LETTER C.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

UNgrateful Emma! perverſe and inſenſate child! You merit nei⯑ther 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 depar⯑ture of a generous friend, who I now [4] tell you (for I can hold no longer) would have laid his fortune at your feet. This, indeed, you muſt have ſeen, ſince nothing but the moſt ex⯑treme ſtupidity could remain igno⯑rant 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 de⯑mand 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 con⯑nexions [7] of your family. I will not endure it. You aſſume the language of deciſion, and call it the ſentiment of reaſon. You ſet yourſelf up as [...] judge, and lift your woman's voice againſt the ſacred principles of patriot and parent. It is not to be borne. Let me hear no more on the ſubject. Ceaſe your threats about daggers, darts, and death. I look DOWN upon ſuch romance. Forbear to urge me. You are not to learn the touches of my temper. My principles are not leſs ſacred than your paſſion. Your principles! What are they? Airy no⯑things. Mine are the ſolemn af⯑fections of a lover of his country, and a deteſter of its oppreſſors, a de⯑teſter of Henry Hammond! Why will [8] you drive me to this? I know no⯑thing of his wounds; but if he has re⯑ceived 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 ab⯑horrence (as ſettled as it is ſublime) of rights uſurped and ſaith broken? Is your puerile, yet headſtrong incli⯑nation worthy to be brought into conſideration with the paſſion that fills the breaſt, and fires the ſoul, of your afflicted and offended father,

LETTER CI.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

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

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

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

LETTER CII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

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

LETTER CIII.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

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

LETTER CIV.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

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

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

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

LETTER CV.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

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

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

LETTER CVI.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.^*

I CLAIM the aſſiſtance of a man whom I know to be generous, who honours me with his eſteem, and whom I venerate for the anci⯑ent friendſhip that has long uni⯑ted 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 abſent⯑ing myſelf in this manner is not the truant trick of a girl who triumphs in the vexation of a parent, but proceeds [21] from a motive moſt virtuous, moſt irreſiſtable, moſt conſcientious—from a duty that appeals to my heart, my ſenſes, and my ſoul. O let him not think that I glory in the neceſſity which takes me one moment from him. I lament, I weep, I mourn over it. I could wiſh that each duty went hand in hand, and that ſome of their objects did not lie ſo wide apart from others. Superior to every deceit, I would have conſul⯑ted 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, [22] becauſe I would ſuffer ſome reproach myſelf, rather than try to eſtabliſh an irregular example. But the power who is giving me ſtrength to ſuſtain the great buſineſs I am about to un⯑dertake, 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, ho⯑nour, 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 approba⯑tion. 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 [23] the leaſt ſemblance of a ſcheme, which is moſt terrible to my nature, could it by any means have been avoided. My father will call to mind certain ſentiments, and do me juſtice in his own dear boſom on this occaſion.

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

Excuſe my forbearing to give you my addreſs. Pity the concealments which are thus impoſed. Be it ſuffi⯑cient that I will continue to ſend you accounts of myſelf at every oppor⯑tunity.

