conscience stinging him all the time too! And when he comes to wind up all, such agonizing reflections upon his past guilt! All then appearing as nothing! What he most valued, most disgustful! and not one thing to think of, as the poor fellow says twenty and twenty times over, but what is attended with anguish and reproach!

To hear the poor man wish he had never been born!-To hear him pray to be nothing after death! Good God! how shocking!

By his incoherent hints, I am afraid 'tis very bad with him. No pardon, no mercy, he repeats, can lie for him!

I hope I shall make a proper use of this lesson. Laugh at me if thou wilt; but never, never more, will I take the liberties I have taken; but whenever I am tempted, will think of Belton's dying agonies, and what my own may be.

Thursday, Three in the Morning. He is now at the last gasp-rattles in the throat-has a new convulsion every minute almost! What horror is he in! His eyes look like breath-stained glass! They roll ghastly no more; are quite set; his face distorted, and drawn out by his sinking jaws, and erected, staring eyebrows, with his lengthened, furrowed forehead, to double its usual length, as it seems. It is not, it cannot, be the face of Belton, thy Belton, and my Belton, whom we have beheld with so much delight over the social bottle, comparing notes, that one day may be brought against us, and make us groan, as they very lately did him --that is to say, while he had strength to groan; for now his voice is not to be heard; all inward, lost; not so much as speaking by his eyes; yet, strange! how can it be? the bed rocking under him like a cradle.

Four o'clock.

Alas! he's gone! that groan, that dreadful groan,
Was the last farewell of the parting mind!
The struggling soul has bid a long adieu
To its late mansion-Fled! Ah! whither fled?

Now is all indeed over!-Poor, poor Belton! by this time thou knowest if thy crimes were above the size of God's mercies! Now are every one's cares and attendance at an end! now do we, thy friends,-poor Belton!-know the worst of thee, as to this life! Thou art released from insufferable tortures both of body and mind! may those tortures, and thy repentance, expiate for thy offences, and mayest thou be happy to all eternity!

We are told that God desires not the death, the spiritual death, of a sinner: And 'tis certain that thou didst deeply repent! I hope, therefore, as thou wert not cut off in the midst of

thy sins by the sword of injured friendship, which more than once thou hadst braved, [the dreadfullest of all deaths, next to suicide, because it gives no opportunity for repentance,] that this is a merciful earnest that thy penitence is accepted; and that thy long illness, and dreadful agonies in the last stages of it, were thy only punishment.

I wish, indeed, I heartily wish, we could have seen one ray of comfort darting in upon his benighted mind, before he departed. But all, alas! to the very last gasp, was horror and confusion. And my only fear arises from this, that, till within the four last days of his life, he could not be brought to think he should die, though in a visible decline for months; and, in that presumption, was too little inclined to set about a serious preparation for a journey, which he hoped he should not be obliged to take; and when he began to apprehend that he could not put it off, his impatience, and terror, and apprehension, shewed too little of reliance and resignation, which afford the most comfortable reflections to the friends of the dying, as well as to the dying themselves.

But we must leave poor Belton to that mercy, of which we have all so much need; and, for my own part (do you, Lovelace, and the rest of the fraternity, as you will) I am resolved, I will endeavour to begin to repent of my follies while my health is sound, my intellects untouched, and while it is in my power to make some atonement, as near to restitution or reparation, as is possible, to those I have wronged or misled. And do ye outwardly, and from a point of false bravery, make as light as ye will of my resolution, as ye are none of ye of the class of abandoned and stupid sots who endeavour to disbelieve the future existence of which ye are afraid, I am sure you will justify me in your hearts, if not by your practices: and one day you will wish you had joined with me in the same resolution, and will confess there is more good sense in it, than now perhaps you will own.

Seven o'clock, Thursday Morning. You are very earnest, by your last letter, (just given me,) to hear again from me, before you set out for Berks. I will therefore close with a few words upon the only subject in your letter which I can at present touch upon; and this is the letter of which you give me a copy from the lady.

Want of rest, and the sad scene I have before my eyes, have rendered me altogether incapable of accounting for the contents of it in any shape. You are in ecstasies upon it. You have reason to be so, if it be as you think. Nor would I rob you of your joy; but I must say that I am amazed at it.

