 Section 1 of the History of Emily Montague, Volume 4 by Francis Moore-Brook. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Cast List Emily Montague, read by J. M. Smallhair. Colonel Edward Rivers, read by Jim Locke. Arabella Ferma, read by Matej Abracic. John J. Fitzgerald, read by Larry Wilson. John Temple, read by Alan Mapstone. Fanny Williams, read by Abayi. The Earl of Hamburg, read by Kevin S. Narrated by Lynette. Letters 181 through 190. Letter 181. Jacuna Rivers at Bellefield, Rutland, Rose Hill, September 17th. Can you in earnest ask such a question? Can you suppose I ever felt the least degree of love for Sir George? No, my Rivers, never did your Emily feel tenderness till she saw the loveliest, the most amiable of his sex, till those eyes spoke the sentiments of a soul every idea of which was similar to her own. Yes, my Rivers, our souls have the most perfect resemblance. I never heard you speak without finding the feelings of my own heart developed. Your conversation conveyed your Emily's ideas, but closed in the language of angels. I thought well of Sir George. I saw him as the man destined to be my husband. I fancied he loved me, and that gratitude obliged me to a return, carried away by the ardour of my friends for this marriage. I rather suffered than approved his addresses. I had not courage to resist the torrent. I therefore gave way to it. I loved no other. I fancied my want of affection, a native coldness of temper. I felt a languid esteem, which I endeavored to flatter myself was love. But the moment I saw you, the delusion vanished. Your eyes, my Rivers, in one moment convinced me I had a heart. You stayed some weeks with us in the country. With what transport do I recollect those pleasing moments? How did my heart beat whenever you approached me? What charms did I find in your conversation? I heard you talk with a delight of which I was not mistress. I fancied every woman who saw you felt the same emotions. My tenderness increased imperceptibly without my perceiving the consequences of my indulging the dear pleasure of seeing you. I found I loved, yet was doubtful of your sentiments. My heart, however, flattered me. Yours was equally affected. My situation prevented an explanation, but love has a thousand ways of making himself understood. How dear to me were those soft, those delicate attentions which told me all you felt for me without communicating it to others. Do you remember that day, my Rivers, when sitting in the little hawthorn grove near the borders of the river, the rest of the company of which Sir George was one, ran to look at a ship that was passing? I would have followed, you asked me to stay, by a look which it was impossible to mistake. Nothing could be more imprudent than my stay, yet I had not resolutioned to refuse what I saw gave you pleasure. I stayed, you pressed my hand, you regarded me with a look of unutterable love. My Rivers, from that dear moment your Emily vowed never to be in others. She vowed not to sacrifice all the happiness of her life, to a romantic parade of fidelity, to a man whom she had been betrayed into receiving as a lover. She resolved, if necessary, to own to him the tenderness with which you had inspired her, to entreat from his esteem, from his compassion, a release from engagements which made her wretched. My heart burns with the love of virtue. I am tremblingly alive to fame. What bitterness then must have been my portion had I first seen you when the wife of another. Such is the powerful sympathy that unites us, that I fear, that virtue, that strong sense of honour and fame, so powerful in mine's most turned to tenderness, would only have served to make more poignant the pangs of hopeless, despairing love. How blessed am I that we met before my situation made it a crime to love you. I shudder at the idea how wretched I might have been had I seen you a few months later. I am just returned from a visit at a few miles distance. I find a letter from my dear Belle that she will be here tomorrow. How do I long to see her, to talk to her of my rivers? I am interrupted. A-duh. Yours, Emily Montague. Letter 182 To Mrs. Temple, Rose Hill, September 18, morning I have this moment, my dear Mrs. Temple's letter. She will imagine my transport at the happy event she mentions. My dear rivers has, in some degree, sacrificed even filial affection to his tenderness for me. The consciousness of this has ever cast a damp on the pleasure I should otherwise have felt at the prospect of spending my life with the most excellent of mankind I shall now be his without the painful reflection of having lessened the enjoyment of the best parent that ever existed. I should be blessed indeed, my amiable friend, if I did not suffer from my too anxious tenderness. I dread the possibility of my becoming in time less dear to your brother. I love him to such excess that I could not survive the loss of his affection. There is no distress, no want I could not bear with delight for him, but if I lose his heart I lose all for which life is worth keeping. Could I bear to see those looks of ardent love converted into the cold glances of indifference? You will, my dearest friend, pity a heart whose too great sensibility wounds itself. Why should I fear? Was ever tenderness equal to that of my reverse? Can a heart