LETTER CVII.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

YOUR letter, Sir Robert, with its dear and dreadful incloſure came to hand. It is now before my eyes, which are ſtreaming in penitence for the phrenzy which has baniſhed my daughter. I now behold the whole matter too plain. Oh, my friend, I treated the moſt dutiful of children with unwonted harſhneſs, and in the patriot I extinguiſhed the parent. I expected that a ſoul like Emma's ſhould circumſcribe itſelf within the pale of politics. Curſe on the rage of party! Execrated be the tyranies of war! Ah what are cauſes, countries, [26] worlds, to the loſs of one dear child adorned with the virtues of Emma Corbett! Blind, doating zeal! what haſt thou to do with an old man's heart? What, with the ſacred ſeaſon of the ſilver hair? Is mine an age to engage in theſe tumultuous ſubjects? No. I ſhould have taken my darling daughter to my boſom, and with an enlarged benevolence prayed fer⯑vently for the returning embrace of a divided people. That would have been true patriotiſm and true philan⯑thropy. Inſtead of which, dolt and dotard as I was, I mixed with hot-headed giddineſs in the affray. I in⯑tereſted myſelf in every fugitive breath of vague intelligence; and, while I [27] talked of juſtice, I was encouraging ſlaughter; wholly forgetting, or too blood-thirſty to remember, that either army is compoſed of kindred and of countrymen. Behold Raymond, how I am puniſhed! But where, where all this time is Emma? No date! No addreſs! A young creature un⯑friended, 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 [28] kiſs her into confidence and compo⯑ſure. 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 men⯑tioned, 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 diſ⯑patched [29] various meſſengers to all the ports to have her tenderly intreated, almoſt cordially controuled, ſhould her romantic nature—for oh I ſuſ⯑pect 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 enchant⯑ing voice—I contemplate not her lovely features—all, all the exact images of her dear mother—her mo⯑ther! who would ſhudder in her grave were ſhe—

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

LETTER CVIII.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

I AM not ſorry you found it incon⯑venient 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 af⯑fords 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 Ham⯑mond, [32] this heroic rival, ſo reſpect⯑able, that my whole ſoul yields im⯑plicit obedience to the very de⯑ſires 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, ſin⯑cerely as I know you love me, I dare not tell you all that I intend to do. Yet conſider a young creature about to venture on the wild and uncertain ocean, moved by a ſacred impulſe in favour of a worthy lover, who has himſelf left a blooming miſtreſs, whoſe ſociety he conſents to ſacrifice, to his country. Conſider alſo this lover, as one who is the choice of Emma, and is every way ſuitable to her in perſon as in age.

[33] When you have maturely weighed theſe circumſtances, then tell me what at my age and under my circum⯑ſtances 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 con⯑ſult, my reaſon and my conſcience. What they inſpire can never be [34] laughed away. Laugh then, but do not forget that your mirth is at the expence of a friend who is ſeriouſly unhappy.

LETTER CIX.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

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

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

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

LETTER CX.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

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

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

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

LETTER CXI.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

YOU were ſcarce gone twenty mi⯑nutes, my moſt generous Ray⯑mond, ere a letter came to hand by private conveyance—a letter, my friend, whoſe contents—oh Sir Robert, I ſink under the double con⯑flict of delight and of deſpair.

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

Oh if you ſhould—

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

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

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

LETTER CXII.
EDWARD CORBETT TO HIS FATHER.

AFTER having been thirteen months agonized amongſt the wounded, and more than once conſi⯑dered as the prize of death, I am at length able to write a few lines to ac⯑quaint you that I exiſt; by which in⯑formation, 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 [44] not received your replies, I fear either thoſe miſcarried, or mine have never reached you. Indeed, war puts a dreadful ſtop to this branch of com⯑munication, although the only one which can relieve the pains of ſo p [...] ⯑rilous an abſence.

WASHINGTON offers me the mean of future retreat and inactivity, [...] conſideration, I ſuppoſe, of my fears. But I am now too far engaged to ac⯑cept 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, con⯑tinue to do ſo ſtill. The Engliſh per⯑ſiſt [45] to call thoſe cowards whom they prove to be men, and feel to be heroes. To-morrow I ſhall once more fix the bayonet, and ſhoulder the muſquet. Every man fights in this country; we arm not for pay but for property, not for the wages of war but for li⯑berty 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 diſ⯑putes 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 [46] reſpect of her youth, her bravery, and her misfortunes. Tell him I ſhould be glad to receive him here—to re⯑ceive him, in that caſe, as a brother; and on thoſe conditions, too, we will both return one day or another, and enjoy the fruits of a double marriage; for notwithſtanding your reſiſtance, my father, I muſt ſtill remind you that I have a heart only for Louiſa. God ſend all together, happy, of one mind, and in one houſe: I care not in what kingdom or in what country.

LETTER CXIII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

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.

