_, and in a pair of new, sharp-toed, red morocco slippers,
not to mention his green coat and crimson under-waistcoat. He
received me very kindly, but wondered I should think of being
out of London;—could I be either amused or _instructed_ at
Southgate? How did I pass my time? What were my pursuits? and a
great deal more, which frightened my protector, and tired me,
till at last I told him I had not yet outlived my affections,
and that they bound me to the family at Southgate. But was I to
acknowledge any other dominion than that of reason?—“but are
you sure that my affections in this case are not the result of
reason?” He shrugged disbelief, and after debating some time, he
told me I was more of the _woman_ than when he saw me last.
Rarely did we agree, and little did he gain on me by his mode of
attack; but he seemed alarmed lest he should have offended me,
and apologised several times, with much feeling, for the
harshness of his expressions. In short, he convinced me that his
theory has not yet gotten entire ascendancy over his practice.
He has promised to come over to spend a day at Southgate, when I
shall pit rational belief in Mr. M., against atheism in Mr.
Godwin. Mr. B. was disgusted with his manner; though charmed
with that of Barry, whom we called on last week. Godwin told me
he had talked of me to Mrs. Inchbald, that she recollected me,
and wished to see me; so I determined to call on her after I had
paid my visit to Mrs. Siddons. From Godwin’s, we went to Ives
Hurry’s in the City, where we left our chair and horses, and
proceeded in a coach to Mrs. Betham’s, to have my profile taken,
and thence we drove to Marlborough Street. I found Mrs. Siddons
engaged in nursing her little baby, and as handsome and charming
as ever. She played last Wednesday before her month was up, and
is now confined to her room with the cold she caught behind the
scenes. There too, I saw Charles Kemble, as I passed through his
sister’s dressing room, and thought him so like Kemble, Mrs.
Twiss, and Mrs. Siddons, that it was some time before I could
recollect myself enough to know whether he was a man or a woman.
Sally and Maria, tell my father, are quite well, and inquired
much concerning him. The baby is all a baby can be, but Mrs. S.
laughs, and says it is a wit and a beauty already in her eyes;
she leaves town to-day, or she would have invited me for a
longer visit. From Marlborough Street, we drove to Mrs.
Inchbald’s, who is as pretty as ever, and much more easy and
unreserved in her manner, than when I last saw her. With her we
passed an hour, and when I took my leave, she begged I would
call on her again. She is in charming lodgings, and has just
received two hundred pounds from Sheridan, for a farce
containing sixty pages only. From her house we drove into the
city. You will wonder, perhaps, where we dined. Be it known unto
you, that we never dine when we visit London. Ives Hurry, as
soon as we arrive at his house, always treats us with as much
ice and biscuits as we can eat; we then sally forth, and eat ice
again when we want it; so we did yesterday, and Mrs. Siddons’
roast beef had no temptations for us. As we returned to I. H.’s,
we went to Daniel Isaac Eaton’s shop; we had scarcely entered
it, when a very genteel-looking young man came in. He examined
us, and we him; and suspicion being the order of the day, I
dared not talk to Mrs. Eaton till the stranger was engaged in
conversation with Boddington. I then told her that curiosity led
me to her shop, and that I came from that city of sedition,
Norwich. Her eyes sparkled, and she asked me if I knew Charles
Marsh? “You come from Norwich, (cried the stranger,) allow me to
ask you some questions,” &c., &c. He put questions, I answered
them, and in a short time Mr. J. B. and myself were both so
charmed with his manners and conversation, that we almost
fancied we had known him before. We saw that he was intimate
with Mrs. E. and her sweet girl, and seemed to be as much at
home in the shop as the counter itself. So we had no fears of
him; at last we became so fraternized, that Mrs. E. shut the
shop door and gave us chairs. I will not relate the information
I heard, but I could have talked with him all night. “Well, but
who was he?” Have patience and you shall hear. Finding that he
was just returned from Scotland, and was _au fait_ of all the
proceedings there, and that his connexions were those of high
life; I asked where Lord Daer was, and lamented that he was not
one of the _arrested members_. He smiled, and said that Lord D.
