# The Banished Man/Volume 1/Chapter 13

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy. This wide and universal Theatre Presents more woful pagents than the scene Wherein we play.
THE evening of the following day D'Alonville and his companions arrived at Dresden. The Abbé de St. Remi had some acquaintance there, to whom he immediately went; and who, as soon as they knew he had two friends with him, sent to desire they might see them also, as they were people of very high rank.—De Touranges with some difficulty was prevailed upon to accept the offered hospitality; but D'Alonville, who wished to see the town, of which he had heard much, excused himself, as being confined to the hours of a private family, would have interfered too much with his design of visiting whatever was curious or worth seeing. The Abbe left him with reluctance, to wander alone round Dresden for the little time he stayed; but his solitary excursions were hardly begun on the morning after his arrival, when in one of the squares he met his English acquaintance, Mr. Ellesmere, who seemed glad to renew their acquaintance. This meeting produced another; and every time they met the mutual liking they had conceived for each other encreased; and after the third, such a degree of confidence was produced, that D'Alonville gave to his new friend a brief sketch of his melancholy history.
Ellesmere had almost all those good qualities of the heart which the English are too apt to believe exclusively their own, because they undoubtedly possess a greater share of them than any other people; so far at least can be judged either from their private or public history. Ellesmere was candid, generous, humane, and good-natured; with notions of honor which more men of the world would call romantic, and ideas of friendship which such men would condemn as ridiculous. His father, a Baronet of an ancient family but a small fortune, had wasted much of his life and more of his property in attending on a court, where, for a few years the sacrifice of his time and his independence was rewarded with an employment, which, though lucrative, was not more than adequate to the different manner of living which it obliged him to adopt. On a change of ministry he lost his place, and retired to his family seat in Straffordshire, leaving his eldest son to sustain the family consequence, by becoming in his turn a statesman, to which his ambition urged him, as well as the necessities of his family, for he had married a young woman of very high fashion, without fortune, and had already several children; but as unfortunately the lady's connections were all among what is called the opposition, he had espoused a party in which no present advantage was offered; and as virtue is too often its own reward, the elder Mr. Ellesmere derived from his politics no profit, and only partial glory, since what was by his own friends called patriotism, was, by the other and more powerful party, stigmatized with the name of faction.—This circumstance affected his father, Sir Maynard Ellesmere, very sensibly; for though the family of Lady Sophia, his son's wife, assisted in the support of a man so nearly allied to them, and who was in some measure the victim of that alliance, yet their power was by no means so extensive as to enable him to appear as his connections and prospects demanded; without such assistance from his father as compelled him to live himself with the most rigid economy, and to confine within very narrow bounds the expenses of the younger branches of his family, which consisted of five other children, two sons and three daughters. Of these, D'Alonville's new acquaintance was the eldest. He had been designed by his father for the law, had passed three years at the university to apply to that study, and afterwards went to the Temple; but on a nearer view he became disgusted with the rugged features and incomprehensible manners of English jurisprudence; and Sir Maynard, who could very ill afford the expence of supporting him, till the period when his pursuit of the law would become productive, yielded to his son's wishes of quitting it entirely, and embracing the profession of arms. But as Sir Maynard saw no immediate prospect of getting his forward in this line, he had consented to his travelling to acquire the European languages, so necessary to a military man. With a very limited allowance, he had been eleven months on the Continent; and now, on the probability of a war, was returning to England.
Yet unhackneyed in the ways of men, and unspoiled by prosperity, the sensible heart of young Ellesmere was extremely affected by the relation D'Alonville gave him, and he soon felt the most earnest desire to alleviate the sorrows of his new friend. Little was in his power beyond advice and good wishes; but those, so sincerely offered to a man, who was far from all those, from whom he could claim the soothing offices of friendship, were invaluable. D'Alonville felt that they were so; and once more his heart, chilled and depressed by his late disappointment, was expanded and cheered with the hope of having found a friend. Melton, who professed to travel, because he knew not what to do with himself at home, till he could give more unbounded scope to his turn for some sort of expence, had not the least inclination to seek in any capital town, other society than Englishmen of the same description afforded him. There were several at Dresden, with whom he associated, and among them one with whom he had formerly been much acquainted, and who was going post to England. An immediate return to his native country was by this time become, in the opinion of Melton, a desirable circumstance, and he entered into an agreement to join this his acquaintance, and to leave Dresden three days sooner than he had originally proposed with Ellesmere; to whom he began a blunt apology, and was giving the reasons he had to change his mind. Ellesmere, who, rather felt himself released than offended, besought him to set his heart at ease in regard to him; and adjusting their account of expences, they took leave of each other with all imaginable good humour, but without the least degree of friendship.—Ellesmere reflecting with wonder on the little activity of Melton's mind; which with every power that fortune and situation gave to acquire information, sunk into puiescent ignorance, Melton not reflecting at all. The jolly party he soon after joined, kept him from any unpleasant feelings he might have had respecting his want of politeness, and great rudeness towards Ellesmere—He passed a jovial evening, and, without going to bed, sat out on his journey by the break of the day.
