d Almighty bless you, and send us a happy meeting!

LETTER XLVI.

Victory, May 5, 1804.

I find, my Dearest Emma, that your picture is very much admired by
the French Consul at Barcelona; and that he has not sent it to be
admired--which, I am sure, it would be--by Buonaparte.

They pretend, that there were three pictures taken. I wish, I had
them: but they are all gone, as irretrievably as the dispatches;
unless we may read them in a book, as we printed their correspondence
from Egypt.

But, from us, what can they find out! That I love you, most dearly;
and hate the French, most damnably.

Dr. Scott went to Barcelona, to try to get the private letters; but,
I fancy, they are all gone to Paris. The Swedish and American Consuls
told him, that the French Consul had your picture, and read your
letters; and, Doctor thinks, one of them probably read the letters.

By the master's account of the cutter, I would not have trusted a pair
of old shoes in her. He tells me, she did not sail, but was a good
sea-boat.

I hope, Mr. Marsden will not trust any more of my private letters in
such a conveyance; if they choose to trust the affairs of the public
in such a thing, I cannot help it.

I long for the invasion being over; it must finish the war, and I have
no fears for the event.

I do not say, all I wish; and which, my dearest _beloved_ Emma--(read
that, whoever opens this letter; and, for what I care, publish it to
the world)--your fertile imagination can readily fancy I would say:
but this I can say, with great truth, that I am, FOR EVER, YOUR'S

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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 ev