I know, he likes to be with you: but, shall he have that felicity, and he deprive me of it? No; that he shall not!
But this business cannot last long, and I hope we shall have peace; and, I rather incline to that opinion. But the Devil should not get me out of the kingdom, without being some days with you.
I hope, my dear Emma, you will be able to find a house suited for my comfort. I am sure of being HAPPY, by your arrangements.
I have wrote a line to Troubridge, about Darby.
Parker will write you a line of thanks, if he is able. I trust in God, he will yet do well!
You ask me, my dear friend, if I am going on more expeditions? And, even if I was to forfeit your friendship, which is dearer to me than all the world, I can tell you nothing.
For, I go out; [if] I see the enemy, and can get at them, it is my duty: and you would naturally hate me, if I kept back one moment.
I long to pay them, for their tricks t’other day, the debt of a drubbing, which, surely, I’ll pay: but when, where, or how, it is impossible, your own good sense must tell you, for me or mortal man to say.
I shall act not in a rash or hasty manner; that you may rely, and on which I give you my word of honour.
Just going off. Ever, for ever, your faithful
NELSON & BRONTE.
Every kind thing to Mrs. Nelson.
Medusa, Downs, August 31st, 1801.
MY DEAR EMMA! DEAREST, BEST, FRIEND OF NELSON,
Sir William is arrived, and well; remember me kindly to him. I should have had the pleasure of seeing him, but for one of my lords and masters, TROUBRIDGE; therefore, I am sure, neither you or Sir William will feel obliged to him.
The weather is very bad, and I am very sea-sick. I cannot answer your letter, probably; but I am writing a line, to get on shore, if possible: indeed, I hardly expect that your letter can get afloat.
I entreat you, my dear friend, to work hard for me, and get the house and furniture; and I will be so happy to lend it to you and Sir William!
Therefore, if you was to take the Duke’s house, a cake house, open to every body he pleases, you had better have a booth at once; you never could rest one moment quiet. Why did not the Duke assist Sir William, when he wanted his assistance? why not have saved you from the distress, which Sir William must every day feel, in knowing that his excellent wife sold her jewels to get a house for him; whilst his own relations, great as they are in the foolish world’s eye, would have left a man of his respectability and age, to have lodged in the streets. Did the Duke, or any of them, give him a house then?
Forgive me! you know if any thing sticks in my throat, it must out. Sir William owes his life to you; which, I believe, he will never forget.