LETTER I. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

HAMMOND, you have hurt me. I can no longer look on you with pleasure. Forbear your visits. My daughter Emma shall not be your's. I have an objection. Will you hear it ex­plained? Being explained will you remove it? You can: you ought: you must: or this closes our connection. To be at a word: will you render it possible for me to call you my son? I write in confidence. Reply without delay. I love exactness.—

LETTER II. Mr. HAMMOND's Answer.

THERE is then a possibility, O my dear Mr. Corbett, of sur­mounting this objection! You ask, as a favour, what you might claim as a right. Generous friend! O, name the circum­stance, hint your expectations, and give me—all that I can desire— an opportunity to obey them. Have you not been the guardian of my youth? Are you not the father of Emma? I am all impa­tience, and I am

LETTER III. TO Mr. HAMMOND.

YOUR promises are fair, and the language in which they are expressed, is proper to your age, and suitable to your character. I hasten to give you the opportunity you invite. Re­sign your commission— that commission which, against all dissuasive hints, you have solicited and procured. Lay down your sword, or else draw it in the cause of liberty and Heaven. Your school-fellow, Edward, has, as you know, fallen a victim to these hostilities. My darling son is no more. He was plentifully provided for in the colonies.—The spot which he occupied was disforested by his ancestors, who, with much toil and expence, turned to a smiling domain what they found a wilderness, inauspicious to every purpose of society. It descended to this unhappy youth just as tyranny be­gan [Page 4] to forge chains for freedom; he traversed the sea to defend his property. H [...] [...]ld not suffer the legacy of his uncle to be ravished from him by the spoiler, while a hand remained to prevent the plunder. He took possession of the land, which before was under the superintendance of an agent. You know how soon he was in­vaded,—how soon his little territory was laid waste,—his house set on fire,—and how, when the enemy advanced to his door, he was hurried into arms. He became a soldier on necessity. He fought —He fell!—

The blow which killed a son had well nigh killed a father also.— Yet, in presence of Emma and you, I exerted my utmost fortitude. But the wound is not healed; it is still bleeding at my heart.— To mens eyes it seems well. I have tied about it a political ban­dage, yet I secretly detest every principle which begun ▪ and every motive which continues, this assassination of America. Long I have kept the anguish of these sentiments to myself. It makes no part of my conversation:—but now, finding that your ardour, O my dear Harry, has taken a wrong direction, it is time to speak—it is time to tell you, what will lose and what will gain me for ever. Hammond, you are about to engage in a cruel cause—a cause to which I object both as patriot and as parent. The vigour with which you have sought to obtain an authority to go forth amongst your countrymen, against your countrymen, bears in it something shock­ing to my nature. Whom I thought tender, him I find bloody. Do you desire to be a hero? the means are ready. Change the po­sition of the attack, and that will, in itself be heroism. Or, which is still better, if you could cultivate the embellishing arts of peace, and the Muses who love you, apologize to your patron the Earl for the trouble you have given—take the hand of Emma Corbett, and, with her, share the fortunes of her father.

These sentiments declare my opinion of your honour; and my esteem for your person is expressed in the presents I tender. Per­ceiving how obstinately you were bent to aid this fallacious plot against the rights of nature and mankind; I thought to let you go blindly on to blacken yet more the catalogue of British oppressors; but I well knew the source and progress of that sentiment which unites you to my only surviving child, and I feel myself unwilling, that the son of a dear deceased friend should thus prostitute his cou­rage in an action so peculiarly base, so peculiarly barbarous— Emma, fortune, and my favour, are before you. You know the prizes, and you are not now ignorant of the only mode of conduct by which they can be obtained. Farewell then. Think seriously, venerate my trust, and do not forfeit my esteem, I put you to the test.

LETTER IV. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

NO greater time is necessary to determine, than that which will be taken up in penning the determination. I do venerate your trust. My principles hold every man's private opinion a [...] [Page 5] sacred; but the very same principles compel me to forfeit even your affection, Sir, if it is to be preserved at the price of my duty. We, unfortunately, happen to see the American dispute in opposite lights. It is sufficient to a soldier that he believes his quarrel to be just. You arraign my humanly. Wherefore? I retort not the accusation. May we not consider a public contest in different points of view, and yet be friends? Both may act from feeling▪ and both on principle. You imagine America is aggrieved, while I look upon her at the aggressor. What of that? Do we interfere with the opinions of each other? I was not accessary to the death of your son; and had it been my fate to meet him in the field, I can conceive the point on which nature would have insisted. She would gracefully have led us both a little from the line of duty, and spared one in sympathy to the other N [...]y, more. Had I seen the sword tremble at his bosom, my own should for that moment have been as a shield, and you know not how far I would have ventured for the brother of Emma. But as to the commission, O be assured, I did not solicit it till I had well reflected on every consequence, pro­bable and possible, of obtaining it. It is obtained, and I rejoice; nor could it be resigned to purchase a diadem, with Emma on a throne to wear it. Change sides! No, Sir; if these are to be the terms, take back the hand you permitted me to win, and possess, undivided, her fortune and your own. You have not looked ac­curately at my soul. As I am not, on the one hand, so sensual, to gratify my passion at the expence of the holy faith and the solemn services which I have sworn to my country; so neither am I so sor­did on the other, as to court her inheritance without many endea­vours, consistent with the powers of my youth, to add something to her fortune. Patrimony hath dropt from my hope, but nature may, perhaps, have bestowed the equivalent. The arts of war, ra­ther than those of peace, seem, at this conjuncture, to lay the strongest claim to the genius of a young Englishman; and I have no notion of that indolence which can be content to fall into the arms of beauty and prosperity, without a single effort to deserve them. If, Sir, I have any tender interest in the heart of Emma, as I think I have, it has been more generously fought. But why do I argue with so much gravity, when perhaps you intend all this in the way of trial: willing to see if my attachment to my native country was not less than my passion for my mistress. Yes, yes, this is your experiment. You wanted to know whether it was ap­petite or affection that influenced me in regard to your daughter, and you will not, I trust, be displeased to find the basis as solid as your friendship or solicitude might desire.

Adieu, dear Sir; I thank you for the stratagem: and glory in every success that draws me nearer to your heart.—

LETTER V. TO Mr. HAMMOND.

POOR misguided youth! receive the last kindness I can ever shew you: receive my pity. You will, however, in common politeness, cease to [...]ender yourself unwelcome, and save me from an appearance of inhospitality. I think you ought, as a man of honour, to drop corresponding with Emma, and let it seem to be your own act and deed self-suggested, and self-inspired. This, however, your conscience will best settle. To that I refer you. As you so soon depart, a few more letters cannot be very material. Farther avowals of love, however, I shall consider as seductions.— Farewell. To wish you success in your undertakings would be to partake of your folly: you will therefore excuse me. I will only say, what is perfectly true, that I am extremely sorry for [...] Heaven place your feet in a fairer path. In that you are going to tread, Mr. Hammond, you may find havoc and horror, but never can find either honour or happiness.

LETTER VI. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

APPREHEND nothing from my intrusion, Sir. I never enter any house, whose doors do not move willingly to receive me. What you are pleased to call seduction, appears to me so absolute a propriety, that I must take the liberty to persist in it. I have reason to think the affections of your daughter are engaged. I cultivated them under your approving smile, and with your im­mediate sanction. I have not a heart that can put on or cast off its partialities, exactly as the opinions of a third person—even though he be a father—happen to fluctuate. It is Emma, therefore, and only Emma, can prevail with me to stop the current of affection or of correspondence. I refer you to her conscience, since it is not an apt reference you make to mine. I suggest no disobedience, but shall never violate one tittle of that faith, which, as a voluntary bond of soul, is firmly given by Emma Corbett to

LETTER VII. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

INEXORABLE boy! I shall urge you no more. Here let all connection cease for ever. When I permitted you, under the fair disguise of simplicity which you assumed, to seek the affections of my child, I had no conception there beat in your bosom so san­guinary a heart. Yet, practise on her as you please, she will re­turn, I trust, to her duty, and have done with her deceiver.

LETTER VIII. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

HAVE a care, Sir. You are going over perilous ground. Do not, as a partizan, extinguish what I feel for you as the pa­rent of Emma. I obey so much of your injunction as is possible, and desire this may be the last of our letters. Yet, I cannot finish without a few more sentiments. The chances of war, Mr. Cor­bett, offer no security from the plunder of the enemy. My safe re­turn to these shores is uncertain. I may become a prisoner: or I may fall. That part of your correspondence, therefore, which re­la [...] to a political subject, will be best in your own possession. You w [...] [...]d it inclosed. No accident can tear the deposit from my bre [...] but I dare not trust a less faithful asylum. That Heaven may [...] you, and make us once more friends, is the fervent pray [...] your

LETTER IX. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

YOUR generous spirit charms while it distresses me. O, Ham­mond! why have you thrown this new motive for relapsing tenderness in my way? why did you not rather add fuel to flame, and strengthen my displeasure? Cruel Henry! Why will you not accept my friendship upon conditions so humane? It is not even yet too late. You still have it in your power [...] unit [...] real hap­piness with true honour. Labour, I conjure you [...] to [...] and yourself. I pant to embrace you, to give you the [...]ternal bene­diction, and to give you, with it, my only Child.

LETTER X. TO C. CORBETT. Esq.

IT is not possible to be done in the way you propose; though there is none other that I would not eagerly attempt. Yet, to leave my Emma's father alienated, is to go with a dagger in my bosom. O! it will be sufficiently painful, without the aid of such aggravation. Let me implore you, Sir, to point out some other means of reconcilement. Think, O think!

LETTER XI. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

IT will not admit a thought: nor are there any other means with­in reach. There is, there can, there shall be none.

LETTER XII. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

THEN let me beg of you to drop the subject, and to believe, in this farewell sentence, that there is not a blessing in hu­man life which is not sincerely wished you, by

LETTER XIII. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

YOUR ship will not be ready, then, to bear you into the paths of danger, for some days. How uniformly amiable is your solicitude—dearest and best of friends—and how kind your atten­tion to every circumstance that has the least tendency to affect my ease and my welfare! I reflect upon your generous kindness with a kind of weeping rapture that wants a name: but, thank Heaven, I find my nature sufficiently susceptible, and my heart sufficiently enlarged, to answer the demands which your tenderness and con­stancy are daily drawing for; and, though it be a proud boast, I will venture to say that, in sentiment and friendship, in good will and good wishes, I can never die your debtor. Yet this little delay, my dear Henry!—into what an exultation of spirit did it not throw us? Last night, my beloved friend—oh, last night! the hours betwixt six and ten!—have you any idea of a period that could be rated in comparison with them? What a space! it was all spirit and all soul. Every inferior sense was annihilated, and the registering angel, if such there be, can hardly have marked a pas­sage more soft, more affectionate, more beautiful, or more pure. During the whole course of that precious interview, alike elegant and ardent were the expressions of our lips, the flutterings of our bosoms, and the feelings of our hearts,—not a look, not a word, not a whisper, not a moment, but memory shall hoard with dearest care, and dwell▪ [...] with increasing satisfaction: Virtue shall be summound to [...]pe [...] her immortal page, and transcribe the correct pleasures of last night amongst the whitest transactions of humanity. O! 'twas [...]lo [...]ely, melancholy period, which the heart will dwell upon with tenderest affection, while it remains accessible to any soft impression. After you left me, my friend, I continued still in converse with you▪ or personally in vision pure, or by the assist­ance of this little instrument, as fancy took the lead. The bright scenes that were then painted—with all their vivid images around me—how, how shall I describe them? Ah, Henry! the closer I look into your heart—the deeper and the more deliberately I examine and analize its properties, the more I admire and applaud. Oh, my friend! my most congenial and most amiable friend, could I speak or write of the spotless hours which we have passed together, with half the heart-felt satisfaction that I think of them—my, lan­guage would be indeed eloquent:—it would emulate your own. ‘"Ye Prudes in Virtue say,—Say, ye severest,"’ do I confess too much? ah that I knew words sufficiently ardent to say more! I am unequal to the task. It is pride and gratitude, sensibility and softness. Such are my fixed and solemn sentiments, not spoken at hazard, but grounded on the most perfect experi­ence. The propriety of my choice has been confirmed, ‘Proofs have assisted proofs, and still the last is the strongest.’

Doubt not but I have read the sentiments which meant to recon­cile me to your departure, again and again, as tenderly as atten­tively. [Page 9] I have, indeed, perused and re-perused them till the cha­racters are almost washed away, —I only mean, from the paper. The impressions remain uninjured elsewhere. O Hammond, Ham­mond, how the soft emotions agitate the heart at the command of your affecting pen! As I read your pages of this morning, distress and joy, complaint and resignation, the tear of anguish and the smile of hope, all struggled together. In every pulse I felt the force of your tender eloquence. It had power to smooth the rug­ged front of war, and I represented you returning victorious from the battle. Every varying sensation took its turn to reign; at one moment I was soothed, at another chilled. What feeling of the soul did not alternately assert its dominion? I was disturbed, quiet­ed, agonized, and made supremely happy. Yet, O my friend, it requires an inspiration, even brigh [...] than your own, to disguise the tempest which is gathering around me, and to render me insen­sible. I am not prone to make any event in life a source of unne­cessary misery. On the contrary▪ I have a strong constitutional pro­pensity to content, and a kind of resisting quality in my nature, which disposes me to ward off all imaginary evil. But the depar­ture of Henry is not an imaginary evil. It is a blow, which, how­ever suspended, cannot fail most deeply to affect whenever it falls; and fall it m [...]st, within the compass of—what? a few days—ah, my God! spare▪ spare me;—the tribute of my tenderness is streaming on my paper. My hand trembles in obedience to the terrors of my heart, and I drop the pen.

I must add to this letter a few after observations, which a re­perusal of it has given birth to. In the closing passages, perhaps it may appear that I have s [...]d too much. I am never quite satisfied with my expressions; afraid, from motives of the most delicate consideration, lest I should say too little or too much. I often [...]epress what rise [...] to my lip, and look cautiously, with the mind [...]s eye, at every fond emotion, before I dare venture to give it the stamp of lan­guage. But you are going from me. Ah! go not with one sentiment against your Emma. If, in compliance with the decent usage of the world, or the prejudice of a worthy father, or my particular sense of that precise decorum which it becomes every unmarried woman to adopt: If, Henry▪ I have hence at any time been witheld from more cordial declarations—declarations which you might well expect in return for your's, so ardent and so elegant— allow for me▪ allow for my sex, allow for my situation. Consider that I am a woman, and a daughter, as well as the choice of Henry. That honour, which is so dear to us both, hath a claim to various duties. My nature keeps such a jealous eye upon my conduct, that an instinctive something, like the internal disapprobation of a wrong measure, has often repressed the tenderest language, lest I should pass that sacred barrier, which constitutes the chief delicacy in the character of a single woman. Perhaps, I have carried this scruple to an ex [...]reme: but I could no more help it than I can prevent the [Page 10] tear from starting to my eye so often as I turn my thoughts towards a separation. You have sometimes looked as if you blame [...] me: but my error is, at worst, a little exuberance, springing from a fair stem, and produced in a good soil; nor will my dear Henry think ill of me for indulging it. Acquit me then, oh! acquit me of all contemptible finesse, and do not believe that I can be one moment insensible, unmindful, or ungrateful.

Your last letters, my friend, shall be preserved as reliques of virtue, victorious over every selfish principle; and, whenever I sicken at the folly and depravity of mankind, I will turn to those precious pa [...]es, there feast upon the hidden treasures of a tender heart, forget the silly pageants that form society, and for thy dear sake, be reconciled to the species.

LETTER XIII* TO EMMA CORBETT.

THE delightful letter of my charming Emma is lying in my bosom, as I take up the pen to reply. It came to hand at my poor Louisa's—at the house of my languishing and lovely sister; she told me she expected you. I passed an hour of pleasing attendance, after which it became painful—ah, how painful!—You did not come. Why was this? Yet it matters not. It was not possible, or it was not fit. The fit and the possible, you know, are the princi­ples which govern our actions. I wanted heroism, nevertheless, to support the suspence with decent composure. Louisa said to me, with a tear assisting the eloquence of her expression,—▪" What, brother, hath not the long tenor of a sister's wretchedness and dis­appointment—disappointment which is to last for ever, taught you to bear the loss of a single interview?" I felt the force of the appeal but continued to be uneasy. My sister withdrew, and my anxiety increased. By way of mitigation, I took up a pen which lay before, me and marked with it my emotions; I marked them, my Emma, in numbers, "for the numbers came." Let them be acceptable. Let the sincerity in the sentiment atone for any defect in the poetry Send me word that you are composed, and let me meet you, as chearful as you ought to be, in the morning. Louisa will look for you by ten o'clock.—Poor Louisa! ah, that Edward had not fallen!—Ah, that the brother of Emma were yet alive!— that he saw the injuries done to this unhappy country with my eyes, and that, as much inspired by Louisa as I by Emma, he was now making loyal preparation to fight the battle of Britain by the side of

LETTER XIV. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

WHATEVER is elegant, beautiful, or amiable, in that fair blossom, the human understanding, under the highest cul­ture, is expressed in the correspondence of my dear Henry; espe­cially in the precious favour that was inclosed in his last billet, dated from the apartment of Louisa. Ah, that Emma were an all-accomplished judge, whose plaudits might reflect all the honour which my hero deserves to receive! This being impossible, let it suffice, that you have, in these tender effusions, furnished your Emma with new proofs of tenderness, though none were necessary [Page 13] to complete the measure of either sentiment in my bosom. Yet such charming repetitions and innovations can never be unwelcome; nor will Hammond refuse or overlook this unassuming tribute — this numb [...]e and acknowledging page, which simple nature and affection offer. It is not the full foliage of the laurel, but it is the little unobtrusive leaf of gratitude and love.

Yet must I not, and ought I not to tremble while I praise? O, this America, my Henry! These chances of war! A theatre of mis­chief already fatal to the lover of Louisa — I faint under the thought! The time steals on, even while I am talking of its lapse. Your virtues all known — all tried — all pressing on the eye, and twining round the heart. It is terrible — it is too much! In mercy be less kind — less amiable — less engaging. Oh, if you draw the chain thus close,— thus near; if you bind the lovely [...]etter thus hard — till every comfort and every joy depends on the near and ex­quisite contact; if you contrive thus to annihilate every object but yourself —to create a void in nature— or fill it in my idea only by your existence — and that existence is to be exposed to hourly peril — what is to become of me? Or when cruel necessity shall tear you from me, which she is preparing to do, how am I to support it? Fancy sickens to reflect upon the vast and formidable distance that is so soon to divide us. To separate for such a purpose too! How few hopes —how few consolations! Correspondence will be delayed—in­terupted — interdicted. The soft and sweet solace flowing from pen to pen will henceforth lie at the mercy of winds and waves. Our sentiments will depend upon the terrifying circumstances of war. We shall no longer breathe the same air, repose in the same Island — walk under the same hemisphere: but separation, uncertainty, and wretchedness, must ensue.

O dire and deadly spirit of contention—patron of carnage and encourager of bloodshed! O thou, who ragest most unnaturally in the human bosom, (where all the graces and the [...]ffections should inhabit) and settest man against man!— Thou, who hast swept a brother untimely to the grave, and [...]t a father, a sister, and a lover, to mourn his fate — Thou whose spear seems now trembling over my panting heart, which bleeds at the dangers of the youth whom I adore — Oh, mischievous WAR! armed at all points against the happiness and humanity of the species — how v [...]ous and how dreadful are thy horrors!— I cannot bear it H [...]n [...]—

Yet let me think a little.—Are you not resolved? what [...] I doing? labouring to unman you? Ah! forgive my inconsistency; I cannot help it —indeed I cannot. No words, no pen, [...] even your own ▪ my best friend, all-eloquent, all Promethean [...] it is, can paint the effusions of nature as they burst from me at this a [...] ­ing moment. Consider the fate of Edward, and think of what may be your own: consider the sorrows of Louisa, and think on what may soon be those of Emma.

Yet what have I said—am I not satisfied with the most affectionate and in v [...]riable solicitude, but I must interfere with a mode of con­duct, which, you assure me is a duty not to be laid aside without [Page 14] dishonour. Alas! Henry, I am reduced, by this cruel commission of your's, to a very bitter exigence, which neither permits me to cen­sure or approve. I dare not write any more, for I feel the ride of overwhelming softness pouring on me. Perhaps I might advise you, at this tender crisis, to—

No: I will not trust myself with the pen. It would sully me in your esteem, should I longer hold it. O Henry, Henry, pardon and pity me. Preserve me by preserving yourself. Give not to glory more than is her due, but make some little reserves for the trembling

LETTER XV. TO EMMA CORBETT,

ALAS! what is to be do [...] with this bleeding tenderness of your's? For Heaven sake, temper your sensibility with a little discretion, my beloved Emma. Your elegant and affecting pages penetrate me to the soul. The tears of anguish mingle with those of admiration as I read them. Yet let me implore you to strengthen your mind a little, lest you wholly debilitate mine. Let not your Henry disgrace the cause he is to defend, nor fully the profession [...]e has chosen. Dear, unhappy friend, make one great and gene­rous effort to support your drooping spirits, to sustain your wasting frame, and to preserve a life so valuable to me, that the same stroke— I cannot pursue the subject —Rouse, rouse your­self, my Emma. For my sake, let all your fortitude be exerted. We are both young; there is the same protecting providence by water as by land; in the fields of war, as on the plains of peace. The future is a wide space, and may contain within its circle a thousand blessings. Struggle then against the storm bravely. Your inferences are too gloomy: various opportunities will [...]ffer, doubt not, to speed our generous intercourse. The wide world of senti­ment and sensation still opens upon us. By aid of this little friend­ly instrument, we may range through those paths which ocean seems to separate. However remote, you should still learn to think i [...] a superior blessing, that, in some part of animated nature, there still exists the counterpart of Emma—congenial as dear; —one, when no circumstance can change, but who must ever remain true to [...]ry touch of joy, and every [...]embling of woe. Look, Emma, at the paltry passions, and vulgar gratifications of common life— of common lovers. Look attentively at these, and then examine your own heart—examine mine. Consider the pure nature of the affection that unites them. Does not the superiority of our attach­ment make you generously proud? O Emma! you ought not to [...] wretched. We have both reason to be content.

