"Fair, gentle, sweet,
Your wit makes wise things foolish."
SHAKSPEARE.
The intimacy between Clara Rivolta and Miss Henderson continued for
a time uninterrupted. The friends of the former were not aware of the
character of Miss Henderson; and had they been, they would not have
supposed that Clara so much admired and esteemed her as she really
did. Old Mr. Martindale had paid very kind and friendly attention
to the settlement of the affairs of the late Lord Martindale, and
having spent as much time in town as he thought desirable, removed his
establishment to the coast, that his family might enjoy the pleasures
of a watering-place. So it came to pass that the female friends were
parted: but though separated, they were not forgetful of each other.
Miss Henderson wrote a most beautiful hand, so small, so clear, with
letters so peculiarly well-turned, that whenever she put a letter
into the post-office, she thought that the letter-sorter and the
postman must pause to admire the beauty of the writing. Not one of her
numerous acquaintance could condense so many words into the compass of
one common-sized sheet of letter-paper. With such qualifications, no
wonder that she seized every opportunity of writing letters. People
always do with pleasure that which they think they do well. It would
gratify us if we could present the public with a fac-simile of one of
Miss Henderson's letters, but our publisher will not allow of it. Our
readers must therefore be contented with the printed copy of one. It is
as follows:
"How feeble, my ever dear Clara, is the power of language
to express the emotions of the heart! My heart is the seat of ten
thousand times ten thousand agitating and conflicting thoughts, painful
recollections, gloomy forebodings, tender regrets, joyous hopes. Oh,
what is life without friendship! And how few, alas! who are worthy
of the confidence of friendship. When I look upon the multitudes of
people that pass and repass every day and every hour--when I see the
common-place, every-day people of the world, and observe how careless
and how contented they seem in the midst of their gross ignorance and
stupidity, I cannot sometimes repress the almost impious wish that
I were as stupid as they are. Is it not too true that increase of
knowledge is increase of sorrow? The town is now empty, and yet pa's
chapel is somehow well attended. Many people come from the city to hear
him, and some young lawyers also from the inns of courts. You would
be amused to see their vacant looks of admiration, almost amounting
to astonishment, when pa gives one of his fine apostrophes, or his
well-turned metaphors. Tippetson is still in town. I wonder what he can
find to amuse him at this dull time of year. Pa would go to Brighton
if he could find any tolerable substitute to fill his place in his
absence, but the generality of preachers you know, my dear, are so
dull, stupid, and common-place, that it is absolutely impossible for a
person of any sense to sit and hear them; I am really astonished that
the churches are so full as they are, there is scarcely one clergyman
in twenty worth hearing. Tippetson says he is determined never to hear
any body but pa. He was at the chapel yesterday, and sat directly
opposite to us. I wish, my dear Clara, you could have seen him. He
was so attentive, that he looked as if he was desirous of catching
every syllable; and when any peculiarly fine and brilliant expression
occurred, (you know pa's emphatic manner,) it was quite interesting
to see how his countenance was lighted up with admiration. Pa makes
it a point to preach quite as well when the fashionable people are
out of town as when they are all here. Fashionable people! Ah, Clara,
you do not know them so well as I do, and you need not wish to know
them; so false, so vain, so hollow, so haughty! Mr. Martindale is
the only person I ever saw who seems to understand them aright. What
an advantage you have in the society of such an intelligent man! All
his thoughts are wisdom, and all his sentences are oracles. Tippetson
admires him prodigiously, and says that twenty such men in high life
would produce a complete revolution in the fashionable world. I heard
Tippetson say, but he did not know that I heard him, that he intended
to procure a little velvet paper book, bound in pink satin and with
silver clasps, and that he should on one side of the leaves record
the wise sayings of Mr. Martindale, and on the other the beautiful
similes that occurred in pa's sermons. I am sure, my dear, you will
laugh when I tell you what a blunder pa was likely to make last week.
