University of Virginia Library

LETTER XXXVIII.
Rev. Edward Hayley to Frederic Lewis, Esq.

THE painful task has fallen to my lot to inform
you, that the mortal part of your sister,
Mrs. Darnley, rests on its last bed; but we
have strong reason to hope and believe, that her
soul rejoices in the presence of her Creator.
She slept in death on the 13th of this month,
and was interred on the 20th, yet could I not
summon sufficient composure to address you,
until to-day, on the heart wringing subject. If
I, who have known her but a few years, feel her
loss so severely, what language can be employed
to soften the intelligence to a brother who grew

up with her from childhood, and who knew and
justly appreciated her value!

Enclosed is a letter, which, as its writing was
attended with peculiarly affecting circumstances,
I imagine will be extremely valuable to you.
Mrs. Darnley desired me to acquaint you with
the circumstance she there alluded to. I must
previously inform you, that during your sister's
long illness, the greatest pleasure she could enjoy
was riding round the village, and visiting the
poor, the sick, and the afflicted; and though
from various circumstances, I have reason to
suppose she was not rich; it was astonishing to
see by how many ways she would assist, comfort
and relieve the necessitous; practically
shewing, that where the desire of being useful
exists in the heart, the means will always be
found. And a trifle bestowed in warm clothing,
ready for wearing, and a few of the comforts of
life to the sick and aged, such as sago, tea, sugar, a
little wine, chocolate, or coffee, distributed with
discrimination, will do more essential service,
than hundreds lavished without judgment by
the hand of prodigality. As I frequently had
the honor of attending her in these excursions,
Mr. Darnley being prevented that pleasure by
his employment, I was ever solicitous to discover
objects that would interest her; as for many
weeks previous to her dissolution, no other
means would promote the desired end of her
taking air and exercise. I now proceed with the
narrative the dear deceased was unable to finish,
continuing from where she broke off.

I questioned the woman if she knew Mrs.
Darnley; she hesitated, and then replied, “Yes,
I wish I could see her.” From further conversation,
I found something lay heavy on her mind.
I perceived also that she was in want of many
comforts and necessaries which your sister
knew so well how to supply with delicacy, that
I did not attempt any thing myself until I had
her better judgment to direct me. There was
a middle aged woman with her, whose manners,
language and appearance, indicated that she had
not been always the child of abject poverty.

On the morning when I accompanied Mrs.
Darnley to the lodging of the invalid, whose
name I then understood was Manners, her companion
was absent. Mrs. Darnley approached
the bed, and addressed her in those consolatory
accents which ever flowed from her lips: but the
old woman was so agitated, that for some time
she could not speak, at length she articulated,
“Forgive—I am punished—vice is its own reward.”
“Who are you?” said Mrs. Darnley;
but before she could receive an answer, the
companion entered “Good God!” exclaimed
the woman,starting back. “Jessey—Jessey Romain!”
said your sister, with quickness, and catching
her breath as though oppressed with a sense
of suffocation, covered her face with her hands,
and fell into an hysterical fit of tears. I now too
late perceived that I had brought my valued
friend into a situation too distressing for the
weak and irritable state of her nerves. I threw

up the window, and seeing some drops on the
table,poured a little into some water, and entreated
her to swallow it. She recovered her voice,
and turning again to the person in the bed, she
said, “Is it possible that you can be Mrs. Bellamy?”
I will not pretend to describe the scene
that ensued. I almost forced Mrs. Darnley out
of the house, and hastened her home, bitterly
repenting my officiousness in taking her to visit
these women. She retired immediately to her
own apartment, only requesting to see me in
the evening. When I went, I found her extremely
low; in a few short, but emphatic sentences,
she gave me to understand that she had
received from both these women the highest
injuries that one human being can receive from
another; her peace of mind had been destroyed,
her domestic quiet broken, her character calumniated.
She thus concluded. “I had hoped to
have died without again beholding those disgraces
to womanhood; but this is no time to indulge
resentment, I have too much need of forgiveness
myself to hold enmity with any one. You say
they are distressed. What little is in my power,
I will cheerfully do for them, but indeed I cannot
see them again.” Then after a short pause, she
continued: “I will confess I am at a loss to account
for their present distressed situation. I
wish, Mr. Hayley, you would see them.”

