Clarissa Harlowe; or the history of a young lady — Volume 8

by Samuel Richardson

  LETTER XVI

  MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.TUESDAY, AUG. 22.

  I have been under such concern for the poor man, whose exit I almosthourly expect, and at the shocking scenes his illness and his agoniesexhibit, that I have been only able to make memoranda of the melancholypassages, from which to draw up a more perfect account, for theinstruction of us all, when the writing appetite shall return.

  ***

  It is returned! Indignation has revived it, on receipt of thy letters ofSunday and yesterday; by which I have reason to reproach thee in veryserious terms, that thou hast not kept thy honour with me: and if thybreach of it be attended with such effects as I fear it will be, I shalllet thee know more of my mind on this head.

  If thou wouldst be thought in earnest in thy wishes to move the poor ladyin thy favour, thy ludicrous behaviour at Smith's, when it comes to berepresented to her, will have a very consistent appearance; will itnot?--I will, indeed, confirm in her opinion, that the grave is more tobe wished-for, by one of her serious and pious turn, than a husbandincapable either of reflection or remorse; just recovered, as thou art,from a dangerous, at least a sharp turn.

  I am extremely concerned for the poor unprotected lady. She was soexcessively low and weak on Saturday, that I could not be admitted to herspeech: and to be driven out of her lodgings, when it was fitter for herto be in bed, is such a piece of cruelty, as he only could be guilty ofwho could act as thou hast done by such an angel.

  Canst thou thyself say, on reflection, that it has not the look of awicked and hardened sportiveness, in thee, for the sake of a wantonhumour only, (since it can answer no end that thou proposest to thyself,but the direct contrary,) to hunt from place to place a poor lady, who,like a harmless deer, that has already a barbed shaft in her breast,seeks only a refuge from thee in the shades of death.

  But I will leave this matter upon thy own conscience, to paint thee sucha scene from my memoranda, as thou perhaps wilt be moved by moreeffectually than by any other: because it is such a one as thou thyselfmust one day be a principal actor in, and, as I thought, hadst verylately in apprehension: and is the last scene of one of thy more intimatefriends, who has been for the four past days labouring in the agonies ofdeath. For, Lovelace, let this truth, this undoubted truth, be engravedon thy memory, in all thy gaieties, That the life we are so fond of ishardly life; a mere breathing space only; and that, at the end of itslongest date,

  Thou must die, as well as Belton.

  Thou knowest, by Tourville, what we had done as to the poor man's worldlyaffairs; and that we had got his unhappy sister to come and live with him(little did we think him so very near to his end): and so I will proceedto tell thee, that when I arrived at his house on Saturday night, I foundhim excessively ill: but just raised, and in his elbow-chair, held up byhis nurse and Mowbray (the roughest and most untouched creature that everentered a sick man's chamber); while the maid-servants were trying tomake that bed easier for him which he was to return to; his mind tentimes uneasier than that could be, and the true cause that the down wasno softer to him.

  He had so much longed to see me, as I was told by his sister, (whom Isent for down to inquire how he was,) that they all rejoiced when Ientered: Here, said Mowbray, here, Tommy, is honest Jack Belford!

  Where, where? said the poor man.

  I hear his voice, cried Mowbray: he is coming up stairs.

  In a transport of joy, he would have raised himself at my entrance, buthad like to have pitched out of the chair: and when recovered, called mehis best friend! his kindest friend! but burst into a flood of tears: OJack! O Belford! said he, see the way I am in! See how weak! So much,and so soon reduced! Do you know me? Do you know your poor friendBelton?

  You are not so much altered, my dear Belton, as you think you are. But Isee you are weak; very weak--and I am sorry for it.

  Weak, weak, indeed, my dearest Belford, said he, and weaker in mind, ifpossible, than in body; and wept bitterly--or I should not thus unmanmyself. I, who never feared any thing, to be forced to show myself sucha nursling!--I am quite ashamed of myself!--But don't despise me; dearBelford, don't despise me, I beseech thee.