like his change from caprice? It shall be the business of my life to merit his tenderness. I will not give way to fears which injure him, and indulged would destroy all my happiness. I expect Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald every moment, adieu, your affectionate, Emily Montague. Dear 183, to Captain Fitzgerald, Bellefield, September 17. You say true, my dear Fitzgerald, friendship like love is more the child of sympathy than of reason, though inspired by qualities very opposite to those which give love. It strikes like that in a moment. Like that it is free as air, and when constrained loses all its spirit. In both, from some nameless cause at least some cause to us incomprehensible, the affections take fire, the instant to persons whose minds are in unison, observe each other which, however, they may often meet without doing. It is therefore as impossible for others to point out objects of our friendship as love. Our choice must be uninfluenced if we wish to find happiness in either. Love lifeless esteem may grow from a long, tasteless acquaintance, but real affection makes a sudden and lively impression. This impression is improved as strengthened by time and a more intimate knowledge of the merit of the person who makes it, but it is it must be spontaneous or be nothing. I felt this sympathy powerfully in regard to yourself. I had the strongest partiality for you before I knew how very worthy you were of my esteem. Your countenance and manner made an impression on me, which inclined me to take your virtues upon trust. It is not always safe to depend on these preventive feelings, but in general the face is a pretty faithful index of the mind. I propose being in town in four or five days. 12 o'clock, my mother has this moment a second letter from her relation who is coming home and proposes a marriage between me and his daughter, to whom he will give twenty thousand pounds now and the rest of his fortune at his death. As Emily's fault, if love can allow her one, is in excess of romantic generosity the fault of most uncorrupted female minds, I'm very anxious to marry her before she knows of this proposal that she should think yet a proof of tenderness to aim at making me wretched in order to make me rich. I therefore entreat you and Mrs. Fitzgerald to stay at Rose Hill and prevent her coming to town till she is mine past the power of retreat. Our relation may have mentioned his design to persons less prudent than our little party, and she may hear of it if she is in London. But independently of my fear of her spirit of romance I feel that it would be an indelicacy to let her know of this proposal at present and look like attempting to make a merit of my refusal. It is not to you, my dear friend, I need say the gifts of fortune are nothing to me without her for whose sake alone I wish to possess them. You know my heart and you also know this is the sentiment of every man who loves, but I can with true say much more. I do not even wish an increase of fortune considering it abstractedly from its being incompatible with my marriage with the loveliest of women. I am indifferent to all but independence. Wealth would not make me happier. On the contrary, it might break in on my present little plan of enjoyment by forcing me to give two common acquaintance of whom wealth will always attract a crowd, those precious hours devoted to friendship and domestic pleasure. I think my present income just what a wise man would wish and very sincerely join in the philosophical prayer of the royal prophet, give me neither poverty nor riches. I love the veil and had always an aversion to very extensive prospects. I will hasten my coming as much as possible and hope to be at Rose Hill on Monday next. I shall be a prey to anxiety till Emily is irrevocably mine. Tell Mrs. Fitzgerald I am all impatience to kiss her hand, your affectionate Ed Rivers. Letter 184 to Captain Firmore, Richmond, September 18. I am this moment returned to Richmond from a journey. I am rejoiced at your arrival and impatient to see you, for I am so happy as not to have outlived my impatience. How is my little bell? I am as much in love with her as ever. This you will conceal from Captain Fitzgerald, lest he should be alarmed, for I am as formidable arrival as a man of forescore can be supposed to be. I am extremely obliged to you, my dear Firmore, for having introduced me to a very amiable man in your friend Colonel Rivers. I begin to be so sensible that I am an old fellow that I feel a very lively degree of gratitude to the young ones who visit me and look on every agreeable new acquaintance under thirty as in acquisition I had no right to expect. You know I have always thought personal advantages of much more real value than accidental ones, and that those who possess the former had much the greatest right to be proud. Youth, health, beauty, understanding are substantial goods, wealth and title, comparatively ideal ones. I therefore think a young man who condescends to visit an old one, the healthy who visit the sick, the man of sense who spends his time with a fool, and even a handsome fellow with an ugly one are the persons who confer the favor, whatever difference there may be in rank or fortune. Colonel Rivers did me the honor to spend a day with me here, and I have