Memoirs of Emma, lady Hamilton, the friend of Lord Nelson and the court of Naples; by 1855-1933 Walter Sydney Sichel Page B
Authors: 1855-1933 Walter Sydney Sichel
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had " only 3 houses," and not one of them " fit for a Christian." With her " poor Emma " she had bidden farewell to all her friends; she had taken her from " a good home "; she hoped she would prove worthy of his " goodness to her, and to her mother." Her recipe-book had been forgotten;—" parting with you made me so unhappy."—" My dear Greville, don't be angry, but I gave my granmother 5 guineas, for she had laid some [money] out on her, and I would not take her awhay shabbily. But Emma shall pay you. . . . My dear Greville, I wish I was with you. God bless you!"
By mid-June she was installed " in the house of a Laidy, whose husband is at sea. She and her gran-mother live together, and we board with her at present. . . . The price is high, but they don't lodge anybody without boarding; and as it is comfortable, decent, and quiet, I thought it wou'd not ruin us, till I could have your oppionon, which I hope to have freely and without restraint, as, believe me, you will give it to one who will allways be happy to follow it, lett it be what it will; as I am sure you wou'd not lead me wrong. And though my little temper may have been sometimes high, believe me, I have allways thought you right in the end when I have come to reason. I bathe, and find the water very soult. Here is a good
many laidys batheing, but I have no society with them, as it is best not. So pray, my dearest Greville, write soon, and tell me what to do, as I will do just what you think proper; and tell me what to do with the child. For she is a great romp, and I can hardly master her. . . . She is tall, [has] good eys and brows, and as to lashes, she will be passible; but she has overgrown all her cloaths. I am makeing and mending all as I can for her. . . . Pray, my dear Greville, do lett me come home, as soon as you can; for I am all most brokenhearted being from you. . . . You don't know how much I love you, and your behaiver to me, when we parted, was so kind, Greville, I don't know what to do. ..." And her next epistle seems to echo under circumstances far removed the voice of the first Lady Hamilton:—" How teadous does the time pass awhay till I hear from you. Endead I should be miserable if I did not recollect on what happy terms we parted— parted, yess, but to meet again with tenfould happiness. . . . Would you think it, Greville ? Emma—the wild, unthinking Emma, is a grave, thoughtful phylosopher. 'Tis true, Greville, and I will convince you I am, when I see you. But how I am runing on. I say nothing abbout this guidy, wild girl of mine. What shall we do with her, Greville ? . . . Wou'd you believe, on Sat-tarday we had a little quarel, . . . and I did slap her on her hands, and when she came to kiss me and make it up, I took her on my lap and cried. Pray, do you blame me or not? Pray tell me. Oh, Greville, you don't know how I love her. Endead I do. When she comes and looks in my face and calls me ' mother' cndead I then truly am a mother, for all the mother's feelings rise at once, and tels me I am or ought to be a mother, for she lias a ivright to my protection; and she shall have it as long as I can, and I will do all in my power to prevent her falling into the error her
poor miserable mother fell into. But why do I say miserable? Am not I happy abbove any of my sex, at least in my situation ? Does not Greville love me, or at least like me? Does not he protect me? Does not he provide for me ? Is not he a father to my child ? Why do I call myself miserable? No, it was a mistake, and I will be happy, chearful and kind, and do all my poor abbility will lett me, to return the fatherly goodness and protection he has shewn. Again, my dear Greville, the recollection of past scenes brings tears in my eyes. But the[y] are tears of happiness. To think of your goodness is too much. But once for all, Greville, I will be grateful. Adue. It is near bathing time, and I must lay down my pen, and I won't finish till I see when the post comes, whether
By mid-June she was installed " in the house of a Laidy, whose husband is at sea. She and her gran-mother live together, and we board with her at present. . . . The price is high, but they don't lodge anybody without boarding; and as it is comfortable, decent, and quiet, I thought it wou'd not ruin us, till I could have your oppionon, which I hope to have freely and without restraint, as, believe me, you will give it to one who will allways be happy to follow it, lett it be what it will; as I am sure you wou'd not lead me wrong. And though my little temper may have been sometimes high, believe me, I have allways thought you right in the end when I have come to reason. I bathe, and find the water very soult. Here is a good
many laidys batheing, but I have no society with them, as it is best not. So pray, my dearest Greville, write soon, and tell me what to do, as I will do just what you think proper; and tell me what to do with the child. For she is a great romp, and I can hardly master her. . . . She is tall, [has] good eys and brows, and as to lashes, she will be passible; but she has overgrown all her cloaths. I am makeing and mending all as I can for her. . . . Pray, my dear Greville, do lett me come home, as soon as you can; for I am all most brokenhearted being from you. . . . You don't know how much I love you, and your behaiver to me, when we parted, was so kind, Greville, I don't know what to do. ..." And her next epistle seems to echo under circumstances far removed the voice of the first Lady Hamilton:—" How teadous does the time pass awhay till I hear from you. Endead I should be miserable if I did not recollect on what happy terms we parted— parted, yess, but to meet again with tenfould happiness. . . . Would you think it, Greville ? Emma—the wild, unthinking Emma, is a grave, thoughtful phylosopher. 'Tis true, Greville, and I will convince you I am, when I see you. But how I am runing on. I say nothing abbout this guidy, wild girl of mine. What shall we do with her, Greville ? . . . Wou'd you believe, on Sat-tarday we had a little quarel, . . . and I did slap her on her hands, and when she came to kiss me and make it up, I took her on my lap and cried. Pray, do you blame me or not? Pray tell me. Oh, Greville, you don't know how I love her. Endead I do. When she comes and looks in my face and calls me ' mother' cndead I then truly am a mother, for all the mother's feelings rise at once, and tels me I am or ought to be a mother, for she lias a ivright to my protection; and she shall have it as long as I can, and I will do all in my power to prevent her falling into the error her
poor miserable mother fell into. But why do I say miserable? Am not I happy abbove any of my sex, at least in my situation ? Does not Greville love me, or at least like me? Does not he protect me? Does not he provide for me ? Is not he a father to my child ? Why do I call myself miserable? No, it was a mistake, and I will be happy, chearful and kind, and do all my poor abbility will lett me, to return the fatherly goodness and protection he has shewn. Again, my dear Greville, the recollection of past scenes brings tears in my eyes. But the[y] are tears of happiness. To think of your goodness is too much. But once for all, Greville, I will be grateful. Adue. It is near bathing time, and I must lay down my pen, and I won't finish till I see when the post comes, whether
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