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EMMA CORBETT; OR, THE Miſeries of Civil War. IN THREE VOLUMES.

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EMMA CORBETT; OR, THE MISERIES OF CIVIL WAR.

FOUNDED ON SOME RECENT CIRCUMSTANCES WHICH HAPPENED IN AMERICA.

BY THE AUTHOR OF LIBERAL OPINIONS, PUPIL OF PLEASURE, SHENSTONE GREEN, &c.

VOL. II.

The deadly Poiſon hath forſaken Henry,
And NOW pours all its torment upon Emma.
Parodied from THOMSON.
The SONS againſt the FATHERS ſtood;
The PARENTS ſhed their CHILDREN'S blood.
SMOLLETT.

PRINTED FOR PRATT AND CLINCH, BATH; AND R. BALDWIN, LONDON.

M DCC LXXX.

EMMA CORBETT.

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LETTER LIV.
TO MRS. ARNOLD.

BY a line juſt received from Louiſa I am interdicted at preſent from writing to her, and the ſentiments which now oppreſs me are, indeed on all accounts improper to offer a mind pierced by ſo ſimilar a ſorrow. Yet, to reſtrain the whole dreadful weight in my own boſom would ſurely kill me. Do you then, O my dear couſin, my worthy Caroline, do you aſſiſt me.

[6]—Tell me, I conjure you, where the feeling heart ſhall find a ſanctuary? Tell me, what foliage is thick and impenetrable enough to repel that terror which aſſails an unhappy woman, when the object of every hope and every fear is determined upon dangers the moſt complicated and deciſive? Henry, your favourite Henry, is gone, you know, to defend his country, to ſignalize his bravery, and to ſerve his King, I admit the propriety of the enterprize, according to the laws of honour, but I weep at the extremity of its horror when tried by the laws of feeling and humanity.

The glowing arguments of that dear departed, I did not dare to oppoſe. [7] I faintly breathed the female reſiſtance. I feared, leſt my affection might ſeem to be ſelfiſh, by conteſting the point of ſeparation. I violated the ſoftneſs of my ſex, and the tenderneſs of my nature, to reſtrain the flowing tide that roſe in billows to my hearr, which laboured with the agony of ſuppreſſion. His being this moment upon the ſea, eager to gain the ſeats of hoſtility, is a proof of it! Perhaps, I might have ſeduced him from this adventure, ſince humanity and love (oh, how oppoſite from ravage and war!) are the principles which figure faireſt in the ſpotleſs hiſtory of Henry's youth. But I dreaded the after operations of inexorable honour, which might deteſt the [8] trembling hand that ſaved it from the ſword.

Yet now my Caroline, now that he is far removed from the voice of my complainings, and can no longer be diſarmed by their ſweet oppreſſion, ſuffer, oh ſuffer me to mourn—ſuffer me to execrate that inſatiate and wanton power, which ſcatters deſolation o'er the land! Ah this dire daemon of battle!—this daemon, who, with giant footſteps, tramples upon the beſt and moſt beautiful affections of the ſoul—who delights to hear the wail of the wounded, and the groans of the expiring—whoſe veſſels ſail upon a ſea of tears, and are waſted by ſighs which are extorted from the tender boſom. [9] I ſee, I ſee the ſanguinary power. He ſhoots athwart the realms of affrighted fancy, in a robe of crimſon, ten times dyed in the blood of his votaries. The ſoft verdure of the ſpring withers into the ſterility of winter as he advances. The ſtreams of plenty, which fertilized a happy world, ſtand checked in their progreſs, or roll onward a bed of troubled waters. Behold where the ruthleſs monarch approaches. The bounties and the beauties of nature fall before him. Territories are torn up by the roots, and empires mingle in the common ravage. Chained to his triumphal car—behold the lover, the orphan, the friend, the father, and the widow. Oh, Heavens! Fear, deſpair, and all the bleeding virtues, [10] and all the family of pain, form his retinue. Dreadful, dreadful proceſſion! And all for what?—for what, my Caroline? Wherefore is the peace of the world thus to be deſtroyed, wherefore is man to raiſe his hand againſt the life of man, and deliberate murder to be entitled to applauſe?

Hear, O humanity, the reply, and be ſtill, if thou canſt! The rulers of different realms, in the wanton exertion of power, infringe upon what is falſely called the property of each other. Men, who are utter ſtrangers to the very perſons of one another, and are ſeparated, perhaps, by partitions of a thouſand leagues, quarrel for a few vile acres of the dirt which [11] ſhall preſently cover the toiling race; and the lives of a people are devoted to the ſword. Earth itſelf, wide as is extended her beautiful domain, is not enough extenſive for theſe pigmy mortals to divide amongſt themſelves; nor are the natural miſeries of a very ſhorn life, with all its moral, all its civil, all its ſocial evils, ſufficient, without the aids of untimely and voluntary ſlaughter. The hurry of the ſcene, the din of the battle, and that political muſic which drowns the cry of diſtreſs, may paſs over theſe ſentiments, and humanity will not have time to hear, nor to be heard. But in the quieter moment, when the gentle power reviſits the boſom, and reſumes the lovely throne from whence ſhe has been driven, oh [12] how impious, and how contemptible, will appear thoſe bickerings, which terminate in the effuſion of human blood! And could theſe heroes enter coolly into the conſequence of this barbarous practice: this practice of defacing and hacking away the expreſs image of their God, to aſcertain privileges, in a world which was made for the reception and accommodation, the peace and the pleaſure, of all mankind—could they be ſpectators of the calamity which equally attends the ſhout of victory and the ſhriek of defeat— could they behold the inconſolable wife ſink upon her widowed bed, and the child, ſtretching forth its little hands in vain to greet a returning father—a father, left naked, mangled, [13] and unburied upon a foreign and an inhoſpitable ſhore—would not the touch of human pity aſſert its ſoftening preſſure, and all agree to cultivate the bleſſings of univerſal brotherhood?

How many wretches, forlorn and fallen, are at this inſtant pining away on the ſorrow-ſteeped couch, while the heedleſs multitude echo the praiſes of one who has earned a laurel at the expence of adding acres to his King, and anguiſh to his country-women? I am no politician, Mrs. Arnold, I am a human being. I am a chriſtian. I am one who proſeſs to adore a religion of peace—one too, who can never be perſuaded that the [14] cherub countenance of man—the expreſs image of the deity, is created thus fair, and thus amiable, to be cruelly ſported away in the riots of ambition, pride, and folly.

Ah my dear Henry! alive as thou art to all that is moſt endearing, what will be thy ſenſations after the bloody affray! Thou, whoſe boſom is gentler than the mildeſt and kindlieſt breezes of the ſpring!—what wilt thou feel, ſhould ſome hapleſs woman, attended by all her little orphans, demand, of thy victorious hand, the ſlaughtered huſband, and the ſlaughtered ſire? Or ſhould but thy fancy ſuggeſt ſuch a groupe, ruſhing through the ranks, and in piercing tones of [15] agony exclaiming— "reſtore, reſtore them to me,"—how would'ſt thou ſupport it? Thou, Hammond, whom the female ſigh, the female tear, the female ſhriek, would at any time penetrate to the ſoul!—

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

O Caroline, Caroline, I congeal with horror. I can derive no laſting ſerenity from the pious example of the reſigned Louiſa. I rage, I rave. I [16] cannot bear it. Indeed I cannot! Hope, duty, religion, are inſufficient. I ſhall be detected in the deepeſt exigence of my ſorrow.—The tears are deluging my paper. My ſenſes ſeem to turn—I am bowed to the earth—I am—Oh how ſhall I conceal what I am?—How diſguiſe the horrors which preſs down the ſpirit of the moſt afflicted

EMMA

LETTER LV.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

[17]

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

She ſeeks this barren novelty of knowledge by way of ſolace: yet it affords her little; for, through all her efforts to amuſe and to diſguiſe, I can ſee her diſtreſs. Ah Frederick, that it was permitted me to relieve that diſtreſs! Yet if Henry's image ſtill exiſts in her boſom—and, oh! [18] how likely that it ſhould!—it would be the very phrenzy of hope to expect ſucceſs on my part. Would I had continued in India! Fortune has been extremely perverſe. The gaiety of my character is paſſing away. Every pleaſant habit is dropping from me, and the peace of my ſoul is about to take flight. Can a virtuous paſſion produce theſe revolutions? Yes, Frederick, nothing but a virtuous paſſion can produce them. It is a chaſte affection, and will, depend upon it, be one way or another, rewarded. But it is very poignant; and yet, we beſt love the wounds of elegant tenderneſs when they cut moſt deeply into the heart. My affection for Emma increaſes with the increaſing difficulty [19] of declaring it; and though a much longer ſilence ſeems intolerable, to break that ſilence appears a circumſtance yet leſs to be ſupported by

Your ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER LVI.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

[20]

WELL, my dear and dutiful daughter, ever kind, and ever conſiderate to me: I have not teazed you by premature importunity—I left you, quietly, to the effects, firſt of ſociety, and then of ſolitude. I want words to tell you how I am touched by thoſe exertions you have made to acquire a conqueſt of reaſon over paſſion; and though I have ſometimes detected the tear upon your cheek, and felt the breath of your ſigh as it broke, by ſtealth, from your boſom; yet—In ſhort my ſweet girl, it ſeems now to be a proper criſis to communicate the hopes, anxieties, and expectations [21] of my heart. O! I have ſome important ſecrets to diſcloſe! yet I tremble to begin. Wherefore ſhould I tremble? You are delicate and obliging. Ere I quit this ſublunary ſcene, I have two great ends to wiſh accompliſhed; and after that, welcome the moment which ſhall re-unite me to the cherub who was once your mother, and who gave to me my NOW only child—who gave the pledge of her fidelity to theſe paternal arms, in this very room:—for here was Emma born, and here is the proper place, to date an addreſs which intreats her to make her birth a bleſſing to me.—When and where, then, ſhall an aged father whiſper his wiſhes to a daughter?—O let the reciprocal duties be [22] exchanged, my dear Emma, without much delay. I love you with my whole ſoul, and you will return the full luxuriance of my affection. The Times are greatly changed, and require great innovations of conduct. New modes of duty ſpring from new circumſtances. Let us generouſly accommodate ourſelves to incidents, which render improper to day, what might yeſterday be right. I ſolicit an interview. Take your own time; yet think, that time is very precious, and treat me like a friend—treat me like a father. Enough. I write to my child. I write to Emma, and her heart will tremble to the tender claims of

CHARLES CORBETT.

LETTER LVII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

[23]

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

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

EMMA.

LETTER LVIII.
TO LOUISA CORBETT

[24]

I AM ſuddenly ſummoned into my father's apartment. He is not there, but I attend his coming. In aſcending the ſtairs, I trembled at every ſtep. In this very room I was born. How could my father have the fortitude to ſell this manſion?—how could he— Hah! I hear a noiſe.—He is coming. For ſome days I have penetrated a certain deſign, and I predict the purpoſe of this meeting. Perhaps—Oh Heaven! he is juſt at the door. He ſtops at the head of the ſtairs—I hear him ſigh heavily. This is not, I feel, a moment in which I can bear any addition [25] of diſtreſs. Here is a private door that leads to my apartment. My father is pacing about on the other ſide. I hear the handle of the door ſhake in his hand. Some violent agitation is upon him. At this time the interview would kill me. He is opening the door. I haſten my retreat.