  I ever honoured a man that could weep for the distresses of others; andever shall, said I; and such a one cannot be insensible of his own.

  However, I could not help being visibly moved at the poor fellow's emotion.

  Now, said the brutal Mowbray, do I think thee insufferable, Jack. Ourpoor friend is already a peg too low; and here thou art letting him downlower and lower still. This soothing of him in his dejected moments, andjoining thy womanish tears with his, is not the way; I am sure it is not.If our Lovelace were here, he'd tell thee so.

  Thou art an impenetrable creature, replied I; unfit to be present at ascene, the terrors of which thou wilt not be able to feel till thoufeelest them in thyself; and then, if thou hadst time for feeling, mylife for thine, thou behavest as pitifully as those thou thinkest mostpitiful.

  Then turning to the poor sick man, Tears, my dear Belton, are no signs ofan unmanly, but, contrarily of a humane nature; they ease theover-charged heart, which would burst but for that kindly and naturalrelief.

  Give sorrow words (says Shakspeare) --The grief that does not speak, Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

  I know, my dear Belton, thou usedst to take pleasure in repetitions fromthe poets; but thou must be tasteless of their beauties now: yet be notdiscountenanced by this uncouth and unreflecting Mowbray, for, as Juvenalsays, Tears are the prerogative of manhood.

  'Tis at least seasonably said, my dear Belford. It is kind to keep me incountenance for this womanish weakness, as Mowbray has been upbraidinglycalling it, ever since he has been with me: and in so doing, (whatever Imight have thought in such high health as he enjoys,) has convinced me,that bottle-friends feel nothing but what moves in that little circle.

  Well, well, proceed in your own way, Jack. I love my friend Belton aswell as you can do; yet for the blood of me, I cannot but think, thatsoothing a man's weakness is increasing it.

  If it be a weakness, to be touched at great and concerning events, inwhich our humanity is concerned, said I, thou mayest be right.

  I have seen many a man, said the rough creature, going up Holborn-hill,that has behaved more like a man than either of you.

  Ay, but, Mowbray, replied the poor man, those wretches have not had theirminds enervated by such infirmities of body as I have long labouredunder. Thou art a shocking fellow, and ever wert.--But to be able toremember nothing in these moments but what reproaches me, and to knowthat I cannot hold it long, and what may then be my lot, if--butinterrupting himself, and turning to me, Give me thy pity, Jack; 'tisbalm to my wounded soul; and let Mowbray sit indifferent enough to thepangs of a dying friend, to laugh at us both.

  The hardened fellow then retired, with the air of a Lovelace; only morestupid; yawning and stretching, instead of humming a tune as thou didstat Smith's.

  I assisted to get the poor man into bed. He was so weak and low, that hecould not bear the fatigue, and fainted away; and I verily thought wasquite gone. But recovering, and his doctor coming, and advising to keephim quiet, I retired, and joined Mowbray in the garden; who took moredelight to talk of the living Lovelace and levities, than of the dyingBelton and his repentance.

  I just saw him again on Saturday night before I went to bed; which I didearly; for I was surfeited with Mowbray's frothy insensibility, and couldnot bear him.

  It is such a horrid thing to think of, that a man who had lived in suchstrict terms of--what shall I call it? with another; the proof does notcome out so, as to say, friendship; who had pretended so much love forhim; could not bear to be out of his company; would ride an hundred mileson end to enjoy it; and would fight for him, be the cause right or wrong:yet now, could be so little moved to see him in such misery of body andmind, as to be able to rebuke him, and rather ridicule than pity him,because he was more affected by what he f
elt, than he had seen amalefactor, (hardened perhaps by liquor, and not softened by previoussickness,) on his going to execution.

  This put me strongly in mind of what the divine Miss HARLOWE once said tome, talking of friendship, and what my friendship to you required of me:'Depend upon it, Mr. Belford,' said she, 'that one day you will beconvinced, that what you call friendship, is chaff and stubble; and thatnothing is worthy of that sacred name,

  'That has not virtue for its base.'

