LETTER I.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

HAMMOND, you have hurt me. I can no longer look on you with pleaſure. Forbear your viſits. My daughter Emma ſhall not be yours. I have an objection. Will you hear it explained? Being ex⯑plained, will you remove it? You can: you ought: you muſt; or this cloſes our connection. To be at a [2] word, will you render it poſſible for me to call you my ſon? I write in con⯑fidence. Reply without delay. I love exactneſs. Farewell.

LETTER II.
MR. HAMMOND's ANSWER.

THERE is then a poſſibility, O my dear Mr. Corbett, of ſur⯑mounting this objection. Do you aſk, as a petition, what you might claim as a command? Generous friend! O name the circumſtance, hint your ex⯑pectations, and give me—all that I can deſire—an opportunity to obey them. Have you not been the guar⯑dian of my youth? Are you not the father of Emma? I am all impati⯑ence, and I am

LETTER III.
TO MR. HAMMOND.

YOUR promiſes are fair, and the language in which they are ex⯑preſſed, is proper to your age, and ſuitable to your character. I haſten to give you the opportunity you in⯑vite.—Reſign your commiſſion,— that commiſſion which, againſt all diſſuaſive hints, you have ſolicited and procured. Transfer your ſword, or elſe draw it in the cauſe of liberty and heaven. Your ſchool-fellow, Edward, has, as you know, fallen a victim to theſe hoſtilities. My dar⯑ling ſon is no more. He was plenti⯑fully provided for in the colonies.— The ſpot which he occupied was diſ⯑foreſted [5] foreſted by his anceſtors, who, at the coſt of infinite toil, turned to a ſmi⯑ling domain, what they found a wil⯑derneſs, inauſpicious to every purpoſe of ſociety. It deſcended to this un⯑happy youth juſt as tyranny began to forge chains for freedom; and he traverſed the ſea to defend his pro⯑perty. He would not ſuffer the le⯑gacy of his uncle to be raviſhed from him by the ſpoiler, while a hand re⯑mained to prevent the plunder. He took poſſeſſion of the land, which before was under the ſuperintendance of an agent. You know how ſoon he was invaded,— how ſoon his little territory was laid waſte,— his houſe ſet fire to— and how, when the enemy advanced to his door, he was hurried [6] into arms. He became a ſoldier on neceſſity. He fought—He fell!—

The blow which killed a ſon had well nigh killed a father alſo.—Yet, in preſence of Emma and you, I ex⯑erted my utmoſt fortitude. But the wound is not healed; it is ſtill bleed⯑ing at my heart. To men's eyes it ſeems well. I have tyed about it a political bandage, yet I ſecretly deteſt every principle which begun, and every motive which continues, this aſſaſſination of America. Long I have kept the anguiſh of theſe ſentiments to myſelf. It makes no part of my converſation —but now, finding your ardour, O my dear Harry, likely to take a wrong direction, it is time to ſpeak—it is [7] time to tell you, what will loſe and. what gain me for ever. Hammond, you are about to engage in a cruel, cauſe—a cauſe to which I object both as patriot and as parent. The vigour with which you have ſought to ob⯑tain an authority to go forth amongst your countrymen, againſt your coun⯑trymen, bears in it ſomething ſhock⯑ing to my nature. Whom I thought tender, I find bloody. Do you deſire to be a hero? the means are ready. Change the poſition of the attack, and that will, in itſelf, be heroiſm. Or, which is ſtill better, if you could cultivate the embelliſhing arts of peace, and the Muſes who love you, apologize to your patron the Earl, for the trouble you have given—take [8] the hand of Emma Corbett, and, with her, ſhare the fortunes of her father.

Theſe ſentiments declare my opi⯑nion of your honour; and my eſteem for your perſon is expreſſed in the preſents I tender. Perceiving how obſtinately you were bent to aid this fallacious plot againſt the rights of nature and mankind, I thought to let you go blindly on to blacken yet more the catalogue of Britiſh oppreſ⯑ſors. But I well knew the ſource and progreſs of that ſentiment which unites you to my only ſurviving child. And I feel myſelf unwilling, that the ſon of a dear deceaſed friend ſhould thus proſtitute his courage in an action ſo peculiarly baſe, ſo peculiarly [9] barbarous. Emma, fortune, and my favour, are before you. You know the prizes, and you are not now igno⯑rant of the only mode of conduct by which they can be obtained. Fare⯑well then. Think ſeriouſly, venerate my truſt, and do not forfeit my eſteem. I put you to the teſt.

Letter V.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

No greater time is neceſſary to determine, than that which will be taken up in penning the determi⯑nation. I do venerate your truſt. My principles make ſacred every man's private opinion; but the very ſame principles compel me to forfeit even your affection, ſir, if it is to be preſerved at the price of my duty. We, unfortunately, happen to ſee the American diſpute in oppoſite lights; it is ſufficient to a ſoldier that he be⯑lieves his quarrel to be juſt. You arraign my humanity. Wherefore? I retort not the accuſation. May we not conſider a public conteſt in diffe⯑rent [11] points of view, and yet be friends? Both may act from feeling, and both on principle. You imagine America is aggrieved, while I look upon her as the aggreſſor. What of that? do we interfere with the opinions of each other? I was not acceſſary to the death of your ſon; and had it been my fate to meet him in the field, I can conceive the point on which nature would have inſiſted. She would gracefully have led us both, a little from the line of duty, and ſpared one in ſympathy to the other. Nay, more. Had I ſeen the ſword tremble at his boſom, my own ſhould for that mo⯑ment have been as a ſhield, and you know not how far I would have ven⯑tured for the brother of Emma. But [12] as to the commiſſion, O be aſſured, I did not ſollicit till I had well reflected on every conſequence, probable and poſſible, of obtaining it. It is ob⯑tained, and I rejoice; nor could it be reſigned to purchaſe a diadem, with Emma on a throne to wear it. Change ſides! No, ſir; if theſe are to be the terms, take back the hand you permitted me to win, and poſſeſs, un⯑divided, her fortune and your own. You have not looked accurately at my ſoul. As I am not, on the one hand, ſo ſenſual, to gratify my paſſion at the expence of the holy faith and the ſo⯑lemn ſervices which I have ſworn to my country; ſo neither am I ſo ſordid on the other, as to court her inheri⯑tance without many endeavours, con⯑ſiſtent [13] with the powers of my youth, to add ſomething to her fortune. Pa⯑trimony hath dropt from my hope, but nature may, perhaps, have be⯑ſtowed the equivalent. The arts of war, rather than thoſe of peace, ſeem, at this conjuncture, to lay the ſtrong⯑eſt claim to the genius of a young Engliſhman; and I have no, notion, of that indolence which can be content to fall into the arms of beauty and proſperity, without a ſingle effort to deſerve them. If, ſir, I have any, ten⯑der intereſt in the heart of Emma— as I think I have, it has been more generouſly ſought. But why do I ar⯑gue with ſo much gravity, when per⯑haps you intend all this in the way of trial: willing to ſee if my attachment [14] to my native country was not leſs than my paſſion for my miſtreſs; Yes, yes, this is your experiment. You wanted to know whether it was appetite or affection that influenced me in regard to your daughter, and you will not, I truſt, be diſpleaſed to find the baſis as ſolid as your friend⯑ſhip or ſolicitude might deſire. Adieu, dear ſir, I thank you for the ſtrata⯑gem: and glory in every ſucceſs that draws me nearer to your heart. Adieu.

LETTER VI
TO MR. HAMMOND.

POOR miſguided youth, receive the laſt kindneſs I can ever ſhew you: receive my pity. You will, however, in common politeneſs, ceaſe to render yourſelf unwelcome, and ſave me from an appearance of inhoſ⯑pitality. I think you ought, as a man of honour, to drop correſponding with Emma, and let it ſeem to be your own act and deed, ſelf-ſuggeſted, and ſelf-inſpired. This, however, your conſcience will beſt ſettle. To that I refer you. As you ſo ſoon depart, a few more letters cannot be very material. Farther avowals of love, however, I ſhall conſider as ſeducti⯑ons. [16] Farewell. To wiſh you ſucceſs in your undertakings, would be to partake of your folly: you will there⯑fore excuſe me. I will only ſay, what is perfectly true, that I am ex⯑tremely ſorry for you. Heaven place your feet in a fairer path. In that you are going to tread, Mr. Hammond, you may find havock and horror, but never can find either honour or hap⯑pineſs.

LETTER VII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

APPREHEND nothing from my intruſion, ſir. I never enter any houſe, whoſe doors do not move wil⯑lingly to receive me. What you are pleaſed to call ſeduction appears to me ſo abſolute a propriety, that I muſt take the liberty to perſiſt in it. I have reaſon to think the affections of your daughter are engaged. I cultivated them under your appro⯑ving ſmile, and with your immediate ſanction. I have not a heart that can put on or caſt off its partialities, ex⯑actly as the opinions of a third perſon—even tho' he be a father—happen [18] to fluctuate. It is Emma, therefore, and only Emma, can prevail with me to ſtop the current of affection or of correſpondence. I refer you to her conſcience, ſince it is not an apt re⯑ference you make to mine. I ſug⯑geſt no diſobedience, but ſhall never violate one tittle of that faith, which, as a voluntary bond of ſoul, is firmly given by Emma Corbett to

LETTER VIII.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

INEXORABLE boy, I ſhall urge you no more. Here let all con⯑nexion cloſe for ever. When I per⯑mitted you, under the fair diſguiſe of ſimplicity which you aſſumed, to ſeek the affections of my child, I had no conception there beat in your bo⯑ſom ſo ſanguinary a heart. Yet, prac⯑tiſe on her as you pleaſe, ſhe will re⯑turn, I truſt, to her duty, and have done with her deceiver.

LETTER IX.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

HAVE a care, ſir. You are going over perilous ground. Do not, as a Partizan, extinguiſh what I feel for you as the Parent of Emma. I obey ſo much of your injunction as is poſſible, and deſire this may be the laſt of our letters. Yet, I cannot finiſh without a few more ſentiments. The chances of war, Mr. Corbett, of⯑fer no ſecurity from the plunder of the enemy. My ſafe return to theſe ſhores is uncertain. I may become a priſoner: or I may fall. That part of your correſpondence, therefore, which relates to a political ſubject, will be beſt in your own poſſeſſion. You will [21] find it incloſed. No accident can tear the depoſit from my breaſt, but I dare not truſt a leſs faithful aſylum. That Heaven may bleſs you, and make us once more friends, is the fervent prayer of your

LETTER X.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

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

LETTER XI.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

LETTER XII.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

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

LETTER XIII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ,.

