LETTER XXVI
COLONEL MORDEN, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.SUNDAY NIGHT, SEPT. 10.
DEAR SIR,
According to my promise, I send you an account of matters here. PoorMrs. Norton was so very ill upon the road, that, slowly as the hearsemoved, and the chariot followed, I was afraid we should not have got herto St. Albans. We put up there as I had intended. I was in hopes thatshe would have been better for the stop: but I was forced to leave herbehind me. I ordered the maid-servant you were so considerately kind asto send down with her, to be very careful of her; and left the chariot toattend her. She deserves all the regard that can be paid her; not onlyupon my cousin's account, but on her own--she is an excellent woman.
When we were within five miles of Harlowe-place, I put on a hand-gallop.I ordered the hearse to proceed more slowly still, the cross-road we werein being rough; and having more time before us than I wanted; for Iwished not the hearse to be in till near dusk. I got to Harlowe-placeabout four o'clock. You may believe I found a mournful house. Youdesire me to be very minute.
At my entrance into the court, they were all in motion. Every servantwhom I saw had swelled eyes, and looked with so much concern, that atfirst I apprehended some new disaster had happened in the family. Mr.John and Mr. Antony Harlowe and Mrs. Hervey were there. They all helpedon one another's grief, as they had before done each other's hardness ofheart.
My cousin James met me at the entrance of the hall. His countenanceexpressed a fixed concern; and he desired me to excuse his behaviour thelast time I was there.
My cousin Arabella came to me full of tears and grief.
O Cousin! said she, hanging upon my arm, I dare not ask you anyquestions!--About the approach of the hearse, I suppose she meant.
I myself was full of grief; and, without going farther or speaking, satdown in the hall in the first chair.
The brother sat on one hand of me, the sister on the other. Both weresilent. The latter in tears.
Mr. Antony Harlowe came to me soon after. His face was overspread withall the appearance of woe. He requested me to walk into the parlour;where, as he said, were all his fellow-mourners.
I attended him in. My cousins James and Arabella followed me.
A perfect concert of grief, as I may say, broke out the moment I enteredthe parlour.
My cousin Harlowe, the dear creature's father, as soon as he saw me,said, O Cousin, Cousin, of all our family, you are the only one who havenothing to reproach yourself with!--You are a happy man!
The poor mother, bowing her head to me in speechless grief, sat with herhandkerchief held to her eyes with one hand. The other hand was held byher sister Hervey, between both her's; Mrs. Hervey weeping upon it.
Near the window sat Mr. John Harlowe, his face and his body turned fromthe sorrowing company; his eyes red and swelled.
My cousin Antony, at his re-entering the parlour, went towards Mrs.Harlowe--Don't--dear Sister, said he!--Then towards my cousin Harlowe--Don't--dear Brother!--Don't thus give way--And, without being able tosay another word, went to a corner of the parlour, and, wanting himselfthe comfort he would fain have given, sunk into a chair, and audiblysobbed.
Miss Arabella followed her uncle Antony, as he walked in before me, andseemed as if she would have spoken to the pierced mother some words ofcomfort. But she was unable to utter them, and got behind her mother'schair; and, inclining her face over it, on the unhappy lady's shoulder,seemed to claim the consolation that indulgent parent used, but then wasunable, to afford her.
Young Mr. Harlowe, with all his vehemence of spirit, was now subdued.His self-reproaching conscience, no doubt, was the cause of it.
And what, Sir, must their thoughts be, which, at that moment, in amanner, deprived them of all motion, and turned their speech into sighsand groans!--How to be pitied, how greatly to be pitied! all of them!But how much to be cursed that abhorred Lovelace, who, as it seems, byarts uncommon, and a villany without example, has been the sole authorof a woe so complicated and extensive!--God judge me, as--But I stop--the man (the man can I say?) is your friend!--He already suffers, youtell me, in his intellect.--Restore him, Heaven, to that--If I find thematter come out, as I apprehend it will--indeed her own hint of his usageof her, as in her will, is enough--nor think, my beloved cousin, thoudarling of my heart! that thy gentle spirit, breathing charity andforgiveness to the vilest of men, shall avail him!--But once more I stop--forgive me, Sir!--Who could behold such a scene, who could recollect itin order to describe it, (as minutely as you wished me to relate how thisunhappy family were affected on this sad occasion,) every one of themourners nearly related to himself, and not to be exasperated against theauthor of all?