Adieu!

LETTER LIX.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

[26]

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

EMMA.

LETTER LX.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

[27]

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

CHARLES CORBETT.

LETTER LXI.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

[28]
MY DEAR COUSIN,

IT is with great willingneſs I ſit down to make a reply to the letter you addreſſed to me; but it is not without much concern that I find it neceſſary to uſe the pen in anſwer to thoſe which you addreſſed to Louiſa, whoſe preſent ſtate of health is ſuch as to prevent her writing. Anxious, however, even as ſhe preſſes the pillow of ſickneſs, to alleviate the ſuſpenſe of her beloved Emma (in regard to the promiſed articles of confidence) ſhe inſtructs me to acquaint you in the conciſeſt way that I am able, of the [29] means by which ſhe became the wife of your unfortunate brother, as well as with the reaſons which prevailed with her to keep that union a ſecret from his family, from her own, and from the world. She conceives too, that the deeper colours of diſtreſs in her fate, may by compariſon, alleviate the ſofter tints of wretchedneſs in yours; for at the worſt, my dear couſin, as matters now ſtand, you have a lover living who is very properly the, object of many a charming hope; while the poor Louiſa is daily tortured with reflecting on the death of one yet dearer than a lover—even a huſband and a father, who is the object of many a miſery too mighty for the ſolace of ſighs and tears.

[30]With reſpect to the letter I have had the pleaſure to receive from you, it beſpeaks a heart overflowing with ſtreams of genuine philanthropy, and beautifully becomes the pen of Emma Corbett. But believe me, believe a woman who has been connected from her infancy with men devoted to the trade of arms—believe the daughter of a veteran chief, and the widow of one who felt the military paſſion in all its force—believe her when ſhe tells you, that ſuch gentle arguments are never of the leaſt conſequence in the eyes, or on the minds of a ſoldier. They ſerve only to make female weakneſs the more pitied by the men, who think the dignity of a more reſolved courage concerned to ſhew itſelf in [31] contraſt. Sometimes, it is true, the tears of a wife will excite the manly drop in the eye of a huſband; but it tarries not. The voice of public fame is, on theſe occaſions, louder than that of private affection. The world fixes an earneſt look on the actions of an officer. One hero inflames another: the ſparks of glory paſs like an electric power: the neceſſity of a brave example becomes apparent: the profeſſion ſoon grows into a darling paſſion. The blood warms: the genius of war takes poſſeſſion of every faculty: home-connexions are forgotten: the ſcene of action terminates the proſpect: the warrior can ſee no farther. Valour and victory ſeem marching before him. There is [32] not leiſure for a private emotion, and tenderneſs would aſſiſt the efforts of his foe. He gives himſelf up, therefore, nobly, and abſolutely, to the battle; wounds can make no impreſſion upon him in the progreſs of his ardent career; and death itſelf is, in that moment, leſs terrible than defeat.

Theſe, my lovely couſin, are not the ſentiments of a theoriſt, but caught immediately from the lips of the very heroes who practiſed every action they relate. In the period of peace, few men of any order have a more elegant humanity than the Engliſh officers; and all the endearing qualifications, which make up the great domeſtic characters, are to be found amongſt [33] them; but in the day of conteſt, my couſin, a different duty calls upon them, and military fame is as eaſily wounded, and its wounds as vital to felicity, as thoſe of a woman.

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

While I cloſe this ſentence, Louiſa expreſſes a wiſh to write to you herſelf. To-morrow ſhe imagines that ſhe ſhall be equal to the taſk, and ſhe [34] aſſures me that nothing which relates to the hiſtory of her huſband and your brother, can come ſo properly from any pen as her own. In the hope of her gaining ſtrength for the friendly effort, I will fold up my letter, and bid you farewell.

CAROLINE ARNOLD.

P.S. I find you are ſtill indiſpoſed, and may, perhaps, want amuſement in your ſolitude. To this end I ſend you the FRAGMENT of a little military hiſtory found amongſt my father's papers. It will ſhew you that humanity and bravery are nearly allied, and that the tender huſband and good ſoldier often form the ſame [35] character, though they cannot always exert themſelves in the ſame moment; or, perhaps, were we to ſcrutinize nicely, we ſhould, in reality, find, that when the ſoldier is hazarding his life and liberty for that of his wife, his children, his countrymen, and his King, he is then the tendereſt lover, the worthieſt huſband, the beſt parent, the moſt loyal ſubject, and the moſt valuable citizen. I believe it was written by my father in his youth, and I conſider it as a family relique.

Adieu!

[34] [...][35] [...]
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A Military Fragment,
[39]THE CARBINES.

OH for the hiſtory of that wound! ſaid I; ſeeing a ſcar upon the cheek of the perſon appointed to ſhew me the hoſpital!—Oh for the hiſtory of that wound!

Not worth the telling, anſwered the man, pointing to the ſtump of his left thigh, as to a more important ſubject of curioſity. He took me into a different quarter of the building, which preſented the lodgings of thoſe who were penſioners. In each was a ſmall-bed, [40] bed, a chair, and a table. The attendant's name was Julius Carbine. At a door leading into one of the apartments he ſtopped; and then looked through an aperture, which commanded the room.

The luckieſt of all moments, ſaid Julius—for brother Neſtor will ſoon be at it, and it is a day of diſcipline. We will enter.

Julius, ſaid the owner of the apartment, as we entered, ſit down with your company. The ſide of the bed was covered with a clean white cloth by a little girl who opened the door, and I had alſo a little girl with me, and we all ſat down. It was actually [41] the brother, and not the brother ſoldier only, to whom Julius introduced us. In their appearance there was a fraternal ſimilarity, not ſo much conſiſting in the features and limbs which remained, as in the misfortunes which had happened to thoſe inviſible parts which lay ſcattered in different quarters of the globe.

Julius was the younger of the Carbines, and as he placed himſelf ſideways upon the bed, and deſired Carbine the elder (whoſe name was Neſtor) to ſuſpend the attack—he told his ſtory.

We ſlept in the ſame cradle, and were nurſed up for the ſervice. Our little arms—

[42]He flouriſhed a ſtump which projected about four inches from the right ſhoulder—Our little arms—

But I have begun the matter wrong and prematurely, for before I relate the account which Carbine gave of himſelf, I ſhould offer ſome deſcription, of his perſon, as well as that of his brother Neſtor. It is the ſtump of Julius which reminds me of this.

Carbine the elder was the remnant of a noble figure, who in the uprightneſs of his youth muſt have riſen ſix feet from the earth perpendicularly. He had the marks of about ſeventy years wearing in his face—allowing for the natural vigour of his form, the [43] invaſions of incident, time, and profeſſion. The preſent ſtoop in his ſhoulders was favourable to the height, or rather to the want of height in his apartment. It is not without juſt cauſe that I called Neſtor a remnant. Nature originally mixed up in him her faireſt proportions. At the time I ſaw him he was a capital figure reduced. For inſtance, if you looked him in the face, or, more properly to ſpeak, in the reſidue of his face, you would perceive, in his left cheek, a deep ſcarification, which boaſted no ſort of rivalſhip with the glorious embrowning of the other that had received no injury. Though Neſtor himſelf ſaid, "the whole cheek, in compariſon with the half cheek, [44] looked like an errant poltroon." "It is a cheek," cried he, "which ſeems to have done no duty; now here," continued he, turning the other ſide to view with much triumph, "here are the ſigns of ſervice."

Both the Carbines, indeed, had ſerved to ſome purpoſe. In point of honorary credentials there was little cauſe of jealouſy. Nothing could be more equally divided than the mutual marks of brotherhood in bravery. Sorely battered were the outworks of both. It is worth while to obſerve how the matter was ſettled to their ſatisfaction and credit. The thigh of Julius became the victim of a parapet, but then Neſtor was even with [45] him when he had the honour to drop his left arm in the counterſcarp. But as if fortune did not imagine an arm, and that a left arm, a ſufficient equivalent to a whole thigh, amputated at one deciſive whizz by a cannon ball, ſhe deprived Neſtor of his right foot, which was left at the bottom of an entrenchment in Flanders. The younger Carbine had the track of a muſquet viſible at the extremity of his neck, and the bullets with which that muſquet was charged ſlanted along the left jaw, carrying off ſome of the fineſt teeth in the world, and which, perhaps, are even yet to be ſeen in one of the foſſés. To bring the military ſcale even, on the part of Julius, he has the good fortune to [46] conceal under his hat (which upon account of that concealment he ſeldom wears) a reſpectable confuſion, which; beginning at the left ear, ſwept away not only the greateſt part of that, but all that grew in its path, from one end to the other; which diſtinguiſhing ſtroke is in honour of the baſtion. But Julius had his unoſtentatious wounds too: his ſhirt covering no leſs than ſix, inſomuch that his boſom was croſſed this way and that, direct and tranſverſe, like a draught-board. I detected the fluſh of ſomething like victory in the countenance of Julius, as he threw open his chitterlin, and opened his ſhirt-collar under pretence of too much heat: but Carbine the elder checked his brother's ambition [47] by baring his right arm to his ſhoulder, (or rather begging me to bare it) and there diſcovering a maſked battery of blows, which were a fair match for thoſe in the breaſt of Julius.

Thus were the teſtimonies of their proweſs participated; and if (ſaid they) either of us could have boaſted a leſs equal diviſion, it would have been a blow too many for our friendſhip, and, perhaps, have bred ill blood betwixt us.

Here the fragment is torn

[48] the veteran Carbines, after having platooned and pioneered it for a number of years, in the cauſe of their country, found at length, they could keep the field no longer.

They entered the Temple of Peace: but not quite on the footing of ordinary members. The ſenior Carbine privately enjoyed ſome ſmall privileges, and the junior was in poſſeſſion of the caſualties, derivable from ſhewing the hoſpital to ſuch as had the curioſity to ſurvey it: and he hopped about with his ruins in a manner that engaged one's pity and admiration.

A ſecond rent in the fragment.

[49]Now Neſtor was a man of inalienable affections. They were not to be ſubdued. The military paſſion was by no means dead in his boſom. The heart of the ſoldier was ſtill viſible in his little bed-chamber. There were to be ſeen, ſuſpended from the walls, the battered corſlet that had covered his breaſt, and the firelock, whoſe iron mouth was almoſt worn out by the loadings. They were brightly burniſhed, and the niceſt care taken to clean them weekly.

But this was nothing. The practical part of a ſoldier's diſcipline did [50] Neſtor carry on in a room of forty inches diameter.

