Miss Clare, we may be sure, made her brother very happy, when she told
him of the engagement she had made for the morrow, and how delighted she
had been with his handsome friend.
Allan, I believe, got little sleep that night. I know not, whether joy
be not a more troublesome bed-fellow than grief--hope keeps a body very
wakeful, I know.
Elinor Clare was the best good creature--the least selfish human being I
ever knew--always at work for other people's good, planning other
people's happiness--continually forgetful to consult for her own
personal gratifications, except indirectly, in the welfare of
another--while her parents lived, the most attentive of daughters--since
they died, the kindest of sisters--I never knew but _one_ like her.
It happens that I have some of this young lady's _letters_ in my
possession--I shall present my reader with one of them. It was written
a short time after the death of her mother, and addressed to a cousin, a
dear friend of Elinor's, who was then on the point of being married to
Mr. Beaumont, of Staffordshire, and had invited Elinor to assist at her
nuptials. I will transcribe it with minute fidelity.
* * * * *
_Elinor Clare to Maria Leslie_
Widford, July the --, 17--.
Health, Innocence, and Beauty, shall be thy bridemaids, my sweet cousin.
I have no heart to undertake the office. Alas! what have I to do in the
house of feasting?
Maria! I fear lest my griefs should prove obtrusive. Yet bear with me a
little--I have recovered already a share of my former spirits.
I fear more for Allan than myself. The loss of two such parents, with so
short an interval, bears very heavy on him. The boy _hangs_ about me
from morning till night. He is perpetually forcing a smile into his poor
pale cheeks--you know the sweetness of his smile, Maria.
To-day, after dinner, when he took his glass of wine in his hand, he
burst into tears, and would not, or could not then, tell me the
reason--afterwards he told me--"he had been used to drink Mamma's health
after dinner, and _that_ came in his head and made him cry." I feel the
claims the boy has upon me--I perceive that I am living to _some
end_--and the thought supports me.
Already I have attained to a state of complacent feelings--my mother's
lessons were not thrown away upon her Elinor.
In the visions of last night her spirit seemed to stand at my
bed-side--a light, as of noon day, shone upon the room--she opened my
curtains--she smiled upon me with the same placid smile as in her
life-time. I felt no fear. "Elinor," she said, "for my sake take care of
young Allan,"--and I awoke with calm feelings.
Maria! shall not the meeting of blessed spirits, think you, be something
like this?--I think, I could even now behold my mother without dread--I
would ask pardon of her for all my past omissions of duty, for all the
little asperities in my temper, which have so often grieved her gentle
spirit when living. Maria! I think she would not turn away from me.
Oftentimes a feeling, more vivid than memory, brings her before me--I
see her sit in her old elbow chair--her arms folded upon her lap--a tear
upon her cheek, that seems to upbraid her unkind daughter for some
inattention--I wipe it away and kiss her honored lips.
Maria! when I have been fancying all this, Allan will come in, with his
poor eyes red with weeping, and taking me by the hand, destroy the
vision in a moment.
I am prating to you, my sweet cousin, but it is the prattle of the
heart, which Maria loves. Besides, whom have I to talk to of these
things but you--you have been my counsellor in times past, my companion,
and sweet familiar friend. Bear with me a little--I mourn the
"cherishers of my infancy."
I sometimes count it a blessing, that my father did not prove the
_survivor_. You know something of his story. You know there was a foul
tale current--it was the busy malice of that bad man, S----, which
helped to spread it abroad--you will recollect the active good nature of
our friends W---- and T----; what pains they took to undeceive
people--with the better sort their kind labours prevailed; but there was
still a party who shut their ears. You know the issue of it. My father's
great spirit bore up against it for some time--my father never was a
_bad_ man--but that spirit was broken at the last--and the
greatly-injured man was forced to leave his old paternal dwelling in
Staffordshire--for the neighbours had begun to point at him.--Maria! I
have _seen_ them _point_ at him, and have been ready to drop.