  Sunday morning, I was called up at six o'clock, at the poor man's earnestrequest, and found him in a terrible agony. O Jack! Jack! said he,looking wildly, as if he had seen a spectre--Come nearer me!--Dear, dearBelford, save me! Then clasping my arm with both his hands, and rearingup his head towards me, his eyes strangely rolling, Save me! dearBelford, save me! repeated he.

  I put my other arm about him--Save you from what, my dear Belton! said I;save you from what? Nothing shall hurt you. What must I save you from?

  Recovering from his terror, he sunk down again, O save me from myself!said he; save me from my own reflections. O dear Jack! what a thing itis to die; and not to have one comfortable reflection to revolve! Whatwould I give for one year of my past life?--only one year--and to havethe same sense of things that I now have?

  I tried to comfort him as well as I could: but free-livers to free-liversare sorry death-bed comforters. And he broke in upon me: O my dearBelford, said he, I am told, (and I have heard you ridiculed for it,)that the excellent Miss Harlowe has wrought a conversion in you. May itbe so! You are a man of sense: O may it be so! Now is your time! Now,that you are in full vigour of mind and body!--But your poor Belton,alas! your poor Belton kept his vices, till they left him--and see themiserable effects in debility of mind and despondency! Were Mowbrayhere, and were he to laugh at me, I would own that this is the cause ofmy despair--that God's justice cannot let his mercy operate for mycomfort: for, Oh! I have been very, very wicked; and have despised theoffers of his grace, till he has withdrawn it from me for ever.

  I used all the arguments I could think of to give him consolation: andwhat I said had such an effect upon him, as to quiet his mind for thegreatest part of the day; and in a lucid hour his memory served him torepeat these lines of Dryden, grasping my hand, and looking wistfullyupon me:

  O that I less could fear to lose this being, Which, like a snow-ball, in my coward hand, The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away!

  In the afternoon of Sunday, he was inquisitive after you, and yourpresent behaviour to Miss Harlowe. I told him how you had been, and howlight you made of it. Mowbray was pleased with your impenetrablehardness of heart, and said, Bob. Lovelace was a good edge-tool, andsteel to the back: and such coarse but hearty praises he gave you, as anabandoned man might give, and only an abandoned man could wish todeserve.

  But hadst thou heard what the poor dying Belton said on this occasion,perhaps it would have made thee serious an hour or two, at least.

  'When poor Lovelace is brought,' said he, 'to a sick-bed, as I am now,and his mind forebodes that it is impossible he should recover, (whichhis could not do in his late illness: if it had, he could not havebehaved so lightly in it;) when he revolves his past mis-spent life; hisactions of offence to helpless innocents; in Miss Harlowe's caseparticularly; what then will he think of himself, or of his past actions?his mind debilitated; his strength turned into weakness; unable to stiror to move without help; not one ray of hope darting in upon hisbenighted soul; his conscience standing in the place of a thousandwitnesses; his pains excruciating; weary of the poor remnant of life hedrags, yet dreading, that, in a few short hours, his bad will be changedto worse, nay, to worst of all; and that worst of all, to last beyondtime and to all eternity; O Jack! what will he then think of the poortransitory gratifications of sense, which now engage all his attention?Tell him, dear Belford, tell him, how happy he is if he know his owndying happiness; how happy, compared to his poor dying friend, that hehas recovered from his illness, and has still an opportunity lent him,for which I would give a thousand worlds, had I them to give!'

  I approved exceedingly of his reflections, as suited to his presentcircumstances; and inferred consolations to him from a mind so properlytouched.