No ſooner were we all ſeated by the ſide of the bed, than a ſingular ceremony began. He had ſix ſons, all little, all living for their country, and in ſecret training for the battle under their father. It was his cuſtom, thrice in the week, to turn the key upon all the penſioners but his brother, and inſtruct his family in the art of war. Poor as he was, he had actually been at the coſt of equipping them; had fitted up for them ſomething that reſembled a uniform, and, in miniature accoutrements, preſented them with the ſword, the muſquet, and the bayonet.

[51]The ſoldier's ſcience was taught them by the veteran. One branch or another of the art military was the ſubject of every day. The ſons of Neſtor Carbine knew not the enervating luxuries of artificial heat: they thawed the ſeverity of the ſeaſons with nobler fires. Their education was wholly martial. At night they liſtened to the lecture, and their ſwords were drawn forth to practice what they had heard in the morn. They engaged their ſtrengthening arms in the mock fight, that they might be prepared for the real one. It was now the evening of the ravelin, then of the flanking; now of the fortification, then of the foſſé now of the half-moon, then of the epaulement; now of the ſaps, and [52] then of the ambuſcade; now of the horn-works, and then of the baſtion; now of the gabion, and then again of the mines, the parapet, the battery, or the tenaille.

They had juſt began an engage ment as we entered the room.

It will be beſt related before the younger Carbine tells his ſtory. Let him therefore repoſe a little longer upon the bed.

The ſtripling troops were drawn up three deep in the center of the room, and the object of attack was a large deal trunk ſet upright betwixt the contending parties. One ſide were to [53] oppoſe and one to defend. The father was commander, and in good time came the brother, who inſtead of repoſing on the bed as above-mentioned, ſprung up with ſurprizing agility, and hopped away to head the adverſe party, making a kind of warlike muſic with a little drum tattoo'd by the timber inſtrument that ſerved him for an arm. Neſtor, meantime, aſſumed a whiſtle which ſerved for a clarionet.

The engagement was carried on in the exacteſt military order; they advanced, they retreated, they rallied, and they came on again. Every little heart panted with ambition, every eye ſparkled with expectation of victory. [54] The mimic ardour ſoon became real, and the two generals were themſelves wrought up into a ſerious ſenſation. Julius ſhouted, and Neſtor encouraged. But, preſently, the aſpect of the battle altered, for one of the beſiegers, (a boy of uncommon bravery) took one of the beſieged priſoner. The conqueror flouriſhed his little foil, but the captive ſhed tears of ſlavery and ſorrow. The general on the worſted ſide affected to be diſmayed. His opponent, ſpirited up his army, purſued his victory, took a ſecond of the enemy priſoner, and the town (that is, the box) was taken.

A ſhout of joy was heard on one ſide, while the poor remains of the [55] conquered troops fled to a corner that was the interior encampment behind the bed. Julius beat the dead march with his wooden drumſtick: but Neſtor and his troops, having burſt the city gates, (that is, the box lid) proceeded to plunder. It contained all the magazines of the enemy, conſiſting of new foils, martial caps, belts, wooden bayonets, confections and fruits. Theſe were the prizes of conqueſt. They were all fairly won, and divided amongſt the victors according to ſeniority. The little girl, who had ſat on the bed, now ſprung up, took a ſmall ozier baſket from a hook, and ſtrewed flowers in the path of the victorious, ſinging a ſong of triumph as they marched round the [56] room. The ceremonies, however, being over, both parties came forward, and ſhook hands very heartily in token of good will, and then the affair ended with ‘God ſave great George our King’ and a general huzza.

—Our little arms, continued Julius, (whom I will interrupt no more) were nurſed into early vigour for the field: for our father, whoſe bones—

May every Saint bleſs them, ſaid Neſtor!

[57]—have been repoſing more than half a century, in different parts of Flanders and Germany, ſtruck firſt into that mode of training which my brother has adopted. Other people's children have playthings given them, becauſe, forſooth, they whimper for them; but we were never allowed ſo much as a hoop or a top till we gained it by a victory. We knew the difficulty of obtaining the prize, and valued it the more; and thus were fitted for deeds of hardihood, ere other infants had an idea of glory.

Poor creatures! ſaid Neſtor's ſecond ſon ſcornfully.

We could vault upon the ſteeds of the menage before they could keep [58] the ſaddle of their wooden ponies. Ripe for practice, we were ſent forth, at an early age, to the field, and both of us entered as volunteers in the ſervice of our country.

We did ſo, ſaid Neſtor.

Nature—for which ſtump as I am, I ſtill thank her—gave us no bad forms; and though we took the field with faces [...]s effeminate as that of our mother,—[You was reckoned the very model of her, you know, Neſtor]—yet the firſt campaign left us no room to bluſh upon that ſcore. Our virgin engagement happened in the hotteſt glow of the ſummer, and we were ſoon rid of a delicacy which is inglorious [59] on the front of a ſoldier. Oh with what pleaſure did we contemplate the alterations at our return!

I remember it, ſaid Neſtor, ſmiling.

The traits of the mother were quite worn out by the weather. In every lineament there was ſeaſoning. The ſun had written hero in our countenances, and we rejoiced in the dignity of the tan.

But mark the joke, ſir; a fantaſtical pair of wenches pretended to love us, in our fair-weather ſuit of features, before we made the firſt ſally, that is, before we were worth loving; but took it into their heads to quarrel with our [60] appearance the very moment we returned. They wanted ſtill to ſee the red and white of the woman, and ſo took to themſelves new paramours.—The jades gave us up, ſir, for a couple of fellows who would ſhudder at the patter of a hail-ſtorm.

So much the better, ſaid Neſtor. We have had the ſatisfaction to ſee one of the raſcals hanged for ſheep-ſtealing, and the other you know is to be put into the pill [...]ory this day ſe'en-night.

And I'll be prepared for him, I warrant ye, exclaimed one of the boys.

[61]No, child, ſaid Neſtor: he is no mark for the ſon of a ſoldier.

After this, ſir, we had no lazy periods of peace. Some part or another of Europe was continually beating the drum or ſounding the trumpet in the ear of England. It was our duty to go forth in her defence.

Father, ſaid the eldeſt of the boys, when is it likely we ſhall have a war?

My brother, ſir,—(continued Carbine, who was not put out by any, family remarks)—my brother, ſir, had, the honour of the firſt misfortune.

You do not call it by a right name, ſaid Neſtor.

[62] He triumphed in the firſt teſtimony of the warrior.

I am an elder brother, ſaid Neſtor, and the firſt blow was my birth-right.

But I was ſoon even with him: for, towards the cloſe of the campaign, a random ſhot—when I was thinking of nothing leſs, gave the four fingers of my left hand to the enemy. In that condition we entered into winter quarters.

But no ſooner was my brother cured of the wound in his face—

You may ſee the mark of it here, ſir, ſaid Neſtor.

[63]—in his face, than he received one much deeper in his heart!

In his heart, cried the youngeſt of the ſix ſons, clapping his hand on his father's ſide?—why, you joke: here it is alive and merry now. I can feel it beat.

God keep it ſo, anſwered the eldeſt. It will be a ſore day for us when that ſtops, I promiſe thee.

Give me thy hand, Ferdinand, ſaid Neſtor; and, brother, do you go on with your ſtory, for it entertains the gentleman and his little daughter, and I like to hear it. You were always good at a ſtory from a child. Go on.

[64]—would you believe it ſir, that a fellow ſo ſliced ſhould have the impudence to attack one of the prettieſt girls in England?

In the world, you might have ſaid, cried Neſtor, ſhaking his knee.

—like a brave boy of the blade, he puſhed his point right on, turned his worſt ſide to the wench, and inſiſted upon her taking the ſcars as a recommendation.

Why they were ſo, ſaid Neſtor, holding his knee ſtill while he ſpoke.

—in this manner he continued to batter the citadel which trembled [65] in the boſom of the poor girl, and in leſs than a month (no time at all for ſuch a ſiege) he entered the fair caſtle of her affections in triumph.

By the blood that I have ſhed, ſir, ſaid Neſtor, and by the drops which yet flow in my body, Frances was the beſt and braveſt wench that ever lay by the ſide of a ſoldier.

Neſtor, ſaid Julius, hold your tongue.—His limbs, ſir, were almoſt conſtantly on the move. War carried them away. What of that? His joke was ready. Never mind, Frances, (would he ſay to his wife) I am the winner yet. Fear nothing. Were I reduced to my trunk, I ſhould flouriſh [66] ſtill, my girl. A ſoldier, whoſe children have blood in their veins, is invulnerable. He is immortal in his ſons.

Let us engage, father! ſaid one of the boys eagerly, as he brandiſhed his ſoil.

Thus would my brother heal up the wounds of the war: but be that as it may, wounds are but ſorry things in a family. Often has my brother diſputed with me on this ſubject. "Julius, (would he ſay) thou art but half a loyal ſubject ſtill—thou giveſt to thy country the ſervices only of an individual, while I furniſh it with the force of a whole family. As an individual, thou muſt ſoon die; but [67] hadſt thou taken care to multiply thyſelf as I have done, thou mighteſt well expect to live and conquer theſe thouſand years. Brother, brother, it is a falſe notion; a ſoldier ought of all men in his Majeſty's dominions the ſooneſt to marry: he ought indeed." Notwithstanding this, ſir, I could never be prevailed upon. No, though an honeſt girl offered to ſling my knapſack acroſs her ſhoulder after the loſs of my thigh. To confeſs the plain truth to you, I did not like certa in ceremonies betwixt my brother and ſiſter, at their partings. Frances indeed wept but little, but in my opinion, ſhe looked a much deeper ſorrow than is to be expreſſed by a pair of wet eyes.

[68]Neſtor hemm'd violently.

And as to my brother, though he cocked his hat fiercely—pretended to have caught cold—rubbed up his accoutrements, and bluſtered mightily, he never was ſteadily himſelf—and how the devil ſhould he be— for a week after. Theſe things, ſir, are againſt the grain. The bruſh of a bullet is nothing at all: it may take off your head, or it may only take off your hat: either way, no great matter—but the cries of a woman—the piercing agonies of a wife to come acroſs one's thoughts in the laſt moments—no, ſir,— no, damn it—there is no bearing that— I will live and die a batchelor!

[69]But this is not the worſt, ſir. Death ſometimes comes at the bottom of the account to unſoldier a man. He knocked at brother Neſtor's door, and carried Frances away while ſhe was nurſing him of a fever into which he was thrown by the pain of a wound. Zounds! that was a terrible day, Neſtor, was it not?

Terrible! ſaid Neſtor, turning his head from the company.

She died ſuddenly. Courage, ſaid I, brother. He waved his hand and ſpoke not. Brother, ſaid I, have courage. "Fool, replied he, in a paſſion—(if he had called me ſo in cold blood, I would have had him out)— [70] Fool, ſaid he, (in a way that one could not but forgive him, ſtamping his foot on the ground at the ſame time) am I, thinkeſt thou, before GOD ALMIGHTY or the enemy? What has courage to do before HIM? thou ſhould'ſt tell me to be patient. I ſaid no more: for the poor Frances lay dead before his eyes; and there being but one bed of any ſize, the living and the dead lay together.

