LETTER LIV.
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.

[6]—Tell me, I conjure you, where the feeling heart ſhall find a ſanc⯑tuary? Tell me, what foliage is thick and impenetrable enough to repel that terror which aſſails an unhappy wo⯑man, when the object of every hope and every fear is determined upon dangers the moſt complicated and de⯑ciſive? Henry, your favourite Henry, is gone, you know, to defend his coun⯑try, to ſignalize his bravery, and to ſerve his King, I admit the propri⯑ety of the enterprize, according to the laws of honour, but I weep at the ex⯑tremity 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. [7] I faintly breathed the female reſiſt⯑ance. 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 tender⯑neſs of my nature, to reſtrain the flowing tide that roſe in billows to my hearr, which laboured with the agony of ſuppreſſion. His being this mo⯑ment 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 ra⯑vage and war!) are the principles which figure faireſt in the ſpotleſs hiſtory of Henry's youth. But I dreaded the after operations of inex⯑orable honour, which might deteſt the [8] 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 oppreſſion, ſuffer, oh ſuffer me to mourn—ſuffer me to execrate that inſatiate and wan⯑ton power, which ſcatters deſolation o'er the land! Ah this dire daemon of battle!—this daemon, 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 expi⯑ring—whoſe veſſels ſail upon a ſea of tears, and are waſted by ſighs which are extorted from the tender boſom. [9] 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 into the ſterility of winter as he advances. The ſtreams of plenty, which fertilized a happy world, ſtand checked in their progreſs, or roll onward a bed of troubled waters. Behold where the ruthleſs monarch approaches. The bounties and the beauties of nature fall before him. Territories are torn up by the roots, and empires mingle in the common ravage. Chained to his triumphal car—behold the lover, the orphan, the friend, the father, and the widow. Oh, Heavens! Fear, deſpair, and all the bleeding virtues, [10] and all the family of pain, form his retinue. Dreadful, dreadful proceſ⯑ſion! And all for what?—for what, my Caroline? Wherefore is the peace of the world thus to be deſtroyed, where⯑fore is man to raiſe his hand againſt the life of man, and deliberate mur⯑der to be entitled to applauſe?

Hear, O humanity, the reply, and be ſtill, if thou canſt! The rulers of different realms, in the wanton exer⯑tion 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 parti⯑tions of a thouſand leagues, quarrel for a few vile acres of the dirt which [11] 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 mor⯑tals to divide amongſt themſelves; nor are the natural miſeries of a very ſhorn life, with all its moral, all its civil, all its ſocial evils, ſufficient, without the aids of untimely and voluntary ſlaugh⯑ter. 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 huma⯑nity will not have time to hear, nor to be heard. But in the quieter moment, when the gentle power reviſits the bo⯑ſom, and reſumes the lovely throne from whence ſhe has been driven, oh [12] how impious, and how contemptible, will appear thoſe bickerings, which terminate in the effuſion of human blood! And could theſe heroes enter coolly into the conſequence of this bar⯑barous practice: this practice of defa⯑cing and hacking away the expreſs image of their God, to aſcertain privi⯑leges, 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 ca⯑lamity 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 fa⯑ther—a father, left naked, mangled, [13] and unburied upon a foreign and an inhoſpitable ſhore—would not the touch of human pity aſſert its ſoft⯑ening preſſure, and all agree to culti⯑vate the bleſſings of univerſal bro⯑therhood?

How many wretches, forlorn and fallen, are at this inſtant pining away on the ſorrow-ſteeped couch, while the heedleſs multitude echo the prai⯑ſes 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 proſeſs to adore a religion of peace—one too, who can never be perſuaded that the [14] cherub countenance of man—the ex⯑preſs image of the deity, is created thus fair, and thus amiable, to be cruelly ſported away in the riots of ambition, pride, and folly.

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 gent⯑ler than the mildeſt and kindlieſt bree⯑zes of the ſpring!—what wilt thou feel, ſhould ſome hapleſs woman, at⯑tended by all her little orphans, de⯑mand, of thy victorious hand, the ſlaughtered huſband, and the ſlaugh⯑tered ſire? Or ſhould but thy fancy ſuggeſt ſuch a groupe, ruſhing through the ranks, and in piercing tones of [15] 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 hero's 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 [16] cannot bear it. Indeed I cannot! Hope, duty, religion, are inſufficient. I ſhall be detected in the deepeſt exi⯑gence 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 LV.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

MY fair pupil makes a ſurpriſing progreſs in her new ſtudies; and were not her heart too ſoft to ſup⯑port 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 barren 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! [18] 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 paſ⯑ſion 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 in⯑creaſes with the increaſing difficulty [19] of declaring it; and though a much longer ſilence ſeems intolerable, to break that ſilence appears a circum⯑ſtance yet leſs to be ſupported by

LETTER LVI.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

WELL, my dear and dutiful daughter, ever kind, and ever conſiderate to me: I have not teazed you by premature importunity—I left you, quietly, to the effects, firſt of ſo⯑ciety, 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 paſ⯑ſion; 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 communi⯑cate the hopes, anxieties, and expec⯑tations [21] 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, wel⯑come 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 daugh⯑ter?—O let the reciprocal duties be [22] 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 re⯑quire 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 LVII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

O My father, why this unneceſſary preparation, this awful cere⯑mony? 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 LVIII.
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 de⯑ſign, 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 mo⯑ment in which I can bear any addi⯑tion [25] 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 agi⯑tation is upon him. At this time the interview would kill me. He is open⯑ing the door. I haſten my retreat.