I readily promised to visit them, obtain all the
information in my power, and administer to their
necessities. I found Mrs. Bellamy had been

deserted by her daughter, who had left lord Linden,
and gone to Italy with a French adventurer;
her grand daughter Caroline had fallen from one
grade of vice to another, to which she had been
incited by her wretched mother and grand
mother, until, in the very bloom of life, she fell a
victim to disease and wretchedness in a common
prison. Thus the sins of the parent were visited
upon the child. Jessey Romain had become the
companion of Mrs. Bellamy, and finding themselves
reduced to the very last ebb in fame and
finances, they resolved to try their fortune in
England. They embarked at Waterford, but a
variety of concurring circumstances threw them
sick and destitute on the coast of Wales, where
they fell under my notice. The woman Bellamy
seems hastening to her final audit; her terrors
are great, nor can I inspire her with the least
hope that penitence will obtain the pardon of her
Judge. “I cannot think of it now,” she cries,
“for I cannot prove my sincerity by altering my
course of life.”

Mrs. Darnley, from the day of this unfortunate
visit, drooped hourly. Yet she was not
confined to her bed, and as she ever was particularly
fond of writing, she always had the pens,
ink and paper, on a stand by her easy chair;
though for above six weeks, she seldom had
written more than two or three lines at a time.
The day she wrote the last line in the letter I
enclose, her husband and myself were sitting at

the other end of the room, when we heard her
breathe a deep sigh; a deathly paleness overspread
her face, the pen fell from her fingers,
and before we could get to her, she sunk lifeless
back in her chair. We lifted her on the bed,
and summoned assistance; in about half an
hour, respiration returned, and lifting her dying
eyes with an expression, never to be eraced from
my memory, she said faintly, “It is the last
struggle.” This was about five in the afternoon;
upon the arrival of the physician, he pronounced
that she would never again leave her bed, though
she might possibly linger three or four days, but
in all probability a much shorter period would
close the scene. During the night, she had
several hours of composed rest. I did not leave
the house; my heart was wrung with inexpressible
anguish, and Mr. Darnley stood in need of
comfort and support; indeed, at times, it seemed
as if his reason would forsake him; he execrated
himself, execrated the women, whose presence he
imagined had hastened the approaching dissolution
of his wife. Mr. Lewis, it was a night of
distress and misery. About sun rise, being told
that I was in the house, she desired to see me.
“My worthy friend,” said she, “God has been
very good to me, and has afforded me a short
repose to recruit my strength, that I may perform
all my duties before I go henee. I wish to
partake of the solemn rite of the Lord's supper;
will you pray by me and administer it? that I
may die in peace with all my fellow creatures,
and oh, my friend, pray! pray earnestly, that I
may enter into the peace of my Savior.” While I
was preparing for this solemnity, she desired to
see her husband and son. When all was prepared,
and she supported in the bed by a domestic
who was very much attached to her, (as indeed
all are who have had an opportunity to investigate
her character) she held out one hand to me
and one to Mr. Darnley,at the same time placing
Charles between us. “George,” said she to her
husband, “whatever disagreements may have
been between us, I pray you believe I never
meant wilfully to give you pain, or offend you.
I have had many faults; when I am gone, remember
them not against me, but consign them with
my memory to oblivion; and believe me, as I
stand on the verge of eternity, one thought that
tended to your dishonor has never been amongst
them. Mr. Hayley, I owe much to your friendship;
it has been the sweetener of the last years
of my life; it has smoothed my passage to the
grave; it will, I hope and trust, be renewed beyond
it. Charles, my good lad, I leave you.
May God bless you, may you be virtuous, and in
the end be assured you will be happy; be dutiful
to your father. George, be a faithful father to
this poor boy, he has no mother. Mr. Hayley—
though the whole world forsake him, be you his
friend. One thing more, tell those unhappy
women, Bellamy and Romain, my last religious
act will include a prayer for their eternal welfare;
and if I have hated them, I hope it was
their vices, not themselves, towards whom I
nourished that sentiment” Then folding her
hands, and elevating her eyes with the most
affecting fervor, she audibly repeated the Lord's
prayer, and turning her face toward me, begged
me to proceed in my office. I do assure you,
dear sir, it was with the utmost difficulty that I
could perform the service; my voice was choaked,
and I could scarcely restrain the sobs that labored
in my convulsed bosom; a sweet and solemn
serenity pervaded her voice and countenance as
she joined in the responses. When it was over,
she embraced us all; the chill of death was on
her lips which pressed against my cheek. “It is
an awful thing to die,” said she, “to stand in the
presence of a God of purity; oh! what have I
to plead?—nothing—and only that I know, He,
who said, “Lazarus, come forth,” and the dead
obeyed his voice, can and will purify me from my
offences, I should fear greatly. But he has said,
“I am the resurrection and the life,and whosoever
believeth on me shall not perish.” Her voice
faltered, she sunk back, her eyes were fixed upwards,
and her ardent spirit took its flight to the
regions of immortality.

After this account of her exit, to offer any
thing by way of consolation, would be impertinent
and superfluous. I will therefore drop my
pen, after having entreated a continuance of your
friendship. I am, dear sir,