To the Earl of Rochdale.
Belmont, Wednesday.
My Lord,
CONVINCED Lord Melvin is more
unfortunate than culpable, it would
be cruel to treat him as a criminal: I feel a
horror I cannot conquer at the idea of ever
receiving the visit your Lordship has proposed;
but, conscious of the injustice of indulging
it, I sacrifise it to our antient friendship,
and only postpone, not refuse, the
visit: I will struggle with the reluctance of
my heart, to see the guiltless author of my
misery, as soon as he is publicly exculpated
from the crime he at present stands charged
with: Colonel Mandeville must appear as
his accuser: wretched as his hand has made
me, justice obliges me to bear witness to
his innocence: Lady Anne Wilmot, who
was present at Mr. Mandeville's dying declaration,
is ready to confirm my evidence:
Lord Melvin therefore has nothing to fear.
The trial once past, I will endeavour to prevail
on Colonel Mandeville and Lady Belmont,
to make the same painful sacrifice to
friendship, to which time and reason will, I
hope, perfectly reconcile us; but your Lordship
will, on a moment's reflexion, be convinced
that, till this is past, it would be indecent
in me to see Lord Melvin.
We are greatly obliged to Lady Rochdale
and Lady Louisa; the time of whose
visit their own politeness and sensibility will
regulate; it is a severe addition to my
wretchedness, that the family of my friend
is so fatally involved in it.
Oh! Lord Rochdale! you are a father,
and can pity us: you can judge the anguish
to which we must ever be a prey;
never more shall we know a chearful hour;
our lost child will be ever at our hearts:
when I remember her filial sweetness, her
angel virtues, her matchless perfections–
the only view we had in life was to see her
happy: that is past, and all is now a dreary
wild before us. Time may blunt the keen
edge of sorrow, and enable us to bear the
load of life with patience; but never must
we hope the return of peace.
The shortness of life, and the consideration
of how much of our own is past, are the
only consolations we can receive: it cannot
be long before we rejoin our beloved child:
we have only to pray for that ardently expected
hour, which will re-unite us to all
we love.
Why will man lay schemes of lasting
felicity? By an over-solicitude to continue
my family and name, and secure the happiness
of my child, I have defeated my own
purpose, and fatally destroyed both.
Humbled in the dust, I confess the hand
of heaven: the pride of birth, the grandeur
of my house, had too great a share in
my resolves!
Oh! my friend!–but I consider the hand
which directed the blow, and submit to the
will of my God.
I am, &c.
Belmont.