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

LETTER XIV.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

YOUR ſhip will not be ready, then, to bear you into the paths of danger, for ſome days. How uni⯑formly amiable is your ſolicitude—deareſt and beſt of friends—and how kind your attention to every circum⯑ſtance that has the leaſt tendency to affect my eaſe and my welfare! I re⯑flect upon your generous kindneſs with a kind of weeping rapture that wants a name: but, thank Heaven, I find my nature ſufficiently ſuſcepti⯑ble, and my heart ſufficiently enlar⯑ged, to anſwer the demands which your tenderneſs and conſtancy are daily drawing for; and, though it be [26] a proud boaſt, I will venture to ſay, that, in ſentiment and friendſhip, in good will and good wiſhes, I can ne⯑ver die your debtor. Yet this little delay, my dear Henry!—into what an exultation of ſpirit did it not throw us? Laſt night, my beloved friend—oh, laſt night! the hours betwixt ſix and ten!—have you any idea of a period that could be rated in compa⯑riſon with them? What a ſpace! It was all ſpirit and all ſoul. Every in⯑ferior ſenſe was annihilated, and the regiſtering angel, if ſuch there be, can hardly have marked a paſſage, more ſoft, more affectionate, more beautiful, or more pure. During the whole courſe of that precious in⯑terview, alike elegant and ardent were [27] the expreſſions of our lips, the flut⯑terings of our boſoms, and the feel⯑ings of our hearts—not a look, not a word, not a whiſper, not a moment, but memory ſhall hoard with deareſt care, and dwell upon with increaſing ſatisfaction: Virtue ſhall be ſum⯑moned to open her immortal page, and tranſcribe the correct pleaſures of laſt night amongſt the whiteſt tranſactions of humanity. O! 'twas a lovely, melancholy period, that the heart will dwell upon with tendereſt affection, while it remains acceſſible to any ſoft impreſſion. After you left me, my friend, I continued ſtill in converſe with you, or perſonally in vi⯑ſion pure, or by the aſſiſtance of this little inſtrument, as fancy took the [28] lead. The bright ſcenes that were then painted—with all their vivid images around me—how, how ſhall I deſcribe them? Ah, Henry! the clo⯑ſer I look into your heart—the deeper and the more deliberately I examine and analize its properties, the more I admire and applaud. Oh, my friend! my moſt congenial and moſt amiable friend, could I ſpeak or write of the ſpotleſs hours which we have paſſed together, with half the heart-felt ſa⯑tisfaction that I think of them—my language would be indeed eloquent:—it would emulate your own. "Ye Prudes in Virtue ſay, "Say, ye ſevereſt," do I confeſs too much? ah that I knew words ſufficiently ardent to ſay more! [29] I am unequal to the taſk. It is pride and gratitude, ſenſibility and ſoftneſs. Such are my fixed and ſolemn ſenti⯑ments, not ſpoken at hazard, but grounded on the moſt perfect expe⯑rience. The propriety of my choice has been confirmed, "Proofs have aſſiſted Proofs, and ſtill the laſt is "the ſtrongeſt."

Doubt not but I have read the ſen⯑timents which meant to reconcile me to your departure, again and again, as tenderly as attentively. I have, in⯑deed, peruſed and re-peruſed them till the characters are almoſt waſhed away; I only mean, from the paper. The impreſſions remain uninjured elſewhere. O Hammond, Hammond, [30] how the ſoft emotions agitate the heart at the command of your affecting pen! As I read your pages of this morning, diſtreſs and joy, complaint and reſig⯑nation, the tear of anguiſh and the ſmile of hope, all ſtruggled together. In every pulſe I felt the force of your tender eloquence. It had power to ſmooth the rugged front of war, and I repreſented you returning victori⯑ous from the battle. Every varying ſenſation took its turn to reign: at one moment I was ſoothed, at another chilled. What feeling of the ſoul did not alternately aſſert its dominion? I was diſturbed, quieted, agonized, and made ſupremely happy. Yet, O my friend, it requires an inſpiration, even brighter than your own, to diſ⯑guiſe [31] the tempeſt which is gathering around me, and to render me inſen⯑ſible. I am not prone to make any event in life a ſource of unneceſſary miſery. On the contrary, I have a ſtrong conſtitutional propenſity to content, and a kind of reſiſting qua⯑lity in my nature, which diſpoſes me to ward off all imaginary evil. But the departure of Henry is not an ima⯑ginary evil. It is a blow, which, however ſuſpended, cannot fail moſt deeply to affect whenever it falls; and fall it muſt, within the compaſs of—what? a few days—ah, my God! ſpare, ſpare me;mdash;the tribute of my tender⯑neſs is ſtreaming on my paper. My hand trembles in obedience to the [32] terrors of my heart, and I drop the pen.

I muſt add to this letter a few after obſervations, which a re-peruſal of it has given birth to. In the cloſing paſſages, perhaps it may appear that I have ſaid too much. I am never quite ſatisfied with my expreſſions; afraid, from motives of the moſt delicate conſideration, left I ſhould ſay too lit⯑tle or too much. I often repreſs what riſes to my lip, and look cautiouſly, with the mind's eye, at every fond emotion before I dare venture to give it the ſtamp of language. But you are going from me. Ah! go not [33] with one ſentiment againſt your Emma. If, in compliance with the decent uſage of the world, or the prejudice of a worthy father, or my particular ſenſe of that preciſe deco⯑rum, which it becomes every unmar⯑ried woman to adopt: If, Henry, I have hence, at any time, been witheld from more cordial declarations—declarations which you might well expect in return for yours, ſo ardent and ſo elegant—allow for me, allow for my ſex, allow for my ſituation. Conſider that I am a woman, and a daughter, as well as the choice of Henry. That honour, which is ſo dear to us both, hath a claim to various duties. My nature keeps ſuch a jea⯑lous eye upon my conduct, that an [34] inſtinctive ſomething, like the inter⯑nal diſapprobation of a wrong mea⯑ſure, has often ſilenced the tendereſt terms, leſt I ſhould paſs that ſacred barrier, which conſtitutes the chief delicacy in the character of a ſingle woman. Perhaps, I have carried this ſcruple to an extreme; but I could no more help it than I can prevent the tear from ſtarting to my eye ſo often as I turn my thoughts towards a ſeparation. You have ſometimes looked as if you blamed me: but my error is, at worſt, a little exuberance, ſpringing from a fair ſtem, and pro⯑duced in a good ſoil; nor will my dear Henry think ill of me for indulging i [...]. Acquit me then, oh! acquit me of all contemptible fineſſe, and do not [35] believe that I can be one moment inſenſible, unmindful, or ungrateful.

Your laſt letters, my friend, ſhall be preſerved as reliques of virtue, victorious over every ſelfiſh principle; and, whenever I ſicken at the folly and depravity of mankind, I will turn to thoſe precious pages, there feaſt upon the hidden treaſures of a tender heart, forget the ſilly pageants that form ſo⯑ciety, and, for thy dear ſake, be recon⯑ciled to the ſpecies. Again, adieu!

LETTER XIV.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

THE delightful letter of my charming Emma is lying in my boſom, as I take up the pen to reply. It came to hand at my poor Louiſa's—at the houſe of my languiſh⯑ing and lovely ſiſter; ſhe told me ſhe expected you. I paſs'd an hour of pleaſing attendance, after which it became painful—ah, how painful!—You did not come. Why was this? Yet it matters not. It was not poſ⯑ſibie, or it was not fit. The fit and the poſſible, you know, are the princi⯑ples which govern our affection. I. wanted heroiſm, nevertheleſs, to ſup⯑port the ſuſpenſe with decent compo⯑ſure. [37] Louiſa ſaid to me, with a tear aſſiſting the eloquence of her expreſ⯑ſion,—" What, brother, hath not the long tenor of a ſiſter's wretchedneſs and diſappointment—diſappointment which is to laſt for ever, taught you to bear the loſs of a ſingle interview? "I felt the force of the appeal, but con⯑tinued to be uneaſy. My ſiſter with⯑drew, and my anxiety increaſed. By way of mitigation, I took up a pen which lay before me, and marked with it my emotions. I marked them, my Emma, in numbers, "for the numbers came." Let them be ac⯑ceptable. Let the ſincerity in the ſentiment atone for any defect in the poetry. Send me word that you are compoſed, and let me meet you, as [38] chearful as you ought to be, in the morning. Louiſa will look for you by ten o'clock. Poor Louiſa! ah, that Edward had not fallen!—Ah, that the brother of Emma was yet alive!— that he ſaw the injuries done to this unhappy country with my eyes, and that, as much inſpired by Louiſa as I by Emma, he was now making loyal preparation to fight the battle of Britain by the ſide of

LETTER XV.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

WHATEVER is elegant, beau⯑tiful, or amiable, in that fair bloſſom, the human underſtanding, under the higheſt culture, is expreſſed in the correſpondence of my dear Henry; eſpecially in the precious fa⯑vour that was incloſed in his laſt billet, dated from the apartment of Louiſa. Ah, that Emma were an all⯑accompliſhed judge, whoſe plaudits might reflect all the honour which, my hero deſerves to receive! This being impoſſible, let it ſuffice, that you have, in theſe tender effuſions, furniſhed your Emma with new proofs of tenderneſs, though none were ne⯑ceſſary [44] to compleat the meaſure of either ſentiment in my boſom. Yet ſuch charming repetitions and inno⯑vations can never be unwelcome; nor will Hammond refuſe or overlook this unaſſuming tribute—this humble and acknowledging page, which ſim⯑ple nature and affection offers. It is not the full foliage of the laurel, but it is the little unobtruſive leaf of gra⯑titude and love.

Yet muſt I not, and ought I not, to tremble while I praiſe? O, this Ame⯑rica, my Henry! Theſe chances of war! A theatre of miſchief already fatal to the lover of Louiſa—I faint under the thought! The time ſteals on, even while I am talking of its [45] lapſe. Your virtues all known— all tried—all preſſing on the eye, and twining round the heart. It is terri⯑ble—it is too much! In mercy be leſs kind—leſs amiable—leſs enga⯑ging. Oh, if you draw the chain thus cloſe—thus near; if you bind the lovely fetter thus hard—till every comfort and every joy depends on the near and exquiſite contact; if you contrive thus to annihilate every ob⯑ject but yourſelf—to create a void in nature—or fill it in my idea only by your exiſtence — and that exiſtence is to be expoſed to hourly peril — what is to become of me? Or when cruel neceſſity ſhall tear you from me, which ſhe is preparing to do, how am I to ſupport it? Eancy ſickens to [46] reflect upon the vaſt and formidable diſtance that is ſo ſoon to divide us. To ſeparate for ſuch a purpoſe too! How few hopes—how few conſolati⯑ons! Correſpondence will be delayed —interrupted—interdicted. The ſoft and ſweet ſolace flowing from pen to pen will henceforth lie at the mer⯑cy of winds and waves. Our ſenti⯑ments will depend upon the terrifying circumſtances of war. We ſhall no longer breathe the ſame air, repoſe in the ſame iſland—walk under the ſame hemiſphere; but ſeparation—uncer⯑tainty, and wretchedneſs, muſt enſue.

O dire and deadly ſpirit of conten⯑tion—patron of carnage, and encou⯑rager of bloodſhed! O thou, who [47] rageſt moſt unnaturally in the human boſom, (where all the graces and the affections ſhould inhabit) and ſetteſt man againſt man—Thou who haſt ſwept a brother untimely to the grave, and a father, a ſiſter, and a love, to mourn his fate — Thou whoſe ſpear ſeems now trembling over my panting heart, which bleeds at the dangers of the youth whom I adore—Oh miſ⯑chievous WAR! armed at all points againſt the happineſs and humanity of the ſpecies—how various and how dreadful are thy horrors!

I cannot bear it Henry!