  He proceeded in the like penitent strain. I have lived a very wickedlife; so have we all. We have never made a conscience of doing whatevermischief either force or fraud enabled us to do. We have laid snares forthe innocent heart; and have not scrupled by the too-ready sword toextend, as occasions offered, the wrongs we did to the persons whom wehad before injured in their dearest relations. But yet, I flattermyself, sometimes, that I have less to answer for than either Lovelace orMowbray; for I, by taking to myself that accursed deceiver from whom thouhast freed me, (and who, for years, unknown to me, was retaliating uponmy own head some of the evils I had brought upon others,) and retiring,and living with her as a wife, was not party to half the mischiefs, thatI doubt they, and Tourville, and even you, Belford, committed. As to theungrateful Thomasine, I hope I have met with my punishment in her. Butnotwithstanding this, dost thou not think, that such an action--and suchan action--and such an action; [and then he recapitulated severalenormities, in the perpetration of which (led on by false bravery, andthe heat of youth and wine) we have all been concerned;] dost thou notthink that these villanies, (let me call them now by their proper name,)joined to the wilful and gloried-in neglect of every duty that our bettersense and education gave us to know were required of us as men andchristians, are not enough to weigh down my soul into despondency?--Indeed, indeed, they are! and now to hope for mercy; and to depend uponthe efficacy of that gracious attribute, when that no less shining one ofjustice forbids me to hope; how can I!--I, who have despised allwarnings, and taken no advantage of the benefit I might have reaped fromthe lingering consumptive illness I have laboured under, but left all tothe last stake; hoping for recovery against hope, and driving offrepentance, till that grace is denied me; for, oh! my dear Belford! I cannow neither repent, nor pray, as I ought; my heart is hardened, and I cando nothing but despair!--

  More he would have said; but, overwhelmed with grief and infirmity, hebowed his head upon his pangful bosom, endeavouring to hide from thesight of the hardened Mowbray, who just then entered the room, thosetears which he could not restrain.

  Prefaced by a phlegmatic hem; sad, very sad, truly! cried Mowbray; whosat himself down on one side of the bed, as I sat on the other: his eyeshalf closed, and his lips pouting out to his turned-up nose, his chincurdled [to use one of thy descriptions]; leaving one at a loss to knowwhether stupid drowsiness or intense contemplation had got most hold ofhim.

  An excellent, however uneasy lesson, Mowbray! said I.--By my faith it is!It may one day, who knows how soon? be our own case!

  I thought of thy yawning-fit, as described in thy letter of Aug. 13. Forup started Mowbray, writhing and shaking himself as in an ague-fit; hishands stretched over his head--with thy hoy! hoy! hoy! yawning. And thenrecovering himself, with another stretch and a shake, What's o'clock?cried he; pulling out his watch--and stalking by long tip-toe stridesthrough the room, down stairs he went; and meeting the maid in thepassage, I heard him say--Betty, bring me a bumper of claret; thy poormaster, and this d----d Belford, are enough to throw a Hercules into thevapours.

  Mowbray, after this, assuming himself in our friend's library, which is,as thou knowest, chiefly classical and dramatical, found out a passage inLee's Oedipus, which he would needs have to be extremely apt; and in hecame full fraught with the notion of the courage it would give the dyingman, and read it to him. 'Tis poetical and pretty. This is it:

  When the sun sets, shadows that show'd at noon But small, appear most long and terrible: So when we think fate hovers o'er our heads, Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds: Owls, ravens, crickets, seem the watch of death; Nature's worst vermin scare her godlike sons: Echoes, the very leavings of a voice, Grow babbling ghosts,
and call us to our graves. Each mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus; While we, fantastic dreamers, heave and puff, And sweat with our imagination's weight.

  He expected praises for finding this out. But Belton turning his headfrom him, Ah, Dick! (said he,) these are not the reflections of a dyingman!--What thou wilt one day feel, if it be what I now feel, willconvince thee that the evils before thee, and with thee, are more thanthe effects of imagination.

  I was called twice on Sunday night to him; for the poor fellow, when hisreflections on his past life annoy him most, is afraid of being left withthe women; and his eyes, they tell me, hunt and roll about for me.Where's Mr. Belford?--But I shall tire him out, cries he--yet beg of himto step to me--yet don't--yet do; were once the doubting and changefulorders he gave: and they called me accordingly.

  But, alas! What could Belford do for him? Belford, who had been but toooften the companion of his guilty hours; who wants mercy as much as hedoes; and is unable to promise it to himself, though 'tis all he can bidhis poor friend rely upon!

  What miscreants are we! What figures shall we make in these terriblehours!