He wanted to go out of town for a few weeks, and endeavoured to find
a gen gentleman to officiate for him at the chapel, and a friend of
ours recommended a person of whom he had some slight knowledge, and
pa saw him, and was just on the point of engaging him, when by some
odd expression pa found out that he was an evangelical. It would have
been the ruin of the chapel if the mistake had not been discovered
in time to prevent any engagement. Poor pa made the best excuse he
could; and here we all remain for want of a proper substitute to supply
the chapel in our absence. When Tippetson heard of the blunder, he
laughed outright, and said it was a pity that the gentleman had not
been engaged, in order that he might convert some of the good folks
at this end of the town. I assure you, my dear, that Tippetson is far
from being a dull man; the fact is, he has a considerable degree of
wit, but he is not like some people who are always endeavouring to
shine in conversation, and to say brilliant things. Now do you know
there is nothing so excessively disagreeable to me as a perpetual
endeavour to shine in conversation. Tippetson really does say some
good things sometimes; I am told that some of those clever articles in
the newspapers which are ascribed to Sir William Curtis, are actually
the production of Tippetson. Well, my dear, dear Clara, you see what
a rambling style I am writing in; but I don't know how it is, when I
have the pen in my hand it seems to communicate the perpetual motion
to my fingers. Talking of perpetual motion, what an absurdity it is
to think that it can ever be discovered! and yet I have heard people
who think themselves very clever at mechanics talk as if it might be
discovered; I once heard a very superior man say that the perpetual
motion was one of nature's arcana. Oh, how pleasant it is to have a
correspondent to whom one can write freely and fully on any subject!
How few are there like you, my dear friend, who have any interest in
the pursuits of science and the discoveries of philosophy; and of those
few who pretend to any relish for such things, there are not many who
like you understand the subjects on which they converse: they are mere
smatterers. You told me, I remember, that you found less literature and
science in the world than you expected; and let me assure you, that
is much rarer than even you imagine. The number of pretenders is very
great; but real science is rare. I am afraid I shall tire you, my dear
friend, but the truth is, I know not of any one to whom I can address
myself so freely as to my dear Clara: but if I have trespassed too
much on your valuable time by my poor unworthy scrawl, I can only cast
myself on your mercy, or beg that you will punish me by an answer as
long as my letter: punish did I say, I retract the unworthy expression,
it would be no punishment to receive a copious epistle from a dear,
intelligent, superior-minded friend. Your letters, my dear, are all
instruction and wisdom. I could learn more from one of your letters
than from a volume. I am almost ashamed of what I am going to say, I
hesitate whether I shall acknowledge my sin; yet confession is one-half
of repentance. I must acknowledge--will you ever forgive me? The fact
is, I was so very naughty as to let Tippetson have a sight of your
letter; and I am sure you will forgive me, if you can but imagine the
admiration and delight with which he read it. I know you have too much
strength of mind to be accessible to flattery, else I would not mention
the affair to you; but the truth is, that he was so charmed with it
that he begged me on his knees to let him have a copy of it, of course
omitting names, and he was pleased to say that no pen was so worthy of
the honor of transcribing it as mine: for the young man is pleased to
compliment my hand-writing rather more than it deserves. There, now you
are near the end of your labor of reading, and I am near the end of
my pleasure in writing: for a pleasure it is to write to such a dear,
kind, intelligent soul as my Clara Rivolta. Farewell; let me soon have
another invaluable treasure in a letter from your intellectual pen to
delight and instruct your faithful and sincere Rebecca Henderson."
This is the shortest we could find of the epistles of Miss Henderson
to Clara Rivolta. The young lady to whom that and many more to the same
purpose were addressed, thought that there was something extravagant
in the style, but took it for granted that such was the style now in
fashion, and therefore made allowances; but the worst of the matter
was, that in making those allowances, she was led also to imitate
the same style rather more than her good sense approved. As we have
not so high an opinion of the superior excellence of Clara Rivolta's
letters to Miss Henderson as Mr. Tippetson was pleased to express, we
shall not favor our readers by sending any of them to the press. It is
enough to state that the correspondence continued rather longer than
Signora Rivolta would have approved had she been aware of its style and
character. Those letters which Miss Henderson wrote to Clara when Mr.
Tippetson had left town, and was gone she knew not whither, were of sad
and sable aspect. Many and deep were the lamentations that there was
nothing in the great metropolis worth living for, and yet there were
several young gentlemen then in town whom Miss Henderson had once been
dying for.
Though Signora Rivolta did not think it necessary for the sake of her
daughter's well-being, and for the purpose of preserving the purity of
her mind, to insist upon seeing all letters which she might receive
from or write to her female friends, yet the very frequent arrival
of letters from Miss Henderson, and the very copious nature of them,
judging from the time which Clara took to read them and reply to them,
induced her mother to mention the subject, by way of hinting that
such a very great intimacy and attachment to so new an acquaintance
was hardly consistent with prudence and proper consideration. One
day, when a very long communication had been received from the
copiously-corresponding Rebecca Henderson, Signora Rivolta took
occasion to say to Clara,
"I have no wish, my dear child, to interfere unnecessarily with your
correspondence and with your friendships, but it has often struck
me that your frequent and long letters to Miss Henderson are hardly
proper, considering how short a time you have been acquainted with
that lady. I protest to you that I feel curious to know what is the
subject of your correspondence. Is it literary, or scientific, or
miscellaneous?"
