The Works of Lady Caroline Lamb Vol 3

Leigh Wetherall Dickson, Paul Douglass

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781138764293
• eBook ISBN: 9781000749397
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Jewish Literary Criticism
• Index: Literature

Offers the works of Lady Caroline Lamb (1785-1828), the late Romantic-era novelist most famous for her affair with Lord Byron. Presenting Lamb's works in a scholarly format, this book situates her literary achievements within the context of her Whig allegiances, her sense of noblesse oblige and her promotion of aristocratic reform.

ADA REIS,

A TALE.

τοιαύτα μεν περι τουτων επαιξεν άμα σπουбάζων.

Xenophon. Memorabilia, lib. i. cap. iii. s. 7.¹

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET.

1823. /

LONDON:

PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS. /

TO LYDIA WHITE²

To you, who, without paying undue deference to what is termed the world, have succeeded in retaining around you, even when sickness has rendered you incapable of exertion, many who are distinguished by superiority of intellect and literary talents, to you I venture to dedicate these pages; not that I think them worth your acceptance, but that I wish to prove my grateful recollection of your kindness to me in the time of affliction, and also the admiration I feel for the courage and patience you have ever manifested / under all the irritating circumstances which necessarily attend a protracted illness. To cultivate your own understanding, to consult the feelings, and to promote the happiness of others, have ever been the principal objects of your life. The consequence is, that, even at this moment, when malady presses heavily upon you, when amusement would naturally be looked for in other circles, your society is eagerly sought by those anxious and affectionate friends, who find their pleasure in the enjoyment of your conversation, and in the contemplation of your fortitude and magnanimity. Though I scarcely venture to add my name to the list, I cannot refrain from expressing / the interest I feel for you, and my respect for the high qualities which you possess and exert. If a tale, but lightly written, amuse you even for a moment, I am satisfied; and when you have read it, you will know the meaning of what I add, – ‘may Zevahir be ever with you!’

Your grateful and affectionate friend,
The Author. /

INTRODUCTION.

Nil spernat auris, nec tamen credat statim.³

ACCORDING to the doctrine of Manes,⁴ there are two principles from which all things proceed, and by which all things are governed: the one is a pure and subtle essence, called Light; and the other is a corrupt substance, called Darkness. Each of these is subject to a superintending Being, whose existence has been from all eternity. The ruler of light is supremely happy, benevolent, and good; the Prince of / darkness is miserable himself, and desirous of rendering others miserable.

These two Beings are said to have produced an innumerable multitude of creatures. The offspring of Light are all beautiful and intelligent; whilst the children of Darkness are in every respect the reverse.

The following history was written probably with the intention of exemplifying the dangerous power of the evil agent, if his influence be once admitted: all violence of feeling, pride, vanity, love itself, if not kept within due subordination, lead to his abode. These two principles, and their emissaries, are permitted in this fable, as they are in the Legend of Faust,⁵ and in / many other works of fancy, to approach the children of the earth in human shape, and to endeavour, by every art, to draw them into their power. The precepts, both of the good and of the evil spirit, are originally planted in the human breast; and if the evil agent appear the more dexterous assailant, and to meet with the greater success, it is that the good principle is less suspicious than his opponent, and leaves his followers to the guardianship of Innocence in a probationary world of difficulty, allurement, and temptation. It is to be remarked, that in this fable the good spirit, in the beautiful and youthful form of a boy, hovers around his charge, and continues a favourite / until passion awakens in her breast; her violence then drives him from her, whilst the tempter, by encouraging her errors, endeavours to obtain her for his own.

The moral of the tale appears to be, that he, who remains amidst the busy scenes of life, himself without employment, is in constant danger of becoming the prey of wicked feelings and corrupt passions; for as use preserves iron from rust, so labour and exertion purify and invigorate the soul.

