"Thy young and innocent heart,
How is it beating? Has it no regrets?
Discoverest thou no weakness lurking there?"
ROGERS.
{Samuel Rogers (English poet, 1763-1855), "Italy: The Nun" lines
71-73}
SISTERS' children, though bearing different names, and classed by
the world in different families, are generally much more alike
than those of brothers; they are apt to have more habits, tastes,
and feelings in common. And the reason is evident; it is usually
the mother who controls the internal family policy, who gives the
colouring to what may be called the family atmosphere. The father
may pass a statute once in a while, but the common-law which
regulates the every-day proceedings of the little community flows
from the mother; and we all know that the character is moulded
rather by daily practice in trifles, than by a few isolated
actions of greater importance in themselves. The aims and views
which people carry with them through life, generally spring up
from seeds received in the nursery, or at the family fire-side.
Even with men this is the case. The father may inculcate this or
that political creed into his son, he may direct his choice to
this or that profession; but the manner in which the youth
carries out his political principles, the way in which he fills
his profession, will depend on the impulses and motives
cultivated in childhood, and early youth; for it is then that the
character receives its bias. The mother's influence and example
are often to be traced in those minute shades of taste and
opinion, which are the foundation of our partialities, or our
dislikes; and, of course, the daughters of a family, from being
more constantly subject to this influence, imbibe a larger share
of it. It is immaterial whether the mother be aware of the
importance of her duties, of the weight of this responsibility,
or not; for good or for evil, the effect will still be felt,
though varying, of course, in different circumstances.
Elinor had not seen her cousin, Mary Van Alstyne, her mother's
niece, for several years, and she now met her in Philadelphia
with great pleasure. Miss Van Alstyne was some five or six years
older than herself; this difference in years had, indeed, been
the chief reason why they had never yet been very intimate. But
the same distance which separates girls of twelve and eighteen,
is, of course, less thought of at twenty and six-and-twenty, when
both are fairly launched into the world. Mary Van Alstyne and
Elinor found much to like in each other on a closer acquaintance;
and Miss Wyllys observing that the two cousins suited each other
so well, drew them together as much as possible, in order that
Elinor might have some one to fill the empty places of her former
companions, Jane and Harry.
Mrs. Robert Hazlehurst was a near neighbour of the Wyllyses in
Philadelphia; but Elinor had too much dread of meeting Harry, to
go there often; and it was only when she knew that he was in New
York, that she went to his brother's. The change in their
position was too recent to allow of her seeing him with
composure; their family connexion, and the intimate terms upon
which they had hitherto lived, only made their present
estrangement much more awkward than usual. Elinor tried to think
it fortunate that he should now be so often in New York.
The first time he was in Philadelphia after the Wyllyses were
settled there for the winter, Elinor escaped seeing him. As she
came in one morning from a ride with her grandfather, she found
his card on the table. It told the whole story of what had
passed; for she could not remember his having ever left a card at
their house before; he had been as much at home there as herself,
until the last six weeks. The sight of it caused her a very
painful feeling, and did away all the good effect of the pleasant
ride she had just taken on the banks of the Schuylkill. As she
walked slowly up-stairs to change her habit, her eyes filled with
tears; and had she been endowed with the proper degree of romance
for a regular heroine, she would probably have passed the morning
in hysterical sobs. But as she had quite as much good sense, as
fancy and feeling, she was by no means romantic; she had never
fainted but once in her life; and although it must be confessed
she had wept during the last few weeks, yet it was always in
spite of herself, at moments when the tears were forced from her
by some sudden recollection of the past, or some distressing
glimpse of the future. On the present occasion, instead of
encouraging solitary grief, she returned to the drawing-room, and
read aloud to her aunt, who was busy with her needle.
But Harry's second visit to Philadelphia was not to pass without
their meeting. Mr. Wyllys, Miss Agnes, and Elinor were spending
the evening at the house of a friend, when, to the surprise and
regret of all parties, Hazlehurst walked in with one of the young
men of the family, with whom he was intimate. It was the first
time they had met since the alarm on the piazza at Wyllys-Roof.
Poor Elinor, at the first glance, when the door opened, turned
deadly pale, as she always did when agitated. Harry, as he
crossed the room to make his bow to the lady of the house, felt
excessively uncomfortable; when he turned, not a little
embarrassed, towards the rest of the party, he received a slight
and cool movement of recognition from Mr. Wyllys, who was
standing at a corner of the fire-place. Miss Agnes made an effort
to say good evening, in her usual tone; and Harry replied that he
was very glad to find they were to be in Philadelphia for the
winter, words which were as far from the truth as possible.
