Yours,

MOLESWORTH.

LETTER XXX.

Captain RISBY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH,

Barford Abbey.

What is the sight of thousands slain in the field of battle, compar’d with the scene I am just escap’d from!—­How can I be circumstantial!—­where am I to begin!—­whose distress shall I paint first!—­can there be precedence in sorrow!

What a weight will human nature support before it sinks!—­The distress’d inhabitants of this house are still alive; it is proclaim’d from every room by dreadful groans.—­You sent me on a raven’s message:—­like that ill-boding bird I flew from house to house, afraid to croak my direful tidings.

By your directions I went to the steward’s;—­at the gate stood my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Powis, arm in arm.—­I thought I should have sunk;—­I thought I should have died instantly.—­I was turning my horse to go back, and leave my black errand to be executed by another.

They were instantly at my side;—­a hand was seiz’d by each,—­and the words Risby!—­captain Risby!—­ecchoed in my ears.—­What with their joyous welcomes,—­and transported countenances, I felt as if a flash of lightning had just darted on my head.—­Mrs. Powis first perceiv’d the alteration and ask’d if I was well;—­if any thing had happen’d to give me concern?

Certainly there has, said Mr. Powis, or you are not the same man you was, Risby.—­It is true, Sir, return’d I;—­it is true, I am not so happy as when I last saw you;—­my mind is disagreeably situated;—­could I receive joy, it would be in knowing this amiable woman to be Mrs. Powis.

You both surprise and affect us, replied he.

Indeed you do, join’d in his Lady; but we will try to remove your uneasiness:—­pray let us conduct you to the Abbey; you are come to the best house in the world to heal grievances.—­Ah, Risby! said my friend, all there is happiness.—­Dick, I have the sweetest daughter:  but Lord Darcey, I suppose, has told you every thing; we desir’d he would; and that we might see you immediately.—­Can you tell us if his Lordship is gone on to Dover?

He is, returned I.—­I did not wait his coming down, wanting to discover to you the reason of my perplexities.

What excuse after saying this, could I make, for going into the steward’s?—­For my soul, I could not think of any.—­Fortunately it enter’d my head to say, that I had been wrong directed;—­that a foolish boy had told me this was the strait road to the Abbey.

Mr. and Mrs. Powis importun’d me to let the servant lead my horse, that I might walk home with them.—­This would never do.—­I could not longer trust myself in their company, ’till I had reconnoitred the family;—­’till I had examin’d who there was best fitted to bear the first onset of sorrow.—­I brought myself off by saying, one of my legs was hurt with a tight boot.