Adieu!

LETTER LIX.
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 ill reward your kind at⯑tention, 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 myſelf this whole day from the company below; that I may try to recover myſelf by keeping quite ſtill in my own cham⯑ber.

LETTER LX.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

MY dear child! thank you for this relief. It is mutual, though I deplore the occaſion. Take a mo⯑ment of better ſpirits, and better health for our affectionate converſa⯑tion. Compoſe yourſelf. Nurſe your tender heart into tranquillity. 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, de⯑pend upon your friend and father

LETTER LXI.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

IT is with great willingneſs I ſit down to make a reply to the let⯑ter 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 pil⯑low of ſickneſs, to alleviate the ſuſ⯑penſe 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 [29] 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 yours; for at the worſt, my dear cou⯑ſin, 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 huſ⯑band and a father, who is the object of many a miſery too mighty for the ſolace of ſighs and tears.

[30]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 reſol⯑ved courage concerned to ſhew itſelf in [31] 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 ac⯑tions of an officer. One hero in⯑flames another: the ſparks of glory paſs like an electric power: the neceſ⯑ſity of a brave example becomes appa⯑rent: 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 ter⯑minates the proſpect: the warrior can ſee no farther. Valour and victory ſeem marching before him. There is [32] not leiſure for a private emotion, and tenderneſs would aſſiſt the efforts of his foe. He gives himſelf up, there⯑fore, nobly, and abſolutely, to the battle; wounds can make no impreſ⯑ſion 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 period 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 [33] 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.

Let not your glowing pencil paint the protectors of our country as beings deſtitute of every tender feeling, but allow for their ſituation, which ſome⯑times renders incompatible the im⯑mediate 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 her⯑ſelf. To-morrow ſhe imagines that ſhe ſhall be equal to the taſk, and ſhe [34] 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 indiſpo⯑ſed, and may, perhaps, want amuſe⯑ment in your ſolitude. To this end I ſend you the FRAGMENT of a little military hiſtory found amongſt my fa⯑ther's papers. It will ſhew you that humanity and bravery are nearly al⯑lied, and that the tender huſband and good ſoldier often form the ſame [35] 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 pa⯑rent, 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.

Adieu!

LETTER LXII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

I HAVE been penning a narrative, at every interval from pain; and by the next poſt, it ſhall be diſ⯑patched to Emma, from whom I deſire anxiouſly to hear all that concerns her happineſs and her health.

LETTER LXIII.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

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

P.S. Oh, what does your Caro⯑line's fragment prove, but that WAR, at beſt, is terrible as glorious!

LETTER LXIV.
MR. CORBETT TO HIS AGENT.

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

LETTER LXV.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

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

LETTER LXVI.
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 im⯑pulſe, more ſtrong and more ſacred than that of common curioſity, to know the full ſcope of my ſuſpicions.

Before this interview, my diſtreſs ap⯑peared ſufficiently great. Alas! we are continually exclaiming that the heart will break, without knowing what ad⯑ditional burthens it will bear, even when we think it is moſt ſurcharged.

[83]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 compli⯑ances, which your dutiful heart hath poured into this aged boſom. But for thee, my child, your unfortunate fa⯑ther would have no pillow to ſupport him.

Unfortunate, ſir, did you ſay?

O moſt unfortunate, my Emma! I am in diſtreſs—worldly diſtreſs. And it is ſo extreme, that I have been compelled (ah, hard neceſſity!) to diſ⯑poſe [84] of this fair manſion, which hath more than a century owned a Corbett for its Lord. This very room, my dear, which gave—oh ſpare me, Emma—this very room, the conſe⯑crated ſpot of thy nativity, is now another's; and ſo are the late heredi⯑tary lands that ſmile around it. The ruin has been deliberate too; and I have concealed it from every eye, even (and indeed chiefly) from thine, till now, that I am in the arms of po⯑verty. There is, at this moment, an execution entering my houſe in Lon⯑don; which contains the laſt reliques of a fortune, that, ſome years ſince, amounted to an hundred thouſand pounds.

[85]—That accurſed war!—that dire American contention!—that civil fury which hath ſeparated the ſame inte⯑reſts 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 flame 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 foun⯑tain whoſe ſources are ſtopped—what, what is to be done?

[86]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 is unneceſſary to detail the cala⯑mity. It is cruſhing: it is irremedi⯑able: it is ruinous. I am in beggary.

Oh, Emma! bred up to elevated expectations, what is to become of thee? Your brother is ſlain. Your father old and enervated, a prey to pain of body from the moſt piercing of human diſorders, and to anguiſh of mind, from reflections the moſt cut⯑ting. [87] Your property both at home and abroad (for mine was naturally your's) loſt or deſpoiled!