Does Emma still weep? let her rather gratefully acknowledge, that though th [...] pure sourc [...] of sacred ami [...]y is occasionally em­bittered, as is, more or less, every affection of the virtuous heart; there are moments in which happiness breaks forth with a lustre that makes amends for every intervening vexation. Such was the [Page 15] period, when I wrote those hasty lines which you have honoured with most dear praise. In striking the balance then, let us not complain, my friend; but when fretting at disappointment, or drooping under the languors of distress, let us support ourselves with the assurance, that the rich current will return after all ob­structions, and flow sweetly and smoothly along its proper chan­nels. Its source, my dear Emma, can never be exhausted, It is as the chrystal fountain of living water, which streams for ever, and and suffers no impurity to remain upon its surface.

Ah! what is there so likely to melt the spirit of a soldier into cowardice, as the tears of Emma? She will not then give way to the tender torrent. She will court the balmy blessings of ease and hope. She will check these convulsive transports of distress▪ so destructive to my honour, and her own health. She will buffet the wild waves of adversity, nor thus suffer them to overwhelm her. Consider these things, O my beloved Emma! Come then, my friend, be still yourself; repose with perfect confidence upon that faithful pillow which my affection prepares for you; seek to amuse and to solace; cease to murmur and repine.

Do these things, and all your generous wishes shall be rewarded —Do these things, and all shall be well. Peace shall revisit your gentle bosom, and spread her whitest plumes about your pillow.

LETTER XVI. TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

I CAN make no terms with this rash brother of your's. He is pre-determined. Try your influence, for the sake of Emma — the sake of you murdered Edward—for your own sake, and for that of him who would have been your father, and who is still your m [...] affectionate friend.

LETTER XVII. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

WHEREFORE, in the closing scene of my life, do you thus agonize me? Is that consistent with the characters of pa­rent or of friend? My brother strongly imagines he is going into the paths of duty. The hapless Edward, though he trod on the opposite side, imagined, alas! the same. If the intercession of Emma fails, what can Louisa do? I every way want power. I want every thing but resignation to the sovereign will of Heaven, to which I have brought myself. Do not rob me of it, by reviving images which I have neither body or mind to bear; but leave me, Mr. Corbett, I beseech you, leave me, to the force of my religious principles, without awaking the passions I have l [...]lled. On the day that my brother sails, I shall set out from this hurrying town. for my eternal retirement.

LETTER XVIII. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

HOW sweetly, how elegantly, you reprove me, Hammond! and how grateful, how pleasing, are the tears that I have shed over the pages before me! I blush to think how far you sur­pass me Henry! Hope seldom spreads her day-beams over me in those instances where her sweet delusions would be the most accep­table. But you have inspired me. Poor pathetic Louisa, what would she give to have Edward even in the situation of Henry! Avaunt then, impious despair! I am easier. I am better. Infi­nitely easier; infinitely better. I give you my word and honour that I am. Yet the dreaded day is always obtruding—it appears like some malignant spirit, crossing me at every turn—at every step. How perverse is human nature, which disposes us to reject the joy in possession, and anticipate sorrows which may never come. O for the beautiful hour of your return, my friend! It will arrive, Henry, will it not? and, in the mean time, your sympathizing tenderness shall be salutary—indeed it shall. It is.

Melt you into cowardice, did you say? Heaven forbid—Eyes instantly be dry — your tears will prove a heresy to the object of my heart. O Henry you have touched me nearly The consideration, the single consideration of your honour shall reconcile me to a sepa­ration. Go then— pursue the ways of glory; and Oh, may they lead, speedily, to peace and

LETTER XIX. TO EMMA CORBETT.

NOW, my ever dear Emma, summon to your [...]d all your con­fidence and all your courage. The separating moment comes on. The sailing orders are received. It is the voice of my country that calls upon me — calls in the hour of extremity. She summons her sons to arms to her defence. Shall I not hear — shall I not obey her? Yes. I have the sanction of my friend— I go under the auspices of Emma. Her approbation is the animating trumpet— Her virtue arrays me for the battle. Methinks I now be­hold the lovely Emma, beaming inspiration through beauty, stand­ing before me. Away, (she cries) away Henry: I yield to the graceful sacrifice. I lend you to my king: I trust you to Britain — I give you in charge to that providence, on whose equity we shall ultimately have claim: I submit. Go then, my Henry— farewell. —Go.—

As the vessels pass and repass, my Emma, we will faithfully in­terchange the affectionate enquiries: we will, with dear tautology repeat the vows which shall one day be solemnized. But the part­ing adieus must this night be paid. Let me breathe them into your bosom, O best of women, at the house of the lovely sister of my soul. I will write no more. Let the silent tears of Louisa be as a check upon our complaints. If patience can comfort her in the [Page 17] hours of despair, surely pleasure might smile upon us in the mo­ments of hope! Consider the nature of the exigence that appeals to my firmness, and do not take from me that force—that ardour — that intrepidity — which are publickly due, in times like these, to your country and to mine.

LETTER XX. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

IT may not be, my brother. I cannot see you in the last hours of your stay in England: I love you too dearly to support it. It is not even now, without pain, I hold the pen. My tenderness is too strong, and my constitution too weak, to bear such an inter­view — to bear the tears of Emma, the embraces of my brother, and my own distress. Excuse me, therefore. It is true affection that persuades me to retire. I will not [...]man you, nor add to the weight of Emma's sympathy. I will take my head from this weary pillow, and set out for my cottage before you come. This illegible scrawl shall be delivered by the servant whom I will leave to attend you. My wishes for you need not be repeated. You do not want to be told how much I love you. Yet I have one little request, nor will you refuse it to poor Louisa.

You are going to the spot where the dearest and loveliest of men— suffer me to call him so, and do not oppose the voice of party to the language of nature—lies murdered, or, if you like the term better, lies honourably slain.

His memory is precious to me, Henry — his ashes cannot be indifferent. O! if you could but find the ground where he fell— if you could but assure me that his sacred reliques—if you could but breathe over them one pious tear, and one tender sigh — for Louisa's sake. But it is impossible—I feel my weakness, and perhaps. I shall infect you with it.

Yet, as your bosom is at this time full of love, it is fitted for generous actions. Should, therefore, kind fortune have allowed, amidst the tumults of the war, one little commemorating hillock of earth to the remains of Edward— O I forget not to visit it—forge [...] not to guard it from further violence — forget not it is consecrated by a deluge of tears from a sister's eyes; by friendship and by love.

LETTER XXI. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

THE appointment is made, and I shall, by a lucky arrange­ment, be able to pass with you some hours of elegant distress. Alas! my friend, my dear Hen [...] nature will insist upon her tri­bute, and I cannot — indeed I cannot—refuse to pay it. Yet you charm down the genius of grief by strong language, and I love you. I hope, too much, to dishonour you. About the rights of conquest I know nothing — I only know, that as I lost a brother on one side [Page 18] of this bloody question, so it is probable I may lose even more than a brother on the other; and yet, both persuaded me they were in the way of their duty. Alas! how shall reason draw her line on such occasion [...]! Must not reason be dumb, and humanity mourn? But I have done. Women are surrounded by calamities; and no­thing is left them but to bow in submission to their woe. I am indis­posed, and beg you would allow me as much of this—oh, how shall I write it — last evening as you can.

LETTER XXII. EMMA TO HER FATHER. ^*

YOU have found then, it seems, Louisa's billet, making the offer of her house this evening to Emma and to Henry. By what chance the note dropt I am ignorant. The hand of agitation is not, indeed, steady; nor can the agonized heart guard against common chances. I am not sorry that the paper, by whatever means, has got into your possession, oh, my dear father! It takes some part of the load from my bosom; for I am hurt to appear plotting that, which will so thoroughly bear explanation. You desire Mr. Hammond to visit me no more. He obeys. You request that I would, without enquiring into reasons, forbear to speak of him to you. I am obedient. You desired that my utmost interest might be tried, to keep him from America. O, you can conjecture how readily, and, as you know Henry's darling passion, you may guess how vainly, I undertook this. The double pleasure of obli­ging you, my father, and of gratifying my own fond heart, pre­vailed with me to urge this point, till I had well nigh turned his affection to disgust You bid me cease to love, and with the utmost ingenuousness I tell you it is impossible — Impossible, my dear father, because repugnant to every principle by which all the actions of my life have been governed.

My regard — oh! that is too cold a word — my love, for Henry, is not, you know, the start of a moment, the romantic sally of a warm temper, nor the effect of that silly admiration, which pays down the tribute of folly to the charms of a red coat. I secretly grieve that the profession of arms should have been chosen: I have shed too many tears to the m [...]mory of my brother, to be in love with regimentals: but my tenderness was antecedent to all these misfor­tunes; nor will it be in the power of any misfortune to diminish what your judgement, and the eloquence of my own heart, have so long approved. Your present avowed displeasure against Mr. Ham­mond is sudden; but settled affection cannot readily accomodate itself to such revolutions. What is rooted in nature cannot, with­out much labour, be eradicated by art. As it displeases you, Sir, I am concerned at this. But shall I deceive, in order to make my peace? shall I be unnatural, in order to be filial? Shall I propensely set one great duty against another, and so destroy the excellence of [Page 19] both? No. You would hate me for it, and I should hate myself. That I am in this bitter period, when I am about to lose what you yourself so lately thought most precious, able to write with so much argumentative composure, is, alas! no sign of my indifference, but an instance — perhaps the strongest that could be given — of that steady attachment, which, born of honour, is nourished by virtue. To be attached, is the dictate of nature. To be attached to a man of sense and morals, is the dictate of delicacy; and the symptom, I conceive, of a good disposition. Such, my most honoured father, were the elementary rules I caught from you. Would you controvert your own maxims? Or, while the merit of the object increases, is it a fit time to withdraw from it the love, which nature and common sense seem to say should increase in proportion?

But you depend, I find, on the lenitives of absence, and of time. I will not answer for the vigour of my own mind, for I know the frail [...]y of our nature. If it is soothing to my father to count upon what these things may do, let me not destroy his source of ex­pectation. I am not, thanks to his corrected culture, enough the giddy girl to burst forth into asseverations of constancy everlasting, merely to vex a parent by setting my heart against his wishes: I would desire rather to distrust my own temper; and, laying my af­fections open to his view, beg him to form his judgment upon a sur­vey of them.—But I dare not mislead one who hath so entire a right to be treated frankly. I make no vows; yet, in proportion as an attach­ment is deliberate, is it not fixed and permanent? And this being my first and only affection, (having besides a man of unblemished character and congenial manners for its object) have I not a right strongly to suspect—But enjoy the opinion you so strongly adopt. Bless you, my father, for the gentleness of your inhibitions. You do not threaten — You do not rave. These might have augmented my distress, but could not have abated my affection. A circum­stance of which parents seem so unconscious, that they destroy the effect of authority by the vehemence with which they exert it. They confuse, but do not convince: terrify, but do not conciliate; and almost justify disobedience, by their manner of enforcing duty.

Oh Heaven! the clock is striking —the hour is come — the mi­nute— the moment is approaching. I will ring for a servant to take this into the parlour. My feet will scarcely carry me down stairs. An ingenuous nature appeals to you for pity, Sir — will you refuse? Oh, my father, my father, my spirits have done their utmost, ere the trial is begun. Suffer me to be unhappy. —Prepare for me — oh! prepare for me the parental hand against my return, and do not let my tenderness abate your's.

LETTER XXIII. HENRY TO EMMA ^*

TEN minutes, while the chaise is getting ready, are mine: they shall be devoted to Emma. Check, I once more con­jure [...], the extreme of sensibility; a few silent tears, a few gen­tle [Page 20] sighs, and the luxury of a soft and tender sorrow, I wish not to restrain — but such another conflict as that of last night—

And yet I feel the absurdity of my own argument—Fasten not, however, on any desponding images. We shall meet again; and in happier days — The sweets of social and family intercourse shall yet be our's, and in the dear bosom of domestic peace, we shall en­joy, without restraint, contrivance, or disguise, all the benefits of so delicate and well directed an attachment — Trust me, we shall.

Ah, my Emma, you owe yourself and me these reasonable en­couragements, and I implore you to bestow them. If EMMA be not armed with fortitude, how can HENRY expect to conquer? It is too mighty a calamity to feel for her, and for himself.

The moment of departure is come. I am called. Adieu —dearest and most amiable of friends — adieu!

Hah! yonder is your servant — He is running towards me — He is here — A pacquet! Precious fellow traveller! I receive it just before I step into the carriage. I hurry to press a water on this flying billet. Heaven guard and give you its choicest blessings. Fare­well — ten thousand times farewell.

LETTER XXIV. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

YET, yet a few words, my loved friend, and then —what then? O adieu for a tedious space — for days, weeks, months, years —perhaps for ever?— Ah, my poor heart!

Yet it is not so: this is the language of drooping nature in her most desolate moment. It is our persons only that shall be sepa­rated, our souls shall be drawn perpetually together in converse sweet, communion high — pure as precious — delicate as delight­ful. What, alas! is space — what is distance? Our hearts shall kn [...]w no disunion — I will not, I do not despair.

Henry! I am less wretched than I was last night; and though full fraught with tender sorrow— though my tears are flowing till they obscure my sight — you may see their traces on the paper — I will have faith in your prophecy.

What a day for your journey! it is emblematic of our affection; inclined to sunshine and to shower, to smiles and tears alternately. Be tender of yourself for my sake. Guard against cold from the poignant severity of the night air. The dangers to which you will professionally be exposed are, alas! sufficient: oh, do not add to them by neglect. Farewell, I will think of you very tenderly, and pray for you very fe [...]ven [...]ly. Heaven bless, sustain, and com­fort you. How my hard lingers— But time grows short, and un­less I make one violent effort, the period of getting this to your hand may escape.— Therefore, in one decisive and affecting word —Farewell

LETTER XXV. TO Sir ROBERT RAYMOND.

I HAVE not yet had one glimpse of opportunity to mention those proposals to my daughter, which are so acceptable to me. I can only tell you the young man is gone. To deal plainly with you, she is much attached; but when you have cultivated her ac­quaintance, I hope she will be judicious enough to make distinc­tions. Follow your design of making my house your's, till you go into the country, and then many occasions will present themselves of discovering that merit which, I am sure, the generous Emma will not be able to resist. I am resolved against Hammond; so that you need not fear a jarring interest. A girl and boy inclina­tion is fugitive. Sir Robert Raymond will inspire, I trust, a su­perior passion on a superior principle. Come to us immediately, and join in our parties.

LETTER XXVI. TO EMMA CORBETT.

I FLOAT on the bosom of the ocean while I write this: but, as if in courtesy, the wind it changed, or rather it ceases to blow sufficiently, and in this harbour we are to ride till it rises. You well know, in what manner I shall employ the interval; it shall be dedicated to softness and to Emma. I have perused your dear parting legacy — no, not legacy, that is too funeral a word—your parting pledge.— Yes, I have perused it, and, soldier as I am, do not blush to tell you that I have wept over its contents. I pressed it with fervent and chaste ardour to my lips and to my bosom — I laid it soft and close upon the panting heart, and am relieved — as much so, my Emma, as I ought to be, or as is consistent with hu­man nature at this crisis. Oh, my dear friend, it is indeed a pa­thetic period. I now feel that I had set myself too hard a task. I pretended to rally it off as a military manoeuvre; but I find "he jests at scars that never felt a wound." Nature revolted, and I have suffered more from not giving her fair play. The anguish of my mind—

[There is no brother officer at my elbow, and I may safely whis­per forth my lovely weakness to Emma.]

—The anguish of my mind bore down all before it; and now the matter is over, I will confess that the last hour I pass'd in your company▪ my friend, was the most painful of my life. How are you a [...] this moment, my Emma? O, how many questions have I omitted — how many have I yet to ask? O, for another hour! At the end of the first stage I was strongly inclined to order the postil­l [...]o [...] to drive back. I had recollected much, and that, me thought, of moment too, to say — but I found it was only lingering nature, reluctant to let go its object, and would have amounted to nothing [...] than tender repetition It would but have enfeebled both, and deep [...]d in each bosom the poignancy of sorrow. Again, my [Page 22] dear Emma, farewell. May heaven bring us once more within reach of each other.— You such as I wish you; Me such as you would have me. I shall now seek the bed or rather the hammock; it is somewhat aukward to me. The sea is not, you know▪ a sol­dier's element, and it will take a little time ere I can adopt myself to the fatigues of it.

P. S. O, be very tender to my beloved Louisa. Supply a bro­ther's absence; nurse her declining health; draw, as if by stealth, the softest images over the solemn sadness of her soul; and let not so much beauty, elegance, and virtue, drop untimely into the grave.

LETTER XXVII. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

THE wind stirs not; there is not a breath of air moving in the atmosphere. Under favour of this idea I am writing a hasty line, just to wrap up with the incl [...]sed, which my heart recollected since your departure: let it lie, O my beloved Henry, upon your's; and may it have all the tender power which I wish to give it. Ah that I could croud, into a few words, every thing sweet and com­fortable, to supply the defect of this brevity, and to soften the ills and misfortunes which poor humanity is doomed to bear.

LETTER XXVIII. TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

O HOW tenderly you have spoken to a brother's feelings, my beautiful sister! It is a nice subject you have glanced upon; but what is there in your Henry's power that he will not seek to do for Louisa? Yet it was hard to withdraw your hand from me —I missed the pressure, even while Emma was weeping on my bosom; and I had much, very much for your private ear, which I would have contrived to impart. Preserve the inclosed papers, which, in case of accident, you will unseal, and act in conformity to their contents. They are the last desires of your affectionate brother.

LETTER XXIX. TO EMMA CORBETT.

THE wind is still insufficient, and the little which stirs is adverse, which has given me an opportunity to receive the only part of your person that could, consistently, attend me on the ocean. Do you know that this dear locket has made me poetical. You must allow for verses written upon the waves. Yet I hate apology. They have soothed a pensive hour for me, and may do the same for you.

That they may answer this good purpose, is the fondest desire of

LETTER XXX. TO C. CORBETT. Esq.

THE prospect, Corbett, is not clear, I find; but something impels me to to try whether it may not be improved. I sus­pect, however, that a youth of twenty-five in scarlet, will leave an impression scarce to be erased by a middle-aged man in a suit of snuff-colour, with slash sleeves, after the manner of our ancestors. and it is too late now, Charles, to throw off a custom that has hung on my back for more than twenty years. Yet I will come; for I want the stability of domestic comfort after all my migrations.

Your daughter strikes me as the very woman, and he, in my eye, no other fault than that of being too young, which I quarrel with chiefly because I strongly suspect she will think me too old. [Page 25] No matter, I will put the best foot forward, and be with you in a day or two. Mean time, I will get me a new wig; and, to shew you how much I am in earnest, will try to deceive your Emma as much as conveniently may be, by ordering it to be made so as to resemble a responsible head of hair; for I find, since I came home from India, there is nothing in a young Lady's eye so ridiculous as a wig. And when I left my native land, a flowing peruke was a Cupid in full dress. O temp [...]ra! But we will see what can be done.

Dear friend, I am your's, and remember I have been so twenty-eight years.

LETTER XXXI. TO HENRY HAMMOND, Esq.

WHAT a return have you made for the trifle I sent you, O, most dear and ingenious friend I ever directing the current of that rich stream (which knows no diminution, but scatters fer­tility and fragrance as it flows) to comfort, to amuse, or to instruct me▪ How I rejoice, that the bagatelle pleased you. It was my first intention to have the hair disposed into an ornament for the shirt, but I considered the nature of that delicate sentiment you feel for Emma. I reflected that it was retired, that it shunned every thing obtrusive, that it could ill brook the idle, and perhaps the wanton curiosity of those cockaded heroes, who imagine tenderness incompatible with bravery. On these accounts, therefore, I chose to suit my locket to that situation only in which your delicate par­tiality would be most likely to place it.

Round your neck, my dear Henry, let it ever hang, impervious to every eye but that of the proprietor. — A sacred calisman may it prove — a soft shield thrown over your bosom by the trembling hand of a friend! —O, that I could breathe upon it all the virtues that were supposed to be in possession of the most benevolent geoii — that it had strength of charm sufficient to preserve you as securely from sickness, sorrow, and mischance, — from the bullet and the sword, — as I do firmly believe the sight and touch of it will arm your heart against the impression of every error, and the practice of every irregularity.

Your letter, with its fair and tuneful inclosure, found me upon my pillow, from which I hastened with a rapidity which is the spontaneous impulse of unaffected tenderness. Like a much-wished-fo [...] and much-wanted cordial▪ it found me in an affecting moment. I read and recovered, wept and was well Oh, wondrous power of virtuous affection! Yes, thou admirable and honourable friend, the die is cast, thy invaluable love shall be the sustaining solace of my future existence. Ah! may no jarring word or discordant thought ever rise up to disturb an amity so sacred and so pure! The fine spirit of our esteem, my Henry, shall extend its delicate influ­ence over all the rougher passages, on a sea far more stormy than that whose bosom is now pressed by your vessel — Over every trou­bled moment our affection shall softly diffuse itself,

Oh, Henry, my heart dilates as I write and the soft drops descend in a pathetic and sweet assurance of our future felicity; but do not be uneasy that I weep,—such tears will not hurt me. They are pre­cious drops that invigorate virtue, and freshen as they fall. Oh! those sacred hours we have passed together, in friendship, in con­verse, in books; no divided attention, thought saluting thought, the mutual tear, every thing, or dear or elegant, included in every moment. Carry the remembrance of such intercourse over the world of waters. Call to mind the time when our lengthened at­tention to the moral page, instead of relaxing, grew stronger and more fixed; when our understandings and our hearts seemed equally to refine and to expand!

Yes, Henry, I will try to adopt that gentle spirit of prophecy, which breathes so beautiful an ardour over your consolatory pages. I do not expect to gather the bloom of the rose, without feeling the puncture of the surrounding thorn. I gratefully take it with all its little wounding appendages—I place it in my bosom.

—I have promised not to repine: yet, if a gentle murmur some­times escapes, let me, I prithee, find indulgence for it, and do not chide me; oh, how often have I wished since your departure, to be the companion of your voyage and all its consequences, how­ever multiplied, however menacing! And, after all, Henry, your situation is more tolerable than mine: the travelling friend has the advantage of those who are left, in solitude, behind. The very velocity of the motion is favourable: in passing rapidly along, the freshness of the air, and the change of objects, engage and divert the mind insensibly; while the poor forlorn one, that remains fixed to the former spot, has only to mark the present period, to look in vain around for what is lost, to cast a "longing, lingering eye" upon the past, and, in the torture of reflection, to confess that such things were,—but are, alas! no more.