In this part of the country, where the slander had not reached, he
sought a retreat--and he found a still more grateful asylum in the daily
solicitudes of the best of wives.
"An enemy hath done this," I have heard him say--and at such times my
mother would speak to him so soothingly of forgiveness, and
long-suffering, and the bearing of injuries with patience; would heal
all his wounds with so gentle a touch;--I have seen the old man weep
like a child.
The gloom that beset his mind, at times betrayed him into scepticism--he
has doubted if there be a Providence! I have heard him say, "GOD has
built a brave world, but methinks he has left his creatures to bustle in
it _how they may_."
At such times he could not endure to hear my mother talk in a religious
strain. He would say, "Woman, have done--you confound, you perplex me,
when you talk of these matters, and for one day at least unfit me for
the business of life."
I have seen her look at him--O GOD, Maria! such a _look_! it plainly
spake that she was willing to have shared her precious hope with the
partner of her earthly cares--but she found a repulse--
Deprived of such a wife, think you, the old man could have long endured
his existence? or what consolation would his wretched daughter have had
to offer him, but silent and imbecile tears?
My sweet cousin, you will think me tedious--and I am so--but it does me
good to talk these matters over. And do not you be alarmed for me--my
sorrows are subsiding into a deep and sweet resignation. I shall soon be
sufficiently composed, I know it, to participate in my friend's
happiness.
Let me call her, while yet I may, my own Maria Leslie! Methinks, I shall
not like you by any other name. Beaumont! Maria Beaumont! it hath a
strange sound with it--I shall never be reconciled to this name--but do
not you fear--Maria Leslie shall plead with me for Maria Beaumont.
And now, my sweet Friend,
God love you, and your
ELINOR CLARE.
* * * * *
I find in my collection several letters, written soon after the date of
the preceding, and addressed all of them to Maria Beaumont.--I am
tempted to make some short extracts from these--my tale will suffer
interruption by them--but I was willing to preserve whatever memorials I
could of Elinor Clare.
* * * * *
_From Elinor Clare to Maria Beaumont_
(AN EXTRACT)
----"I have been strolling out for half an hour in the fields; and my
mind has been occupied by thoughts, which Maria has a right to
participate. I have been bringing my _mother_ to my recollection. My
heart ached with the remembrance of infirmities, that made her closing
years of life so sore a trial to her.
I was concerned to think, that our family differences have been one
source of disquiet to her. I am sensible that _this last_ we are apt to
exaggerate after a person's death--and surely, in the main, there was
considerable harmony among the members of our little family--still I was
concerned to think, that we ever gave her gentle spirit disquiet.
I thought on years back--on all my parents' friends--the H----s, the
F----s, on D---- S----, and on many a merry evening, in the fire-side
circle, in that comfortable back parlour--it is never used now.--
O ye _Matravises_[1] of the age, ye know not what ye lose, in despising
these petty topics of endeared remembrance, associated circumstances of
past times;--ye know not the throbbings of the heart, tender yet
affectionately familiar, which accompany the dear and honored names of
_father_ or of _mother_.
Maria! I thought on all these things; my heart ached at the review of
them--it yet aches, while I write this--but I am never so satisfied with
my train of thoughts, as when they run upon these subjects--the tears,
they draw from us, meliorate and soften the heart, and keep fresh within
us that memory of dear friends dead, which alone can fit us for a
re-admission to their society hereafter."
* * * * *
(_From another Letter_)
----"I had a bad dream this morning--that Allan was dead--and who, of
all persons in the world, do you think, put on mourning for him? Why,
_Matravis_.--This alone might cure me of superstitious thoughts, if I
were inclined to them; for why should Matravis _mourn_ for us, or our
family?--_Still_ it was pleasant to awake, and find it but a
dream.--Methinks something like an awaking from an ill dream shall the
Resurrection from the Dead be.--Materially different from our accustomed
scenes, and ways of life, the _World to come_ may possibly not be--still
it is represented to us under the notion of a _Rest_, a _Sabbath_, a
state of bliss."
