Clarissa Harlowe, Volume 9 (of 9) by Samuel Richardson

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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 the! 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.

LETTER XXVII

COLONEL MORDEN
[IN CONTINUATION.]

When the unhappy mourners were all retired, I directed the lid of the
coffin to be unscrewed, and caused some fresh aromatics and flowers to
be put into it.

The corpse was very little altered, notwithstanding the journey. The
sweet smile remained.

The maids who brought the flowers were ambitious of strewing them about
it: they poured forth fresh lamentations over her; each wishing she had
been so happy as to have been allowed to attend her in London. One of
them particularly, who is, it seems, my cousin Arabella's personal
servant, was more clamorous in her grief than any of the rest; and the
moment she turned her back, all the others allowed she had reason for it.
I inquired afterwards about her, and found, that this creature was set
over my dear cousin, when she was confined to her chamber by indiscreet
severity.

Good Heaven! that they should treat, and suffer thus to be treated, a
young lady, who was qualified to give laws to all her family!

When my cousins were told that the lid was unscrewed, they pressed in
again, all but the mournful father and mother, as if by consent. Mrs.
Hervey kissed her pale lips. Flower of the world! was all she could say;
and gave place to Miss Arabella; who kissing the forehead of her whom she
had so cruelly treated, could only say, to my cousin James, (looking upon
the corpse, and upon him,) O Brother!--While he, taking the fair,
lifeless hand, kissed it, and retreated with precipitation.

Her two uncles were speechless. They seemed to wait each other's
example, whether to look upon the corpse, or not. I ordered the lid to
be replaced; and then they pressed forward, as the others again did, to
take a last farewell of the casket which so lately contained so rich a
jewel.

Then it was that the grief of each found fluent expression; and the fair
corpse was addressed to, with all the tenderness that the sincerest love
and warmest admiration could inspire; each according to their different
degrees of relationship, as if none of them had before looked upon her.
She was their very niece, both uncles said! The injured saint, her uncle
Harlowe! The same smiling sister, Arabella!--The dear creature, all of
them!--The same benignity of countenance! The same sweet composure! The
same natural dignity!--She was questionless happy! That sweet smile
betokened her being so! themselves most unhappy!--And then, once more,
the brother took the lifeless hand, and vowed revenge upon it, on the
cursed author of all this distress.

The unhappy parents proposed to take one last view and farewell of their
once darling daughter. The father was got to the parlour-door, after the
inconsolable mother: but neither of them were able to enter it. The
mother said she must once more see the child of her heart, or she should
never enjoy herself. But they both agreed to refer their melancholy
curiosity till the next day; and had in hand retired inconsolable,
speechless both, their faces overspread with woe, and turned from each
other, as unable each to behold the distress of the other.

When all were withdrawn, I retired, and sent for my cousin James, and
acquainted him with his sister's request in relation to the discourse to
be pronounced at her interment; telling him how necessary it was that the
minister, whoever he were, should have the earliest notice given him that
the case would admit. He lamented the death of the reverend Dr. Lewen,
who, as he said, was a great admirer of his sister, as she was of him,
and would have been the fittest of all men for that office. He spoke
with great asperity of Mr. Brand, upon whose light inquiry after his
sister's character in town he was willing to lay some of the blame due to
himself. Mr. Melvill, Dr. Lewen's assistant, must, he said, be the man;
and he praised him for his abilities; his elocution, and unexceptionable
manners; and promised to engage him early in the morning.

He called out his sister, and he was of his opinion. So I let this upon
them.

They both, with no little warmth, hinted their disapprobation of you,
Sir, for their sister's executor, on the score of your intimate
friendship with the author of her ruin.

You must not resent any thing I shall communicate to you of what they say
on this occasion: depending that you will not, I shall write with the
greater freedom.

I told them how much my dear cousin was obliged to your friendship and
humanity: the injunctions she had laid you under, and your own
inclination to observe them. I said, That you were a man of honour: that
you were desirous of consulting me, because you would not willingly give
offence to any of them: and that I was very fond of cultivating your
favour and correspondence.

They said there was no need of an executor out of their family; and they
hoped that you would relinquish so unnecessary a trust, as they called
it. My cousin James declared that he would write to you, as soon as the
funeral was over, to desire that you would do so, upon proper assurances
that all the will prescribed should be performed.