It has been my fortune to pass thro' the street where you resided, more than once since your departure. O, think with what emotions I viewed those windows which belonged to an apartment so lately your's! The sight of your grave could scarcely have produced any thing more affecting: and yet I feel that I shall like to pass often by them. I do not pretend to account for these little touches, I only simply relate them. Will not your feeling nature easily explain them?

And now confess, Hammond, that I have arrived at the due degree of heroism: confess, that I am sufficiently soldier'd; for I can hold the pen, and impress the quiet-seeming sentiment, with my eyes full of tears▪ and my heart full of sorrow. What more can you expect from female philosophy? What more can you expect from a friend who has been used to regret the absence of an hour as a misfortune?

I shall send off this, on the slight chance of its reaching you. If [Page 27] it should not—what then? what will be its fate?—I care not. Gross as is the world, were every sentiment of my soul laid open to its view, I could support the scrutiny. I still could " boast the grace­ful weakness," if indeed it be a weakness of my heart. The possi­bility of your receiving my letter is worth the hazard of dispatch­ing it; and as every moment is now at the caprice of the wind. I will no longer delay sealing.

LETTER XXXII. TO EMMA CORBETT.

YOUR dear favour, like a parting blessing, comes to hand while the breezes are rising, and the whole crew are engaged in the bustle of preparation. We have already weighed anchor, the sails will soon cease to slap against the mast, for I perceive the mariners are climbing the shrouds to square the canvass to the gale, which is at length favourable, All hands are aloof—All hearts are panting with various passions·—I feel that we are in motion.—I can hear the cleaving keel cut the waves.—The wind blows fresher, as we clear the calms that brood in the harbour; and, as I turn my eye astern of the vessel, I behold the billows whiten into foam. Alas! the shore seems to go back, and we are getting into a wider sea. The watermen who have followed us thus far in their boat on some necessary business, now tack about, and pepare again to fetch the harbour.

Brief let me be.—Many of my fellow officers are standing idle on the deck, and some are roaring catches in the cabbin; while Henry Hammond is writing an adieu to one dear woman, who is the pride and pleasure of his life. I confess also, that a sigh is heaving from my heart, and a tear is running along my cheek. The offi­cers look at me as if they suspected an infirmity. Let them. In the day of battle we shall see, whether tenderness or dissipation in­spire the truer courage or magnanimity. I have a little bribed the boatmen, who are rowing laboriously after us, but the last, last moment is come, and the last, last adieus; the finishing farewell must be given— farewell, then! I leave you in full possession of my heart; I leave you to your own virtue, and to the Providence of GOD.

LETTER XXXIII. TO EMMA CORBETT.

MY brother and your friend, then, is gone! How fares it with you, my dear Emma? Are the conflicting pangs of a parting so poignant some-what subsided, the tender spirits some-what com­posed, the fluttered, agitated heart more still? I ask you these questions in the bosom of my retreat. I date from my sanctuary, where my widowed heart (for that has been long wedded) is retired to muse upon the dead. Of the living, you, one other person, and Henry, are the only objects of my case. For your welfare, and for your [Page 28] distress, I can yet feel, and while you remain in it, the world will have something that ties me to it—the rest is Edward's.

Fifteen months of desperation are gone by, my friend, and five more have followed those, less clamorous, but more deep. The frenzy of my soul is succeeded by the still small sigh, and silent tear of settled sorrow. It is not now the passion but the principle of grief. Here I sit under the dark umbrage of these sepulchral bows — ah shade most sacred! and invoke piety to consecrate my grief.—She comes—she comes, my Emma!

—Amidst the modest shadings of the evening, I behold her celes­tial form descending on a moon-beam. Even now she diffuses a holy melancholy into my heart.—She fits me for the contemplations that are most dear.—She utters the name of EDWARD in tunes of Heavenly eloquence—she touche [...] the tender strain—she echoes the pensive sign in softest cadence, and increases the stream of woe with cherub drops of sympathy. The lovely enthusiasm is complete!

It is now twilight, my Emma; the but is taking its circles in the ai [...], and poor Fidelio is sleeping at my feet — I use the day's last moment to write, supporting the paper on my lap.—The owl, which shrinks from sunshine, has left his ivy, and flits by me.— The village bell is toiling —This night departed the soul of a WIDOW!—It is the passing bell, then, that I hear!—Oh! Heavens!

Alass, I meant to comfort you, and I shall infect you with my gloom.

—The present pensive sweets be mine.— Adieu!—I lay down the pen till I can use it to a more soothing purpose.

In continuation.

It is particularly unlucky, Emma, for you, that I should have contracted this sequestered habit, when my soothing cares might be so particularly acceptable to my friend.— Yet, in the present situ­ation of her heart, all attuned as it is to gentle emotions, I am much inclined to ask her society.

The retreat is tender: the weather is fair. Close upon my cot, Simplicity seems to have fixed her seat of "dearest residence." She has sequestered herself in a bow [...]r of shrubs, at whose roots rambles the fertilizing till. My shades are formed to receive and to em­brace the gentle spirit of acquiescence. Reposed in the thickest foliage. The saintly form of Melancholy also is there, listening to the plaint of the stock-dove, and to the soft gradations of the water-fall. Is not this an asylum for the heart of Emma? Even Louisa (ah, how pre-eminently wretched!—) finds some consola­tion amongst these pensive sweets of nature in her solitudes—soli­tudes, my friend, not to annihilate but to compose, not to extinguish the generous flame, but to attemper it. Ah, come then— come to the woman who esteems you.—Come to the sister of Henry, —come to the mourner of Edward! retirement is the norse of love. 'Tis "hereabouts she dwells." Virtuous affection is blooming here amidst rose [...]. Friendship, (ah, surely I might say KINDRED [Page 29] friendship) in the form of your Louisa, attends. What, of soft, of sacred, of serene, is there wanting to invite you? Here, as far­ther removed from the tumults of busy life, you will be drawn more near to Henry. Directing the "mind's eye" only towards him, you will seem to approximate almost all of life that is most pre­cious to us both. The pure air itself will assist. The softness of morn, and the serenity of eve, will be alike auspicious—the sign will become more soft—the violent agitations will subside—the tempestuous passions will sink into a delicate calm, like the smooth sea "when not a breath of wind blows o'er the surface."

A little time, passed in a recess so soothing, will answer a thou­sand good purposes; at present I know the tender heart must feel, and the feeble frame will suffer with it. My own misery is not noisy, and it will not interrupt your's. The tears of sympathy, which haply you may bestow upon Louisa, shall be gratefully re­paid. In this way, we will be at "once indebted and discharged." Attain, therefore, your father's assent and hasten to the cottager.

N. B. I return the verses which Henry sent with the packet of pene, because I cannot bear to keep any thing that is comfortable from you at this period especially any thing from our beloved Hammond, whom we divide in dear affection between us.

LETTER XXXIV. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

FREDERICK, he is set off; but I have no reason to imagine his embarkation a good omen. As far as the father's interest goes, I am safe, but that does not go very far. To tell you the truth, I am myself somewhat an odd kind of a fellow in this re­spect. I should not choose to accept an alienated or reluctant hand. Nor could I sit quiet under the idea of possessing a woman, who gave her person as an equivalent for a title and a fortune. These niceties, you will say, are, at my age, somewhat out of date; and I ought not to expect such etiquettes will be attended to by a fine young woman, whom, perhaps, you imagine, I might jump at on any terms. Look'y' Frederick, leave me to settle my own singu­larities, and do you settle your's. I think fit, for old acquaintance sake, to unbosom to you a very foolish secret. The least you can do is to hear my story, and to let me tell it my own way. I am now in love " nolens volens." You may laugh, but I feel it is not in my power to extricate myself. Would the wench had not fallen in my way! These are what I call cross incidents. When a man is jogging on, and has got soberly to the resting place, then to have a slap on the shoulder from such an urchin as Cupid, then to be attacked bow and arrow in hand—Is not this too bad—Is not this too ridiculous—too humiliating?

After you have uttered the sarcastic yes, I shall proceed to ac­quaint you, that this mighty ridiculous thing is the most serious tor­ment: and what renders it the more perplexing is, that, old fellow as I am, it is a circumstance wholly new to me—not more so to the veriest stripling when he wafts from him the maiden sighs for a tripping chit of fifteen. I am not in my dotage, am I, Berkley, at forty-three? No, hang it; that is not what they call being well-stricken— is it? I have some terms to keep with myself too. I should not choose to be too absurd.

But this young adventurer! This happy hero! The parts of his character that I have been able to pick up—such as health, agreeableness, genius, spirit, courage, and animation, are not absolutely in my favour, are they, Frederick?

Let us see what I have got to put in the balance against them. — the gout— small-pox pits—not the ninetieth part of a muse—less courage than caution, and spirits somewhat harrassed out in the real wear and tear of worldly events. I don't like it, Frederick.— It won't do. My lighter scale is hurled aloof, and I am bouncing my head against the beam most abominably. O Frederick!

Is there, then, nothing to throw in by way of bringing a middle aged gentleman on the equilibrium? Yes: A lusty lump of money. The golden make weight of fifty thousand pounds. Fair force of metal, Frederick! Our cockaded spark has not any thing to poise that, in the opinion of the world; and yet, if this should happen to be Emma's opinion. I am so whimsical a mortal, that I should esteem her less for the very circumstance which would make [Page 33] my sait more successful. The fortune of Henry Hammond, I find, is small. He has not much money, but he has what does a thousand times more execution in a delicate bosom: he has sentiment. O that cursed sentiment! — a term, Frederick, of late invention, to express old emotions in a new way — a term, which many use, more affect, few understand, and still fewer feel, — a term, which — which — in short — curse that sentiment!

We deceive ourselves, my friend, and in my next I will tell you how. Good by' for the present.

Letter XXXV. TO THE SAME.

I SAID I would tell you how we deceive ourselves. I will. The slender circumstances, and even the great misfortunes of a lover, are no kind of objection in the eyes of a sentimental mistress; em­barrassments of the world call forth the siner sentiments, and th [...]se excite sympathy. Now sympathy, Frederick, is, in the female breast, a very tender sensation. It is a strange thing, but a true, that this same adorable SENTIMENT has ever had (with indeed very few exceptions) a most sore quarrel with solid silver and gold; and with the coin current of a country. In the account of young English women (who are the greatest worshippers of the fair idol) [...]t really circulates as mo [...]t sterling; and the prevailing charms of a pathetic, poetical poverty is a more welcome draft to them, than any which mere matter-of fact wealth could draw upon his banker. Thus it is, that fathers sacrifice to Plutus, and children (especially daugh­ters) to a beggarly Deity, whom Plutus laughs to scorn: and hence the source of ten thousand family feuds — hence the rise of separate maintenance; and the fall of domestic confidence. Sentimental Love is torn almost to ta [...]ers in his way to the altar; and when, in this effort, his robe is most ragged, then is his gl [...]ry the most distinguished; for thus b [...]ggarly as he i [...], he shall laugh at the labours of a rich passion, and as he passes, poverty-struck (as it should seem) through files of females, he will flaunt his famine in your face, and sentimentally tell you, it is his letter of recommenda­tion. And all this, Frederick, while plain affection (in a snuff-coloured coat for instance) throws in vain the massy money bag, across his shoulders, and seeks Hymen's temple by the path that is obvious and unentangled. Now a days, the broad highway is de­serted; and the women rather choose to stick those roses in their bosom that are encompassed by thorns, than accept the richest bouquet, in the garden that lies open to the view, ready to the hand, and that may be collected without any difficulty.

Difficulty! there it is again. That is another cursed thing which enters into the spirit of a modern attachment! It is the first cousin of sentiment, or, as I have heard, its parent. A sly old neighbour of mi [...]e, who has look'd shrewdly and silently at human nature, and whom I, sometimes, used to consult on that subject, tells me, that difficulty is the happiest thing in the world to sentimental lovers. I [Page 34] hinted to my friend in reply to this, that I then might consider my age, my dark complexion, my wig, and my fair round body, [...]s so many points in my favour, since they would, no doubt, throw a respectable quantity of the aforesaid difficulty in the way of my wishes, meaning my overtures to Emma Corbett. Aye, quoth my friend—but they are not the right sort of difficulties. There are, continued he, difficulties which impede and difficulties which ad­vance. Of the former, your's, Sir Robert, happen to be the most substantia], to which you might have added many more that have the kindness to attend you. Of the latter, you, Sir Robert, to my recollection, have not one: for you are too rich to experi­ence an objection on the side of cash, which, by incurring the con­tempt of the father, might possibly recommend you to the child — You are too sleek and too plump, to make a young lady mi [...]take your countenance for the seat of sentiment, and there is so terrible an air of plenty all over you, that you are, in my opinion, an un­wise Baronet to address any thing but one of those prudent young ladies, which, in a matrimonial bargain, cling to the solid com­forts, and will not like you the worse for being so abundantly pro­vided with the goods of this life — But to attempt a woman of sen­timent, an ATTACHED woman of sentiment, the mistress of a young soldier, who loves a man of poverty — a man of poetry — and, to crown all, who loves a man that is not the present choice of her fa­ther— Alas, poor Sir Robert! you may think yourself well off, if she does not conceive towards you, a generous kind of aversion, and order you to assume a genteel size, to wear your own hair, and to adopt the melting mood before she suffers a second visit.

Thus spake my friend—and I don't know what to think of his doctrine Give her up, I positively cannot — Gain her is not a lit­tle improbable. Yet I have met her several times since my arrival, and she has not yet ordered me to assume a genteel size, nor to wear my own hair. I design to make some little alterations in the head­way, 'tis true, but this is more in frolic than seriousness: for I love to adopt little drolleries. They belong to my temper, and have accompanied me to a very good end, through life—which, I really find, requires many little lifts to go pleasantly through.

It is on this account, Frederick, that I regret having seen the fair Emma Corbett. My partiality is not, I find, such a one as I can accomodate to my old habit of quaint jocularity. It has a little jarred the harmony of my little system already, I do not enjoy the passing scene quite so care-free—and why shou [...]d I disguise any thing from Frederick Berkley?— I feel an earnest desire to touch the heart of this girl so, that I should be as necessary to her felicity as she is to mine; and the fear of not being able to accomplish this makes me, at times, most peculiarly miserable. Thank discre­tion, however, she knows, as yet▪ nothing of the matter; and I shall have the advantage soon of being under the same roof. I could treat her with great tenderness: indeed I could, Frederick.

[Page 35]Before I quite accede to the invitation —though I have written to Corbett—I will consider about it; and shall be glad to hear from you, in the mean time. But you need not write any of your objec­tions to my pursuit, lest you inspire me with a love of difficulty, and I should, like a sentimental Lover, exert myself to oppose them, in proportion as they appear insurmountable. But you may send my word I am engaged in a hazardous undertaking, not doubting my success, if you please.

LETTER XXXVI. TO EMMA CORBETT.

AH, my friend, you must not come — I am not now fit to re­ceive you. I am too gloomy and too sick. My constitution will not keep pace with my mind — The physician summons me from hence. O, I would willingly live and die here, but a certain something, which, at this crisis, I am not at liberty to tell even to thee, my Emma, makes it a duty for me to protract life, (if it be possible) and even to love it. I c [...]n say no more, and you are too generous to torture me with an enquiry.

P.S. I shall see you in town soon.

LETTER XXXVII. TO Mrs. ARNOLD.

YOUR [...]illet, O Caroline, is arrived — Surely the agony which threatens, will not be added to the rest! If it be, the shortness of its continuance will soften its severity; for in that case, the tender mercies of GOD will be upon me, and I shall die. Ere this letter reaches you, I will myself embrace all that remains of —

O Caroline, Caroline! — Tears and terror prevent me from proceeding — The post is setting out, and I have time only to announce the journey of

LETTER XXXVIII. TO LOUISA HAMMOND. ^*

BY all that is valuable to you, I enjoin the utmost expedition! Since I wrote in the morning, the causes of apprehension are increased. If the memory of Edward be dear to you, lose not a moment.

LETTER XXXIX ^† TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

WE differ about the rural shades, my friend. I adopt the Poet's opinion concerning them.

But were I even to suppose with you, that solitude, my dear Louisa's p [...]ic [...]ly precious solitude, would woo to it the tender form of patience, it would, at this period, be impossible to take refuge, li [...]ne haples [...] deer, amongst the branches. I have not been al­lowed breathing time since the news of Henry's embark­ation [...]ached me. It seems now the great point of my father to disl [...]e, entirely, all traces of Mr. Hammond. A father's heart engages in this endeavour; and though I know it to be hopel [...]ss, I forbear to disturb his plan by unavailing contest, and am passive to the projects which surround (ah, how vainly!) the honourable affection of my bosom. The acute pang, my friend, is subsided, but my affection is only the more fixed upon that account. All places being now pretty much alike, I suffer myself to be drawn about from one silly circle to another. Yet how should my father thus mistake my temper? This affection is no impromptu—No en­thusiastic flight of f [...]lly, fancy, or of p [...]ssion. It has been the s [...]w, progressive course of various combining and irresistible circumstan­ces — circumstances, which, unfolding themselves trait by trait, have discovered to me the merit of a most amiable character; and, on the basis of experience, fixed me to it beyond all possibility of change. So very complex, peculiar, and precious, Louisa, has been every movement in the series of events which have contribu­ted to cement and fasten the faith — the HOLY faith, established between Emma and your brother, that, though no particular pre­destinarian, nor easily yielding to the wild images of superstition, I am strongly inclined to think — and there is my hope — that something more powerful than the more random agency of chance, must have interfered. I am not of the light or fickle tribe: nor am I tumultuous. Extreme violence I dread. That pathetic so­briety which is separated on the one hand from the darkness of despair; and, on the other, from the perilous furor of extacy, (if I at all know myself) discriminates my character. To the fortunes of Mr. Hammond, I am tied by those fi [...]e bonds of sympathy, upon which time and chance can have no influence. Wherefore, then, sh [...]uld I not give way to the generous instinct? You have often heard me say, that I respect and venerate every rule which reason has pre­scribe, to render female conduct correctly amiable; and to preserve that beauteous decorum, without whose graces woman is both des­picable and wretched. But does reason bid us withold the miti­gating balm which is given us to heal the wounds of life? No, my friend Your own hear [...], virtuously attached to the memory of a most lovely, and most lamented youth, will plead in my behalf, and [Page 37] justify my constancy. Heaven itself will justify it, and so will the unchang [...]able GOD who inhabits that Heaven.

To delicacy I grant much. To custom all which she ought to expect. But to nature, chastened and regulated by real virtue, I devote my heart. In devoting it to them, I dedicate it to Henry; and it is with equal pride and pleasure I am able to inform the sister of my dear Hammond, that, such has been the delicacy of his man­ners, so uniformly pure hi [...] sentiments, his tenderness so adorned by dignity, so becoming a man to offer, and a woman to accept,— ardent yet steady, and soft yet brigh [...],—that I do not recoll [...]ct one word, either spoken or written, which dying, I could wish to blot from the tablature of my memory. If this was the praise of the poet, what shall it b [...] of the lover—of the lover, young, interest­ing, appr [...]ved of the most susceptible heart, and a soldier? And is one's affection for such a man to obey the motion of wheels, and fly off as they roll along? or is it to be buried in the grave of every­day s [...]cie [...]y? or is it even to be given up for the gaudiest trappings of tinsel lif [...], which never, even at the most unengaged moment, could fascinate the eyes, or sway the opinions of Emma?

O vain thought! O impotent exertion! Would my father have me flutter into forgetfulness? it is impossible. Let him rather pre­sent to me a man more amiable, more perfect, more tender, more engaging, and more ingenious, than Hammond. Let him introduce to me a second Henry SUPERIOR to the first, or let him forbear attempting to erase that lovely leaf, whereon the virtues of that first are inscribed: Yet, I hold myself not at liberty to oppose the system of my father. I maintain the modest purpose of my soul, and cherish the vow, which in the presence of an attesting God, I have registered in my heart: but I do not set myself avowedly against the pursuits of a parent. At the same time I should esteem myself the lightest, as well as the most unworthy, of women, were such pursuits to have any influence upon my faith. Time may con­vi [...]ce my father of the propriety of a constancy so inflexible; and to that I trust. May heaven augment the comforts of us both, Louisa.

LETTER XL. TO C. CORBETT. Esq.

HELP me, Corbett, (for I am a poor plain soul) to conquer a little scruple, or rather to obviate it: that done (but first tha [...] must be done) I am at your service; and will be at your house (for I am tired of this tavern lif [...]) in two hours. Now then for it.

Be honest:— how stands the matter betwixt you and young Ham­mond? Is he gone, under the seal of any promise received from you? I do not ask what Emma has declared. She will answer me herself, when I venture to refer to her. But I want to know whether you, as her father, have given him, at parting, any mark of approba­tion. I must not be considered by these young folks, as an imper­tinent old fellow, who presumes upon a sum of money and a [Page 38] paltry piece of titleship, and so, in the end, become the object of de [...]ision to a whole family. I understand tha [...], during my long resi­dence abroad, this Hammond was under your guardianship; that he lived with you and Emma some years in the very house called Castle­berry, which I have purchased of you; that there the young man was countenanced by you, and his addressess to your daughter not disapproved. N [...]w, as I do not hear of his having done any thing to forfeit your affections, I cannot conceive why you have, as you say, "resolved against him."

To be ingenuous, I am afraid you think I am a BETTER match. Look'y' Charles, I am no hero, but an honest man, and you shall not break your word, (as many a very honest man has done) in compliance with certain rigorous circumstances —Let us talk like old friends, newly met.

On my leaving England, I was poor, you were rich. In the roll of human affairs, perhaps, now that I am returned rich, you may be, comparatively, poor,— that is, you may have some wise scheme to carry, and cannot well bring it about. I can no otherway ac­count for this sudden change in disfavour of Hammond—for you used to be fixed in your opinions—than that, impelled to an altera­tion by distressing incidents, you,—In short, is there any hard part in your situation, which you imagine an alliance with me might remove? and, but for this, would not Hammond be as much the object of your choice as he is that of your daughter?

Corbett, speak plain. What cash do you want? Let not your necessities violate your engagements. Condescend to be a borrower where you may so safely rely upon your lender; and where, by con­tracting a debt, you may confer an obligation. To plead for a rival would be unnatural — but to save a friend from error, and myself from disgrace, is not amiss.