Yet let me think a little.—Are you not reſolved—what then am I doing? [48] labouring to unman you? Ah! for⯑give my inconſiſtency—I cannot help it—indeed I cannot. No words, no pen, not even your own, my beſt friend, all-eloquent, all Promethean as it is, can paint the eſſuſions of nature as they burſt from me at this affecting mo⯑ment. Conſider the fate of Edward, and think of what may be your own: conſider the ſorrows of Louiſa, and think on what may ſoon be thoſe of Emma. Yet what have I ſaid—am I not ſatisfied with the moſt affectionate and invariable ſolicitude, but I muſt interfere with a mode of conduct, which, you aſſure me, is a duty not to be laid aſide without diſhonour. Alas! Henry, I am reduced by this cruel commiſſion of yours, to a very [49] bitter exigence, which neither per⯑mits me to cenſure or approve. I dare not write any more, for I feel the tide of overwhelming ſoftneſs pouring on me. Perhaps I might adviſe you, at this tender criſis to —

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

LETTER XVI.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

ALAS! what is to be done with this bleeding tenderneſs of yours? For Heaven's ſake, temper your ſen⯑ſibility with a little diſcretion, my be⯑loved Emma. Your elegant and af⯑fecting pages penetrate me to the ſoul. Thetears of anguiſh mingle with thoſe of admiration as I read them. Yet let me implore you to ſtrengthen your mind a little, leſt you wholly debili⯑tate mine. Let not your Henry diſ⯑grace the cauſe he is to defend, nor fully the profeſſion he has choſen. Dear, unhappy friend, make one great and generous effort to ſupport your drooping ſpirits, to ſuſtain your waſt⯑ing [51] frame, and to preſerve a life ſo valuable to me, that the ſame ſtroke—

I cannot purſue the ſubject:—Rouſe, rouſe yourſelf, my Emma—For my ſake, let all your fortitude be exerted: we are both young;— there is the ſame protecting Pro⯑vidence by water as by land; in the fields of war, as on the plains of peace. The future is a wide ſpace, and may contain within its circle a thouſand bleſſings. Struggle then againſt the ſtorm bravely. Your in⯑ferences are too gloomy: various op⯑portunities will offer, doubt not, to ſpeed our generous intercourſe. The wide world of ſentiment and ſenſa⯑tion [52] ſtill opens upon us. By aid of this little friendly inſtrument, we may range through thoſe paths which ocean ſeems to ſeparate. However remote, you ſhould ſtill learn to think it a ſu⯑perior bleſſing, that, in ſome part of animated nature, there ſtill exiſts the counterpart of Emma — congenial as dear—one, whom no circumſtance can change, but who muſt ever re⯑main true to every touch of joy, and every trembling of woe. Look, Emma, at the paltry paſſions, and vul⯑gar gratifications of common life—of common lovers. Look attentively at theſe, and then examine your own heart—examine mine. Conſider the pure nature of the affection that unites them—Does not the ſuperi⯑ority [53] of our attachment make you generouſly proud? O, Emma! you ought not to be wretched. We have both reaſon to be content.

Does Emma ſtill weep? Let her rather gratefully acknowledge, that though this pure ſource of ſacred amity is occaſionally embittered, as is, more or leſs, every affection of the virtuous heart—there are moments in which happineſs breaks forth with a luſtre that makes amends for every intervening vexation. Such was the period, when I wrote thoſe haſty lines which you have honoured with moſt dear praiſe. In ſtriking the balance then, let us not complain, my friend; but, when fretting at diſappointment, [54] or drooping under the languors of diſtreſs, let us ſupport ourſelves with the aſſurance, that the rich current will return after all obſtructions, and flow ſweetly and ſmoothly along its pro⯑per channels. Its ſource, my dear Emma, can never be exhauſted. It is as the chryſtal fountain of living wa⯑ter, which ſtreams for ever, and ſuf⯑fers no impurity to remain upon its ſurface.

Ah! what is there ſo likely to melt the ſpirit of a ſoldier into cowardice, as the tears of Emma? She will not then give way to the tender torrent. She will court the balmy bleſſings of eaſe and hope. She will check theſe convulſive tranſports of diſtreſs, ſo [55] deſtructive to my honour, and her own health. She will buffet the wild waves of adverſity, nor thus ſuffer them to overwhelm her. Conſider of theſe things, O my beloved Emma! Come then, my friend, be ſtill your⯑ſelf; repoſe with perfect confidence upon that faithful pillow which my affection prepares for you; ſeek to amuſe and to ſolace; ceaſe to mur⯑mur and repine.

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

LETTER XVII.
TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

I CAN make no terms with this raſh brother of yours. He is prede⯑termined. Try your influence, for the ſake of Emma—the ſake of your murdered Edward—for your own ſake, and for that of him who would have been your father, and who is ſtill your moſt affectionate friend,

LETTER XVIII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

WHEREFORE, in the cloſing ſcene of my life, do you thus agonize me? Is that conſiſtent with the characters of parent or of friend? My brother ſtrongly imagines he is going into the paths of duty.—The hapleſs Edward, though he trod on the oppoſite ſide, imagined, alas! the the ſame. If the interceſſion of Emma fails, what can Louiſa do? I, every way want power. I want every thing but reſignation to the ſovereign will of Heaven, to which I have brought myſelf.—Do not rob me of it, by re⯑viving images which I have neither body or mind to bear—but leave me, [58] Mr. Corbett, I beſeech you, leave me, to the force of my religious princi⯑ples, without awaking the paſſions I have lulled. On the day that my brother ſails, I ſhall ſet out from this hurrying town, for my eternal retire⯑nent.

Farewell.

LETTER XVIII.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

HOW ſweetly, how elegantly, you reprove me, Hammond! and how grateful, how pleaſing, are the tears that I have ſhed over the pages before me! I bluſh to think how far you ſurpaſs me, Henry! Hope ſeldom ſpreads her day-dreams over me in thoſe inſtances where her ſweet delu⯑ſions would be the moſt acceptable. But you have inſpired me—Poor, pa⯑thetic Louiſa, what would ſhe give to have Edward, even in the ſituation of Henry! Avaunt then, impious de⯑ſpair! I am eaſier.I am better.Infinitely eaſier— inſinitely better. I give you my word and honour that I [60] am. Yet the dreaded day is always obtruding—it appears like ſome ma⯑lignant ſpirit, croſſing me at every turn—at every ſtep. How perverſe is human nature, which diſpoſes us to reject the joy in poſſeſſion, and an⯑ticipate ſorrows which may never come! O for the beautiful hour of your return; my friend! It will ar⯑rive Henry, will it not? and, in the mean time, your ſympathizing ten⯑derneſs ſhall be ſalutary—indeed it ſhall. It is.

Melt you into cowardice, did you ſay? Heaven forbid! Eyes inſtantly be dry—your tears will prove a hereſy to the object of my heart. O Henry you have touched me nearly. The con⯑ſideration [61] —the ſingle conſideration of your Honour ſhall reconcile me to a ſeparation. Go then—purſue the ways of glory,— and Oh, may they lead, ſpeedily, to peace and

LETTER XX.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

NOW then, my ever dear Emma, ſummon to your aid, all your confidence and all your courage. The ſeparating moment comes on. The ſailing orders are received. It is the voice of my country that calls upon me—calls in the hour of extremity. She ſummons her ſons to arm in her defence. Shall I not hear—ſhall I not obey her? Yes.I have the ſanction of my friend—I go under the auſpices of Emma.Her approbation is the animating trumpet—Her virtue ar⯑rays me for the battle. Methinks I now behold the lovely Emma, beam⯑ing inſpiration through beauty, ſtand⯑ing [63] before me. Away, (ſhe cries) away Henry: I yield to the graceful ſacrifice.I lend you to my King: I truſt you to Britain—I give you in charge to that Providence, on whoſe equity we ſhall ultimately have claim: I ſubmit. Go then my Henry—farewell.—Go—

As the veſſels paſs and repaſs, my Emma, we will faithfully interchange the affectionate enquiries: we will, with dear tautology, repeat the vows which ſhall one day be ſolemnized. But the parting adieus muſt this night be paid. Let me breathe them into your boſom, O beſt of women, at the houſe of the lovely ſiſter of my ſoul. I will write no more. Let the ſilent [64] tears of Louiſa be as a check upon our complaints. If patience can comfort her in the hours of deſpair, ſurely plea⯑ſure might ſmile upon us in the mo⯑ments of hope! Conſider the nature of the exigence that appeals to my firmneſs, and do not take from me that force—that ardour—that intre⯑pidity—which are publickly due, in times like theſe, to your country and to mine. Adieu.

LETTER XXI.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

IT may not be, my brother. I can⯑not ſee you in the laſt hours of your ſtay in England: I love you too dearly to ſupport it. It is not even now, without pain, I hold the pen. My tenderneſs is too ſtrong, and my conſtitution too weak, to bear ſuch an interview—to bear the tears of Emma, the embraces of my brother, and my own diſtreſs. Excuſe me, therefore. It is true affection that perſuades me to retire. I will not unman you, nor add to the weight of Emma's ſympa⯑thy. I will take my head from this weary pillow, and ſet out for my cot⯑tage before you come. This illegible [66] ſcrawl ſhall be delivered by the ſer⯑vant whom I will leave to attend you. My wiſhes for you need not be re⯑peated. You do not want to be told how much I love you. Yet I have one little requeſt, nor will you refuſe it to poor Louiſa.

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

His memory is precious to me, Henry—his aſhes cannot be indiffe⯑rent. O! if you could but find the [67] ground where he fell—if you could but aſſure me that his ſacred reliques—if you could but breathe over them one pioùs tear, and one tender ſigh—for Louiſa's ſake. But it is impoſſi⯑ble—I feel my weakneſs, and perhaps, I ſhall infect you with it.

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

LETTER XXII.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

THE appointment is made, and I ſhall, by a lucky arrangement, be able to paſs with you ſome hours of elegant diſtreſs. Alas! my friend, my dear Henry, nature will inſiſt upon her tribute, and I cannot—in⯑deed I cannot—refuſe to pay it. Yet you charm down the genius of grief by ſtrong language; and I love you, I hope, too much to diſhonour you. About the rights of conqueſt I know nothing—I only know, that as I loſt a brother on one ſide of this bloody queſtion, ſo, it is probable, I may loſe even more than a brother on the other; and yet, both perſuaded me they were [69] in the way of their duty. Alas! how ſhall reaſon draw her line on ſuch oc⯑caſions? Muſt not reaſon be dumb, and humanity mourn? But I have done. Women are ſurrounded by calamities; and nothing is left them but to bow, in ſubmiſſion to their woe. I am indiſpoſed, and beg you would allow me as much of this—Oh, how ſhall I write it—laſt evening as you can.

LETTER XXIII.
EMMA TO HER FATHER.^*

YOU have found then, it ſeems, Louiſa's billet, making the offer of her houſe this evening to Emma and to Henry. By what chance the note dropt I am ignorant. The hand of agitation is not, indeed, ſteady; nor can the agonized heart guard againſt common chances. I am not ſorry that the paper, by whatever means, has got into your poſſeſſion, oh, my dear father! It takes ſome part of the load from my boſom; for I am hurt to appear plotting that, which will ſo thoroughly bear explanation. You [71] deſire Mr. Hammond to viſit me no more. He obeys. You requeſt that I would, without enquiring into rea⯑ſons, forbear to ſpeak of him to you. I am obedient. You deſired that my utmoſt intereſt might be tried, to keep him from America. O, you can con⯑jecture how readily, and, as you know Henry's darling paſſion, you may gueſs how vainly, I undertook this. The double pleaſure of obliging you, my father, and of gratifying my own fond heart, prevailed with me to urge this point, till I had well nigh turned his affection to diſguſt. You bid me ceaſe to love, and with the utmoſt in⯑genuouſneſs I tell you it impoſſible—Impoſſible, my dear father, becauſe repugnant to every principle by which [72] all the actions of my life have been governed.