Elinor would have given much to look and speak as calmly as her
aunt; but she could only bow in silence, for at the moment she
dared not trust her voice. The lady of the house, who knew very
well how to account for a meeting which seemed very ceremonious
between near connexions, who had always been so intimate, did her
best to make matters go off well; and her son, who was also in
the secret, rattled away to Elinor to the best of his ability.
But there was a very perceptible touch of cool disapprobation in
Mr. Wyllys's manner, and a something that was not quite natural,
in the tones of Miss Agnes's voice. Harry felt as if he were
doing penance, and he felt, moreover, as if he richly deserved
it. But the worst was to come. There was another lady present, a
New Yorker, who had lately seen Hazlehurst very often with the
Grahams, in his character of Jane's admirer, and she innocently
asked him when he was going to return to New York. "In a day or
two," he replied. "You will not leave the post vacant very long,
I dare say," observed the lady. Harry's answer was not very
distinctly heard, and he coloured as much as it is in the power
of man to do. The lady happily observed how much he was annoyed,
and changed the conversation. Hazlehurst was not in a mood to pay
a long visit: he soon rose to take leave. Elinor, in the mean
time, made a great effort for self-command. She knew that she was
the injured party, and yet she felt superior to all the
littleness of resentment--she acquitted Harry and Jane of all
intentional trifling with her feelings. The gentle, quiet dignity
of her manner gradually expressed what was passing in her mind.
As Harry passed near her, and bowed, collecting all her
self-possession, she wished him good-evening, with a calm, sweet
voice.
It was now Hazlehurst's turn to be much the most embarrassed of
the two; he bowed, and muttered something about calling, in a
voice much less clear than her's had been; then fairly giving up
the matter in despair, he quitted the ground with another bow. On
leaving the house, he walked rapidly down Walnut-Street, very
much dissatisfied with himself, and out of humour with his
friend, for having brought him into such an awkward scene.
The next day, when Elinor thought over what had passed, she felt
relieved that the first meeting, which she had so much dreaded,
was over; although she knew it must he a long time before she
could see Jane and Harry with perfect composure; she knew there
must be other unpleasant moments in store for her. There was no
danger but that Elinor would do all in her power to subdue her
feelings for Harry, and yet she sometimes reproached herself with
having done too little; her interest in him was still too strong.
She shrunk sensitively from longer encouraging any weakness for
him; it had now become a want of delicacy to do so, it would soon
be almost sinful. She knew that if she did not succeed in the
endeavour it would be her own fault only; for her whole education
had taught her that there was no passion, of whatever nature, too
strong to be conquered by reason and religion, when their aid was
honestly sought.
Miss Agnes, on the contrary, who knew how unexpectedly, and how
deeply, Elinor's feelings had been wounded, was fearful that her
adopted child was making too great an effort for self-control;
with a girl of her principles and disposition there was danger of
this. Elinor, since the first day or two, had sensitively avoided
every approach to the subject when conversing with her aunt. Miss
Agnes knew that time alone could teach her the lesson of
forgetfulness, and she now dreaded some reaction; although
admiring Elinor's courage and resolution, she wished her
occasionally to give a more natural vent to her feelings. It
struck her that the time for one open conversation on the subject
had come, and the result proved that her opinion was correct.
Elinor threw off a constraint that was not natural to her
character, and which had been kept up from an exaggerated sense
of duty. She now spoke with perfect frankness, nothing was
concealed; grief, regrets, struggles, all were confided to her
aunt, whose sympathy was grateful to her, while the advice given
with kindness and good sense, was of real service.
Many young people who knew Miss Wyllys, would have smiled at the
idea of her being a good counsellor on such an occasion, for her
own life, though useful and happy, had been quite uneventful. The
death of her mother, and the marriage of her brothers and sister,
had left her, when still a young and pretty woman, the only
companion and solace of her father. These duties were soon
increased by the charge of her orphan niece, and her time and
attention had since then seemed engrossed by these cares and
pleasures. Miss Wyllys was actually never known to have had a
regular suitor. Whether she might not have had her share of
declared admirers had she chosen to be encouraging, we cannot
say; it is a subject upon which we have no authorities.