Oh, Emma! what is to become of thee? Would you renovate my youth—would you rebuild your for⯑tunes?—

I could not ſpeak, Louiſa.

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

[88]—Ah, what have I ſaid—oh 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 ſtagger⯑ing under their burthen, bore me to the bed. There I ſtill lie: and there, probably, in a few days—Oh fare⯑well to

LETTER LXVII.
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 ac⯑quainted 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 [90] Hammond, of ſcarce an hundred pounds a year!"—The converſa⯑tion ſtopped.

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

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

[91]It is an improper place to diſcuſs the queſtion, ſaid Henry. They went out. Henry commanded Ed⯑ward, in terms of intolerable ſeve⯑rity, never to offer his hand to Louiſa, while Edward inſiſted, that Henry ſhould deſiſt from farther engaging the affections of Emma. The inhi⯑bition was promiſed to be obſerved, and a breach of it was to terminate in the laſt frightful deciſion amongſt men. Edward ceaſed his viſits, and I knew not the cauſe. Henry did the ſame, and you was equally ignorant of the motive. I fell ſick; a fever ſeized my ſpirits, and my life was de⯑ſpaired of. Edward heard of my ill⯑neſs, and came to viſit me at a time that he knew Henry was from home. [92] He found me in the extremity—the fever was become putrid, and the phy⯑ſician ordered no one to approach my breath any nearer than could be avoided; the bed was ſtrewed with the herbs which are ſuppoſed to pre⯑vent infection. Regardleſs of this, and every other image of ſelf-preſer⯑vation, Edward ruſhed into my cham⯑ber, 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 poſ⯑ſible, is Henry returned! Well, it is [93] 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 em⯑brace ſhould be returned. Oh Henry, he exclaimed, too long have we mu⯑tually ſuffered a falſe delicacy to pre⯑vail. 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 in⯑formed of the diſpute. The ſurpriſe [94] was too much for me in the firmeſt ſtate of my conſtitution. In the con⯑dition 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! Ed⯑ward, I owe you more than this, for on my part was the promiſe firſt bro⯑ken. I have ſecretly maintained the uſual correſpondence with Emma, ſince ſhe has been away: and found [95] 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 quar⯑rel, and the means of t he reconcilia⯑tion, 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 har⯑mony was not of long duration;— [96] it was again interrupted by your fa⯑ther'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 be⯑tween us, it threatened an eternal ſe⯑paration of political intereſts. At the ſame time Henry was permitted to addreſs you, and Edward conti⯑nued openly his partiality for me. Nay, your father at laſt declared, he hoped ſtill to ſee two countries reſto⯑red 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, and your Henry did not think it pru⯑dent [97] 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 bloadſhed and rapine to that part of the continent where Edward had property. Louiſa, (ſaid he to me, one evening) I muſt croſs the ſeas: my fortune is in danger: it con⯑cerns equally you and me, that I ſhould endeavour to deſend it, yet I will wait another month to hear the event of terms that are propoſing be⯑tween 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 [98] 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 can⯑not be done, for though my father affects to conſent, our union would make himun happy. No, Louiſa: let our happineſs be known only to our⯑ſelves till it is proper to communicate ir. Impart it nor, till my return at leaſt, to Emma, to Henry, or to any part of the family. I have my rea⯑ſons 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 [99] ceremony, or which ſucceeded it, were diſcovered or ſuſpected. Pre⯑vious to the voyage of my hapleſs huſband, he put into my hand a ſealed paper, containing his will, and he de⯑ſired I would not open it till his re⯑turn. 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, be⯑queathed entirely to me as ſole exe⯑cutrix.—

Yes, my dear Emma, there is a fa⯑therleſs Edward, and Heaven only knows whether the father had any knowledge of its birth before he died. I repeatedly ſent letters, full of all a [100] mother's minute and affecting ſolici⯑tude, but I received no replies. To Mrs. Arnold, dear and generous friend as ſhe is, 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 every moment expected. It was that (oh Nature!) made me write the diſordered ſcrawl, which intrea⯑ted Emma to forbear her viſit. On my reaching the houſe of our wor⯑thy 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 be⯑reave me; and begged (ah how ear⯑neſtly) [101] 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 de⯑voured my child with kiſſes. I ran with weeping joy to Mrs. 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.

[102]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 protec⯑tor, 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 LXVIII.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

O Wonder-working Providence! I feel your intelligence, deareſt Mrs. Corbett, in every vein! I ac⯑knowledge you as a friend. I receive you as a ſiſter. But there is the boun⯑dary 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 labour⯑ing in the dire extremes of diſtemper and diſtreſs. I can no more. Fare⯑well. I murmur not.

LETTER LXIX.
TO FREDERICK 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 LXX.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.^*

I AM not made for hypocriſy. You ſee the gloom of my ſoul. It ſits in my countenance; nor am I able to diſguiſe it. It is now my turn to de⯑ſire 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 con⯑ſideration. Three thouſand pounds, [106] Sir Robert, is poverty to what my child might have expected. Suffer us then to depart. I am 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 LXXI.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

THERE wanted no freſh impedi⯑ments. They were manifold and mighty enough before. To pur⯑ſue 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 ra⯑ther 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.