Child, (ſaid Neſtor to the little girl, his daughter, who was ſobbing at the ſide of the bed, with her apron thrown over her eyes)—come hither. Thou art like thy mother—kiſs me.

Neſtor (continued Julius) tied the crape round his arm, and his ſoul was [71] in mourning. He gave Frances to the earth. Decency—

Go no farther, ſaid Neſtor.

—Decency required my attendance, ſir. My poor Carbine ſhed then the firſt tears that I ever ſaw upon his cheek. Oh! he was melted down into ſomething ſofter than his mother. He wanted to prevent the man from ſtriking the nails into the coffin.—

Julius, GO NO FARTHER, I ſay, (cried Neſtor) preſſing his daughter cloſe to his breaſt.

I wiſh my uncle would hold his tongue, ſaid one of the boys.

[72]He opened the cloſed lid, and peeped in, (continued Julius.) He caſt a lingering look into the grave. He drew his hand gently over the coffin as the ſexton was beginning to lower it. He kneeled down to ſee that it was put ſoftly into the ground. He let it go, and ſaid he was perfectly reſigned; then came away, and then returned, then went off a ſecond time, and ſought the grave again, wringing his hand, and declaring he was perfectly reſigned all the time—

Wilt kill me, Julius? ſaid Neſtor; ſtop, I ſay!

—in ſhort ſir, he—he—he—did ſo many things upon that occaſion, [73] that; ſurely, if a man has any love for a woman, he ought to be a batchelor.

[The fragment is here defaced, and illegible for ſome pages.]

after the engagement, the ſolemn thoughts again came on. Julius rubbed his face twice or thrice along the pillow, and declared that while the wind continued in that quarter, his old achs would twinge him a little.

[74]And in this hoſpital, ſir, we are now laid up for life, ſaid Julius.

He rubbed his face again upon the pillow. Well, ſaid he riſing, every dog has his day!

Upon this Neſtor began to whiſtle:—not one of thoſe tunes, which ariſe from vacancy, but a whiſtle truly contemplative; it was more ſlow and penſive as he proceeded, and in its cloſing cadence, a tear ſtarted from his eye. Streaming almoſt to the borders of the upper lip, it ſettled there, and though as he waved his head backwards and forwards, it trembled upon the edge of his cheek, it did not fall.

[75]When he had opened the door, I ſtole an Opportunity to put ſomething into his hand.

He took it as money ought to be taken by a brave or worthy man who wants aſſiſtance, and ſees no ſhame in receiving it. A ſober ſmile came into his countenance: but the TEAR continued.

His daughter's hand was ſtill cloſed in his; but ſhe looked at the tear, and was taking out her handkerchief.

Let it alone, my dear, ſaid Neſtor. IT IS YOUR MOTHER'S.

[76]How are the Carbines to be envied, ſaid I, when we were ſtepping into the ſtreet!

You flatter us, replied Neſtor, bowing gently.

I went two paces, and turned back.

The tear had verged off, poſſibly while he was bowing.

It had got upon my little girl's face; and there it hung like a dew-drop from a roſe-bud.

Good God, ſaid I, how rapid an exchange!

[77]In ſaying this I found it had vaniſhed from the cheek of my daughter, in the time that I was making the exclamation!

Alas, it is quite gone then! ſaid I.

No! upon lifting my hand to my face ſometime after, I found the precious offering of ſympathy had changed a third time its reſidence, and was trembling on my own cheek. I bleſſed it, and

LETTER LXII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

[79]

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

LOUISA CORBETT.

LETTER LXIII.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

[80]

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

EMMA.

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

LETTER LXIV.
MR. CORBETT TO HIS AGENT.

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

CHARLES CORBETT.

LETTER LXV.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

[81]

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

ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER LXVI.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

[82]

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunate, ſir, did you ſay?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could not ſpeak, Louiſa.

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

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

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

EMMA.

LETTER LXVII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.*

[89]

NO, my loved ſiſter, I will not, cannot, ſend a long ſtory. A few pages will compriſe the main circumſtances; and let thoſe ſuffice till days of future converſation. Your father had ever an ambition to enlarge the fortune of his Edward by marriage: and Edward had already ſufficient to his wiſhes. He acquainted his father of the love which he bore to Louiſa. It produced a diſpute. My brother happened to be preſent. He entered, as your father exclaimed, "What but beggary can be expected with a girl like Louiſa [90] Hammond, of ſcarce an hundred pounds a year!"—The converſation ſtopped.

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

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

[91]It is an improper place to diſcuſs the queſtion, ſaid Henry. They went out. Henry commanded Edward, in terms of intolerable ſeverity, never to offer his hand to Louiſa, while Edward inſiſted, that Henry ſhould deſiſt from farther engaging the affections of Emma. The inhibition was promiſed to be obſerved, and a breach of it was to terminate in the laſt frightful deciſion amongſt men. Edward ceaſed his viſits, and I knew not the cauſe. Henry did the ſame, and you was equally ignorant of the motive. I fell ſick; a fever ſeized my ſpirits, and my life was deſpaired of. Edward heard of my illneſs, and came to viſit me at a time that he knew Henry was from home. [92] He found me in the extremity—the fever was become putrid, and the phyſician ordered no one to approach my breath any nearer than could be avoided; the bed was ſtrewed with the herbs which are ſuppoſed to prevent infection. Regardleſs of this, and every other image of ſelf-preſervation, Edward ruſhed into my chamber, threw himſelf upon his knees by the ſide of the bed, and hung his head over my face, which received and welcomed the tender tears that were ſtreaming from his eyes. O! Louiſa, Louiſa, (ſaid he) I can bear it no longer! At theſe words Henry was heard upon the ſtairs, Edward leaped up—Heavens! ſaid he, can it be poſſible, is Henry returned! Well, it is [93] no matter. My brother entered the room, and at the ſight of Edward ſtept back, like a man aſtoniſhed. Edward ran up to him, threw his arms about his neck, and inſiſted that the embrace ſhould be returned. Oh Henry, he exclaimed, too long have we mutually ſuffered a falſe delicacy to prevail. Enough have we ſacrificed to pique, for Emma and Louiſa have been the victims. I heard that your ſiſter was dying, and I could not deny myſelf the mournful privilege of a friend—will you chide me for it Henry?—will you ſtill withhold your hand and your heart from the brother of Emma Corbett? Will you? This was the firſt moment I had been informed of the diſpute. The ſurpriſe [94] was too much for me in the firmeſt ſtate of my conſtitution. In the condition I then was, it had well-nigh proved fatal. All which my ſtrength ſuffered me to do was to raiſe myſelf on my pillow, fold my hands in the attitude of intreaty, and with feeble accents to implore, they would ſpare my laſt moments, and not embitter them by their enmity.

Ere I had uttered this, Henry and Edward were weeping on the necks of each other, and Henry ſaid, alas! Edward, I owe you more than this, for on my part was the promiſe firſt broken. I have ſecretly maintained the uſual correſpondence with Emma, ſince ſhe has been away: and found [95] the tenderneſs ſuperior to the anger of my temper. Indeed we have both been wrong. Henceforward, let us be more than friends—if poſſible, let us be brothers. Shall we not my Edward?

Again Emma I claſped my hands, and a ſudden ſenſe of joy came over me that gave a turn—a happy turn to my diſorder. I recovered. It was agreed between us that the cauſe of the quarrel, and the means of t he reconciliation, ſhould be equally a ſecret. The families were re-united, and none but Edward, Henry, and Louiſa, could account for the late coolneſs on the part of the two former. But the harmony was not of long duration;— [96] it was again interrupted by your father's violence in the cauſe of America, oppoſed to that of my brother in the cauſe of Great-Britain. Edward ſided with the former, and, though it no longer prevented an intercourſe between us, it threatened an eternal ſeparation of political intereſts. At the ſame time Henry was permitted to addreſs you, and Edward continued openly his partiality for me. Nay, your father at laſt declared, he hoped ſtill to ſee two countries reſtored to the embraces of each other, and two happy matches to felicitate their union. You were, my dear Emma, fortunately from home on a viſit during moſt of theſe tranſactions, and your Henry did not think it prudent [97] to break the thread of an elegant affection by the little jarrings that were happening to croſs it at home. The conteſt now became fierce on the other ſide the Atlantic, and threatened to carry bloadſhed and rapine to that part of the continent where Edward had property. Louiſa, (ſaid he to me, one evening) I muſt croſs the ſeas: my fortune is in danger: it concerns equally you and me, that I ſhould endeavour to deſend it, yet I will wait another month to hear the event of terms that are propoſing between the countries—if they produce peace, you know how ready I ſhall be to continue in England; if they fail of that end, you muſt have reſolution enough to part from me for a ſhort [98] ſeaſon. But, continued he, as no man can tell the chances of the ſlighteſt ſeparation, I ardently wiſh to call you by the tendereſt of all human titles, mine, before I go. Publickly this cannot be done, for though my father affects to conſent, our union would make himun happy. No, Louiſa: let our happineſs be known only to ourſelves till it is proper to communicate ir. Impart it nor, till my return at leaſt, to Emma, to Henry, or to any part of the family. I have my reaſons for it, even more ſtrong than thoſe that have been already related.

Soon after this converſation, Emma, we were privately married, and none of the appointments that led to the [99] ceremony, or which ſucceeded it, were diſcovered or ſuſpected. Previous to the voyage of my hapleſs huſband, he put into my hand a ſealed paper, containing his will, and he deſired I would not open it till his return. In the fond hope of that return being poſſible, I have, till within theſe few days, kept the ſeal unbroken, and now, alas! I find it is a teſtamentary diſpoſal of his property abroad, bequeathed entirely to me as ſole executrix.—

Yes, my dear Emma, there is a fatherleſs Edward, and Heaven only knows whether the father had any knowledge of its birth before he died. I repeatedly ſent letters, full of all a [100] mother's minute and affecting ſolicitude, but I received no replies. To Mrs. Arnold, dear and generous friend as ſhe is, I owe the power of keeping my huſband's ſecret, notwithſtanding an event that promiſed to betray it. The poor little one was lately taken ill, and his death every moment expected. It was that (oh Nature!) made me write the diſordered ſcrawl, which intreated Emma to forbear her viſit. On my reaching the houſe of our worthy Caroline, I found the cold hand of death lay heavy on my child. I wept ſore. I offered up the prayer of the deſolate widow, not wholly to bereave me; and begged (ah how earneſtly) [101] the Bleſſed God to reſtore one or receive both!

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

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

LOUISA.

LETTER LXVIII.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

[103]

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

EMMA.