My regard—O! that is too cold a word—my love, for Henry, is not, you know, the ſtart of a moment, the ro⯑mantic ſally of a warm temper, nor the effect of that ſilly admiration, which pays down the tribute of folly to the charms of a red coat. I ſe⯑cretly grieve that the profeſſion of arms ſhould have been choſen: I have ſhed too many tears to the memory of my brother, to be in love with re⯑gimentals: but my tenderneſs was antecedent to all theſe misfortunes; nor will it be in the power of any misfortune to diminiſh what your judgment, and the eloquence of my [73] own heart, have ſo long approved. Your preſent avowed diſpleaſure againſt Mr. Hammond is ſudden; but ſettled affection cannot readily ac⯑commodate itſelf to ſuch revolutions. What is rooted in nature cannot, without much labour, be eradicated by art. As it diſpleaſes you, ſir, I am concerned at this. But ſhall I deceive, in order to make my peace? Shall I be unnatural, in order to be filial? Shall I propenſely, ſet one great duty againſt another, and ſo deſtroy the excellence of both? No. You would hate me for it, and I ſhould hate my⯑ſelf. That I am, in this bitter pe⯑riod, when I am about to loſe what, you yourſelf ſo lately thought moſt precious, able to write with ſo much [74] argumentative compoſure, is, alas! no ſign of my indifference, but an in⯑ſtance—perhaps the ſtrongeſt that could be given—of that ſteady attach⯑ment, which, born of honour, is nou⯑riſhed by virtue. To be attached, is the dictate of nature. To be attached to a man of ſenſe and morals, is the dictate of delicacy; and the ſymptom, I conceive, of a good diſpoſition.—Such, my moſt honoured father, were the elementary rules I caught from you. Would you controvert your own maxims? Or, while the merit of the object increaſes, is it a fit time to withdraw from it the love, which na⯑ture and common ſenſe ſeem to ſay ſhould increaſe in proportion?

[75]But you depend, I find, on the le⯑nitives of abſence, and the oblivions of time. I will not anſwer for the vi⯑gour of my own mind, for I know the frailty of our nature. If it is ſooth⯑ing to my father to count upon what theſe things may do, let me not de⯑ſtroy his ſource of expectation. I am not, thanks to his correcter culture, enough the giddy girl to burſt forth into aſſeverations of conſtancy ever⯑laſting, merely to vex a parent by ſetting my heart againſt his wiſhes: I would deſire rather to diſtruſt my own temper; and, laying my affecti⯑ons open to his view, beg him to form his judgment upon a ſurvey of them. But I dare not miſlead one who hath ſo entire a right to be treated frankly. [76] I make no vows; yet, in proportion as an attachment is deliberate, is it not ſtationary? and this being my firſt and only affection, (having beſides a man of unblemiſhed character and conge⯑nial manners for its object) have I not a right ſtrongly to ſuſpect—but enjoy the opinion you ſo ſtrongly adopt. Bleſs you, my father, for the gentleneſs of your inhibitions. You do not threaten—You do not rave. Theſe might have augmented my diſ⯑treſs, but could not have abated my affection. A circumſtance of which parents ſeem ſo unconſcious, they deſtroy the effect of authority by the vehemence with which they exert it. They confuſe, but do not convince: terrify, but do not conciliate; and al⯑moſt [77] juſtify diſobedience, by their manner of enforcing duty.

Oh heaven! the clock is ſtriking— the hour is come—the minute—the moment, is approaching. I will ring for a ſervant to take this into the par⯑lour. My feet will ſcarcely carry me down ſtairs. An ingenuous nature appeals to you for pity, ſir—will you refuſe? Oh, my father, my father, my ſpirits have done their utmoſt, ere the trial is begun. Suffer me to be unhappy.—Prepare for me—oh! pre⯑pare for me the parental hand againſt my return, and do not let my tender⯑neſs abate yours. Adieu.

LETTER XXIV.
HENRY TO EMMA.^*

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

And yet I feel the abſurdity of my own argument—Faſten not, however, on any deſponding images. We ſhall meet again; and in happier days— [79] The ſweets of ſocial and family in⯑tercourſe ſhall yet be our's, and in the dear boſom of domeſtic peace, we ſhall enjoy, without conſtraint, contrivance, or diſguiſe, all the bene⯑fits of ſo delicate and well directed an attachment.—Truſt me, we ſhall.

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

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

[80]Hah! yonder is your ſervant—He is running towards me—He is here— A pacquet! Precious fellow-travel⯑ler! I receive it juſt before I ſtep into the carriage. I hurry to preſs a wafer on this flying billet. Heaven guard and give you its choiceſt bleſ⯑ſings. Farewell—ten thouſand times farewell.

LETTER XXV.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

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

Ah, my poor heart!

Yet it is not ſo: this is the lan⯑guage of drooping nature, in her moſt deſolate moment. It is our perſons only that ſhall be ſeparated, our ſouls ſhall be drawn perpetually together in converſe ſweet, communion high— pure as precious—delicate as delight⯑ful. What, alas! is ſpace—what is diſ⯑tance? [82] Our hearts ſhall know no diſunion—I will not, I do not deſpair.

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

What a day for your journey! it is emblematic of our affection: inclined to ſunſhine and to ſhower, to ſmiles and tears alternately. Be tender of yourſelf for my ſake. Guard againſt cold from the poignant ſeverity of the night air. The dangers to which you will profeſſionally be expoſed are, alas! [83] ſufficient; oh, do not add to them by neglect. Farewell. I will think of you very tenderly, and pray for you very fervently. Heaven bleſs, ſuſtain, and comfort you. How my hand lingers—but time grows ſhort, and unleſs I make one violent effort, the period of getting this to your hand may eſcape.—Therefore, in one deci⯑ſive and affecting word—Farewell.

LETTER XXVI.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

I HAVE not yet had one glimpſe of opportunity to mention thoſe pro⯑poſals to my daughter, which are ſo acceptable to me. I can only tell you, the young man is gone. To deal plainly with you, ſhe is much attached; but when you have cultivated her ac⯑quaintance, I hope ſhe will be judi⯑cious enough to make diſtinctions. Follow your deſign of making my houſe yours, till you go into the coun⯑try, and then many occaſions will pre⯑ſent themſelves of diſcovering that merit which I am ſure the generous [85] Emma will not be able to reſiſt. I am reſolved againſt Hammond, ſo that you need not fear a jarring inte⯑reſt. A girl and boy inclination is fugitive. Sir Robert Raymond will inſpire, I truſt, a ſuperior paſſion on a ſuperior principle. Come to us im⯑mediately, and join in our parties.

LETTER XXVII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

I FLOAT on the boſom of the ocean while I write this: but, as if in courteſy, the wind is changed, or rather it ceaſes to blow ſufficiently, and in this harbour we are to ride till it riſes. You well know, in what manner I ſhall employ the interval; it ſhall be dedicated to ſoftneſs and to Emma. I have peruſed your dear parting legacy—no, not legacy, that is too funereal a word—your parting pledge.—Yes, I have peruſed it, and, ſoldier as I am, do not bluſh to tell you that I have wept over its contents. I preſſed it with ſervent and chaſte ardour to my lips and to my boſom— [87] I laid it ſoft and cloſe upon the pant⯑ing heart, and am relieved—as much ſo, my Emma, as I ought to be, or as is conſiſtent with human nature at this criſis. Oh, my dear friend, it is in⯑deed a pathetic period. I now feel that I had ſet myſelf too hard a taſk. I pretended to rally it off as a military manceuvre; but I find "he jeſts at ſcars that never felt a wound." Na⯑ture revolted, and I have ſuffered more from not giving her fair play.³ The anguiſh of my mind— [88] —The anguiſh of my mind bore down all before it; and now the mat⯑ter is over, I will confeſs, that the laſt hour I paſs'd in your company, my friend, was the moſt painful of my life. How are you at this moment, my Emma? O, how many queſtions have I omitted—how many have I yet to aſk? O, for another hour! At the end of the firſt ſtage I was ſtrongly inclined to order the poſtillion to drive back. I had recollected much, and that, methought, of moment too, to ſay—but I found it was only lingering nature, reluctant to let go its object, and would have amounted to nothing more than tender repetition. It would but have enſeebled both, and deep⯑ened in each boſom the poignancy of [89] ſorrow. Again, my dear Emma, farewell. May Heaven bring us once more within reach of each other.—You ſuch as I wiſh you.Me ſuch as you would have me. I ſhall now ſeek the bed, or rather the hammock; it is ſomewhat aukward to me. The ſea is not, you know, a ſoldier's element, and it will take a little time ere I can fit myſelf to the fatigues of it.

P.S. O, be very tender to my be⯑loved Louiſa. Supply a brother's ab⯑ſence; nurſe her declining health; draw, as if by ſtealth, the ſofteſt ima⯑ges over the ſolemn ſadneſs of her ſoul; and let not ſo much beauty, ele⯑gance, and virtue, drop untimely into the grave.

LETTER XXVIII.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

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

LETTER XXIX.
TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

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

LETTER XXX.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

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

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

LETTER XXXI.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

[98]Your daughter ſtrikes me as the very woman, and has, in my eye, no other fault than that of being too young, which I quarrel with chiefly becauſe I ſtrongly ſuſpect ſhe will think me too old. No matter, I will put the beſt foot forward, and be with you in a day or two. Mean time, I will get me a new wig; and, to ſhew you how much I am in earneſt, will try to deceive your Emma as much as conveniently may be, by ordering it to be made ſo as to reſemble a reſpon⯑ſible head of hair; for I find ſince I came home from India, there is nothing in a young Lady's eyes ſo ridiculous as a wig. And when I left my native land, a flowing peruke was a Cupid in [99] full dreſs. O tempora! But we will ſee what can be done.

Dear friend, I am yours, and re⯑member I have been ſo twenty-eight years.

LETTER XXXII.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

WHAT a return have you made for the trifle I ſent you, O, moſt dear and ingenious friend! ever directing the current of that rich ſtream (which knows no diminu⯑tion, but ſcatters fertility and fra⯑grance as it flows) to comfort, to amuſe, or to inſtruct me. How I re⯑joice, that the bagatelle pleaſed you. It was my firſt intention to have the hair diſpoſed into an ornament for the ſhirt, but I conſidered the nature of that delicate ſentiment you feel for Emma. I reflected that it was retired, that it ſhunned every thing obtruſive, that it could ill brook the idle, and [101] perhaps, the wanton curioſity of thoſe cockaded heroes, who imagine ten⯑derneſs incompatible with bravery. On theſe accounts, therefore, I choſe to ſuit my locket to that ſituation only in which your delicate partiality would be moſt likely to place it.

Round your neck, my dear Henry, let it ever hang, impervious to every eye but that of the proprietor—A ſacred taliſman may it prove—a ſoft ſhield thrown over your boſom by the trembling hand of a friend!—O, that I could breathe upon it all the virtues that were ſuppoſed to be in poſſeſſion of the moſt benevolent ge⯑nii—that it had ſtrength of charm ſufficient to preſerve you as ſecurely [102] from ſickneſs, ſorrow, and miſchance, —from the bullet and the ſword,— as I do firmly believe the ſight and touch of it will arm your heart againſt the impreſſion of every error, and the practice of every irregularity.

