hat such a sweet novice
in these matters should not, for some time, have known to what to
attribute her frequent indispositions. If this should be the case, how I
shall laugh at thee! and (when I am sure of her) at the dear novice
herself, that all her grievous distresses shall end in a man-child; which
I shall love better than all the cherubims and seraphims that may come
after; though there were to be as many of them as I beheld in my dream;
in which a vast expanse of firmament was stuck as full of them as it
could hold!

I shall be afraid to open thy next, lest it bring me the account of poor
Belton's death. Yet, as there are no hopes of his recovery--but what
should I say, unless the poor man were better fitted--but thy heavy
sermon shall not affect me too much neither.

I enclose thy papers; and do thou transcribe them for me, or return them;
for there are some things in them, which, at a proper season, a mortal
man should not avoid attending to; and thou seemest to have entered
deeply into the shocking subject.--But here I will end, lest I grow too
serious.

***

Thy servant called here about an hour ago, to know if I had any commands;
I therefore hope that thou wilt have this early in the morning. And if
thou canst let me hear from thee, do. I'll stretch an hour or two in
expectation of it. Yet I must be at Lord M.'s to-morrow night, if
possible, though ever so late.

Thy fellow tells me the poor man is much as he was when Mowbray left him.

Wouldst thou think that this varlet Mowbray is sorry that I am so near
being happy with Miss Harlowe? And, 'egad, Jack, I know not what to say
to it, now the fruit seems to be within my reach--but let what will come,
I'll stand to't: for I find I can't live without her.

LETTER XXI

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
WEDNESDAY, THREE O'CLOCK.

I will proceed where I left off in my last.

As soon as I had seen Mowbray mounted, I went to attend upon poor Belton;
whom I found in dreadful agonies, in which he awoke, after he generally
does.

The doctor came in presently after, and I was concerned at the scene that
passed between them.

It opened with the dying man's asking him, with melancholy earnestness,
if nothing--if nothing at all could be done for him?

The doctor shook his head, and told him, he doubted not.

I cannot die, said the poor man--I cannot think of dying. I am very
desirous of living a little longer, if I could but be free