Written Near a Port on a Dark Evening by Charlotte Smith

Born in 1749, Charlotte Smith’s life was marked by the early death of her mother and the profligacy
of her father. Being terrible with money, when she was 15 he married her off – apparently against
her will – to a West Indies trader called Benjamin Smith. By her own account, hers was not a happy
marriage, partly because he too was profligate and wasted much of his family’s wealth: in 1783
Benjamin was sent to debtors gaol – and, as was customary at the time, she accompanied him there!
They would later flee to France to avoid a repeat sentence, where she was to leave him in 1787 and
return to England, supporting her 13 (!) children alone by writing. She published numerous volumes
of poetry and novels, some of which were inspired by her experiences of the revolution in France.
She was, however, most famous for her sonnets, of which Written Near a Port on a Dark Evening is a
great example. 
Given her dramatic biography (including the disappointments and betrayals she suffered by
her father and her husband leaving her to fend for her large family mostly by herself) it’s no surprise
that this poem describes the experience of being stranded on a strange beach in the dark,
surrounded by confusing sounds, with only shadowy and ephemeral lights to guide the way – lights
that could just as easily lure you into the sea as guide you home. In actual fact, this scenario was to
occur several times in her published poetry. These words are from her Elegaic Sonnets, written while
accompanying her husband in prison: 
Smith certainly had a thing about beaches, especially the danger of beaches at night, or
walking too far out near the sea; this fixation gave rise to what must be my all-time favourite title for
a sonnet ever penned: On Being Cautioned Against Walking on an Headland Overlooking the Sea
Because it was Frequented by a Lunatic. To Smith, beaches seem to represent the ‘shifting sands’ of
life, where one false step can lead to disaster. It’s easy to see how this could be a metaphor for her
life situation; always struggling to stay one step ahead of the debt collector, living day-to-day by the
skin of her teeth. In this poem the world seems illusory, as if the speaker cannot trust her own
senses (particularly the things she sees and hears). She needs guidance and leadership – but is
ultimately left to navigate life’s long darkling way by herself.
This poem’s title isn’t quite as mind-blowing as On Being Cautioned…but it’s still
evocative: Written Near a Port on a Dark Evening  could be the noir-ish title of a mystery thriller. The
first couple of lines take the cliched setting of ‘a dark and stormy night’ and run with it to create a
deeply mysterious and threatening atmosphere.  Firstly, she personifies the wet night with carefully
chosen descriptions: brood… dark and mute. ‘Brood’ especially has sinister connotations, as if the
dark storm clouds settling on the beach are fuming angrily over some unseen grievance. We don’t
know what it is – the night is mute and keeps its cards held closely to its chest. It ain’t giving no one
no help. The word clifted is a lovely economical description which complements the sense of
imminent danger; in just one word, images of sharp edges and imprisoning rock walls are
summoned. 
The dark and the ocean are the principal dangers here; trying to navigate the dark beach
might lead to disaster. So our speaker tries to orient herself using her sense of hearing instead. But
the night has other ideas. She is surrounded by repercussive roars. Imagine standing on a windswept
beach at night, not being able to see. You’re straining to hear, but the sound of the pounding waves
bounces off the cliffs and rocks all around you. The word ‘percussive’ means a strong steady beat, it
connotes the pounding of drums: add the prefix ‘re-‘ and you get the crash of waves echoing
incessantly, drowning out other sounds.
The repetition of ‘R’ alliteration in repercussive  roars and remote  rocks helps strengthen the
impression of a strong repetitive noise echoing back at you, while sibilance (repeated S sounds)
evokes the ceaseless noise of the sea as well. Read the whole first stanza out loud to get the full
effect – it’s pretty disorienting. By the time we’ve read to the end of the first four lines there’s a
pretty strong sense that the human world inhabited by the speaker and the natural world (the sea,
shore, rocks, foggy vapours and dark night) are in opposition.