I said you were a man of resolution: that I thought he would hardly
succeed; for that you made a point of honour of it.

I then showed them their sister's posthumous letter to you; in which she
confesses her obligations to you, and regard for you, and for your future
welfare.* You may believe, Sir, they were extremely affected with the
perusal of it.

* See Letter XII. of this volume.

They were surprised that I had given up to you the produce of her
grandfather's estate since his death. I told them plainly that they must
thank themselves if any thing disagreeable to them occurred from their
sister's devise; deserted, and thrown into the hands of strangers, as she
had been.

They said they would report all I had said to their father and mother;
adding, that great as their trouble was, they found they had still more
to come. But if Mr. Belford were to be the executor of her will,
contrary to their hopes, they besought me to take the trouble of
transacting every thing with you; that a friend of the man to whom they
owed all their calamity might not appear to them.

They were extremely moved at the text their sister had chosen for the
subject of their funeral discourse.* I had extracted from the will that
article, supposing it probable that I might not so soon have an
opportunity to show them the will itself, as would otherwise have been
necessary, on account of the interment, which cannot be delayed.

* See the Will, in pg. 112 of this volume.

MONDAY MORNING, BETWEEN EIGHT AND NINE.

The unhappy family are preparing for a mournful meeting at breakfast.
Mr. James Harlowe, who has had as little rest as I, has written to Mr.
Melvill, who has promised to draw up a brief eulogium on the deceased.
Miss Howe is expected here by-and-by, to see, for the last time, her
beloved friend.

Miss Howe, by her messenger, desires she may not be taken any notice of.
She shall not tarry six minutes, was the word. Her desire will be easily
granted her.

Her servant, who brought the request, if it were denied, was to return,
and meet her; for she was ready to set out in her chariot, when he got on
horseback.

If he met her not with the refusal, he was to say here till she came. I
am, Sir,

Your faithful, humble servant,
WILLIAM MORDEN.

LETTER XXVIII

COLONEL MORDEN
[IN CONTINUATION.]
MONDAY AFTERNOON, SEPT. 11.

SIR,

We are such bad company here to one another, that it is some relief to
retire and write.

I was summoned to breakfast about half an hour after nine. Slowly did
the mournful congress meet. Each, lifelessly and spiritless, took our
places, with swoln eyes, inquiring, without expecting any tolerable
account, how each had rested.

The sorrowing mother gave for answer, that she should never more know
what rest was.

By the time we were well seated, the bell ringing, the outward gate
opening, a chariot rattling over the pavement of the court-yard, put them
into emotion.

I left them; and was just time enough to give Miss Howe my hand as she
alighted: her maid in tears remaining in the chariot.

I think you told me, Sir, you never saw Miss Howe. She is a fine,
graceful young lady. A fixed melancholy on her whole aspect, overclouded
a vivacity and fire, which, nevertheless, darted now-and-then through the
awful gloom. I shall ever respect her for her love to my dear cousin.

Never did I think, said she, as she gave me her hand, to enter more these
doors: but, living or dead, Clarissa brings me after her any where!

She entered with me the little parlour; and seeing the coffin, withdrew
her hand from mine, and with impatience pushed aside the lid. As
impatiently she removed the face-cloth. In a wild air, she clasped her
uplifted hands together; and now looked upon the corpse, now up to
Heaven, as if appealing to that. Her bosom heaved and fluttered
discernible through her handkerchief, and at last she broke silence:--O
Sir!--See you not here!--the glory of her sex?--Thus by the most
villanous of yours--thus--laid low!

O my blessed Friend!--said she--My sweet Companion!--My lovely Monitress!
--kissing her lips at every tender appellation. And is this all!--Is it
all of my CLARISSA'S story!

Then, after a short pause, and a profound sigh, she turned to me, and
then to her breathless friend. But is she, can she be, really dead!--O
no!--She only sleeps.--Awake, my beloved Friend! My sweet clay-cold
Friend, awake: let thy Anna Howe revive thee; by her warm breath revive
thee, my dear creature! And, kissing her again, Let my warm lips animate
thy cold ones!