[108]I have hit upon an ex⯑pedient, 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 ex⯑tent of your misfortune, and let us mutually concert its mitigation.

LETTER LXXII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

THE irreſolute note which I ſent this morning to your chamber, is not worth your attempting to decy⯑pher. I wanted to expreſs my ſym⯑pathy of your preſent misfortune in a way more anſwerable to the emotions of my friendſhip. I wiſhed to gather ſuch knowledge of ſome perſons con⯑nected with your loſs, as might enable me to plan ſome pious fraud to relieve your ſtuation without wounding your delicacy. But I ſhould make bung⯑ling work of it, and deſtroy the feli⯑city I intended to promote. I am a man of plain feelings, and have no dexterity of addreſs when it is neceſ⯑ſary [110] 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 con⯑duces to my happineſs. My happi⯑neſs 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 nor deſire to wander; and if I can promote their felicity, my own will, of neceſſity, be compleat. [111] You ſee my ſyſtem. It is ſimple and conciſe. By uncommon 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 mo⯑ney. 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 in⯑deed will be true) that by an unex⯑pected 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 [112] 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 was 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 accommodated, than as it may im⯑preſs your boſom with tender ſenſa⯑tions, 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, [113] 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 unrea⯑ſonable that I ſhould expect her to marry me for affection: but, for Hea⯑ven's ſake, ſave me the diſtreſs of ac⯑cepting the ſacrificed hand of grati⯑tude 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 LXXIII.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

WHAT can I ſay to you? Re⯑preſent to yourſelf an old man bathing his pillow with the tears of his heart, 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 luxu⯑ries of peace. Public deſolation, and not private vice, has produced them. [115] Yet—the ſum ſo large—the ſitua⯑tion ſo critical—the—

Well, well, I will try to recover myſelf, and we will converſe: but I tremble 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—

—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 [116] trembles while it is extending, leſt its motive ſhould—

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

LETTER LXXIV.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

I FANCY there was ſome miſtake in the letter that I encloſed 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 ſick⯑neſs [118] 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 wiſh'd myſelf her huſband ſince her con⯑finement and indiſpoſition, than while ſhe was rejoicing in health and plea⯑ſure. I do not deſire to unite myſelf to her beauty, more than to her weak⯑neſs 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 woman is ſubject, are, perhaps, more ſeducing than her bloom. The healthy flower looks ſuperior to protection, and ex⯑pands itſelf to the ſun in a kind of [119] 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 gar⯑dener, that, on ſuch an occaſion, in⯑fluences: and indeed it will, I believe, be found upon all occaſions, that the gentleſt parts of our nature are the beſt; and objects are beloved in pro⯑portion, not as they are ſtrong, for⯑cible, and defended, but as they are gentle, unreſiſting, and pathetic.

Emma dines below ſtairs. I have not ſeen her for ſeveral days. In the preſent ſtate of my heart, Frederick, [120] can you not imagine the nature of a ſenſation which partakes equally of hope and fear? If you can, you will aſcertain the preſent ſituation of

LETTER LXXV.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

YES, my dear child, what I aſſert⯑ed to you this morning is true. By a chance ſeldom happening to per⯑ſons in diſtreſs, I have recovered my⯑ſelf. It was like a recovery in the laſt ſtruggling moment of a man's life; for had the relief been delayed longer, it 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 bleſ⯑ſing was effected! The generous hand, the generous heart, from whence —but I am forbid to ſpeak. Can⯑not you gueſs? No! It is impoſſible! [122] 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 LXXVI.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

FREDERICK, I have again be⯑held the ſource of my admira⯑tion 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 creature of earthly 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 aug⯑mented, [124] but my expectations are not advanced. I ſee the policy of retreat, and while I acknowledge it, am prepa⯑ring to go on. Yes, Frederick, I am reſolved to open the ſubject, and that immediately.

LETTER LXXVII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

THESE tranſitions are almoſt too much for me—but I welcome the dear agitating ſtroke that gives fe⯑licity to my father. As the billet which expreſſes it came to hand, I was about to ſeek your boſom, my vene⯑rable parent, and there aſſure you with how chearful a heart I would follow you through every turn of your for⯑tune, and with how ready a hand I would 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 re⯑preſented to you the ſweets of a couch [126] which ſhould have been ſmoothed by a daughter's care; and of wholſome viands, provided by your child. Nor ſhould I have failed to remind you of what, in your tenderneſs rather than in your hurry, you have forgotten; namely, that ſum of three thouſand pounds which, in right of my late un⯑cle, 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 to happineſs, and there is, it ſeems, ſome noble inſtru⯑ment which Providence has made uſe of to produce the bleſſing. What ſentiments and what ſenſations I owe to both, need ſcarcely be made a queſ⯑tion. [127] 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 appli⯑cation be to that, and—

Pray forgive me; you taught me to love the language 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 oeconomize it; if we are laviſh of the luſtre, and do no⯑thing [128] of ourſelves, while it is darting upon us—

—in ſhort, my father, I. feel my⯑ſelf a little jealous that, when it be⯑came neceſſary for you to place a con⯑fidence in any ſecond being, you did not ſhew your uſual affection for

LETTER LXXVIII.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

SOON after breakfaſt this morning, while Corbett and I were walk⯑ing in the garden, he took hold of my hand, and laying it to his breaſt, ſaid, "Now then, Sir Robert, is the time: my daughter is recovered. Take an opportunity to diſplay your generous attachment. [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 poſſeſ⯑ſion of her hand and her heart."