 What’s this though? Recognizable sounds are audible through the tumult. Somewhere out in
the darkness there’s a ship (anchored bark) with seamen securing her against the waves and calling
out the time (singing the hour). These men, other members of the human world, represent the
promise of companionship, a friendly voice to guide our speaker safely through the night. The
problem is they are remote and distant, their voices only faintly  heard. To help us imagine all this
from the speaker’s perspective, Smith uses alliterative sound patterns to create a cacophony of
sounds, some of which (in particular the R and S sounds we’ve already seen) mix together to evoke
the roar of the sea, others of which cut through this background noise, just like the voices of the
distant seamen and the occasional struck bell. Guttural (C, CK, G) and plosive (P, B) sounds are
especially good for this, so Smith makes sure to scatter these strategically throughout the
octave: repercussive,  billows, rugged, rocks, anchored  bark, deep,  bidding, strike. 
The rhyme scheme (ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG) and line separation between the octave (first
eight lines) and sestet (final six lines) make this a Shakespearean sonnet. The break signals the volta,
otherwise known as the turn, which is a shift in the perspective of the speaker, a counterargument
or some other change in the direction of the poetry. (Shakespeare often ‘turned’ as late as the final
couplet, but in many sonnets the turn appears elsewhere, such as between the octave and sestet).
Sometimes the turn is marked by a connective (‘yet,’ ‘thus,’ ‘alas,’ ‘but’ and the like); Smith’s ninth
line contains the word but. After this you can see the change – literally – as the speaker finds a lucid
line along the beach. Lucid  means ‘clear’ and is the first moment in the poem where the speaker can
orient herself visibly. I don’t know if you’ve been on many beaches, but you can often see the tide
line marked by the light surf on the level sand: stones, seaweed, a foamy deposit and suchlike often
make the tideline visible. 
You may feel a certain calming while you read these lines, the hectic blend of shadows and
sounds from the octave resolving into something calmer and more patterned. Take a look at the
arrangement of L and S sounds in the lines below:
All is black shadow but the lucid line
Marked by the light surf on the level sand
Or where afar the ship-lights faintly shine
You can see alliteration doing the heavy lifting here. The balance of the sounds is regular, L,S,L,S…
the alternations recreating a steady one-two rhythm, linked to the ebb and flow of the waves and
bringing to mind the steady inhale-exhale of calm breathing. The de-dum, de-dum rhythms of iambic
pentameter create these effects too. Other sounds in these lines are similarly calming: F, for
example, in surf, afar and faintly or the liquid alliteration (L, R, W) combined with assonance in all,
shadow, marked, surf,  or, where and afar. Where the octave created cacophony, these lines
create euphony. Just
when you feel calm and safe for the first time, though, Smith pulls the rug out from under your feet
by throwing in the possibility that the guiding light is a trick. In the final three lines of her sonnet, she
compares the ship lights to fairy fires, supernatural lights which lure people (she uses the
word misled) into further confusion. It’s hard to read these lines and not think of Smith’s personal
circumstances, repeatedly let down by those whom should provide guidance: her mother, father and
husband. Once again alliteration plays its part: F sounds reappear in fairy  fires, but where before
they were calming, now they are associated with devilry and trickery. Smith’s state of confusion is
evident too in the lexical field of the poem. Words like distant, afar,  and remote suggest she feels
alone, far from help and safety. Wandering, faintly, dubious  and wavering all suggest a lack of
conviction and certainty, as if nothing in her life – not even her own reason, which she supposes is
only lent  for a time – can be trusted. The world is black or dark, consisting of shadows, drowsy
billows, and vague, tricky lights. Her mindset is best expressed through the metaphors that close her
sonnet: life is one long darkling way full of unseen dangers, and she refers to people as pilgrims;
those who must fulfil a challenging religious obligation. Is this how she views her own life? It’s a
fairly bleak outlook, as is the suggestion that she can’t navigate it safely to the end.