Clara was rather confused, because she was well aware of the rigid
and severe judgment of her mother, and she was nearly sure that such a
correspondence would not altogether meet her approbation; she replied,
"There are some parts of the letters which treat of literature and
science, but they are for the most part miscellaneous: they are a
species of written conversation."
"There is very little conversation worth writing," replied her mother,
"and of course little worth reading;" but, continued she with a smile,
"I must own that I should be gratified, if you would so far indulge
my curiosity as to permit me to see one of Miss Henderson's letters,
I will not dictate which, one will answer my purpose as well as
another. Where the correspondence is so frequent and copious, it must
display or form character, and I am interested to know what kind of a
correspondent you have."
"I will show you any or all of the letters," replied Clara, who
knew her mother's character of mind too well to attempt to elude
her penetration; "will you take the trouble to read this, which I
have received this morning. Miss Henderson is a very kind friend,
and perhaps she is disposed to be rather too flattering; but I can
assure you, my dear mother, that, though I am pleased to have her good
opinion, I am not rendered vain by her praises. It is her peculiar
manner to compliment."
Clara presented the letter, Signora Rivolta read it with great
attention and with much seriousness; occasionally indeed she smiled,
but that smile was presently checked. Clara watched her mother's
countenance with great anxiety, observed its changes with much emotion,
and was very much hurt and abashed by the look with which her mother
returned her the letter when she had read it through.
"My dear Clara, I must have some conversation with you on the subject
of this correspondence. I cannot flatter you quite so adroitly as Miss
Henderson does, but I have a much higher opinion of you than she has,
for I do assure you that I would never have insulted your understanding
so much as to send you such a ridiculous epistle as this. The language
of this letter is foolish in the extreme. I hope your conversation was
not in this style. You may well say that the letters are miscellaneous.
Now my child, as I can only have your welfare in view, will you be kind
enough so far to favor me with your confidence as to indulge me with a
sight of some more of Miss Henderson's letters. Indeed, I acknowledge
to you that I am anxious to see them all: from this specimen I could
wish that you had never received any."
Clara had much tenderness of feeling and great respect and reverence
for her mother's superior understanding, and she felt very unpleasantly
and painfully at the emotion with which her mother addressed her. Her
color rose and fell, and the poor girl burst into tears. It was indeed
truly mortifying, after having received such flattering homage from
Miss Henderson, to be thus suddenly let down in her own judgment, and
be thus brought to feel that she was not quite so superior to the rest
of the world as she had been led to suppose herself. Signora Rivolta
soothed her and spoke kindly to her. The letters were produced, for
they had been carefully laid by as treasures of some value. And let not
our readers judge harshly of the inexperienced mind of poor Clara; her
very humility made her proud: for not positively thinking very highly
of herself, when she found herself flattered and complimented by Miss
Henderson, she was unduly exalted and gratified; and she began to fancy
that she was indeed something extraordinary, to receive compliments
from so accomplished a young lady.
Every one of the letters did Signora Rivolta carefully peruse, having
taken them to her own apartment for that purpose: it was a task indeed
of some difficulty, and attended with much weariness, but she felt
anxious on her daughter's account, and would not relinquish her task
till it was completed; and when it was completed, her astonishment was
great indeed, that such nonsense could have ever been agreeable to
her daughter; but she forgot the love of praise and the insinuations
of flattery, how strong their influence is on young and inexperienced
minds. When she had made an end of reading, she called Clara to her
again, and after giving her own opinion of the character of Miss
Henderson's mind, she said,
"Now, my dear child, I have one more request to make of you concerning
these letters; that is, will you give me leave to destroy them? They
will never be an honor to you; if you seek for praise, you must
endeavour to procure it in a less equivocal shape than this. Here you
are told in so many words almost, that your knowledge is most extensive
and profound; that your taste is pure and perfect; that your strength
of mind is superior to the rest of your sex; in short, that you possess
every virtue and every excellence that can be attributed to a human
being. Can you believe that Miss Henderson is silly enough to entertain
such an opinion of you; and if she be not sincere, what can be her
motive, but merely to indulge her own foolish inclination to talk
or to write? I dare say that, if the fact could be ascertained, you
would find that she has used the same kind of language to many others
with whom she has corresponded; for her style seems to be that of a
practised letter writer, who scribbles for her own gratification."
Clara saw that there was truth and justice in these observations, and
though she felt a considerable degree of reluctance, she could not
refuse her mother's request; and the letters in all their fulness and
interest and with all their fine compliments, were committed to what
newspaper editors call the devouring element.