LETTER C.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

UNgrateful Emma! perverse and insensate child! You merit nei­ther the pangs you cost me, nor the tenderness you receive from me. I gave you a reason cogent enough to have weaned a worthy girl from a thousand Hammonds. To that I might have added the sudden depar­ture of a generous friend, who I now [Page 4] tell you (for I can hold no longer) would have laid his fortune at your feet. This, indeed, you must have seen, since nothing but the most ex­treme stupidity could remain igno­rant of those attentions which, for many weeks past, have been lavished upon you by Sir Robert Raymond, a man, oh inconsiderate! who saved thy aged father in the very crisis of his misfortunes, and too delicate to de­mand as a debt the tender returns of love, which he would have sued for as a favour, is gone, almost broken-hearted, away. I had promised to conceal his confidence, but you extort it from me: nay, you continue still to doat upon the wretch who is fighting against all the best and dearest con­nexions [Page 7] of your family. I will not endure it. You assume the language of decision, and call it the sentiment of reason. You set yourself up as [...] judge, and lift your woman's voice against the sacred principles of patriot and parent. It is not to be borne. Let me hear no more on the subject. Cease your threats about daggers, darts, and death. I look DOWN upon such romance. Forbear to urge me. You are not to learn the touches of my temper. My principles are not less sacred than your passion. Your principles! What are they? Airy no­things. Mine are the solemn af­fections of a lover of his country, and a detester of its oppressors, a de­tester of Henry Hammond! Why will [Page 8] you drive me to this? I know no­thing of his wounds; but if he has re­ceived some, there is reason to suppose he has given more: at least his bloody endeavours cannot have been wanting, and every one is in the bosom of your father's native land. Your affection is that of a girl whimpering after a boy. Is this an affection to be brought in competition with that glorious fire which the love of liberty, and an ab­horrence (as settled as it is sublime) of rights usurped and saith broken? Is your puerile, yet headstrong incli­nation worthy to be brought into consideration with the passion that fills the breast, and fires the soul, of your afflicted and offended father,

LETTER CI.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

THE characters of my pen will discover to you the condition of my heart. Sickness, sorrow, distrac­tion, and despair, are the apologies I have to offer for silence. Do not grieve for the news you sent, or ra­ther that you sent me such news. It inspires a thought whose influence chears me; but I want health. Oh that I could recover!—that I could gain but a little strength!

Enough. Writing will exhaust me. I must nurse myself. A new cause of sorrow too! Sir Robert Raymond [Page 10] has—Generous man how I feel for him!

Louisa, adieu. Pray for my reco­very, I conjure you. I would use it to a worthy purpose. I would apply it, as every gift of God ought to be applied.

LETTER CII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

THE news of the day—oh how shall I relate it. The rebels, as they are called, have cut to pieces the greatest part of —, and yet this is mere newspaper report. Henry per­haps may be amongst those who esca­ped the slaughter. I cannot support these strokes. I will enquire no more. Let us hope.—Despair would kill me.

LETTER CIII.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

IT is sufficient. Let our researches cease. God Almighty bless my Louisa and her babe! Heaven's pity and protection be upon them! Emma, bent on her knee, offers this prayer to her Maker. It is her legacy. It is her last leave of love and sisterhood.

LETTER CIV.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

O RAYMOND, Raymond! my oldest friend, my truest com­panion, pity, ah pity the anguish of a father—pity a parent whose persecu­tions have driven away his child! Emma hath eloped. Heaven knows where she has wandered. Under pretence of visiting a friend near town, she went in one of the public stages, with intent, as she said, to re­turn in the evening. The friend whom she pretended to visit was Mrs. Arnold of Richmond, on whom she had often called in a neigh­bourly way. I remained therefore perfectly unalarmed till twilight. A [Page 14] tempest of thunder and lightening happening about nine o'clock, I sent over a servant to Mrs. Arnold's, ima­gining she might be afraid to come through it alone. The servant re­turned from Mrs. Arnold with news that Emma called there for a few mi­nutes by way of morning ride, but went away in a great hurry. It was near midnight before I received these horrid tidings, and then I ordered my horses to be harnessed, and went at full speed to every house where the stages set up. The people were all in bed, and I obtained answers to my questions with difficulty. None were satisfactory. I traversed the streets in a distracted manner, for oh, you know how I doat upon Emma! I [Page 15] could not give the coachman any di­rection, and he continued dragging me about, but I bid him go any where rather than to my own house. No trace—no clue—no glimmering of hope! Hard-hearted girl! What though I urged her to forget the un­generous Henry, am not I her father? But I will be calm, I will cut her from my affections for ever. I am just got home. It is day-break. The servants are all dispersed to hunt after a runaway girl. What a dreadful morning! The hemisphere is in a blaze!—The wind blows hard!—The firmament opens its flaming breast!—I see into its bowels. I am sitting all alone. Oh my heart, what a thunder­clap was there!—It is now rolling [Page 16] along the sphere. Oh Emma, Emma, my daughter—my child—my darling—where, where art thou? Another! WONDER-WORKING GOD! behold a contrite parent upon his knees, lame and decrepid as he is, to supplicate a covering for the beloved fugitive. Perhaps, Raymond, our poor discon­solate—the mutual joy of our hearts—perhaps some sudden stroke of—I dare not turn imagination that hor­rible way. No, no: Emma is at last disobedient, she is base, she has abu­sed her father, she—

Wherefore do not my servants re­turn? Villains, how dare they sport with a sorrow like mine? They know not what it is to be a parent!

[Page 17]Alas! I rave. They have not been long gone from me, and were they already to come back, I should banish them from my presence for ever. I know not what I would have. I only know, Oh Raymond, that the uni­verse cannot contain a more unhappy man than

LETTER CV.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

AS your letter arrived I was about to send to you an express. I have heard from Emma. Oh, my friend, you must arm yourself with fortitude. The post brought me the [...]nclosed about an hour before dark. Emma lives, is recovering—for the rest, prepare yourself. Prepare your­self to hear of fidelity, heroism, and resolution, which claim admiration, even from us whom they afflict, what­ever be their issue.

I perceive that the present state of your mind, my dear unhappy Corbett, too much resembles my own, for my [Page 19] company to serve you. Let us try the force of separate reflection.

Read the letter of our beloved wanderer, and tell me what is to be done!

LETTER CVI.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND. ^*

I CLAIM the assistance of a man whom I know to be generous, who honours me with his esteem, and whom I venerate for the anci­ent friendship that has long uni­ted our families. By the powerful force of all these feelings I conjure you, on the receipt of this letter, to visit my father. Assure him that his dear, dear image lives unimpaired in my heart. Tell him that my absent­ing myself in this manner is not the truant trick of a girl who triumphs in the vexation of a parent, but proceeds [Page 21] from a motive most virtuous, most irresistable, most conscientious—from a duty that appeals to my heart, my senses, and my soul. O let him not think that I glory in the necessity which takes me one moment from him. I lament, I weep, I mourn over it. I could wish that each duty went hand in hand, and that some of their objects did not lie so wide apart from others. Superior to every deceit, I would have consul­ted my father even on the present measure, but he will recollect the terror into which his late conversations threw me, and will then be convinced how impossible it was to risque such an ecclaircissment. Yet even now I will forbear to justify my departure, [Page 22] because I would suffer some reproach myself, rather than try to establish an irregular example. But the power who is giving me strength to sustain the great business I am about to un­dertake, has placed in my bosom something which reconciles me to the enterprize. Oh Sir Robert, there is a duty which must be performed—at least attempted. Nature, reason, ho­nour, and faith the most hallowed, all stir within me; nay, God himself, at the marking of whose awful name, I bow, seems looking down from his heaven of heavens with approba­tion. I may seem to be romantic, when I mean only to shew myself sincere. All sort of research will be vain. I would not have yielded to [Page 23] the least semblance of a scheme, which is most terrible to my nature, could it by any means have been avoided. My father will call to mind certain sentiments, and do me justice in his own dear bosom on this occasion.

Sir Robert Raymond, I ever desired to be uniform, and to reconcile the distinct parts of my conduct with the whole. Yet I will bear up against the charge of impropriety in this one instance for the sake of —but further explanation is unneces­sary. Go then, oh amiable medi­ator betwixt parent and child—go, and plead my cause in all the elo­quence of friendship. Obtain for me [Page 24] the paternal pardon—sustain his heart, and do not leave him a prey to sorrow.

Excuse my forbearing to give you my address. Pity the concealments which are thus imposed. Be it suffi­cient that I will continue to send you accounts of myself at every oppor­tunity.