Surely, Lovelace, this surprising letter cannot be a forgery of thy own, in order to carry on

some view, and to impose upon me. Yet, by the style of it, it cannot; though thou art a perfect Proteus too.

I will not, however, add another word, after I have desired the return of this, and have told you that I am

Your true friend, and well-wisher,
J. BELFORD.

LETTER CCCXXXII.

MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, Esq.

Aug. 24, Thursday Morn.

I RECEIVED thy letter in such good time, by thy fellow's dispatch, that it gives me an opportunity of throwing in a few paragraphs upon it. I read a passage or two of it to Mowbray; and we both agree that thou art an absolute master of the lamentable.

Poor Belton! what terrible conflicts were thy last conflicts! I hope, however, that he is happy; and I have the more hope, because the hardness of his death is likely to be such a warning to thee. If it have the effect thou declarest it shall have, what a world of mischief will it prevent! how much good will it do! how many poor wretches will rejoice at the occasion, (if they know it,) however melancholy in itself, which shall bring them in a compensation for injuries they had been forced to sit down contented with! But, Jack, though thy uncle's death has made thee a rich fellow, art thou sure that the making good of such a vow will not totally bankrupt thee?

Thou sayest I may laugh at thee, if I will. Not I, Jack; I do not take it to be a laughing subject; and I am heartily concerned at the loss we all have in poor Belton; and when I get a little settled, and have leisure to contemplate the vanity of all sublunary things, (a subject that will now-and-then, in my gayest hours, obtrude itself upon me,) it is very likely that I may talk seriously with thee upon these topics; and, if thou hast not got too much the start of me in the repentance thou art entering upon, will go hand-in-hand with thee in it. If thou hast, thou wilt let me just keep thee in my eye; for it is an up-hill work; and I shall see thee, at setting out, at a great distance; but as thou art a much heavier and clumsier fellow than myself, I hope that without much puffing and sweating, only keeping on a good round dog-trot, I shall be able to overtake thee.

Meantime, take back thy letter, as thou desirest. I would not have it in my pocket upon any account at present; nor read it once more. I am going down without seeing my beloved. I was a hasty fool to write her a letter, promising that I would not come near her till I saw her at her father's. For as she is now actually at

Smith's, and I so near her, one short visit could have done no harm.

I sent Will, two hours ago, with my grateful compliments, and to know how she does.

How must I adore this charming creature! for I am ready to think my servant a happier fellow than myself, for having been within a pair of stairs and an apartment of her.

Mowbray and I will drop a tear a-piece, as we ride along, to the memory of poor Belton: -as we ride along, I say; for we shall have so much joy when we arrive at Lord M.'s, and when I communicate to him and my cousins the dear creature's letter, that we shall forget everything grievous; since now their familyhopes in my reformation (the point which lies so near their hearts) will all revive; it being an article of their faith, that, if I marry, repentance and mortification will follow of course.

Neither Mowbray nor I shall accept of thy verbal invitation to the funeral. We like not these dismal formalities. And as to the respect that is supposed to be shewn to the memory of a deceased friend in such an attendance, why should we do anything to reflect upon those who have made it a fashion to leave this parade to people whom they hire for that purpose?

Adieu, and be cheerful. Thou canst now do no more for poor Belton, wert thou to howl for him to the end of thy life.

LETTER CCCXXXIII.

MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.

Sat. Aug. 26.

ON Thursday afternoon I assisted at the opening of poor Belton's will, in which he has left me his sole executor, and bequeathed me a legacy of an hundred guineas; which I shall present to his unfortunate sister, to whom he has not been so kind as I think he ought to have been. He has also left twenty pounds a-piece to Mowbray, Tourville, thyself, and me, for a ring to be worn in remembrance of him.

After I had given some particular orders about the preparations to be made for his funeral, I went to town; but having made it late before I got in on Thursday night, and being fatigued for want of rest several nights before, and low in my spirits, [I could not help it, Lovelace!] I contented myself to send my compliments to the innocent sufferer, to inquire after her health.

My servant saw Mrs Smith, who told him, she was very glad I was come to town; for that the lady was worse than she had yet been.

It is impossible to account for the contents of her letter to you; or to reconcile those contents to the facts I have to communicate.

