The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, Volume 4 written by Charles Lamb

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Young Clare dwelt very near to the cottage. He had lost his parents,
who were rather wealthy, early in life; and was left to the care of a
sister some ten years older than himself.

Elinor Clare was an excellent young lady--discreet, intelligent, and
affectionate. Allan revered her as a parent, while he loved her as
his own familiar friend. He told all the little secrets of his heart
to her--but there was _one_, which he had hitherto unaccountably
concealed from her--namely, the extent of his regard for Rosamund.

Elinor knew of his visits to the cottage, and was no stranger to the
persons of Margaret and her granddaughter. She had several times met
them, when she had been walking with her brother--a civility usually
passed on either side--but Elinor avoided troubling her brother with
any unseasonable questions.

Allan's heart often beat, and he has been going to tell his sister
_all_--but something like shame (false or true, I shall not stay to
inquire) had hitherto kept him back;--still the secret, unrevealed,
hung upon his conscience like a crime--for his temper had a sweet and
noble frankness in it, which bespake him yet a virgin from the world.

There was a fine openness in his countenance--the character of it
somewhat resembled Rosamund's--except that more fire and enthusiasm
were discernible in Allan's; his eyes were of a darker blue than
Rosamund's--his hair was of a chestnut color--his cheeks ruddy, and
tinged with brown. There was a cordial sweetness in Allan's smile,
the like to which I never saw in any other face.

Elinor had hitherto connived at her brother's attachment to Rosamund.
Elinor, I believe, was something of a physiognomist, and thought she
could trace in the countenance and manner of Rosamund, qualities
which no brother of hers need be ashamed to love.

The time was now come when Elinor was desirous of knowing her
brother's favorite more intimately--an opportunity offered of
breaking the matter to Allan.

The morning of the day in which he carried his present of fruit and
flowers to Rosamund, his sister had observed him more than usually
busy in the garden, culling fruit with a nicety of choice not common
to him.

She came up to him, unobserved, and, taking him by the arm, inquired,
with a questioning smile--"What are you doing, Allan? and who are
those peaches designed for?"

"For Rosamund Gray"--he replied--and his heart seemed relieved of a
burden which had long oppressed it.

"I have a mind to become acquainted with your handsome friend--will
you introduce me, Allan? I think I should like to go and see her this
afternoon."

"Do go, do go, Elinor--you don't know what a good creature she is;
and old blind Margaret, you will like _her_ very much."

His sister promised to accompany him after dinner; and they parted.
Allan gathered no more peaches, but hastily cropping a few roses to
fling into his basket, went away with it half-filled, being impatient
to announce to Rosamund the coming of her promised visitor.

* * * * *

CHAPTER V.

When Allan returned home, he found an invitation had been left for
him, in his absence, to spend that evening with a young friend, who
had just quitted a public school in London, and was come to pass one
night in his father's house at Widford, previous to his departure the
next morning for Edinburgh University.

It was Allan's bosom friend--they had not met for some months--and it
was probable a much longer time must intervene before they should
meet again.

Yet Allan could not help looking a little blank when he first heard
of the invitation. This was to have been an important evening. But
Elinor soon relieved her brother by expressing her readiness to go
alone to the cottage.

"I will not lose the pleasure I promised myself, whatever you may
determine upon, Allan; I will go by myself rather than be
disappointed."

"Will you, will you, Elinor?"

Elinor promised to go--and I believe, Allan, on a second thought, was
not very sorry to be spared the awkwardness of introducing two
persons to each other, both so dear to him, but either of whom might
happen not much to fancy the other.

At times, indeed, he was confident that Elinor _must_ love Rosamund,
and Rosamund _must_ love Elinor; but there were also times in which
he felt misgivings--it was an event he could scarce hope for very
joy!

Allan's _real presence_ that evening was more at the cottage than at
the house, where his _bodily semblance_ was visiting--his friend
could not help complaining of a certain absence of mind, a _coldness_
he called it.