LETTER CVII.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

YOUR letter, Sir Robert, with its dear and dreadful inclosure came to hand. It is now before my eyes, which are streaming in penitence for the phrenzy which has banished my daughter. I now behold the whole matter too plain. Oh, my friend, I treated the most dutiful of children with unwonted harshness, and in the patriot I extinguished the parent. I expected that a soul like Emma's should circumscribe itself within the pale of politics. Curse on the rage of party! Execrated be the tyranies of war! Ah what are causes, countries, [Page 26] worlds, to the loss of one dear child adorned with the virtues of Emma Corbett! Blind, doating zeal! what hast thou to do with an old man's heart? What, with the sacred season of the silver hair? Is mine an age to engage in these tumultuous subjects? No. I should have taken my darling daughter to my bosom, and with an enlarged benevolence prayed fer­vently for the returning embrace of a divided people. That would have been true patriotism and true philan­thropy. Instead of which, dolt and dotard as I was, I mixed with hot-headed giddiness in the affray. I in­terested myself in every fugitive breath of vague intelligence; and, while I [Page 27] talked of justice, I was encouraging slaughter; wholly forgetting, or too blood-thirsty to remember, that either army is composed of kindred and of countrymen. Behold Raymond, how I am punished! But where, where all this time is Emma? No date! No address! A young creature un­friended, alone, of a delicate frame, and harrassed by fatigue! Sick also! Never used to travel unattended—Oh heaven! But she will return. The thought makes me easier. Let me indulge it. How tender will I be to her—with what fondness will I hang upon her neck, and hide her blushes in my bosom—how will I talk—how soothe—how console her—oh I will [Page 28] kiss her into confidence and compo­sure. I will even converse—(pardon me Sir Robert, pardon the effusions of a repenting heart)—I will even converse upon her darling theme.—The name of Henry shall be men­tioned, and, if it does her good, not without tenderness. Alas! what has the youth done, but—Yes, yes, Emma will return. She must. She shall. The slender and trembling thread of my being is sustained by no other hope.

I have sent advertisements to the papers, inviting her home, describing person, circumstances, and situations, but concealing names. I have dis­patched [Page 29] various messengers to all the ports to have her tenderly intreated, almost cordially controuled, should her romantic nature—for oh I sus­pect she meditates—Was there ever any thing so wild—But she will never be able to carry it into execution, and I will not even suppose it practicable. She will return. I shall recover the treasure of my age. But the interim is anguish—oh, hasten my friend to soften it. I am sick, and Emma is not at my side. I see her not at the harpsichord—I hear not her enchant­ing voice—I contemplate not her lovely features—all, all the exact images of her dear mother—her mo­ther! who would shudder in her grave were she—

[Page 30]A servant enters to tell me there is nothing but her own little money-box missing. Her cloaths are all above stairs. I dare not go to look at them. I dare not open the door of her chamber. It would certainly be my death.

LETTER CVIII.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

I AM not sorry you found it incon­venient to meet me. Objects of gloom, I know, are intolerable to you. Castleberry at present affords little else. I used, my friend, to fly from these as assiduously as yourself. Yet now they are become very dear. I love the solitude which this scene af­fords me. It was lately adorned by the society of Emma. Ah elegant and hapless girl! She has not only eloped, but engaged me to justify the step she has taken to her father. Oh Frederick, her language is so sweet, her power over me so resistless, and her firm affection for this happy Ham­mond, [Page 32] this heroic rival, so respect­able, that my whole soul yields im­plicit obedience to the very de­sires which involve me in despair! What, of things possible, would I not do to secure to her but one moment's happiness? Alas! my friend, sin­cerely as I know you love me, I dare not tell you all that I intend to do. Yet consider a young creature about to venture on the wild and uncertain ocean, moved by a sacred impulse in favour of a worthy lover, who has himself left a blooming mistress, whose society he consents to sacrifice, to his country. Consider also this lover, as one who is the choice of Emma, and is every way suitable to her in person as in age.

[Page 33] When you have maturely weighed these circumstances, then tell me what at my age and under my circum­stances I ought to do. My friend, no man knows what virtue or what energy there is in him till after the hour of serious exertion.

There is a project, Berkley, rolling in my mind, and if on a little more reflection I can reconcile it wholly to the dictate that uniformly sways me, I shall undertake something that will excite your ridicule. But for any thing of that kind I shall be prepared. I have only two great powers to con­sult, my reason and my conscience. What they inspire can never be [Page 34] laughed away. Laugh then, but do not forget that your mirth is at the expence of a friend who is seriously unhappy.

LETTER CIX.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

I AM writing in a common public-house at this town, from whence in about half an hour I shall set off for America. I am resolved to perform this voyage at all hazards. Do not, dear Louisa, accuse me of wanting confidence because I did not acquaint you with my design. I could never support the idea of involving a friend in the perils of a trust, which may pro­duce altercation in the issue. When the soul is settled in its plan, it is use­less to ask advice; and to enjoin se­crecy in any family matter, is gene­rally [Page 36] to embroil the person entrusted with some part of it or another.

The haste and agitation in which I write is not to be expressed. The house is crouded with sailors and their parting friends. I am equipped with a proper disguise. No matter what embarrassments I have had to procure or to put it on. The wind does not allow me leisure for descriptions. I am going as a cabbin passenger in a vessel called the Henry. The very sound of the name affects me with a sweet superstition. A boat is coming from the ship to take me on board, and the captain is already here, pouring brandy down his throat as if it were so much water. I sport [Page 37] thus with circumstances to take all our grief away upon my account, O my beloved sister; for you see I am equal to the task. The boatmen ap­pear. They tell me the gales are fa­vourable. The first view of the ocean is awful. But it leads to Henry.

Adieu. The mariners are impati­ent. They call me fair-weather sailor; which is a joke levelled purely at my complexion; but they have no suspi­cion of Emma. Oh, farewell! They hurry me. I must fold up the letter —I must bid you indeed adieu.

LETTER CX.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

FREDERICK, I am now resolved. Away selfish weaknesses—away all that is unbecoming the period of my life! Come onward ye powers of more suitable attachment! Come di­vinest image of graceful and honour­able FRIENDSHIP!—come and possess me wholly!

Berkley, I have made up my mind, and it is easier. My spirit settles. I recover from the giddiness of passion, and rise to more disinterested joys, in which the appetites have no share.

[Page 39]Adieu, my friend. I am preparing again for sea. You guess my desti­nation. I follow the fortunes of the incomparable Emma in her tender pil­grimage o'er the waves. There, by this time, floats the fair and faithful fugitive. My servant is packing up —Oh, let me go catch the disconso­late Corbett by the hand, and linger not another moment.

LETTER CXI.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

YOU were scarce gone twenty mi­nutes, my most generous Ray­mond, ere a letter came to hand by private conveyance—a letter, my friend, whose contents—oh Sir Robert, I sink under the double con­flict of delight and of despair.

Inexplicable Providence! I have yet a son. Edward still lives. At this tumultuous moment I am drop­ping the father's tear upon the blessed paper that presents the news. Oh for some few months of firmer health! This unmitigable disorder, which chains me to the chamber and the [Page 41] chair! Go then, my friend—go most admirable! most excellent! fly to my children! Ah that a parent's heart-heaved sighs could speed your vessel on its way! God give it swiftness! Haply you may yet see, and yet save, my children.

Oh if you should—

—forgetting all agony I have dropped involuntarily upon my knee to enforce the prayer—

Oh if you should, I conjure you to exert yourself! Tell Emma I relent. I yield to her pleading softness—I am no more the mad patriot—I am hence­forth all the parent! Tell Edward [Page 42] that I adore his virtue, but tremble for his life! Tell him, enough of civil blood will be shed without swelling the current by any stream from his veins. Bid him then yield up the—Ah heaven! what am I about to say—he cannot remain neuter. All things forbid it—his honour—his principles —his life—his soul—his country!

—What, Raymond, shall I do, and whither shall I turn? What are my late misfortunes to compare with these? My son and my daughter both, both taken from me! Yet go, my friend. This follows you by ex­press. If I never see you more, fare­well for ever.

LETTER CXII.
EDWARD CORBETT TO HIS FATHER.

