The Works of Charlotte Smith, Part III vol 13

Stuart Curran

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781138763913
• eBook ISBN: 9781000749359
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literary Criticism
• Index: Literature

Includes the works of Charlotte Smith, revealing a writer who wrote well in many genres, and, in whatever form she undertook, was innovative with the forms she inherited and strongly influential on those who followed her.

CONVERSATIONS INTRODUCING POETRY: CHIEFLY ON SUBJECTS OF NATURAL HISTORY.

FOR THE USE OF CHILDREN AND YOUNG PERSONS.

VOLUME I.

BY CHARLOTTE SMITH.

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD

1804.

PREFACE.

THE Poetry in these books was written without any intention of publishing it. I wished to find some short and simple pieces on subjects of natural history, for the use of a child of five years old,¹ who on her arrival in England could speak no English, and whose notice was particularly attracted by flowers and insects. Among the collections avowedly made for the use of children, I met with very few verses that answered my purpose, and therefore I wrote two or three of the most puerile of the pieces that appear in these volumes. Some friends were pleased with them, as well as with the slight alterations I made in others already in their possession; and a near relation sent me several which she had composed on purpose, and one or two which had long lain in her port folio.² Thus encouraged, my collection insensibly increased. I grew fond of the work; and when it contained, as I imagined, enough to answer my original intention, I sent it up to be printed; but I found that there was not manuscript enough to make even a very small volume. I therefore undertook to enlarge the book by Conversations, but I suffered some borrowed and altered pieces to remain, which I should have taken out, had I known that I need not have retained them for want of a sufficient number of original compositions. Of this, however, I was not aware, till the First Volume was arranged, and the prose written; and as my trespass on others has not been great, I trust it will be forgiven me. There are seven pieces not my own, some of them a little altered, to answer my first purpose of teaching a child to repeat them; and five of my own reprinted. Of the remainder, though the Relation to whom I am obliged objected to my distinguishing them by any acknowledgement, it is necessary to say, that where my interlocutors praise any Poem, the whole or the greater part of it is hers.

It will very probably be observed, that the pieces towards the end of the Second Volume are too long for mere children to learn to repeat, and too difficult for them to understand. It is, however, impossible to write any thing for a particular age; some children comprehend more at eight years old, than others do at twelve; but to those who have any knowledge of Geography or Mythology, or who have a taste for Botany, the two last pieces will not be found difficult. I confess, that in the progress of my work I became so partial to it, as to wish it might, at least the latter part, be found not unworthy the perusal of those, who are no longer children.

I have endeavoured, as much as possible, to vary the measure, having observed, that a monotonous and drawling tone is acquired, by reciting continually from memory verses, selected without attention to variety of cadence. To each of these little pieces, I have affixed some moral, or some reflection; and where I supposed the subject or the treatment of it might be obscure, I have preceded or followed the Poetry, with a slight explanation in prose: but many notes were, notwithstanding, unavoidable.

Whoever has undertaken to instruct children, has probably been made sensible, in some way or other, of their own limited knowledge. In writing these pages of prose, simple as they are, I have in more than one instance been mortified to discover, that my own information was very defective, and that it was necessary to go continually to books. After all, I fear I have made some mistakes, particularly in regard to the nature of Zoophytes; but the accounts of this branch of natural history in the few books I have, are so confused and incompleat, that I could not rectify the errors I suspected.

I found it difficult to make my personages speak so as entirely to satisfy myself. I shall perhaps hear that my children, in this book, do not talk like children; but the mere prattle of childhood would be less in its place here, than language nearer to that of books, which however will probably be criticised as affected and unnatural. There is a sort of fall-lall³ way of writing very usual in works of this kind, which I have been solicitous to avoid, and perhaps have erred in some other way. Being at a considerable distance from the press, errors have crept in, which under such a disadvantage are almost unavoidable.

CHARLOTTE SMITH.

July 28, 1804.

CONVERSATION THE FIRST.

POEMS.

TO A GREEN-CHAFER, ON A WHITE ROSE.

TO A LADY-BIRD.

THE SNAIL.

A WALK BY THE WATER.

INVITATION TO THE BEE.

CONVERSATION THE FIRST.

GEORGE – EMILY.