wanted nerve then, and fortitude to resist the anxieties of his
mother, and sisters, the most accomplished women in England;
that the very day of the arrest he had received a letter from
Lord Daer, promising to be with them if possible; and in the
evening another note to say Lady Selkirk was ill, and that he
could not leave her. “Indeed! I thought he _bailed_ you,” said
Mrs. Eaton. “Oh! no,” replied the other. Mr. B. and I looked at
each other, wondering who “you,” was; but I began to suspect,
and went on questioning him. He said they dared not hurt Lord
D.; that they dared not attack any man of connexions and estate
in Scotland: that had he himself been condemned, or sent to
Botany Bay, his connexions would have _risen to a man_. I
ventured to say, that however amiable Lord D.’s family might be,
he ought to have disregarded their influence. He replied that I
was quite right, and that he himself had disregarded them;—that
democratic women were rare, and that he heartily wished he could
introduce me to two charming patriots at Edinburgh, who were,
though women, up to circumstances—and a great deal more, that
raised my curiosity to a most painful height; at last, having
said that he had laid it down as a rule for his conduct, that a
patriot should be without the _hope of living_, or the _fear of
dying_, he took his leave, leaving our minds elevated and
delighted. Mrs. E. told us it was Mr. Sinclair, Sir John’s
nephew, he who was tried, and acquitted. He says Lord D. is
supposed to be dying, and he himself looks in bad health, but
his countenance is fine, and his manners elegant.—“What think
you of Mr. Windham?” said I, “Oh! the poor creature is out of
his element; he might have done very well for a college
disputant or a Greek professor, perhaps, but that’s all.” “Why
do the Norwich patriots espouse Mingay? what can they expect?
(said he,) he might be a very good implement of resentment
against Windham, but, though the friend of their necessity, not
of their choice.” Is he not right? * * * *
The following letter begins quite abruptly, and is without date.
* * * How strange it is, my dear friend, that I should have
suffered your kind letter to remain so long unanswered, but, as
I am certain that you will not impute my silence to any
diminution of affection towards you, I will not fret about my
oddity, but endeavour to make amends for it, by writing as good
a letter as I _can_, and that will be, alas! very stupid; for
the state of the times and other things press upon my mind
continually, and unfit me for everything but conversation. My
father will have told you a great deal; he will have told you
too how much we are interested and agitated by the probable
event of the approaching trials. Would to God, you and your
husband were equally so, for then would one of my cares be
removed; as you would, like us, perhaps turn a longing eye
towards America as a place of refuge; and one of the strongest
ties that binds me to Norwich would be converted into an
attraction to lure me to the new world. On this, at least, I
hope we are at all events resolved; to emigrate, if the event of
the trial be fatal; that is, provided the Morgans do not give up
their present resolution, and that we can carry a little society
along with us, in which we can be happy, should Philadelphia
disappoint our expectations. I write to you on this subject in
confidence; as we do not wish our intention to be much known at
present. How changed I am! How I sicken at the recollection of
past follies and past connexions, and wish from the bottom of my
soul, that I had never associated but with you and others like
you. But it is folly to dwell on the past; it only incapacitates
one for enjoying the present; it shall now be my care to anchor
on the future, and I trust in God that it will not disappoint
me.
You see I am not in high spirits; but then I am the more
natural; and my flighty hours are long gone by, and my time for
serious exertion is, I hope, arrived; but why should I write
thus? I shall perhaps infect you with this _seeming_ gloom; for,
after all, if I carefully examine my heart, it will tell me,
that I am happy. My usual spirits have been lowered this
morning, by hearing Mr. Boddington and Mr. Morgan mark the
printed list of the jury. Every one almost is marked by them as
unfit to be trusted; for almost every man is a rascal, and a
contractor, and in the pay of government some way or another.
