Adieu, my dear Emma! Ever your's, and your's alone,

W.H.


I send you back your two letters. Dutens was very satisfactory. I send
the papers to Smith; who will give them to you first, if you have not
read them.

The cold and fatigue makes my hand something like your's--which, by
the bye, you neglect rather too much: but, as what you write is good
sense, every body will forgive the scrawl.




V.


Sunday Night, [Jan. 8th, 1792.]

We are come in late; and I have but a moment to tell you we are well,
and I have killed three large boars, a fox, and four woodcocks.

Nothing pleases me more, than to hear you do not neglect your singing.
It would be a pity, as you are near the point of perfection.

Adieu, my dearest Emma! Your's, with my whole soul,