Of course Miss Agnes could not be expected to know anything about
love, beyond what she had learned from books, or from
observation. She was, nevertheless, a much better adviser than
many a younger and more experienced friend. Where the head and
the heart are both in the right place, instinct soon teaches us
how to sympathize with our fellows in all troubles that really
belong to our nature.
It appeared to Elinor as if, in future, there would be an
additional tie between her aunt and herself; for she looked
forward to leading a single life, hoping to pass her days like
Miss Agnes, in that sphere of contented usefulness which seemed
allotted to her.
When Elinor had returned to her own room, after the conversation
to which we have alluded, she went to a writing-desk, and drew
from it a letter. It was the same she had received on her
seventeenth birth-day. It was from her mother. During the
lingering illness which caused her death, Mrs. Wyllys, deeply
anxious for the welfare of her orphan daughter, had written
several of these letters, adapted to her child's capacity at
different ages, and placed them in the hands of Miss Agnes, with
the request they might be given to Elinor at the dates marked on
the envelope of each. They had proved a precious legacy for the
young girl, and a guide to Miss Agnes in her education; for the
aunt had never forgotten that she was the mother's representative
only; Elinor having always been taught to give the first place to
her parent's memory. It seemed, indeed, as if her mother's spirit
had never ceased to linger near her, exerting its silent
influence. The letter to which Elinor attached so high a value is
given below.
"Wyllys-Roof, August 13th, 18--.
"MY OWN BELOVED CHILD,
"You will not receive this letter until you have reached the age
of womanhood, years after your mother has been laid in her grave.
"To separate from you, my darling child, has cost your mother a
bitter pang. There is no severer trial of faith to a Christian
woman, than to leave her little ones behind her, in a world
exposed to evil and sorrow; and yet, although so near death
myself, it is my wish that you may live, dearest, to taste all
that is good in life. Few mothers are blessed in death, as I am,
with the power of leaving their orphans to such kind and
judicious guardians as your grandfather and aunt; should they be
spared, you will scarcely feel the loss of your parents. Oh, how
fervent is my prayer that they may live to guard, to cherish you!
And when the task they have so piously assumed is fully
completed, may they long enjoy the fruits of their cares!
"It is with singular feelings that I write to you as a woman, my
child, and appeal to thoughts and sentiments, of which you are at
this moment so utterly unconscious; sitting, as you now are, at
my feet, amid your playthings, too busy with a doll, to notice
the tears that fall upon these last lines I shall ever have it in
my power to address to you. But the hope that this letter may,
one day, long after I have left you, be a tie between us, my
Elinor, is grateful to your mother's heart, and urges me to
continue my task. I have a double object in writing these
letters; I wish to be remembered by you, dear, and I wish to
serve you.
"During the last few months, since my health has failed, and
since you, my child, have been the chief object of interest to me
in this world, I have often endeavoured to pass over in my mind,
the next dozen years, that I might fancy my child, what I trust
she will then be, qualified in every essential point to act for
herself, in the position to which she belongs. I trust that when
this, my last letter, is placed in your hands, you will already
have learned to feel and acknowledge the important truths that I
have endeavoured to impress on you, in those you have previously
received. You are already convinced, I trust, that without a
religious foundation, any superstructure whatever must be
comparatively worthless. I should he miserable, indeed, at this
moment, if I could not hope that sincere, single-hearted piety
will be the chief influence of your life; without it, you could
never know true happiness, or even peace. Rest assured, my child,
that while it sweetens every blessing, it soothes under every
evil. Many have given the same testimony when they stood, like
your mother, within the shadow of death. I have every reason, my
beloved daughter, to hope that under the guidance of an humble,
sincere Christian, like your aunt, you also will arrive at the
same blessed conviction; I know that so long as she lives, her
example, her prayers, her vigilance will never be wanting. I have
every reason to believe that you will be led to seek that which
is never earnestly sought in vain.