LETTER LXIX.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

[104]

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

ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER LXX.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.*

[105]

I AM not made for hypocriſy. You ſee the gloom of my ſoul. It ſits in my countenance; nor am I able to diſguiſe it. It is now my turn to deſire you will deal with me plainly. Within a few hours my fortunes are altered ſo much for the worſe, that it is impoſſible for me to deſire you will advance farther in the treaty relating to Emma. I cannot now give her a ſingle guinea; all ſhe will ever have, is three thouſand pounds, which is a legacy: nor can I expect your paſſion to weigh down every pecuniary conſideration. Three thouſand pounds, [106] Sir Robert, is poverty to what my child might have expected. Suffer us then to depart. I am ſtung to the quick by various wrongs. By the cloſe of the week I hope we ſhall be well enough to ſet out. Excuſe the awkwardneſs of correſponding under the ſame roof. There are points that cannot be ſpoken to. This is one. I venerate and love you. But do not mention the ſubject to Emma, or to

CHARLES CORBETT.

LETTER LXXI.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

[107]

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

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

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

ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER LXXII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

[109]

THE irreſolute note which I ſent this morning to your chamber, is not worth your attempting to decypher. I wanted to expreſs my ſympathy of your preſent misfortune in a way more anſwerable to the emotions of my friendſhip. I wiſhed to gather ſuch knowledge of ſome perſons connected with your loſs, as might enable me to plan ſome pious fraud to relieve your ſtuation without wounding your delicacy. But I ſhould make bungling work of it, and deſtroy the felicity I intended to promote. I am a man of plain feelings, and have no dexterity of addreſs when it is neceſſary [110] to adorn them. Accept then, dear Corbett, of an honeſt mind, in lieu of elegant manners. Is any decoration neceſſary to introduce a friendly circumſtance?—and if there is not, wherefore do I thus lengthen the preface?

Corbett, I am one of thoſe whom the world calls an unthrifty fellow: for I value money merely as it conduces to my happineſs. My happineſs depends on ſociety, and not on myſelf alone. I have fixed it in the dear domeſtic circle that encloſes Emma and her father. Beyond that barrier I do nor deſire to wander; and if I can promote their felicity, my own will, of neceſſity, be compleat. [111] You ſee my ſyſtem. It is ſimple and conciſe. By uncommon chance I am become rich, you know. The ſum I poſſeſs is too much to be diſſipated, and not enough if I had a paſſion to accumulate. It is quite ſufficient to render three perſons happy, ſo far as happineſs takes its colour from money. Amongſt three perſons then let it be divided; but let only two of thoſe know the ſource by which the third is ſupplied. You may eaſily perſuade Emma to believe (what indeed will be true) that by an unexpected turn, your loſſes are repaired. She will be too much rejoiced at the event to teaze herſelf about the means. Or, if ſhe ſhould enquire, her curioſity is of a tender kind, and will readily [112] be pacified. I hope you love me too well to make ſcruples; and yet I ſhall prepare myſelf to combat them. It is really a very hard and mortifying thing, that theſe bare-weight duties betwixt friend and friend, ſhould be ſo rare as to make the offer of them a matter of embarraſsment; as if there was nothing expected in ſociety but its etiquette and profeſſions. All I deſire is, that you will loſe no time in ſettling your affairs, and no otherwiſe remember the mode by which they are accommodated, than as it may impreſs your boſom with tender ſenſations, and ſtrengthen the cement of that alliance which is formed between us. With Emma, I will (on the above conditions) take my chance as before, [113] but for the wealth of worlds I would not have her acquainted with a tittle of our private tranſactions. Nor muſt you attempt to ſway her. Leave her to the ſame chances as would before have happened. It is very unreaſonable that I ſhould expect her to marry me for affection: but, for Heaven's ſake, ſave me the diſtreſs of accepting the ſacrificed hand of gratitude I am glad it is in my power to offer my teſtimonies of friendſhip to you before ſhe has been influenced. I will be with you preſently, and you ſhall have no prejudices of cuſtom about you, till you detect any thing of (what is fooliſhly called) the wiſdom of the world, clinging to the hand or the heart of

ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER LXXIII.
TO SIR ROBERT RAYMOND.

[114]

WHAT can I ſay to you? Repreſent to yourſelf an old man bathing his pillow with the tears of his heart, and ſuddenly ſtruck, firſt with fortune, then with tranſport! Oh Raymond, Raymond, the world ſees theſe friendſhips too ſeldom to authoriſe our accepting them: and many a man has been ruined becauſe cuſtom permitted him not to be much obliged. My misfortunes, indeed, have ariſen from the dire caſualties of war, and not from the waſting luxuries of peace. Public deſolation, and not private vice, has produced them. [115] Yet—the ſum ſo large—the ſituation ſo critical—the—

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

—The world is too ſtrong for the ſtouteſt of us, Sir Robert. At what a pitch muſt vulgar errors have arrived, and what a miſerable age muſt we live in, when the hand of liberality itſelf [116] trembles while it is extending, leſt its motive ſhould—

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

CHARLES CORBETT.

LETTER LXXIV.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

[117]

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

Corbett is now as much recovered in health, as in his circumſtances, and word is juſt brought that Emma is better. O my heart! how ſhall I ſupport the ſight of her!—If her ſickneſs [118] has made any great alteration—if ſhe appears to be in pain, or in any kind of danger, I ſhall aſſuredly diſcover myſelf. Methinks I have more fondly wiſh'd myſelf her huſband ſince her confinement and indiſpoſition, than while ſhe was rejoicing in health and pleaſure. I do not deſire to unite myſelf to her beauty, more than to her weakneſs and diſtreſs. Surely, Frederick, the tender offices of a friend are moſt amiable, where they are leaſt obſerved by the world. The feebleneſſes to which the tender frame of woman is ſubject, are, perhaps, more ſeducing than her bloom. The healthy flower looks ſuperior to protection, and expands itſelf to the ſun in a kind of [119] independent ſtate; but in nurſing that which droops (ſweetly dejected) and is ready to fall upon its bed, our care becomes more dear, as it becomes more neceſſary. It is the parent and the friend rather than the mere gardener, that, on ſuch an occaſion, influences: and indeed it will, I believe, be found upon all occaſions, that the gentleſt parts of our nature are the beſt; and objects are beloved in proportion, not as they are ſtrong, forcible, and defended, but as they are gentle, unreſiſting, and pathetic.

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

Your ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER LXXV.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

[121]

YES, my dear child, what I aſſerted to you this morning is true. By a chance ſeldom happening to perſons in diſtreſs, I have recovered myſelf. It was like a recovery in the laſt ſtruggling moment of a man's life; for had the relief been delayed longer, it would have been the death of my credit, and you would have mourned over theſe white hairs in a priſon. Oh! the means, the MEANS, my child, by which this mighty bleſſing was effected! The generous hand, the generous heart, from whence —but I am forbid to ſpeak. Cannot you gueſs? No! It is impoſſible! [122] It ſeems to be a flight too ſublime— too near Heaven for any earthly power to— And yet, if there ſhould be any human being, who has reſcued your father from ſhame, and yourſelf from indigence—if, oh Emma, there ſhould be ſuch a character, moving under your eye, and inviting your notice, what—what are the emotions, what the ſentiments you owe him?

CHARLES CORBETT.

LETTER LXXVI.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

[123]

FREDERICK, I have again beheld the ſource of my admiration and diſtreſs. She came: ſhe ſat at table: ſaid a few words in a ſilver voice: ſighed ſoftly, and retired. I never beheld any "mortal creature of earthly mould" ſo touchingly ſweet. She is more intereſting as ſhe is leſs in her bloom. Sorrow has taken the roſe out of her cheek, and left only the lily, which ſeems charmingly to lament the loſs of its companion. She riſes every moment upon me; and ſickneſs, which has weakened her frame, appears to have given ſtrength to my affection. My wiſhes are augmented, [124] but my expectations are not advanced. I ſee the policy of retreat, and while I acknowledge it, am preparing to go on. Yes, Frederick, I am reſolved to open the ſubject, and that immediately.

Adieu!
ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER LXXVII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

[125]

THESE tranſitions are almoſt too much for me—but I welcome the dear agitating ſtroke that gives felicity to my father. As the billet which expreſſes it came to hand, I was about to ſeek your boſom, my venerable parent, and there aſſure you with how chearful a heart I would follow you through every turn of your fortune, and with how ready a hand I would labour for our ſubſiſtence. I had prepared many a tender argument to prove the frugality of nature, and to ſhew how eaſily and how cheaply ſhe might be ſupplied. I would have repreſented to you the ſweets of a couch [126] which ſhould have been ſmoothed by a daughter's care; and of wholſome viands, provided by your child. Nor ſhould I have failed to remind you of what, in your tenderneſs rather than in your hurry, you have forgotten; namely, that ſum of three thouſand pounds which, in right of my late uncle, I am to inherit;—nor of thoſe glittering baubles which it would be infamous in Emma to reſerve or to wear while her father is in diſtreſs. But theſe arguments are unneceſſary, as you are reſtored to happineſs, and there is, it ſeems, ſome noble inſtrument which Providence has made uſe of to produce the bleſſing. What ſentiments and what ſenſations I owe to both, need ſcarcely be made a queſtion. [127] If my ſoul is not inſenſible, it muſt pour itſelf forth in gratitude and prayer, in wonder and in praiſe. But ſtill, methinks, this friendſhip ſhould be accepted ſparingly, my dear father. While a large ſum of money is within the compaſs of our own ability, ſhould not our firſt application be to that, and—

Pray forgive me; you taught me to love the language of nature, and muſt not be angry when occaſion calls it forth. Benevolence is a beam from Heaven, and deſcends into the heart of man to inſpirit and to chear: but if we do not properly oeconomize it; if we are laviſh of the luſtre, and do nothing [128] of ourſelves, while it is darting upon us—

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

EMMA

LETTER LXXVIII.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

[129]

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

IN CONTINUATION.

[130]

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

IN CONTINUATION.

[131]

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

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

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

"O Sir Robert, behold the images of conqueſt and defeat! Obſerve two mighty hoſts of human beings met together, after the moſt deliberate plans of attack, to butcher one another—to perpetrate generally that very crime which, in any particular inſtance, is puniſhed by the reſtitution of a ſhameful death. To deſtroy an individual is ignominy, but at the maſſacre of an army, the trumpet ſounds its note of boldeſt triumph. [133] The gallows and the halter, the awful trial or gloomy dungeon preceding theſe, are prepared for him, who, in the phrenzy of paſſion, or the raging of deſire, deprives the irritating object of farther power to torment; while the laurel & the bay contribute to the garland of thoſe heroes, who, after returning from the cities they have depopulated, and the territories they have laid waſte, come bluſhing home in all the honours of blood and of ſlaughter—

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

"Here, ſir, you may obſerve, lawful and glory-crowned murder, exhibited [134] in every form. See—ſee, into, that wretch's quivering ſide, the. ball has juſt entered!—Here lies a head ſevered from the body.—There are the mangled reliques of an arm torn from the ſhoulder; and there the wounded horſes are trampling upon their wounded maſters!

"Rights—territories—and privileges, diſputed or invaded, are the great, juſtifications! Poor, puerile, and inſufficient!