Then, sighing again, as from the bottom of her heart, and with an air, as
if disappointed that she answered not, And can such perfection end thus!
--And art thou really and indeed flown from thine Anna Howe!--O my unkind
CLARISSA!

She was silent a few moments, and then, seeming to recover herself, she
turned to me--Forgive, forgive, Mr. Morden, this wild phrensy!--I am
myself!--I never shall be!--You knew not the excellence, no, not half the
excellence, that is thus laid low!--Repeating, This cannot, surely, be
all of my CLARISSA'S story!

Again pausing, One tear, my beloved friend, didst thou allow me!--But
this dumb sorrow!--O for a tear to ease my full-swoln heart that is just
bursting!--

But why, Sir, why, Mr. Morden, was she sent hither? Why not to me?--She
has no father, no mother, no relation; no, not one!--They had all
renounced her. I was her sympathizing friend--And had not I the best
right to my dear creature's remains?--And must names, without nature, be
preferred to such a love as mine?

Again she kissed her lips, each cheek, her forehead;--and sighed as if
her heart would break--

But why, why, said she, was I withheld from seeing my dearest, dear
friend, and too easily persuaded to delay, the friendly visit that my
heart panted after; what pain will this reflection give me!--O my blessed
Friend! Who knows, who knows, had I come in time, what my cordial
comfortings might have done for thee!--But--looking round her, as if she
apprehended seeing some of the family--One more kiss, my Angel, my
Friend, my ever-to-be-regretted, lost Companion! And let me fly this
hated house, which I never loved but for thy sake!--Adieu then, my
dearest CLARISSA!--Thou art happy, I doubt not, as thou assuredst me in
thy last letter!--O may we meet, and rejoice together, where no villanous
Lovelaces, no hard-hearted relations, will ever shock our innocence, or
ruffle our felicity!

Again she was silent, unable to go, though seeming to intend it:
struggling, as it were, with her grief, and heaving with anguish. At
last, happily, a flood of tears gushed from her eyes--Now!--Now!--said
she, shall I--shall I--be easier. But for this kindly relief, my heart
would have burst asunder--more, many more tears than these are due to my
CLARISSA, whose counsel has done for me what mine could not do for her!--
But why, looking earnestly upon her, her hands clasped and lifted up--But
why do I thus lament the HAPPY? And that thou art so, is my comfort. It
is, it is, my dear creature! kissing her again.

Excuse me, Sir, [turning to me, who was as much moved as herself,] I
loved the dear creature, as never woman loved another. Excuse my frantic
grief. How has the glory of her sex fallen a victim to villany and to
hard-heartedness!

Madam, said I, they all have it!--Now indeed they have it--

And let them have it;--I should belie my love for the friend of my heart,
were I to pity them!--But how unhappy am I [looking upon her] that I saw
her not before these eyes were shut, before these lips were for ever
closed!--O Sir, you know not the wisdom that continually flowed from
these lips when she spoke!--Nor what a friend I have lost!

Then surveying the lid, she seemed to take in at once the meaning of the
emblems; and this gave her so much fresh grief, that though she several
times wipes her eyes, she was unable to read the inscription and texts;
turning, therefore, to me, Favour me, Sir, I pray you, by a line, with
the description of these emblems, and with these texts; and if I might be
allowed a lock of the dear creature's hair----

I told her that her executor would order both; and would also send her a
copy of her last will; in which she would find the most grateful
remembrances of her love for her, whom she calls The sister of her heart.

Justly, said she, does she call me so; for we had but one heart, but one
soul, between us; and now my better half is torn from me--What shall I
do?

But looking round her, on a servant's stepping by the door, as if again
she had apprehended it was some of the family--Once more, said she, a
solemn, an everlasting adieu!--Alas for me! a solemn, an everlasting
adieu!

Then again embracing her face with both her hands, and kissing it, and
afterwards the hands of the dear deceased, first one, then the other, she
gave me her hand, and quitting the room with precipitation, rushed into
her chariot; and, when there, with profound sight, and a fresh burst of
tears, unable to speak, she bowed her head to me, and was driven away.

The inconsolable company saw how much I had been moved on my return to
them. Mr. James Harlowe had been telling them what had passed between
him and me. And, finding myself unfit for company, and observing, that
they broke off talk at my coming in, I thought it proper to leave them to
their consultations.