There is beauty in this fable – there is excellence in its moral: but he who attempts to relate it is unskilled even in the common rules of composition, and fears he shall not do his subject / justice. No friend ever requested me to write; no flatterer, no admirer seeks my door: I have been struck too, in the midst of my undertaking, by affliction; and neither my mind nor my frame are equal to the task proposed. The beast of prey, when weary and wounded, retires to his lair and effaces even the track which leads to his retreat; but he retires growling, and at enmity with every thing around him. I, too, have left the world, yet my heart is with those I have left. My fellow-creatures are the objects of my unceasing interest, sympathy, and affection. I write, then, in the hope of pleasing them. I write also for myself; it is society to / me; it is a link which yet binds me, for one moment at least, to those who are journeying on the same road with myself, and to the same end. To those who, like myself, in this busy scene, live and enjoy life as it passes by, taking its goods and ills, its ups and downs, as they occur, not indeed with indifference, but with resignation, remembering how soon it must end, catching at its brilliant appearances, or gazing upon its beautiful varieties, with the mournful, but endearing certainty, that it is for the last time, even as they pass, that they behold them. From my solitude I can contemplate the actions of others, and join in their passions, interests, / and afflictions, with a deeper, although a calmer, feeling than when mingling with the crowd.

For it is, when alone, that the heart can appreciate the pleasures of friendship; can feel how, by neglect or error, it has chilled and sent far from it all that made life delightful. It is when alone, that the beauties of nature – the loveliness of virtue – the goodness and beneficence of God burst upon the mind; and our own faults, in all their sad realities, appear before us. The only communication the wretch, who has exiled himself from the world, or is sent from it, holds with his fellow-creatures, is by books: with what delight he reads over the thoughts of others! how he admires the excellencies / of their works! how he forgives their blemishes, even if he perceives them! if he occasionally receive a guest, with what a warmth of heart he greets and hears him! for solitude, while it calms the mind, strengthens the feelings and the affections. Yet after all, it must still be continually felt, that it never was intended to be the condition of man – he is not generally fitted for it; it is only, therefore, when a human being finds himself unable to submit his mind to the guidance of reason, when the occurrences of life grieve and perplex, or please and attract him more than is meet, that it is wise to retire from society, and view from a distance those scenes in which he finds himself unfitted to engage. /

Should those, who are of a temperament thus painfully susceptible, remain amidst the ordinary commerce of the world, all around them will continually play upon and harass their feelings, without, perchance, intending it. The rude and the thoughtless may work upon the passions without comprehending their force or their extent: they may break the heart without malice or design. Let us then spare both others and ourselves; let us cease to run the hazard of continued suffering, nor obtrude our imperfections upon our fellow-creatures. It is time to wean ourselves from society, when we feel that we can no longer contribute any thing to its amusement; that, though we have not lost the feelings of benevolence, / we have lost that congeniality of disposition, which alone can render us agreeable to the world. Let us abstain from borrowing, when we know our circumstances to be such as disable us from repaying. When the experience of years has convinced us, that such is the settled habit of our mind, we have surely received, both from time and from reason, an admonition sufficient to induce us to withdraw –

Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age

Come tittering on and shove us from the stage;

Leave those to trifle with more grace and ease,

Whom folly pleases, and whose follies please.⁶

Ada Reis, the once-famous Corsair, the merchant, the traveller, the Don Juan of his day,⁷ wrote his life, and left it as a legacy to his successors. His / treasures he buried, his slaves he strangled, his wives he suffocated, but this MS. he left for the benefit of mankind; I have not translated the part which related to his amours, not the confession of his crimes, not the catalogue of his wise sayings, but the simple narrative of what occurred to himself and to his daughter, that those who read may place the awful record in their hearts and learn to worship God, and to be humble in themselves. – Yet need this lesson be taught by Ada Reis? – Is it not impressed upon every object? Is it not the sole certain discovery of all our travels, and the termination of all our undertakings. Like Humboldt^i,8 should we traverse the vast / Savannahs, or climb mid-way up the Andes, till our breath cease and our brain grow giddy; like Park^ii,9 should we perish in following the course of the Niger; or sail through rough seas, and mountains of ice, to pass the dark and dreary winter with the white bears and the Arctic wolves: still the greatness and goodness of the Creator is manifest in every thing. Man has no reason to be proud. Napoleon, having conquered the most powerful nations of the civilized world, was left to die a prisoner upon a barren rock;¹⁰ and Belzoni,¹¹ having with difficulty opened a temple, the wonder and pride of man, perchance the sepulchre of kings, found in it a loathsome toad, its sole / proprietor.¹² – Alas! man has little cause to be proud. If ambition impel him to exertion, let him note its end; if learning attract him, he may

‘Drudge, like Selden, days and nights,

And in the endless labour die.’¹³

If beauty – if love allure him, let him remember the founder of La Trappe; raise, like him, the funeral pall, see what youth and beauty will be in one little hour, and, like Armand de Rancey,¹⁴ divest himself of such illusions, turn to a monastery, and dote no more. But to return to my tale.