It might have been expected, and in the course of things predicted,
that Allan would have asked his friend some questions of what had
happened since their last meeting, what his feelings were on leaving
school, the probable time when they should meet again, and a, hundred
natural questions which friendship is most lavish of at such times;
but nothing of all this ever occurred to Allan--they did not even
settle the method of their future correspondence.

The consequence was, as might have been expected, Allan's friend
thought him much altered, and, after his departure, sat down to
compose a doleful sonnet about a "faithless friend."--I do not find
that he ever finished it--indignation, or a dearth of rhymes, causing
him to break off in the middle.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VI.

In my catalogue of the little library at the cottage, I forgot to
mention a book of Common Prayer. My reader's fancy might easily have
supplied the omission--old ladies of Margaret's stamp (God bless
them!) may as well be without their spectacles, or their elbow-chair,
as their prayer-book--I love them for it.

Margaret's was a handsome octavo, printed by Baskerville, the binding
red, and fortified with silver at the edges. Out of this book it was
their custom every afternoon to read the proper psalms appointed for
the day.

The way they managed was this: they took verse by verse--Rosamund
_read_ her little portion, and Margaret repeated hers in turn, from
memory--for Margaret could say all the Psalter by heart, and a good
part of the Bible besides. She would not unfrequently put the girl
right when she stumbled or skipped. This Margaret imputed to
giddiness--a quality which Rosamund was by no means remarkable
for--but old ladies, like Margaret, are not in all instances alike
discriminative.

They had been employed in this manner just before Miss Clare arrived
at the cottage. The psalm they had been reading was the hundred and
fourth--Margaret was naturally led by it into a discussion of the
works of creation.

There had been _thunder_ in the course of the day--an occasion of
instruction which the old lady never let pass--she began--

"Thunder has a very awful sound--some say God Almighty is angry
whenever it thunders--that it is the voice of God speaking to us; for
my part, I am not afraid of it"----

And in this manner the old lady was going on to particularize, as
usual, its beneficial effects, in clearing the air, destroying of
vermin, &c., when the entrance of Miss Clare put an end to her
discourse.

Rosamund received her with respectful tenderness--and, taking her
grandmother by the hand, said, with great sweetness,--"Miss Clare is
come to see you, grandmother."

"I beg pardon, lady--I cannot _see_ you--but you are heartily
welcome. Is your brother with you, Miss Clare?--I don't hear him."

"He could not come, madam, but he sends his love by me."

"You have an excellent brother, Miss Clare--but pray do us the honor
to take some refreshment--Rosamund"----

And the old lady was going to give directions for a bottle of her
currant wine--when Elinor, smiling, said "she was come to take a cup
of tea with her, and expected to find no ceremony."

"After tea, I promise myself a walk with you, Rosamund, if your
grandmother can spare you." Rosamund looked at her grandmother.

"Oh, for that matter, I should be sorry to debar the girl from any
pleasure--I am sure it's lonesome enough for her to be with _me_
always--and if Miss Clare will take you out, child, I shall do very
well by myself till you return--it will not be the first time, you
know, that I have been left here alone--some of the neighbors will be
dropping in bye and bye--or, if _not_, I shall take no harm."

Rosamund had all the simple manners of a child; she kissed her
grandmother, and looked happy.

All tea-time the old lady's discourse was little more than a
panegyric on young Clare's good qualities. Elinor looked at her young
friend, and smiled. Rosamund was beginning to look grave--but there
was a cordial sunshine in the face of Elinor, before which any clouds
of reserve that had been gathering on Rosamund's soon brake away.

"Does your grandmother ever go out, Rosamund?"

Margaret prevented the girl's reply, by saying--"My dear young lady,
I am an old woman, and very infirm--Rosamund takes me a few paces
beyond the door sometimes--but I walk very badly--I love best to sit
in our little arbor when the sun shines--I can yet feel it warm and
cheerful--and, if I lose the beauties of the season, I shall be very
happy if you and Rosamund can take delight in this fine summer
evening."