Thus left to find his way to Berlin alone, or in any company he liked, Ellesmere sought his French friend, with an intention of offering himself to join his party. He was directed at the hotel, where he had before enquired for him to another, where, on sending for him, D'Alonville came down, and telling Ellesmere he was with some of his countrymen, who would be very happy if he would favor them with his company, he introduced him to the Marquis de Touranges, the Abbé de St. Remi, and two old French noblemen, who received him with that politeness for which men of their rank were so justly distinguished. The Abbé de St. Remi too, who though a priest had no illiberal prejudices, was pleased with the appearance of the young Englishman; De Touranges alone maintained a cold reserve—and while the others were engaged in conversation, seemed to suffer his mind to be entirely engrossed by thoughts of sad import, which conversation had no power to soothe.
When the party broke up, D'Alonville proposed to Ellesmere to go with him to his lodgings; where, when they arrived, he related to his English friend the purport of some dispatches which the gentlemen he had just left, had received from France; they were extremely unfavorable to their hopes, and D'Alonville sighed as he concluded the detail. "These accounts," said Ellesmere, "are indeed discouraging, yet with how much philosophy or resignation do your friends whom we have been with endure this accumulation of evil tidings—I mean the Abbe and the two oldest gentlemen—the younger does not, I think, seem to have learned so well the difficult art of appearing cheerful when anguish is corroding the soul—If I were to indulge myself in remarks on national character, I should say, that he is affected more like an Englishman than a Frenchman."
"If you knew what he suffers as an individual," said D'Alonville, "the want of fortitude, which you justly remark, would appear more excusable, yet perhaps the Marquis de Touranges has more than his share of pride. Allied to the first houses in France, and boasting of blood, second only to that of royalty, it is more difficult for him than for most others (and we have none of us found it very easy), to submit to the innovations that the revolution has made. At its commencement de Touranges was among those who resisted, with the most resolution, the concessions demanded of the nobility; when they became inevitable, he still remained near the king, to whom he was personally attached; but as he could neither approve of the continual diminution of power which he had been taught to consider as sacred, nor conceal his detestation of the democratic faction that was making such rapid strides towards the total destruction of monarchy, he soon became so obnoxious to these men that his stay was injurious to his master, and dangerous to himself; and after the 20th of June this was so evident, that he was at length prevailed upon to retire. All this is but the same destiny we have almost all of us experienced, varied only by local or domestic events; and in these respects de Touranges has particularly suffered."
D'Alonville then went on to relate what had befallen Madame de Touranges, the mother of the Marquis, and the distressing circumstance of his being unable to learn what was become of her, or of his wife and her infant. The sensible heart of Ellesmere was touched by this narrative; he not only blamed himself for having so hastily conceived some dislike to the Marques, on account of what he mistook for the reserve of haughty superiority, but felt a most earnest, though ineffectual wish to soothe the suffering of these unhappy strangers. The idea he had at first conceived of de Touranges, had deterred him from proposing to join their party; but as the cause of his apparent reserve was now explained, his inclination to do so was renewed, and he mentioned it to D'Alonville, who expressed the utmost satisfaction in the prospect of having the advantage of his company. He hastened immediately to settle their journey with two friends. The Abbé was pleased with the acquisition thus made of another travelling companion: de Touranges neither approved or opposed it; D'Alonville therefore, to whom it was left to arrange their conveyance, settled it, by hiring a sort of coach that held four persons, with conveniences without for their servants and baggage; and in this they set out on their way to Berlin, somewhat less than an hundred miles from Dresden.
Nothing worth noticing occurring on their first day's journey—Ellesmere became continually more prejudiced in favor of his young friend; and for the Abbé de St. Remi, he learned to feel veneration and esteem, without, however, being influenced by the conversation of either, or by the pity he felt for their ruined fortunes, to alter his original opinions, as to the errors of the former government of their country, or the propriety of those reforms, which, had they been carried on by reason and justice, would have rendered France, under a limited monarchy, the most flourishing and happy nation of Europe. His thorough conviction of what it might have been, only encreased the concern and disgust he felt in reflecting on what it was; but if ever any conversation on this subject arose, he concealed the former of these sentiments from his unhappy friends when they were altogether, and particularly from de Touranges, who, on their first day's journey he had observed to be so much irritated and inflamed by discourse of such a tendency held at a table d'hote, by a German who dined in their company, that a quarrel of the most alarming nature would have ensued, but for the interposition of the Abbe de St. Remi and an old Prussian officer—Ellesmere fancied that de Touranges looked upon him as a man who from the government under which he had been brought up, could not but be favorably disposed towards democracy; and he felt too much concern for the sad reverse of fortune under which De Touranges was suffering, not to make every possible allowance for him, and forbore to press any argument that might render more irritable a wounded mind.
