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.