The other day, we had a report the French were out, and seen steering to the westward.  We were as far as Minorca, when the alarm proved false.

Therefore, my dearest beloved Emma! although I should be the happiest of men, to live and die with you, yet my chance of seeing you is much more certain by your remaining at Merton, than wandering where I may never go; and, certainly, never to stay forty-eight hours.

You cannot, I am sure, more ardently long to see me, than I do to be with you; and, if the war goes on, it is my intention to get leave to spend the next winter in England:  but I verily believe that, long before that time, we shall have peace.

As for living in Italy, that is entirely out of the question.  Nobody cares for us, there; and, if I had Bronte—­which, thank God!  I shall not—­it would cost me a fortune to go there, and be tormented out of my life.  I should never settle my affairs there.

I know, my own dear Emma, if she will let her reason have fair play, will say, I am right; but she is, like Horatia, very angry, if she cannot have her own way.  Her Nelson is called upon, in the most honourable manner, to defend his country!  Absence, to us, is equally painful:  but, if I had either stayed at home, or neglected my duty abroad, would not my Emma have blushed for me?  She could never have heard of my praises, and how the country looks up.

I am writing, my dear Emma, to reason the point with you; and, I am sure, you will see it in its true light.  But I have said my say, on this subject, and will finish.

I have received your letter, with Lord William’s and Mr. Kemble’s, about Mr. Palmer:  he is also recommended by the Duke of Clarence; and, he says, by desire of the Prince of Wales.  I have, without him, twenty-six to be made Captains, and list every day increasing.  It is not one whole French fleet that can get through it.

I shall, probably, offend many more than I can oblige.  Such is always the case:  like the tickets—­those who get them, feel they have a right to them; and those [who] do not get them, feel offended for ever.

But, I cannot help it:  I shall endeavour to do what is right, in every situation; and some ball may soon close all my accounts with this world of care and vexation!

But, never mind, my own dear-beloved Emma:  if you are true to me, I care not—­and approve of all my actions.  However, as you say, I approve of them, myself; therefore, probably, I am right.

Poor Reverend Mr. Scott is, I fear, in a very bad way.  His head has been turned by too much learning, and the stroke of lightning will never let him be right again.  The Secretary Scott is a treasure; and I am very well mounted:  Hardy is every thing I could wish or desire.

Our days pass so much alike that, having described one, you have them all.  We now breakfast by candlelight; and all retire, at eight o’clock, to bed.