To Colonel Bellville.
Sunday Morning.
I AM just come from chapel with Lady
Belmont, who has been pouring out the
sorrows of her soul to her Creator, with a
fervor of devotion which a mind like hers
alone can feel: when she approached the
seat once filled by Lady Julia, the tears
streamed involuntarily down her cheeks; she
wiped them away, she raised her eyes to
Heaven, and falling on her knees, with a
look of pious resignation, seemed to sacrifise
her grief to her God, or at least to suspend
the expression of it in his presence.
Next Sunday she goes to the parish
church, where the angelic pair are interred;
I dread her seeing the vault, yet think she
cannot too soon visit every place which
must renew the excess of her affliction; she
will then, and not till then, find, by degrees,
the violence of her sorrow subside, and give
way to that pleasing melancholy, that tender
regret, which, however strange it may
appear, is one of the most charming sensations
of the human heart.
Whether it be that the mind abhors nothing
like a state of inaction, or from whatever
cause I know not, but grief itself is
more agreeable to us than indifference; nay,
if not too exquisite, is in the highest degree
delightful; of which the pleasure we take
in tragedy, or in talking of our dead friends,
is a striking proof; we wish not to be cured
of what we feel on these occasions; the tears
we shed are charming, we even indulge in
them. Bellville, does not the very word indulge
shew the sensation to be pleasurable?
I have just now a letter from my niece;
she is in despair at this dreadful event; she
sees the amiable, the venerable parents,
whose happiness was the ardent wish of her
soul, and from whom she had received every
proof of esteem and friendship, reduced to
the extremest misery, by the hand of him she
loves: for ever excluded from Belmont, for
ever to them an object of horror, she seems
to herself guilty of their wretchedness, she
seems to have struck the fatal blow.
Since Mr. Mandeville's death, she has left
Lady Mary; whose tears, she fancied, were
redoubled at her sight.
Nor is she less wretched on Lord Melvin's
account: she is distracted with her terrors
for his life; which is however safe by Mr.
Mandeville's generous care, who, when expiring,
gave testimony to his innocence.
You will oblige me by begging of Lady
Betty to take her at present under her protection:
it ill suits the delicacy of her sex
and birth to remain in London alone and
unconnected: with your amiable mother,
she cannot fail of being happy.
I had perswaded Lady Belmont to walk
in the garden; she went with me, leaning
on my arm, when, the door being opened,
the first object that struck her sight was
the pavilion raised for the marriage of her
daughter, which none of us had thought
of having removed.
She started, she returned hastily to her
apartment, and, throwing herself on a couch,
gave a loose to all the anguish of her soul.
Bellville, every object she meets will remind
her of the darling of her heart.
My Lord and Colonel Mandeville are together;
they are projecting a tomb for their
lovely children: a tomb worthy the ardour
of their own parental affection; worthy to
perpetuate the memory of their virtues,
their love, and their wretched fate. How
often shall I visit this tomb, how often strew
it with the sweetest flowers!
Sunday Afternoon.
As I passed this moment through the saloon,
I went mechanically to the window
from whence we used to contemplate the
happy group of villagers. Bellville, how
was I struck with the change! not one of
the late joyous train appeared; all was a
dismal scene of silent unsocial solitude: lost
to the idea of pleasure, all revere, all partake,
the sorrows of the godlike benefactors:
with Lady Julia, all joy has left the
once charming shades of Belmont.
Lord Fondville is gone past with his bride,
in all the splendor of exulting transport.
Scarce can I forbear accusing Heaven! the
worthless live and prosper; the virtuous sink
untimely to the grave.
My Lord has ordered the pavilion to be
removed; he will build an obelisk on the
spot where it stood, on the spot once dedicated
to the happiness of his child.
A stranger has been to-day at the parish
church, enquiring for the grave of Mr.
Mandeville; his behaviour witnessed the
most lively sorrow: it can be no other than
Mr. Herbert. I have told this to my Lord,
who will write and ask him to Belmont,
that he may mix his tears with ours; whoever
loved Mr. Mandeville will be here
a most welcome guest.
Monday Morning.
I have perswaded Lady Belmont to go
out for an hour with me in my chariot this
morning: we are to go a private road,
where we are sure of not seeing a human
being. Adieu!