LETTER LXXIX.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

THE heart of your daughter, my dear friend, is not at her diſ⯑poſal. Let her never know a cir⯑cumſtance which can only render her unhappy.

LETTER LXXX.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

WE are returned to town. The ſeveral incloſures will ac⯑quaint you with the affecting tranſac⯑tions which have paſt ſince the laſt ſtop in our correſpondence—a ſtop, my dear Louiſa, made in very ſympa⯑thy; for though you have of late re⯑peatedly 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 par⯑ticipating [141] Louiſa. Nor will any but Louiſa ſoothe me. Mrs. Arnold is generous and ſenſible, elegant and in⯑formed, 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 huſ⯑band, 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!

O diſtance, DISTANCE, it is now I begin to feel what thou art! Join, I [142] conjure you, Louiſa, the prayer of Emma—ſupplicate the Power at whoſe command the winds and the waves are ſtill,— ſupplicate him in behalf of a hapleſs woman whoſe treaſure is toſſing 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 beating of the billows all I have to fear? Alas, the perils of the water are merely introductory to thoſe of the land. Scarce will the dangers of the ſtood be paſt, ere thoſe of the [143] 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 na⯑ture 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 [144] once loving family divided againſt it⯑ſelf. Whom are we, Louiſa, to con⯑ſider 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 in⯑tolerably 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 ſimpli⯑city of my ſenſations, ſhall yet perſiſt [145] to call even victory a calamity. I am extremely ill, but have relieved my⯑ſelf by writing.

LETTER LXXXI.
TO FREDERICK 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 pro⯑feſſion. 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 re⯑ligion, conjoin to make reſpectable. Youth gives it a new charm. Miſ⯑fortune throws over it a tender and in⯑tereſting ſhade. Sickneſs adorns it with peculiar ſoftneſs, and abſence [147] aſſiſts ſenſibility, in rendering the whole more touching.

Such is the love of Emma: while mine is the paſſion of a man who ho⯑vers round the idol of his heart with the moſt doating fondneſs, 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 [148] paſsion. 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 ſuc⯑ceed in it.

LETTER LXXXII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

There will be no occaſion, my be⯑loved 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 remarkable codicil: "To Charles Corbett ten thouſand pounds, becauſe I hear he is a ſufferer by the war with [150] 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."

Adieu.—Let theſe tidings revive you.

LETTER LXXXIII.
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 revi⯑ved. Sickneſs and ſorrow ſtand ſuſ⯑pended 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 free-will offering or 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 LXXXIV.
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 pur⯑chaſe all the papers he can collect for a month back, and ſend them, without loſs of time, to the trem⯑bling

LETTER LXXXV.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

THREE thouſand pounds, my ſweet daughter! why that which is pro⯑perly your own independence, is now eight thouſand! How could you con⯑gratulate me, and forget to felicitate yourſelf? But you generouſly anni⯑hilated the latter conſideration in re⯑flecting upon the firſt. Such is the noble negligence of your nature. I muſt aſſiſt you, too, in obſerving, that the barriers of graceful pride are now thrown down, and the avenue open, clear, and unobſtructed, to any tender partiality, which, you ſuppoſe, may gratify the expectations of your moſt affectionate father,

LETTER LXXXVI.
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 reſpect⯑able authors of my being. It is a pre⯑judice as early as it is amiable, and you ſhould not wonder if I walk ſtea⯑dily in the way of my directors. This, ſir, I have often told you. I have been brought up to conſider the happineſs [155] of life, not as deducible from the maxims of the world, but from impli⯑cit reliance upon that power whom Heaven has ſeated upon the throne of the ſoul, as an unerring 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 bro⯑ken unawares, it was not in thoſe ſea⯑ſons 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; [156] for ſhe found it impoſſible to wean her affections from an object, one ſo en⯑tirely and with ſo good reaſon appro⯑ved, and now ſo entirely, and (you will pardon me) without any ſolid rea⯑ſons, 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 unreſervedly avowed, you re⯑preſented 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, [157] 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: yet, you averred, it was not fortune nor any other cir⯑cumſtance relating to what 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 diſſuade 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 [158] 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 roman⯑tic 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 be⯑yond my power—far, even as the pre⯑ſervation 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 in⯑veſted with the public ſanction with⯑out [159] 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 honour⯑able, 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 made before; and in point of attachment I hold my⯑ſelf at this moment as religiouſly uni⯑ted to Henry as if all the forms of the earth had paſſed my lips in confir⯑mation. The ſame idea will be lodged in my boſom whether that confirma⯑tion be remote or near. It is not in⯑tended by Heaven to be the affection of a year only. It is to laſt for life. [160] 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 judge 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 [161] 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 ſud⯑denly checked, and find, upon ſcru⯑tiny into this filial boſom, O my dear dear father, that one motive, and only one there 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 aids of property and induſtry proved inſufficient—and had thoſe ve⯑nerable hairs been indeed conſigned to ſorrow, and none but a daughter's du⯑teous [162] 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 ac⯑cepted 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 "mar⯑red an officer engaged in the natio⯑nal conteſt." Yet even then, my affection would remain, though its [...]timate views would be changed.

