To Colonel Bellville.
Thursday Morning.
THE most lovely of men is no more;
he expired early this morning, after
having in my presence owned to my
Lord, that jealousy was the true cause of
his attacking Lord Melvin, who only
fought in his own defence; which he intreated
him publicly to attest, and to beg
Lord Melvin's pardon, in his name, for
insults which madness alone could excuse,
and which it was not in man to bear; he
owned Lord Melvin's behavior in the duel
had been noble; and that he had avoided
giving him the least wound, till, urged by
fury and despair, and aiming at the life of
his generous enemy rather than at his own
defence, he had rushed on the point of his
sword.
He expressed great indifference for life
on his own account, but dreaded the effect
his death might have on the most tender
of fathers: intreated my Lord to soften so
painful a stroke by preparing him for it by
degrees, and, if possible, to conceal from
him the shocking manner of it. "How
ill, said he, has my rashness repaid him
for all his anxious cares, his indulgent
goodness! I suffer justly; but for him–
Great God! support him in the dreadful
trial, and pour all thy blessings on his
head!"
He then proceeded to expostulate gently
with Lord Belmont on his supposed design
of forcing the heart of his daughter,
and on that neglect of himself which had
planted the furies of jealousy in his breast,
and occasioned this shocking event. These
reproaches brought on an explanation of
the situation to which his danger had reduced
Lady Julia, of my Lord's intention
of giving her to him, and of the whole plan
of purposed happiness, which his impatience,
irritated by a series of unforeseen accidents,
had so fatally destroyed.
Till now, he had appeared perfectly composed;
but, from the moment my Lord began
to speak, a wildness had appeared in
his countenance, which rose, before he ended,
to little less than distraction; he raved, he
reproached Heaven itself; then, melting
into tears, prayed with fervor unspeakable
for Lady Julia's recovery: the agitation of
his mind caused his wounds to bleed afresh;
successive faintings were the consequence,
in one of which he expired.
Lord Belmont is now writing to Colonel
Mandeville. How many has this dreadful
event involved in misery!
Who shall tell this to Lady Julia? Yet
how conceal it from her? I dread the most
fatal effects from her despair, when returning
reason makes her capable of knowing
her own wretchedness; at present, she is in
a state of perfect insensibility; her fever is
not the least abated; she has every symptom
which can indicate danger. Lady Belmont
and Emily Howard have never left her bedside
a moment. I have with difficulty persuaded
them to attempt to rest a few hours,
and am going to take Lady Belmont's place
by her bedside.
Ten o'Clock.
The physician is gone; he thinks Lady
Julia in danger, but has not told this to
the family: I am going again to her apartment;
she has not yet taken notice of any
body.
I had been about half an hour in Lady
Julia's room, when, having sent the last
attendant away for something I wanted,
she looked round, and saw we were alone;
she half raised herself int he bed, and, grasping
my hand, fixed her enquiring eyes ardently
on mine. I too well understood
their meaning, and, unable to hide my grief,
was rising to leave the bedside, when
catching hold of me, with a look and air
which froze my soul; "Lady Anne," said
she, "does he live?" My silence, and the
tears which I could not conceal, explained
to her the fatal truth, when, raising her
streaming eyes and supplicating hands to
Heaven––Oh! Bellville; no words can
describe the excess of her sorrow and despair;
–fearful of the most fatal instant effects,
I was obliged to call her attendants,
of whose entrance she took not the least notice.
After remaining some time absorbed
in an agony of grief, which took from her
all power of utterance, and made her insensible
to all around her, the tears, which
she shed in great abundance, seemed to
give her relief: my heart was melted; I
wept with her. She saw my tears; and,
pressing my hand tenderly between hers,
seemed to thank me for the part I took in
her afflictions: I had not opposed the torrent
of her despair; but, when I saw it
subsiding, endeavoured to soothe her with
all the tender attention and endearing sympathy
of faithful friendship; which so far
succeeded, that I have left her more composed
than I could have imagined it possible
she should so soon have been; she has even
an appearance of tranquillity which amazes
me; and, seeming inclined to take rest, I
have left her for that purpose.
May Heaven restore her to her wretched
Parents, whose life is wrapt in hers!
May it inspire her with courage to bear this
stroke, the severest a feeling mind can
suffer! Her youth, her sweetness of temper,
her unaffected piety, her filial tenderness,
sometimes flatter me with a hope of her
recovery; but when I think on that melting
sensibility, on that exquisitely tender heart,
which bleeds for the sorrow of every human
being, I give way to all the horrors
of despair.
Lady Julia has sent to speak with me: I
will not a moment delay attending her.
How blest should I be, if the sympathizing
bosom of Friendship could soften by partaking
her sorrows!
Oh! Bellville! what a request has she
made! my blood runs back at the idea.