not often lately passed a pleasanter one. The desire I had not to discredit your partial recommendation, and my very strong inclinations to seduce him to come again, made me entirely discard the old man, and I believe your friend will tell you the hours did not pass on leaden wings. I expect you, with Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald, to pass some time with me at Richmond. I have the best claret in the universe, and as lively a relish for it as at five and twenty. I do your affectionate age. CHAPTER 185 To Colonel Rivers at Bellefield, Rutland, Rose Hill, September 18. Since I sent away my letter, I have your last. You tell me, my dear Rivers, the strong emotion I betrayed at seeing Sir George, when you came together to Montreal, made you fear I loved him, that you were jealous of the blush which glowed on my cheek when he entered the room, that you still remember it with regret, that you still fancy I had once some degree of tenderness for him, and beg me to account for the apparent confusion I betrayed at his sight. I owned that emotion. My confusion was indeed too great to be concealed. But was he alone, my Rivers? Can you forget that he had with him the most lovely of mankind? Sir George was handsome. I have often regarded his person with admiration. But it was the admiration we give to a statue. I listened coldly to his love. I felt no emotion at his sight. But when you appeared, my heart beat. I blushed. I turned pale by turns. My eyes assumed a new softness. I trembled, and every pulse confessed the master of my soul. My friends are come. I am culled down. Adieu! Be assured, your Emily never breathed a sigh but for her Rivers. Adieu! Yours, Emily Montague. Letter 186 To Colonel Rivers at Bellefield, Rutland, London, September 18. I have this moment your letter. We are setting out in ten minutes for Rosehill, where I will finish this, and hope to give you a pleasing account of your Emily. You are certainly right in keeping this proposal secret at present. And on our silence. I could, however, wish you the fortune were it possible to have it without the lady. Were I to praise your delicacy on this occasion, I should injure you. It was not in your power to act differently. You are only consistent with yourself. I am pleased with your idea of a situation, a house embosomed in the grove, where all the view is what the eye can take in, speaks a happy master, content at home, a wide extended prospect, one who is looking abroad for happiness. I love the country. The taste for rural scenes is the taste born with us. After seeking pleasure and vain amongst the works of art, we are forced to come back to the point from whence we set out, and find our enjoyment in the lovely simplicity of nature. Rose Hill Evening I am afraid Emily knows your secret. She has been in tears almost ever since we came. The servant is going to the post office, and I have but a moment to tell you we will stay here till your arrival, which you will hasten as much as possible. Adieu. Your affection, J. Fitzgerald. To Colonel Rivers at Bellefield, Rutland, Rose Hill, September 18. If I was not certain of your esteem and friendship, my dear Rivers, I should tremble at the request I am going to make you. It is to suspend our marriage for some time, and not ask me the reason of this delay. Be assured of my tenderness, be assured my whole soul is yours, that you are dearer to me than life, that I love you as never woman loved, that I live I breathe but for you, that I would die to make you happy. In what words shall I convey to the most beloved of his sex the ardent tenderness of my soul, how convince him of what I suffer, from being forced to make a request so contrary to the dictates of my heart. He cannot, will not doubt his Emily's affection, I cannot support the idea that it is possible he should for one instant. What I suffer at this moment is inexpressible. My heart is too agitated to say more, I will write again in a few days. I know not what I would say, but indeed my Rivers, I love you. You yourself can scarce form an idea to what excess. Adieu. Your faithful Emily Montague. Order 188 to Miss Montague, Rose Hill, Berkshire, Bellefield, September 20. No, Emily, you never loved. I've been long hurt by your tranquility in regard to our marriage. Your too scrupulous attention to decorum and leaving my sister's house might have alarmed me if love had not placed a bandage before my eyes. Cruel girl, I repeated, you never loved. I have your friendship, but you know nothing of that ardent passion, that dear enthusiasm, which makes us indifferent to all but itself. Your love is from the imagination, not the heart. The very professions of tenderness in your last are a proof of your consciousness of indifference. You repeat too often that you love me. You say too much that anxiety to persuade me of your affection shows too plain that you are sensible. I have reason to doubt it. You have placed me on the rack. A thousand fears, a thousand doubts, exceed each other in my soul. Has some happier man? No, my Emily, distracted as I am. I will not be unjust. I do not suspect you of inconstancy, tis of your coldness only I complain. You never felt the lively impatience of love, or you would not condemn a man whom you at least esteem to suffer longer its unutterable