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

LETTER CXIV.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

I AM an old man, in a ſad, ſick chamber, without any human be⯑ing 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 [50] him together. All ambitious views are worn from my heart. Renew your gentle hopes, and fear not to avow them. Ah that Henry and Edward were both ſafe from the ca⯑lamities of war, and both within the reach of theſe paternal arms! Oh you know not the pain in which I write. Come then, if the father of Edward—the yet exiſting Edward be eſtimable.

LETTER CXV.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

LETTER CXVI.
TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

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

LETTER CXVII.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

I AM commiſſioned by a friend on whoſe veracity I can depend, to impart a piece of news to my Louiſa, which is delightful as unexpected. It is foreign news, and America has ſome ſort of connexion with it; but I cannot be more explicit till I know what preſent health you are in poſſeſ⯑ſion 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 fini⯑ſhed, [54] and then I ſhall be wholly at your ſervice.

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

LETTER CXVIII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

LETTER CXIX.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

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

LETTER CXX.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

LETTER CXXI.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

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

LETTER CXXII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

LETTER CXXIII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

OH, Mr. Corbett, the abrupt joy produced by your late intelli⯑gence, has counteracted the tender deſigns of Edward, and thrown his poor Louiſa into a condition which [60] makes me tremble. The ſettled calm of her mind has long been overthrown, and I who have been her almoſt con⯑ſtant 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 ſor⯑row-teeming world, is the moſt af⯑ecting. Indeed ſir, you ſhould have been leſs precipitate—yet you meant kindly. You acknowledge her for a daughter. It is impoſſible to tell you in what a ſtyle of enthuſiaſtic gratitude ſhe ſpeaks of this. All will be well, and yet—ſoft! ſhe wakes! Oh what a look! how wild! how fearful! I muſt leave off writing.

LETTER CXXIV.
TO MRS. ARNOLD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

BOUND by promiſe, by obliga⯑tion, and by the laws of nature, to ſend you faithful accounts of my⯑ſelf, I dare no longer conceal the in⯑cidents [64] which have happened to the verieſt wretch that ever—

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

Our veſſel has been attacked, has fought, and is taken. Oh the moun⯑tains 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, ra⯑ther than—

[65]—I am watched. Pens and pa⯑per are objects of ſuſpicion.

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

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

Freſh priſoners are brought.

They are entering! What crouds! What—

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

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

THAT paragon of her ſex, your daughter! That man too, ſoar⯑ing 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 ſpeak⯑ing, 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. Cor⯑bett, let me open upon you the bleſ⯑ſings which, by the contrivance of [107] Providence, have been brought about. Summon your heart to bear the beſt, the deareſt news which it is in the nature of human things for you to hear. O let the agony of that in⯑formation, which Sir Robert Ray⯑mond's letter has, doubtleſs, produ⯑ced, be, in great meaſure, done away by the happier tydings that will ſa⯑lute you in this.

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

[108]The leading ſtep to every other fe⯑licity you muſt hear firſt. You, who have de [...]ply drank of the bitter cup, muſt now try to ſupport, without in⯑toxication, the taſte of ſweeter ingre⯑dients.

From the point of death your Emma has recovered. The interpo⯑ſing hand of heaven was ſuddenly ex⯑tended.

Ten days after the departure of Sir Robert's pacquet, ſhe was in a ſitua⯑tion to leave her bed. To what pur⯑poſe did ſhe leave it? Reſolution, oh how ſacred is thy force when anima⯑ted by the breath of love!

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

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

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

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

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

After ſeveral days travelling, du⯑ring which time ſhe had not encoun⯑tered any paſſenger who could give her the leaſt intelligence, ſhe ſat her⯑ſelf 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 ob⯑ſerved, at a little aperture in the foreſt, a party of ſoldiers engaging with a tribe of Indians; but while ſhe was eagerly examining the perſons of the [112] former, the latter were put to flight, and retreated with the utmoſt prerci⯑pitation: the ſoldiers purſued, and both were out of ſight ere Emma had time to approach nearer to them.