AFTER having been thirteen months agonized amongst the wounded, and more than once consi­dered as the prize of death, I am at length able to write a few lines to ac­quaint you that I exist; by which in­formation, I flatter myself I shall make a father, a sister, and a friend, most happy. The arm and shoulder, which were wounded, are at length cured without amputation, but the half of the left cheek is gone. These tidings I had caused to be conveyed to England long since, by letters sent at different opportunities, by various means of conveyance; but as I have [Page 44] not received your replies, I fear either those miscarried, or mine have never reached you. Indeed, war puts a dreadful stop to this branch of com­munication, although the only one which can relieve the pains of so p [...] ­rilous an absence.

WASHINGTON offers me the mean of future retreat and inactivity, [...] consideration, I suppose, of my fears. But I am now too far engaged to ac­cept this with any honour. I wish it may be no more necessary to fire; and they talk indeed of peace, but there is no real prospect of such a blessing being at hand. I fought, at first, in my own defence, and must, I fear, con­tinue to do so still. The English per­sist [Page 45] to call those cowards whom they prove to be men, and feel to be heroes. To-morrow I shall once more fix the bayonet, and shoulder the musquet. Every man fights in this country; we arm not for pay but for property, not for the wages of war but for li­berty and life.

Wherefore does my old friend Henry stay idling at home ‘Now half the Youth of Europe are in Arms’ Why does he not take one side or the other as principle directs? He was wont to maintain with me warm dis­putes in favour of Great-Britain, but by this time his opinion must be changed, and the cause of America must be dear to him, were it only in [Page 46] respect of her youth, her bravery, and her misfortunes. Tell him I should be glad to receive him here—to re­ceive him, in that case, as a brother; and on those conditions, too, we will both return one day or another, and enjoy the fruits of a double marriage; for notwithstanding your resistance, my father, I must still remind you that I have a heart only for Louisa. God send all together, happy, of one mind, and in one house: I care not in what kingdom or in what country.

LETTER CXIII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

I WAS mounting my horse as your letter and its enclosure (which I return to a father's throbbing bosom) arrived. I took my foot from the stirrup, to read, to weep, and to re­joice.

Oh, Mr. Corbett, you ought never to despair. The power who could raise your son almost from amongst the dead, and who was indeed dead long since in the imagination of his family, may yet preserve to you a daughter.

[Page 48]How all the links of this dear connecting chain cling together! It is surely the hand of Providence which rivets each. I here devote myself an humble instrument, and hasten to prove the sentiments I prosess. Be comforted. My ever dear Corbett, be comforted; and farewell.

LETTER CXIV.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

I AM an old man, in a sad, sick chamber, without any human be­ing to smoothe the thorny pillow. Oh Louisa, Louisa I am bereft of all! Leave for a little while your house, and hasten to mine. I now fondly approximate every person who has been dear to any part of my family, and who hath had more claim to our tenderness than the sister of Henry? Yet let me not forget in my sorrow to tell you of one joy that sparkles in the cup of bitterness which is allotted me to drink. My son Edward lives, and he mentions Louisa Hammond not coldly! Come and let us talk of [Page 50] him together. All ambitious views are worn from my heart. Renew your gentle hopes, and fear not to avow them. Ah that Henry and Edward were both safe from the ca­lamities of war, and both within the reach of these paternal arms! Oh you know not the pain in which I write. Come then, if the father of Edward—the yet existing Edward be estimable.

LETTER CXV.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

PROVIDENCE and God! what have I read! Is it not vision! Is it not delirium! Is it not the vapour of the soul for ever painting its idol image! Edward alive! Oh the poor Emma! the generous Henry! the godlike Edward! You have tran­sported me. I know not what I write▪ Ease me, satisfy me. I cannot bear it. I am in heaven! I am distracted.

LETTER CXVI.
TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

WHAT would I not give to re­call the heedless thing I have committed to the post? A servant has been to the office to recall it, but it is gone. In the hurry of my heart I have abruptly told what should have been opened by the gentlest grada­tions. But if you are greatly afflicted, it will, I trust, be of a joyful nature, and produce no mischief.

LETTER CXVII.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

I AM commissioned by a friend on whose veracity I can depend, to impart a piece of news to my Louisa, which is delightful as unexpected. It is foreign news, and America has some sort of connexion with it; but I cannot be more explicit till I know what present health you are in posses­sion of, since the least alarms are not to be hazarded in a state like yours.

Tell me that you are very stout and you shall hear more.

I am sorry my business detains me so long from you. It is nearly fini­shed, [Page 54] and then I shall be wholly at your service.

For Emma, what can I say, but that she is a glorious girl?

LETTER CXVIII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

IT is every way confirmed. The pleasure is too mighty—my very brain turns with transport! Yes, I will fly to your chamber—I will fly to my father. Oh prepare, prepare to receive another daughter, for I am —I am—how shall I speak it—I [Page 55] am no more the widow, but the WIFE of Edward—And we have a son. I will bring him under my arm. I can­not explain—I am too happy. Should I not be happy! My husband lives, and his father at length acknowledges

LETTER CXIX.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

OH my child, my child! my arms are open.—Let them embrace and own you without delay. The coach shall be at your door early in the morning, and convey you to—a parent in

LETTER CXX.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

I WRITE, sitting on the side of Louisa's bed. She cannot have the pleasure to attend you at present, being suddenly taken ill. Do not therefore think of sending your coach till you hear further from

LETTER CXXI.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

I TROUBLE not my dear father with relating the dangers of the sea, the tempests which have de­formed [Page 57] its bosom, nor the various in­conveniences I have experienced since I lost sight of every object I had been accustomed to behold. My soul has been too intently occupied with what I have left, and with what I am in search of, to afford any sensations of common fear or common curiosity. I cast the eye of steady attachment over this undulating world, and ima­gine myself guarded from all the or­dinary dangers of the ocean, by the protecting power who proportions my spirits to the toils they undergo.

I escape suspicion from the crew. I write without kowing the time I may be able to send. The unsteady motion of the vessel distorts the cha­racters [Page 58] of my pen: so do not attri­bute to distress of heart what is the effect of mere situation. Adieu, oh adieu. Of every letter I will send duplicates, that no chance may be lost to ease your suspense.

LETTER CXXII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

ACCIDENT favours me. I trace the footsteps of Emma. I am now in the house from which she lately departed. On my arrival here I overheard some sailors upon the quay reading aloud one of your ad­vertisements, after which two of them [Page 59] swore it must mean the fair looking boy who lodged a few nights ago at the ship, and sailed in the Henry let­tre of marque. I caught at this, and am so far rewarded in my enquiry. Farewell. The opportuity of follow­ing your child presents itself. Adieu.

LETTER CXXIII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

OH, Mr. Corbett, the abrupt joy produced by your late intelli­gence, has counteracted the tender designs of Edward, and thrown his poor Louisa into a condition which [Page 60] makes me tremble. The settled calm of her mind has long been overthrown, and I who have been her almost con­stant companion, can assure you that when she has thought herself the most tranquil, she has been nearest that state which of all others in this sor­row-teeming world, is the most af­ecting. Indeed sir, you should have been less precipitate—yet you meant kindly. You acknowledge her for a daughter. It is impossible to tell you in what a style of enthusiastic gratitude she speaks of this. All will be well, and yet—soft! she wakes! Oh what a look! how wild! how fearful! I must leave off writing.

LETTER CXXIV.
TO MRS. ARNOLD.

A CURSE attends all I do, and all I say. Oh that I could find the wretch who still cherishes the deathful spirit of this exterminating war! I would rush upon him, and seize him as the betrayer of both the bleeding countries which he has sacri­ficed to the lust of dominion, and the avarice of power. Alas, the misfor­tunes which he has brought upon the state are contemptible in the compa­rison with that anguish, that horror, that desolation, which rends away the softening ties of private life!—which tears the heart-strings of family and friend.

[Page 62]Man of blood come forward!—if thou art bold enough stand forth!—meet the swoln eye of a father whose house thou hast despoiled of all his little treasure!

Oh Mrs. Arnold, this rage is vain. My soul is compounded of ten thou­sand violences, each retrogade, each inconsistent! I am execrating myself, for have I not myself pushed on the terrors I deplore? I have. Fool! Dotard! Villain!

Hah! letters are brought. The knock of the post goes through my heart. Away vile flannels! The well-known characters carry off all [Page 63] bodily sensation as I behold them. I have them before me—

—Oh horror, horror! Oh my child, my Emma!—Read, pity me—ah no, read and detest me.

LETTER CXXV.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ. ^*

BOUND by promise, by obliga­tion, and by the laws of nature, to send you faithful accounts of my­self, I dare no longer conceal the in­cidents [Page 64] which have happened to the veriest wretch that ever—

My dear dear parent, turn all your anger into compassion, if all that re­mains of Emma be yet dear or yet alive in your remembrance.