"—Ah, EARTH, thou common parent—thou whoſe nouriſhing boſom furniſhes to all the children of content that will, cultivate thee, how art thou made the object of ambition, and the [135] motive of ſanguine altercation! Into what ridiculous portions of ideal property art thou cut out? How art thou quarrelled, how contened for? How often doth the bounteous ſun that ſhines upon thy ſurface to expand the grain, and to cheriſh thy various productions—Oh, how often do his beams retire, and leave thy verdant mantle dipt in gore! Yet thou haſt thyſelf, (improvident mother of theſe wrangling emmets) thou haſt thyſelf been, in ſome meaſure, acceſſary to theſe horrors. Oh! that pernicious and faſcinating droſs that glows within thee! Why was not the miſchievous radiance concealed?—Why was the cunning and the curioſity of the child thus permitted to rip the very bowels [136] of its parent, and wage unnatural war with his brother about the diviſion of the ſpoil? Avarice and ambition are of the ſame family, and aſſiſt the vices of each other: the one delights in the plunder, the other in the havock by which it is obtained.

"—But yonder the ruin is more rapid and glorious—behold in yonder corner they are employed in removing the dying and the dead. In that lacerated body there yet ſeems life. It is panting in the picture!—how the ſtreams of—Ah my God! the hoof a horſe ſeems ready to ſtamp upon his boſom—another ſword is pointed at his throat.—Stop, ſtop barbarian—he is of thy kind—he is thy [137] fellow-creature—perhaps he is cloſely, dearly, TENDERLY connected—reſtrain thy ſacrilegious hand—kill not her whoſe exiſtence is interwoven with his—kill not his helpleſs children—reſpect the tender ſtate of unprotected infancy—reſpect the ſoftening bonds of FAMILY—reſpect thy GOD. Oh! Henry, Henry, Henry, ſuch perhaps, even ſuch may be thy dire cataſtrophe—ſuch Hammond, ſuch—"

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

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

ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER LXXIX.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

[139]

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

Your's, ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER LXXX.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

[140]

WE are returned to town. The ſeveral incloſures will acquaint you with the affecting tranſactions which have paſt ſince the laſt ſtop in our correſpondence—a ſtop, my dear Louiſa, made in very ſympathy; for though you have of late repeatedly told me that you found a pathetic kind of pleaſure in ſharing griefs ſo congenial to your own, I could not but bluſh at the pain which I muſt often have created you. Yet nature, at this very time—poor feeble nature, ſtrongly prompts me to repeat the fault. My heart ſwells high with ſorrow, and I ſtand in need of the participating [141] Louiſa. Nor will any but Louiſa ſoothe me. Mrs. Arnold is generous and ſenſible, elegant and informed, but oh! ſhe has not drank ſo largely of that bitter, yet ſalutary cup which ſubdues the efferveſcence of the ſpirit, and diſpoſes us to melt at the miſeries of another. She is a widow without knowing the value of her huſband, and love ſeems a ſecondary paſſion in her mind to that of glory.

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

O diſtance, DISTANCE, it is now I begin to feel what thou art! Join, I [142] conjure you, Louiſa, the prayer of Emma—ſupplicate the Power at whoſe command the winds and the waves are ſtill,— ſupplicate him in behalf of a hapleſs woman whoſe treaſure is toſſing on a precarious ſea. Beſeech that the hoſpitable barks may ſalute each other, and that their ſeparation may alleviate mine. Implore that theſe things be granted, and my heart ſhall be at reſt.

—At reſt! and will my alarms be huſhed by ſuch a circumſtance? Are the beating of the billows all I have to fear? Alas, the perils of the water are merely introductory to thoſe of the land. Scarce will the dangers of the ſtood be paſt, ere thoſe of the [143] field come on. Which way then ſhall my petition be directed? The policy of nations, and the dictates of nature, the voice of ambition, and that of peace, are ſo diſtinct, that a perpetual war ſeems to be proclaimed between divine and human inſtitutions. The tender and graceful intereſt which nature bids us take in the fate of thoſe whoſe lives and fortunes are dear to us, make us wiſh well to the natives of our country, and the friends of our heart: and it is on this principle, but not for the parade of dominion, or the barbarian fluſh of victory, that I wiſh well to the cauſe of Henry and his aſſociates—I do not ſay COUNTRYMEN, for it appears that we are at war with theſe, as they with us: a large, and [144] once loving family divided againſt itſelf. Whom are we, Louiſa, to conſider then as enemy, and whom as friend? WE ſuffer, alas! bitterly, from the conteſt on either ſide. Oh God of tranquility heal up the mutual wound, and ſuffer not that which is terrible between different people, even in hoſtile nations, to become more intolerably ſo by allowing it to rage amongſt brethren!

The paths of military honour, Louiſa, are cut through the bowels of humanity; and heroiſm laughs at the apoſtrophe of pity: but I, who want refinement to extinguiſh the ſimplicity of my ſenſations, ſhall yet perſiſt [145] to call even victory a calamity. I am extremely ill, but have relieved myſelf by writing.

Adieu!
EMMA.

LETTER LXXXI.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

[146]

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

I am now in London, attending the ſick chamber of Emma, into which I gain acceſs only by virtue of my profeſſion. Her affection preys faſt upon her health. Yet it becomes her age, and its object is amiable. It is an affection which nature, virtue, and religion, conjoin to make reſpectable. Youth gives it a new charm. Miſfortune throws over it a tender and intereſting ſhade. Sickneſs adorns it with peculiar ſoftneſs, and abſence [147] aſſiſts ſenſibility, in rendering the whole more touching.

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

In vain, Frederick, you ridicule, invite, and adviſe. I cannot quit Emma. She is ſick, and I am wretched. She loves another, and it does not relax the diligent attentions I pay to her virtue and her beauty. She has fallen in the path of my life, and I make a dead ſtop. I cannot [148] paſsion. Sneer not, jeſt not, but pity my ſenſibility; and if you chooſe to call it by a more cenſurable name, whatſoever it be, pity me by that.

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

Farewell.
ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER LXXXII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

[149]

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

Your couſin Fanſhaw is juſt dead, and, though he would ſuffer neither of us to approach him while living, (how inconſiſtent!) has at length made his will in my favour, annexing this remarkable codicil: "To Charles Corbett ten thouſand pounds, becauſe I hear he is a ſufferer by the war with [150] America; and to Emma Corbett, his daughter, (whoſe fortune muſt of courſe be leſſened by the ſame means) five thouſand pounds, provided ſhe does not marry an officer or any perſon concerned in promoting the conteſt."

Adieu.—Let theſe tidings revive you.

CHARLES CORBETT.

LETTER LXXXIII.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

[151]

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

EMMA.

LETTER LXXXIV.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

[152]

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

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

EMMA.

LETTER LXXXV.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

[153]

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

C. CORBETT.

LETTER LXXXVI.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

[154]

I WILL not affect to miſconceive you, my only parent. You ſeem conſtantly anxious to connect me with ſome worthy man, as the aſſociate of my life; yet do not recollect that my choice is made, my principles fixed, and my heart inalienably engaged. An unſubdued veneration for truth attends me. I caught the inſpiring affection I bear her, from the reſpectable authors of my being. It is a prejudice as early as it is amiable, and you ſhould not wonder if I walk ſteadily in the way of my directors. This, ſir, I have often told you. I have been brought up to conſider the happineſs [155] of life, not as deducible from the maxims of the world, but from implicit reliance upon that power whom Heaven has ſeated upon the throne of the ſoul, as an unerring judge in all caſes of moral arbitration. It has been a hard taſk for me to ſtruggle with the various inflictions which have long hung over our houſe, and though the burſt of nature has ſometimes broken unawares, it was not in thoſe ſeaſons that I was the moſt unhappy. When only the pitying eye of GOD was upon me, when I ſought the ſilent corner, and could ſecretly commune with my own heart, and enter into all its inclinings: then—then, my father, it was that the extreme of your Emma's wretchedneſs came over her; [156] for ſhe found it impoſſible to wean her affections from an object, one ſo entirely and with ſo good reaſon approved, and now ſo entirely, and (you will pardon me) without any ſolid reaſons, rejected. I have not, at this period, my deareſt father, collection of mind enough for much argument; but you will pleaſe to recollect that it was you who firſt kindled the ſparks of tenderneſs for Henry. Beſides that we were brought up together, when gentle impreſſions are eaſily admitted and unreſervedly avowed, you repreſented him as an orphan of honour, talents, and good-ſenſe. I depend on every thing you ſay, and was charmed with a ſentiment correſpondent to my own. The affection was full grown, [157] and had expanded into bloſſom, ere you attempted to deſtroy, or even to check it. Then, all at once, you ſaid you had your reaſons, (which to this hour remain partly unexplained) to deſire I would think no more of Henry Hammond: yet, you averred, it was not fortune nor any other circumſtance relating to what the world calls a good match, that created a change in your eſteem. Want of worth I am ſure it could not be; and yet you ſtill perſiſt to diſſuade me from attaching myſelf to merit, elegance, and virtue.

I am glad this method of addreſſing each other by letter, though in the ſame houſe, has, by accident, been adopted. It appeared awkward at [158] firſt, but hath now the familiarity of a habit. It may well be ſaid, in my caſe, "to excuſe the bluſh and pour out all the heart." Yet wherefore do I talk of bluſhing! Surely, it is not neceſſary. I yield not to any romantic pomps of paſſion. I make it not a ſubject, where it can be likely to create one diſcordant feeling. I love with ſimplicity and truth: and it is far beyond my power—far, even as the preſervation of a ſolemn vow is from the breach of it, to change my object but with a change of its purity. The oaths that are taken at the altar, ſir, may ratify tenderneſs, but cannot create it: and amongſt the ſordid connections of men, it is not uncommon to be inveſted with the public ſanction without [159] ever receiving a private aſſent from the underſtanding or the heart. I do not think the law of the land, of itſelf, ſufficient to make a woman happy. Marriage is a very honourable, but it may be a very miſerable inſtitution: that is, it may produce miſery while it confers honour. The ceremony is only the ſeal of mutual love, but the bond ſhould be made before; and in point of attachment I hold myſelf at this moment as religiouſly united to Henry as if all the forms of the earth had paſſed my lips in confirmation. The ſame idea will be lodged in my boſom whether that confirmation be remote or near. It is not intended by Heaven to be the affection of a year only. It is to laſt for life. [160] It is to follow its object through all perils and dangers. Its holy ardour is to burn equally bright and pure, and nothing but death is to extinguiſh it. Thus contracted, my father, in ſpirit and in truth, you will eaſily judge how light muſt be the ſacrifice of my couſin's ſtrange legacy. The political tenets of Mr. Hammond have nothing to do with my friendſhip for him. As they have carried him into a dangerous path of life, far from me, I ſo far deplore them. I choſe not the officer but the man! and though it is, alas, but too unlikely that our perſonal intereſts ſhould be made one, yet the union of our ſouls is too ſincere, and too ſtrong, for five and twenty times the conditional five thouſand pounds [161] to looſen or diſſolve. I felt myſelf about to declare that not any earthly motive could induce me to embrace this gorgeous bribe: but I am ſuddenly checked, and find, upon ſcrutiny into this filial boſom, O my dear dear father, that one motive, and only one there might have been, which could make your Emma the victim of money.