tortures. If there is a real cause for this delay, why conceal it from me? Have I not a right to know what so nearly interests me? But what cause? Are you not mischievous of yourself? My Emily, you blushed to own to me the insensibility of your heart. You once fancied you loved. You are ashamed to say you were mistaken. You cannot surely have been influenced by any motive relative to our fortune. No idle tale can have made you retract a promise which rendered me the happiest of mankind. If I have your heart, I am richer than an oriental monarch. Short is like is, my dearest girl, is it of consequence what part we play in it? Is wealth at all essential to happiness? The tender affections are the only sources of true pleasure. The highest, the most respectable titles in the eye of reason are the tender ones a friend, a husband, and a father. It is from the dear soft ties of social love your rivers expects his felicity. You have but one way, my dear Emily, to condense me of your tenderness I shall set off a rose hill. In twelve hours you must give me your hand the moment I ride or confess your rivers was never dear to you. Write and send a servant instantly to meet me at my mother's house in town. I cannot support the torment of suspense. There is not on earth so wretched a being as I am at this moment. I never knew till now to what excess I loved. You must be mine, my Emily, or I must cease to live. Letter 189 to Captain Fitzgerald Rose Hill-Barcher Bellfield, September 20. All I feared has certainly happened. Emily has undoubtedly heard of this proposal, and from a parade of generosity, a generosity, however inconsistent with love, wishes to postpone our marriage till my relation arrives. I am hurt beyond words at the manner in which she has wrote to me on this subject I have in regard to Sir George, experience that these are not the sentiments of a heart truly enamored. I therefore fear this romantic step is the effect of a coldness of which I thought her incapable, and that her affection is only a more lively degree of friendship with which I will own to you my heart will not be satisfied. I would engross, I would employ, I would absorb every faculty of that lovely mind. I have too long suffered prudence to delay my happiness. I cannot longer live without her if she loves me. I shall on Tuesday call her mine, or do you? I shall be with you almost as soon as this letter. You are affectionate, Ed, Rivers. Letter 190 To Colonel Rivers, Clarkes Street, Rose Hill, September 21. Is it then possible? Can my Rivers doubt his Emily's tenderness? Do I only esteem you, my Rivers? Can my eyes have so ill explained the feelings of my heart? You accuse me of not sharing your impatience. Do you then allow nothing to the modesty, the blushing delicacy of my sex? Could you see into my soul you would cease to call me cold and insensible? Can you forget my Rivers, those moments, when doubtful of the sentiments of your heart, mine, every instant, betrayed its weakness, when every look spoke the resistless fondness of my soul, when lost in the delight of seeing you, I forgot I was almost the wife of another? But I will say no more. My Rivers tells me I have already said too much. He is displeased with his Emily's tenderness. He complains that I tell him too often I love him. You say I can give but one certain proof of my affection. I will give you that proof. I will be yours whenever you please, though ruin should be the consequence to both. I despise every other consideration when my Rivers' happiness is at stake. Is there any request he is capable of making which his Emily will refuse? You are the arbiter of my fate. I have no will but yours. Yet I entreat you to believe no common cause could have made me hazard giving a moment's pain to that dear bosom. You will one time know to what excess I have loved you. Were the empire of the world or your affection offered me, I should not hesitate one moment on the choice, even were I certain never to see you more. I cannot form an idea of happiness equal to that of being beloved by the most amiable of mankind. Judge then if I would lightly wish to defer an event which is to give me the transport of passing my life in the dear employment of making him happy. I only entreat that you will decline asking me till I judge proper to tell you why I first begged our marriage might be deferred. Let it be till then forgot I ever made such a request. You will not, my dear rivers, refuse this proof of complacence. To her who too plainly shows she can refuse you nothing. Adieu. Yours, Emily Montague. To Miss Montague Rose Hill, Barterture, Glarges Street, September twenty-one, two o'clock. Can you, my angel, forgive my insolent impatience and attribute it to the true cause, excessive love? Could I be such a monster as to blame my sweet Emily's dear expressions of tenderness? I hate myself for being capable of writing such a letter. Be assured I will strictly comply with all. She desires what condition is there on which I would not make the loveliest of women mine. I will follow the servant in two hours. I shall be at Rose Hill by eight o'clock. Adieu, my dearest Emily, your faithful ed rivers. Letter one hundred and ninety-two. To John Temple Esquire, Temple House Rutland, September twenty-one, nine at night. The loveliest of women has