She ſaw enough, however, to con⯑vince her that the regimentals were Britiſh, and the uniform of the off⯑icers 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 ſol⯑diers were ſeen in different parts of the foreſt, but the corpſe of Ham⯑mond could, by no diligence, be found.

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

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

Signs of exiſtence increaſed. With ſcarce a covering from the ſky, the af⯑fectionate Emma ſheltered her unfor⯑tunate 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 [115] to you the tranſport of this wondrous creature when ſhe firſt beheld the long-cloſed eye of Henry open on the light —and open on herſelf?

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

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

Oh generous unknown, (ſaid he feebly) whoſoever thou art, receive the dying acknowledgements of the man whom thou haſt endeavoured to reſcue from an untimely death. Had thoſe kind endeavours ſucceeded, what thanks ſhouldeſt thou receive from one of the beſt—the deareſt—but it may not be—I am nearly ex⯑hauſted—perhaps, ere yet another hour moves by—leſt that ſhould be the caſe, let me, oh let me, while yet I have the power to call down heaven's choiceſt bleſſings on that lovely [118] mourner, whoſe tears are haply ſtream⯑ing at this moment for the expiring Henry—Ah ſir, ah worthy youth, couldſt thou ſee her—couldſt thou atteſt for me theſe dying ſentiments—couldſt thou aſſure her that with my lateſt breath—But that is impoſſi⯑ble, 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 ſup⯑ported him.

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

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

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

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

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

—Yes, and in America ſhe is arri⯑ved, cried ſhe (entering at this mo⯑ment, 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!

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

You will not expect I ſhould tell you what either felt at that moment! You will not expect I ſhould deſcribe the ſeries of delicious ſorrow and gra⯑tulations 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—

[124]—in ſhort, it was a falſe rumour you ſee that reached Emma at John's-Town, reſpecting the death of Henry. He was reſerved for Emma to diſco⯑ver 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 mer⯑cies 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 [125] he were worthy of her. Diſcloſe, he beſeeches you, theſe tender circum⯑ſtances 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 wri⯑ter is now known.

Adieu.

LETTER CXXVII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

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

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

LETTER CXXVIII.
TO THE SAME.

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

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

LETTER CXXIX.
TO HENRY HARMOND, ESQ.

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

LETTER CXXX.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

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

LETTER CXXXI.
TO THE SAME.

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

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

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

LETTER CXXXII.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

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

He preſſes, he importunes, he in⯑ſiſts, in all the emphaſis of tender con⯑troulment, that to-morrow may be the day. He almoſt chides me for cold⯑neſs of ſentiment towards him.

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

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

The billet you ſent me this morn⯑ing 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.

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

If you will—oh hard requeſt—if you will gently withdraw yourſelf for a time only, till you have gained com⯑poſure, 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 pow⯑er to correſpond in this way any [141] more. I know your friendſhip will inſiſt upon my fulfilling to the utmoſt every duty in life, and every engage⯑ment. Should this, therefore, be the laſt letter that paſſes between us, I conjure you to believe, that of every petition, of every fervent prayer that I offer to heaven, your health and your happineſs will form a part. I did not think it poſſible that any thing could fall out to make me wretched, with the immediate proſpect of being united to Henry; and yet ſuch is my genuine eſteem for you, Sir Robert, that I cannot be perfectly happy while I am conſcious of creating miſery to one of the nobleſt of mankind. Henry enters, and I can ſay no more.

LETTER CXXXIII.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

WHY leave us at this charming criſis, oh invaluable friend? Will you, who have brought my trea⯑ſure ſafe through ſo many perils, re⯑fuſe 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 de⯑laved the nuptials becauſe ſhe was too much harraſſed in ſpirits. And now I will myſelf put them back a little, that they may not want the ornament [143] of ſuch a friend as Sir Robert Ray⯑mond. Yes; I will defer even the poſſeſſion of Emma, till her moſt ge⯑nerous 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 condi⯑tion to do ſo too. Emma inſiſts upon this.

