Clarissa, Volume 9 | Page 9

be out of my memory.
After a short silence, in a more broken and faint accent--And you, Mr.
Belford, pressing my hand, may God preserve you, and make you
sensible of all your errors--you see, in me, how all ends--may you
be--And down sunk her head upon her pillow, she fainting away, and
drawing from us her hands.
We thought she was then gone; and each gave way to a violent burst of
grief.
But soon showing signs of returning life, our attention was again
engaged; and I besought her, when a little recovered, to complete in my
favour her half-pronounced blessing. She waved her hand to us both,
and bowed her head six several times, as we have since recollected, as
if distinguishing every person present; not forgetting the nurse and the
maid-servant; the latter having approached the bed, weeping, as if
crowding in for the divine lady's blessing; and she spoke faltering and
inwardly--Bless--bless--bless--you all--and--now--and now--[holding
up her almost lifeless hands for the last time] come--O come--blessed
Lord --JESUS!
And with these words, the last but half-pronounced, expired:--such a
smile, such a charming serenity overspreading her sweet face at the
instant, as seemed to manifest her eternal happiness already begun.
O Lovelace!--But I can write no more!
***
I resume my pen to add a few lines.
While warm, though pulseless, we pressed each her hand with our lips;
and then retired into the next room.
We looked at each other, with intent to speak: but, as if one motion
governed, as one cause affected both, we turned away silent.
The Colonel sighed as if his heart would burst: at last, his face and
hands uplifted, his back towards me, Good Heaven! said he to himself,
support me!--And is it thus, O flower of nature!--Then pausing--And
must we no more--never more!--My blessed, blessed Cousin! uttering
some other words, which his sighs made inarticulate.--And then, as if
recollecting himself--Forgive me, Sir!--Excuse me, Mr. Belford! And
sliding by me, Anon I hope to see you, Sir--And down stairs he went,
and out of the house, leaving me a statue.
When I recovered, I was ready to repine at what I then called an

unequal dispensation; forgetting her happy preparation, and still
happier departure; and that she had but drawn a common lot;
triumphing in it, and leaving behind her every one less assured of
happiness, though equally certain that the lot would one day be their
own.
She departed exactly at forty minutes after six o'clock, as by her watch
on the table.
And thus died Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, in the blossom of her
youth and beauty: and who, her tender years considered, had not left
behind her her superior in extensive knowledge and watchful prudence;
nor hardly her equal for unblemished virtue, exemplary piety,
sweetness of manners, discreet generosity, and true christian charity:
and these all set off by the most graceful modesty and humility; yet on
all proper occasions, manifesting a noble presence of mind, and true
magnanimity: so that she may be said to have been not only an
ornament to her sex, but to human nature.
A better pen than mine may do her fuller justice. Thine, I mean, O
Lovelace! For well dost thou know how much she excelled in the
graces of both mind and person, natural and acquired, all that is woman.
And thou also can best account for the causes of her immature death,
through those calamities which in so short a space of time, from the
highest pitch of felicity, (every one in a manner adoring her,) brought
he to an exit so happy for herself, but, that it was so early, so much to
be deplored by all who had the honour of her acquaintance.
This task, then, I leave to thee: but now I can write no more, only that I
am a sympathizer in every part of thy distress, except (and yet it is cruel
to say it) in that which arises from thy guilt.
ONE O'CLOCK, FRIDAY MORNING.

LETTER VIII
MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. NINE, FRIDAY
MORN.
I have no opportunity to write at length, having necessary orders to
give on the melancholy occasion. Joel, who got to me by six in the
morning, and whom I dispatched instantly back with the letter I had
ready from last night, gives me but an indifferent account of the state of
your mind. I wonder not at it; but time (and nothing else can) will make

it easier to you: if (that is to say) you have compounded with your
conscience; else it may be heavier every day than other.
***
Tourville tells us what a way you are in. I hope you will not think of
coming hither. The lady in her will desires you may not