And here I will put an end to this letter, for indeed, Sir, the very
recollection of this affecting scene has left me nearly as unable to
proceed, as I was, just after it, to converse with my cousins. I am,
Sir, with great truth,

Your most obedient humble servant,
WILLIAM MORDEN.

LETTER XXIX

COLONEL MORDEN
[IN CONTINUATION.]
TUESDAY MORNING, SEPT. 12.

The good Mrs. Norton is arrived, a little amended in her spirits; owing
to the very posthumous letters, as I may call them, which you, Mr.
Belford, as well as I, apprehended would have had fatal effects upon her.

I cannot but attribute this to the right turn of her mind. It seems she
has been inured to afflictions; and has lived in a constant hope of a
better life; and, having no acts of unkindness to the dear deceased to
reproach herself with, is most considerately resolved to exert her utmost
fortitude in order to comfort the sorrowing mother.

O Mr. Belford, how does the character of my dear departed cousin rise
upon me from every mouth!--Had she been my own child, or my sister!--But
do you think that the man who occasioned this great, this extended ruin--
But I forbear.

The will is not to be looked into, till the funeral rites are performed.
Preparations are making for the solemnity; and the servants, as well as
principals of all the branches of the family, are put into close
mourning.

I have seen Mr. Melvill. He is a serious and sensible man. I have given
him particulars to go upon in the discourse he is to pronounce at the
funeral; but had the less need to do this, as I find he is extremely well
acquainted with the whole unhappy story; and was a personal admirer of my
dear cousin, and a sincere lamenter of her misfortunes and death. The
reverend Dr. Lewen, who is but very lately dead, was his particular
friend, and had once intended to recommend him to her favour and notice.

***

I am just returned from attending the afflicted parents, in an effort
they made to see the corpse of their beloved child. They had requested
my company, and that of the good Mrs. Norton. A last leave, the mother
said, she must take.

An effort, however, it was, and no more. The moment they came in sight
of the coffin, before the lid could be put aside, O my dear, said the
father, retreating, I cannot, I find I cannot bear it!--Had I--had I--had
I never been hard-hearted!--Then, turning round to his lady, he had but
just time to catch her in his arms, and prevent her sinking on the floor.
--O, my dearest Life, said he, this is too much!--too much, indeed!--Let
us--let us retire. Mrs. Norton, who (attracted by the awful receptacle)
had but just left the good lady, hastened to her--Dear, dear woman, cried
the unhappy parent, flinging her arms about her neck, bear me, bear me
hence!--O my child! my child! my own Clarissa Harlowe! thou pride of my
life so lately!--never, never more must I behold thee!

I supported the unhappy father, Mrs. Norton the sinking mother, into the
next parlour. She threw herself on a settee there; he into an
elbow-chair by her--the good woman at her feet, her arms clasped round
her waist. The two mothers, I as may call them, of my beloved cousin,
thus tenderly engaged! What a variety of distress in these woeful
scenes!

The unhappy father, in endeavouring to comfort his lady, loaded himself.
Would to God, my dear, said he, would to God I had no more to charge
myself with than you have!--You relented!--you would have prevailed upon
me to relent!

The greater my fault, said she, when I knew that displeasure was carried
too high, to acquiesce as I did!--What a barbarous parent was I, to let
two angry children make me forget that I was mother to a third--to such a
third!

Mrs. Norton used arguments and prayers to comfort her--O, my dear Norton,
answered the unhappy lady, you was the dear creature's more natural
mother!--Would to Heaven I had no more to answer for than you have!

Thus the unhappy pair unavailingly recriminated, till my cousin Hervey
entered, and, with Mrs. Norton, conducted up to her own chamber the
inconsolable mother. The two uncles, and Mr. Hervey, came in at the same
time, and prevailed upon the afflicted father to retire with them to his
--both giving up all thoughts of ever seeing more the child whose death
was so deservedly regretted by them.

Time only, Mr. Belford, can combat with advantage such a heavy
deprivation as this. Advice will not do, while the loss is recent.
Nature will have way given to it, (and so it ought,) till sorrow has in a
manner exhausted itself; and then reason and religion will come in
seasonably with their powerful aids, to raise the drooping heart.

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