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

LETTER CXXXIV.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

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

LETTER CXXXV.
TO HENRY HAMMOND.

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

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

LETTER CXXXVI.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

THE greateſt trial of mine, and perhaps of human life, is paſt; for I have juſt heard that your daugh⯑ter 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 pre⯑ternatural conſciouſneſs plays about my heart, as I conſider this triumph over my own paſſions. It is a ſacri⯑fice of ſelf to ſociety. It is—oh Mr. Corbett, I wiſh them very happy. Th [...] [...] their wedding day; a [...] expreſs has juſt reached the [...]e [...]ireme [...]. I now enjoy—enjoy did I ſay! Alas, can [147] you not trace the bleeding heart—can you not trace the piercing tho [...] through—

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

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

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

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

I do not propoſe returning to Phi⯑ladelphia for ſome days.

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER CXXXVII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

I RECEIVED your congratulati⯑ons; I received your bleſſing; and to crown the whole of human happi⯑neſs, I have received the hand of your daughter. Yet my tranſport has hur⯑ried 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 tranſ⯑mitted 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 emb⯑races. [152] Sir Robert Raymond too, our ſecond father, and our firſt of friends, would rejoice at this. Yet he keeps aloof from us. He uſed to be enamoured of our ſociety, and now the deepeſt ſolitudes have ſeduced him from us. In vain I invite, in vain I implore. He is melancholy: he is mournful. Is there a cauſe for this? Ah that I could remove it! I have now been ſix weeks in the poſſeſ⯑ſion 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 [153] a portion of that felicity thou haſt gi⯑ven to Emma and to me, the meaſure of my bliſs will be full indeed! I am ſoothed by the prayer. It will be ac⯑cepted. 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 con⯑vey 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 emo⯑tions of her heart.

LETTER CXXXVIII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

I have applied to this our intellec⯑tual ſovereign on a different principle. I implored her, not to inſpire me with that indifference which is the uſual prayer of the diſappointed. The ob⯑ject [155] of my love is married to the man of her heart. She obtained him at the price of almoſt unparalleled hazards. I ſaw every hope of poſſeſſion cut off. It was an intolerable agony. I bore it till I became almoſt deſperate. I indulged the paſſion even till the in⯑diſſoluble 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 wretch⯑edneſs, 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.

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

But can I conquer my affection? No. It is not poſſible; it is not ne⯑ceſſary. To extinguiſh bad paſſions, and to regulate good ones, are the two great points within the compaſs of reaſon. To covet any longer the perſon of Emma would be infamous. It is an inhibition of law, of religion, and of God. But, are the merely ſen⯑ſual 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 [158] Henry, whoſe heart melts in grati⯑tude towards me, and my own con⯑ſcious 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 gene⯑rous ſigh—the ſoftening tear—the ſo⯑cial ſmile—the ſelf-gratulation—the [159] fluſh of virtue, pleaſed with herſelf—the ſmile of Emma—the aſſent of HEAVEN?

