J. BELFORD. [ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]
LETTER XLI
MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. TUESDAY, SEPT. 26.
Fate, I believe, in my conscience, spins threads for tragedies, on purpose for thee to weave with.—Thy Watford uncle, poor Belton, the fair inimitable, [exalted creature! and is she to be found in such a list!] the accursed woman, and Tomlinson, seemed to have been all doomed to give thee a theme for the dismal and the horrible;—and, by my soul, that thou dost work it going, as Lord M. would phrase it.
That's the horrid thing, a man cannot begin to think, but causes for thought crowd in upon him; the gloomy takes place, and mirth and gaiety abandon his heard for ever!
Poor M'Donald!—I am really sorry for the fellow.—He was an useful, faithful, solemn varlet, who could act incomparably any part given him, and knew not what a blush was.—He really took honest pains for me in the last affair; which has cost him and me so dearly in reflection. Often gravelled, as we both were, yet was he never daunted.—Poor M'Donald! I must once more say:—for carrying on a solemn piece of roguery, he had no equal.
I was so solicitous to know if he were really as bad as thou hast a knack of painting every body whom thou singlest out to exercise thy murdering pen upon, that I dispatched a man and horse to Maidstone, as soon as I had thine; and had word brought me, that he died in two hours after he had received thy five guineas. And all thou wrotest of his concern, in relation to the ever-dear Miss Harlowe, it seems was true.
I can't help it, Belford!—I have only to add, that it is happy that the poor fellow lived not to be hanged; as it seems he would have been; for who knows, as he had got into such a penitential strain, what might have been in his dying speech?
When a man has not great good to comfort himself with, it is right to make the best of the little that may offer. There never was any discomfort happened to mortal man, but some little ray of consolation would dart in, if the wretch was not so much a wretch, as to draw, instead of undraw, the curtain, to keep it out.
And so much, at this time, and for ever, for poor Capt. Tomlinson, as I called him.