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.