Had the late convulſions of fortune remained in their full force—had it pleaſed God to increaſe their violence —had all that could have been raiſed by the aids of property and induſtry proved inſufficient—and had thoſe venerable hairs been indeed conſigned to ſorrow, and none but a daughter's duteous [162] hand to help a parent's poverty in that dire caſe, my beloved father, if you have a true ſenſe of my nature, you will gueſs what I ſhould have been tempted to do I ſhould have accepted the conditions in the codicil, and ſecured to my father a reſource from indigence at a time of his life when humanity is the leaſt able to bear it. I would not then have "marred an officer engaged in the national conteſt." Yet even then, my affection would remain, though its [...]timate views would be changed.

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

EMMA.

LETTER LXXXVII.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

[164]

OH Henry, I can bear it no longer. Heaven knows where you may be at this moment! Heaven knows whether you exiſt! My alarm is extreme. I hazard the fate of a few lines. If they reach you; relate your ſituation, relate your diſaſters: Do not torture—do not kill me; but ſeize the firſt inſtant to quiet the terrors of my heart. You do not Knew what I am enduring for your dear ſake! You do not know what domeſtic calamities have been heaped upon the anguiſh which ſeemed to [165] admit no exaggeration! Not one moment's peace, not one moment's health ſhall I know till I hear from you.

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

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

EMMA.

LETTER LXXXVIII.
TO HENRY HAMMOND, ESQ.

[166]

ALTHOUGH I have a letter now toſſing with the ſea, and know it muſt be many a day upon its perturbed boſom ere it gets to hand; yet I again have taken up the pen, with increaſe of terror, and, if it were poſſible, of tenderneſs I am ill, and they will not ſuffer me to quit my chamber. They want to deny me the uſe of the only inſtruments which can even have a chance of conveying to you the ſtate of my heart. They tell me it is dangerous. How I deſpiſe their pedantry! I want not to be taught the theory of patience; I have prattifed it long. But horrors, [167] too great for patience itſelf, at length invade me! Oh by the agony which you cauſe, and by all the dreadſul nights and days that you make me ſuffer, reſpect my misfortunes! Relieve, recompenſe, and redreſs them. One page, one line, one ſentence, will ſuffice. Say but that all is well—ſay that you breathe, and I will be again compoſed. Oh, Mr. Hammond, whereſoever you are, or whatever has befallen you, if there has been a poſſibility of ſending to me, you ſhould, (in pity to the condition of my mind) you ought to have remembered me. Unleſs—which heaven avert!—ah.I will not ſuffer myſelf to reſt a.moment on ſuch a horrid thought—and yet this ſuſpenſe—this, agonizing ſuſpenſe [168] preſents nothing but images the moſt dire. Tell me explicitly, fully, circumſtantially. I conjure, I inſiſt that you let me know every thing without diſguiſe, without delay. Alas! how I write on—how I rave. But I will be very calm: indeed I will. I will endeavour to fit my mind for every ſtroke but—

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

EMMA CORBETT.

LETTER LXXXIX.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

[169]

COngratulate me, oh Louiſa! congratulate yourſelf—congratulate humanity; for one of its chief ornaments yet lives. I exiſt. I breathe. I recover. Henry is well. Behold the incloſed. Sanctify it with a ſiſter's kiſs, but oh eraſe not thoſe which Emma has impreſſed on every line. It is dated at ſea; but the intelligence chears me. I truſt in Providence, and am moſt happy. Receive my treaſure, but keep it not beyond the returning of the poſt. So long I part from this dear aſſociate of my pillow, in love to thee, thou ſiſter of Henry. I cannot ſleep while it is out [170] of my poſſeſſion. It is an inſtance of my friendſhip which ſurpaſſes all common bounds. My fever abates: my pulſes reſume a wholſome meaſure. Hope is buſy in every vein. I can bear the viſitation of the ſun-beam, and will now retire to reſt, ſoftly ſupplicating that Power which alone can relieve me, to continue the bounty he has begun.

Adieu!
EMMA.

LETTER XC.
TO EMMA CORBETT.*

[171]

AT length, my beloved friend, an opportunity preſents itſelf. I had prepared a large pacquet againſt this dear chance, but it was filled with gloom, deſpondence, and images of ſevere diſtreſs. Better proſpects appear; and I have buried my ill news in the ocean. We are joined by ſhips which are freighted with large and liberal offers of conciliation. They are formed methinks to ſuit the ambitious and graſping ſpirit even of an American, and they muſt, I think, be accepted. Once more regulated by maternal laws, the wayward child [172] ſhall again proſper. The treaſures of either hemiſphere ſhall again be ſhared. The arms of a great nation ſhall no longer be employed to annoy but to defend. Our refractory fellow-ſubjects ſhall ſoften into their former ſentiments. I am now, Emma, within ſight of the land; Reconciliation is expanding her angel plumes before us, and my preſence will, I truſt, be no further neceſſary, than as it will give me an opportunity to witneſs the joy when a truant child is reſtored to the protection of an offended parent. Great-Britain, all inſulted as ſhe is, ineffective as have been her affectionate advances, and ſcorned as have been her profeſſed kindneſs, ſhall receive with tranſport her America. [173] The temporary eſtrangement ſhall only ſerve, like the quarrel of friends, to brighten the bonds of future amity.

O PEACE, thou image of Divinity itſelf!—deſcend, oh deſcend upon that earth from whence the miſtakes of altercating relations have ſo long affrighted thee! Melt the hearts of contending countrymen, and ſhape every jarring intereſt they maintain all all confeſs thy celeſtial ſway. Subdue, gentleſt power! the fierce ſoul of ambition, ſoften the ſinews of authority, and let the countenance of offended Majeſty ſhare the tenderneſs of a father—ah! come, I implore thee, and come without delay! Let not [174] Henry fight againſt the cauſe for which Edward fell! Let there be no longer cauſe to fight. Expand thy ſnowy wing over the ſame people—replace brother in the embraces of brother, and friend in the foldings of friend. Let a ſoldier in this inſtance ſupplicate thee to ſheathe the ſword. Reſerve his arm for the natural enemies of his country, and make it not a duty to go forth againſt a civil foe. I addreſs thee, O lovelieſt, O divine ſpirit of Peàce, in the name of all the dear and delicate affections—affections which make up thy enchanting train. I call upon thee in the names of nature, reaſon, humanity, and good ſaith—in the names of father, child, and all connections that are moſt precious. [175] —I call in the names of Emma and Louiſa. My invocation can aſcend no higher, nor can—

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

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

[177]Our ſails are thrown back, my beloved Emma. The ſurface of the ſoul at this moment is emblematic of peace. The captain of our veſſel in preparing papers for England, to b [...] taken by the ſhip which is gently floating along-ſide of us. She is going from the General with diſpatches, probably of a pleaſing nature. All ſeems full of promiſe—and oh, what ſweet and affecting pleaſure it affords me, while I am writing this! (the barks of fair propoſal making the be [...]t of their way before me.) I anticipate the tranſport with which my tidings will be received—and imagine the effect they will have on the exacleſt form, and moſt touching features, my eyes ever beheld. I ſee, methinks, [178] the ſoft tear of genuine joy, courſe along the cheek, or bathing the cryſtal that covers my portrait—the inviſible ſigh ſteals through its vermeil paſſages—the roſy gates of life and love are opened to welcome the news, and balmily breathe over it a tender aſpiration.

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

Adieu,
HENRY HAMMOND.

LETTER XCI.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

[179]

AFORTUNATE change has happened, Frederick, in this family, ſince my laſt. Emma is all rapture and all health. She has heard from Henry Hammond, and the effect of this intelligence writes triumphant low upon every feature. Her languor is gone. Her tears ſtream from bappineſs only. She ſighs with bliſs.

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

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

Adieu!
ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER XCII.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

[181]

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

EMMA CORBETT

LETTER XCIII.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

[182]

IS he then dead? is he too numbered with the ſlain? and hath the noble youth ſo ſoon followed the lovely Edward? Alas! I ſuſpected this, even while your letter of fairer information lay before me. In vain expectance of finding ſomething that relates to the ſate of my huſband, even againſt the convictions I have of his death, I fondly examine every paper and public print relating to the war, that falls in my way. In the Gazette of laſt night I perceive there has been an engagement, and [...]read with ſtreaming eyes an account of the wounded and the ſlain. Yet, are you ſure of your intelligence? [183] I hope it is, in part, illfounded; for I perceive not the name of Hammond in either liſt. An Enſign Haddock, and a Captain Hammerſon, are mentioned amongſt the wounded; but theſe do not approach very near even in ſound. I will enquire farther immediately; mean time hope—hope every thing, deareſt friend. My brother!—oh no—I will not have it ſo.

LOUISA CORBETT.

LETTER XCIV.
TO LOUISA CORBETT.

[184]

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

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

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

Adieu. I will think upon a remedy.

Adieu!
EMMA.

LETTER XCV.
TO EMMA CORBETT.

[186]

EMMA, be yourſelf. You muſt make one generous effort. I ſee you languiſhing under my eye and canot bear it. Thrice have I ſeen you in the ſick chamber within a few weeks. It is eaſy to perceive that your whole ſoul is pining after Henry—the perfidious Henry; with whom your union muſt never be while you think proper to own a father, and accept his protection. I tell thee, Emma, that were he this moment returned, and returned with what degenerate Britons now call glory—nay, could he lay the conqueſt of the plundered colonies at thy feet, there exiſts a reaſon [187] which would make it vile—yes, mark the ſtrength of the term—VILE, in Emma Corbett to accept it. But I ſee nothing leſs than the entire explanation of the fact will convince thee. To cruſh, therefore, every lingering hope at once, know thou dear infatuated, thy father ſtill leans his very ſoul on the welfare of America. Thoſe fortunes which have been deſtroyed, thoſe debts which have impoveriſhed me, as well as thoſe ample ſtreams of commerce which rolled unobſtructed from ſhore to ſhore, were [...]l dedicated to injured America. For [...] thy brother's blood was ſhed, and had I yet more ſons, more fortunes, and more reſources, they ſhould all be at the ſervice of that violated country. [188] She is injured—ſhe is aggrieved, my daughter. Her oppreſſions are at my heart.—The ſtrings that fix it to my boſom are trembling for her.—She glows with a generous love of freedom.—She has been condemned without a hearing.—She was ſtabbed into reſiſtance.—The ſword was held to her throat ere ſhe thought of ſelf-defence. Conflagration, famine, and parricide, have entered her late peaceful habitations.—The common bounties of Providence have been denied her.—The blood of citizens, of brothers, and of friends, are flowing in rivers through her ſtreets.