What hope is there then for these objects of ministerial
rancour? Mr. B. objects even to his own uncle, whom he thinks
_honest_, because he is so prejudiced an aristocrat, that he
looks upon rigour, in such cases, to be justice only. What a
pass are things come to, when even dissenters lick the hand that
oppresses them! Hang these politics! how they haunt me. Would it
not be better, think you, to hang the _framers_ of them?
What is a woman made of, think you, that can _sue_ a man for
inconstancy? Truly of very coarse materials; yet I really
believe Miss Mann’s trial would have attracted me more than that
for sedition. It would have given me so many new ideas. * * * *
I wish my father could have remained with us, but he was very
good to stay so long as he did; and I have the satisfaction of
knowing he was happy while he did stay. He will tell you enough
about Mrs. Inchbald, for he is quite smitten with her. Nay, I
rather suspect he paid her a farewell visit. Pray tell him to
write to me soon.
What a pity it is that The Cabinet is dangerous. I should have
enjoyed it else so much. I admire what is already written. We
are going to-night, as usual, to W. Morgan’s, where I shall sing
as usual, your husband’s song. How I wish he was here to sing it
instead of me. Farewell. Pray write to me soon.
A. A.
Although, as we have said, the letters describing what she saw at the
Old Bailey were destroyed, she has fortunately preserved an anecdote of
much interest relative to them, which was recalled to her recollection
many years subsequently, on occasion of a visit she paid to Madame de
Staël; she says:—
With this woman of excelling genius and winning manners, I had
the pleasure of being acquainted in the year 1813; when, with
her daughter, then of the age of sixteen, who afterwards became
Duchess de Broglie, and Mr. Rocca, to whom she was then
privately married, she was residing for some months in London,
when exiled by Napoleon from France. One morning I went to call
on her by appointment, accompanied by a friend of mine whom she
wished to see, on some particular business. Scarcely had that
business been concluded, when the servant announced Lord
Erskine, who came in with books in his hands, and when he saw me
he cried, “I am glad to see you here, for I want you to read
something for me.” He then gracefully bowed to Madame de Staël
and presented the two books to her, containing, he said, his
most celebrated speeches; and opening the first volume he turned
to the first page, on which he had written a dedication to la
Baronne de Staël in English, which he begged me to read to her.
“No, no, not so,” she exclaimed eagerly, taking the book from
me, “I can read it myself.” Accordingly she began; while I,
myself an author, soon felt painful sympathy with poor Lord E.’s
feelings; for the writing was, I dare say, difficult for her, a
foreigner, to read; and the poor writer’s smooth and elegant
periods were, in a great measure, deprived of their charm, by
their meaning being sometimes stammered out, and, possibly, not
entirely understood. However, the lady was flattered with what
she did understand, and Lord E. soon recovered the steadiness of
his nerves: and taking up the second volume, which contained his
speeches at the Old Bailey trials in the year 1794, he read some
favourite passages to her, and finished by alluding to the
evident dislike which the Lord Chief Baron Eyre, who presided at
them, entertained for him, and how strongly he proved it during
the trial of Horne Tooke, who was the second person tried for
his life, and was (like the first person, Thomas Hardy) entirely
acquitted. He then related what had passed between himself and
the Chief Justice, after the trial was over and the crowd
dispersed, and which I, who was present, well remembered having,
by accident, overheard. Liking to be near the eloquent man and
to hear him speak, I had contrived to get so near as to overhear
what passed, and which I thought was too loud, not to be
intended to be heard. The judge had, I saw, to repeat what he
said; but at length he was answered in a manner which he little
expected; for the indignant speaker replied, “My lord, I am
willing to give your lordship such an answer as an aggrieved man
of honour like myself is willing to give to the man who has
repeatedly insulted him, and I am willing and ready to meet your
lordship, at any time and place that you may choose to appoint.”