An old and intimate friend of your's happened to step in, just as I was directing my servant to carry my luggage to your house, Your name was no sooner mentioned, than he exclaimed — "Poor Corbett, how miserable must he be at the departure of young Hammond, who is betrothed to his daughter Emma! The youth is just gone a volunteer to America; and if in that enterpr [...]se he be not shot, he is to marry on his return. Corbett doa [...]s upon him; and a fine spiri [...]ed young fellow he is." —

This startled me; but I said nothing. I apply for explanation to you, dear Charles. Let neither your prefer [...]ce of me nor your private affairs, aught avail. I had rather be very unhappy, than at all ridiculous. My friendship is at your service, just as you have occasion to shape it; only I am sure, on a little [...]flection▪ you will not offer to give it the inhospitable [...]orm of infringing [...]e [...] [...]his of another.

LETTER XLI. TO Sir ROBERT RAYMOND.

YOU force me in to a very unwelcome explanation. Unwel­come, because precipitate; and which I designed to have opened at a proper opportunity, in the hour of confidence: however, as the circumstance is thus hastened on, I must suit myself to it.

I am not by any means so rich as I was at your departure from this country for India: yet I am too rich— and should think myself so had I only one guinea upon the earth— to marry Emma to your fortune to mend mine. I did love Hammond, even with a father's love, and in a legal sense to be his father was my favourite inten­tion. Yet that idea is now, of all others, the farthest from my mind, and never CAN be revived. It is a little hard that you have got me into such an exigence as to make it impossible for me, with any credit, to keep the great secret of my life.

Henry Hammond is, against all advice, and persuasion, violently attached to those cruel spoilers, who have gone sword in hand into the bowels of a country, where my dear son has fallen a victim— a country which is most barbarously butchered, and to whose well­fare I am bound by ties the most tender and interesting. I would reject you, I would reject an EMPEROR that should pretend to the hand of Emma, and yet sacrilegiously pollute his own hand, in the life-blood of AMERICA. Oh, thou hapless land! thou art precious to me beyond the breath which I am now drawing!—beyond every hope that I can form on this side Heaven!—beyond my daughter— yes even beyond Emma, because thou art equally the object of my love, and more of my pity! The rapacious HENRY is gone to plunge another p [...]ignard in thy bosom!—the bosom of my country — the tomb of Emma's brother, and the vault of every generous affection. Nature herself lies bleeding on thy shore, and there the inhuman mother has plunged the dagger (with her own barbarous hand) into the bowels of her child!—

But oh the deep and tremendous restitutions are at bond; I see them, with a prophetic eye, this moment before me. Horrors shall be re-paid with accumulation of horror. The wounds in America shall be succeeded by deep mouthed gashes in the heart of Britain! The chain of solemn consequences [...]ances. Yet, yet, my friend, a little while, and the poor forlorn one who has fought and fallen at the gate of her proper habitation, for freedom—for the common privileges of life — for all the sweet and binding principles in hu­manity —for father, son, and brother—for the cradled infant, the wailing widow, and t [...] weeping maid —Yet, yet a little while, and she shall find an avenger Indignant nations shall arm in her defence.—Thrones and dominions shall make her cause their own, and the fountains of blood which have run from her exhausted veins, shall be answered by a yet fuller measure of the horrible ef­fusion. Blood for blood, and desolation for desolation [...]punc; O [...] poor Edward!—my ba [...]ied property!—my massacred America!

[Page 40]You remember it was amongst my first questions that I desired to know your opinion of the war? I received the answer which soothed my heart, and it was not till after that moment, I suffered my full tide of antient tenderness again to flow.

To Henry I break no promise —Emma's attachment, I think, may be subdued by gentle means. O, if she still unites her heart (even her secret heart) to that volunteer murderer, these silver hairs shall descend in sudden sorrow to the grave. But indeed, I do not apprehend it. She is all duty. She loves the source of her ex­istence. Come then. Discover to her your virtues, and try to save me from the distress of her preferring a rash boy, who is bent upon destroying those which are so valuable to

LETTER XLII. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

YOU astonish me. I imagined you were, like myself, a citizen of the earth, and of no particular party. For my own part, I have travelled away all enthusiasm of the sort you mention. There is indeed, something like a natural affection, which one bears to the place of one's nativity; because, there our b [...]ings were first linked to the chain of society—there first shot up our ideas — there grew our connections, our affections, our hopes, and our wishes, —there our little loves were first formed, and our little wants first accommodated. It is upon these accounts that I am more happy to contemplate the scenes of England than those of India — that I rate more highly my own than I do a fo­reign language — that I look with fondest partiality at the spot (which is marked in everlasting traces on the memory) devoted to the pastimes of my infancy, and that I continue some sort of grateful tenderness for the very trees ▪ whose shades so often soothed me in the summer of my childhood. My predilection for my na­tive country, friend Corbett, "hath this extent— no more." It has been my fate to travel — I had almost said — wherever Euro­peans are dispersed. I have travelled too, where civil society hath yet made no progress, but I have never travelled (and oh may I never) where the "human face divine" did not meet my eye. However varied by colour, by [...]t, and by feature, I saw enough to discover my kind, and to acknowledege i [...]. I disputed not about the white or black, the tawny or the yellow; nor about the diffe­rent mixture, shade, or distinction of these. — I saw beings of the same erect form — I saw MY SPECIES; and in this very serious moment I declare to you, that I felt attachment to the general figures of men and women, wherever I beheld them, even before [...] [...]h [...]w any thing of their particular dispositions. In looking more clos [...] ▪ I beh [...]ld amongst every people, whether savage or civili [...]ed, many things to [...] and many to dislike: but not one to [...] them wholly from my tenderness — Foremost of those p [...]in [...]s▪ Corbett▪ which hurt [...], were the b [...]ck [...]gs that sub­sisted [Page 41] between one state and another. In passing through a variety of countries, and seeing them all, either engaging, preparing to engage, or healing the wounds of an engagement past, I began to think the passion for honourable death (i. e. cutting throats and lopping limbs for subsistence or for glory, for pride or pique) was universally peculiar to these ages of iron and steel; till, devoting a cool hour to examine the map of the world, and perceiving that, from the creation (or very soon after) even unto this day, to shed blood in this manner has been the constant practice, I gave up the idea of calling my fellow-creatures particularly cruel or sanguinary upon this account, and deplored a custom which I could not approve. Yet, in every army are characters to be loved; and the human affections spread themselves, more or less, over every clime. In considering the causes of wars, between different proportions of the same species, (of whom numbers without number have been s [...]ain) I have found them so wretchedly inadequate to the horrible effects, that I have often melted into tears, but never have been inflamed with anger. Tens of thousands, my friend, have been sacrificed to the frown of a favourite, the whim of a prince, or the smile of a prostitute. The occasions are contemptible, but the event is murder. What can a good natured man do, but commiserate the abuse of power, and the madness of ambition? In point of propriety, there is seldom a pin to choose on either side; and even when it is Justice herself that draws the sword, and heads the phalanx, the blood of many an innocent is shed in the contest; and in the warmest mo­ment of success, while victory is enjoying her jubilee, — if all the milk of human kindness were not drained out of the hero's bosom —there is a [...] much cause for him to sorrow, as to rejoice. Oh Mr. Corbett, were he to retire after the shout of acclamation to some quiet solitude, and there think on the means by which the conquest has been gained — were he to consider, that heaps of his countrymen as well as of the enemy (all of whom were human beings) lie cut to pieces upon the plain — while another heap, yet more [...]o be regretted, are groaning in hospitals — would not the laurel wi­ther on his brow? would not the sense of rapture be checked, sym­pathy stream from his eye, and re [...]o [...]ling horror freeze up the blood about his heart? Such are my opinions. I caught them, my friend, from the fountain head of a most touching experience. They flowed immediately from the wounds of my fellow creatures. Ap­pointed to the office of surgeon, at a time of war, in the earlier part of my life, it was the fortune of our ship more than once to feel the [...]hocks of public hostility. I had so much business upon my hands that it was almost too much for my heart. At the conclusion of the voyage, an opportunity offered to quit my cruel station, and I readily embraced it. Since that time I have kept myself unen­gaged from scenes for which nature did not form me: and I am not of any party. I detest war, and the thoughts of war, but I sin­cerely wish well to every human creature. That England is at va­riance with her colonies is unhappy. In both countries I have [Page 42] friends who are dear to me. In both I have property. But I dare not lean either way, lest I should unsettle that system of general loving kindness, which, for a great while, has been the basis of my happiness. I assiduously avoid political conversation; and it is a certain prudence in your conduct (which seldom suffers you to men­tion these things) that makes me so pleased, my dear Corbett, with your society. I am now too far advanced in life to begin the cares of a partizan, but as I have some feelings, I cut out some more con­genial employment for them. I love my jest. I love my friend. I love you; and I love your daughter. Your ardent principles now convince me, that an alliance with Hammond would be to unite fire with fire; I will therefore try, for her father's sake, and for mine, how far Emma may be brought to like a man of peace. I have only to desire that you will consider me as one who remains neuter upon the same principle that you take a fide viz. because I think it is right, and because I feel it to be happy. This condition observed, our ancient friendship will stand firm, and I shall ever be,

LETTER XLIII. TO Sir ROBERT RAYMOND.

AGREED. Had Hammond remained neuter on motives of like benevolence I should still have loved a name which is now detestable, so I beg you will not utter it again. For my own part, I cannot remain neuter. My soul is on fire — I breathe generous vengeance against barbarous Britain: I own it; and, could I move this lacerated body out of England without immediate peril of a life on which my Emma has a claim, I would not continue in a soil so accursed. We now know each other's opinion, and the subject disor­ders me so much when it is brought forward, that I most readily ac­quiesce in your wishes to drop it for ever. My feelings must ever re­main; but it kills me to give them language. Come directly. I have prepared Emma for the society of an amiable man, and have ex­plained our long and intimate connexion.

LETTER XLIV. TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

YOU alarm and check my curiosity in the same moment, Oh, beautiful unfortunate! Yet is it not a little hard to have any con­cealments with the sister of Edward, and the avowed admirer of Henry? Particular circumstances, however, justify what, in general ones, would be a [...] unkindness; and these, I am convinced, sanctify the silence of Louisa. Sacred and embosomed, beyond the reach of any participation, be all that you desire to keep so. I wait, in patient tenderness, the moment of fuller confidence; and till that arrives, will only assure you that I am connected with every turn of your life, and with every stroke of your [...] ▪ but will suffer myself to make no more the premature enquiry. All this [...] you in return for the solicitude you express for [Page 43] the welfare of Emma; whose chief pleasure on this side the separating sea, consists in the correspondence which she maintains with Louisa.

After several days of tedious revelry, the hurry into which my heart hath been precipitated somewhat subsides. We have left the smoke of London, and got into a s [...]rener system. The house of a very old friend of my father's, lately landed from India, is now our residence, and it was once the residence of Emma and of Henry; for it is that very Castle­berry where my father (who has since sold it to the present proprietor) had used to pass with his select friends, some months of every summer. Since his American misfortunes—O, pardon me the mention of them! he detests the country, and has, I find, sold the whole property to the agent employed to provide a country house and some pleasure grounds for Sir Robert Raymond, (that is his name) previous to his arrival in England. The agent fixed upon this spot, and it became the seat of Sir Robert before my father knew that it was to be inhabited by a friend. Sir Robert is delighted with the purchase, and my father re­joices to see a domain which he once loved, so properly disposed of. You also remember this retreat; for was you not the associate of our flowery infancy?— Louisa and Edward, Henry and Emma, formed the dear, family circle. You tell me it soothes you to indulge these sen­timents: but, perhaps, they may be too [...]eat a trial for the present state of your spirits, and I forbear.

Sir Robert Raymond, our host, is a br [...]d set, brown faced, good-natured, very sensible man, with some, not disgreeable particu­larities; a large fortune, sometime since bequeathed him, and no sort of impertinence in consequence of it. Humour, serious sense, and obser­vation, divide his character. He was bred to physic, and in the ear­lier part of his life practised as a sea surgeon. He is full of anecdote, and extremely assiduous to animate conversation, without ingrossing it. I am particularly the object of his notice, chiefly, no doubt, because he perceives I stand most in need of comfort; and I return his civilities as well as the situation of my heart will allow.

Yet, with respect to the country, I was somewhat mistaken, my friend. I happen to be fixed in a spot where every leaf of every tree appear [...] consecrated An holy inspiration seems to breathe about me! Wherever I look I behold a trait of Henry — I tread the paths where, arm in arm, we have walked together, and I sleep in the very apart­ment, which was formerly devoted to his repose. These are small circumstances, Louisa; but they cling close to the heart.—Yes, my dearest friend, this place is not without some softnesses, some seducing sweets, agreeable to the present distress which bears upon my spirits. However depressed, however exhausted, I am in proper feeling to en­joy such a retreat. The tender lapse of the streams, the balmy lightness of the air, the serene quietness of shade, the freshness of that verdure which at once charms and cherishes the eye, the carol of the gentler kind of birds, the unobtrusive bloom of the softer [...]nd of flowers — each and all of these conspire to produce that weeping resignation which Louisa has described; and which is the natural effect of a virtuous heart in disappointment. — But still I am unhappy. Since I am not [Page 44] permitted to talk of the dear cause of my grief, I feel more. Some part of the sorrow, which used to vent itself in language, is now doubled by solitude and silence; like brooks which murmur least, when they are most profound. I write this in a little rocky cavity that stands in the garden, where, at your beloved [...]ear of twilight's soberest grey, I have stept f [...]rth, amidst the breathing fragrance of eve, to meditate and to mourn. But while I write of my sequester'd retreat it is about to be disturbed, for the tread of an intruder assails my ear, — it is Sir Robert Raymond. — Adieu! oh, Louisa, adieu!

P. S. If I too much affect you, check my pen.

LETTER XLV. TO EMMA CORBETT.

AH no, my charming sister, (I will not quit the claim —) I can bear it now — I wish to weep — to weep plenteously, for I am happy —Oh, the proud word! I had lately such prospects of horror before my eyes, that to find them thus unexpectedly removed, makes me able to look at the light of the sun with a smile; and that, though but of a moment's continuance, is happiness to a wretch like me. — Go on, therefore, go on — proceed to amuse, to affect, to touch me. All hail the varied emotions which your pen inspires! Ah! Emma, Emma, think what a bright beam of bliss must break on the bosom of her, whose chief surviving treasure is rescued from the jaws of DEATH. Think, O think, what a PARENT feels, when wounded in every finer nerve, and then healed again — alas, what have I said? How wild is transport! Into what flights doth extacy carry the heart which is unused to a visitor so radiant! Oh Emma, Edward is dead; and yet existence is, at this instant, accounted precious to his and to your

LETTER XLVI. TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

"A PARENT feels" — I understand you not. And yet such sentiments, at such a time, can surely spring from but ONE sacred source. A parent feel! O great God, Louisa! how am I to interpret this? — what am I to think? I pause from my own feelings in sympathy of your's; — yet what am I to think? Con­sider my suspense. Consider what you owe to a faithful, long-tried friend. Consider I am your own

LETTER XLVII. TO EMMA CORBETT.

YOU are, Emma, you are my friend. You are to me, and I to you, all which is comprised in the sweet description which both have a thousand times repeated.

And shall I longer withold from you the new claims — claims which yet you know not of—to love me?—"What shall you think?"— O, think of every thing that is most tender—think that I have a title to all your pity, to all your affection — think that the sole pledge of HONOURABLE love it just snatched from the grave; and think too, that you behold the widow of the hapless Edward in

LETTER XLVIII. TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

A WIFE, a widow, and the mother of an orphan, — at least of a dear fatherless child! Married to my brother, and this th [...] first [...]? I am all amazement, all terror, and all tears. O explain the mystery! Since you have begun, suffer, m [...] to continue the same sweet language, and to reproach you softly.

No, no, you will tell me all, and be indeed the sister of

LETTER XLIX. TO EMMA CORBETT.

I HAVE gone too far to recede, and you shall know all, though I have broken a trust, and my conscience smites me. I am used to misery ▪ but the novelty of joy was too much to bear, and hath b [...]trayed me. To a very dear and gentle bosom I confess, even to the sister of the man who had bound me in the bonds of honour, and made secrecy a double duty. Yet, I will go on without re­serve, so soon as a firmer state of health will permit.— The exer­tion of my spirits is now succeeded by a worse languor than I have ever before experienced, and I am reduced once more to the neces­sity of addressing you from my pillow. Suspend, therefore, your curiosity; pity my weakness and pray for my recovery — but do not, on any account come to me, even should you hear no more from me for some time. I know how to nurse my disorder, and till all matters are explained, I would not wish you again to see the sister of Emma, and the widow of Edward. O let my secret sleep in the innermost sanctuary of your bosom. Farewell.

LETTER L. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

BE so obliging as to tell me, whether it is madness, or dotage, to which I am now reduced? That it is one or the other, (pro­vided it be not a mixture of both) is now past question. I cannot suf­fer Corbett to propose me to his daughter, nor have I the confidence to propose myself. And, indeed, the more frequently I converse with her (which I take all decent occasions of doing) the more I see her, hear her voice, and perceive the sense "distinct and clear" that is falling from her lips whenever she opens them, the less I am able to speak, nay the less assurance have I to believe, that so much merit, youth, and beauty, will have any thing to say, seriously, to a fellow with so sun-burnt a visage, and unsentimental a set of fea­tures, as the middle-aged Robert Raymond.

She hath an affecting trick of sighing bitterly, and of shedding tears, which burst upon one so unpreparedly, that, though I knew them to be the effusions of her friendship for the young volunteer, I could not find it in my heart to check them; but let a few of the same kind steal down my own cheek in very fellowship of sym­pathy. I should upon my word, I feel that I should, and I have not sported with my emotions enough to disguise them.

Yet I have never heard her mention the name of Hammond since her arrival at Castleberry, from whence you see I am now da­ting. Is not this strange? I always thought the tongue was a traitor upon these occasions. She LOOKS Hammond, methinks, but she SPEAKS him not. I think I can interpret her eyes; but they are indeed the seat of every fine sentiment, and seem made to express every thing that is gentle and tender, so that it is no wonder. You, friend Frederick, are an adept in these matters. Inform me.

Little of this great world can I speak more "than pertains to feats" of salves and plaisters, and therefore

I do really think I am engaged in a very unthristy undertaking—a looking-glass that happens to hang near the table on which I am now writing, confirms me in this opinion. There is such a pal­pable air of confidence in supposing I should succeed, that had not the torrid zone scorched all the graces of the blood out of my coun­tenance, I should certainly blush.

I write, you see, in my old way, but I am put sorely out of my old road for all that. It is, after all, a droll sort of a defect I possess, that of really thinking I am too old and ugly to be an object of a young woman's attachment. Yet, there is nothing very preposter­ous in this idea, either. Speak to Emma, says passion.—Dread a repulse, replies common sense.—Then give up the point, and think no more about it, cries Prudence.— "Ah! teach me how I should forget to think," answers Love, in the language of Romeo▪ A pretty struggle this for a grave man of forty-three, Frederick, is it not? Between ourselves, I fancy that, when I have procrastina­ted [Page 47] as much as possible, played the fool with my feelings and made myself sufficiently miserable, I shall see the propriety of [...]scaping an explanation, and so make a match of it in the Temple of Fancy only, where a man chooses his own mistress and can dread no disappointment. After all, I cannot but apprehend there is some little delicacy in this conduct. It proceeds from a quick terror of becoming ridiculous. Tender attachments, and all the train of the sensations they produce, are extremely graceful at [...]ve-and-twenty but, when one has reached the wrong side of forty, I do truly think the belle passion somewhat outré. Yet, hitherto, having mixed but little with amiable young women, and never with im­modest ones, the ardours of eighteen can scarce exceed my own, and I am, in this first affection, this first love, (for it is absolutely such) as bashful and as aukward as a boy just ushered into the soci­ety of the sex. "'Tis passing strange," and perhaps "passing pi [...]iful;" but, however you may enjoy the confession, I fully feel all the tremours of tenderness.

LETTER LI. TO LOUISA CORBETT.

"PRAY for your recovery!" Oh, how fervently do I pour the petitionary prayer to the Great Restorer! Dear as is the name of Hammond, much as I love to write it, and sweet as are the sensations which agitate my heart so often as I see it marked upon the paper, there is, methinks, something more dear, more lovely, and more sweet in that of Louisa Corbett. At least her title to use it seems to bring the sister so close upon my bosom▪ and so soft upon my soul, that I feel uncommon joy at the [...]idings. A child too — a little Edward — is it not so? but I will restrain the torrent—I will forbear. I will "pray for your recovery;" and then —ah then, will you not have perfect confidence in your sister.

LETTER LII. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

OF bodily disorders I know the symptoms, but cannot decide with equal skill or precision about those of the mind. Pray, thou child of refinement, tell me, what are we to think of a young lady when she seeks occasion to converse with you, when she chooses, rather to chat, and walk with a man of forty-three than with several younger and handsomer visitors who are now at my house; and, above all, when she makes advances to pupillage, and desires to become a scholar? Yes, yes, laugh away, but assure yourself that I have hopes: For Emma has proposed, by way of country amusement, during her stay at my place, to —

— Faith, Frederick, you are such a grinner, that I am almost afraid to speak—

—During her stay, as I said, at Castleberry, to study the art of — Surgery!

[Page 48]Now, as this branch of knowledge can be of no real service to her, I will let you know how I choose to interpret it— choose, I say, so don't you put me out of favour with the conceit, nor the conceit out of favour with me.

I choose therefore to consider it as a decent way of telling me my friendship is not disagreeable, and this idea soothes me; so once again I intreat you will not be such a raven as to croak the comfort from my bosom. Alas, dear friend, half the hope of this little life are delusive, but while they delude us into happiness, let us not affect to despise them. Imagination is only a gayer name for matter of fact, in many cases — think so, and ' tis so. If felicity be seated in the mind, it must often depend upon the fair shadows of opinion, and, one may say, without a paradox, that these are fre­quently substantial.

LETTER LIII. TO MRS. ARNOLD.

BY a line just received from Louisa I am interdicted at present from writing to her, and the sentiments which now oppress me are indeed, on all accounts, improper to offer a mind pierced by so similar a sorrow. Yet, to restrain the whole dreadful weight in my own bosom would surely kill me. Do you then, O my dear cousin, my worthy Caroline, do you assist me. — Tell me, I conjure you, where the feeling heart shall find a sanctuary? Tell me, what foliage is thick and impenetrable enough to repel that terror which assails an unhappy woman, when the object of every hope and every fear is determined upon dangers the most complicated and decisive? Henry, your favourite Henry, is gone, you know, to defend his country, to signalize his bravery, and to serve his King. I admit the propriety of the enterprize, according to the laws of honour, but I weep at the extremity of its horror when tried by the laws of feeling and humanity.