Our vessel has been attacked, has fought, and is taken. Oh the moun­tains of men murdered by men that lately lay strewed about me! My blood runs cold! some of it indeed is shed, for I am wounded; but it is slightly, and in no important part. Ah that it were a death's-wound, ra­ther than—

[Page 65]—I am watched. Pens and pa­per are objects of suspicion.

Ah what have they to fear? Emma is no intriguing captive—she is a pri­soner and a mourner who bows to her fate. She resists not.

I must hide this poor remnant of narrative in my bosom.

Fresh prisoners are brought.

They are entering! What crouds! What—

Oh my God, is it possible!—do not my eyes—

LETTER CXXVI.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ. ^*

THAT paragon of her sex, your daughter! That man too, soar­ing above the flight of humanity, who attended her as the companion of all her perils, all her pangs! The writer of this letter (or more properly speak­ing, the person by whom this letter is dictated) is at a loss by what means, or in what language, to convey to you the wonders which yet he is most anxious to impart.

By gentle degrees—oh, Mr. Cor­bett, let me open upon you the bles­sings which, by the contrivance of [Page 107] Providence, have been brought about. Summon your heart to bear the best, the dearest news which it is in the nature of human things for you to hear. O let the agony of that in­formation, which Sir Robert Ray­mond's letter has, doubtless, produ­ced, be, in great measure, done away by the happier tydings that will sa­lute you in this.

The hand-writing of the person now dictating, would too much discompose you. He makes use, therefore, of an amanuensis to prepare the way to circumstances of uncommon joy; and to give them to you in the security of more progressive explanation.

[Page 108]The leading step to every other fe­licity you must hear first. You, who have de [...]ply drank of the bitter cup, must now try to support, without in­toxication, the taste of sweeter ingre­dients.

From the point of death your Emma has recovered. The interpo­sing hand of heaven was suddenly ex­tended.

Ten days after the departure of Sir Robert's pacquet, she was in a situa­tion to leave her bed. To what pur­pose did she leave it? Resolution, oh how sacred is thy force when anima­ted by the breath of love!

[Page 109]If Henry be dead, said she, it is still the duty of Emma to pay him the mournful offices which she has paid to Edward.

She insisted on searching for the corpse of the man who had caused all her misfortunes.

The generous Sir Robert Ray­mond was at that time himself confi­ned by sickness which threatened his life: when he was out of danger, Emma gave him in tenderest charge, and set out, alone, towards those woods where some late skirmishes had passed. On her way she had the precaution to use again those berries which tinge the skin: to these she [Page 110] added a certain bark that had been mentioned to her in the course of her various enquiries.

Behold, oh Mr. Corbett, behold the dear and delicate Emma, wandering, unprotected, in the woods of Ameri­ca.—Behold her bearing over her tender shoulder the mere necessaries of decent covering.—Behold the most gentle, and most female form expo­sed to all the dangers of a wild and unknown country—picking her food from the hedges—straying she knew not whither—in disguise—in disorder —in despair!

Incredible were the toils of her re­search—incredible her fatigue. The [Page 111] forests are here, you know, of great extent: the wilds immesurable.

After several days travelling, du­ring which time she had not encoun­tered any passenger who could give her the least intelligence, she sat her­self down as usual, about the noon, and wept over her misfortunes.

Scarce had she rested a moment, ere the clamour of human voices, shouting at a small distance, caught her attention. She pressed hastily forward through the foliage, and ob­served, at a little aperture in the forest, a party of soldiers engaging with a tribe of Indians; but while she was eagerly examining the persons of the [Page 112] former, the latter were put to flight, and retreated with the utmost prerci­pitation: the soldiers pursued, and both were out of sight ere Emma had time to approach nearer to them.

She saw enough, however, to con­vince her that the regimentals were British, and the uniform of the off­icers such as belonged to the regiment of Henry, you will guess her despair when she did not perceive Henry amongst them.

The bodies of several English sol­diers were seen in different parts of the forest, but the corpse of Ham­mond could, by no diligence, be found.

[Page 113]Still indefatigable, she went on, though by this time reduced almost to the last exigencies of nature, and every thing subdued but tender reso­lution, and the love which inspired it.

At length, Providence relented to her wishes, and directed her steps to a broad common path-way, across which was extended a human figure, lying as dead, with an arrow sticking in his bosom. You already perceive that it was no other than Henry him­self. This, you may perceive, but no tongue can give you the faintest idea of that unparalleled heroism and fide­lity, which now inspired the soul of Emma! She found the body yet warm, the pulse slowly moving, and [Page 114] the heart languidly beating with life. She extracted the arrow, and sucked the wound—she had heard of the In­dians using shafts whose points were envenomed: and rightly concluding this to be one of them, applied to it her lovely lips without hesitation.—This addi­tional danger, was an addi­tional motive to the deed. Oh Mr. Corbett, whatan angel is Emma!

Signs of existence increased. With scarce a covering from the sky, the af­fectionate Emma sheltered her unfor­tunate charge for many days. Ere his senses returned, she thickened her disguise by all the arts in her power. Oh can any thing less eloquent than the great Author of Nature describe [Page 115] to you the transport of this wondrous creature when she first beheld the long-closed eye of Henry open on the light —and open on herself?

Think Mr. Corbett, how difficult concealment must have been at this extatic moment; then, consider what presence of mind was necessary, to repress the dear and dangerous effu­sion. The silver tones of the softest voice in the world were so artfully changed, as to correspond with the rest of her appearance. She fed him with what the fortune of an hour's hunting amongst the fruits of the fo­rest afforded. He could not move. No soldiers returned. Men drop in a skirmish, and are sought for no more. [Page 116] No house was near: no hut: and she dared not stray too far from the place where he lay, lest she should lose sight of the spot. But now Henry felt the puncture of a want which even Emma could not accommodate. Fruits and vegetables, collected by chance, as they grew obvious, and within the beat of Emma's journeyings, were too unsubstantial. It seemed as if famine would compleat what poison had be­gun. For lack of proper nutriment after fatigues so imminent, he was re­duced to an extreme of languor even worse than that of Emma; whom ten­derness seemed to have rendered supe­rior to every thing that could befall herself.

[Page 117]In these moments it was that Henry yielded to despair—in these moments his heart melted with gratitude to his protector—

Oh generous unknown, (said he feebly) whosoever thou art, receive the dying acknowledgements of the man whom thou hast endeavoured to rescue from an untimely death. Had those kind endeavours succeeded, what thanks shouldest thou receive from one of the best—the dearest—but it may not be—I am nearly ex­hausted—perhaps, ere yet another hour moves by—lest that should be the case, let me, oh let me, while yet I have the power to call down heaven's choicest blessings on that lovely [Page 118] mourner, whose tears are haply stream­ing at this moment for the expiring Henry—Ah sir, ah worthy youth, couldst thou see her—couldst thou attest for me these dying sentiments—couldst thou assure her that with my latest breath—But that is impossi­ble, she is a thousand leagues from these fatal shores. No matter. Oh hear me GOD ! do thou, this night, this instant, suggest to her what was my last employment—my last aspiration. Oh Emma! Emma! my life, my love!—

Here he fell on the bosom of Emma, and would indeed have died had he known it was Emma that sup­ported him.

[Page 119]She pressed his hand. She could not speak. To the Omnipotent Fa­ther of Mercy she cast the imploring eye!

Let not the human heart give up its confidence in Heaven. It is never too late to trust!

A team now past within sight of this disconsolate pair. They were laden with provisions and apparel drawn in sledges, and small waggons, and were on their way to three detachments of soldiers, (who had applied to the Ge­neral for these accommodations) that were stationed on the north side of the forest. Amongst this groupe were also some cattle, of which some were [Page 120] cows. It is unnecessary to say what use the unwearied Emma made of these: her winning address, and the moving simplicity of her grief, joined to the wretched situation of an En­glish officer who appeared to be almost at the point of death, gained so en­tirely upon the soldiers and people who attended the sledges and wag­gons, that they adminstered whatever could promote the wish of Emma, and even furnished her with a sledge, a mule, and a guide, to carry Captain Hammond to John's-Town.

Thus providentially saved from death a second time, I shall not trouble you with other difficulties in the pas­sage, or in the progress of Henry's re­covery, [Page 121] though the least of these were enough to immortalize Emma Cor­bett bett; but I shall convey your imagi­nation to John's-Town, where Henry and his protecor at last arrived, and found Sir Robert Raymond recovered from his fever, and just about to set out again in pursuit of Emma.