On the second day the weather was so unfavorable that their progress was slow; and towards evening a storm of wind, with snow and rain, made it so disagreeable, and indeed dangerous (for it was quite dark before they were within three leagues of the post-house where they proposed stopping,) that they consented rather to remain at a little alehouse where they had taken shelter, than expose themselves to the danger of being overturned, in the obscurity of such a night, in a wild and mountainous country. There were in this place no beds for them; but the Abbe remarked with a smile that it was part of the vow he had taken to sleep on boards—de Touranges cared not where he laid his head, and D'Alonville had not been of late too much used to hard fare of every kind, not to be indifferent about a transient inconvenience. Ellesmere very justly concluded that he should not be more incommoded than his friends; and they retired in their clothes to some bundles of straw which their servants had carried up into a place which might rather be called a granary than a room; it just afforded, however, a shelter from the wind and water, and the travellers preferred it to the only room below where they could have stayed, because that room was crowded with people, among whom were some strange figures, whose occupation seemed at least equivocal; and as they were wrangling and noisy, and seemed to agree in nothing but in smoaking, that room was on many accounts less eligible than the loft they had chosen.
Towards morning D'Alonville, who was impatient to get forward on his journey—arose from his straw, and found his way down a kind of ladder. He went out, and, though it was a dark and dismal morning, he roused the men who slept in the stable, entreating them to get ready as soon as they could, for he apprehended a fall of snow from the change of the wind, and was afraid that the longer they stayed the more difficult they might find it to depart. Having given these orders, he returned with a design to hasten his friends; but as the ladder-like stairs, that led to the place where he left them, received very little light, and towards the top branched off in two directions, he hesitated a moment to recollect which he ought to take—then imagining he had guessed right, he proceeded to mount four or five steep steps, and opening a door, or rather a few old planks nailed together to supply the want of one, he was struck by the sight of a woman kneeling by the side of a wretched bed, where lay a human figure, on which her eyes were fixed with a look of hopeless despair. Through the disorder of a white wrapping dress, and her hair that hung loosely over her face and shoulders, D'Alonville distinguished that she was very young and not of the common rank—almost without reflection he stepped towards her; she turned towards him a countenance pale and emaciated, but still lovely, and looking surprised to behold a stranger, spoke to him in a very soft and affecting voice, but in a language of which he did not understand a syllable. The expressive tones of distress, however, needed not words to make vibrate an heart which, like D'Alonville's, had been accustomed to suffer. He hastily approached the bed, and distinguished the person who lay on it to be a man between fifty and sixty, who appeared to be extremely ill. He addressed to the young woman an enquiry in French, whether he could be of any use, or in what he could serve her. She seems to understand that he wished to assist and relieve her, and burst into tears.
The sick man, whose half closed eyes had been fixed on her face, was roused by this expression of sorrow; she spoke to him in her own language, and he turned his faint looks towards D'Alonville, who, now seeing that he noticed him, again repeated in French his offers of service. The stranger understood him, and answered in the same language, imperfectly indeed, yet so as to be comprehended, that he was a native of Poland that having taken an active part in the late attempt of that country to regain its freedom, he had been marked for the vengeance of the powers who had now the ascendancy; and would have been imprisoned for life, if he had not, with his daughter made a precipitate escape with what little property they could save, of the greater part of which he had been robbed by a servant; and that they were now travelling towards Vienna, where they had relations; but that fatigue and anxiety having thrown him into a fever, he had lain above three weeks in this miserable house. His fever, he said, was gone, but he had lost, through weakness, the use of his limbs, and feared he should never be able to quit that place which, for himself he should not lament; but that his daughter's desolate condition
He could not go on, but D'Alonville perfectly understood what he would say. Here then was a being more miserable than even his friends and himself an exile too like them—the victim of a contention, like that which desolated their country; but who had taken a different art in it. He was not less an object of compassion to the generous mind of D'Alonville; who feeling the same sentiment that actuated the gallant Sidney, as he gazed on the unhappy object before him, would have said,
"Thy necessity is greater than mine."