In the private receſſes of my ſoul, the image of Henry would ſtill be en⯑graved; and although I ſacrificed all [163] that was poſſible or neceſſary, to duty, it would be long, very long, ere I could withdrawthat chaſte and chann⯑ing ſentiment which gives me in all tranſitions, a title to eſteem—ah more than eſteem—to love—him tenderly.

LETTER LXXXVII.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

OH Henry, I can bear it no lon⯑ger. 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 ter⯑rors of my heart. You do not Knew what I am enduring for your dear ſake! You do not know what do⯑meſtic calamities have been heaped upon the anguiſh which ſeemed to [165] 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 ſa⯑vage hand—

Oh Henry, Henry—to love virtu⯑ouſly, conſtantly, and entirely—to know the full value and the full danger of the beloved object—to wiſh infor⯑mation, yet dread to hear it; is it, oh is it amongſt the ſupremeſt of curſes or of bleſſings?

LETTER LXXXVIII.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

ALTHOUGH I have a letter now toſſing with the ſea, and know it muſt be many a day upon its per⯑turbed 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 de⯑ſpiſe their pedantry! I want not to be taught the theory of patience; I have prattifed it long. But horrors, [167] too great for patience itſelf, at length invade me! Oh by the agony which you cauſe, and by all the dread⯑ſul nights and days that you make me ſuffer, reſpect my misfortunes! Re⯑lieve, 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 poſ⯑ſibility 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 ſuſpenſe—this, agonizing ſuſpenſe [168] preſents nothing but images the moſt dire. Tell me explicitly, fully, cir⯑cumſtantially. I conjure, I inſiſt that you let me know every thing without diſguiſe, without delay. Alas! how I write 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 LXXXIX.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

COngratulate me, oh Louiſa! con⯑gratulate yourſelf—congratulate humanity; for one of its chief orna⯑ments yet lives. I exiſt. I breathe. I recover. Henry is well. Behold the incloſed. Sanctify it with a ſiſ⯑ter's kiſs, but oh eraſe not thoſe which Emma has impreſſed on every line. It is dated at ſea; but the in⯑telligence chears me. I truſt in Pro⯑vidence, 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 while it is out [170] of my poſſeſſion. It is an inſtance of my friendſhip which ſurpaſſes all com⯑mon bounds. My fever abates: my pulſes reſume a wholſome meaſure. Hope is buſy in every vein. I can bear the viſitation of the ſun-beam, and will now retire to reſt, ſoftly ſup⯑plicating that Power which alone can relieve me, to continue the bounty he has begun.

LETTER XC.
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 ap⯑pear; and I have buried my ill news 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 ambi⯑tious and graſping ſpirit even of an American, and they muſt, I think, be accepted. Once more regulated by maternal laws, the wayward child [172] ſhall again proſper. The treaſures of either hemiſphere ſhall again be ſhared. The arms of a great nation ſhall no longer be employed to annoy but to defend. Our refractory fellow-ſubjects ſhall ſoften into their former ſentiments. I am now, Emma, within ſight 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 affectio⯑nate advances, and ſcorned as have been her profeſſed kindneſs, ſhall re⯑ceive with tranſport her America. [173] 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 al⯑tercating relations have ſo long af⯑frighted thee! Melt the hearts of contending countrymen, and ſhape every jarring intereſt they maintain all all confeſs thy celeſtial ſway. Subdue, gentleſt power! the fierce ſoul of ambition, ſoften the ſinews of authority, and let the countenance of offended Majeſty ſhare the tenderneſs of a father—ah! come, I implore thee, and come without delay! Let not [174] Henry fight againſt the cauſe for which Edward fell! Let there be no longer cauſe to fight. Expand thy ſnowy wing over the ſame people—replace brother in the embraces of brother, and friend in the foldings of friend. Let a ſoldier in this inſtance ſupplicate thee to ſheathe the ſword. Reſerve his arm for the natural ene⯑mies 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 Peàce, in the name of all the dear and delicate affections—affecti⯑ons which make up thy enchanting train. I call upon thee in the names of nature, reaſon, humanity, and good ſaith—in the names of father, child, and all connections that are moſt pre⯑cious. [175] —I call in the names of Emma and Louiſa. My invocation can aſ⯑cend no higher, nor can—

—Hah—ſoft, ſoft, my Emma—methinks the invocation is heard. The courted Deity deſcends in all the benignity of her brightneſs. She is ſurrounded with ſunbeams ſoftened by tender fleecings of ſky which form her chariot. The eternal olive mixes in the ray which waves over the turrets of the weſtern world. War is diſ⯑armed. 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!