The sun had set, and the stars were seen reflected in the vapour of the vast desert, as if it had been in the bosom of a lake. Thousands of years had / caused that black dye with which the rocks and the beds of the waters of the Oronooko are deeply tingedⁱⁱⁱ: in this solitude, where the great river, with its frothy boiling waters, seemed to have burst through the thick uninhabited woods and huge masses of granite. Religion, in these latter days, had consecrated one single spot, where, with the trunks of palm-trees and bananas, far above the plain upon a jutting rock, a small chapel had been built, as it is said, by the Jesuits. The natives affirm, that a female, who was a child of the Sun, had come there in a pirogue^iv from the Rio Negro,¹⁵ and had remained there until the day of her death. Many years had not changed / the beauty and serenity of her countenance; many years of solitude and labour had but little impaired the vigour of her mind: severe austerities, bad food, and little sleep, had taken from the outward form some of its lustre and freshness, but the countenance, the smile, the vigorous mind still remained, – she had repented of errors – perhaps of crimes; like the golden serpent with the bell^v she had thrown offthe outward skin and the renewed one was fraught with beauty: – she had severed herself, it seemed, from every earthly tie; she had fixed her hopes in heaven; she might be said in that wide desert to exist alone in order to pray, repent, and succour the unfortunate. / Like a pitying saint, she descended from her solitude, when called upon by the voice of lamentation; and she, who was now invulnerable to the incitements of worldly vanity, passion, and interest, was more open than ever to those of humanity. She attended the death-bed of the friendless: from plants she extracted food and opiates, to soothe the pain and sickness of the poor Indians; she wept with the afflicted, and prayed by the couch of the dying sinner.

In this manner she passed her days, until she grew so old and infirm, that her senses and limbs began to fail her; she was afraid heaven had forgotten her, and that death would never release / her. There was a Greek air she much wished to hear again, for she had heard it in her youth; but her memory now was almost gone, her eyes were dim, and her voice was feeble. One evening the remembrance of that song returned^vi; it came to her, she said, in a dream, just as she had heard it heretofore; – she sung it, and her voice was sweet and full; that very evening she died. A Bible was in her cell, the calm of faith was still upon her countenance. She was buried by Jesuits at the foot of that lonely chapel where this MS. was found; it is part in the Arabic, part in the Spanish, and part in the Inca tongue. This history is undoubtedly that of the fair stranger, and of her / father; for the name of Ada Reis and Fiormonda¹⁶ are inscribed upon the stone of rough granite, which has been rolled down upon her grave, as an index of the spot in which by Christian hands she was interred. She died herself a Christian: – yet the manzanillo^vii grows upon her grave; no herb, no creeping thing, not even the wild beast can live within the circle of its poisonous influence: it rears its proud head higher than other trees, as if reaching to the skies, and its tempting fruit hangs upon its branches, alluring the passing traveller; but nature in the meanwhile seems to warn the most ignorant, by the loneliness of its vicinity, that to approach it is dangerous, and to eat of it is death. /

ADA REIS,

A TALE.

τοιαύτα μεν περι τουτων επαιξεν άμα σπουбάζων.

Xenophon. Memorabilia, lib. i. cap. iii. s. 7.¹

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET.

1823. /

LONDON:

PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS. /

CHAPTER I.

IT is not the city of Lima, as it now is, that Ada Reis describes; he speaks of the wonder of South America, the city of the kings, as Lima was called in the days of her glory; and not of her in her fallen state. He tells of times gone by, w...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• CONTENTS
• Introduction
• Note on the Text
• Ada Reis, A Tale
• Editorial Notes
• Silent Corrections