I was at Smith's by seven yesterday (Friday) morning; and found that the lady was just gone

in a chair to St Dunstan's to prayers; she was too ill to get out by six to Covent-garden church; and was forced to be supported to her chair by Mrs Lovick. They would have persuaded her against going; but she said she knew not but it would be her last opportunity. Mrs Lovick, dreading that she would be taken worse at church, walked thither before her.

Mrs Smith told me she was so ill on Wednesday night, that she had desired to receive the sacrament; and accordingly it was administered to her, by the parson of the parish; whom she besought to take all opportunities of assisting her in her solemn preparation.

This the gentleman promised; and called in the morning to inquire after her health; and was admitted at the first word. He staid with her about half an hour; and when he came down, with his face turned aside, and a faltering accent," Mrs Smith," said he, " you have an angel in your house. I will attend her again in the evening, as she desires, and as often as I think it will be agreeable to her."

Her increased weakness she attributed to the fatigues she had undergone by your means; and to a letter she had received from her sister, which she answered the same day.

Mrs Smith told me that two different persons had called there, one on Thursday morning, one in the evening, to inquire after her state of health; and seemed as if commissioned from her relations for that purpose; but asked not to see her, only were very inquisitive after her visitors; (particularly, it seems, after me; What could they mean by that?) after her way of life, and expenses; and one of them inquired after her manner of supporting them; to the latter of which, Mrs Smith said, she had answered, as the truth was, that she had been obliged to sell some of her clothes, and was actually about parting with more; at which the inquirist (a grave old farmer-looking man) held up his hands, and said, Good God!-this will be sad, sad news to somebody! I believe I must not mention it. But Mrs Smith says she desired he would, let him come from whom he would. He shook his head, and said, if she died, the flower of the world would be gone, and the family she belonged to would be no more than a common family. I was pleased with the man's expression.

You may be curious to know how she passed her time, when she was obliged to leave her lodging to avoid you.

me,

Mrs Smith tells "that she was very ill when she went out on Monday morning, and sighed as if her heart would break as she came down stairs, and as she went through the shop

into the coach, her nurse with her, as you had informed me before; that she ordered the coachman (whom she hired for the day) to drive anywhere, so it was into the air; he accordingly drove her to Hampstead, and thence to Highgate. There, at the Bowling-green House, she alighted, extremely ill, and having breakfasted, ordered the coachman to drive very slowly anywhere. He crept along to Muswell-hill, and put up at a public-house there; where she employed herself two hours in writing, though exceedingly weak and low, till the dinner she had ordered was brought in; she endeavoured to eat, but could not; her appetite was gone, quite gone, she said. And then she wrote on for three hours more; after which, being heavy, she dozed a little in an elbow-chair. When she awoke, she ordered the coachman to drive her very slowly to town, to the house of a friend of Mrs Lovick; whom, as agreed upon, she met there; but, being extremely ill, she would venture home at a late hour, although she heard from the widow that you had been there; and had reason to be shocked at your behaviour. She said, she found there was no avoiding you; she was apprehensive she should not live many hours, and it was not impossible but the shock the sight of you must give her would determine her fate in your presence.

"She accordingly went home. She heard the relation of your astonishing vagaries, with hands and eyes often lifted up; and with these words intermingled, Shocking creature! incorrigible wretch! And will nothing make him serious? And not being able to bear the thoughts of an interview with a man so hardened, she took to her usual chair early in the morning, and was carried to the Temple-stairs, whither she had ordered her nurse before her, to get a pair of oars in readiness, (for her fatigues the day before made her unable to bear a coach ;) and then she was rowed to Chelsea, where she breakfasted; and after rowing about, put in at the Swan at Brentford-aight, where she dined; and would have written, but had no conveniency either of tolerable pens, or ink, or private room; and then proceeding to Richmond, they rowed her back to Mortlake; where she put in, and drank tea at a house her waterman recommended to her. She wrote there for an hour; and returned to the Temple; and when she landed, made one of the watermen get her a chair, and so was carried to the widow's friend, as the night before; where she again met the widow, who informed her that you had been after her twice that day.