IN A LITTLE GARDEN CALLED THEIR OWN.

GEORGE. Look, Emily, look at this beautiful shining insect, which has almost hid itself in this white rose, on your favourite tree. – It is shaped very like those brownish chafers, which you desired me to take away from the gardener’s children yesterday, because you thought they were going to torment and hurt them; but this is not so big, and is much prettier. – See what little tassels it has on its horns; the wings shine like some part of the peacock’s feathers.

EMILY. It is very pretty – but indeed, George, I am afraid it will fly away if you disturb it. I should like to keep it in a box, but only you know, Mamma says, it is cruel to deprive even an insect like this of its liberty – perhaps it would not eat if it was to be confined.

GEORGE. I wish Mamma could see it, she would tell us the name of it; and whether, without hurting it, you might keep it in a little paper box, which you know I could make for you of some strong paper, with pin holes to give it air. I could carry it gently on the rose which it has crept into so snugly; only I do not like to gather the finest flower on our tree, for the rest of them are not yet blown so much out.

EMILY. But suppose, brother, I stay and watch it, for fear of its flying away, while you go and desire Mamma, if she is not too busy, to come and look at it.

MRS. TALBOT. Where is this treasure that you have found? O, this is the green-chafer.* There are two sorts, I believe, of them, one is more of the colour of copper, and the other more crimson; this is the latter. They are the most beautiful of that species of insects, at least of those that inhabit this country; for in warm climates, where the colours of insects are much brighter, there are creatures of the beetle sort, of which the shards, or upper wings, and bodies, appear to be studded with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.

* Green Chafer, Scarabeus nobilis.

EMILY. Mamma, may we take this chafer and keep it? George says he
could make a box with holes for air, and we could feed it with rose leaves!
Would it be wrong?
MRS. TALBOT. No – but I do not think you would find so much satisfaction
in it, as in letting your chafer enjoy his liberty, and wander from
flower to flower, for they feed on several sorts. You might have found them
on those beautiful guelder roses,* which you know were in bloom about
a fortnight since in the shrubbery, but the trees were too high for you to
see them creeping among the round white bunches of blossoms, which the
servants, and country people, aptly enough, call snow-balls. But there is an
admirable description of these flowers in the poem of the Task, you know,
which I read to you the other day. – The Poet calls it a rose from the usual
name, and describes it –
– ‘Throwing up, into the darkest gloom
Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew,
Her silver globes; light as the foamy surf
That the wind severs from the broken wave.’⁴
GEORGE. But, Mamma, may Emily keep the chafer?
MRS. TALBOT. I had rather she would not; first, because it is cruel to the
insect; and also because, pretty as it is, this sort of chafer has an offensive
smell when touched; and you will-find, Emily, your prisoner a disagreeable
inmate. Instead, therefore, of contriving the captivity of the chafer, let us
address a little poem to it.
EMILY. A poem to a chafer, Mamma? – Why the chafer cannot be supposed
to understand it.
MRS. TALBOT. Certainly not; prose, or poetry, we know to be equally
unintelligible to an insect, as to a bird, a tree, or a flower, or any other animate,
or inanimate being, that does not possess speech or reason. But you
remember your brother Edward recited an address, in that style of verse
called a sonnet, to a nightingale, which was composed by Milton, the first of
English poets. – And the nightingale, though called the ‘poet of the woods,’⁵
is not more qualified to understand these addresses than this shining insect.
Go, then, bring me a pencil and a drawing card. We will sit down on this
bank, under the laburnum, and you shall write while I dictate. Emily, by this
hour to-morrow, will learn to repeat our little address. –

* Guelder Rose, Viburnum opulus – a cultivated variety of the indigenous species.

TO A GREEN-CHAFER, ON A WHITE ROSE.

You dwell within a lovely bower,
Little chafer, gold and green,
Nestling in the fairest flower,
The rose of snow, the garden’s queen.

There yon drink the chrystal dew,
And your shards as emeralds bright
And corselet, of the ruby’s hue,
Hide among the petals white.

Your fringed feet may rest them there,
And there your filmy wings may close,
But do...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Series Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• Introduction
• References and Further Reading
• What Is She?
• Conversations Introducing Poetry
• A Natural History of Birds
• Explanatory Notes
• Textual notes