"I must be brief, dear child, lest my strength should fail. From
the many thoughts that crowd upon me, I can only select a few,
which my own experience has taught me to value as important. In
the first place, let me warn you never to forget the difference
between Christian education, and all others. Remember that
Christian education has for its foundation the heart-felt
conviction of the weakness of human nature; for a being bearing
the name of a Christian to lose sight of this truth, is the
grossest of all inconsistencies. The great and the learned among
those who are merely philosophers, preach, as though to know what
is good, and to practise it, were equally easy to mankind. But
the Christian alone knows that he must look beyond himself for
guidance, and for support. He knows only too well, that there are
times when the practice of some plain and evident duty, costs his
feeble nature a severe struggle--in no instance will he dare
trust his own strength alone. He knows that even in those cases
where duly is also a pleasure, he must still be watchful and
humble, lest he fall. One would think this truth so obvious, from
daily observation, as to be undeniable; but it is now the fashion
to laud human nature, to paint flattering pictures only. Humility
is thought debasing; but Truth alone is honourable, and Humility
is Truth. You will find the actions of those who acknowledge this
truth, more honourable to the human race, than the deeds of those
who deny it. The true dignity of human nature consists, not in
shutting our eyes to the evil, but in restraining it; which, with
our Maker's help, we may all do, for the blessing of our Creator
is still within our reach, still vouchsafed to the humble
Christian. If such be your views, my daughter, you will be
prepared to find difficulties in acquiring and practising those
virtues which it is the duty of life to cultivate; you will be
prepared to meet those difficulties with the sincere humility of
a Christian, and with Christian exertion.
"My child, love the Truth, and the Truth only.
"Cultivate daily a pious, thankful, humble disposition.
"Love those near you heartily; live for them as well as for
yourself.
"Eschew all envy, and petty jealousies, and rivalries; there is
perhaps no other evil that so often poisons our daily blessings.
"Cultivate your judgment. Never forget the difference between
things of importance and trifles; yet remember that trifles have
also their value. Never lose sight of the difference between form
and spirit; yet remember that in this material world, the two
should seldom be put asunder. The true substance will naturally
have its shadow also.
"Cultivate a sweet, frank, cheerful temper, for your own sake,
and for the sake of those you love.
"Cultivate your abilities in every way that comes naturally
within your reach; it is seldom worth while for a woman to do
more than this. In all you learn, aim at giving pleasure to
others, aim at being useful to them, as well as at improving your
own faculties.
"Enjoy thankfully all the blessings of life; and they are
innumerable.
"There is one subject, of some importance to you individually, my
child, which I have not yet alluded to in either of my letters; I
have purposely deferred it until you will be better fitted to
understand me. You will have one personal evil to contend
against, my dear Elinor; your face will be plain, your features
will be homely, darling. It is a weakness, my child, and yet I
regret you should suffer from this disadvantage; rest assured,
that in every little mortification to which you may be exposed,
your mother, had she lived, would have felt with you. I trust
that this will be the first time your attention will be seriously
fixed upon the subject, and that as a child you will scarcely
have thought upon it. Let us then, dear, look upon the matter
together for a moment, calmly and steadily; we will not blind
ourselves to the advantages of beauty, neither will we exaggerate
the evils of a want of it. You will soon discover, from your own
observation, that beauty in women, as in children, is delightful
in itself; it throws a charm over the words and actions of the
favoured person. In a worldly sense it is also a woman's power;
where other qualifications are equal, you may often observe that
beauty alone confers a striking superiority. In some respects its
advantages are even greater than are usually allowed, in others
again they are far less. Were we to judge by the space it fills
in general observation, and in conversation, we should believe it
the one all-important qualification in women, that nothing else
can be compared with it. But to adopt this opinion would be
grossly to exaggerate its importance. Nor can we believe, on the
other hand, what some prudent writers for the young have
affirmed, that the superiority of beauty is only momentary; that
the eyes tire of a beautiful face which they see daily, that in
all cases it vanishes with early youth. No, my child, I do not
wish you to believe this, for I cannot believe it myself. For
years, the beauty of my sister Elizabeth has been a daily source
of pleasure to me, and I doubt not to others also. My aunt, Mrs.
Graham, though past fifty, is still a handsome woman, and her
appearance must be pleasing to every one who meets her; while, on
the contrary, people still amuse themselves at the expense of
Miss Townley, whose face is strikingly plain. Hundreds of
examples might be cited to prove that the charm of beauty does
not generally vanish so soon, that one does not tire of it so
easily. And then if a woman lose her beauty entirely, still the
reputation of having once possessed it, gives her a sort of
advantage in the eyes of the world. If mere notoriety be an
advantage, and in the opinion of the worldly it is so, the
superiority of beauty over ugliness lasts longer than life; many
women are remembered, who had nothing but beauty to recommend
them to the notice of posterity. But observe, my child, that if
these advantages are evident, they are chiefly of a worldly
nature. A beautiful woman may receive general admiration, and
that homage which gratifies vanity, but she must depend on other
qualities if she wish to be respected, if she wish to be loved
through life. I hope, my child, you will always be superior to
that miserable vanity which thirsts for common admiration, which
is flattered by every offering, however low, however trivial. I
trust that the mere applause of the world will have no influence
upon your heart or your understanding. Remember what it is that
we call the world--it is a ground governed by a compromise
between the weaknesses of the good among us, and the virtues of
the bad; the largest portion of vanity and folly--sometimes even
vice--mingled with the least portion of purity and wisdom that a
community bearing a Christian name will tolerate. You, I trust,
will learn to seek a higher standard.