To her assiduous cares were now superadded those of this excellent man, and Henry became in a short time the nurseling of both. He could walk, converse, and his wound was healing. Emma's dear perilous experiment was guarded—the prospect clear on every side. One afternoon Sir Robert gra­dually prepared. Henry for the softest surprize that could touch the heart of [Page 122] a lover; he discovered himself to be the friend of Mr. Corbett—he assu­red Henry that he saw Emma in good health a little before he left England —he asserted, in the strongest terms, her constancy, her attachment, her love—and said that such was the force of her affection he should not wonder some day or other to hear that she was arrived in America.

— Yes, and in America she is arri­ved, cried she (entering at this mo­ment, agreeable to the plan concerted) She is arrived—she is here—she is now in the presence of her beloved Henry —she now offers him the hand of Emma for EVER!

[Page 123]Emma was yet in her boy's apparel, but had washed the stain from her lovely countenance, and discovered enough to throw Henry first upon his knee to the restoring God, and then into arms of this tenderest of women.

You will not expect I should tell you what either felt at that moment! You will not expect I should describe the series of delicious sorrow and gra­tulations which followed, while all the enterprizes of Emma were relating to Henry. He found himself the most blest, most honoured, and most beloved of men! He found Emma all that language cannot express. He found—

[Page 124]—in short, it was a false rumour you see that reached Emma at John's-Town, respecting the death of Henry. He was reserved for Emma to disco­ver and to restore.

He is discovered, he is restored.—Emma is now before him—Emma the most generous, most—

—Oh Mr. Corbett! Henry is the happiest of mankind. He now TELLS you that he is— he dictates these explanatory sheets—they flow from his grateful heart—the tenderest mer­cies of Providence have been upon him; they are to be seen—they may be felt: you will no longer refuse to give him the hand of Emma! ah that [Page 125] he were worthy of her. Disclose, he beseeches you, these tender circum­stances to Louisa, his sister. Oh he can hold no longer, he is too, too happy; he takes the pen from the amanuensis and— No! it is not necessary to sign the letter. The wri­ter is now known.

Adieu.

LETTER CXXVII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

THE blessings of Providence are at length manifest; since the pacquet from Henry, must, ere this, be come to hand. It is not easy to tell [Page 126] you how totally I have in them anni­hilated myself, for many days past. Henry recovers apace. The attenti­ons of Emma, indeed, so pointed and so pure, might almost raise him from the dead. Yet I almost envy her the share she has had in this discovery, and all its happy consequences. I can scarce forgive my illness for seizing me at such a time. It is Emma alone who has been the saviour of Henry. It is Henry only who can merit such salvation. You can image to your­self nothing so tender as his gratitude, so warm as his affections, or so perfect as his delicacy. From his somewhat military style of address I expected not this, and am equally surprised and delighted. Yes, my dear old com­panion, [Page 127] you have yet a daughter, and will, in a few days, boast also—

Oh my friend, how infinitely I fall beneath the standard of my ambition! How incorrect is human virtue! How frail is human fortitude! The pros­pect of Henry's becoming your SON, does not charm this rebel heart half so sincerely as it ought to do; and yet, heaven is witness that I am doing every thing to advance his health and his happiness.

Self-interested, perhaps, still. I doat on promoting the felicity of Emma by any means. I am proud to please her. I consider the youth of Henry, and wish it the joys it is formed [Page 128] to taste. I reflect on my own age, and think that I am too silly to be pardoned. I am entirely convinced of my folly, and yet hug it to my heart. Ah Mr. Corbett, what is there in that subtle and active principle which we thus feed in our bosoms, and which turns, serpent-like, against the nourisher? It stings, and we are not angry: it tortures, and we do not, cannot command it to depart from us. Something, like the healing balm, flows into the wound, and recompen­ses us for all we suffer. The misery which is the consequence of a tender­ness like mine, is compounded of such sweet ingredients, that it is not in the nature of the tender heart to wish it were removed. And yet, my friend, [Page 129] it is most intense. I have found the vanity of attempting to argue myself into neutrality. It is virtue and beauty that have attracted—that have bound me! Ere a soul like mine can free itself from such captivity, the en­chanting powers of its object must change; its beauty become defor­mity, and its virtue vice. 'Tis out of the question. The great point of moral propriety is in every man's power, and consequently in mine. The human heart loves as it listeth—it sees its bias, and trembles towards it: but society, religion, and the laws, are all to be respected, and he who presumes to overleap these, renders himself contemptible. Adieu.

LETTER CXXVIII.
TO THE SAME.

EMMA, in all the graces of the female dress, appears more lovely from the late concealment of her charms. She has resumed her former self.—Oh Corbett, what a woman!—Happy, happy Henry! what years of bliss—

—My friend, I am not well.—I am not as I ought to be.—I cannot write!

LETTER CXXIX.
TO HENRY HARMOND, ESQ.

ABSENCE from home must have thrown your pecuniary affairs into disorder: at any rate, the war must have rendered your remittances irregular. As a soldier and a single man, you might dispense with these obstacles; as a connected man, about to take on him the sweet charge of providing for a virtuous woman, you feel how much the case is altered. It is by mere chance I have found out that you are waiting a supply from England. On the present occasion, that you should want cash is most na­tural : that you should wait for it, is most cruel. Luckily, I have brought [Page 132] with me enough to accommodate us both.—The inclosed may answer an immediate purpose. You say you are my friend, shew yourself such by using what I offer till your return to Eng­land, when you will please to repay me the amount. I am not, you see, involving you in an obligation, but drawing you into a debt. The only interest I shall desire, is, that my name may not be mentioned to Emma in this business. These circumstances between us men are nothing;—they are things of course.—Women, you know, look through a medium so pe­culiar, and are indeed, whether mar­ried or single, so delicately circum­stanced, that a man of honour trem­bles [Page 133] to offer, what they tremble to accept. I know you want money, and so don't be foolish.

LETTER CXXX.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

HENRY grows importunate. He urges me to assure Emma, by virtue of my medical knowledge, that his health is established. He affects unusual mirth and vivacity to prove this. He is become intimate with [Page 134] the chaplain of the regiment, who is engaged to perform the—

—By heavens, Corbett, I cannot bring myself either to forget these things, or to think of them without misery. Inconsistent! I shall do all right ultimately, but opposite sensati­ons are at war within me. I walk in the proper path, but I am too suscep­tible of the thorns which wound me.

LETTER CXXXI.
TO THE SAME.

TO-MORROW, oh Corbett, is to be the day!—Henry presses me to attend. He knows not I have any reason for these heart-felt objections. Emma looks unutterable sympathy. She seems labouring for an apology. She pities me. Her tears attest it. Henry beholds them descend, and kisses them away with a trembling lip. What! give her to another—be accessary to the last circumstance of my despair! Oh most agonizing—most impossible!

Yet Henry entreats—he appeals to me in the name of parent, saviour—

[Page 136]—What shall I do? I wish them happy, happy even together—but to be present at the ceremony!—to for­ward the stroke that cuts off every hope for ever! Nature recoils at the task, and I am too much the subject of her authority to go through it.

LETTER CXXXII.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

OH my friend, receive the tribute of my sympathy. Generous man! what can I do to soften the woes [Page 137] of which I am unhappily the cause? Invent, I beseech you, some reason to absent yourself on the morrow. Call to your aid some pious disguise to save yourself and me ten thousand wounds. Your presence will wholly destroy the bliss of the day—even of that day which gives to me the hand of Henry. Indeed it will. I see your emotions. I see your conflicts. They escape your soul's most amiable effort. They break through your bosom. I see them in your tears. I feel them in your sighs. For my sake—for your own—for Heaven's—do not conti­nue longer, much longer under our roof. I esteem you so truly that I cannot bear the constraint which will soon be imposed. Your virtues have [Page 138] placed you in the second place of my affections—the second place is friend­ship, and that is yours while I can distinguish—while I can feel one wor­thy sensation. But oh consider, that the first place is love, and that is Henry's—Henry my almost husband.

He presses, he importunes, he in­sists, in all the emphasis of tender con­troulment, that to-morrow may be the day. He almost chides me for cold­ness of sentiment towards him.

—Alas, my dear friend, it is your sorrows, painted in your counte­nance and in your late conversation when we have been together, which produces this grateful reluctance.

[Page 139]I owe you—ah what do I not owe you? I would do much—I would do every thing that is possible to serve you.

The billet you sent me this morn­ing cuts me deeply. You there hint your design to leave Philadelphia.—

I perceive the motive; nay, you disdain disguise, and have in part avowed it. All but this, you say, you can support.—My dear, dear friend —author of many a comfort—soother of many a care—what would I give, had no accident of life produced in your gentle breast these sentiments for Emma.