"I shall want to rob you of Rosamund's company now and then, if we
like one another. I had hoped to have seen _you_, madam, at our
house. I don't know whether we could not make room for you to come
and live with us--what say you to it? Allan would be proud to tend
you, I am sure; and Rosamund and I should be nice company."

Margaret was all unused to such kindnesses, and wept--Margaret had a
great spirit--yet she was not above accepting an obligation from a
worthy person--there was a delicacy in Miss Clare's manner--she could
have no interest but pure goodness, to induce her to make the
offer--at length the old lady spake from a full heart.

"Miss Clare, this little cottage received us in our distress--it gave
us shelter when we had _no home_--we have praised God in it--and,
while life remains, I think I shall never part from it--Rosamund does
everything for me"--

"And will do, grandmother, as long as I live;"--and then Rosamund
fell a-crying.

"You are a good girl, Rosamund; and if you do but find friends when I
am dead and gone, I shall want no better accommodation while I
live--but God bless you, lady, a thousand times, for your kind
offer."

Elinor was moved to tears, and, affecting a sprightliness, bade
Rosamund prepare for her walk. The girl put on her white silk bonnet;
and Elinor thought she never beheld so lovely a creature.

They took leave of Margaret, and walked out together; they rambled
over all Rosamund's favorite haunts--through many a sunny field--by
secret glade or wood-walk, where the girl had wandered so often with
her beloved Clare.

Who now so happy as Rosamund? She had oft-times heard Allan speak
with great tenderness of his sister--she was now rambling, arm in
arm, with that very sister, the "vaunted sister" of her friend, her
beloved Clare.

Not a tree, not a bush, scarce a wild flower in their path, but
revived in Rosamund some tender recollection, a conversation perhaps,
or some chaste endearment. Life, and a new scene of things, were now
opening before her--she was got into a fairy land of uncertain
existence.

Rosamund was too happy to talk much--but Elinor was delighted with
her when she _did_ talk:--the girl's remarks were suggested most of
them by the passing scene--and they betrayed, all of them, the
liveliness of present impulse;--her conversation did not consist in a
comparison of vapid feeling, an interchange of sentiment lip-deep--it
had all the freshness of young sensation in it.

Sometimes they talked of Allan.

"Allan is very good," said Rosamund, "very good _indeed_ to my
grandmother--he will sit with her, and hear her stories, and read to
her, and try to divert her a hundred ways. I wonder sometimes he is
not tired. She talks him to death!"

"Then you confess, Rosamund, that the old lady _does_ tire _you_
sometimes?"

"Oh no, I did not mean _that_--it's very different--I am used to all
her ways, and I can humor her, and please her, and I ought to do it,
for she is the only friend I ever had in the world."

The new friends did not conclude their walk till it was late, and
Rosamund began to be apprehensive about the old lady, who had been
all this time alone.

On their return to the cottage, they found that Margaret had been
somewhat impatient--old ladies, _good old ladies_, will be so at
times--age is timorous and suspicious of danger, where no danger is.

Besides, it was Margaret's bedtime, for she kept very good
hours--indeed, in the distribution of her meals, and sundry other
particulars, she resembled the livers in the antique world, more than
might well beseem a creature of this.

So the new friends parted for that night. Elinor having made Margaret
promise to give Rosamund leave to come and see her the next day.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII.

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 bedfellow 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 bride-maids, 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,
within 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 into 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
bedside--a light, as of noonday, shone upon the room--she opened my
curtains--she smiled upon me with the same placid smile as in her
lifetime. 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, he
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 labors 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 neighbors 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
skepticism--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 long have
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 fireside
circle, in that comfortable back parlor--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_.

[Footnote 1: This name will be explained presently.]

"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 readmission 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."

FROM ANOTHER LETTER.

"----Methinks, you and I should have been born under the same roof,
sucked the same milk, conned the same horn-book, 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 sad 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.

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