  If Miss HARLOWE'S glorious example, on one hand, and the terrors of thispoor man's last scene on the other, affect me not, I must be abandoned toperdition; as I fear thou wilt be, if thou benefittest not thyself fromboth.

  Among the consolatory things I urged, when I was called up the last timeon Sunday night, I told him, that he must not absolutely give himself upto despair: that many of the apprehensions he was under, were such as thebest men must have, on the dreadful uncertainty of what was to succeed tothis life. 'Tis well observed, said I, by a poetical divine, who was anexcellent christian,* That

  Death could not a more sad retinue find, Sickness and pain before, and darkness all behind.

  * The Rev Mr. Norris, of Bremerton.

  About eight o'clock yesterday (Monday) morning, I found him a littlecalmer. He asked me who was the author of the two lines I had repeatedto him; and made me speak them over again. A sad retinue, indeed! saidthe poor man. And then expressing his hopelessness of life, and histerrors at the thoughts of dying; and drawing from thence terribleconclusions with regard to his future state; There is, said I, such anatural aversion to death in human nature, that you are not to imagine,that you, my dear Belton, are singular in the fear of it, and in theapprehensions that fill the thoughtful mind upon its approach; but youought, as much as possible, to separate those natural fears which all menmust have on so solemn an occasion, from those particular ones which yourjustly-apprehended unfitness fills you with. Mr. Pomfret, in hisProspect of Death, which I dipped into last night from a collection inyour closet, which I put into my pocket, says, [and I turned to theplace]

  Merely to die, no man of reason fears; For certainly we must, As we are born, return to dust; 'Tis the last point of many ling-ring years; But whither then we go, Whither, we fain would know; But human understanding cannot show. This makes US tremble----

  Mr. Pomfret, therefore, proceeded I, had such apprehensions of this darkstate as you have: and the excellent divine I hinted at last night, whohad very little else but human frailties to reproach himself with, andwhose miscellanies fell into my hands among my uncle's books in myattendance upon him in his last hours, says,

  It must be done, my soul: but 'tis a strange, A dismal, and mysterious change, When thou shalt leave this tenement of clay, And to an unknown--somewhere--wing away; When time shall be eternity, and thou Shalt be--thou know'st not what--and live-- thou know'st not how! Amazing state! no wonder that we dread To think of death, or view the dead; Thou'rt all wrapt up in clouds, as if to thee Our very knowledge had antipathy.

  Then follows, what I repeated,

  Death could not a more sad retinue find, Sickness and pain before, and darkness all behind.

  Alas! my dear Belford [inferred the unhappy deep-thinker] what poorcreatures does this convince me we mortals are at best!--But what thenmust be the case of such a profligate as I, who by a past wicked lifehave added greater force to these natural terrors? If death be sorepugnant a thing to human nature, that good men will be startled at it,what must it be to one who has lived a life of sense and appetite; norever reflected upon the end which I now am within view of?

  What could I say to an inference so fairly drawn? Mercy, mercy,unbounded mercy, was still my plea, though his repeated opposition ofjustice to it, in a manner silenced that plea: and what would I havegiven to have had rise in my mind, one good, eminently good action tohave remembered him of, in order to combat his fears with it?

  I believe, Lovelace, I shall tire thee, and that more with the subjectof my letter, than even with the length of it. But really, I think thyspirits are so offensively up since thy recovery, that I ought, as themelancholy subjects offer, to endeavour to reduce thee to the standardof humanity, by expatiating upon them. And then thou canst not but becurious to know every thing that concerns the poor man, for whom thouhast always expressed a great regard. I will therefore proceed as I havebegun. If thou likest not to read it now, lay it by, if thou wilt, tillthe like circumstances befall thee, till like reflections from thosecircumstances seize thee; and then take it up, and compare the two casestogether.