* * * * *
[1] This name will be explained presently.
(_From another Letter_)
----"Methinks, you and I should have been born under the same roof,
sucked the same milk, conned the same hornbook, thumbed the same
Testament, together:--for we have been more than sisters, Maria!
Something will still be whispering to me, that I shall one day be inmate
of the same dwelling with my cousin, partaker with her in all the
delights, which spring from mutual good offices, kind words, attentions
in sickness and in health,--conversation, sometimes innocently trivial,
and at others profitably serious;--books read and commented on,
together; meals ate, and walks taken, together,--and conferences, how we
may best do good to this poor person or that, and wean our spirits from
the world's _cares_, without divesting ourselves of its _charities_.
What a picture I have drawn, Maria!--and none of all these things may
ever come to pass."
* * * * *
(_From another Letter_)
----"Continue to write to me, my sweet cousin. Many good thoughts,
resolutions, and proper views of things, pass through the mind in the
course of the day, but are lost for want of committing them to paper.
Seize them, Maria, as they pass, these Birds of Paradise, that show
themselves and are gone,--and make a grateful present of the precious
fugitives to your friend.
To use a homely illustration, just rising in my fancy,--shall the good
housewife take such pains in pickling and preserving her worthless
fruits, her walnuts, her apricots, and quinces--and is there not much
_spiritual housewifery_ in treasuring up our mind's best fruits,--our
heart's meditations in its most favored moments?
This said simile is much in the fashion of the old Moralizers, such as I
conceive honest Baxter to have been, such as Quarles and Wither were,
with their curious, serio-comic, quaint emblems. But they sometimes
reach the heart, when a more elegant simile rests in the fancy.
Not low and mean, like these, but beautifully familiarized to our
conceptions, and condescending to human thoughts and notions, are all
the discourses of our LORD--conveyed in parable, or similitude, what
easy access do they win to the heart, through the medium of the
delighted imagination! speaking of heavenly things in fable, or in
simile, drawn from earth, from objects _common, accustomed_.
Life's business, with such delicious little interruptions as our
correspondence affords, how pleasant it is!--why can we not paint on the
dull paper our whole feelings, exquisite as they rise up?"
* * * * *
(_From another Letter_)
----"I had meant to have left off at this place; but, looking back, I am
sorry to find too gloomy a cast tincturing my last page--a
representation of life false and unthankful. Life is _not_ all vanity
and disappointment--it hath much of evil in it, no doubt; but to those
who do not misuse it, it affords comfort, _temporary_ comfort,
much--much that endears us to it, and dignifies it--many true and good
feelings, I trust, of which we need not be ashamed--hours of
tranquillity and hope.--But the morning was dull and overcast, and my
spirits were under a cloud. I feel my error.
Is it no blessing, that we two love one another so dearly--that Allan is
left me--that you are settled in life--that worldly affairs go smooth
with us both--above all, that our lot hath fallen to us in a Christian
country? Maria! these things are not little. I will consider life as a
long feast, and not forget to say grace."
* * * * *
(_From another Letter_)
----"Allan has written to me--you know, he is on a visit at his old
tutor's in Gloucestershire--he is to return home on Thursday--Allan is a
dear boy--he concludes his letter, which is very affectionate
throughout, in this manner--
'Elinor, I charge you to learn the following stanza by heart--
The monarch may forget his crown,
That on his head an hour hath been;
The bridegroom may forget his bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
The mother may forget her child,
That smiles so sweetly on her knee:
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
And all that thou hast done for me.
'The lines are in Burns--you know, we read him for the first time
together at Margate--and I have been used to refer them to you, and to
call you, in my mind, _Glencairn_--for you were always very, very good
to me. I had a thousand failings, but you would love me in spite of them
all. I am going to drink your health.'"
* * * * *
I shall detain my reader no longer from the narrative.