As I was the only person (grieved as I was myself) from whom any of them,at that instant, could derive comfort; Let us not, said I, my dearCousin, approaching the inconsolable mother, give way to a grief, which,however just, can now avail us nothing. We hurt ourselves, and cannotrecall the dear creature for whom we mourn. Nor would you wish it, ifyou know with what assurance of eternal happiness she left the world--Sheis happy, Madam!--depend upon it, she is happy! And comfort yourselveswith that assurance!
O Cousin, Cousin! cried the unhappy mother, withdrawing her hand fromthat of her sister Hervey, and pressing mine with it, you know not whata child I have lost!--Then in a low voice, and how lost!--That it is thatmakes the loss insupportable.
They all joined in a kind of melancholy chorus, and each accused him andherself, and some of them one another. But the eyes of all, in turn,were cast upon my cousin James, as the person who had kept up the generalresentment against so sweet a creature. While he was hardly able to bearhis own remorse: nor Miss Harlowe her's; she breaking out into words, Howtauntingly did I write to her! How barbarously did I insult her! Yethow patiently did she take it!--Who would have thought that she had beenso near her end!--O Brother, Brother! but for you!--But for you!--Doublenot upon me, said he, my own woes! I have every thing before me that haspassed! I thought only to reclaim a dear creature that had erred! Iintended not to break her tender heart! But it was the villanousLovelace who did that--not any of us!--Yet, Cousin, did she not attributeall to me?--I fear she did!--Tell me only, did she name me, did she speakof me, in her last hours? I hope she, who could forgive the greatestvillain on earth, and plead that he may be safe from our vengeance, Ihope she could forgive me.
She died blessing you all; and justified rather than condemned yourseverity to her.
Then they set up another general lamentation. We see, said her father,enough we see, in her heart-piercing letters to us, what a happy frameshe was in a few days before her death--But did it hold to the last? Hadshe no repinings? Had the dear child no heart burnings?
None at all!--I never saw, and never shall see, so blessed a departure:and no wonder; for I never heard of such a preparation. Every hour, forweeks together, were taken up in it. Let this be our comfort: we needonly to wish for so happy an end for ourselves, and for those who arenearest to our hearts. We may any of us be grieved for acts ofunkindness to her: but had all happened that once she wished for, shecould not have made a happier, perhaps not so happy an end.
Dear soul! and Dear sweet soul! the father, uncles, sister, my cousinHervey, cried out all at once, in accents of anguish inexpressiblyaffecting.
We must for every be disturbed for those acts of unkindness to so sweet achild, cried the unhappy mother!--Indeed! indeed! [softly to her sisterHervey,] I have been too passive, much too passive in this case!--Thetemporary quiet I have been so studious all my life to preserve, has costme everlasting disquiet!----There she stopt.
Dear Sister! was all Mrs. Hervey could say.
I have done but half my duty to the dearest and most meritorious ofchildren, resumed the sorrowing mother!--Nay, not half!--How have wehardened our hearts against her!----Again her tears denied passage to herwords.
My dearest, dearest Sister!--again was all Mrs. Hervey could say.
Would to
Heaven, proceeded, exclaiming, the poor mother, I had but onceseen her! Then, turning to my cousin James, and his sister--O my son!O my Arabella! if WE were to receive as little mercy--And there again shestopt, her tears interrupting her farther speech; every one, all thetime, remaining silent; their countenances showing a grief in theirhearts too big for expression.