At this point of his story our hostess cried, “What! my lord,
that was a challenge, _n’est ce pas_?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Well, what
did he say?” “Oh! nothing to the purpose; but I assure you I was
irritated into saying what I did.” “Yes, indeed,—I was behind
you, Lord E. (said I,) and heard all that passed; and though
such things were quite new to me, I felt sure what was said by
you amounted to a challenge; but when I told the friends with
whom I went home what had passed, they said I was a silly girl
and that I was mistaken.” He looked at me with some surprise,
and, I fear, with a doubt of my veracity; but I could affirm to
the truth of my assertion. I do not wonder, however, as he did
not then know me personally, and was not conscious of my
proximity, or that of any one else perhaps, that he was inclined
to distrust my truthfulness; but it was a fact, that the
circumstance and the words he related, were, I believe,
witnessed and overheard by me alone; and a curious fact or
coincidence it was, that this conversation, overheard by me in
the year 1794, I should be present to hear related to the
Baronne de Staël by Lord E. himself in the year 1813. The
circumstance and the words he has published at the end of the
trial of Horne Tooke; and I could, with a safe conscience,
_underwrite_ all that he there relates. I fear that he really
believed I was romancing, or he would have named this odd
corroboration of his conduct, which no doubt he thought the
noble daring of a man of worldly honour.
Among Mrs. Opie’s loose papers was one written within a short time of
her death, containing some introductory remarks to a reminiscence she
purposed to write of this eventful period. It begins—
“‘Tis pleasant from the loophole of retreat
To look on such a world,”
wrote Cowper: but these words do not exactly express my present
feelings; for from my loophole of retreat I am looking with
pleasure, _not_ on the world as it is, but on the world as it
was.
The occurrences of the year 1794 have lately been pressing with
such power on my remembrance, demanding from me a decided
confession that it was the most interesting period of my long
life, (or nearly such,) that I am inclined to give an account of
what made it so, and acknowledge that it was the opportunity
unexpectedly afforded me of attending the trials of Hardy, Horne
Tooke, and Thelwall, at the Old Bailey, for High Treason. What a
prospect of entertainment was opening before me when (while on a
visit at Southgate, near London) I heard that at these
approaching trials, to which I hoped to obtain admission, I
should not only hear the first pleaders at the bar, but behold,
and probably hear examined, the first magnates of the land; and
on the event depended, not a _nisi prius_ cause, or one of petty
larceny, but interests of a public nature, and most nearly
affecting the safety and prosperity of the nation; aye, and much
personally interesting to myself; as I knew, in the secret of my
heart, that my own prospects for life might probably be changed
and darkened by the result. To such a height had party-spirit
reached on both sides, in my native city and elsewhere, that
even innocent men were accused of treasonable intentions and
practices, who _talked_, when excited by contradiction, the
fearful things they would never have thought of acting; and I
had reason to believe that if the “felons” about to be tried
should not be “acquitted felons,” certain friends of mine would
have emigrated to America, and my beloved father would have been
induced to accompany them!
This was, indeed, an alarming idea to me, who was only beginning
to taste the pleasures of London society, and who could still
say, in spite of the excitement of party feeling, and my unity
of opinion with the liberals of that day, “England! with all thy
faults I love thee still;” and when, on the 28th of the 10th
mo., the trial of Thomas Hardy began at the Sessions-house in
the Old Bailey, existence acquired, in my eyes, a new but
painful interest; and, with the pleasing anticipations of the
unexpected enjoyment awaiting me, were mingled some apparently
well-founded fears of evil to come. How vividly do I often now,
in my lone and lonely portion, live over the excitements of
those far distant days, in the many, many evening hours, which I
pass not unwillingly alone.
“Alone! if ’tis to be alone, when mem’ry’s spells are cast
To summon phantoms from the dead, and voices from the past,
Long woven in the tangled web of the mysterious brain,
Till time and space are things of naught, and all is ours
again.”[5]
Yes! how often (as I said) do I recall with all these alternate
emotions of pain and pleasure, of disappointment and fruition,
the last days of October, and the first five days of November,
1794! * * *
Here the manuscript breaks off.
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[5] From a charming Poem called the Desert Dream, written by Anna
Savage, and published in the Monthly Magazine for April, 1847.—A. O.