She received me with a composed air,
begged me to sit down by her bedside, and,
sending away her attendants, spoke as follows;
"You are, I doubt not, my dear
Lady Anne, surprized at the seeming
tranquil manner in which I bear the greatest
of all misfortunes–Yes, my heart
doated on him, my love for him was
unutterable–But it is past; I can no
longer be deceived by the fond delusion
of hope. I submit to the will of Heaven.
My God! I am resigned, I do
not complain of what thy had has inflicted;
a few unavailing tears alone–
Lady Anne, you have seen my calmness,
you have seen me patient as the trembling
victim beneath the sacrificer's knife. Yet
think not I have resigned all sensibility:
no, were it possible I could live–But I
feel my approaching end; Heaven in
this is merciful. That I bear this dreadful
stroke with patience, is owing to the
certainty I shall not long survive him,
that our separation is but for a moment.
Lady anne, I have seen him in my
dreams: his spotless soul yet waits for
mine: yes, the same grave shall receive
us; we shall be joined to part no more.
All the sorrow I feel is for my dear parents;
to you and Emily Howard I leave
the sad task of comforting them; by all
our friendship, I adjure you, leave them
not to the effects of their despair: when
I reflect on all their goodness, and on
the misery I have brought on their grey
hairs, my heart is torn in pieces, I lament
that such a wretch was ever created.
"I have been to blame; not in loving
the most perfect of human beings; but
in concealing that love, and distrusting
the indulgence of the best of parents.
Why did I hade my passion? Why conceal
sentiments only blameable on the
venal maxims of a despicable world?
Had I been unreserved, I had been happy:
but Heaven had decreed otherwise, and
I submit.
"But whither am I wandering? I sent
for you to make a request; a request in
which I will not be denied. Lady Anne,
I would see him; let me be raised and
carried to his apartment before my mother
returns; let me once more behold
him, behold him for whom alone life was
dear to me: you hesitate, for pity do not
oppose me; your refusal will double the
pangs of death."
Overcome by the earnestness of her air
and manner, I had not resolution to refuse
her; her maids are now dressing her, and I
have promised to attend her to his apartment.
I am summoned. Great God! How shall
I bear a scene like this? I tremble, my limbs
will scarce support me.
Twelve o'Clock.
This dreadful visit is yet unpaid: three
times she approached the door, and returned
as often to her apartment, unable to
enter the room; the third time she fainted
away: her little remaining strength being
exhausted, she has consented to defer her
purpose till evening: I hope by that time
to persuade her to decline it wholly: faint,
and almost sinking under her fatigue, I have
prevailed with her to lie down on a couch:
Emily Howard sits by her, kissing her hand,
and bathing it with her tears.
I have been enquiring at Lady Julia's
door; she is in a sweet sleep, from which
we have every thing to hope: I fly to tell
this to Lady Belmont–She will live; Heaven
has heard our prayers.–
I found the wretched mother pouring out
her soul before her God, and imploring his
mercy on her child–She heard me, and
tears of tender transport–she raised her
grateful hands to Heaven–
I am interrupted; Dr. Evelin is at the
gate; he is come to my apartment, and desires
me to accompany him to Lady Julia.
We found her still in a gentle sleep, composed
as that of an infant; we approached
the bead; Dr. Evelin took her hand, he stood
some time looking on her with the most fixed
attention, when, on my expressing my
hopes from her sleep, "Madam," said he,
"it is with horror I tell you, that sleep will
probably be her last; nature is worn out,
and seeks a momentary repose before her
last dreadful struggle."
Not able to bear this, I left the room.–
Bellville! is it possible! Can Heaven thus
overwhelm with affliction, the best, the noblest
of its creatures? shall the amiable, the
reverend pair, the business of whose lives
has been to make others happy, be doomed
in age to bear the severest of all sorrows?
to see all their hopes blasted in one dreadful
moment? To believe this, is to blaspheme
Providence. No, it is not possible: Heaven
will yet restore her: look down, O God of
Mercy––
Dr. Evelin is now with the wretched
parents, breaking to them the danger of
their child: I dread seeing them after this
interview: yet he will not sure plunge them
at once into despair.
She is awake; I have been with her;
her looks are greatly changed; her lips
have a dying paleness; there is a dimness in
her eyes which alarms me; she has desired
to speak a moment with Dr. Evelin; she
would know how long he thinks it probable
she may live.
Six o'Clock.
She is gone, Bellville, she is gone: those
lovely eyes are closed in everlasting night.
I saw her die, I saw the last breath quiver
on her lips; she expired, almost without
a pang, in the arms of her distracted
mother.
She felt her approaching dissolution, of
which she had been warned, at her own
earnest request, by Dr. Evelin; she summoned
us all to her apartment; she embraced
us with the most affecting tenderness;
she called me to her, and, giving
me her picture for Colonel Mandeville,
begged me to tell him, she, who murdered
his son, died for him: entreated me to stay
some time at Belmont, to comfort her disconsolate
parents; conjured Emily to be a
child to them, and never to let them miss
their Julia.