Your letter, with its fair and tuneful incloſure, found me upon my pillow, from which I haſtened with a rapidity which is the ſpontaneous impulſe of unaffected tenderneſs. Like a much wiſhed-for and much wanted cordial it found me in an affecting moment. I read and recovered, wept and was well. Oh, wondrous power of virtu⯑ous affection! Yes, thou admirable and honourable friend, the die is caſt, your invaluable love ſhall be the ſuſ⯑taining [103] taining ſolace of my future exiſtence. Ah! may no jarring word or diſcor⯑dant thought ever riſe up to diſturb an amity ſo ſacred and ſo pure! The fine ſpirit of our eſteem, my Henry, ſhall extend its delicate influence over all the rougher paſſages, on a ſea far more ſtormy than that whoſe boſom is now preſſed by your veſſel—Over every troubled moment our affection ſhall ſoftly diffuſe itſelf,

Oh, Henry, my heart dilates as I write, and the ſoft drops deſcend in a pathetic and ſweet aſſurance of our future felicity; but do not be uneaſy that I weep,— ſuch tears will not hurt [104] me. They are precious drops that invigorate virtue, and freſhen as they fall. Oh! thoſe ſacred hours we have paſſed together, in friendſhip, in con⯑verſe, in books; no divided atten⯑tion, thought ſaluting thought, the mutual tear, every thing, or dear or elegant, included in every moment. Carry the remembrance of ſuch inter⯑courſe over the world of waters. Call to mind the time when our lengthened attention to the moral page, inſtead of relaxing, grew ſtronger and more fixed; when our understandings and our hearts ſeemed equally to refine and to expand!

Yes, Henry, I will try to adopt that gentle ſpirit of prophecy, which [105] breathes ſo beautiful an ardour over your conſolatory pages. I do not ex⯑pect to gather the bloom of the roſe, without feeling the puncture of the ſurrounding thorn. I gratefully take it with all its little wounding appen⯑dages—I place it in my boſom.

—I have promiſed not to repine: yet if a gentle murmur ſometimes eſ⯑capes, let me, I prithee, find indul⯑gence for it, and do not chide me; oh, how often have I wiſhed ſince your departure, to be the companion of your voyage and all its conſequences, however multiplied, however mena⯑cing! And after all, Henry, your ſitu⯑ation is more tolerable than mine: the travelling friend has the advantage of [106] thoſe who are left, in ſolitude, behind. The very velocity of the motion is favourable: in paſſing rapidly along, the freſhneſs of the air, and the change of objects, engage and divert the mind inſenſibly; while the poor forlorn one, that remains fixed to the former re⯑ſidence, has only to mark the preſent period, to look in vain around for what is loſt, to caſt a "longing, lin⯑gering eye" upon the paſt, and, in the torture of reflection to confeſs that ſuch things were, but are alas! no more.

It was my fortune to paſs through the ſtreet where you reſided, more than once ſince your departure. O, think with what emotions I viewed [107] thoſe windows which belonged to an apartment ſo lately yours! The ſight of your grave could ſcarcely have produced any thing more affecting: and yet I feel that I ſhall like to paſs often by them. I do not pretend to account for theſe little touches, I only ſimply relate them. Will not your feeling nature eaſily explain them?

And now confeſs, Hammond, that I have arrived at the due degree of heroiſm: confeſs, that I am ſuffici⯑ently ſoldier'd; for I can hold the pen, and impreſs the quiet-ſeeming ſenti⯑ment, with my eyes full of tears, and my heart full of ſorrow. What more can you expect from female philoſo⯑phy? What more can you expect [108] from a friend who has been uſed to regret the abſence of an hour as a misfortune?

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

LETTER XXXIII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

YOUR dear favour, like a parting bleſſing, comes to hand while the breezes are riſing, and the whole crew are engaged in the buſtle of pre⯑paration. We have already weighed anchor, the ſails will ſoon ceaſe to flap againſt the maſt, for I perceive the mariners are climbing the ſhrouds to ſquare the canvaſs to the gale, which is at length favourable. All hands are aloof.—All hearts are pant⯑ing with various paſſions.—I feel that we are in motion.—I can hear the cleaving keel cut the waves.—The wind blows freſher, as we clear the calms that brood in the harbour; and, [110] as I turn my eye aſtern of the veſſel, I behold the billows whiten into foam. Alas! the ſhore ſeems to go back, and we are getting into a wider ſea. The watermen who have followed us thus far in their boat, on ſome neceſſary buſineſs, now tack about, and prepare again to fetch the harbour.

Brief let me be.—Many of my fel⯑low officers are ſtanding idle on the deck, and ſome are roaring catches in the cabbin; while Henry Ham⯑mond is writing an adieu to one dear woman, who is the pride and pleaſure of his life. I confeſs alſo, that a ſigh is heaving from my heart, and a tear is running along my cheek. The of⯑ficers look at me as if they ſuſpected [111] an infirmity. Let them. In the day of battle we ſhall ſee, whether tender⯑neſs or diſſipation inſpire the truer courage and magnanimity. I have a little bribed the boatmen, who are rowing laboriouſly after us, but the laſt, laſt moment is come, and the laſt laſt: adieus; the finiſhing farewell muſt be given—farewell, then! I leave you in full poſſeſſion of my heart; I leave you to your own virtue, and to the Providence of GOD.

LETTER XXXIV.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

My brother and your friend, then is gone! how fares it with you, my dear Emma? Are the conflicting pangs of a parting ſo poignant ſome⯑what ſubſided, the tender ſpirits ſome⯑what compoſed, the fluttered, agita⯑ted heart more ſtill? I aſk you theſe queſtions in the boſom of my retreat. I date from my ſanctuary, where my widowed heart (for that has been long wedded) is retired to muſe upon the dead. Of the living, you, one other perſon, and Henry, are the only ob⯑jects of my care. For your welfare and for your diſtreſs I can yet feel, and while you remain in it, the [113] world will have ſomething that ties me to it—the reſt is Edward's.

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

—Amidſt the modeſt ſhadings of the evening, I behold her celeſtial form deſeending on a moon-beam. [114] Even now ſhe diffuſes a holy melan⯑choly, into my heart—She fits me for the contemplations that are moſt dear.—She utters the name of Edward in tones of heavenly elo⯑quence—ſhe touches the tender ſtrain—ſhe echoes the penfive ſigh in ſofteſt cadence, and increaſes the ſtream of woe with cherub drops of ſympathy. The lovely enthuſiaſm is compleat!

It is now twilight, my Emma; the bat is taking its circles in the air, and poor Fidelio is ſleeping at my feet.—I uſe the day's laſt moment to write, ſupporting the paper on my lap.— The owl, which ſhrinks from ſunſhine, has left his ivy, and flits by me.—The village bell is tolling.—This [115] night departed the ſoul of a WIDOW!—It is the paſſing bell, then, that I hear!—Oh! Heavens!

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

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

N.B. I return the verſes which Henry ſent with the pacquet of pens, becauſe I cannot bear to keep any thing that is comfortable from you at this period, eſpecially any thing from our beloved Hammond, whom we di⯑vide in dear affections between us.

LETTER XXXV.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

FREDERICK, he is ſet off; but I have no reaſon to imagine his embarkation a good omen. As far as the father's intereſt goes, I am ſafe, but that does not go very far. To tell you the truth, I am myſelf ſome⯑what an odd kind of a fellow in this reſpect. I ſhould not chooſe to ac⯑cept an alienated or reluctant hand. Nor could I ſit quiet under the idea of poſſeſſing a woman, who gave her perſon as an equivalent for a title and a fortune. Theſe niceties, you will ſay, are, at my age, ſome what out of date; and I ought not to expect ſuch etiquettes will be attended to by a'fine [126] young woman, whom, perhaps, you imagine, I might jump at, on any terms. Look'y' Frederick, leave me to ſettle my own ſingularies, and do you ſettle yours. I think fit, for old acquaintance ſake, to unboſom to you a very fooliſh ſecret. The leaſt you can do is to hear my ſtory, and to let me tell it my own way. I am now in love "nolens volens." You may laugh, but I feel it is not in my power to ex⯑tricate myſelf. Would the wench had not fallen in my way! Theſe are what I call croſs incidents. When a man is jogging on, and has got ſoberly to the reſting place, then to have a ſlap on the ſhoulder from ſuch an urchin as Cupid, then to be attacked bow and arrow in hand—Is not this too bad— [127] Is not this too ridiculous—too hu⯑miliating?

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

[128]But this young adventurer! This happy hero! The parts of his cha⯑racter that I have been able to pick up—ſuch as health, agreeableneſs, ge⯑nius, ſpirit, courage, and animation, are not abſolutely in my favour, are they, Frederick ?

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

[129]Is there then, nothing to throw in, by way of bringing a middle-aged gentleman on the equilibrium? Yes. A luſty lump of money. The golden make-weight of fifty thouſand pounds. Fair force of metal, Frederick! Our cockaded ſpark has not any thing to poiſe that, in the opinion of the world; and yet, if this ſhould happen to be Emma's opinion, I am ſo whimſical a mortal, that I ſhould eſteem her leſs for the very circumſtance which would make my ſuit more ſucceſsful. The The fortune of Henry Hammond, I find, is ſmall. He has not much mo⯑ney, but he has what does a thouſand times more execution in a delicate boſom: he has ſentiment. O that cur⯑ſed ſentiment!—a term, Frederick, of [130] late invention, to expreſs old emotions in a new way—a term, which many uſe, more affect, few underſtand, and ſtill fewer, feel—a term, which—which—in ſhort—curſe that ſenti⯑ment!

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

LETTER XXXVI.
TO THE SAME.

I SAID I would tell you how we de⯑ceive ourſelves. I will. The ſlender circumſtances, and even the great misfortunes of a lover, are no kind of objection in the eyes of a ſentimental miſtreſs; embaraſſments of the world call forth the finer ſentiments, and thoſe excite ſympathy. Now ſympathy, Frederick, is, in the female breaſt, a very tender ſenſation. It is a ſtrange thing, but a true, that this ſame ado⯑rable SENTIMENT has ever had (with indeed very few exceptions) a moſt ſore quarrel with ſolid ſilver and gold; and with the coin current of a coun⯑try. In the account of young Engliſh [132] women (who are the greateſt wor⯑ſhippers of the fair idol) it really cir⯑culates as moſt ſterling; and the pre⯑vailing charms of a pathetic, poetical poverty is a more welcome draft to them, than any which mere matter-of-fact wealth could draw upon his banker. Thus it is, that fathers ſa⯑crifice to Plutus, and children (eſpe⯑cially daughters) to a beggarly Deity, whom Plutus laughs to ſcorn: and hence the ſource of ten-thouſand fa⯑mily feuds—hence the riſe of ſepa⯑rate maintenance; and the fall of domeſtic confidence. Sentimental Love is torn almoſt to tatters in his way to the altar; and when, in this effort, his robe is moſt ragged, then is his glory the moſt diſtinguiſhed; for, [133] thus beggarly as he is, he ſhall laugh at the labours of a rich paſſion, and as. he paſſes, poverty-ſtruck (as it ſhould ſeem) through files of females, he will flaunt his famine in your face, and ſentimentally tell you, it is his letter of recommendation. And all this, Frederick, while plain affection (in a ſnuff-coloured coat for inſtance) throws in vain the maſſy money bag acroſs his ſhoulders, and ſeeks Hy⯑men's temple by the path that is ob⯑vious and unentangled, Now-a-days, the broad highway is deſerted; and the women rather chooſe to ſtick thoſe roſes in the boſom that are en⯑compaſſed by thorns, than accept the richeſt boquet in the garden that lies open to the view, ready to the hand, [134] and that may be collected without any difficulty.