Now you see, Mr. Belford, that my dearest cousin could be allowed all hermerit!--What a dreadful thing is after-reflection upon a conduct soperverse and unnatural?
O this cursed friend of your's, Mr. Belford! This detested Lovelace!--Tohim, to him is owing--
Pardon me, Sir. I will lay down my pen till I have recovered my temper.
ONE IN THE MORNING.
In vain, Sir, have I endeavoured to compose myself to rest. You wishedme to be very particular, and I cannot help it. This melancholy subjectfills my whole mind. I will proceed, though it be midnight.
About six o'clock the hearse came to the outward gate--the parish churchis at some distance; but the wind setting fair, the afflicted family werestruck, just before it came, into a fresh fit of grief, on hearing thefuneral bell tolled in a very solemn manner. A respect, as it proved,and as they all guessed, paid to the memory of the dear deceased, out ofofficious love, as the hearse passed near the church.
Judge, when their grief was so great in expectation of it, what it mustbe when it arrived.
A servant came in to acquaint us with what its lumbering heavy noise upthe paved inner court-yard apprized us of before. He spoke not. Hecould not speak. He looked, bowed, and withdrew.
I stept out. No one else could then stir. Her brother, however, soonfollowed me. When I came to the door, I beheld a sight very affecting.
You have heard, Sir, how universally my dear cousin was beloved. By thepoor and middling sort especially, no young lady was ever so muchbeloved. And with reason: she was the common patroness of all the honestpoor in her neighbourhood.
It is natural for us, in every deep and sincere grief, to interest all weknow in what is so concerning to ourselves. The servants of the family,it seems, had told their friends, and those their's, that though, living,their dear young lady could not be received nor looked upon, her body waspermitted to be brought home. The space of time was so confined, thatthose who knew when she died, must easily guess near the time the hearsewas to come. A hearse, passing through country villages, and fromLondon, however slenderly attended, (for the chariot, as I have said,waited upon poor Mrs. Norton,) takes every one's attention. Nor was ithard to guess whose this must be, though not adorned by escutcheons, whenthe cross-roads to Harlowe-place were taken, as soon as it came withinsix miles of it; so that the hearse, and the solemn tolling of the bell,had drawn together at least fifty, or the neighbouring men, women, andchildren, and some of good appearance. Not a soul of them, it seems,with a dry eye, and each lamenting the death of this admired lady, who,as I am told, never stirred out, but somebody was the better for her.
These, when the coffin was taken out of the hearse, crowding about it,hindered, for a few moments, its being carried in; the young peoplestruggling who should bear it; and yet, with respectful whisperings,rather than clamorous contention. A mark of veneration I had neverbefore seen paid, upon any occasion in all my travels, from theunder-bred many, from whom noise is generally inseparable in all theiremulations.
At last six maidens were permitted to carry it in by the six handles.
The corpse was thus borne, with the most solemn respect, into the hall,and placed for the present upon two stools there. The plates, andemblems, and inscription, set every one gazing upon it, and admiring it.The more, when they were told, that all was of her own ordering. Theywished to be permitted a sight of the corpse; but rather mentioned thisas their wish than as their hope. When they had all satisfied theircuriosity, and remarked upon the emblems, they dispersed with blessingsupon her memory, and with tears and lamentations; pronouncing her to behappy; and inferring, were she not so, what would become of them? Whileothers ran over with repetitions of the good she delighted to do. Norwere there wanting those among them, who heaped curses upon the man whowas the author of her fall.
The servants of the family then got about the coffin. They could notbefore: and that afforded a new scene of sorrow: but a silent one; forthey spoke only by their eyes, and by sighs, looking upon the lid, andupon one another, by turns, with hands lifted up. The presence of theiryoung master possibly might awe them, and cause their grief to beexpressed only in dumb show.