[Page 140]Hitherto all has been well—all has been great and glorious. You still assure me you can act the only part that remains. Of that I am not to be told. Yet your friendship is attended by so much suffering, so much pier­cing sensbility, that even at this blest moment my heart bleeds for you.

If you will—oh hard request—if you will gently withdraw yourself for a time only, till you have gained com­posure, I will defer—I will frame some fresh excuses to Henry for my—

Pity me, Sir Robert, and save us both the pangs of an explanation. It will, perhaps, not be in my pow­er to correspond in this way any [Page 141] more. I know your friendship will insist upon my fulfilling to the utmost every duty in life, and every engage­ment. Should this, therefore, be the last letter that passes between us, I conjure you to believe, that of every petition, of every fervent prayer that I offer to heaven, your health and your happiness will form a part. I did not think it possible that any thing could fall out to make me wretched, with the immediate prospect of being united to Henry; and yet such is my genuine esteem for you, Sir Robert, that I cannot be perfectly happy while I am conscious of creating misery to one of the noblest of mankind. Henry enters, and I can say no more.

LETTER CXXXIII.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

WHY leave us at this charming crisis, oh invaluable friend? Will you, who have brought my trea­sure safe through so many perils, re­fuse to see it locked for ever securely in the faithful arms to whose embrace you preserved it? Unkind! Your servant brings word too that you now lie sick at your apartment: yet that you resolve to depart on a tour the instant you can bear to be removed. This must not be. Emma has de­laved the nuptials because she was too much harrassed in spirits. And now I will myself put them back a little, that they may not want the ornament [Page 143] of such a friend as Sir Robert Ray­mond. Yes; I will defer even the possession of Emma, till her most ge­nerous protector is able to sanctify the union by his presence. You keep your chamber, it seems. I will enter it without delay. You shall not deny me admittance,. You shall not suffer me to depart till you are in a condi­tion to do so too. Emma insists upon this.

Adieu, ever dear, ever valuable Sir Robert, adieu.

LETTER CXXXIV.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

OBLIVIATE the billet, obliviate the conversation! 'Twas fee­ble humanity. 'Twas the graceful relapse of the heart, which started a little from its purposed point, but re­turns again, and re-fixes on its cen­ter. I feel that my very pride is touched. Oh, Emma, you must not so far outstrip me in generosity. De­lay no longer your nuptials; and may the choicest benedictions of Almighty God be shed upon them! I am wholly myself again, and I am yours, in the spirit of holy friendship, while I have being.

LETTER CXXXV.
TO HENRY HAMMOND.

I WILL not suffer you to protract your joys any longer upon my ac­count. I write to you from a village where I am, by advice, removed for air. Send me word that you are the happiest of mankind, and when I can bring as much health in my face as either a bride or bridegroom ought to look at, I will not fail to greet you in Philadelphia, where I am ex­tremely glad to find all remains quiet.

Farewell. My tenderest respects await Emma— Hammond I had almost said. Farewell.

LETTER CXXXVI.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

THE greatest trial of mine, and perhaps of human life, is past; for I have just heard that your daugh­ter is the wife of Henry, and yet I am able to hold the pen. Is there not a certain decent pride that sustains us after the great and difficult duties are performed? Something like a pre­ternatural consciousness plays about my heart, as I consider this triumph over my own passions. It is a sacri­fice of self to society. It is—oh Mr. Corbett, I wish them very happy. Th [...] [...] their wedding day; a [...] express has just reached the [...]e [...]ireme [...]. I now enjoy— enjoy did I say! Alas, can [Page 147] you not trace the bleeding heart—can you not trace the piercing tho [...] through—

Away! it shall not be! And yet, to Thee, my friend, I may safely trust ought that remains of unsubdued in­firmity. If, haply you should detect one tear's deep mark upon my letter if, perchance—

It is absurd. Henry Hammond is formed for Emma. I will muse upon my obstinate weakness, and become once more a reasonable creature—I will indeed, my dear old friend! give me a little time.

It is near eleven o'clock at night as I write this period.

[Page 148]I did not attend the ceremony, which was this morning performed.

I do not propose returning to Phi­ladelphia for some days.

'Tis a dreary uncomfortable night. I am here too in a large apartment alone. Sighs burst from my bosom, and tears fall from my eyes, without any apparent cause. The effect of a thick drisly atmosphere perhaps—

—of a drizly atmosphere! Ah no—to the passing feeblenesses of na­ture we are all liable.

Haply, to-morrow's sun may make me nearer what I wish, and what I [Page 149] ought to be. In that fond hope I will now seek repose.

Corbett, what can be the reason of it? At the close of the last sentence I went into my chamber in order to go to bed, but I sat myself down in a chair by the side of it, and have not attempted to undress, though the day-light is beginning to dawn upon me. A thousand half-form'd images have been teazing me. I am about fourteen miles from that Philadelphia which now contains the loveliest cou­ple I ever beheld. Corbett, I am extremely weak—and extremely a shamed of myself—

[Page 150]Fie upon me, how can I talk thus! You, perhaps, are mourning the death of a son, and the absence of a daugh­ter, added to the grief of those disor­ders which tear your aged frame, and render you as wretched—as you are respectable. Unhappy parent, dear friend, adieu!—of my calamities you shall hear no more. I blush, and silence sits on this selfish subject for ever.

LETTER CXXXVII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

I RECEIVED your congratulati­ons; I received your blessing; and to crown the whole of human happi­ness, I have received the hand of your daughter. Yet my transport has hur­ried me into an expression too bold. Oh I am a mortal still, Mr. Corbett: still am I vulnerable in a vital part. The fearful accounts you have trans­mitted of my poor sister, and of your own declining health, alarm and wound me. Hapless Louisa! dear relict of the generous Edward! Ah that we had you both here, nursed by our care, and protected under the shelter of our most affectionate emb­races. [Page 152] Sir Robert Raymond too, our second father, and our first of friends, would rejoice at this. Yet he keeps aloof from us. He used to be enamoured of our society, and now the deepest solitudes have seduced him from us. In vain I invite, in vain I implore. He is melancholy: he is mournful. Is there a cause for this? Ah that I could remove it! I have now been six weeks in the posses­sion of Emma Corbett. She is my wife! God of Heaven how I thrill with gratitude! Yet oh, Supreme Bestower of every good, if it were thy divine pleasure to restore my sister and my friends—if it be consistent with that awful design into whose depths I presume not to pry, to extend to these [Page 153] a portion of that felicity thou hast gi­ven to Emma and to me, the measure of my bliss will be full indeed! I am soothed by the prayer. It will be ac­cepted. It was offered in the soul's most empassioned sincerity. Oh, my father, join it—join it fervently. It is now in heaven before the throne, the mercy seat! Have faith: have hope. We shall all be happy.

What can I say soft enough to con­vey to you the remembrances of a daughter's duty? Wait a little for her own language, which is the only proper vehicle to convey the emo­tions of her heart.

LETTER CXXXVIII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

I HAVE brought my pulses to be almost as obedient as I wish them. Reason is not so weak a power as we make her appear. Her province is perhaps, misunderstood, my friend. It is not tyranny, but a mild and genial authority, which she should exercise. The subjects of her sway are the pas­sions; those of the tender kind are with the most difficulty governed.

I have applied to this our intellec­tual sovereign on a different principle. I implored her, not to inspire me with that indifference which is the usual prayer of the disappointed. The ob­ject [Page 155] of my love is married to the man of her heart. She obtained him at the price of almost unparalleled hazards. I saw every hope of possession cut off. It was an intolerable agony. I bore it till I became almost desperate. I indulged the passion even till the in­dissoluble bonds were tied against me. I saw the madness of my pursuit, and retired—retired, my dear Corbett, not to meditate revenge against a happy rival, but to manage my own wretch­edness, and to think.

A serious appeal from the passions to the judgment is seldom made in vain. We miscarry, chiefly because we are not serious, but only suppose ourselves so.

[Page 156]I selected a quiet hour, and laid the simple facts before me. They were not elaborate. The woman of my affection (thus I argued) is now hap­pily married. She is generous enough to pity and respect me for misery that she hath very unwillingly occasioned. Accidents have confirmed what Cor­bett at first betrayed. I have too much contributed to her present hap­piness for her to treat me untenderly: and yet my farther intimacy will in­crease her distress, even if it does not spread itself in time to her husband. How bitterly does she pay for my for­mer services! What hinders her, now that she is in the arms of Henry, from looking upon my passion as in­sulting and impious? Those very [Page 157] services. Do I then presume, and persecute her upon these? Oh in­delicacy! oh folly!