She begged forgiveness of her wretched
parents, for the only instance in which
she had ever forgot her duty, and for
which she now so severely suffered: entreated
them to submit to the hand of Heaven,
and not give way to immoderate affliction;
to consider that, if they were about to lose a
child, thousands were at that moment suffering
under the same distress; that death
was the common portion of humanity, from
which youth was not more exempt than
age; that their separation was only temporary,
whilst their re-union would be eternal:
then, raising her blameless hands,
prayed fervently to Heaven for them, implored
their last blessing; and, turning to
her agonizing mother, speechless with excess
of sorrow, conjured her to reflect on the
past goodness of Heaven, and the many
years of happiness she had already past with
the best of men; that this was the first
misfortune she had ever known; then,
embracing her fondly, weeping on her
neck, and thanking her for all her goodness,
pressed her to her bosom, and expired.
Let me draw a veil over the ensuing
scene, to which words cannot do justice.
With difficulty have we forced Lady Belmont
from the body. I have left Emily
Howard with the venerable pair, whose
sorrow would melt the most obdurate heart;
she kneels by Lady Belmont, she attempts
to speak, but tears stop her utterance: the
wretched mother sees her not; inattentive to
all but her grief, her eyes fixed on the ground,
stupefaction and horror in her look, she
seems insensible of all that passes around
her. Sinking under his own distress, and
unable to support the sight of hers, my Lord
is retired to his apartment. May Heaven
look with pity on them both, and enable
them to bear this blow to all their hopes!
Bellville! where are now all our gay
schemes? Where the circle of happy
friends?
How vain are the designs of man! unmindful
of his transitory state, he lays plans
of permanent felicity; he sees the purpose
of his heart ready to prosper; the air-drawn
building rises; he watches it with a beating
heart; it touches the very point at which
he aimed, the very summit of imagined perfection,
when an unforeseen storm arises,
and the smiling deceitful structure of hope
is dashed in one moment to the ground.
Friday Morning.
Not an eye has been closed this night;
the whole house is a scene of horror: the
servants glide up and down the apartments,
wildness in their look, as if the last day
was come.
Scarce have we been able to keep life in
Lady Belmont; she asks eagerly for her
child, her Julia; she conjures us to lead
her to her; she will not believe her dead;
she starts up, and fancies she hears her
voice: then, recollecting the late dreadful
scene, lifts her expostulating hands to
Heaven, and sinks motionless into the arms
of her attendants.
Six o'Clock.
Worn out by her long watchings and
the violence of her emotions, Lady Belmont
is fallen into a slumber: it is now
two days and nights since she has attempted
rest. May that gracious God, who alone
has the power, calm and tranquillize her
mind!
Eight o'Clock.
I have been standing an hour looking
on the breathless body of my angel friend:
lovely even in death, a serene smile sits on
that once charming face: her paleness excepted,
she looks as if in a tranquil sleep:
Bellville, she is happy, she is now a saint in
Heaven.
How persuasive is such a preacher! I
gaze on the once matchless form, and all
vanity dies within me: who was ever lovely
like her? yet she lies before me a clod of
senseless clay. Those eyes, which once gave
love to every beholder, are now robbed of
their living lustre; that beauteous bosom is
cold as the marble on the silent tomb;
the roses of those cheeks are faded; those
vermilion lips, from whence truth and virtue
ever proceeded–Bellville, the starting
tears–I cannot go on–
Look here, ye proud, and be humble!
which you all can vie with her? Youth,
health, beauty, birth, riches, all that men
call good, were hers: all are now of no avail;
virtue alone bids defiance to the grave.
Great Heaven! Colonel Mandeville is
at the gate; he knows not the cup of sorrow
which awaits him; he cannot yet have
received my Lord's letter. He alights with
a smile of transport: the exultation of hope
is in his air. Alas! how soon to be destroyed!
He comes to attend the bridal-
day of his son; he finds him a lifeless
corse.
The servants bring him this way; they
leave to me the dreadful talk–Bellville, I
cannot go through it.
I have seen the most unhappy of fathers;
I have followed him whither my heart
shuddered to approach. Too soon informed
of his wretched fate, he shot like lightning
to the apartment of his son; he kissed
his pale lifeless lips; he pressed his cold
hand to his bosom; he bathed it with a
torrent of tears: then, looking round with
the dignity of affliction, waved his hand for
us all to retire. We have left him to weep
at liberty over the son on whom his heart
doated, to enjoy alone and undisturbed the
dreadful banquet of despair.
He has been now two hours alone with
the body; not an attendant has dared to
intrude on the sacred rites of paternal sorrow.
My Lord is this moment gone to
him, to give him a melancholy welcome to
Belmont.
Great God! What a meeting! How different
from that which their sanguine hopes
had projected! The bridal couch is the bed
of death!
Oh! Bellville!–But shall presumptuous
man dare to arraign the ways of Heaven!