The glowing arguments of that dear departed, I did not dare to oppose. I faintly breathed the female resistance, I feared, lest my affection might seem to be selfish, by contesting the point of separation. I violated the softness of my sex, and the tenderness of my nature, to restrain the flowing tide that rose in billows to my heart, which laboured with the agony of suppression. His being this moment upon the sea, eager to gain the seats of hostility, is a proof of it! Perhaps, I might have seduced him from this adventure, since humanity and love (oh, how opposite from ravage and war!) are the principles which shine the brightest in the spotless history of Henry's youth. But I dreaded the after operations of inexorable honour, which might detest the trembling hand that saved it from the sword.

Yet now, my Caroline, now that he is far removed from the voice of my complainings, and can no longer be disarmed by their sweet impression, suffer, oh suffer me to mourn — suffer me to ex­ecrate that wanton and insatiable power, which scatters desolation o'er the land! Ah this dire daemon of battle! —this daeman, who, with giant footsteps, tramples upon the best and most beautiful af­fections of the soul— who delights to hear the wail of the wounded, and the groans of the expiring—whose vessels sail upon a sea of tears, and are wafted by sighs which are extorted from the tender bosom. I see, I see the sanguinary power. He shoots athwart the realms of affrighted fancy, in a robe of crimson ten times dyed in the blood of his votaries. The soft verdure of the spring withers as he advances. The streams of plenty, which fertilized a happy wo [...]ld, stand checked in their progress, or roll onward a bed of troubled waters. Behold where the ruthless monarch approaches. [Page 4] The bounties and the beauties of nature fall before him. — Terri­tories are torn up by the roots, and empires mingle in the common ravage. Behold, chained to his triumphal [...]ar, fear, despair, and all the family of pain; while the lover, the friend, the father, the widow, the orphan, and all the virtues bleed in the procession. Dreadful, dreadful retinue! and all for what?— for what, my Caro­line? Wherefore is the peace of the world thus to be destroyed? Wherefore is man to raise his hand against the life of man, and deliberate murder to be intitled to applause?

Hear, O humanity, the reply, and be still if thou canst! The rulers of different realms, in the wanton exertion of power, infringe upon what is falsely called the property of each other. Men, who are utter strangers to the very persons of one another, and are separated, perhaps, by partitions of a thousand leagues, quarrel for a few vile acres of the dirt which shall presently cover the toiling race; and the lives of a people are devoted to the sword. Earth itself, wide as is extended her beautiful domain, is not enough extensive for these pigmy mortals to divide amongst themselves; nor are the natural miseries of a very short life, with all its moral, all its civil, all its social evils, sufficient, without the aids of untimely and voluntary slaughter. The hurry of the scene, the din of the battle▪ and that political music which drowns the cry of distress, may pass over these sentiments, and humanity will not have time to hear, nor to be heard. But in the quieter moment, when the gentle power revisits the bosom, and resumes the lovely throne from whence she has been driven, oh how impious, and [...]ow contemp­t [...]le, will appear those bickerings, which terminate in the effusion of [...]man bloo [...]. And could these heroes enter cooly into the con­sequence of this barba [...]us practice: this practice of defacing and hacking away the expr [...]s image of their God, to ascertain privileges in a world which was made for the reception and accommodation, the peace and the pleasure of all mankind—could they be spectators of the calamity which equally attends the shout of victory and the shriek of defeat—could they behold the inconsolable wife sink upon her widowed bed, and the child, stretching forth its little hands in vain to greet a returning father—a father, left naked, mangled, and unburied, upon a foreign and an inhospitable shore—would not the touch of human pity assert its softening pressure, and all agree to cultivate the blessings of universal brotherhood?

How many wretches, forlorn and fallen, are at this instant pi­ning away on the sorrow-steeped couch, while the heedless m [...]lti­tude echo the praises of one who has earned a laurel at the expence of adding acres to his king, and anguish to his country-women?— I am no politician, Mrs. Arnold; I am a human being. I am a Christian. I am one who profess to adore a religion of peace —one too, who can never be persuaded that the human form divine —the express image of the Deity— is created thus fair, and thus amiable, to be cruelly sported away in the riots of ambition, pride, and folly—

[Page 5]Ah, my dear Henry! alive as thou art to all that is most endear­ing, what will be thy sensations after the bloody affray! Thou▪ whose bosom is gentler than the mildest and kindliest breezes of the spring!—what wilt thou feel, should some hapless woman, attend­ed by all her little orphans, demand, of thy victorious hand, the slaughtered husband, and the slaughtered fire? Or should but thy fancy suggest such a groupe, rushing through the ranks, and in piercing tones of agony exclaiming—" restore, restore them to me," — how would'st thou support it? Thou, Hammond, whom the fe­male sigh, the female tear, the female shriek, would at any time penetrate to the soul!—

On the other hand, (and the chance alas, is equal) should it be thy fate to fall—oh, thou dearest, best-beloved, and most worthy to be so—should the malignant star, that influences, full often, the heroes fortunes —should it ordain that—

O Caroline, Caroline, I congeal with horror. I can derive no lasting serenity from the pious example of the resigned Louisa. I rage. I rave. I cannot bear it. Indeed I cannot! Hope, duty, religion, are insufficient. I shall be detected in the deepest agony of my sorrow. The tears are deluging my paper. My senses seem to turn—I am bowed to the earth—I am—oh, how shall I conceal what I am? how disguise the horrors which press down the spirit of the most afflicted

LETTER LIV. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

MY fair pupil makes a surprising progress in her new studies; and were not her heart too soft to support the pain occasion­ed by her hand, she would, in a little time, perform her amputa­tion, and dress her wound with the best of us.

She seeks this ba [...]ren novelty of knowledge by way of solace: yet it affords her little; for, through all her efforts to amuse and to disguise, I can see her distress. Ah, Frederick, that it was per­mitted me to relieve that distress! Yet, if Henry's image still ex­ists in her bosom—and, oh! how likely that it should!—it would be the very phrenzy of hope to expect success on my part. Would I had continued in India! Fortune has been extremely perverse. The gaiety of my character is passing away.— Every pleasant habit is dropping from me, and the peace of my soul is about to take flight. Can a virtuous passion produce these revolutions? Yes, Frederick, nothing but a virtuous passion can produce them. It is a chaste affection, and will, depend upon it, be one way or another rewarded. But it is very poignant; and yet, we best love the wounds of elegant tenderness when they cut most deeply into the heart. My affection for Emma increases with the increasing diffi­culty of declaring it; and though a much longer silence seems in­tolerable, to break that silence appears a circumstance yet less to be supported by

LETTER LV. TO EMMA CORBETT.

WELL, my dear and dutiful daughter, ever kind, and ever considerate to me: I have not teased you by premature im­portunity—I left you, quietly, to the effects, first of society, and then of solitude. I want words to tell you how I am touched by those exertions you have made to acquire a conquest of reason over passion; and, though I have sometimes detected the tear upon your cheek, and felt the breath of your sigh as it broke, by stealth, from your bosom; yet—In short, my sweet girl, it seems now to be a proper crisis to communicate the hopes, anxieties, and expecta­tions of my heart. O! I have some important secrets to disclose; yet I tremble to begin. Wherefore should I tremble? You are de­licate and obliging. Ere I quit this sublunary scene, I have two great ends to wish accomplished; and, after that, welcome the moment which shall re-unite me to the cherub who was once your mother, and who gave to me my NOW only child —who gave the pledge of her fidelity to these paternal arms, in this very room:— for here was Emma born, and here is the proper place to date an address which intreats her to make her birth a blessing to me.— When and where, then, shall an aged father whisper his wishes to a daughter?—O, let the reciprocal duties be exchanged, my dear Emma, without much delay. I love you with my whole soul, and you will return the full luxuriance of my affection. The times are greatly changed, and require great innovations of conduct. New modes of duty spring from new circumstances. Let us generously accommodate ourselves to incidents, which render improper to day, what might yesterday be right. I solicit an interview. Take your own time; yet think, that time is very precious, and treat me like a friend — treat me like a father. Enough. I write to my child. I write to Emma, and her heart will tremble to the tender claims of

LETTER LVI. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

O My father, why this unnecessary preparation, this awful ceremony? Why the formal interview so solemnly announ­ced?—announced too by a letter written under the same roof! Ah, what, Sir, does it portend? Two points, two great points, have you to adjust?

I come—I fly to your apartment —to that beloved apartment where my virtuous mother—I cannot go on, I confess that some terrible suggestions have seized my heart. But I will not indulge them. I will attend my dearest father ere this billet can well reach his expecting hand, from

LETTER LVII. TO LOUISA CORBETT.

I AM suddenly summoned into my father's apartment. He is not there, but I attend his coming. In ascending the stairs, I trembled at every step. In this very room I was born. How could my father have the fortitude to sell this mansion? How could he— Hah! I hear a noise.—He is coming. For some days I have penetrated a certain design, and I predict the purpose of this meeting. Perhaps—Oh Heaven! he is just at the door. He stops at the head of the stairs—I hear him sigh heavily. This is not, I feel, a moment in which I can bear any addition of distress. Here is a private door that leads to my apartment. My father is pacing about on the other side. I hear the handle of the door shake in his hand. Some violent agitation is upon him. At this time the interview would kill me.—He is opening the door. I hasten my retreat.

LETTER LVIII. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

I SEND this, my dearest father, to your apartment, to beg you will defer the honour you intend me till a quieter opportunity I find myself so extremely and suddenly indisposed, that I should i [...] reward your kind attention, by dividing mine: and indeed, were I not afraid of seeming to press too hardly on your indulgence, I should intercede with you to make my excuses for absenting any sel [...] this whole day from the company below; that I may try to recover myself by keeping quite still in my own chamber.

LETTER LIX. TO EMMA CORBETT.

MY dear child! thank you for this relief. It is mutual, though I deplore the occasion. Take a moment of better spirits, and better health, for our affectionate conversation. Com­pose yourself. Nurse your tender heart into tranquility. I should not be equal myself to the task this morning. Pass the day in all the privacy you think fit; and for your excuses to the worthy Sir Robert, depend upon your friend and father.

LETTER LX. TO EMMA CORBETT.

IT is with great willingness I set down to make a reply to the let­ter you addressed to me; but it is not without much concern that I find it necessary to use the pen in answer to those which you addressed to Louisa, whose present state of health is such as to pre­vent her writing. Anxious, however, even as she presses the pil­low [Page 8] of sickness, to alleviate the suspense of her beloved Emma (in regard to the promised articles of confidence) she instructs me to acquaint you, in the concisest way that I am able, of the means by which she became the wife of your unfortunate brother, as well as with the reasons which prevailed with her to keep that union a se­cret from his family, from her own, and from the world. She con­ceives too, that the deeper colours of distress in her fate, may, by comparison, alleviate the softer tints of wretchedness in your's; for at the worst, my dear cousin, as matters now stand, you have a lover living who is very properly the object of many a charming hope; while the poor Louisa is daily tortured with reflecting on the death of one yet dearer than a lover—even a husband and a father, who is the object of many a misery too mighty for the solace of sighs and tears.

With respect to the letter I have had the pleasure to receive from you it bespeaks a heart overflowing with streams of genuine philanthro­py, and beautifully becomes the pen of Emma Corbett. But believe me, believe a woman who has been connected from her infancy with men devoted to the trade of arms—believe the daughter of a veteran chief, and the widow of one who felt the military passion in all its force—believe her when she tells you, that such gentle arguments are never of the least consequence in the eyes, or on the minds of a soldier. They serve only to make female weakness the more pitied by the men, who think the dignity of a more resolved courage con­cerned to shew itself in contrast. Sometimes, it is true, the tears of a wife will excite the manly drop in the eye of a husband; but it tarries not. The voice of public fame is, on these occasions, louder than that of private affection. The world fixes an earnest look on the actions of an officer. One hero inflames another: the sparks of glory pass like an electric power: the necessity of a brave example becomes apparent: the profession soon grows into a darling passion: the blood warms: the genius of war takes possession of every facul­ty: home connexions are forgotten: the scene of action terminates the prospect: the warrior can see no farther. Valour and victory seem marching before him. There is not leisure for a private emo­tion, and tenderness would assist the efforts of his foe He gives himself up, therefore, nobly and absolutely, to the battle; wounds can make no impression upon him in the progress of his ardent ca­reer; and death itself is, in that moment, less terrible than defeat.

These, my lovely cousin, are not the sentiments of a theorist, but caught immediately from the lips of the very heroes who prac­tised every action they relate. In the interval of peace, few men of any order have a more elegant humanity than the English offi­cers; and all the endearing qualifications, which make up the great domestic characters, are to be found amongst them; but in the day of contest, my cousin, a different duty calls upon them, and military fame is as easily wounded, and its wounds as vital to felicity, as those of a woman.

[Page 9]Let not your glowing pencil paint the protectors of our country as beings destitute of every tender feeling, but allow for their situ­ation, which sometimes renders incompatible the immediate union of love and glory: or the duties of peace with the duties of war.

While I close this sentence, Louisa expresses a wish to write to you herself. To-morrow she imagines that she shall be equal to the task, and she assures me that nothing which relates to the history of her husband and your brother, can come so properly from any pen as her own. In the hope of her gaining strength for the friendly effort, I will fold up my letter, and bid you farewell.

P. S. I find you are still indisposed, and may, perhaps, want amusement in your solitude. To this end I send you the FRAGMENT of a little military history found amongst my father's papers. It will shew you that humanity and bravery are nearly allied, and that the tender husband and good soldier often form the same character, though they cannot always exert themselves in the same moment; or, perhaps, were we to scrutinize nicely, we should, in reality, find, that when the soldier is hazarding his life and liberty for that of his wife, his children, his countrymen, and his King, he is then the tenderest lover, the worthiest husband, the best parent, the most loyal subject, and the most valuable citizen. I believe it was written by my father in his youth, and I consider it as a family relique.

LETTER LXI. TO EMMA CORBETT.

I HAVE been penning a narrative, at every interval from pain; and by the next po [...]t, it shall be dispatched to Emma, from whom I desire anxiously to hear all that concerns her happiness md her health.

LETTER LXII. TO LOUISA CORBETT.

THE interview is past, and fresh horrors are heaped upon the bleeding heart

P. S. On, what does your Caroline's fragment prove, but that WAR, at best, is terrible as glorious!

LET. LXIII. MR. CORBETT. TO HIS AGENT.

THE money cannot possibly be raised, and the ruin is com­pleat of the wretched

LETTER LXIV. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

THE days of drollery are no more. The character of my heart is changed. Emma is sick. Her father is labouring with some deep and concealed calamity; and from these incidents of the family, you will gather the unhappy situation of

LETTER LXV. TO LOUISA CORBETT.

I KNOW not whether I shall live long enough to relate the horrors of my situation!

On the evening of the day that I desired the suspension, I felt an impulse, more strong and more sacred than that of common curiosity, to know the full scope of my suspicions.

Before this interview, my distress appeared sufficiently great. Alas▪ we are continually exclaiming that the heart will break, without knowing what additional burthens it will bear, even when we think it is most surcharged.

Come hither, dear Emma, said my father—drawing me gently to him —his hand trembling as he touched my gown.

—Come hither, I want to thank you for the long series of soft com­pliances, which your dutiful heart hath poured into this aged bosom. But for you, my child, your unfortunate father would have no support.

Unfortunate, Sir, did you say?

O most unfortunat [...], my Emma! I am in distress — worldly distress. And it is so extreme, that I have been compelled (ah, hard necessity) to dispose of this fair mansion, which hath more than a cen­tury owned a Corbett far its Lord. This very room, my dear, which gave — oh spare, me Emma, — this very room, the consecra­ted spot of thy nativity, is now another's; and so are the late heredi­tary lands that smile around it. The ruin has been deliberate too: and I have concealed it from every eye; even (and indeed chiefts) from thine, till now that I am in the arms of poverty. There is, at this moment, an execution entering my house in London; which contains the last rel [...]es of a fortune, that, some years since, amounted to an hundred thousand pounds.

— That accursed war! —that dire American contention!—that civil fury which hath separated the same interests of the same people!—

Here it begins, my child! — but where will it close? Oh slavery — oh imprisonment! how terrible are thy horrid walls and galling fetters to one whose bosom burns with the divine fame of liberty! — how insupportable to an old man! — to a father, whose daughter's consequence in life must flow from his.

O thou lovely stream from a fountain whose sources are stopped — what, what is to be done?

The decisive blow came yesterday upon me. I had, ere this, in reserve, one rich casket — but it is gone: the last capture has deprived us of it. It would have been enough for my age and for your youth, but the post of yesterday —

It unnecessary to detail the calamity. It is crushing: it is irremedi­able; it is ruinous I am in beggary

Oh, Emma! bred up to elevated expectations, what is to become of thee? Your brother is slain. Y [...]ur father old and enervated, a pre [...] to pain of body from the most piercing of human disorders, and to anguish of mind, from reflections the most cutting. Your property both [Page 19] at home and abroad (for mine was naturally your's) lost or despoiled!

Emma! what is to become of thee? Would you renovate my youth — would you rebuild your fortunes? —

I could not speak▪ Louisa.

If you would, continued my father, receive with a smile those accents which inform you, there is a gentleman — rich, generous, virtuous, worthy, and of whom you have a good opinion — a gentle­man who would esteem the hand of Emma —

— Ah, what have I said! — shameful sacrifice! — pardon, pardon me, my child. You shall not be sold, my love. No, no: let us be above the sordid commerce. Let us enter the gloomy gates together. Let us be poor — let us be necessitous — let us combat the common wants of nature, — but let us not be contemptible.

I sunk, death like, into his arms, a weeping father's arms, which staggering under their burthen, bore me to the bed. There I still lie: and there, probably in a few days—oh! farewell to

LETTER LXVI. TO EMMA CORBETT. ^*

NO, my loved sister, I will not, cannot, send a long story. A few pages will comprise the main circumstances; and let those suffice till days of future conversation. — Your father had ever an ambition to enlarge the fortune of his Edward by marriage: and Edward had already sufficient to his wishes. He acquainted his father of the love which he bore to Louisa. It produced a dis­pute. My brother happened to be present. He entered as your father exclaimed, "What but beggary can be expected with a girl like Louisa Hammond, of scarce an hundred pounds a year?" — The conversation stopped.

Sir, (said Henry to Edward, when they were alone) had any man living but Emma's father spoke in these terms of my sister, he should have been punished for it severely. — I love Emma Corbett, and to her he is indebted for—

And I love Louisa Hammond, Sir, (replied your brother) but my father has an arm of his own, and that failing, he has that of a son, to defend him from the insults of a boy, should he dare to —

It is an improper place to discuss the question, said Henry. They went out. Henry commanded Edward, in terms of intole­rable severity, never to offer his hand to Louisa, while Edward insisted, that Henry should desist from farther engaging the affecti­ons of Emma. The inhibition was promised to be observed, and a breach of it was to terminate in the last frightful decision amongst men. Edward dropped his visits, and I knew not the cause. Henry did the same, and you were equally ignorant of the motive. I fell sick; a fever seized my spirits, and my life was despaired of. Edward heard of my illnes [...], and came to visit me at a time when he knew Henry was from home. He found me in the extremity — the fever was become pu [...]rid, and the physician ordered no one to approach my breath any nearer than could be avoided; the bed was strewed [Page 20] with the herbs which are supposed to prevent infection. Regardless of this, and every other image of self-preservation, Edward rushed into my chamber, threw himself upon his knees by the side of the bed, and hung his head over my face, which received and welcomed the tender tears that were streaming from his eyes. O! Louisa, Louisa, (said he) I can bear it no longer! At these words Henry was heard upon the stairs, Edward leaped up — Heavens! said he, can it be possible, is Henry returned? Well, it is no matter. My brother entered the room, and at the sight of Edward stept back, like a man astonished. Edward ran up to him, threw his arms about his neck, and insisted that the embrace should be returned. Oh Henry, he exclaimed, too long have we mutually suffered a false delicacy to prevail. Enough have we sacrificed to pique, for Emma and Louisa have been the victims. I heard that your sister was dying, and I could not deny myself the mournful privi­lege of a friend— will you chide me for it, Henry? — will you still withhold your hand and your heart from the brother of Emma Corbett? Will you? This was the first moment I had been in­formed of the dispute. The surprise was too much for me in the firmest state of my constitution. In the condition I then was, it had well-nigh proved fatal. All which my strength suffered me to do was to raise myself on my pillow, fold my hands in the attitude of intreaty, and with feeble accents to implore, they would spare my last moments, and not embitter them by their enmity.

Ere I had uttered this, Henry and Edward were weeping on the necks of each other, and Henry said, alas! Edward, I owe you more than this, for on my part was the promise first broken. I have secretly maintained the usual correspondence with Emma, since she has been away: and found the tenderness superior to the anger of my temper. Indeed we have both been wrong. Henceforward, let us be more than friends — if possible, let us be brothers. Shall we not, my Edward?

Again, Emma, I clasped my hands, and a sudden sense of joy came over me that gave a turn — a happy turn to my disorder. I recovered. It was agreed between us that the cause of the quarrel, and the means of the reconciliation, should be equally a secret. The families were re-united, and none but Edward, Henry, and Louisa, could account for the late coolness on the part of the two former. But the harmony was not o [...] long duration; — it was again interrupted by your father's violence in the cause of America, opposed to that of my brother in the cause of Great Britain. Edward sided with the former, and, though it no longer prevented an intercourse between us, it threatened an eternal separation of political interests. At the same time Henry was permitted to address you, and Edward continued openly his partiality for me. — Nay, your father at last declared, he hoped still to see the two countries restored to the embraces of each other, and two happy matches to felicitate their union. You were, my dear Emma, fortunately from home on a visit during most of these transactions, [Page 21] and your Henry did not think it prudent to break the thread, of an elegant affection by the little jarrings that were happening to cross it at home. The contest now became fierce on the other side the Atlantic▪ and threatened to carry bloodshed and rapine to that part of the continent where Edward had property. Louisa (said he to me, one evening) I must cros [...] the seas: my fortune is in danger: it equally concerns you and me, that I should endeavour to defend ti, yet I will wait another month to hear the event of terms that are proposing between the countries — if they produce peace, you know how ready I shall be to continue in England; if they fail of that end, you must have resolution enough to part from me for a short season. But, continued he, as no man can tell the chances of the slightest separation, I ardently wish to call you by the ten­derest of all human titles, mine, before I go. Publickly this cannot be done, for though my father affects to consent, our union would make him unhappy. No, Louisa: let our happiness be known only to ourselves till it is proper to communicate it. Impart it not▪ till my return at least, to Emma, to Henry, or to any part of the family. I have my reasons for it, even more strong than those that have been already related.

