If it is necessary to make an apology for writing to you again so
soon, the only one I shall attempt to make is that of offering you my
sincere congratulations upon the birth of your sweet girl, Eliza
Louisa, if I did not misunderstand you when you were in Town, and the
certainty of which I wish to know in your next letter; also, if I may
be allowed to stand godmother to my little namesake, and likewise if
you have accepted the kind offer of Lord R. to become her noble
godfather. You mention your dear wife in language that alarms and
distresses me much for her safety. I hope in God, for your sake, and
for the sake of your dear children, that all danger is over, and that
she is now in a fair way to be speedily restored to you. Pardon me,
my clear Clare, when I entreat you to do all in your power to comfort
and compose her mind under her present delicate situation. Recollect
if she is now a faded flower she has become so under your influence,
and well may you be loth to lose the object who has shed her
brightest hues on you, and who in giving birth to your sweet
offspring may chance to fade almost to nothingness herself. But this
should serve to bind your affections still stronger to her. Forgive
me for talking thus to you, my dear Clare. I have no other motive
than your domestic happiness, which I anxiously pray may be
undisturbed by any event. I lament to learn by your letter that to
stifle recollections of the past, &c., you should have fled to such
resources on your journey home. Now you become the sufferer by such
means. Why not exert your philosophy, instead of seeking that which
serves to destroy your health and peace? You know, my dear Clare,
that you are injuring yourself in the deepest sense by such habits.
For God's sake, then, for your own dear children's sake, arm yourself
with a determination, a fortitude, which would do honour to your
excellent heart and good understanding, to fly from such a mode of
consolation as from a poison that will quickly destroy you. Remember
poor Burns! Let the solemn and affectionate warnings of your friend
'Emma' dissuade you, my dear Clare, from habits of inebriety.
Independent of the loss of your health and mental powers, your moral
character will be seriously injured by such means. You will charge me
with preaching a sermon, I fear, and will be inclined to commit my
good wishes to the flames, but you must not hate me for my counsel. I
can readily suppose how the 'good Quaker' would be shocked at your
'disguise' and I heartily regret the event, altho' I honour your
liberality and candour in telling me of it. I have not heard from our
friend Rippingille, but expect to do so daily. When I write to him I
will make known your wishes to correspond with him. You tell me you
'have many things to say to me in future about your journey, &c. &c.'
Pray do not be long, my dear Clare, ere you make such communications,
with all else that concerns you, for I shall be most anxious to hear
good accounts of your dear wife and the sweet babe. Mr. E. desires me
to say everything that is kind to you for him, as does our noble and
dear friend. Heaven bless you, my dear Clare.
Ever sincerely yours,
'EMMA.'"