But can I conquer my affection? No. It is not possible; it is not ne­cessary. To extinguish bad passions, and to regulate good ones, are the two great points within the compass of reason. To covet any longer the person of Emma would be infamous. It is an inhibition of law, of religion, and of God. But, are the merely sen­sual passions then at my age so very gross, that by no exertion, no interest, I can subdue them? What will be the consequence of my persisting? The distress of Emma, who now should taste only of joy, the suspicion of [Page 158] Henry, whose heart melts in grati­tude towards me, and my own con­scious upbraiding. Can I sustain these, or is an obstinate attachment to the only point which reason refuses me (and which, after all, is hopeless,) strong enough to support me? But what then am I to do? Does reason bring with her no compensations—no equipoise of rewards for punishments so severe? She does, and MANY. Shall I not rank amongst those the delights of a friendship not less tender though less interested—the secret-breathed prayer for one human being whose happiness is dearer to me than that of any other upon the earth—the gene­rous sigh—the softening tear—the so­cial smile—the self-gratulation—the [Page 159] flush of virtue, pleased with herself—the smile of Emma—the assent of HEAVEN?

Oh Mr. Corbett, we have glorious faculties, had we the resolution to exert them. We are afraid to begin. The heart trembles at a view of its labour. We venture to climb the steep, and are dismayed. But every difficulty of soul and body diminishes by earnest perseverance. However cragged the mountain, or slippery its path, every effort brings us nearer to the summit; the second step is easier than the first, the third is smoother than the second. It is the motive of climbing that gives us fortitude. When the motive is so great as to concern the happiness of [Page 160] others, and our own duty is included, surely we should struggle to ascend. I, Corbett, have struggled—I cannot say how much or how long, but I can and do tell you, in the sincerity of my soul, that though I am not, nor perhaps shall EVER be again a happy man, I do not wish either the death of Henry, or the alienation of his Emma's affection. I can support the presence of both, when softness and wedded love sits fairest upon their features. And, tho' many a rising tear warns me that it is time to retire, no sentiment of irre­gular desire invades my heart. Henry cultivates my friendship with kindest care; I do not impute to him, his happiness as his fault. I recede not from his embrace, though I seldom [Page 161] make advances to conversation that relates to Emma: and yet Emma is his perpetual subject, and his darling theme. Her own conduct is such as corresponds with every part of her former life. Perhaps there never was a more affecting situation than she has to perform whenever I am present. It is indeed too much for a nature so gentle, and so ingenuous. But I will remove the effect, by removing the cause. Humanity should not presume to be perfect. I have carried a con­quest as far, perhaps, as it can go. I have acquired strength by an exami­nation of weakness. Let me not sink into captivity by fool-hardiness. I have done much. In attempting more, I may lose all the laurels I have [Page 162] won. Involuntary thoughts will tres­pass on the firmest mind. Emma is a tender wife, a tender friend. Hea­ven continue her so, while earth hath a feeling to make life desirable. But the familiar intercourse of a private family is somewhat too much for me at present. I constrain Emma when­ever I visit her, and nature impells my steps towards Philadelphia but too often—to appear restrained. I beg you will tell my steward to prepare Castleberry for my reception. I will return to England. There is no dan­ger of a reiapse; but I am obliged to repeat the rescuing arguments too of­ten. A few months absence will compleat my work. Henry and his WIFE—I wish, Corbett, I could write [Page 163] that word with a steadier hand—are happy. I leave them in the arms of each other. I—

—Oh Corbett, Corbett, I will set off for England without delay!

LETTER CXXXIX.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

I KNOW your character, and will give you another opportunity to to gratify it; for I will offer you an occasion to oblige me. I have, for some time, felt myself extremely in­disposed, [Page 164] not I believe in consequence of agitated spirits or of my late fa­tigues in nursing the dear Henry, whom Heaven has restored to my so­licitude and my affections, but from some other cause which feels more in­ternal. I have not dared to breathe this matter to Henry, and indeed the satisfaction which I receive in seeing him well, and you—O my generous friend—happy, would incline me still to silence, were not my pains growing so strong that I cannot any longer conceal them. A little, however, of that kind ministration which your skilful judgment knows so well how to bestow, and whose good effects I have already so frequently experien­ced, will, I dare say, set all right [Page 165] again. Give me your advice in con­fidence, and without delay. Blessings attend your gentle heart and noble nature.

LETTER CXL.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

MY baggage was prepared, the wind was fair, the war would not have prevented me from setting out for England, and yet I am de­layed. Human happiness shifts from point to point of her compass, and is never fixed.

[Page 166]Emma is again indisposed.

You must not expect me.

LETTER CXLI.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

OH my wife, my wife—the trea­sure of my existence! Leave her not, Sir Robert—leave her not a moment. Long has she concealed her misery from a wretch who is fated by every means to distress her.

Yes, Sir Robert, 'tis I, and only I, have murdered her. I am the accur­sed cause. Come to me, I conjure you, this moment. To what am I re­served! Is this my happiness? These the joys of possessing Emma—the great the glorious Emma? Are six months of bliss SUPREME thus to ter­minate? Oh that I had died—that I [Page 168] had remained for ever undiscovered—that I had never, never—On my knees I beg your aid, your society, your consolation. Quit your soli­tude. Reside, lodge, live here. I send by express. I have orders to join my regiment again. Curse on the war! I will have no more to do with it. Come immediately.

LETTER CXLII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

MR. Corbett, had it pleased hea­ven to turn away this bitter cup, or given me a less tender na­ture, or—

—yet let me not dare to mur­mur. I am perhaps blaming what is best.

Wretched veteran in sorrow, how shall I explain myself to you how con­ceal what must, I foresee, be commu­nicated?

But oh, consider my misery; I am upon the spot. I am a spectator of [Page 170] the scene—I am behind the awful curtain.

EMMA IS POISONED!

Shall I proceed?

Henry is in the direst parchings of a fever, into which grief, tenderness, and terror, have conspired to throw him.

Oh that barbed and envenomed shaft!—that execrable infection which the lovely lips of the loveliest woman drew from the bosom—the wounded bosom of—her husband!

[Page 171]This moment I have opened and read the inclosed—

Whatever be the event, be proud, Corbett, be enthusiastically proud, that Heaven made you the instrument to produce so much excellence and vir­tue as shines forth in Emma. I trem­ble. I adore!

LETTER CXLIII.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

THE inclosed rough draft of let­ters will enable you, O, my friend, to trace the vestiges of some unhappy human beings since their departure from London to their return.

[Page 189]At present, fortune seems to con­tinue our wretchedness by means the most complicate and inventive.

Two hours ago we arrived at the house of the unfortunate Corbett. It was with the utmost difficulty his daughter reached town.

The first object that struck her was a HEARSE standing close beside her father's door. In the passage she be­held the undertakers bearing a coffin down stairs. The woe-worn Corbett was supported between two servants, to take his last mournful leave of the friend whose remains were about to be deposited. He could not move. He had not received my letter from Ports­mouth, [Page 190] dispatched three days before. It had been miss-sent. The letter did not come to hand till two hours after our arrival. He was not PREPARED to receive us.

Our chaise drew up still closer. Emma rushed out.—The poor old man—the daughter.—

—We are not provided with a language to express these horrors.—

Almost an hour the child and parent remained speechless—it was surprise and agony, at once dumb and dreadful.

The hearse waited. The coffin was placed in it, and shut up.

[Page 191]The bell is at this instant tolling for POOR LOUISA: The sexton is come to tell the attendants that the clergy­man is waiting. Wretched wife of Edward! She died distracted. The hearse is driving off.

What a house is here! Alas, it has long and truly been the house of mourning!

Corbett and Emma are still toge­ther in the next room to that in which I write. The servants look amaze­ment and dismay.

I hear, methinks, the voice of my aged associate in friendship and in sor­row. [Page 192] I am called suddenly and has­tily.—

Oh friend, oh Berkley: to what am I reserved! A PREMATURE LABOUR has been brought on by hurry, agita­tion, and fatigue. This morning's sun sees Emma a mother of a living child.—The poison seems not to have been in the least degree communi­cated to this precious pledge. It is a female.

