He had so much longed to see me, as I was told by his sister, (whom I sent for down to inquire how he was,) that they all rejoiced when I entered:  Here, said Mowbray, here, Tommy, is honest Jack Belford!

Where, where? said the poor man.

I hear his voice, cried Mowbray:  he is coming up stairs.

In a transport of joy, he would have raised himself at my entrance, but had like to have pitched out of the chair:  and when recovered, called me his best friend! his kindest friend! but burst into a flood of tears:  O Jack!  O Belford! said he, see the way I am in!  See how weak!  So much, and so soon reduced!  Do you know me?  Do you know your poor friend Belton?

You are not so much altered, my dear Belton, as you think you are.  But I see you are weak; very weak—­and I am sorry for it.

Weak, weak, indeed, my dearest Belford, said he, and weaker in mind, if possible, than in body; and wept bitterly—­or I should not thus unman myself.  I, who never feared any thing, to be forced to show myself such a nursling!—­I am quite ashamed of myself!—­But don’t despise me; dear Belford, don’t despise me, I beseech thee.

I ever honoured a man that could weep for the distresses of others; and ever shall, said I; and such a one cannot be insensible of his own.

However, I could not help being visibly moved at the poor fellow’s emotion.

Now, said the brutal Mowbray, do I think thee insufferable, Jack.  Our poor friend is already a peg too low; and here thou art letting him down lower and lower still.  This soothing of him in his dejected moments, and joining thy womanish tears with his, is not the way; I am sure it is not.  If our Lovelace were here, he’d tell thee so.

Thou art an impenetrable creature, replied I; unfit to be present at a scene, the terrors of which thou wilt not be able to feel till thou feelest them in thyself; and then, if thou hadst time for feeling, my life for thine, thou behavest as pitifully as those thou thinkest most pitiful.

Then turning to the poor sick man, Tears, my dear Belton, are no signs of an unmanly, but, contrarily of a humane nature; they ease the over-charged heart, which would burst but for that kindly and natural relief.

      Give sorrow words (says Shakspeare)
      —­The grief that does not speak,
      Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

I know, my dear Belton, thou usedst to take pleasure in repetitions from the poets; but thou must be tasteless of their beauties now:  yet be not discountenanced by this uncouth and unreflecting Mowbray, for, as Juvenal says, Tears are the prerogative of manhood.

’Tis at least seasonably said, my dear Belford.  It is kind to keep me in countenance for this womanish weakness, as Mowbray has been upbraidingly calling it, ever since he has been with me:  and in so doing, (whatever I might have thought in such high health as he enjoys,) has convinced me, that bottle-friends feel nothing but what moves in that little circle.