I have not, Emma, been one of thoſe who hawk about my principles, [189] and ſaunter in babbling ignorance from coffee-houſe to coffee-houſe. I am fixed in my politicks, and think my ſteady adherence to them a part of my religion. Since we are cruelly taught to make a ſanguinary mark of diſtinction betwixt an Engliſhman and and an American, I own myſelf the latter, and deplore the infirmities that prevent me from ruſhing to the field. My child, my child, I know the ruinous rapacity, the murder, the VIILAINY of this unnatural war. I enter deeply, and pathetically, into every wrong which America ſuſtains. It is the only point wherein I am enthuſiaſtic, and it is the only point where enthuſiam is great and glorious! Do not imagine, raſh girl!—monſtrous [190] thought!—do not DARE to imagine ungrateful Henry ſhall ever receive the hand of Emma. Spare me, beloved daughter, in this one part—this ſore, this tender part—and in every other, command your father! You owe me this ſubmiſſion, you owe me this FAVOUR, this indulgence. I would have preſerved your Hammond, and oppoſed his entering into this wicked employment, but it was impoſſible. High of heart, he ſcorned to be even tenderly controuled. I endeavoured to win him generouſly over to an honourable cauſe. He called it inſult, bribery, baſeneſs. The military diſtraction was throbbing in every vein. When I argued, he juſtified every meaſure of miniſtry. Great-Britain, [191] he ſaid, was groſsly abuſed—her lenity ſcorned—her laws defied—her ſublime prerogative contemptuouſly ſet at nought. He ſpoke loud and vehement of American rebellion. The honour of the empire, he ſaid, now depended on the exertion of each individual, and it was the duty of every young man (whom every tie of intereſt, every bond of loyalty, and every principle of policy called upon) to manifeſt his zeal, his courage, and his attachment. He went on, my child in all the foaming folly of youth, declaring, that he ſhould account himſelf baſe, were he to deny the contribution of his arm. The greater his love for Emma, the nobler his ſacrifice, he ſaid. He was determined: he had made up [192] his mind: and was reſolved to defend his country or gloriouſly periſh in her ruins. I pitied his delirium, yet venerated his ardour. Well directed, of what was it not ſuſceptible! He was above admonition, and kept erring on. In true tenderneſs to thee, my Emma, I forgot the dignity of age, and even ſtooped to intercede. After all my letters to him were in vain, I privately ſought a perſonal interview, but his boiling ſpirit took fire, I reluctantly withdrew, and gave up the point.

Oh America, thou bleeding innocent, how art thou laden with oppreſſions! Oh my child, my child! Nature, Religion, and Religion's God, [193] are on her ſide; and will you take to your arms, and to your embraces, a youth who propenſely violates theſe? —a cruel youth whoſe reeking blade may at this moment ſmoke with kindred gore! Tyranny hath not a reſerve of barbarity in ſtore. She is exhauſted. Your Henry is a volunteer amongſt thoſe who, as an acquiſition to the Britiſh army, have added the tomahawk, the hatchet, and the ſcalping knife. And will the tender-hearted Emma continue to love ſuch a barbarian? Away, away, it will not bear a thought! Baniſh, obliviate, deteſt him. He is in open rebellion againſt the laws of nature. Let your affections flow into a fairer channel— [194] ah ſuffer a parent's hand to pilot them. He has a friend in reſerve, my dear— ſuch a friend—

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

Adieu!
CHARLES CORBETT.

LETTER XCVI.
TO FREDERICK BERKLEY, ESQ.

[195]

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

The perplexity of intereſts in this family, where each part oppoſes the other, and where ſtill greater entanglement is promiſed, are really too many for me who have made a ſudden tranſition from quietneſs to agitation.

You cannot reprobate my weakneſs in a keener ſtyle of cenſure than I myſelf do. Oh, I know full well the [196] unfitneſs of ſuch ſtorms to the ſober ſeaſon of my life. I conceal the cauſe from all but you, and your reproof ſhews me, how little mercy I might expect were that cauſe imparted to leſs generous hearts.

The matter grows too intereſting. A certain darling paſſion, which ſcarce confines Corbett on this ſide phrenzy, and the avowed pre-engagements of Emma, which are more than barriers of iron againſt me, unite to point at the neceſſity of retreat. Expect me, therefore; and when we are together, prepare yourſelf with ſubject of converſation; which, indeed, may take any turn but that of my infirmity: all men, who are conſcious they poſſeſs any, [197] proſcribe this. In happineſs and in miſery, Frederick, we have a few grains of ſelf-love; and, while all its proud aſſociates croud about us, we ſuffer no theme to be diſcuſſed that can humiliate us to ourſelves.

Your's, ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER XCVII.
TO THE SAME.

[198]

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

[199]A little delay can make no difference. Indulge me. Humour me.

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

Farewell!
ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER XCVIII.
TO THE SAME.

[200]

I COME, my dear Frederick; I come. The confuſion of the Corbetts—the abſurd yet afflicting emotions of my own heart—the—the—the—In ſhort—I ſet out to-morrow.

Adieu!
ROBERT RAYMOND.

LETTER XCIX.
TO C. CORBETT, ESQ.

[201]

I HAVE a ſuſpicion that Mr. Hammond is wounded; let that circumſtance, oh my father, account to you for the horrors of mind which have for ſome days locked up every power of hand and of voice. The former faculty is in ſome meaſure reſtored, ſo far at leaſt, as tremblingly to trace upon paper ſomething like an anſwer to your affecting favour; every ſyllable of which is as an envenomed arrow fixing in my boſom. Your determined objection then to poor Henry is at laſt accounted for! I thought the ſanguine track of party was waſhed wholly from a father's heart by the [202] blood of my brother. Shall political prejudices interrupt the fineſt affections of humanity? Horrid is the aſpect of battle, view it on either ſide. It cannot ſhift to an attitude, nor take one poſition, to ſoften its terrors upon the reflecting mind. To THAT it is uniformly odious; nor is it at all amended by conſidering, that as it began ſoon after the creation, it will ſcarcely end till the deſtruction of the world. It has, even within the narrow precincts of our family, divided the ſon from the father, and the lover from his miſtreſs; let it not be rendered more dire by ſetting the intereſt of the daughter againſt that of her moſt honoured parent, ſince that would be to encourage the madneſs of mortals, [203] and the civil peſtilence, that in the form of a family-war, is gone forth againſt us. It would violate the gentle laws of nature, and tear down thoſe conciliating ties which faſten kindred in one vaſt chain of connexion, ample as earth, and beautiful as heaven. You have painted your own patriotiſm and that of Henry, ſir, with equal vigour of language; at leaſt, you have ſaid enough either way to prove that both fancy the cauſe adopted is the cauſe of rectitude and glory. When one ſide attacks, the other muſt naturally defend; on which account, while the ſpirit of contention remains, ſome will vehemently cenſure the very meaſures which ſome as vehemently applaud. But, in avowing your own enthuſiaſm, [204] my dear father, do you not, in effect, juſtify that of Henry? You both ſeem to hug to your boſoms a political Cleopatra, for whoſe ſake you are willing to gain or to loſe a world. England is to Henry what America is to you. Each inſiſts that he is eſpouſing the cauſe of an injured friend: and while this is the caſe, how can it be expected that either ſhould yield? In fact, would not ſuch a conceſſion, according to the preſcriptions of honour, in this world's acceptation of the word, be accounted baſe? You have, you ſay, attempted to direct the ſword of Henry on the better ſide of the diſpute. Which is that better ſide? Henry declares for Britain; you for America. What third perſon ſhall [205] decide between you? The feeble voice of a woman will neither be heard or admitted. Elſe, might ſhe venture to aſſert that your countrymen are bleeding abroad, while the point of right and wrong is adjuſting at home. This, however, is clear, my dear father, from your own premiſes: if Henry thought himſelf inſulted by the propoſal of changing his ſide, you would have been no leſs ſtung, had a ſimilar propoſition come from him to you. And this proves, that both are acting on what is called patriotic principle. What right reaſon then has the one to be diſpleaſed with the other? Yet upon this diſpleaſure on your part, you urge me to withdraw my vows. Are then virtuous reſolutions [206] ſo to be withdrawn, my father? When affection is faſhioned by the feelings, and long cheriſhed in a ſoul which neither projects nor practiſes any ill, whoſe every thought is ſubmitted to the holy criticiſm of Heaven, nor ever dreads the ſcrutiny—is it, under theſe circumſtances, of a texture ſo convenient, as to ſhift from object to object with every gale of opinion, and move away at the word of command? Wherefore, let me once again tenderly enquire, wherefore did you originally inſpire me with a veneration for ſober reaſon? why infuſe in me a ſteady and generous way of thinking? Was it deſigned for ornament or for uſe? If not intended as the governing rule of conduct, [207] through every meander of this mortal pilgrimage, oh wherefore did you not at firſt, even in the nurſery, while every power was impreſſive and would have taken the form you choſe to give it—wherefore then did you not lead me into the path that I was to tread without ſtop or turning? Alas! you have given me fixed principles, acknowledged they were good, ſaw them with joy take root in my heart, and now you expect in their fulleſt growth and fineſt foliage, that they ſhould ſuddenly periſh. But the habits of my youth are grown ſo ſtrong, that I feel it is too late for me to deal in diſguiſes. I will not now begin an artificial character. Oh! ſuffer me to implore you, ſir, to continue [208] my attachment to Truth and Nature. I know nothing of ſtate wrangles, or Congreſs quarrels. I mix not with the infuriate errors of party. I only act up to thoſe ſimple principles of moral life, which aſſure me that conſtancy in favour of a known valuable object (not obſtinate predilection to a bad one) is the baſis on which the ſuperſtructure of all that is noble, juſt, and good, muſt be raiſed. My wiſdom is extremely limited. It ſtretches not into thoſe maxims which deſolate the earth for a vapour of victory, nor does it preſume to penetrate the wiles of government. All it does pretend to, belongs to that ſmall and dear ſyſtem in which every woman ought to be inſtructed; namely, that a wellfixed [209] tenderneſs ſhould never be removed, that it ſhould brave the ſtorms of fortune and diſtreſs, that while life remains it ſhould be the animating purpoſe of life to cultivate it, and that death, and death only, ſhould diſſolve the bonds which virtue had made. If my beloved father would for one moment lay the clamorous contentions of a bickering ſpecies aſide, and ſubmit to be charmed by that diſpaſſionate power which decides calmly of truth and falſhood, he would be convinced of this. I am ſure he would: for his nature is gentle and his heart is ſoft. Ah think what a taſk it is for your ſoul-ſick Emma to be under the neceſſity of uſing theſe pleadings at ſuch a time! Come to her bed ſide— [210] perhaps the cauſe of our diſputes may now—

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

EMMA
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
Notes
*
Prior to the receipt of the above,
*
The incloſed.
*
The incloſure from Mr. Hammond.
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Citation Suggestion for this Object
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3372 Emma Corbett or the miseries of civil war Founded on some recent circumstances which happened in America By the author of Liberal opinions Pupil of pleasure Shenstone Green c pt 2. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5EB5-F