"Mrs Lovick gave her there her sister's letter; and she was so much affected with the

contents of it, that she was twice very nigh fainting away; and wept bitterly, as Mrs Lovick told Mrs Smith; dropping some warmer expressions than ever they had heard proceed from her lips, in relation to her friends; calling them cruel, and complaining of ill offices done her, and of vile reports raised against her.

"While she was thus disturbed, Mrs Smith came to her, and told her, that you had been there a third time, and was just gone, (at half an hour after nine,) having left word how civil and respectful you would be; but that you was determined to see her at all events.

"She said it was hard she could not be permitted to die in peace; that her lot was a severe one; that she began to be afraid she should not forbear repining, and to think her punishment greater than her fault; but, recalling herself immediately, she comforted herself, that her life would be short, and with the assurance of

a better."

By what I have mentioned, you will conclude with me, that the letter brought her by Mrs Lovick (the superscription of which you saw to be written in her sister's hand) could not be the letter on the contents of which she grounded that she wrote to you, on her return home. And yet neither Mrs Lovick, nor Mrs Smith, nor the servant of the latter, know of any other brought her. But, as the women assured me, that she actually did write to you, I was eased of a suspicion which I had begun to entertain, that you (for some purpose I could not guess at) had forged the letter from her of which you sent me a copy.

On Wednesday morning, when she received your letter in answer to hers, she said, Necessity may well be called the mother of invention-but calamity is the test of integrity.-I hope I have not taken an inexcusable step And there she stopt a minute or two; and then said, I shall now, perhaps, be allowed to die in peace.

SO

I staid till she came in. She was glad to see me; but, being very weak, said, she must sit down before she could go up stairs; and went into the back-shop, leaning upon Mrs Lovick; and when she had sat down, "I am glad to see you, Mr Belford," said she; "I must say so-let mis-reporters say what they will."

I wondered at this expression ;* but would not interrupt her.

O, sir, said she, I have been grievously harassed. Your friend, who would not let me live with reputation, will not permit me to die in peace. You see how I am. Is there not a great alteration in me within this week! but 'tis all for the better. Yet, were I to wish for life, I must say that your friend, your barbarous friend, has hurt me greatly.

She was so very weak, so short-breathed, and her words and actions so very moving, that I was forced to walk from her; the two women and her nurse turning away their faces also, weeping.

I have had, madam, said I, since I saw you, a most shocking scene before my eyes for days together. My poor friend Belton is no more. He quitted the world yesterday morning, in such dreadful agonies, that the impression they have left upon me has so weakened my mind

I was loath to have her think that my grief was owing to the weak state I saw her in, for fear of dispiriting her.

That is only, Mr Belford, interrupted she, in order to strengthen it, if a proper use be made of the impression. But I should be glad, since you are so humanely affected with the solemn circumstance, that you could have written an account of it to your gay friend, in the style and manner you are master of. Who knows, as it would have come from an associate, and of an associate, how it might have affected him?

That I had done, I told her, in such a manner as had, I believed, some effect upon you.

His behaviour in this honest family so lately, said she, and his cruel pursuit of me, give but little hope that anything serious or solemn will affect him.

We had some talk about Belton's dying behaviour, and I gave her several particulars of the poor man's impatience and despair; to which she was very attentive; and made fine observations upon the subject of procrastination.

A letter and packet were brought her by a man on horseback from Miss Howe, while we were talking. She retired up stairs to read it; and, while I was in discourse with Mrs Smith and Mrs Lovick, the doctor and apothecary both came in together. They confirmed to me my fears, as to the dangerous way she is in. They had both been apprized of the new instances of implacableness in her friends, and of your persecutions; and the doctor said he would not for the world be either the unforgiving father of that lady, or the man who had brought her to this distress. Her heart's broken; she'll die, said he; there is no saving her. But how, were I either the one or the other of the people I have named, I should support myself afterwards, I cannot tell.

When she was told we were all three together, she desired us to walk up. She arose to receive us, and after answering two or three general questions relating to her health, she addressed herself to us, to the following effect:

As I may not, said she, see you three gentlemen together again, let me take this opportunity to acknowledge my obligations to you all.

I am inexpressibly obliged to you, sir, and to you, sir, courtesying to the doctor and to Mr Goddard for your more than friendly, your paternal, care and concern for me. Humanity in your profession, I dare say, is far from being a rare qualification, because you are gentlemen by your profession; but so much kindness, so much humanity, did never desolate creature meet with, as I have met with from you both. But, indeed, I have always observed, that, where a person relies upon Providence, it never fails to raise up a new friend for every old one that falls off.