[176]—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, though lately trampled down, ſprings up and freſh⯑ens 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 reaſcends his throne, and ſtretches his roſeat ſcep⯑tre over the human heart. The trembling maids—the Emmas which embelliſh the earth, receive their returning heroes without a wound!

[177]Our ſails are thrown back, my be⯑loved Emma. The ſurface of the ſoul at this moment is emblematic of peace. The captain of our veſſel in preparing papers for England, to b [...] taken by the ſhip which is gently floating along-ſide of us. She is going from the General with diſpatches, probably of a 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 be [...]t of their way before me.) I antici⯑pate the tranſport with which my ti⯑dings will be received—and imagine the effect they will have on the exacleſt form, and moſt touching features, my eyes ever beheld. I ſee, methinks, [178] the ſoft tear of genuine joy, courſe along the cheek, or bathing the cryſ⯑tal that covers my portrait—the invi⯑ſible 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 hea⯑ven.

LETTER XCI.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

AFORTUNATE change has hap⯑pened, 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 low upon every feature. Her languor is gone. Her tears ſtream from bappi⯑neſs only. She ſighs with bliſs.

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 Ro⯑bert, the panacea is arrived. I am well. I am happy."

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

LETTER XCII.
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 light⯑ning before the ſtorm, and only an⯑nounced its approach. The thunder⯑bolt has at length fallen to cruſh the moſt unfortunate

LETTER XCIII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

IS he then dead? is he too numbered with the ſlain? and hath the noble youth ſo ſoon followed the lovely Ed⯑ward? Alas! I ſuſpected this, even while your letter of fairer information lay before me. In vain expectance of finding ſomething that relates to the ſate of my huſband, even againſt the convictions I have of his death, I fondly examine every paper and pub⯑lic print relating to the war, that falls in my way. In the Gazette of laſt night I perceive there has been an engage⯑ment, and [...]read with ſtreaming eyes an account of the wounded and the ſlain. Yet, are you ſure of your in⯑telligence? [183] I hope it is, in part, ill⯑founded; for I perceive not the name of Hammond in either liſt. An En⯑ſign Haddock, and a Captain Hammer⯑ſon, are mentioned amongſt the woun⯑ded; 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 XCIV.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

THE Gazette! flain! wounded!— Oh I had no conception to what an extreme of miſery I was re⯑ſerved! You have miſtaken me; but of what dire information has that miſ⯑take been productive? There has then been an engagement! You have ſeen the bloody liſt. It muſt have been purpoſely concealed from me. The ſkirmiſh, you ſay, was ſudden. You read of a Captain Ham⯑merſon. In the hurry of war it is eaſy to drop one ſyllabie, or to add another. Theſe conflicts are too great.

[185]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 re⯑medy.

LETTER XCV.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

EMMA, be yourſelf. You muſt make one generous effort. I ſee you languiſhing under my eye and canot 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 ac⯑cept his protection. I tell thee, Emma, that were he this moment returned, and returned with what degenerate Bri⯑tons now call glory—nay, could he lay the conqueſt of the plundered colo⯑nies at thy feet, there exiſts a reaſon [187] which would make it vile—yes, mark the ſtrength of the term—VILE, in Emma Corbett to accept it. But I ſee nothing leſs than the entire explana⯑tion of the fact will convince thee. To cruſh, therefore, every lingering hope at once, know thou dear infatu⯑ated, thy father ſtill leans his very ſoul on the welfare of America. Thoſe fortunes which have been deſtroyed, thoſe debts which have impove⯑riſhed me, as well as thoſe ample ſtreams of commerce which rolled un⯑obſtructed from ſhore to ſhore, were [...]l dedicated to injured America. For [...] 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. [188] She is 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 free⯑dom.—She has been condemned with⯑out a hearing.—She was ſtabbed into reſiſtance.—The ſword was held to her throat ere ſhe thought of ſelf-defence. Conflagration, famine, and parricide, have entered her late peaceful habita⯑tions.—The common bounties of Pro⯑vidence 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, [189] 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 betwixt an Engliſhman and 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 rui⯑nous rapacity, the murder, the VII⯑LAINY of this unnatural war. I enter deeply, and pathetically, into every wrong which America ſuſtains. It is the only point wherein I am enthuſi⯑aſtic, and it is the only point where enthuſiam is great and glorious! Do not imagine, raſh girl!—monſtrous [190] thought!—do not DARE to imagine ungrateful Henry ſhall ever receive the hand of Emma. Spare me, belo⯑ved daughter, in this one part—this ſore, 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 ho⯑nourable cauſe. He called it inſult, bribery, baſeneſs. The military diſ⯑traction was throbbing in every vein. When I argued, he juſtified every meaſure of miniſtry. Great-Britain, [191] he ſaid, was groſsly abuſed—her le⯑nity ſcorned—her laws defied—her ſublime prerogative contemptuouſly 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 in⯑dividual, and it was the duty of every young man (whom every tie of inte⯑reſt, every bond of loyalty, and every principle of policy called upon) to ma⯑nifeſt his zeal, his courage, and his at⯑tachment. He went on, my child in all the foaming folly of youth, de⯑claring, that he ſhould account himſelf baſe, 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 [192] his mind: and was reſolved to defend his country or gloriouſly periſh in her ruins. I pitied his delirium, yet ve⯑nerated his ardour. Well directed, of what was it not ſuſceptible! He was above admonition, and kept er⯑ring 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 re⯑luctantly withdrew, and gave up the point.