"If borne in a right spirit, my dear Elinor, the very want of
beauty, or of any other earthly good, may be the means of giving
you the benefit of far higher blessings. If it make you more free
from vanity, from selfishness, it will make you far happier, even
in daily life. It may dispose you to enjoy more thankfully those
blessings actually in your possession, and to make a better use
of them.
"Under this and every other disadvantage, my child, remember two
things: to give the evil its just importance only, and to make a
right use of it.
"I trust that your temper will be such, that you will not for a
moment feel any inclination to repine that others should enjoy a
blessing denied to you, my love. Refrain even from wishing for
that which Providence has withheld; if you have a right faith,
you will be cheerful and contented; if you are really humble, you
will be truly thankful.
"Do all in your power, my Elinor, towards making your home,
wherever it may be, a happy one; it is our natural shelter from
the world. If in public you meet with indifference and neglect,
you can surely preserve the respect of those who know you; and
the affection of your friends may always be gained by those
quiet, simple virtues, within the reach of every one.
"In one way, my dearest child, the want of beauty may affect your
whole career in life--it will very probably be the cause of your
remaining single. If I thought you would be united to a husband
worthy of your respect and affection, I should wish you to marry;
for such has been my own lot in life--I have been happy as a wife
and a mother. But I am well aware that this wish may be a
weakness; the blessings of Providence are not reserved for this
or that particular sphere. The duties and sorrows of married life
are often the heaviest that our nature knows. Other cares and
other pleasures may be reserved for you, my child. In every
civilized Christian community there have always been numbers of
single women; and where they have been properly educated, as a
class they have been respectable--never more so than at the
present day. They often discharge many of the most amiable and
praiseworthy duties of life. Understand me, my child; I do not
wish to urge your remaining single; that is a point which every
woman must decide for herself, when arrived at years of
discretion; but I would have you view a single life with
sufficient favour to follow it cheerfully, rather than to
sacrifice yourself by becoming the wife of a man whom you cannot
sincerely respect. Enter life prepared to follow, with unwavering
faith in Providence, and with thankfulness, whichever course may
be allotted to you. If you remain single, remember that your
peace is more in your own hands than if married--much more will
depend solely on the views and dispositions you encourage. As
appearance has generally so much influence over men, and marriage
is therefore a less probable event to you than to others, my
love, let your mother caution you to watch your feelings with
double care; be slow to believe any man attached to you, unless
you have the strongest proof of it.
"Whatever be your position, never lose sight, even on trifling
occasions, of common sense, and good-feeling. Remember, in any
case, to guard carefully against the peculiar temptations of your
lot, to bear patiently its evils, and to enjoy thankfully its
peculiar blessings.
"There are many things that I should still wish to say to you, my
beloved daughter; and yet I know that the cautions I give may be
unnecessary, while other evils, which I have never feared, may
befall you. My inability to guide you as I wish, my darling
child, directs us both to a higher source of wisdom and love. Let
us both, at all times, implicitly place our trust where it can
never fail, though blessings be not bestowed in the way we fond
creatures would choose."
[Here followed a sentence, in words too solemn to be transferred
to pages as light as these.]
"Love your aunt, your second mother, truly and gratefully. She
has already bestowed on you many proofs of kindness, and she has
always been a faithful friend to your father, and to your mother.
Love the memory of your parents, my child; think of us
sometimes--think of your father--think of your mother. Honour
their memory by a recollection of their instructions, by a
well-spent life. Since your birth, my child, I have scarcely had
a hope or a fear, unconnected with you; if I were to ask to live,
it would be only for your sake, my darling daughter.
"Your mother's tenderest blessing rests upon you, my beloved
Elinor, through life!
"MARY RADCLIFFE WYLLYS"
This letter had been often read and studied by Elinor, with the
gratitude and respect it deserved, as a legacy from her mother;
but lately she had been disposed to enter more fully into the
feelings by which it had been dictated. Every word which applied
to her present situation, sunk deeply into her heart.