In vain, Sir, have I endeavoured to compose myself to rest. You wished
me to be very particular, and I cannot help it. This melancholy subject
fills my whole mind. I will proceed, though it be midnight.
About six o'clock the hearse came to the outward gate--the parish church
is at some distance; but the wind setting fair, the afflicted family were
struck, just before it came, into a fresh fit of grief, on hearing the
funeral 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 of
officious love, as the hearse passed near the church.
Judge, when their grief was so great in expectation of it, what it must
be when it arrived.
A servant came in to acquaint us with what its lumbering heavy noise up
the paved inner court-yard apprized us of before. He spoke not. He
could not speak. He looked, bowed, and withdrew.
I stept out. No one else could then stir. Her brother, however, soon
followed 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 the
poor and middling sort especially, no young lady was ever so much
beloved. And with reason: she was the common patroness of all the honest
poor in her neighbourhood.
It is natural for us, in every deep and sincere grief, to interest all we
know 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 was
permitted to be brought home. The space of time was so confined, that
those who knew when she died, must easily guess near the time the hearse
was to come. A hearse, passing through country villages, and from
London, however slenderly attended, (for the chariot, as I have said,
waited upon poor Mrs. Norton,) takes every one's attention. Nor was it
hard to guess whose this must be, though not adorned by escutcheons, when
the cross-roads to Harlowe-place were taken, as soon as it came within
six miles of it; so that the hearse, and the solemn tolling of the bell,
had drawn together at least fifty of the neighbouring men, women, and
children, 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 people
struggling who should bear it; and yet, with respectful whisperings,
rather than clamorous contention. A mark of veneration I had never
before seen paid, upon any occasion in all my travels, from the
under-bred many, from whom noise is generally inseparable in all their
emulations.
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, and
emblems, and inscription, set every one gazing upon it, and admiring it.
The more, when they were told, that all was of her own ordering. They
wished to be permitted a sight of the corpse; but rather mentioned this
as their wish than as their hope. When they had all satisfied their
curiosity, and remarked upon the emblems, they dispersed with blessings
upon her memory, and with tears and lamentations; pronouncing her to be
happy; and inferring, were she not so, what would become of them? While
others ran over with repetitions of the good she delighted to do. Nor
were there wanting those among them, who heaped curses upon the man who
was the author of her fall.
The servants of the family then got about the coffin. They could not
before: and that afforded a new scene of sorrow: but a silent one; for
they spoke only by their eyes, and by sighs, looking upon the lid, and
upon one another, by turns, with hands lifted up. The presence of their
young master possibly might awe them, and cause their grief to be
expressed only in dumb show.
As for Mr. James Harlowe, (who accompanied me, but withdrew when he saw
the 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 upon
it at that moment, had the question been asked him. In a profound
reverie he stood, his arms folded, his head on one side, and marks of
stupefaction imprinted upon every feature.
But when the corpse was carried into the lesser parlour, adjoining to the
hall, which she used to call her parlour, and put upon a table in the
midst of the room, and the father and mother, the two uncles, her aunt
Hervey, and her sister, came in, joining her brother and me, with
trembling feet, and eager woe, the scene was still more affecting. Their
sorrow was heightened, no doubt, by the remembrance of their unforgiving
severity: and now seeing before them the receptacle that contained the
glory of their family, who so lately was driven thence by their
indiscreet violence; never, never more to be restored to them no wonder
that their grief was more than common grief.
They would have withheld the mother, it seems, from coming in. But when
they could not, though undetermined before, they all bore her company,
led on by an impulse they could not resist. The poor lady but just cast
her eye upon the coffin, and then snatched it away, retiring with
passionate grief towards the window; yet, addressing herself, with
clasped hands, as if to her beloved daughter: O my Child, my Child! cried
she; thou pride of my hope! Why was I not permitted to speak pardon and
peace to thee!--O forgive thy cruel mother!
Her son (his heart then softened, as his eyes showed,) besought her to
withdraw: and her woman looking in at that moment, he called her to
assist him in conducting her lady into the middle parlour: and then
returning, met his father going out of the door, who also had but just
cast 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; and
then, 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 motion
towards her: O my dear, said he--But turning short, his eyes as full as
his heart, he hastened through to the great parlour: and when there, he
desired me to leave him to himself.
The uncles and sister looked and turned away, very often, upon the
emblems, in silent sorrow. Mrs. Hervey would have read to them the
inscription--These words she did read, Here the wicked cease from
troubling--But could read no farther. Her tears fell in large drops upon
the plate she was contemplating; and yet she was desirous of gratifying a
curiosity that mingled impatience with her grief because she could not
gratify it, although she often wiped her eyes as they flowed.
Judge you, Mr. Belford, (for you have great humanity,) how I must be
affected. 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 the
morning early. Nevertheless, I will begin another, upon supposition that
my doleful prolixity will be disagreeable to you. Indeed I am altogether
indisposed for rest, as I have mentioned before. So can do nothing but
write. I have also more melancholy scenes to paint. My pen, if I may
say 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 other
papers as you shall think proper to oblige me with, when heavy grief has
given way to milder melancholy.
My servant, in his way to you with this letter, shall call at St. Alban's
upon the good woman, that he may inform you how she does. Miss Arabella
asked me after her, when I withdrew to my chamber; to which she
complaisantly accompanied me. She was much concerned at the bad way we
left her in; and said her mother would be more so.
No wonder that the dear departed, who foresaw the remorse that would fall
to the lot of this unhappy family when they came to have the news of her
death confirmed to them, was so grieved for their apprehended grief, and
endeavoured to comfort them by her posthumous letters. But it was still
a greater generosity in her to try to excuse them to me, as she did when
we were alone together, a few hours before she died; and to aggravate
more than (as far as I can find) she ought to have done, the only error
she was ever guilty of. The more freely, however, perhaps, (exalted
creature!) that I might think the better of her friends, although at her
own expense. I am, dear Sir,
Your faithful and obedient servant,
WM. MORDEN.