Soon after this conversation, Emma, we were privately married, and none of the appointments that led to the ceremony, or which succeeded it, were discovered or suspected. Previous to the voyage of my hapless husband, he put into my hand a sealed paper, con­taining his will, and he desired I would not open it till his return▪ in the fond hope of that return being possible▪ I have, till within these few days, kept the seal unbroken, and now, alas! I find it is a testamentary disposal of his property abroad, bequeathed en­tirely to me as sole executrix. —

Yes, my dear Emma, there is a fatherless Edward, and Heaven only knows whether the father had any knowledge of his birth before he died. I repeatedly sent letters, full of all a mother's minute and affecting solicitude, but I received no replies.

To Mrs. Arnold, dear and generous friend! I owe the power of keeping my husband's secret, not-withstanding an event that promised to betray it. The poor little one was lately taken ill, and his death ev [...]ry moment expected. It was that (oh Nature!) made me write the disordered scrawl, which intreated Emma to forbear her visit. On my reaching the house of our worthy Caroline. I found the cold hand of death lay heavy on my child. I wept sore I offered up the prayer of the desolate widow, not wholly to bereave me; and begged (ah, how earnestly) the Blessed God to restore one or receive both!

My prayer was heard. My child grew well. Your letter came in the warmest, newest, and most melting moment of matron extacy. The smile of the babe was in my eye, and in my heart. I saw miniatur'd forth the features of the murdered Edward. Oh the beautiful extreme of rapture! It grew too big for bearing. I de­voured my child with kisses. I ran with weeping joy to Mrs. [Page 22] Arnold. I thought of thee, oh lovely Emma, as of Edward's sister, and I gave thee, in that charmingly unguarded period, the dear deposit of my bosom, which none but Caroline shares with thee.

Edward, the infant Edward, sleeps as I write this. His gentle breathing is as the music of the spheres to his mother's ear. Ah, had there been a pause — a stop — an eternal stop in that harmony, what should I have done? But he lives, and I will not murmur. Oh for health to rear his tender youth. Emma, you are his aunt, and oh, should this feeble frame fail to hold out so long as he may want a protector (and when alas, will that cease to be!) will you not — ah will you not be unto him a mother? Consider that he has many claims upon you. He is the son of Edward your brother, and the child of

LETTER LXVII. TO LOUISA CORBETT.

O Wonder-working Providence! I feel your intelligence, dear­est Mrs. Corbett, in every vein! I acknowledge you as a friend. I receive you as a sister. But there is the boundary of my power. Embrace your child, and do not complain. Louisa, you may now receive an example of patience from the fortitude of Em­ma. The father and the child are both in the bed of sickness, and both labouring in the dire extremes of distemper and distress. I can no more. Farewell. I murmur not.

LETTER LXVIII. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

CASTLEBERRY is the seat of confusion, and calamity. It seems as if I were doomed to be the murderer of my guests. I can impute the illness of parent and child to no other cause, than because the one too much desires a match, which the other with too much reason detests.—Oh, mighty God! the mystery is explain­ed. Let the inclosed speak it, for I have not power to transcribe.

LETTER LXIX. TO Sir. ROBERT RAYMOND. ^*

I AM not made for hypocrisy. You see the gloom of my soul. It fits in my countenance; nor am I able to disguise it. It is now my turn to desire you will deal with me plainly. Within a few hours my fortunes are altered so much for the worse, that it is im­possible for me to desire you will advance farther in the treaty rela­ting to Emma. I cannot now give her a single guinea; all she will ever have is three thousand pounds, which is a legacy: nor can I expect your passion to weigh down every pecuniary conside­ration. Three thousand pounds, Sir Robert, is poverty to what my child might have expected. Suffer us then to depart. I am [Page 23] stung to the quick by various wrongs. By the close of the week I hope we shall be well enough to set out. Excuse the awkwardness of corresponding under the same roof. There are points that can­not be spoken to. This is one, I venerate and love you. But do not mention the subject to Emma, or to

LETTER LXX. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

THERE wanted no fresh impediments. They were manifold and mighty enough before. To pursue my intentions, after what I am now told, would be indeed impracticable. I should trem­ble to approach Emma, lest I should seem to act the part rather of a purchaser than a lover [...] O, I blame not that lovely pride which poverty begets in a generous mind Shall I barely bargain for the hand of Emma? Yet how shall I resign it? Let me think. —

* * * I have hit upon an expedient, Mr. Corbett: but it will want your suffrage and assistance. — There is but one way left to honour and oblige me, and I call on you by the rights of ancient friendship to comply with my request.

—No, it cannot be. It will not bear reflection. I must sub­mit to my fate, But do not leave me yet, — Repose. Recover. Meditate what is best to be done. Tell me the extent of your misfortune, and let us mutually concert its mitigation.

LETTER LXXI. TO THE SAME.

THE irresolute note which I sent this morning to your chamber, is not worth your attempting to decypher. I wanted to express my sympathy of your present misfortune in a way more answerable to the emotions of my friendship. I wished to gather such knowledge of some persons connected with your loss. as might enable me to plan some pious fraud to relieve your situation with­out wounding your delicacy. But I should make bungling work of it, and destroy the felicity I intended to promote. I am a man of plain feelings, and have no dexterity of address when it is ne­cessary to adorn them. Accept then, dear Corbett, of an honest mind, in lieu of elegant manners. Is any decoration necessary to introduce a friendly circumstance? — and if there is not, where­fore do I thus lengthen the preface?

Corbett, I am one of those whom the world calls an unthrifty fellow: for I value money merely as it conduces to my happiness. My happiness depends on society, and not on myself alone, I have fixed it in the dear domestic circle that encloses Emma and her father. Beyond that barrier I do not desire to wander; and if I can promote their felicity, my own will, of necessity, b [...] compleat. You see my system. It is simple and concise. By uncom­mon [Page 24] chance I am become rich, you know. The sum I possess is too much to be dissipated, and not enough if I had a passion to accumulate. It is quite sufficient to render three persons happy, so far as happiness takes its colour from money. Amongst three persons then let it be divided; but let only two of those know the source by which the third is supplied. You may easily persuade Emma to believe, (what indeed will be true) that by an unexpected turn, your losses are repaired. She will be too much rejoiced at the event to teaze herself about the means. Or, if she should en­quire, her curiosity is of a tender kind, and will readily be pacified. I hope you love me too well to make scruples; and yet I shall pre­pare myself to combat them. It is really a very hard and mortify­ing thing, that these bare-weight duties betwixt friend and friend, should be so rare as to make the offer of them a matter of embar­rassment; as if there were nothing expected in society but its etiquette and professions. All I desire is, that you will lose no time in settling your affairs▪ and no otherwise remember the mode by which they are accomodated, than as it may impress your bosom with tender sensations, and strengthen the cement of that alliance which is formed between us. With Emma, I will (on the above conditions) take my chance as before, but for the wealth of worlds I would not have her acquainted with a tittle of our private tran­sactions. Nor must you attempt to sway her. Leave her to the same chances as would before have happened. It is very unreason­able that I should expect her to marry me for affection: but, for Heaven's sake▪ save me the distress of accepting the sacrificed hand of gratitude. I am glad it is in my power to offer my testimonies of friendship to you before she has been influenced. I will be with you presently, and you shall have no prejudices of custom about you, till you detect any thing of (what is foolishly called) the wisdom of the world, clinging to the hand or the heart of

LETTER LXXII. TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

WHAT can I say to you? Represent to yourself an old man, bathing his pillow with his tears, and suddenly struck, first with fortune, then with transport! Oh, Raymond, Raymond, the world sees these friendships too seldom to authorise our accept­ing them: and many a man has been ruined because custom permitted him not to be much obliged. My misfortunes, indeed, have arisen from the dire casualties of war, and not from the wasting luxuries of peace. Public desolation, and not private vice, has produced them. Yet—the sum so large—the situation so critical— the—

Well, well, I will try to recover myself, and we will converse: but I trouble strangely. I almost think I could make such an offer, even at this frozen time of life, for my heart is yet warm; but Oh! how shall I bring myself to receive it. I could bear your superiority, but how can I —

[Page 25]—The world is too strong for the stoutest of us, Sir Robert. At what a pitch must vulgar errors have arrived, and what a miserable age must we live in, when the hand of liberality itself trembles while it is extending, lest its motive should—

—in short, my friend, I cannot write; but come to me.

LETTER LXXIII. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

I FANCY there was some mistake in the letter that I inclosed from Corbett: for I find his affairs are all re-adjusted, and the generous refusal of my overtures to Emma (at a time when most parents would think them most acceptable) has no longer force. The prohibition is taken off, and I am again at liberty to make myself tenderly unhappy.

Corbett is now as much recovered in health as in his circumstan­ces, and word is just brought that Emma is better. O my heart, how shall I support the sight of her! —If her sickness has made any great alteration—if she appears to be in pain, or in any kind of danger, I shall assuredly discover myself.

Methinks I have more fondly wished myself her husband since her confinement and indisposition, than while she was rejoicing in health and pleasure. I do not desire to unite myself to her beauty, more than to her weakness and distress. Surely, Frederick, the tender offices of a friend are most amiable, where they are least observed by the world. The feeblenesses to which the tender frame of a woman is subject are, perhaps, more seducing than her bloom. The healthy flower looks superior to protection, and ex­pands itself to the sun in a kind of independent state; but in nursing that which droops (sweetly dejected) and is ready to fall upon its bed, our care becomes more dear, as it becomes more necessary. It is the parent and the friend rather than the mere gardener, that, on such an occasion, influences: and indeed, it will be sound, upon all occasions, that the gentlest parts of our nature are the best; and ob­jects are beloved in proportion, not as they are strong, forcible, and defended, but as they are gentle, unresisting, and pathetic.

Emma di [...]s below stairs. I have not seen her for several days. In the present state of my heart, Frederick, can you not imagine the nature of a sensation which partakes equally, of hope and fea [...]? If you can, you will ascertain the present situation of [...] Your

LETTER LXXIV. TO EMMA CORBETT.

YES, my dear child, what I asserted to you this morning is true. By a chance seldom happening to persons in [...] I have recovered myself. It was like a recovery in the last strug [...] moment of a man's life; for had the relief been delayed longe [...] [Page 26] would have been the death of my credit, and you would have mourned over these white hairs in a prison. Oh! the means, the MEANS, my child, by which this mighty blessing was affected—The generous hand, the generous heart, from whence—but I am forbid to speak. Cannot you guess? No—It is impossible! It seems to be a flight too sublime—too near Heaven for any earthly power to — And yet, if there should be any human being, who has rescued your father from shame, and yourself from indigence — if, oh Emma, there should be such a character, moving under your eye, and inviting your notice, what — what are the emotions, what the sentiments you owe him?

LETTER LXXV. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

FREDERICK, I have again beheld the source of my admirati­on and distress. She came: she sat at table: said a few words in a silver voice: sighed softly, and retired. I never beheld any "mortal mixture of earth's mould" so touchingly sweet. She is more interesting as she is less in her bloom. Sorrow has taken the rose out of her cheek, and left only the lily, which seems charm­ingly to lament the loss of its companion. She rises every moment upon me; and sickness, which has weakened her frame, appears to have given strength to my affection. My wishes are augmented, but my expectations are not advanced. I see the policy of retreat, and while I acknowledge it, am preparing to go on. Yes, Frederick, I am resolved to open the subject, and that immediately.

LETTER LXXVI. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

THESE transitions are almost too much for me — but I wel­come the dear agitating stroke that gives felicity to my father. As the billet which expresses it came to hand, I was about to seek your bosom, my venerable parent, and there assure you with how chearful a heart I would follow you through every turn of your fortune, and with how ready a hand I [...]ould labour for our subsistence. I had prepared many a tender argument to prove the frugality of nature, and to shew how easily and how cheaply she might be supplied. I would have represented to you the sweets of a touch which should have been smoothed by a daughter's care; and of wholesome viands, provided by your child. No [...] should I have failed to remind you of what, in your tenderness [...]ather than in your hurry, you have forgotten; namely, that sum of three thousand pounds, which, in right of my late uncle, I am to inherit; — nor of those glittering baubles, which it would be infamous in Emma to reserve or to wear while her father is in distress. But these arguments are unnecessary, as you are restored i [...] happiness, and there is, it seems, some noble instrument which [Page 27] Providence has made use of to produce the blessing. What senti­ments and what sensations I owe to both, need scarcely be made a question. If my soul is not insensible, it must pour itself forth in gratitude and prayer, in wonder and in praise. But still, me­thinks, this friendship should be accepted sparingly, my dear father. While a large sum of money is within the compass of our own ability, should not our first application be to that, and —

Pray forgive me; you taught me to love the langauge of nature, and must not be angry when occasion calls it forth. Benevolence is a beam from Heaven, and descends into the heart of man to inspirit and to chear: but if we do not properly aecomomize it; if we are lavish of the lustre, and do nothing of ourselves, while it is darting upon us —

— in short, my father, I feel myself a little jealous that, when it became necessary for you to place a confidence in any second be­ing, you did not shew your usual affection for

LETTER LXXVII. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

SOON after breakfast this morning, while Corbett and I were walking in the garden, he took hold of my hand, and laying it to his breast, said, "Now, Sir Robert, is the time: my daughter is recovered. Take an opportunity to display your ge­nerous attatchment. [Faith, Frederick, I do not see the gene­rosity of trying to possess a fine young woman.] I will give you an opportunity, (continued Mr. Corbett) and pray Heaven it be in her power to give you the possession of her hand and her heart!" —

IN CONTINUATION.

Mr. Corbett informs me that Emma is now gone into the library, She is, he says, all tenderness to day. It is then the crisis of de­claration; the season in most proper to speak; and I think I was ne­ver more unfit for the undertaking. O that I were younger, hand­somer, less rich, and more engaging. Indeed, I wish most of those things altered, with which, till I beheld Emma Corbett, I was perfectly satisfied. Not a syllable, however, of Henry falls from her. Surely that looks wells. At what a twig doth the drowning catch! I will not close this letter till I can add to it the particulars of our conference.

—

IN CONTINUATION.

It is past. It is decided. I have read my fate, without di [...] my condition. I entered the library, and found Emma— [...] shall I describe to you the situation in which I found her [...] had been observing the ravages of war, as they are figured i [...] the prints which are hung around the room. I saw the tears still stand­ing in her eyes. O those eyes!

And what has been the matter, Emma, said I?

[Page 28]I have been weeping over the representation of a compleat victo­ry. replied Emma. She then traced the bloody progress of the pictured battle, and in all the pathos of philanthropy addressed me thus:

"O Sir Robert, behold the images of conquest and defeat! Observe two mighty hosts of human beings met together, after the most deliberate plans of attack, to butcher one another—to per­petrate generally that very crime which, in any particular instance, is punished by the retaliation of a shameful death. To destroy an individual is ignominy; but at the massacre of an army, the trum­pet sounds its note of boldest triumph The gallows and the hal­ter, the awful trial or gloomy dungeon preceding these, are pre­pared for him, who, in the phrenzy of passion, or the raging of desire, deprives the irritating object of farther power to torment; while the laurel and the bay contribute to the garland of those he­roes, who, after returning from the cities they have depopulated, and the territories they have laid waste, come exulting home in all the honours of blood and of slaughter—

She paused a moment. A glow of generous scorn was in her eye, and she again extended her white arm along the picture, and proceeded.

"Here, sir, you may observe, lawful and glory-crowned murder, exhibited in every form. See — see, into that wretch's quivering side, the ball has just entered! — Here lies a head severed from the body. — There are the mangled reliques of an arm torn from the shoulder; and there the wounded horses are trampling upon their wounded masters!

"Rights — territories — and privileges, disputed or invaded, are the great justifications! Poor, puer [...]le, and insufficient!

"— A [...], EARTH, thou common parent — thou whose nou­rishing bosom furnishes to all the children of content that will cultivate thee, how art thou made the object of ambition, and the motive of sanguine altercation! Into what ridiculous portions of ideal property art thou cut out? How art thou quarrelled, how contended for? How often doth the bounteous sun that shines up­on thy surface to expand the grain, and to cherish thy various productions —Oh, how often [...]o his beams retire, and leave thy verdant mantle dipt in gore! Yet thou hast thyself, (improvident mother of these wrangling emmets) thou hast thyself been, in some measure, accessary to these horrors. Oh! that pernicious and fas­cinating dross that glows within thee! Why was not the radiant mischief concealed?—Why was the cunning and the curiosity of the child thus permitted to rip the very bowels of its parent, and wage unnatural war with his brother about the division of the spoil? A [...]arice and ambition are of the same family, and assist the vices of each other: the one delights in the plunder, the other in the havock by which it is obtained.

"— But yonder the ruin is more rapid and glorious — be­hold in yonder corner they are employed in removing the dying and the dead. In that lacerated body there yet seems life. It is pant­ing [Page 29] in the picture! — how the streams of — Ah, my God! the [...] of of a horse seems ready to stamp upon his bosom — another sword is pointed at his throat. — Stop, stop barbarian — he is of thy kind — he is thy follow creature — perhaps he is closely, dear­ly, TENDERLY connected — restrain thy sacrilegious hand — kill not her whose existence is interwoven with his — kill not his helpless children — respect the tender state of unprotected infancy — respecting softening bonds of FAMILY — respect thy GOD. Oh! Henry, Henry, Henry, such perhaps, even such may be thy dire catastrophe — such, Hammond, such —"

She tell lifeless on the floor. Her soul was filled with images of the deepest horror. It was a noble phrenzy of tenderness and hu­manity, but it rod too quickly on her late recovery. — She is again carried to her bed. Unhappy Emma!

Oh, Mr. Berkley, what remains? She has rescued me from the misery of a declaration at least. Her own passion is hopeless, yet fixed; but mine is in despair. She has added at once to my love and to my distress. What nobleness of sentiment! — What virtu­ous sorrow! — What sacred integrity of attachment! I shall be g [...]ad when the time for their departure arrives. I shall ever be united to the family; but it is impossible, I find, to live longer as a part of it.

LETTER LXXVIII. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

THE heart of your daughter, my dear friend, is not at her disposal. Let her never know a circumstance which can on­ly render her unhappy.

LETTER LXXIX. TO LOUISA CORBETT.

WE are returned to town. The several inclosures will ac­quaint you with the aff [...]cting transactions which have pas­sed since the last stop in our correspondence — a stop, my dear Louisa, made in very sympathy: for, though you have of late re­peatedly told me that you found a pathetic kind of pleasure in sharing griefs so congenial to your own, I could not but blush at the pain which I must often have created you. Yet nature, at this very time — poor feeble nature, strongly prompts me to repeat the fault. My heart swells high with sorrow, and I stand in need of the participating Louisa. Nor will any but Louisa soothe me. Mrs Arnold is generous and sensible, elegant and informed, but▪ oh! she has not drank so largely of that bitter, yet salutary cup which subdues the effervescence of the spirit, and disposes us to melt at the miseries of another. She is a widow without knowing the value of her husband, and love seems a secondary passion in her mind to that of glory.

How is it, my friend, that we do not hear from Henry? Ah, what an affecting difference betwixt a post-office and a ship!

[Page 30]O distance, DISTANCE, it is now I begin to feel what thou art! Join, I conjure you, Louisa, the prayer of Emma — supplicate the power at whose commands the winds and the waves are still, — supplicate him in behalf of a hapless woman, whose treasure is [...]ing on a precarious sea. Beseech that the hospitable barks may salute each other, and that their separation may alleviate mine. Im­plore that these things be granted, and my heart shall be at rest.

— At rest! and will my alarms be hushed by such a circum­stance? Are the beatings of the billows all I have to fear? Alas, the perils of the water are m [...]rely introductory to those of the land. Scarce will the dangers of the flood be past, ere those of the field come on. Which way then shall my petition be directed? The policy of nations, and the dictates of nature, the voice of ambition, and that of peace, are so distinct, that a perpetual war seems to be proclaimed between divine and human institutions. The tender and graceful interest which nature bids us take in the fate of those whose lives and fortunes are dear to us, make us wish well to the natives of our country, and the friends of our heart: and it is on this prin­ciple, but not for the parade of dominion, or the barbarian flush of victory, that I wish well to the cause of Henry and his associates — I do not say COUNTRYMEN, for it appears that we are at war with these, as they with us: a large and once loving family divided against itself. Whom are we, Louisa, to consider then as enemy, and whom as friend? WE suffer, alas! bitterly, from the con­test on either side.

Oh, God of tranquility! heal up the mutual wound, and suffer not that which is terrible between different people, even in hostile nations, to become more intolerably so by allowing it to rage a­mongst brethren!

The paths of military honour, Louisa, are cut through the bowels of humanity; and heroism laughs at the apostrophe of pity: but I, who want refinement to extinguish the simplicity of my sen­sations, shall yet persist to call even victory a calamity.

I am extremely ill but have relieved myself by writing.

LETTER LXXX. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

I MOVE up and down, obedient to the impulse of my pas­sion.

I am now in London, attending the sick chamber of Emma, in­to which I gain access only by virtue of my profession. Her affec­tion preys fast upon her health. Yet it becomes her age, and its object is amiable. It is an affection which nature, virtue, and religion, conjoin to make respectable. Youth gives it a new charm. Misfortune throws over it a tender and interesting shade. Sickness a­dorns it with peculiar softness; and absence assists sensibility, in rendering the whole more touching.

Such is the love of Emma: while mine is the passion of a man who hovers round the idol of his heart with the most doating fond­ness, [Page 31] at the time that he is convinced of the folly and impropriety.

In vain, Frederick, you ridicule, invite, and advise. I cannot quit Emma. She is sick, and I am wretched. She loves another, and it does not relax the diligent attentions I pay to her virtue and her beauty. She has fallen in the path of my life, and I make a dead stop. I cannot pass on. Sneer not, jest not, but pity my sensibility; and if you choose to call it by a more censurable name, whatsoever it be, pity me by that.

I am trying to recover myself, but make no progress. To speak the truth, I undertake the business with reluctance, and cannot ex­pect to succeed in it.