Difficulty! there it is again. That is another curſed thing which enters into the ſpirit of a modern attach⯑ment! It is the firſt couſin of ſenti⯑ment, or, as I have heard, its parent. A ſly old neighbour of mine, who has looked ſhrewdly and ſilently at human nature, and whom I, ſometimes, uſed to conſult on that ſubject, tells me, that difficulty is the happieſt thing in the world to ſentimental lovers. I hinted to my friend in reply to this, that I then might conſider my age, my dark complexion, my wig, and my fair round body, as ſo many points in my favour, ſince they would, no [135] doubt, throw a reſpectable quantity of the aforeſaid difficulty in the way of my wiſhes, meaning my overtures to Emma Corbett. Aye, quoth my friend—but they are not the right ſort of difficulties. There are, continued he, difficulties which impede and diffi⯑culties which advance. Of the former, yours, Sir Robert, happen to be the moſt ſubſtantial, to which you might have added many more that have the kindneſs to attend you. Of the latter, you, Sir Robert, to my recol⯑lection, have not one: for you are too rich to experience an objection on the ſide of caſh, which, by incurring the contempt of the father, might poſſibly recommend you to the child. You are too ſleek and too plump, to make [136] a young lady miſtake your counte⯑nance for the ſeat of ſentiment, and there is ſo terrible an air of plenty all over you, that you are, in my opinion, an unwiſe Baronet to addreſs any thing but one of thoſe prudent young ladies, which, in a matrimonial bar⯑gain, cling to the ſolid comforts, and will not like you the worſe for being ſo abundantly provided with the goods of this life.—But to attempt a woman of ſentiment, an ATTACHED woman of ſentiment, the miſtreſs of a young ſoldier, who loves a man of poverty —a man of poetry—and, to crown all, who loves a man that is not the pre⯑ſent choice of her father—Alas, poor Sir Robert! you may think yourſelf well off, if ſhe does not conceive to⯑wards [137] you a generous kind of aver⯑ſion, and order you to aſſume a gen⯑teel ſize, to wear your own hair, and to adopt the melting mood before ſhe ſuffers a ſecond viſit. Thus ſpake my friend—and I don't know what to think of his doctrine. Give her up, I poſitively cannot. Gain her is not a little improbable. Yet I have met her ſeveral times ſince my arri⯑val, and ſhe has not yet ordered, me to aſſume a genteel ſize, nor to wear my own hair. I deſign to make ſome little alterations in the head-way, 'tis true, but this is more in frolic than ſeriouſneſs: for I love to adopt little drolleries. They belong to my tem⯑per, and have accompanied me to a very good end, through life—which, [138] I really find, requires many little lifts to go pleaſantly through.

It is on this account, Frederick, that I regret having ſeen the fair Emma Corbett. My partiality is not, I find, ſuch a one as I can accommo⯑date to my old habit of quaint jocu⯑larity. It has a little jarred the har⯑mony of my little ſyſtem already. I do not enjoy the paſſing ſcene quite ſo care-free—and why ſhould I diſguiſe any thing from Frederick Berkley?—I feel an earneſt deſire to touch the heart of this girl ſo, that I ſhould be as neceſſary to her felicity as ſhe is to mine; and the fear of not being able to accompliſh this, makes me, at times, moſt peculiarly miſerable. [139] Thank diſcretion, however, ſhe knows, as yet, nothing of the matter; and I ſhall have the advantage ſoon of be⯑ing under the ſame roof. I could treat her with great tenderneſs: in⯑deed I could, Frederick.

Before I quite accede to the invi⯑tation—though I have written to Cor⯑bett—I will conſider about it; and ſhall be glad to hear from you, in the mean time. But you need not write any of your objections to my purſuit, leſt you inſpire me with a love of difficulty, and I ſhould, like a ſentimental Lover, exert myſelf to oppoſe them, in proportion as they appear inſurmountable. But you may [140] ſend me word I am engaged in a hazardous undertaking, not doubting my ſucceſs, if you pleaſe. So I am,

LETTER XXXVII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

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

Adieu!

P.S. I ſhall ſee you in town ſoon.

LETTER XXXVIII.
TO MRS. ARNOLD.

YOUR billet, O Caroline, is arri⯑ved.—Surely the agony which threatens will not be added to the reſt! If it be, the ſhortneſs of its continuance will ſoften its ſeverity; for in that caſe, the tender mercies of God will be upon me, and I ſhall die. Ere this letter reaches you, I will my⯑ſelf embrace all that remains of—

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

LETTER XXXIX.
TO LOUISA HAMMOND^*

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

LETTER XL.
TO LOUISA HAMMOND.^*

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

But were I even to ſuppoſe, with you, that ſolitude, my dear Louiſa's pathe⯑tically-precious ſolitude, would woo to it the tender form of patience, it [145] would, at this period, be impoſſible to take refuge, like the hapleſs deer, amongſt the branches. I have not been allowed a minute's breathing-time ſince the news of Henry's em⯑barkation reached me. It ſeems now the great point of my father to diſ⯑lodge, entirely, all traces of Mr. Hammond. A father's heart enga⯑ges in this endeavour; and though I know it to be hopeleſs, I forbear to diſturb his plan by unavailing conteſt, and am paſſive to the projects which ſurround (ah how vainly) the honour⯑able affiction of my boſom. The acute pang, my friend, is ſubſided, but my affection is only the more fixed upon that account. All places being now pretty much alike, I ſuffer. [146] myſelf to be drawn about from one ſilly circle to another. Yet how ſhould my father thus miſtake my temper? This affection is no im⯑promptu—No enthuſiaſtic flight of folly, fancy, or of paſſion. It has been the ſlow, progreſſive courſe of various combining and irreſiſtible circumſtances—circumſtances, which, unfolding themſelves trait by trait, have diſcovered to me the merit of a moſt amiable character; and, on the baſis of experience, fixed me to it be⯑yond all poſſibility of change. So very complex, peculiar, and precious, Louiſa, has been every movement in the ſeries of events which have con⯑tributed to cement and faſten the faith—the HOLY faith, eſtabliſhed be⯑tween [147] Emma and your brother, that, though no particular predeſtinarian, nor eaſily yielding to the wild images of ſuperſtition, I am ſtrongly inclined to think—and there is my hope—that ſomething more powerful than the mere random agency of chance, muſt have interfered. I am not of the light or fickle tribe: nor am I tumul⯑tuous. Extreme violence I dread. That pathetic ſobriety which is ſepa⯑rated on the one hand from the dark⯑neſs of deſpair, and on the other, from the perilous furor of extacy, (if I at all know myſelf) diſcriminates my character. To the fortunes of Mr. Hammond, I am tied by thoſe fine bonds of ſympathy, upon which time and chance can have no in⯑fluence. [148] Wherefore, then, ſhould I not give way to the generous inſtinct? You have often heard me ſay, that I reſpect and venerate every rule which reaſon has preſcribed to render female conduct correctly amiable; and to preſerve that beauteous decorum, without whoſe graces, woman is both deſpicable and wretched. But does reaſon bid us withhold the mitigating balm which is given us to heal the wounds of life? No, my friend. Your own heart, virtuouſly attached to the memory of a moſt lovely, and moſt lamented youth, will plead in my behalf, and juſtify my conſtancy. Heaven itſelf will juſtify it, and ſo will the unchangeable God who inha⯑bits that heaven.

[149]To delicacy I grant much. To quſtom all. which ſhe ought to expect. But to nature, chaſtened and regula⯑ted by real virtue, I devote my heart. In devoting it to them, I dedicate it to. Henry; and it is with equal pride and pleaſure I am able to inform the ſiſter of my dear Hammond, that, ſuch has been the delicacy of his man⯑ners, ſo uniformly pure his ſenti⯑ments, his tenderneſs ſo adorned by dignity, ſo becoming a man to offer, and a woman to accept,—ardent yet ſteady, and ſoft yet bright,— that I do not recollect one word, either ſpoken or written, which, dying, I could wiſh to blot from the tablature of my memory. If this was the praiſe of the poet, what ſhall it be of the lover—of the [150] lover, young, intereſting, approved, of the moſt ſuſceptible heart, and a ſoldier? And is one's affection for ſuch a man to obey the motion of wheels, and fly off as they roll along? or is it to be buried in the grave of every-day ſociety? or is it even to be given up for the gaudieſt trappings of tinſel life, which never, even at the moſt unengaged moment, could fafci⯑nate the eyes, or ſway the opinions of Emma?

O vain thought! O impotent ex⯑ertion! Would my father have me flutter into forgetfulneſs? It is im⯑poſſible. Let him rather preſent to me a man more amiable, more per⯑fect, more tender, more engaging, and [151] more ingenious than Hammond. Let him introduce to me a ſecond Henry SUPERIOR to the firſt, or let him for⯑bear attempting to eraſe that lovely leaf, whereon the virtues of that firſt are inſcribed; Yet, I hold myſelf not at liberty to oppoſe the ſyſtem of my father. I maintain the modeſt pur⯑poſe of my ſoul, and cheriſh the vow, which in the preſence of an atteſting God, I have regiſtered in my heart: but I do not ſet myſelf avowedly againſt the purſuits of a parent. At the ſame time I ſhould eſteem myſelf the light⯑eſt, as well as the moſt unworthy, of women, were ſuch purſuits to have any influence upon my faith. Time may convince my father of the pro⯑priety [152] of a conſtancy ſo inflexible; and to that I truſt.

May Heaven augment the com⯑forts of us both; Louiſa!

Adieu.

LETTER XLI.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

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

Be honeſt:—how ſtands the matter betwixt you and young Hammond? Is he gone, under the ſeal of any pro⯑miſe received from you? I do not aſk what Emma has declared. She will anſwer me herſelf, when I venture, to refer to her. But I want to know [154] whether you, as her father, have given him, at parting, any mark of appro⯑bation. I muſt not be conſidered by theſe young folks, as an impertinent old fellow who preſumes upon ſum of money and a paltry piece of titleſhip, and ſo, in the end, become the object of deriſion, to a whole family. I un⯑derſtand that, during my long reſi⯑dence abroad, this Hammond was under your guardianſhip; that he lived with you and Emma ſome years in the very houſe called Caſtleberry, which I have purchaſed of you, that there, the young man was countenan⯑ced by you, and his addreſſes to your daughter not diſapproved. Now, as I do not hear of his having done any thing to forſeit your affections, I can⯑not [155] not conceive why you have, as you ſay, "reſolved againſt him."

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

On my leaving England, I was poor, and you was rich. In the roll of human affairs, perhaps, now that I am returned rich, you may be, com⯑paratively, poor—that is, you may have ſome-wiſe ſcheme to carry, and cannot, well bring it about. I can no [156] otherway account for this ſudden change in disfavour of Hammond—for you uſed to be fixed in your opinions— than that, impelled to an alteration by diſtreſſing incidents, you—In ſhort, is there any hard part in your ſituation, which you imagine an alli⯑ance with me might remove? and, but for this, would not Hammond be as much the object of your choice as he is that of your daughter?

Corbett, ſpeak plain. What Caſh do you want? Let not your neceſſi⯑ties violate your engagements. Con⯑deſcend to be a borrower where you may ſo ſafely rely upon your lender; and where, by contracting a debt, you may confer an obligation. To plead [157] for a rival would be unnatural—but to ſave a friend from error, and my⯑ſelf from diſgrace, is not amiſs.

An old and intimate friend of your's happened to ſtep in, juſt as I was di⯑recting my ſervant to carry my lug⯑gage to your houſe. Your name was no ſooner mentioned than he ex⯑claimed—"Poor Corbett, how miſe⯑rable muſt he be at the departure of young Hammond, who is betrothed to his daughter Emma! The youth is juſt gone a volunteer to America, and, if in that enterpriſe he be not ſhot, he is to marry on his return. Corbett doats upon him; and a fine young ſpirited fellow he is."—

[158]This ſtartled me; but I ſaid no⯑thing. I apply for explanation to you, dear Charles. Let neither your pre⯑ference of me, nor your private af⯑fairs, aught avail. I had rather be very unhappy, than at all ridiculous. My friendſhip is at your ſervice, juſt as you have occaſion to ſhape it; only I am ſure, on a little reflection, you will not offer to give it the inhoſpi⯑table form of infringing the rights of another. Farewell.

