Charlotte Temple

“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 noble, just, humane, and kind,
And virtue warm’d her heart.

But, ah! the cruel spoiler came—”1

The Author’s 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.

Volume I

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 honoring 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 color, 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 endeavoring to form some plan for seeing her, he determined to set off for Chichester, and trust to chance either to favor 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 Arguses 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 endeavor 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 was now 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 endeavor to bring her young charge into the field again the next evening.

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, 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 of the unfortunate, his advice and bounty were 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 can not 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 inquiries, followed him in silence, till they arrived at the Fleet Prison.2

The officer inquired 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 riveted him to the spot with astonishment.

The apartment, though small and bearing strong marks of poverty, was neat in the extreme. In an armchair, 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 discolored 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 can not 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 dishonor.”

“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. Cheerily, my friend, cheerily; 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; tomorrow, at your usual hour, I will expect you.”

Miss Eldridge impressed on his cheek the kiss of filial affection, and obeyed.