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.
| [5] | From a charming Poem called the Desert Dream, written by Anna Savage, and published in the Monthly Magazine for April, 1847.—A. O. |