Oh Mr. Corbett, we have glorious faculties, had we the reſolution to exert them. We are afraid to begin. The heart trembles at a view of its labour. We venture to climb the ſteep, and are diſmayed. But every difficulty of ſoul and body diminiſhes by earneſt perſeverance. However cragged the mountain, or ſlippery its path, every effort brings us nearer to the ſummit; the ſecond ſtep is eaſier than the firſt, the third is ſmoother than the ſecond. It is the motive of climbing that gives us fortitude. When the motive is ſo great as to concern the happineſs of [160] others, and our own duty is included, ſurely we ſhould ſtruggle to aſcend. I, Corbett, have ſtruggled—I cannot ſay how much or how long, but I can and do tell you, in the ſincerity of my ſoul, that though I am not, nor perhaps ſhall EVER be again a happy man, I do not wiſh either the death of Henry, or the alienation of his Emma's affection. I can ſupport the preſence of both, when ſoftneſs and wedded love ſits faireſt upon their features. And, tho' many a riſing tear warns me that it is time to retire, no ſentiment of irre⯑gular 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 [161] make advances to converſation that relates to Emma: and yet Emma is his perpetual ſubject, and his darling theme. Her own conduct is ſuch as correſponds with every part of her former life. Perhaps there never was a more affecting ſituation than ſhe has to perform whenever I am preſent. It is indeed too much for a nature ſo gentle, and ſo ingenuous. But I will remove the effect, by removing the cauſe. Humanity ſhould not preſume to be perfect. I have carried a con⯑queſt as far, perhaps, as it can go. I have acquired ſtrength by an exami⯑nation 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 [162] won. Involuntary thoughts will treſ⯑paſs on the firmeſt mind. Emma is a tender wife, a tender friend. Hea⯑ven 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 when⯑ever 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 dan⯑ger of a reiapſe; but I am obliged to repeat the reſcuing arguments too of⯑ten. A few months abſence will compleat my work. Henry and his WIFE—I wiſh, Corbett, I could write [163] that word with a ſteadier hand—are happy. I leave them in the arms of each other. I—

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

LETTER CXXXIX.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

I KNOW your character, and will give you another opportunity to to gratify it; for I will offer you an occaſion to oblige me. I have, for ſome time, felt myſelf extremely in⯑diſpoſed, [164] not I believe in conſequence of agitated ſpirits or of my late fa⯑tigues in nurſing the dear Henry, whom Heaven has reſtored to my ſo⯑licitude and my affections, but from ſome other cauſe which feels more in⯑ternal. 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 experien⯑ced, will, I dare ſay, ſet all right [165] again. Give me your advice in con⯑fidence, and without delay. Bleſſings attend your gentle heart and noble nature.

LETTER CXL.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

[166]Emma is again indiſpoſed.

You muſt not expect me.

LETTER CXLI.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

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

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

LETTER CXLII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

MR. Corbett, had it pleaſed hea⯑ven to turn away this bitter cup, or given me a leſs tender na⯑ture, or—

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

Wretched veteran in ſorrow, how ſhall I explain myſelf to you how con⯑ceal what muſt, I foreſee, be commu⯑nicated?

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

EMMA IS POISONED!

Shall I proceed?

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

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

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

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

LETTER CXLIII.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

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

[189]At preſent, fortune ſeems to con⯑tinue 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 be⯑held 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 Portſ⯑mouth, [190] diſpatched three days before. It had been miſs-ſent. The letter did not come to hand till two hours after our arrival. He was not PREPARED to receive us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Corbett and Emma are ſtill toge⯑ther in the next room to that in which I write. The ſervants look amaze⯑ment and diſmay.

I hear, methinks, the voice of my aged aſſociate in friendſhip and in ſor⯑row. [192] I am called ſuddenly and haſ⯑tily.—

Oh friend, oh Berkley: to what am I reſerved! A PREMATURE LABOUR has been brought on by hurry, agita⯑tion, and fatigue. This morning's ſun ſees Emma a mother of a living child.—The poiſon ſeems not to have been in the leaſt degree communi⯑cated 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 [193] father.—But that—even Henry's off⯑ſpring 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 con⯑ſequence of the venom, which reſiſted the force and ſubtilty of all applica⯑tion.—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!"—

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

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

Charles Corbett ſtands fixed over the corpſe of his daughter.

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

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

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

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

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

The widow of Edward hath left a ſon—

The widow of Henry a daughter—

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

LETTER CXLIV.
TO THE SAME.