  ***

  At his earnest request, I sat up with him last night; and, poor man! itis impossible to tell thee, how easy and safe he thought himself in mycompany, for the first part of the night: A drowning man will catch at astraw, the proverb well says: and a straw was I, with respect to any realhelp I could give him. He often awaked in terrors; and once calling outfor me, Dear Belford, said he, Where are you!--Oh! There you are!--Giveme your friendly hand!--Then grasping it, and putting his clammy,half-cold lips to it--How kind! I fear every thing when you are absent.But the presence of a friend, a sympathising friend--Oh! how comfortable!

  But, about four in the morning, he frighted me much: he waked with threeterrible groans; and endeavoured to speak, but could not presently--andwhen he did,--Jack, Jack, Jack, five or six times repeated he as quick asthought, now, now, now, save me, save me, save me--I am going--goingindeed!

  I threw my arms about him, and raised him upon his pillow, as he wassinking (as if to hide himself) in the bed-clothes--And staring wildly,Where am I? said he, a little recovering. Did you not see him? turninghis head this way and that; horror in his countenance; Did you not seehim?

  See whom, see what, my dear Belton!

  O lay me upon the bed again, cried he!--Let me not die upon the floor!--Lay me down gently; and stand by me!--Leave me not!--All, all will soonbe over!

  You are already, my dear Belton, upon the bed. You have not been uponthe floor. This is a strong delirium; you are faint for want ofrefreshment [for he had refused several times to take any thing]: let mepersuade you to take some of this cordial julap. I will leave you, ifyou will not oblige me.

  He then readily took it; but said he could have sworn that Tom. Metcalfehad been in the room, and had drawn him out of bed by the throat,upbraiding him with the injuries he had first done his sister, and thenhim, in the duel to which he owed that fever which cost him his life.

  Thou knowest the story, Lovelace, too well, to need my repeating it: but,mercy on us, if in these terrible moments all the evils we do rise to ourfrighted imaginations!--If so, what shocking scenes have I, but stillwhat more shocking ones hast thou, to go through, if, as the noble poetsays,

  If any sense at that sad time remains!

  The doctor ordered him an opiate this morning early, which operated sowell, that he dosed and slept several hours more quietly than he had donefor the two past days and nights, though he had sleeping-draughts givenhim before. But it is more and more evident every hour that nature isalmost worn out in him.

  ***

  Mowbray, quite tired with this house of mourning, i
ntends to set out inthe morning to find you. He was not a little rejoiced to hear you werein town; I believe to have a pretence to leave us.

  ***

  He has just taken leave of his poor friend, intending to go away early:an everlasting leave, I may venture to say; for I think he will hardlylive till to-morrow night.

  I believe the poor man would not have been sorry had he left him when Iarrived; for 'tis a shocking creature, and enjoys too strong health toknow how to pity the sick. Then (to borrow an observation from thee) hehas, by nature, strong bodily organs, which those of his soul are notlikely to whet out; and he, as well as the wicked friend he is going to,may last a great while from the strength of their constitutions, thoughso greatly different in their talents, if neither the sword nor thehalter interpose.

  I must repeat, That I cannot but be very uneasy for the poor lady whomyou so cruelly persecute; and that I do not think that you have kept yourhonour with me. I was apprehensive, indeed, that you would attempt tosee her, as soon as you got well enough to come up; and I told her asmuch, making use of it as an argument to prepare her for your visit, andto induce her to stand it. But she could not, it is plain, bear theshock of it: and indeed she told me that she would not see you, thoughbut for one half-hour, for the world.

  Could she have prevailed upon herself, I know that the sight of her wouldhave been as affecting to you, as your visit could have been to her; whenyou had seen to what a lovely skeleton (for she is really lovely still,nor can she, with such a form and features, be otherwise) you have, in afew weeks, reduced one of the most charming women in the world; and thatin the full bloom of her youth and beauty.

  Mowbray undertakes to carry this, that he may be more welcome to you, hesays. Were it to be sent unsealed, the characters we write in would beHebrew to the dunce. I desire you to return it; and I'll give you a copyof it upon demand; for I intend to keep it by me, as a guard against theinfection of your company, which might otherwise, perhaps, some timehence, be apt to weaken the impressions I always desire to have of theawful scene before me. God convert us both!