LETTER LXXXI. TO EMMA CORBETT.

THERE will be no occasion, my beloved girl, to use any longer the fortunes of a daughter, or a friend. I still have a succedaneum in the care of providence, who has, in some mea­sure, repaired the depredations of war.

Your cousin Fanshaw is just dead, and, though he would suffer neither of us to approach him while living, (how inconsistent!) has at length made his will in my favour, annexing this remaka­ble codicil: — "To Charles Corbett ten thousand pounds, be­cause I hear he is a sufferer by the war with America; and to Emma Corbett, his daughter, (whose fortune must of course be lessened by the same means) five thousand pounds, provided she does not marry an officer, or any person concerned in promoting the con­test."

LETTER LXXXII. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

BLESSED be the memory of the man whose generosity has taken such a load from my heart! Yes, my dear and vener­able father, I am revived. Sickness and sorrow stand suspended at your tidings. We have now sufficient to gratify every wish that contented natures can form. I had been casting about for means to seduce you into accepting my freewill offering of tenderness — my mite of duty; but my perplexity is relieved. Ten thousand pounds will gild the evening of a virtuous life, and three are com­petent to all the wants of

LETTER LXXXIII. TO LOUISA CORBETT.

THIS yet-continued delay terrifies me. Oh, what minutes have I told over — what days and weeks have I pass'd:

I conjure you to let Roberts purchase all the news-papers he can collect for a month back, and send them, without loss of time, to the trembling

LETTER LXXXIV. TO EMMA CORBETT.

THREE thousand pounds, my sweet daughter! why, that which is properly your own independence is now eight thousand! How could you congratulate me, and forget to felicitate yourself? But you generously annihilated th [...] latter consideration in reflecting upon the first. Such is the noble negligence of your nature. I must assist you, too, in observing, that the barriers of [...] now thrown down, and the avenue open, clear, and uno [...] [...], to any tender partiality▪ which, you suppose, may gratify the expectations of your most affectionate father,

LETTER LXXXV. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

I WILL not affect to misconceive you, my only parent. You seem constantly anxious to connect me with some worthy man, as the associate of my life; yet do not recollect that my choice is made, my principles fixed, and my heart inalienably engaged. An unsubdued veneration for truth attends me. I caught the in­spiring affection I bear her, from the respectable authors of my being. It is a prejudice as early as it is amiable, and you should not wonder if I walk steadily in the way of my directors. This, sir, I have often told you. I have been brought up to consider the happiness of life, not as deducible from the maxims of the world, but from implicit reliance upon that power whom Heaven has seated upon the throne of the soul, as an un [...]ring judge in all cases of moral arbitration. It has been a hard task for me to struggle with the various inflictions which have long hung over our house, and though the burst of nature has sometimes broken unawares, it was not in those seasons that I was the most unhappy. — When only the pitying eye of GOD was upon me, when I sought the silent corner, and could secretly commune with my own heart, and en­ter into all its inclinings: then — then, my father, it was that the extreme of your Emma's wretchedness came over her; for she found it impossible to wean her affections from an object, one so entirely and with so good reason approved, and now so entirely, and (you will pardon me) without any solid reasons, rejected. I have not, at this period, my dearest father, collection of mind enough for much argument; but you will please to recollect that it was you who first kindled the sparks of tenderness for Henry. Besides that we were brought up together, when gentle impressions are easily ad­mitted and u [...]reservedly avowed, you represented him as an orphan of honour, talents, and good sense. I depend on every thing you say, and was charmed with a sentiment correspondent to my own. The affection was full grown, and had expanded into blossom, ere you attempted to destroy, or even to check it. Then, all at once, you said you had your reasons, (which to this hour remain partly unexplained) to desire I would think no more of Henry Hammond: [Page 33] yet, you averred, it was not fortune or any other circumstance re­lating to what to the world calls a good match, that created a change in your esteem. Want of worth, I am sure, it could not be; and yet you still persist to d [...]ssuade me from attaching myself to merit, elegance, and virtue.

I am glad this method of addressing each other by letter, though in the same house, has, by accident, been adopted It appeared awkward at first, but hath now the familiarity of a habit. It may well be said, in my case, "to excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart." Yet wherefore do I talk of blushing! Surely, it is not necessary. I yield not to any romantic pomps of passion. I make it not a subject, where it can be likely to create one discord­ant feeling. I love with simplicity and truth: and it is far beyond my power—far, even as the preservation of a solemn vow is from the breach of it, to change my object but with a change of its purity. The oaths that are taken at the altar, Sir, may ratify tenderness, but cannot create it: and amongst the sordid connecti­ons of men, it is not uncommon to be inv [...]sted with the public sanction, without ever receiving a private assent from the under­standing or the heart. I do not think the law of the land, of it­self, sufficient to make a woman happy. Marriage is a very hon­ourable, but it may be a very miserable institution: that is, it may produce misery while it confers honour. The ceremony is only the seal of mutual love, but the bond should be mad [...] before; and in point of attachment I hold myself at this moment as religiously united to Henry as if all the forms of the earth had pass [...]d my lips in confirmation. The same idea will be lodged in my bosom, whether that confirmation be remote or near. It is not intended by Heaven to be the affection of a year only. It is to last for life. It is to follow its object through all perils and dangers. Its holy ardour is to burn equally bright and pure, and nothing but death is to extinguish it. Thus contracted, my father, in spirit and in truth, you will easily j [...]dge how light must be the sacrifice of my cousin's strange legacy. The political tenets of Mr. Hammond have nothing to do with my friendship for him. As they have carried him into a dangerous path of life, far from me, I so far de­plore them. I chose not the officer; but the man! and though it is, alas, but too unlikely that our personal interests should be made one, yet the union of our souls is too sincere, and too strong, for five and twenty times the conditional five thousand pounds to loosen or dissolve. I felt myself about to declare that not any earthly motive could induce me to embrace this gorgeous bribe: but I am suddenly checked, and find, upon scrutiny into this filial bosom, O my dear dear father, tha [...] one motive, and only one tho [...]e might have been, which could make your Emma the victim of money.

Had the late convulsions of fortune remained in their full force —had it pleased God to increase their violence—had all that could have been raised by the a [...]ds of property and industry proved insuf­ficient—and had those venerable ha [...]s been inaeed consigned to sor­row, [Page 34] and none but a daughter's duteous hand to help a parent's poverty; in that dire case, my beloved father, if you have a true sense of my nature, you will guess what I should have been tempt­ed to do. I should have accepted the conditions in the codicil, and secured to my father a resource from indigence at a time of his life when humanity is the least able to bear it. I would not then have "married an officer engaged in the national contest." Yet even then, my affection would remain, though its ultimate views would be changed.

In the private recesses of my soul, the image of Henry would still be engraved; and, although I sacrificed all that was possible or necessary, to duty, it would be long, very long, ere I could withdraw that chaste and charming sentiment which gives me in all transitions, a title to esteem—ah more than esteem—to love—him tenderly.

LETTER LXXXVI. TO H. HAMMOND, Esq. (At New-York, Boston, or elsewhere, in the army of General—, in America.)

OH Henry, I can bear it no longer. Heaven knows where you may be at this moment! Heaven knows whether you exist! My alarm is extreme. I hazard the fate of a few lines. If they reach you, relate your situation, relate your disasters. Do not tor­ture — do not kill me; but seize the first instant to quiet the terrors of my heart. You do not know what I am enduring for your dear sake! You do not know what domestic calamities have been heaped upon the anguish which seemed to admit no exaggeration! Not one moment's peace, not one moment's health, shall I know, till I hear from you.

— Hear from you! Perhaps alas, even while I write — per­haps some savage hand —

Oh Henry, Henry — to love virtuously, constantly, and en­tirely — to know the full value and the full danger of the beloved object — to wish information, yet dread to hear it; is it. oh is it amongst the supremest of curses or of blessings?

LETTER LXXXVII. TO THE SAME.

ALTHOUGH I have a letter now tossing with the sea, and know it must be many a day upon its perturbed bosom ere it gets to hand; yet I again have taken up the pen, with increase of ter­ror, and, if it were possible, of tenderness. I am ill, and they will not suffer me to quit my chamber. They want to deny me the use of the only instruments which can even have a chance of con­veying to you the state of my heart. They tell me it is dangerous. How I despise their pedantry! I want not to be taught the theory of patience; I have practised it long. But horrors, too great for patience itself, at length invade me! Oh, by the agony which [Page 35] you cause, and by all the dreadful nights and days that you make me suffer, respect my misfortunes! Relieve, recompense, and re­dress them. One page, one line, one sentence, will suffice. Say but that all is well — say that you breathe, and I will be again composed. Oh, Mr. Hammond, wheresoever you are, or whatever has befallen you, if there has been a possibility of sending to me, you should (in pity to the condition of my mind) you ought to have remembered me. Unless — which Heaven avert! — ah I will not suffer myself to rest a moment on such a horrid thought — and yet this suspence — this agonizing suspence presents nothing but images the most dire. Tell me explicitly, fully, circumstantially. I con­jure, I insist that you let me know every thing without disguise, without delay. Alas! how I w [...]ite on — how I rave. But I will be very calm; indeed I will. I will endeavour to fit my mind for every stroke but —

— Oh Hammond, Hammond, what a wretch have you made of

LETTER LXXXVIII. TO LOUISA CORBETT.

COngratulate me, oh Louisa! congratulate yourself — con­gratulate humanity; for one of its chief ornaments yet lives. I exist, I breathe. I recover. Henry is well. Behold the in­closed. Sanctify it with a sister's kiss, but oh, erase not those which Emma has impressed on every line. It is dated at sea; but the intelligence chears me. I trust in Providence, and am most happy. Receive my treasure, but keep it not beyond the return­ing of the post. So long I part from this dear associate of my pil­low, in love to thee, thou sister of Henry. I cannot sleep whil [...] it is out of my possession. It is an instance of my friendship which surpasses all common bounds. My fever abates: my pulses resume a wholesome measure. Hope is busy in every vein. I can bear the visitation of the sun-beam, and will now retire to rest, softly sup­plicating that power which alone can relieve me, to continue the bounty he has begun.

LETTER LXXXIX. TO EMMA CORBETT. ^*

AT length, my beloved friend, an opportunity presents itself. I had prepared a large pacquet against this dear chance, but it was filled with gloom, despondence, and images of severe distress. Bet­ter prospects appear; and I have buried my ill n [...]ws in the ocean. We are joined by ships which are freighted with large and liberal of­fers of conciliation. They are formed, methinks, to suit the ambiti­ous and grasping spirit even of an American, and they must, I think, be accepted. Once more regulated by maternal laws, the wayward child shall again prosper. The treasures of either hemisphere shall a­gain be shared. The arms of a great nation shall no longer be employ­ed [Page 36] to annoy but to defend. Our refractory fellow-subjects shall soften into their former sentiments. I am now, Emma, within fight of the land; Reconciliation is expanding her angel plumes before us, and my presence will, I trust, be no further necessary, than as it will give me an opportunity to witness the joy when a truant child is restored to the protection of an offended parent. Great-Britain, all insulted as she is, ineffective as have been her affectionate advances, and scorned as have been her professed kindness, shall receive with transport her America The temporary estrangement shall only serve, like the quar­rel of friends, to brighten the bonds of future amity.

O PEACE, thou image of Divinity itself! —descend, oh descend up­on that earth from whence the mistakes of altercating relations have so long affrighted thee! Melt the hearts of contending countrymen, and shape every jarring interest they maintain till all confess thy celestial sway. — Subdue, gentiest power! the fierce soul of ambition, soften the [...]ws of authority, and let the countenance of offended Majesty [...] the tenderness of a father—ah! come, I implore thee, and come, without delay! Let not Henry fight against the cause for which Ed­ [...] fell! Let there be no longer cause to fight. Expand thy snowy [...] over the same people— replace brother in the embraces of brother, and friend in the foldings of friend. Let a soldier in this instance sup­ [...] [...] [...]athe the sword. Reserve his arm for the natural ene­m [...]s of his country and make it not a duty to go forth against a civil foe I address thee, O loveliest, O divine spirit of peace, in the name of all the dear and delicate affections— affections which make up thy en­chanting train. I call upon thee in the names of nature, reason, hu­manity, and good faith — in the names of father, child, and all con­nections that are most precious. — I call in the names of Emma and Louisa. My invocation can ascend no higher, nor can —

— Hah—soft, soft, my Emma — methinks the invocation is [...] The courted Deity descends in all the benignity of her bright­ [...] ▪ She is surrounded with sun-beams softened by tender fleecings of [...] which form her chariot. The eternal olive mixes in the ray which waves over the turrets of the western world. War is disarmed The horrid parent of fetters is himself in chains. He sullenly yields his giant limbs. He is bound as a prisoner, and the victory is given to nature and to peace!

— Oh what a lucid throng comes forward as incident to the con­quest. The Arts revive. The Muses confess the triumph of the affec­tions with a song. Vegetation, thou lately trampled down, springs up and freshens under the feet of Industry and Repose, who both assist the general restoration of their flowery realms. The sacred power of Friendship regains his station in the human mind. The tender power of Love re-ascends his throne, and stretches his roseat sceptre over the human heart. The trembling maids — the Emmas which embellish the earth, receive their returning heroes without a wound!

Our sails are thrown back, my beloved Emma. The surface of the sea at this moment is emblematic of peace. The Captain of our vessel is preparing papers for England, to be taken by the ship which is gently [Page 37] floating along-side of us. She is going from the General with dis­patches; probably of the pleasing nature. All seems full of promise — and oh, what sweet and affecting pleasure it affords me, while I am writing this! (the barks of fair proposal making the best of their way before me) I anticipate the transport with which my tidings will be received — and imagine the effect they will have on the exactest form, and most touching features, my eyes ever beheld. I see, methinks, the soft tear of genuine joy course along the cheek, or bathing the crystal that covers my portrait — the invisible sigh steals through its vermeil passages — the rosy gates of life and love are opened to welcome the news, and balmily breathe over it a tender aspiration.

Adieu! Adieu! the pacquets are ready. I am in hope: I am in Heaven.

LETTER XC. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

A Fortunate chance has happened, Frederick, in this family, since my last. Emma is all rapture and all health. She has heard from Henry Hammond, and the effect of this intelli­gence writes triumphant love upon every feature. Her languor is gone. Her tears stream from happiness only. She sighs with bl [...]ss.

Upon my entering the room about an hour ago, she caught hold of my hand, and, as I was about feeling her pulse, exclaimed — "O, Sir Robert, the panacea is arrived. I am well. I am happy."

By my soul, Frederick, her joy and her sorrow are alike amia­ble; and though both are to me as adver [...] winds, yet the more she distresses me, the more I love her.

LETTER XCI. TO LOUISA CORBETT.

O Good God! who shall presume to fathom the depths of hu­man misery, when it is thy will to exercise the chastening rod? The felicity so lately brought me was as the lightning be­fore the storm, and only announced its approach. The thunder­bolt has at length fallen to crush the most unfortunate

LETTER XCII. TO EMMA CORBETT.

IS he then dead? is he too numbered with the slain [...] and [...] the noble youth so soon followed the lovely Edward▪ Alas! I suspected this, even while your letter of fairer information lay be­fore me. In vain expectance of finding something that relates to the fate of my husband, even against the convictions I have of his death, I fondly examine every paper and public print relating to the war, that falls in my way. In the Gazette of last night I per­ceive [Page 38] there has been an engagement, and I read with streaming eyes an account of the wounded and the slain. Yet, are you sure of your intelligence? I hope it is, in part, ill-founded; for I perceive not the name of Hammond in either list An Ensign Had­dock, and a Captain Hammerson, are mentioned amongst the wound­ed; but these do not approach very near even in sound I will enquire farther immediately; mean time hope— hope every thing, dearest friend. My brother! — oh no — I will not have it so.

LETTER XCIII. TO LOUISA CORBETT.

THE Gazette! slain! wounded! — Oh, I had no conception to what an extreme of misery I was reserved! You have mistaken me; but of what dire information has that mistake been productive? There has then been an engagement! You have seen the bloody lift. It must have been purposely concealed from me. The skirmish, you say▪ was sudden You read of a Captain Hammerson. In the hurry of war it is easy to drop one syllable, or to add another. These conflicts are too great.

The inclosed will shew you that the wounds of Henry need not have been subjoined to the violence of a parent blinded by the rage of hydra party!

The wounds of Henry, did I say — O hold — hold my heart; I cannot bear it — indeed I cannot.

Adieu! I will think upon a remedy.

LETTER XCIV. TO EMMA CORBETT.

EMMA, be yourself. You must make one generous effort. I see you languishing under my eye and cannot bear it. Thrice have I seen you in the sick chamber within a few weeks. It is easy to perceive that your whole soul is pining after Henry— the perfidious Henry; with whom your union must never be while you think proper to own a father, and accept his protection. I tell thee, Emma, that were he this moment returned, and returned with what degenerate Britons now call glory — nay, could he lay the conquest of the plundered colonies at thy feet, there exists a reason which would make it vile — yes, mark the strength of the term — VILE, in Emma Corbett to accept it. [...] I see nothing less than the entire explanation of the fact will convince thee. To crush, therefore, every lingering hope at once▪ know, thou dear infatuated, thy father still leans his very soul on the welfare of A­merica. Those fortunes which have been destroyed, those debts which have impoverished me, as well as those ample streams of commerce which rolled unobstructed from shore to shore, were all dedicated to injured America. For her thy brother's blood was shed, and had I yet more sons, more fortunes, and more resources▪ they should all be at the service of that violated country. She is [Page 39] injured — she is aggrieved, my daughter. Her oppressions are at my heart. The strings that fix it to my bosom are trembling for her. She glows with a generous love of freedom. She has been condemned without a hearing. She was stabbed into resistance. The sword was held to her throat ere she thought of selfdefence. Conflagration, famine, and parricide, have entered her late peaceful habitations. The common bounties of Providence have been denied her. The blood of citizens, of brothers, and of friends, are flowing in rivers through her streets.

I have not, Emma, been one of those who hawk about my principles, and saunter in babbling ignorance from coffee-house to coffee-house. I am fixed in my politicks, and think my steady adhe­rence to them a part of my religion. Since we are cruelly taught to make a sanguinary mark of distinction between an Englishman and an American, I own myself the latter, and deplore the infirmities that prevent me from rushing to the field. My child, my child, I know the ruinous rapacity, the murder, the VILLAINY of this unnatural war. I enter deeply, and pathetically, into every wrong which America sustains, It is the only point wherein I am enthusiastic, and it is the only point where enthusiasm is great and glorious! Do not imagine, rash girl! — monstrous thought — do not DARE to imagine, ungrateful Henry shall ever receive the hand of Emma. Spare me, beloved daughter, in this one part— this fore, this tender part — and in every other, command your father — You owe me this submission, you owe me this FAVOUR, this indulgence. I would have preserved your Hammond, and op­posed his entering into this wicked employment, but it was impos­sible. High of heart, he scorned to be even tenderly controuled. I endeavoured to win him generously over to an honourable cause. He called it insult, bribery, baseness. The military distraction was throbbing in every vein. When I argued, he justified every measure of ministry. Great Britain, he said, was grossly abused — her lenity scorned — her laws defi [...]d — her sublime prerogative contemptously set at nought. He spoke loud and vehement of American rebellion. The honour of the empire, he said, now depended on the exertion of each individual, and it was the duty of every young man (whom every tie of interest, every bond of loyalty, and every principle of policy called upon) to manifest his zeal, his courage, and his attachment. He went on, my child, in all the foaming folly of youth, declaring, that he should ac­count himself b [...]e, were he to deny the contribution of his arm. The greater his love for Emma, the nobler his sacrifice, he said. He was determined: he had made up his mind: and was resolved to defend his country or gloriously perish in her ruins. I pitied his delirium, yet venerated his ardour. Well directed, of what was it not susceptible. He was above admonition, and kept erring on. In true tenderness to thee, my Emma, I forgot the dignity of age, and even stooped to intercede. After all my letters to him were in vain, I privately sought a personal interview, but his boil­ing spirit took fire. I reluctantly withdrew, and gave up the point.

[Page 40]Oh America, thou bleeding innocent, how art thou laden with oppressions — Oh my child, my child — Nature, Religion, and Religion's God, are on her side; and will you take to your arms, and to your embraces, a youth who propensely violates these? — a cruel youth, whose reeking blade may at this moment smoke with kindred gore — Tyranny hath not a reserve of barbarity in store. She is exhausted. Your Henry is a volunteer amongst those who, as an acquisition to the British army, have added the toma­hawk, the hatchet, and the scalping knife. And will the tender-hearted Emma continue to love such a barbarian? Away away, it will not bear a thought — Banish, obliterate, detest him. He is in open rebellion against the laws of nature. Let your affections flow into a fairer channel — ah, suffer a parent's ha [...]d to conduct them. He h [...] a friend in reserve, my dear — such a friend —

But tell me that you have resumed yourself. Tell me that you are indeed my daughter.

LETTER XCV. TO F BERKLEY, Esq.

I WILL withdraw my foolish self from this ill starred attempt. Go down to Castleberry, and I will meet you there without delay.

The perplexity of interests in this family, where each part op­poses t [...] other, and where still greater entanglement is promised, are really too great for me who have made a sudden transition from quietness to agi [...]ation.

You cannot reprobate my weakness in a keener style of censure than I myself [...]o. Oh, I kn [...]w full well the u [...]fitness of such storms to the sober season of my life. I co [...]al the cause from all but you, and your reproof shews me, how little mercy I might ex­pect were that cause imparted to less generous hearts.

The matter grows too interesting. A certain darling passion, which scarce confines Corbett on this side phrenzy, and the avow­ed pre-engagements of Emma, which are mo [...]e than barriers of iron against me, unite to convince me of the necessity of retreat. Expect me, therefore; and when we are together, prepare yourself with subject of conversatio [...], which, indeed, may take any turn but that of my infirmity: all men, who are conscious they possess any, proscribe this. In happiness and in misery, Frederick, we have a few grains of self-love; and, while all its proud associates croud about us, we suffer no theme to be discussed that can humiliate us to ourselves.

LETTER XCVI. TO THE SAME.

STOP, stop, dear friend. Visit not Castleberry yet. I have twice attempted to take leave, and twice [...]ailed — twice pa [...] ­ed, and twice unpacked my portmanteau — twice ordered my servant to get horses, and twice pretended to be weatherwise, and, [Page 41] as an excuse for changing my mind, have prophesied a change of at­mosphere. In the noon-tide brightness of the sun I have predicted storms and hurricanes. And it is in vain the fellow casts his eye to the heavens, and declares that the weather is fixed. It is his master, alas—and not the air, which is unsettled.