I AM juſt come from the moſt ago⯑nizing 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 ſitua⯑tion, unconnected in your intereſts, you can, happily for you, have no conception—at leaſt no perfect one—of that rend in the heart which is made by death, when youth, innocence, and beauty, is committed to the duſt—when the parent hangs his drooping head over the laſt ſad tenement—when the orphans—

[198]Whatever I ſaid? Youth, inno⯑cence, and beauty!—and do all theſe then go down to the earth's cold bo⯑ſom? Shall none of them aſcend? The glooms of the ſoul almoſt carry ſenſation into ſin! They ſhall ALL aſ⯑cend! 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 fa⯑mily, in all the ſolemn pathos of grief, forgets every pain of body in nurſing that which is ſeated within. The ro⯑mance of youth may teach you to ex⯑pect that I ſhould execrate—that I ſhould ſummon to my aſſiſtance every [199] infernal power—that I ſhould tax heaven itſelf with cruelty, and take refuge from altercating man, amidſt the friendly concealment of impene⯑trable 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. [200] More impetuous periods I have felt ſo awful and ſo affecting a criſis never did I experience. You, who knew not Emma, and have not a regular though you have a worthy heart, can⯑not know what I have loſt. The manner of her death—the motive—and the whole tenour of circumſtan⯑ces 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 ſo⯑lemn cataſtrophe, leſt you, my dear Barkley, or any other perſon, into whoſe hands theſe incidents may fall, ſhould preſume to queſtion the ways [201] of ALMIGHTY GOD, which are juſti⯑fiable in every part of this pathetic ſtory. Erroneous notions of puniſh⯑ment and reward, are perhaps the leading ſteps to irreligion and infide⯑lity. The vile herd of novelliſts have done an eſſential injury to the cauſe of virtue, by ſacrificing to the pleaſure of the reader, beyond the ſimplicity of truth. Difficulty, in the beginning of a narrative; love, in the middle; and marriages, at the end, make up, almoſt invariably, the recipe of a mo⯑dern romance. This is called reward⯑ing virtue; a bad character or two, perhaps, drops off, and that is called puniſhing vice. Falſe, fooliſh, con⯑cluſion! Look into life. Doth not heaven's bleſſed beam ſhine equally [202] on the juſt and the unjuſt. Are all rewards ſo mechanically contrived? Hath virtue no joys of her own?—joys, which generous ſorrow only can produce? Is the ſacred ſtruggle of a good man altogether afflictive? To paſs through a road perplexed and thorny—to travel through a hard and difficult life, without tearing the finer principles from the heart, doth it re⯑quire no better conduct than moves in the machinery of thoſe contempti⯑ble pages where all is given up to letter'd art, and diſtorted imagina⯑tion? Are there no ſweets in the penſive ſigh—the pious tear? Break they from the mourner without offer⯑ing him any balm? Hath heaven-born conſtancy no comforts? Conſi⯑der [203] the life of Emma! Hath death, at once virtuous and chriſtian, nothing to lift the ſurvivor's ſpirit above every care of vulgar being? Oh Frederick, I am touched by a very tender exam⯑ple. In lamenting as I now lament, ſay my friend, is there no dear and welcome mitigations? Yes, I feel—I feel that there are. Would I part with this generous grief?—Ah no! What would I take in exchange?—The univerſe ſhould not buy it from me. I even anticipate the holy ſatiſ⯑faction 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? [204] Shall ſhe loſe as an angel, what as a mortal ſhe acquired? I love her bet⯑ter. The Omnipotent placed her in the path of my life, to fix and concen⯑trate 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 pa⯑rent's common duty—to cloathe, to feed, to educate? Conſider Barkley, whoſe babe it is!

I have hurried down ſtairs to exa⯑mine my treaſure!

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

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

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

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

LETTER CXLV.
TO THE SAME.

WE are removed to Caſtleberry. Oh, it was a gloomy and mournful greeting that I paid it!—Every tree, every book, every chair, figured before me as the ſpectre of a buried joy. Emma enters the boſom, and touches at a thouſand points.—Yet even in this woe, there is a mixt⯑ure of ſweetneſs. I would not be without it. The mad metropolis, I am told, is juſt illuminated for ſuc⯑ceſs 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 miſ⯑chief [208] —it is, we may truly ſay, our late familiar friend.

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

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

LETTER CXLVI.
TO THE SAME.

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