As for Mr. James Harlowe, (who accompanied me, but withdrew when he sawthe crowd,) he stood looking upon the lid, when the people had left it,with a fixed attention: yet, I dare say, knew not a symbol or letter uponit at that moment, had the question been asked him. In a profoundreverie he stood, his arms folded, his head on one side, and marks ofstupefaction imprinted upon every feature.
But when the corpse was carried into the lesser parlour, adjoining to thehall, which she used to call her parlour, and put upon a table in themidst of the room, and the father and mother, the two uncles, her auntHervey, and her sister, came in, joining her brother and me, withtrembling feet, and eager woe, the scene was still more affecting. Theirsorrow was heightened, no doubt, by the remembrance of their unforgivingseverity: and now seeing before them the receptacle that contained theglory of their family, who so lately was driven thence by theirindiscreet violence; never, never more to be restored to the! no wonderthat their grief was more than common grief.
They would have withheld the mother, it seems, from coming in. But whenthey could not, though undetermined before, they all bore her company,led on by an impulse they could not resist. The poor lady but just casther eye upon the coffin, and then snatched it away, retiring withpassionate grief towards the window; yet, addressing herself, withclasped hands, as if to her beloved daughter: O my Child, my Child! criedshe; thou pride of my hope! Why was I not permitted to speak pardon andpeace to thee!--O forgive thy cruel mother!
Her son (his heart then softened, as his eyes showed,) besought her towithdraw: and her woman looking in at that moment, he called her toassist him in conducting her lady into the middle parlour: and thenreturning, met his father going out of the door, who also had but justcast his eye on the coffin, and yielded to my entreaties to withdraw.His grief was too deep for utterance, till he saw his son coming in; andthen, fetching a heavy groan, Never, said he, was sorrow like my sorrow!--O Son! Son!--in a reproaching accent, his face turned from him.
I attended him through the middle parlour, endeavouring to console him.His lady was there in agonies. She took his eye. He made a motiontowards her: O my dear, said he--But turning short, his eyes as full ashis heart, he hastened through to the great parlour: and when there, hedesired me to leave him to himself.
The uncles and sister looked and turned away, very often, upon theemblems, in silent sorrow. Mrs. Hervey would have read to them theinscription--These words she did read, Here the wicked cease fromtroubling--But could read no farther. Her tears fell in large drops uponthe plate she was contemplating; and yet she was desirous of gratifying acuriosity that mingled impatience with her grief because she could notgratify it, although she often wiped her eyes as they flowed.
Judge you, Mr. Belford, (for you have great humanity,) how I must beaffected. Yet was I forced to try to comfort them all.
But here I will close this letter, in order to send it to you in themorning early. Nevertheless, I will begin another, upon supposition thatmy doleful prolixity will be disagreeable to you. Indeed I am altogetherindisposed for rest, as I have mentioned before. So can do nothing butwrite. I have also more melancholy scenes to paint. My pen, if I maysay so, is untired. These scenes are fresh upon my memory: and I myself,perhaps, may owe to you the favour of a review of them, with such otherpapers as you shall think proper to oblige me with, when heavy grief hasgiven way to milder melancholy.
My servant, in his way to you with this letter, shall call at St. Alban'supon
the good woman, that he may inform you how she does. Miss Arabellaasked me after her, when I withdrew to my chamber; to which shecomplaisantly accompanied me. She was much concerned at the bad way weleft her in; and said her mother would be more so.
No wonder that the dear departed, who foresaw the remorse that would fallto the lot of this unhappy family when they came to have the news of herdeath confirmed to them, was so grieved for their apprehended grief, andendeavoured to comfort them by her posthumous letters. But it was stilla greater generosity in her to try to excuse them to me, as she did whenwe were alone together, a few hours before she died; and to aggravatemore than (as far as I can find) she ought to have done, the only errorshe was ever guilty of. The more freely, however, perhaps, (exaltedcreature!) that I might think the better of her friends, although at herown expense. I am, dear Sir,
Your faithful and obedient servant,WM. MORDEN.