LETTER XLII
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

YOU force me into a very unwel⯑come explanation. Unwelcome, becauſe precipitate; and which I de⯑ſigned to have opened at a proper op⯑portunity, in the hour of confidence— however, as the circumſtance is thus haſtened on, I muſt ſuit myſelf to it.

I am not by any means ſo rich as I was at your departure from this coun⯑try for India: yet I am too rich—and ſhould think myſelf ſo had I only one guinea upon the earth—to many Emma to your fortune to mend mine. I did love Hammond, even with a father's love, and in a legal ſenſe to [160] be his father was my favourite inten⯑tion. Yet that idea is now, of all others, the fartheſt from my mind, and never can be revived. It is a little hard, that you have got me into ſuch an exigence as to make it im⯑poſſible for me, with any credit, to keep the great ſecret of my life.

Henry Hammond is, againſt all advice, and perſuaſion, violently at⯑tached to thoſe cruel ſpoilers, who have gone ſword in hand into the bowels of a country, where my dear ſon has fallen a victim—a country which is moſt barbarouſly butchered, and to whoſe welfare I am bound by ties the moſt tender and intereſting. I would reject you, I would reject an [161] EMPEROR that ſhould pretend to the hand of Emma, and yet ſacrilegiouſly pollute his own hand, in the life-blood of AMERICA. Oh, thou hapleſs land! thou art precious to me beyond the breath which I am now drawing! —beyond every hope that I can form on this ſide heaven! —beyond my daughter—yes even beyond Emma, becauſe thou art equally the object of my love, and more of my pity! The rapacious HENRY is gone to plunge another poignard in thy boſom!—the boſom of my country—the tomb of Emma's brother, and the vault of every generous affection. Nature herſelf lies bleeding on thy ſhore, and there the inhuman mother has plunged the dagger (with her own [162] barbarous hand) into the bowels of her child!—

But oh the deep and tremendous reſtitutions are at hand; I ſee them, with a prophetic eye, this moment before me. Horrors ſhall be repaid with accumulation of horror. The wounds in America ſhall be ſucceeded by deep-mouthed gaſhes in the heart of Britain! The chain of ſolemn conſequences advance. Yet, yet, my friend, a little while, and the poor forlorn one who has fought and fallen at the gate of her proper habitation, for freedom—for the common privi⯑leges of life—for all the ſweet and binding principles in humanity—for father, ſon, and brother—for the cra⯑dled [163] infant, the wailing widow, and the weeping maid. Yet, yet a little while, and ſhe ſhall find an aven⯑ger. Indignant nations ſhall arm in her defence.—Thrones and domini⯑ons ſhall make her cauſe their own, and the fountains of blood which have run from her exhauſted veins, ſhall be anſwered by a yet fuller meaſure of the horrible effuſion. Blood for blood, and deſolation for deſolation! O, my poor Edward!—my buried property!—my maſſacred America!

You remember it was amongſt my firſt queſtions that I deſired to know your opinion of the war? I received the anſwer which ſoothed my heart, and it was not till after that moment, [164] I ſuffered my full tide of ancient tenderneſs again to flow.

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

LETTER XLIII
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

YOU aſtoniſh me. I imagined you were, like myſelf, a citizen of the earth, and of no particular party. For my own part, I have travelled away all enthuſiaſm of the ſort you mention. There is, indeed, ſome⯑thing like a natural affection, which one bears to the place of one's nati⯑vity; becauſe, there our beings were firſt linked to the chain of ſociety— there firſt ſhot up our ideas—there grew our connexions, our affections, our hopes, and our wiſhes—there our little loves were firſt formed, and our little wants firſt accommodated. It is upon theſe accounts that I am more [166] happy to contemplate the ſcenes of England than thoſe of India—that I rate more highly my own than I do a foreign language—that I look with fondeſt partiality at the ſpot (which is marked in everlaſting traces on the memory) devoted to the paſtimes of my infancy, and that I continue ſome ſort of grateful tenderneſs for the very trees, whoſe ſhades ſo often ſoothed me in the ſummer of my childhood. My predilection for my native country, friend Corbett, 'hath this extent—no more'. It has been my fate to travel—I had almoſt ſaid—wherever Euro⯑peans are diſperſed. I have travelled too, where civil ſociety hath yet made no progreſs, but I have never travel⯑led (and oh may I never) where the [167] "human face divine" did not meet my eye. However varied by colour, by tint, and by feature, I ſaw enough to diſcover my kind, and to acknow⯑ledge it. I diſputed not about the white or black, the tawny, or the yellow; nor about the different mix⯑ture, ſhade, or diſtinction of theſe— I ſaw beings of the ſame erect form—I ſaw MY SPECIES; and in this very ſe⯑rious moment I declare to you, that I felt attachment to the general figures of men and women, wherever I be⯑held them, even before I knew any thing of their particular diſpoſitions. In looking more cloſe, I beheld amongſt every people, whether ſavage or civilized, many things to like, and many to diſlike: but not one to cut [168] them wholly from my tenderneſs. Foremoſt of thoſe points, Corbett, which hurt me, were the bickerings that ſubſiſted between one ſtate and another. In paſſing through a vari⯑ety of countries, and ſeeing them all, either engaging, preparing to engage, or healing the wounds of an engage⯑ment paſt, I began to think the paſſion for honourable death (i.e. cutting throats and lopping limbs for ſubſiſ⯑tence or for glory, for pride or pique) was univerſally peculiar to theſe ages of iron and ſteel; till, devoting a cool hour to examine the map of the world, and perceiving that, from the creation (or very ſoon after) even unto this day, to ſhed blood in this manner has been the conſtant practice, I gave up [169] the idea of calling my fellow-creatures cruel or ſanguinary upon this account, and deplored a cuſtom which I could not approve. Yet, in every army are characters to be loved; and the hu⯑man affections ſpread themſelves, more or leſs, over every clime. In conſi⯑dering the cauſes of wars, between different proportions of the ſame ſpe⯑cies, (of whom numbers without num⯑ber have been ſlain) I have found them ſo wretchedly inadequate to the horrible effects, that I have often melted into tears, but never have been inflamed with anger. Tens of thou⯑ſands, my friend, have been ſacrificed to the frown of a favourite, the whim of a prince, or the ſmile of a proſti⯑tute. The occaſions are contemptible, [170] but the event is murder. What can a good-natured man do, but commiſe⯑rate the abuſe of power, and the mad⯑neſs of ambition? In point of pro⯑priety there is ſeldom a pin to chooſe on either ſide; and even when it is Juſtice herſelf that draws the ſword, and heads the phalanx, the blood of many an innocent is ſhed in the con⯑teſt; and in the warmeſt moment of ſucceſs, while victory is enjoying her jubilee,— if all the milk of human kindneſs were not drained out of the hero's boſom—there is as much cauſe for him to ſorrow, as to rejoice. Oh Mr. Corbett, were he to retire after the ſhout of acclamation to ſome quiet ſolitude, and there think on the means by which the conqueſt has been [171] gained—were he to conſider, that heaps of his countrymen as well as of the enemy (all of whom were human beings) lie cut to pieces upon the plain—while another heap, yet more to be regretted, are groaning in hoſ⯑pitals—would not the laurel wither on his brow? would not the ſenſe of rapture be checked, ſympathy ſtream from his eye, and recoiling horror freeze up the blood about his heart? Such are my opinions. I caught them, my friend, from the fountain⯑head of a moſt touching experience. They flowed immediately from the wounds of my fellow creatures. Ap⯑pointed to the office of ſurgeon, at a period of war, in the earlier part of my life, it was the fortune of our ſhip [172] more than once to feel the ſhocks of public hoſtility. I had ſo much buſi⯑neſs upon my hands that it was almoſt too much for my heart. At the con⯑cluſion of the voyage, an opportunity offered to quit my cruel ſtation, and I readily embraced it. Since that time I have kept myſelf unengaged from ſcenes for which nature did not form me: and I am not of any party. I deteſt war, and the thoughts of war, but I ſincerely wiſh well to every hu⯑man creature. That England is at variance with her colonies is unhappy. In both countries I have friends who are dear to me. In both I have pro⯑perty. But I dare not lean either way, leſt I ſhould unſettle that ſyſtem of general loving-kindneſs which, for a [173] great while, has been the baſis of my happineſs. I aſſiduouſly avoid political converſation, and it is a certain pru⯑dence in your conduct (which ſeldom ſuffers you to mention theſe things) that makes me ſo pleaſed, my dear Corbett, with your ſociety, I am now too far advanced in life to begin the cares of a partizan, but as I have ſome feelings, I cut out ſome more congenial employment for them. I love my jeſt. I love my friend. I love you; and I love your daughter. Your ar⯑dent principles now convince; me, that an alliance with Hammond would be to unite fire with fire: I will therefore try, for her father's ſake, and for mine, how far Emma may be brought to like a man of peace. I have [174] only to deſire that you will conſider me as one who remains neuter upon the ſame principle that you take a ſide, viz. becauſe I think it is right, and be⯑cauſe I feel it to be happy. This con⯑dition obſerved, our ancient friend⯑ſhip will ſtand firm, and I ſhall ever be,

LETTER XLIV.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

AGREED. Had Hammond re⯑mained neuter on motives of like benevolence I ſhould ſtill have loved a name which is now deteſtable, ſo I beg you will not utter it again. For my own part, I cannot remain neuter. My ſoul is on fire—I breathe generous vengeance againſt barba⯑rous Britain: I own it; and, could I move this lacerated body out of En⯑gland without immediate peril of a life on which my Emma has a claim, I would not continue in a ſoil ſo ac⯑curſed. We now know each other's opinion, and the ſubject diſorders me ſo much when it is brought forward, [176] that I moſt readily acquieſce in your wiſhes to drop it for ever. My feel⯑ings muſt ever remain; but it kills me to give them language. Come directly. I have prepared Emma for the ſociety of an amiable man, and have explained our long and intimate connexion. Adieu!

LETTER XLV.
TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

YOU alarm and check my curio⯑ſity in the ſame moment, Oh, beautiful unfortunate! Yet is it not a little hard to have any concealments with the ſiſter of Edward, and the avowed admirer of Henry? Parti⯑cular circumſtances, however, juſtify what, in general ones, would be an unkindneſs; and theſe, I am convin⯑ced, ſanctify the ſilence of Louiſa. Sacred and emboſomed, beyond the reach of any participation, be all that you deſire to keep ſo. I wait, in pa⯑tient tenderneſs, the moment of fuller confidence; and till that arrives, will only aſſure you that I am connected [178] with every turn of your life, and with every ſtroke of your fortunes; but will ſuffer myſelf to make no more the premature enquiry. All this I owe you in return for the ſolicitude you expreſs for the welfare of Emma; whoſe chief pleaſure, on this ſide the ſeparating ſea, conſiſts in the corre⯑ſpondence which ſhe maintains with Louiſa.

