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LETTER XLVII.

  Victory, May 27th, 1804.

MY DEAREST EMMA,

Yesterday, I took Charles Connor on board, from the Phoebe, to try what we can do with him.  At present, poor fellow, he has got a very bad eye—­and, I almost fear, that he will be blind of it—­owing to an olive-stone striking his eye:  but the surgeon of the Victory, who is by far the most able medical man I have ever seen, and equally so as a surgeon, [says] that, if it can be saved, he will do it.

The other complaint, in his head, is but little more, I think, than it was when he first came to Deal; a kind of silly laugh, when spoken to.  He always complains of a pain in the back part of his head; but, when that is gone, I do not perceive but that he is as wise as many of his neighbours.

You may rely, my dear Emma, that nothing shall be wanting, on my part, to render him every service.

Capel—­although, I am sure, very kind to younkers—–­I do not think, has the knack of keeping them in high discipline; he lets them be their own master too much.

I paid Charles’s account, yesterday; since he has been in the Phoebe, one hundred and fifty-five pounds, fourteen shillings.  However, he must now turn over a new leaf; and I sincerely hope, poor fellow, he will yet do well.

I wrote you on the 22d, through Rosas, in Spain; and I shall write, in a few days, by Barcelona:  this goes by Gibraltar.

I have wrote Admiral Lutwidge; Mrs. Lutwidge must wait, for I cannot get through all my numerous letters:  for, whoever writes, although upon their own affairs, are offended if they are not answered.

I have not seen young Bailey:  I suppose, he is in the Leviathan.  By the parcel, I see, he is in the Canopus; and I can, at present, be of no use to him.

  May 30th.

Charles is very much recovered.

I write you, this day, by Barcelona.  Your dear phiz—­but not the least like you—­on the cup, is safe:  but I would not use it, for the world; for, if it was broke, it would distress me very much.

Your letters, by Swift, I shall never get back.  The French Consul, at Barcelona, is bragging that he has three pictures of you from the Swift.

I do not believe him; but, what if he had a hundred!  Your resemblance is so deeply engraved in my heart, that there it can never be effaced:  and, who knows? some day, I may have the happiness of having a living picture of you!

Old Mother L——­ is a damned b——­:  but I do not understand what you mean, or what plan.

I am not surprised at my friend Kingsmill admiring you, and forgetting Mary; he loves variety, and handsome women.

You touch upon the old Duke; but, I am dull of comprehension:  believing you all my own, I cannot imagine any one else to offer, in any way.

We have enough, with prudence; and, without it, we should soon be beggars, if we had five times as much.