Oh America, thou bleeding inno⯑cent, how art thou laden with oppreſ⯑ſions! Oh my child, my child! Na⯑ture, Religion, and Religion's God, [193] 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 kin⯑dred gore! Tyranny hath not a re⯑ſerve of barbarity in ſtore. She is exhauſted. Your Henry is a volun⯑teer amongſt thoſe who, as an acquiſi⯑tion 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, obliviate, deteſt him. He is in open rebellion againſt the laws of nature. Let your affections flow into a fairer channel— [194] ah ſuffer a parent's hand to pilot them. He has 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 XCVI.
TO FREDERICK 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 the other, and where ſtill greater entan⯑glement is promiſed, are really too many for me who have made a ſudden tranſition from quietneſs to agitation.

You cannot reprobate my weakneſs in a keener ſtyle of cenſure than I myſelf do. Oh, I know full well the [196] unfitneſs of ſuch ſtorms to the ſober ſeaſon of my life. I conceal 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 more than barriers of iron againſt me, unite to point at the neceſſity of retreat. Expect me, therefore; and when we are together, prepare yourſelf with ſubject of con⯑verſation; which, indeed, may take any turn but that of my infirmity: all men, who are conſcious they poſſeſs any, [197] 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 XCVII.
TO THE SAME.

STOP, ſtop, dear friend. Viſit not Caſtleberry yet. I have twice attempted to take leave, and twice failed—twice packed, and twice un⯑packed my portmanteau—twice or⯑dered my ſervant to get horſes, and twice pretended to be weatherwiſe, and, 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 hurri⯑canes! 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.

[199]A little delay can make no diffe⯑rence. Indulge me. Humour me.

Within a poſt or two I will decide, and decide too as you and as common ſenſe demands of me.

LETTER XCVIII.
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—I ſet out to-morrow.

LETTER XCIX.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

I HAVE a ſuſpicion that Mr. Ham⯑mond is wounded; let that cir⯑cumſtance, 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 ſylla⯑ble of which is as an envenomed ar⯑row fixing in my boſom. Your de⯑termined 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 [202] blood of my brother. Shall political prejudices interrupt the fineſt affecti⯑ons of humanity? Horrid is the aſ⯑pect 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 amen⯑ded 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 pre⯑cincts 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 ho⯑noured parent, ſince that would be to encourage the madneſs of mortals, [203] and the civil peſtilence, that in the form of a family-war, is gone forth againſt us. It would violate the gen⯑tle laws 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 vi⯑gour 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 applaud. But, in avowing your own enthuſi⯑aſm, [204] my dear father, do you 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 eſpou⯑ſing 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 ho⯑nour, 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 diſ⯑pute. Which is that better ſide? Henry declares for Britain; you for America. What third perſon ſhall [205] decide between you? The feeble voice of a woman will neither be heard or admitted. Elſe, might ſhe ven⯑ture 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 prin⯑ciple. 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 reſolu⯑tions [206] 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 ſub⯑mitted to the holy criticiſm of Hea⯑ven, nor ever dreads the ſcrutiny—is it, under theſe circumſtances, of a texture ſo convenient, as to ſhift from object to object with every gale of opinion, and move away at the word of command? Wherefore, let me once again tenderly enquire, where⯑fore did you originally inſpire me with a veneration for ſober reaſon? why infuſe in me a ſteady and gene⯑rous way of thinking? Was it de⯑ſigned for ornament or for uſe? If not intended as the governing rule of con⯑duct, [207] through every meander 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 princi⯑ples, 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! ſuf⯑fer me to implore you, ſir, to continue [208] 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 con⯑ſtancy in favour of a known valuable object (not obſtinate predilection to a bad one) is the baſis on which the ſu⯑perſtructure of all that is noble, juſt, and good, muſt be raiſed. My wiſ⯑dom is extremely limited. It ſtretches not into thoſe maxims which deſolate the earth for a vapour of victory, nor does it preſume to penetrate the wiles of government. All it does pretend to, belongs to that ſmall and dear ſyſ⯑tem in which every woman ought to be inſtructed; namely, that a well⯑fixed [209] tenderneſs ſhould never be remo⯑ved, 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 contenti⯑ons of a bickering ſpecies aſide, and ſubmit to be charmed by that diſpaſ⯑ſionate power which decides calmly of truth and falſhood, he would be con⯑vinced of this. I am ſure he would: for his nature is gentle and his heart is ſoft. Ah think what 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— [210] 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.