This gentleman, [bowing to me, who, some people think, should have been one of the last I should have thought of for my executor-is, nevertheless, (such is the strange turn that things have taken!) the only one I can choose; and therefore I have chosen him for that charitable office, and he has been so good as to accept of it; for, rich as I may boast myself to be, I am rather so in right than in fact, at this present. I repeat, therefore, my humble thanks to you all three, and beg of God to return to you and yours [looking to each an hundred-fold, the kindness and favour you have shewn me; and that it may be in the power of you and of yours, to the end of time, to confer benefits, rather than to be obliged to receive them. This is a godlike power, gentlemen; I once rejoiced in it in some little degree; and much more in the prospect I had of its being enlarged to me; though I have had the mortification to experience the reverse, and to be obliged almost to everybody I have seen or met with; but all, originally, through my own fault; so I ought to bear the punishment without repining; and I hope I do. Forgive these impertinencies; a grateful heart, that wants the power it wishes for, to express itself suitably to its own impulses, will be at a loss what properly to dictate to the tongue; and yet, unable to restrain its overflowings, will force the tongue to say weak and silly things, rather than appear ungratefully silent. Once more, then, I thank ye all three for your kindness to me; and God Almighty make you that amends which at present I cannot !

She retired from us to her closet with her eyes full; and left us looking upon one another. We had hardly recovered ourselves, when she, quite easy, cheerful, and smiling, returned to us: Doctor, said she, (seeing we had been moved), you will excuse me for the concern I give you; and so will you, Mr Goddard, and you, Mr Belford; for 'tis a concern that only generous natures can shew; and to such natures sweet is the pain, if I may so say, that attends such a concern. But, as I have some few preparations still to make, and would not (though in ease of Mr Belford's future cares, which is, and ought to be, part of my study) undertake more than it is likely I shall have time lent me to per

VOL. VII.

form, I would beg of you to give me your opinions you see my way of living, and you may be assured that I will do nothing wilfully to shorten my life] how long it may possibly be, before I may hope to be released from all my troubles.

They both hesitated, and looked upon each other. Don't be afraid to answer me, said she, each sweet hand pressing upon the arm of each gentleman, with that mingled freedom and reserve, which virgin modesty, mixed with conscious dignity, can only express, and with a look serenely earnest, tell me how long you think I may hold it! and believe me, gentlemen, the shorter you tell me my time is likely to be, the more comfort you will give me.

With what pleasing woe, said the doctor, do you fill the minds of those who have the happiness to converse with you, and see the happy frame you are in! what you have undergone within a few days past has much hurt you; and should you have fresh troubles of those kinds, I could not be answerable for your holding it— And there he paused.

How long, doctor?-I believe I shall have a little more ruffling-I am afraid I shall-but there can happen only one thing that I shall not be tolerably easy under-How long then, sir?---He was silent.

A fortnight, sir?

He was still silent.

Ten days?-A week?-How long, sir? with smiling earnestness.

If I must speak, madam, if you have not better treatment than you have lately met with, I am afraid-There again he stopt.

Afraid of what, doctor?-don't be afraidHow long, sir?

That a fortnight or three weeks may deprive the world of the finest flower in it.

A fortnight or three weeks yet, doctor?-But God's will be done! I shall, however, by this means, have full time, if I have but strength and intellect, to do all that is now upon my mind to do. And so, sirs, I can but once more thank you [turning to each of us] for all your goodness to me; and, having letters to write, will take up no more of your time-Only, doctor, be pleased to order me some more of those drops; they cheer me a little, when I am low; and putting a fee into his unwilling hand-You know the terms, sir!-Then, turning to Mr Goddard, you'll be so good, sir, as to look in upon me to-night or to-morrow, as you have opportunity; and you, Mr Belford, I know, will be desirous to set out to prepare for the last office for your late friend; so I wish you a good journey, and hope to see you when that is performed.

She then retired with a cheerful and serene air. The two gentlemen went away together. I went down to the women, and, inquiring, found, that Mrs Lovick was this day to bring her 2 P