The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb
Chapter 489 : Deprived of such a wife, think you, the old man could have long endured his existence?

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 partic.i.p.ate 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,

G.o.d 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 partic.i.p.ate. 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, a.s.sociated circ.u.mstances 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 superst.i.tious 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 pa.s.s."

(_From another Letter_)

----"Continue to write to me, my sweet cousin. Many good thoughts, resolutions, and proper views of things, pa.s.s through the mind in the course of the day, but are lost for want of committing them to paper.

Seize them, Maria, as they pa.s.s, 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 ill.u.s.tration, 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 Gloucesters.h.i.+re--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.

CHAPTER VIII

They had but four rooms in the cottage. Margaret slept in the biggest room up stairs, and her grandaughter in a kind of closet adjoining, where she could be within hearing, if her grandmother should call her in the night.

The girl was often disturbed in that manner--two or three times in a night she has been forced to leave her bed, to fetch her grandmother's cordials, or do some little service for her--but she knew that Margaret's ailings were _real_ and pressing, and Rosamund never complained--never suspected, that her grandmother's requisitions had any thing unreasonable in them.

The night she parted with Miss Clare, she had helped Margaret to bed, as usual--and, after saying her prayers, as the custom was, kneeling by the old lady's bed-side, kissed her grandmother, and wished her a good night--Margaret blessed her, and charged her to go to bed directly. It was her customary injunction, and Rosamund had never dreamed of disobeying.