Alas! Emma would leap for joy at this circumstance; she would forget awhile her woes in viewing the babe whom Henry had bequeathed.—She would present it with some testimony of maternal transport to her drooping [Page 193] father.—But that—even Henry's off­spring can no longer soothe—for EMMA CORBETT IS dead.—Her death instantly succeeded the pangs of the birth. It happened at midnight.—Her frame must have dropped in con­sequence of the venom, which resisted the force and subtilty of all applica­tion.—Soon—too soon— would the fair victim of constancy have sunk to the tomb; but these precipitating agonies added to the rest:—Oh they were too much. She fell before them.

In the expiring moment she called me to her—"'Tis Emma's infant▪ take it, said she: it is a parting gift—I can no more—my father—my poor father!"—

[Page 194]She dropped upon the pillow, from which she twice vainly endeavoured to raise her head, and lift her eye to the objects about her—THEN BREATHED HER LAST.

Thus lived, and thus died, the most faithful and beautiful of women.

Charles Corbett stands fixed over the corpse of his daughter.

The old man is now bereft of all! "I am childless, Sir Robert, (he ex­claims)—Behold what CIVIL WAR has done for me."—

Berkley, I have kissed the clay-cold lips—I have pressed the clay-cold [Page 195] hand. On that bed—that very bed—

—but I dare not indulge reflec­tion. Pierced as I am, I would fain preserve a decent sorrow. Ah that I were in my grave! Impious wish! Is there a single point of space in the petty allotment of man, in which something important is not to be done?

Yon aged forlorn one, now weeping over his child, looks up to me alone for something which resembles com­fort, during the wretched residue of life.

[Page 196]The funeral obsequies of Emma are yet to be performed—

The widow of Edward hath left a son—

The widow of Henry a daughter—

I will not die till Heaven's ap­pointed hour: I have much occasion still for life.

LETTER CXLIV.
TO THE SAME.

I AM just come from the most ago­nizing ceremony, oh Frederick, that can possibly pass under the eye of man!—May you never feel what otherwise you can never know! Easy in your fortunes, quiet in your situa­tion, unconnected in your interests, you can, happily for you, have no conception—at least no perfect one—of that rend in the heart which is made by death, when youth, innocence, and beauty, is committed to the dust—when the parent hangs his drooping head over the last sad tenement—when the orphans—

[Page 198]Whatever I said? Youth, inno­cence, and beauty!—and do all these then go down to the earth's cold bo­som? Shall none of them ascend? The glooms of the soul almost carry sensation into sin! They shall ALL as­cend! The one shall ensure everlasting existence to the others. Innocence shall immortalize beauty and youth.

I am reasoning with an almost breaking heart, Berkley; while poor old Corbett, the survivor of his fa­mily, in all the solemn pathos of grief, forgets every pain of body in nursing that which is seated within. The ro­mance of youth may teach you to ex­pect that I should execrate—that I should summon to my assistance every [Page 199] infernal power—that I should tax heaven itself with cruelty, and take refuge from altercating man, amidst the friendly concealment of impene­trable woods. This may, perhaps, answer the purpose of the novellist, but it corresponds not with the nature of your friend. No, Berkley. It is not in a moment like this that the truly touched and truly tender indulge themselves in outrage. The first burst is past: that which began with loudness, with vehemence, and with vociferation, settles into the still, the solemn, and the affecting. The temper, stormy and headstrong, of Corbett himself, terminates in the eloquence of dumb distress. The tears fall fast from me as I write. [Page 200] More impetuous periods I have felt so awful and so affecting a crisis never did I experience. You, who knew not Emma, and have not a regular though you have a worthy heart, can­not know what I have lost. The manner of her death—the motive—and the whole tenour of circumstan­ces connected with it, throw over every passage of the scene, a colour so movingly sad, that I sit wonder-struck in the room, and seem almost in my grave, with the world about me. I have exerted myself to say thus much at the winding up of this so­lemn catastrophe, lest you, my dear Barkley, or any other person, into whose hands these incidents may fall, should presume to question the ways [Page 201] of ALMIGHTY GOD, which are justi­fiable in every part of this pathetic story. Erroneous notions of punish­ment and reward, are perhaps the leading steps to irreligion and infide­lity. The vile herd of novellists have done an essential injury to the cause of virtue, by sacrificing to the pleasure of the reader, beyond the simplicity of truth. Difficulty, in the beginning of a narrative; love, in the middle; and marriages, at the end, make up, almost invariably, the recipe of a mo­dern romance. This is called reward­ing virtue; a bad character or two, perhaps, drops off, and that is called punishing vice. False, foolish, con­clusion! Look into life. Doth not heaven's blessed beam shine equally [Page 202] on the just and the unjust. Are all rewards so mechanically contrived? Hath virtue no joys of her own?—joys, which generous sorrow only can produce? Is the sacred struggle of a good man altogether afflictive? To pass through a road perplexed and thorny—to travel through a hard and difficult life, without tearing the finer principles from the heart, doth it re­quire no better conduct than moves in the machinery of those contempti­ble pages where all is given up to letter'd art, and distorted imagina­tion? Are there no sweets in the pensive sigh—the pious tear? Break they from the mourner without offer­ing him any balm? Hath heaven-born constancy no comforts? Consi­der [Page 203] the life of Emma! Hath death, at once virtuous and christian, nothing to lift the survivor's spirit above every care of vulgar being? Oh Frederick, I am touched by a very tender exam­ple. In lamenting as I now lament, say my friend, is there no dear and welcome mitigations? Yes, I feel—I feel that there are. Would I part with this generous grief?—Ah no! What would I take in exchange?—The universe should not buy it from me. I even anticipate the holy satis­faction when I shall steal from the shout and strife of society, to the tomb of a virtuous woman. Think you I love her less because I no more shall see her? Hath she suffered in my esteem by her ascension into heaven? [Page 204] Shall she lose as an angel, what as a mortal she acquired? I love her bet­ter. The Omnipotent placed her in the path of my life, to fix and concen­trate the best of passions. I am not of disposition or age to change again. Oh that the daughter of Emma may live! Shall I be content with a pa­rent's common duty—to cloathe, to feed, to educate? Consider Barkley, whose babe it is!

I have hurried down stairs to exa­mine my treasure!

—it lives, it sleeps. I have felt its gentle breath on my cheek.

[Page 205]God will spare it. Louisa's orphan too is mine. Corbett too shall live. I have moved towards his bed-side often, since I began to write. His face is hid—he will not yet endure existence, but the hours of resignation are at hand.

I conjure you then Berkley to settle your opinions about Providence.—Bring your piety to a point.—Culti­vate your tenderness.—Love, like Emma; and if you meet with such a disappointment, do not transfer your affection, but turn it to a generous ac­count. The vulgar effect of tender distress, is dissipation or despair. Had I yielded to these, a poor old man would have wanted a friend; [Page 206] two lovely infants, a parent; and I the self-approving bosom-ray, which chears my spirit in this vale of sorrow.

Circumscribe not, therefore, the re­wards of Heaven. The writer of a romance would paint me as a wretch without hope, who calls down the stroke of fate in pity to his aid. At­tend you to the reality, my friend; and behold a man who wishes still to live! and who thinks himself rewarded.

LETTER CXLV.
TO THE SAME.

WE are removed to Castleberry. Oh, it was a gloomy and mournful greeting that I paid it!—Every tree, every book, every chair, figured before me as the spectre of a buried joy. Emma enters the bosom, and touches at a thousand points.—Yet even in this woe, there is a mixt­ure of sweetness. I would not be without it. The mad metropolis, I am told, is just illuminated for suc­cess in battle .The house of Corbett is an example of the reasons either party have to rejoice on this, or on any similar occasion. It is not an enemy that hath done this great mis­chief [Page 208] —it is, we may truly say, our late familiar friend.

I enter the metropolis no more. A few years only can be mine. They shall be engaged in reconciling my poor dear Corbett to life, on heaven's own terms, and preparing for infancy an easy cradle—for age a smooth and peaceful pillow. Berkley, congratu­late me! My children are both well. The bounty of the Almighty is still upon me.

Oh friend, receive my cordial bles­sing: let your heart be kind, your life be pure, and—

LETTER CXLVI.
TO THE SAME.

IN the close of our correspondence on this subject, receive the tri­bute of a tender, tearful moment—receive an epitaph for Emma's mar­ble. The little Emma will, I fondly fancy, resemble her cherub mother: at least, I am hourly shaping her lovely features into imaginary simili­tude; and when affection is looking for a likeness, she either finds or forms it. But whatever be the exterior of this dear, dear legacy, oh may her mind take its colour from the parent; and Emma, who is in heaven, again give lustre to earth in the virtues of her child.