A little delay can make no difference. Indulge me. Humour me.

Within a post or two I will decide, and decide too as you and as commonsense demand of me.

LETTER XCVII. TO THE SAME.

I COME, my dear Frederick; I come. The Confusion of the Corbetts — the absurd yet afflicting emotions of my own heart — the — the — the — In short — [...] set out to­morrow.

LETTER XCVIII. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

I HAVE a suspicion that Mr. Hammond is wounded; let that circumstance, oh my father, account to you for the horrors of mind which have for some days locked up every power of hand and of voice. The former faculty is in some measure restored, so far at least, as tremblingly to trace upon paper something like an an­swer to your affecting favour; every syllable of which is as an en­venomed arrow fixing in my bosom. Your determined objection then to poor Henry is at last accounted for. I thought the sanguine track of party was washed wholly from a father's heart by the blood of my brother. Shall political prejudices interrupt the finest affec­tions of humanity? Horrid is the aspect of battle, view it on ei­ther side. It cannot shift to an attitude, nor take one position, to soften its terrors upon the reflecting mind. TO THAT it is uni­formly odious; nor is it at all amended by considering, that as it began soon after the creation, it will scarcely end till the destruc­tion of the world. It has, even within the narrow precincts of our family, divided the son from the father, and the lover from his mistress; let it not be rendered more dire by setting the interest of the daughter against that of her most honour'd parent, since that would be to encourage the madness of mortals, and the civil pesti­lence, that, in the form of a family-war, is gone forth against us. It [...]ould violate the gentle law of nature, and tear down those conciliating ties which fasten kindred in one vast chain of connexion ample as earth, and beautiful as Heaven. You have painted your own patriotism and that of Henry, sir, with equal vigour of lang­uage; at least, you have said enough either way to prove that both fancy the cause adopted is the cause of rectitude and glory. When one side attacks, the other must naturally defend; on which ac­count, while the spirit of contention remains, some will vehe­mently censure the very measures which some as vehement­ly [Page 42] applaud. But, in avowing your own enthusiasm, my dear fa­ther, [...] not, in effect, justify that of Henry? You both seem to hug to your bosoms a political Cleopatra, for whose sake you are willing to gain or to lose a world. England is to Henry what America is to you. Each insists that he is espousing the cause of an injured friend: and while this is the case, how can it be expected that either should yield? In fact, would not such a concession, ac­cording to the prescriptions of honour, in this world's acceptation of the word, be accounted base? You have, you say, attempted to direct the sword of Henry on the better side of the dispute. Which is that better side? Henry declares for Britain; you for America. What third person shall decide between you? The feeble voice of a woman will neither be heard or admitted. Else, might she venture to assert that your countrymen are bleeding a­broad, while the point of right and wrong is adjusting at home. This, however, is clear, my dear father, from your own premises: if Henry thought himself insulted by the proposal of changing his side, you would have been no less stung, had a similar proposition come from him to you. And this proves, that both are acting on what is called patriotic principle. What right reason then has the one to be displeased with the other? Yet upon this displeasure on your part, you urge me to withdraw my vows. Are then virtu­ous resolutions so to be withdrawn, my father? When affection is fashioned by the feelings, and long cherished in a soul which nei­ther projects nor practises any ill, whose every thought is submitted to the holy criticism of Heaven, nor ever dreads the scrutiny — is it, under these circumstances, of a texture so convenient, as to shift from side to side with every gale of opinion? Wherefore, let me once again tenderly enquire, wherefore did you originally in­spire me with a veneration for sober reason? why infuse in me a steady and generous way of thinking? Was it designed for orna­ment or for use? If not intended as the governing rule of conduct, thro' every maze of this mortal pilgrimage, oh wherefore did you not at first, even in the nursery, while every power was impressive and would have taken the form you chose to give it —wherefore then did you not lead me into the path that I was to tread without stop or turning? Alas! you have given me fixed principles, acknowledged they were good, saw them with joy take root in my heart, and now you expect in their fullest growth, and finest foli­age, that they should suddenly perish. But the habits of my youth are grown so strong, that I feel it is too late for me to deal in dis­guises. I will not now begin an artificial character. Oh! suffer me to implore you, sir, to continue my attachment to Truth and Nature. I know nothing of State wrangles, or Congress quarrels. I mix not with the infuriate errors of party. I only act up to those simple principles of moral life, which assure me that constancy in favour of a known valuable object (not obstinate predilection to a bad one) is the basis on which the superstructure of all that is noble, just, and good, must be raised. My wisdom is extremely limited. It stretches not into those maxims which desolate the earth for a [Page 43] vapour of victory, nor does it presume to penetrate the scheme of government. All it does pretend to, belongs to that small and dear system in which every woman ought to be instructed; namely, that a well-fixed tenderness should never be removed, that it should brave the storms of fortune and distress, that while life remains it should be the animating purpose of life to cultivate it, and that death, and death only, should dissolve the bonds which virtue had made. If my beloved father would for one moment lay the clamorous conten­tions of a bickering species aside, and submit to be charmed by that dispassionate power which decides calmly of truth and fals­hood, he would be convinced of this. I am sure he would: for his nature is gentle and his heart is soft. Ah think wha [...] a task it is for your soul-sick Emma to be under the necessity of using these pleadings at such a time! Come to her bed-side — perhaps the cause of our disputes may now —

Oh for pity my father, hasten to me — aid me in this dreadful conflict — rescue me from myself — wipe away the bitterest tear that anguish ever drew from the heart of a daughter, and recover me, ere it be yet too late, from the arms of death.

LETTER XCIX. 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 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 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 a 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 aetester of Henry Hammond! Why will 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 faith broken? Is your pu [...]rile, yet headstrong inclination worthy to be brought into con­sideration with the passion that fills the breast, and fires the soul, of your affl [...]cted and off [...]nded father,

LETTER C. 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 chea [...]s 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 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 CI. 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 CII. 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 CIII. TO SIR R. RAYMOND.

O RAYMOND, Raymond! my oldest friend, my truest com­panion! Pity, a [...] 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 presence 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 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 [Page 5] 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 could not give the coachman any direction, and he continued dr [...]ggi [...]g 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 c [...] 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 g [...]. What a dreadful morning! The hemisphere is all in a blaze! — The wind blows hard! — The firmament opens its fla [...]ing breast! — I see into its bowels. I am sitting all alone. Oh, my heart, what a thunder-clap was there! — It is now rolling along the sphere. Oh Emma, Emma, my daughter — my child — my darling — where, where art thou? Another! WONDER WORKING GOD! Behold a con­tri [...]e parent upon his knees, lame and decrepid as he is, to sup­plicate a cove [...]ing 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!

Alas! I [...]ave. 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 CIV. 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 inclosed 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 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 CV. TO SIR R. 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 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, 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 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 unnece [...]ary. Go then, oh amiable mediator betwixt parent and child — go, and plead my cause in all the eloquence of friendship. Obtain for me 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 CVI. TO SIR R. 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 tyrannies of war. Ah what are causes, countries, 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 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 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 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 [...]e — I contemplate not her love­ly [Page 8] features— all, all the exact images of her dear mother — her mother! who would shudder in her grave were she —

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 CVII. TO F. 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, 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 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 pe [...]on as in age.

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 laughed away. Laugh then, but do not forget that your mirth is at the expence of a friend who is seriously unhappy.

LETTER CVIII. 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 [...]m resolved to perform this voyage at all hazards. Do not, dear Louisa, accuse me of wanting confidence becaus [...] I did not acquaint you with my design. I could never support the idea of involving [Page 9] 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 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 thus with circumstances to take all your 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 CIX. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

FR [...]DERICK, 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 pos­s [...]ss 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.

Adieu, my friend. I am preparing again for sea. You guess my destina [...]ion. I follow the fortunes of the incomparable Emma in her [...]ender pilgrimage o'er the wav [...]s. 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 CX. TO SIR R. 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 d [...]spair.

Inexplicable Providence! I have yet a son. Edward still lives. At this tumultuous moment I am dropping the fa [...]her's tear upon the bl [...]ss [...]d paper that presents the news. Oh for some few months [Page 10] of firmer health! This unmitigable disorder [...] which chains me to the chamber and the 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 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 CXI. E. 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 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 perilous an absence.

WASHINGTON offers me the means of future retreat and inacti­vity, in consideration, I suppose, of my scars. 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 to call those cowards whom they prove to be men, and feel to be heroes. To-morrow I shall once more fix the [Page 11] 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 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 CXII TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

I WAS mounting my horse as your letter and its inclosure (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.

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

LETTER CXIII. TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

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 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 [Page 12] 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 CXIV. 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 CXV. 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 [...]b­ruptly 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 CXVI. TO LOUISA CORBETT.

I AM commissioned by a friend, on whose veracity I can depend, to impart a piece of new [...] 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, and then I shall be wholly at your service.

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

LETTER CXVII. 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 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 CXVIII. 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 CXIX. 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 CXX. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

I TROUBLE not my dear father with relating the dangers of the sea, the tempests which have deformed its bosom, nor the various inconveniences I have experienced since I lost sight of every object I had be [...]n 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 knowing the time I may be able to send. The unsteady motion of the vessel distorts the characters of my pen: so do not attribute to distress of heart what is the eff [...]ct of mere situation.

Adieu; oh, adieu. Of every letter I will send duplicates, that no chance may be lost to ease your suspense.

LETTER CXXI. 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 swore it must mean the fair-looking boy who lodged a few nights ago at the ship, and sailed in the Henry letter of marque. I caught at this, and am so far rewarded in my enquiry. Farewell. The opportunity of following your child presents itself. Adieu.

LETTER CXXII. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

OH, Mr. Corbett, the abrupt joy produced by your late intelli­gence, has counteracted the tender design [...] of Ed [...]ard, and thrown his poor Louisa into a condition which makes me tr [...]ble. 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 affecting. 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 of writing.

LETTER CXXIII. 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-string [...] of family and friend.

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 retrograde, 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 stannels! The well-known characters car­ry off all bodily sensation as I behold them. I have them before me —

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

LETTER CXXIV. 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 which have happened to the veriest wretch that ever—

[Page 15]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 —

—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 —

SECOND INCLOSURE FROM SIR R. RAYMOND.

CORBETT, the seal of Providence is surely upon my enter­prize! Oh happy chance! I have at once saved and res­cued your daughter. I [...] pleased God to carry me into the same place of confinement, where I found her mingled with the multi­tude of our unhappy countrymen. A violent shriek upon my en­trance betrayed her to me. Her man's apparel became no longer a veil to hide her from eyes so familiar with her voice and her fea­tures. She fainted in my arms.

The prisoners were too much involved in the sullen gloom of their own melancholy to regard the distress of another. The paper which I inclose, spotted as you see, with drops of blood from her own lovely arm, fell from her bosom. By the time she recovered, one of the officers who had guarded us approached.— She look­ed at him a moment (it being the first time she had seen him since he came in) and then sunk without any appearance of life upon the floor. She lay as a corpse.

Oh merciful Heaven! — Oh God, great and gracious God! cried the officer, it is — it is — it must be Emma — it must be my SISTER.

Presently, Emma and Edward Corbett (for it was your son, my friend) were both embracing upon their knees.

It was no time to explain. She was moved out of the prison. I was permitted to attend. Edward Corbett in his own arms con­veyed her to an apartment. He obtained leave of absence from the farther duties of the day. He was the nurse of your poor Emma. Oh, Mr. Corbett, I was not idle.

Washington happened to be quartered at the same town, prepar­ing the manoeuvres of a new attack. He is easy of access; and be­ing at liberty on a parole of honour, I gained an interview.

[Page 16]Ah, can you not guess its motive? what could it be but the free­dom of the captive Emma? The General heard the story of her love as I related it. I concealed no part from him but that which had reference to my own former folly. I brought the narrative down to the moment of reciting it. The soldier's cheek was not without the graceful dignity of a tear. He wept.

Sacred, said he, be the rights of hospitality: I am not at war with the affections. Ever privileged be their emotions. I feel them all. The beauteous prisoner is at liberty, Sir Robert, to go where she pleases. I shall appoint persons to attend her, who may pre­vent all interruption and insult; but you, methinks, Sir Robert, should continue to follow her fortunes as a friend, — you are both free.

I flew to Edward Corbett with the tidings. Emma had by this time acquainted him with her situation.

At what a moment did I enter the room! Your son was pro­nouncing, or rather attempting to pronounce, the names of wife and parent, of Louisa and his little Edward. And have I then these blessings, (cried he) and is my father yet in ignorance what claims, what doubly tender claims, Louisa Corbett hath upon him? He then pressed his sister in his arms, and they wept together.

Surprizes came too fast upon the hapless youth. He knew not that Henry was under arms. He did not know that he was an enemy. Yet he dropped for a while the fierceness of the soldier, and acted as a man — as the child of nature — as the husband of Louisa, and the brother of Emma. Then go, my sister, said he, your career is too glorious to be checked. In contemplating your conduct, I rise above all the prejudices of party. Alas, my sister, I know too well the sorrows of love and separation not to respect them. You find me here the foe of Henry, bu [...] it is not now the day of battle, and were he at this moment here, should I not expand these arms to receive the lover of Emma? Go then. But we are on the eve of a desperate undertaking. Our army moves to-mor­row. I tremble for thee! Perhaps we m [...]y never meet more — perhaps — ah retire, retire, my best-loved sister, ere the idea of losing you for ever should tempt me to break my promise, and —

—This fraternal kiss, this affectionate embrace, and farewell. Give me not leisure to [...]efl [...]ct, let me not have opportunity to con­sider the consequences of thus — Ah take her from me▪ Sir Robert, she is gaining on my affections, and I shall not be able —

Here he stopped, Mr. Corbett; Emma beheld the gathering storm of tenderness coming on, and exerting a resolution more than human, as fearing she should be prevented from pursuing the great object of her adventure, which was even dearer than a brother, she caught me by the arm, and shortened a scene too poignant to be continued.

No sooner were we alone — I am interrupted. Farewell.

LETTER CXXV. 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 Providence, have been brought about, Summon your heart to hear the best, the dearest news which 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 tidings that will salute you in this.

The hand writing of the pers [...]n 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.

The leading step to every other felicity you must hear first You, who have deeply 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 S [...]r Robert's packet, 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!

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.

[Page 24]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 sat out, alone, towards th [...]se 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 added a certain ba [...]k 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 [...]edges — straying she knew not whither — in dis­guise — in disorder — in despair!

Incredible were the toils of her research — incredible her fatigue. The forests are here, you know, of great extent: the wilds immea­sureable.

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 par [...]y of soldiers engaging with a tribe of In­dians; but while she was eagerly examining the persons of the former, the latter were put to flight, and retreated with the utmost precipitation: the soldiers pursued, and both were out of sight er [...] 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.

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 wish [...]s, and directed her steps to a bread common path way, across which was ex [...]end [...]d 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 the heart languidly bea [...]ing wi [...]h 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 [...]ips [Page 25] without hesitation.—This additional danger was an additional mo­tive to the deed. Oh Mr. Corbett, what an angel is Emma!

Signs of existence increased. With scarce a covering from the [...]y, 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 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 hunti [...]g 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! No house was near: no hu [...]: 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.

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 acknowledgments 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 c [...]se, let me, oh let me while yet I have the power to call down hea­v [...]n's choicest blessings on that lovely mourner, whose tears are hap­ly streaming at this moment for the expi [...]ing Henry—Ah Sir, all worthy youth, couldst thou see her — couldst thou attest for me these dying sentiments — couldst thou assure her that with my la­test dreath — 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.

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

[Page 26]Let not the human heart give up its confidence in Heaven. It is never too late to trust!

A team now passed within fight of this disconsolate pair. They were laden with provisions and apparel drawn in fledges, and small waggons, and were on their way to three detachments of soldiers, (who had applied to the General for these accomodations) that were stationed on the north side of the forest. Amongst this groupe were also some cattle, of which some were 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 fledges and waggons, that they adminis­tered whatever could promote the wish of Emma, and even fur­nished her with a fledge, a m [...]le, 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, though the least of these were enough to im­mortalize Emma Corbett; but I shall convey your imagination to John's-Town, where Henry and his protector 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 a lover; h [...] discover­ed himself to be the friend of Mr. Corbett — he assured Henry that he saw Emma [...]n 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!

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 the 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 27]— 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 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.

LETTER CXXVI. TO C. CORBETT, Esq.

THE blessings of Providence are at length manifest; since the pacquet from Henry must, ere this, be come to band. It is not easy to tell 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 sei [...]g 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 stile of address I expected not this, and am equally surprized and delighted. Yes, my dear old companion, 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 d [...]nt 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 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 [Page 28] sweet ingredients, that it is not in the nature of the tender heart to wish it were removed. And yet, my friend, 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.

LETTER CXXVII. 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! Farewell, farewell.

LETTER CXXVIII. TO H. HAMMOND, 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 inconveniences; 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 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 pay me the amount. I am not, you see, involving you in an obligation, but drawing you into a deb [...] ▪ The only interest I shall desire, is, that my name may not be mentioned to Emma in this business. These circumstances between u [...] 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 hon [...] trembles to offer, what they tremble to accept. I know you want money, and so don't be foolish.

LETTER CXXIX. 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 the chaplain of the regiment, who is en­gaged to perform the —

— By Heavens, Corbett, I cannot bring myself either to for­get these [...]hings, 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 suscep [...]ible of the thorns which wound me.

LETTER CXXX. TO THE SAME.

TO-MORROW, oh Corbett, is to be the day! — Henry p [...]esse [...] me to attend. He knows not I have any reason for th [...]se 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 —

— What shall I do? I wish them happy, happy even together — but to be present at the ceremony! — to assist 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 CXXXI. TO SIR R. RAYMOND.

OH my friend▪ receive the tribute of my sympathy. Generous man! what can I do to soften the woes 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 [...]oof. I esteem you so truly that I cannot bear the constraint which will soon be imposed. Your virtues have placed you in the second place of my affections—the second place is friendship, and that is yours [Page 30] 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 sorrow, painted in your countenance, and in your late conversation when we have been to­gether, which produces this grateful reluctance.

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.

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 sensibility, 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 more. I know your friendsh [...] will insist upon my fulfil­ling to the utmost every duty in life, and every engagement. Should this, therefore, be the last letter that pas [...]es 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 CXXXII. TO SIR R. 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 delayed the nuptials be­cause [Page 31] she was too much harrassed in spirits. And now I will my­self put them off a little, that they may not want the ornament 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 CXXXIII. TO EMMA CORBETT.

OBLITERATE the contents of the billet, and every trace of 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 CXXXIV. 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 a 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.

LETTER CXXXV. 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. This is their wedding day; an express has just reached the retirement I now enjoy— enjoy did I say! Alas, can you not trace the bleeding heart—can you not trace the piercing thorn through—

[Page 32]Away! it shall not be! And yet, to thee, my friend, I may safely trust ought that remains of unsubdued infirmi [...] ▪ 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 m [...]se 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.

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 drifly atmosphere perhaps—

—of a drifly 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 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 ashamed of myself —

Fi [...] 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 CXXXVI. 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, 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 no [...] the deepest soli­tudes [Page 33] 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 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 CXXXVII 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 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.

I selected a quiet hour, and laid the simple facts before me. They were not elaborate. The woman of my affection ( [...]hus 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, [Page 34] 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 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 interdicted by law, by religion, and by 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 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 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 it so great as to concern the happiness of 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 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 [Page 35] 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 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 relapse; 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 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 CXXXVIII. TO SIR R. RAYMOND.

I KNOW your character, and will give you another opportuni­ty to gratify it; for I will offer you an occasion to oblige me. I have for some time felt myself extremely indisposed, 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 again. Give me your advice in confidence, and without delay. Blessings attend your gentle heart and noble nature.

LETTER CXXXIX. 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 36]Emma is again indisposed.

You must not expect me.

IN CONTINUATION.

Unhappy Corbett, when will fate cease to persecute your family, or to torture your friend? I tremble at the symptoms which dis­cover themselves in Emma.

Yet do not despair. I may be deceived. We have long experi­enced the healing hand! remember this, and be still.

LETTER CXL. TO SIR R. 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, 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 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 CXLI. 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 the scene — I have been 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!

This moment I have opened and read the inclosed —

[Page 37]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 CXLII. TO F. BERKLEY, Esq.

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

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 dispatch­ed three days before. It had been miss-sent. The le [...]er did not come to hand till two hours after our arrival. He was not PRE­PARED to receive us.

Our chaife 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 shu [...] up.

The bell is at this instant telling for poor LOUISA: The s [...]xt [...] is come to tell the attendants that the clerg [...]man is waiting, Wretched widow of Edward! She died distracted. The hearte [...] driving off.

[Page 41]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. 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 the 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 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!" —

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, ( [...] exclaim) — Behold what CIVIL WAR has done for me▪" —

Berkley, I have kissed the clay cold lips — I have pressed the clay cold hand. On that bed the — 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?

You aged forlo [...]n one, now weeping over his child, looks up to me alone for something which resembles comfort, during the wretched residue of life.

The funeral obsequies of Emma are yet to be performed—

The widow of Edward hath left a son —

T [...]e widow of Henry a daughter —

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

LETTER CXLIII. 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, are committed to the dust—when the parent hangs his drooping head over the last sad mansion — when the or­phans—

What have 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 gloom of the soul carries sensation almost 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, nursing that which is seated within.

The romance of youth may teach you to expect that I should summon to my assistance every 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. More impetuous periods I have felt: so awful and so affecting a crisis, never. 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 Berkley, or any other per­son, into whose hands these incidents may fall, should presume to question the ways of ALMIGHTY GOD, which a re-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 [Page 43] the simplicity of truth. Difficulty, in the beginning of a narrative; love, in the middle; and marriage, 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 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 an 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 lettered 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 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, are 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? Shall she lose as an angel, what she acquired as a mortal? 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, Berkley, 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.

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: 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.

[Page 44]The writer of a romance would paint me as [...] 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 CXLIV. TO THE SAME.

WE are removed to Castleberry. Oh, it was gloomy and mournful greeting that I paid it! — Every tree, every book, every chair, appeared 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—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 age a peaceful pillow, for infancy a nursing cradle. Berkley congratulate me! My children are both well. The bounty of eke Almighty is upon me.

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

LETTER CXLV. 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, the 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.