After ſeveral days of tedious re⯑velry, the hurry into which my heart hath been precipitated ſomewhat ſub⯑ſides. We have left the vapours of London, and got into a ſerener ſyſ⯑tem. The houſe of a very old friend of my father's, lately landed from India, is now our reſidence: and it [179] was once the reſidence of Emma and of Henry; for it is that very Caſtlebury where my father (who has ſince ſold it to the preſent proprietor) had uſed to paſs, with his elected friends, ſome months of every ſummer. Since his American misfortunes—O pardon me the mention of them!—he deteſts the country, and has, I find, ſold the whole property to the agent employed to provide a country houſe and ſome pleaſure grounds for Sir Robert Ray⯑mond, (that is his name) previous to his arrival in England. The agent fixed upon this ſpot, and it became the ſeat of Sir Robert before my fa⯑ther knew that it was to be inhabited by a friend. Sir Robert is delighted with the purchaſe, and my father re⯑joices [180] to ſee a domain that he once loved, ſo properly diſpoſed of. You alſo remember this retreat; for was you not the aſſociate of our flowery infancy?—Louiſa and Edward, Henry and Emma, formed the dear, family groupe!—You tell me it ſoothes you to indulge theſe ſentiments; but, per⯑haps, they may be too great a trial for the preſent ſtate of your ſpirits, and I forbear.

Sir Robert Raymond, our hoſt, is a broad ſet, brown faced, good natured, very ſenſible man, with ſome, not diſagreeable, particularities; a large fortune, ſome time ſince bequeathed him, and no ſort of impertinence in conſequence of it. Humour, ſerious [181] ſenſe, and obſervation, divide his character. He was bred to phyſic, and in the earlier part of his life prac⯑tiſed as a ſea-ſurgeon. He is replete with anecdote, and extremely aſſidu⯑ous to animate converſation, without engroſſing it. I am particularly the object of his notice, chiefly, no doubt, becauſe he perceives I ſtand moſt in need of comfort; and I return his ci⯑vilities as well as the ſituation of my heart will allow.

Yet, with reſpect to the country, I was ſomewhat miſtaken, my friend. I happen to be fixed in a ſpot where every leaf of every tree appears conſe⯑crated. An holy inſpiration ſeems to breathe about me!—Wherever I look [182] I behold a trait of Henry—I tread the paths where, arm in arm, we have walked together, and I ſleep in the very apartment, which was formerly devoted to his repoſe. Theſe are ſmall circumſtances, Louiſa; but they cling cloſe to the heart.—Yes, my deareſt friend, this place is not with⯑out ſome ſoftneſſes, ſome ſeducing ſweets, agreeable to the preſent diſ⯑treſs which bears upon my ſpirits. However depreſſed, however ex⯑hauſted, I am in proper feeling to enjoy ſuch a retreat. The tender lapſe of the ſtreams, the balmy lightneſs of the air, the ſerene quietude of ſhade, the freſhneſs of that verdure which at once charms and cheriſhes the eye, the carol of the gentler kind of birds, [183] the unobtruſive bloom of the ſofter kind of flowers—each and all of theſe conſpire to produce that weeping re⯑ſignation which Louiſa has deſcribed; and which is the natural effect of a virtuous heart in diſappointment.—But ſtill I am unhappy. Since I am not permitted to talk of the dear cauſe of my grief, I feel more. Some part of the ſorrow, which uſed to vent itſelf in language, is now doubled by ſoli⯑tude and ſilence; like brooks which murmur leaſt, when they are moſt profound. I write this in a little rocky cavity that ſtands in the garden, where, at your beloved hour of twi⯑light's ſobereſt grey, I have ſtept forth, amidſt the fanning fragrance of eve, to meditate and to mourn. But while I [184] write of my ſequeſtration, it is about to be diſturbed, for the tread of an intruder aſſails my ear,— it is Sir Robert Raymond.—Adieu! oh, Louiſa, adieu!

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

LETTER XLVI.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

AH no, my charming ſiſter (I will not quit the claim—) I can bear it now—I wiſh to weep—to weep plenteouſly, for I am happy— Oh, the proud word! I had lately ſuch proſpects of horror before my eyes, that to find them thus unex⯑pectedly removed, makes me able to look at the light of the ſun with a ſmile; and that, though but of a mo⯑ment's continuance, is happineſs to a wretch like me.—Go on, therefore, go on—proceed to amuſe, to affect, to touch me. All hail the varied emo⯑tions which your pen inſpires! Ah! Emma, Emma, think what a bright [186] beam of bliſs muſt break on the bo⯑ſom of her, whoſe chief ſurviving treaſure is reſcued from the jaws of DEATH. Think, O think, what a PARENT feels, when wounded in every finer nerve, and then healed again— alas, what have I ſaid? How wild is tranſport! Into what flights doth ex⯑tacy carry the heart which is unuſed to a viſitor ſo radiant! Oh Emma, Edward is dead; and yet exiſtence is, at this inſtant, accounted precious to his and to your

LETTER XLVII.
TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

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

LETTER XLVIII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

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

And ſhall I longer withhold from you the new claims—claims which yet [189] you know not of—to love me?—"What ſhall you think?" O, think of every thing that is moſt tender— think that I have a title to all your pity, to all your affection—think that the ſole pledge of HONOURABLE love is juſt ſnatched from the grave; and think too, that you behold the widow of the hapleſs Edward in LOUSIA—

LETTER XLIX.
TO LOUISA HAMMOND.

A WIFE, a widow, and the mo⯑ther of an orphan,— at leaſt of a dear fatherleſs child!Married to my brother, and this the firſt dif⯑cloſure! I am all amazement, all terror, and all tears. O explain the myſtery! Since you have begun, ſuffer me to continue the ſame ſweet language, and to reproach you ſoftly.

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

LETTER L.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

I Have gone too far to recede, and you ſhall know all, though I have broken a truſt, and my conſcience ſmites me. I am uſed to miſery, but the novelty of joy was too much to bear, and hath betrayed me. To a very dear and gentle boſom I confeſs, even to the ſiſter of the man who had bound me in the bonds of honour, and made ſecrecy a double duty. Yet, I will go on without reſerve, ſo ſoon as a firmer ſtate of health will permit.— The exertion of my ſpirits is now ſuc⯑ceeded by a worſe languor than I have ever before experienced, and I am re⯑duced once more to the neceſſity of [192] addreſſing you from my pillow. Suſ⯑pend, therefore, your curioſity; pity my weakneſs, and pray for my reco⯑very—but do not on any account come to me, even ſhould you hear no more from me for ſome time. I know how to nurſe my diſorder, and till all matters are explained, I would not wiſh you again to ſee the ſiſter of Emma, and the widow of Edward. O let my ſecret ſleep in the innermoſt ſanctuary of your boſom.

Farewell.

LETTER LI.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

BE ſo obliging as to tell me, whe⯑ther it is madneſs, or dotage, to which I am now reduced? That it is one or the other, (provided it be not a mixture of both) is now paſt que⯑ſtion. I cannot ſuffer Corbett to pro⯑poſe me to his daughter, nor have I the confidence to propoſe myſelf. And, indeed, the more frequently I converſe with her (which I take all decent occaſions of doing) the more I ſee her, hear her voice, and perceive the ſenſe "diſtinct and clear" that is falling from her lips whenever ſhe opens them, the leſs am I able to ſpeak, nay the leſs aſſurance have I to [194] believe, that ſo much, merit, youth, and beauty, will have any thing to ſay, ſeriouſly, to a fellow with ſo ſun⯑burnt a form, and unſentimental a ſet of features, as the middle-aged Robert Raymond.

She hath an affecting trick of ſhed⯑ding tears, Frederick, and of ſighing bitterly, which burſt upon one ſo un⯑preparedly, that though I knew them to be the effuſions of her friendſhip for the young volunteer, I could not find it in my heart to check them; but let a few of the ſame kind ſteal down my own cheek in very fellowſhip of ſympathy. I ſhould upon my word, I feel that I ſhould, and I have not [195] ſported with my emotions enough to diſguiſe them.

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

[196]Little of this great world can I ſpeak more "than pertains to feats" of ſalves and plaiſters, and therefore "Little ſhall I grace my cauſe In judging for myſelf."

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

I write, you ſee, in my old way, but I am put ſorely out of my old [197] road for all that. It is, after all, a droll ſort of defect I poſſeſs, that of really thinking I am too old and ugly to be an object of a young woman's attachment. Yet, there is nothing very prepoſterous in this idea, either. Speak to Emma, ſays Paſſion. Dread a repulſe, replies Common Senſe. Then give up the point, and think no more about it, cries Prudence. "Ah! teach me how I ſhould forget to think, anſwers Love, in the lan⯑guage of Romeo. A pretty ſtruggle this for a grave man of forty-three, Frederick, is it not? Between our⯑ſelves, I fancy that, when I have pro⯑craſtinated as much as poſſible, played the fool with my feelings, and made myſelf ſufficiently miſerable, I ſhall [198] 0ſee the propriety of eſcaping an expla⯑nation, and ſo make a match, of it in the Temple of Fancy only, where a man chooſes his own miſtreſs, and can dread no diſappointment. After all, I cannot but apprehend there, is ſome little delicacy in this conduct. It proceeds from a. quick terror, of be⯑coming ridiculous. Tender attach⯑ments, and all the train of the ſenſa⯑tions they produce, are extremely graceful at five and twenty, but when one has reached the wrong ſide of forty, I do truly think the belle paſſion ſomewhat outré. Yet hitherto, ha⯑ving mixed but little with amiable young women, and never with immo⯑deſt ones, the ardours of eighteen can ſcarce exceed my own, and I am, in [199] this firſt affection, this firſt love, (for it is abſolutely ſuch) as baſhful and as awkward as a boy juſt uſhered into, the ſociety of the ſex. "Tis paſſing ſtrange" and perhaps "paſſing piti⯑ful," but, however you may enjoy the confeſſion, I fully feel, all, the tremors of tenderneſs.

LETTER LII.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

"PRAY for your recovery!" Oh, how ſervently do I pour the petitionary prayer to the Great Reſto⯑rer! Dear as is the name of Ham⯑mond, much as I love to write it, and ſweet as are the ſenſations which agi⯑tate my heart ſo often as I ſee it marked upon the paper, there is, me⯑thinks, ſomething more dear, more lovely, and more ſweet, in that of Louiſa Corbett. At leaſt her title to uſe it, ſeems to bring the ſiſter ſo cloſe upon my boſom, and ſo ſoft upon my ſoul, that I feel uncommon joy at the tidings. A child too—a little Edward —is it not ſo? But I will reſtrain the [201] torrent—I will forbear. I will "pray for your recovery" and then—ah then, will you not have perfect confi⯑dence in your ſiſter

LETTER LIII.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

OF bodily diſorders I know the ſymptoms, but cannot decide with equal ſkill or preciſion about thoſe of the mind. Pray, thou child of refinement, tell me, what are we to think of a young lady when ſhe ſeeks occaſion to converſe with you, when ſhe chooſes, rather to chat and walk with a man of forty-three than with ſeveral younger and handſomer viſitors who are now at my houſe; and, above all, when ſhe makes advances to pu⯑pillage, and deſires to become a ſcho⯑lar? Yes, yes, laugh away, but aſſure yourſelf that I have hopes: for Emma has propoſed, by way of country [203] amuſement, during her ſtay at my place, to—

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

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

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

I chooſe therefore to conſider it as a decent way of telling me my friend⯑ſhip [204] ſhip is not diſagreeable, and this idea ſoothes me; ſo once again I intreat, you will not be ſuch a raven as to crock the comfort from my boſom. Alas, dear friend, half the hopes of this little life are deluſive, but while they delude us into happineſs, let us not affect to deſpiſe them. Imagina⯑tion is only a gayer name for matter of fact, in many caſes—think ſo, and 'tis ſo. If felicity be ſeated in the mind, it muſt often depend upon the fair ſhadows of opinion, and, one may ſay, without a paradox, that theſe are frequently ſubſtantiol. Adieu.