He immediately began to assure the Polish gentleman, that whatever he could do to amend his situation should instantly be done. The voice of pity, so soothing to the sick heart, seemed to have an almost immediate effect on the unfortunate Polonese. He tried however in vain to express his gratitude, and his daughter could only weep—D'Alonville was afraid of abruptly offering money; nor did ne indeed well know in what way to administer the assistance these two unfortunate wanderers seemed so greatly in need of; but telling them he would wait upon them again in a few moments, he went to find his friend Ellesmere, whom he met upon the stairs somewhat disquieted at his absence, having been for some time vainly in search of him.
When they descended the ladder, which was not a very convenient place for such a conference, D'Alonville related in a few words the extraordinary adventure he had met with.—A lovely girl weeping over her expiring parent, in a miserable German cabaret; that parent the victim of his principles!—It was a story exactly calculated to acquire a sudden interest over the romantic mind of Ellesmere, on whom beauty in distress had always a most powerful effect; and who, though he detested the present Anarchists of France, and was impatient to draw his sword against them, had an heart attached to the true English principles, an heart detesting tyranny and injustice under whatever semblance they appeared, and ready to side with every man who dared honestly resist them. He took fire at the sketch D'Alonville gave of the melancholy scene he had been witness to; and taking it for granted the people of the house had been cruel to their unhappy guests as soon as their money had failed, he went back into the kitchen to enquire about them.
The woman of the house answered him coolly enough that the man and the girl, as she called them, had had what they wanted; but for her part she had a large family of her own to look after. They were taxed high, and were devoured by soldiers; and she could not be burthened with strangers. She was sorry for the gentleman, if he was a gentleman; but she thought folks who had no money, or but little, should stay at home in their own country, and not run about to be burthensome to other people."
D'Alonville did not understand this harangue, which was delivered in German, so well as Ellesmere, who was more master of that language. He did not, however, warm as he was in his zeal for the suffering party, exclaim against the inhumanity of his German hostess, and conclude that therefore all German hostesses were inhuman; but he reflected on a much more evident truth—how nearly the people of all countries are alike. Such he knew would probably have been the language of an alewife between London and Harwich, and of la Cabaratiere, at any little auberge between Calais and Paris. His solicitude however for the Polonese gentleman was encreased, and he entreated D'Alonville to introduce him when he returned to his chamber, that they might together discover what could be done for him. Time pressed—for the Marquis de Touranges and the Abbe were by this time earnest to depart. The former heard the story with so little sensibility that Ellesmere could only apologize for him, by supposing true what has often been asserted, that uninterrupted prosperity and great insensible to the distresses of others. Had he known more of De Touranges, he would have discovered that he was not naturally unfeeling, but that the word liberty, a word to which he imputed all the evils under which his country groaned, had a power over him like that of the fabled shield of Minerva, and turned his heart to stone. The Abbe de St. Remi had more Christian charity; he offered not only to lend the the sick man any spiritual advice which might console him, but to contribute what little was in his power to his personal necessities; and to exert the skill he had acquired in medicine towards his recovery. Ellesmere heretically thought these two last-mentioned offers the most to the purpose; but he agreed with D'Alonville that they would accept only the last; and in this no time was to be lost. D'Alonville therefore immediately returned, and proposed to the Polonese, a visit from the Abbe.—It was gratefully accepted; and though it lasted but a few moments, was highly satisfactory; for the Abbe, on his return to the two young men, assured them, that the danger in which he believed his patient to have been, was over; and that though he was still extremely weak, his recovery was retarded, by what had occasioned his illness—mental anguish; and by that hopeless lassitude which a long course of suffering occasions, even to the firmest mind.—The dread of leaving his daughter desolate and unprotected in a strange country, had been so great, that he denied himself even the few comforts he could have obtained, because he desired to reserve the little money he had left to send her back to Warsaw, where he hoped the relations of her mother would receive her, when he himself, whose politics had estranged them from him, could offend them no more. But she had positively refused to leave him; and the contention between his anxiety for her, and her tenderness for him, had affected him so much, just at the moment when accident introduced D'Alonville into the room, that it gave him the appearance of being even in a more languid state than he really was.
This account redoubled the solicitude of the two young men, who now became extremely impatient to set at ease the anxious heart of a father for a daughter so deserving, by enabling him to secure her return to Warsaw. This however would probably require more time than De Touranges would be willing to spare; and when they recollected that at Berlin he had hopes of gaining some intelligence of his wife, his child, and his mother, they forgave impatience, which in any other case would have indicated want of humanity.
After a short consultation between Ellesmere, D'Alonville, and the Abbe, they agreed that the latter should go on with De Touranges to the next post town, about nine miles distant, whither they would follow in two or three hours; and that if in that time they did not come up with their friends, the Abbe and De Touranges might still proceed. D'Alonville and Ellesmere had no doubt of overtaking the carriage, by the superior speed of post-horses, on the following day; or at least before it reached Berlin.
CHAP.