consented to make me happy. She remonstrated. She doubted, but her tenderness conquered all her reluctance. Tomorrow I shall call her mine. We shall set out immediately for your house where we hope to be the next day to dinner. You will therefore postpone your journey to town a week at the end of which we intend going to Bellefield. Captain Firmar and Mrs. Fitzgerald accompany us down. Emily's relation, Mrs. H. Blank, has business which prevents her, and Fitzgerald is obliged to stay another month in town to transact the affair of his majority. Never did Emily look so lovely as this evening. There is a sweet confusion mixed with tenderness in her whole-looking manner, which is charming beyond all expression. Adieu, I have not a moment to spare. Even this absence from her is treason to love. Say everything for me to my mother and Lucy, yours, ed rivers. Letter one hundred and ninety-three. To John Temple Esquire, Temple House Rutland, Rose Hill, September twenty-two, ten o'clock. She is mine, my dear Temple. And I am happy almost above mortality. I cannot paint to you her loveliness. The grace, the dignity, the mild majesty, however air is softened by a smile like that of angels. Her eyes have a tender sweetness, her cheeks a blush of refined affection, which must be seen to be imagined. I end, be Captain Firmar, the happiness of being in the same chaise with her. I shall be very bad company de Belle, who insists on my being her chaise-sispio for the journey. Adieu, the chaises are at the door, your affectionate, ed rivers. Letter one hundred and ninety-four. To Captain Fitzgerald, Temple House, September twenty-nine. I regret you're not being with us more than I can express. I would have every friend I love a witness of my happiness. I thought my tenderness for Emily as great as man could feel, yet find it every moment increase, every moment she is more dear to my soul. The angel delicacy of that lovely mind is inconceivable. Had she no other charm I should adore her. What a luster does modesty throw round beauty. We remove tomorrow to Bellefield. I'm impatient to see my sweet girl in her little empire. I am tired of the continual crowd in which we live at temples. I would not pass the life he does for all his fortune, aside for the power of spending my time, as I please for the dear shades of retirement and friendship. How little do mankind know their own happiness, every pleasure worth a wish is in the power of almost all mankind. Blind to true joy, ever engaged in a wild pursuit of what is always in our power, anxious for that wealth which we falsely imagine necessary to our enjoyments, we suffer our best hours to pass tastelessly away. We neglect the pleasures which are suited to our nature's and intent on ideal schemes of establishments at which we'd never arrive, let the dear hours of social delight escape us. Haste unto us, my dear Fitzgerald, we want only you to fill our little circle of friends, your affectionate Ed Rivers. Letter 195 to Captain Fitzgerald, Bellefield, October 3. My delight is there in obliging those we love. My heart dilated with joy at seeing Emily please with the little embellishments of her apartment which I've made as gay and smiling as the morn. It looked indeed as if the hand of love had adorned it. She has a dressing room and closet of books into which I shall never intrude. There is a pleasure in having some place which we can say is peculiarly our own. Some sanctum sanctorme with which we can retire even from those most dear to us. This is a pleasure in which I have been indulged almost from infancy and therefore one of the first I thought of procuring for my sweet Emily. I told her I should, however, sometimes expect to be amongst her guests in this little retirement. Her look, her tender smile, the speaking glance of grateful love gave me a transport which only minds turn to affection can conceive. I never, my dear Fitzgerald, was happy before. The attachment I once mentioned was pleasing, but I felt a regret at knowing the object of my tenderness had forfeit to the good opinion of the world which embittered all my happiness. She possessed my esteem because I knew her heart, but I wanted to see her esteemed by others. With Emily I enjoy this pleasure in its utmost extent. She is the adoration of all who see her. She is equally admired, esteemed, respected. She seems to value the admiration she excites, only as it appears to gratify the pride of her lover. The transport when all eyes are fixed to her to see her searching around for mine and attentive to no other object as if insensible to all other approbation. I enjoy the pleasures of friendship as well as those of love. Were you here, my dear Fitzgerald, we should be the happiest group on the globe, but all bells' sprightliness cannot preserve her from an air of chagrin in your absence. Come as soon as possible, my dear friend, and leave us nothing to wish for. Adieu, your affectionate Ed Rivers. LESTER-196 To Colonel Rivers Bellfield, R. London, October 8. You are very cruel, my dear Rivers, to tantalize me with your pictures of happiness. Notwithstanding this spite, I am sorry I must break ye in on your group of friends, but it is absolutely necessary for Bell and my father to return immediately to town in order to settle some family business previous to my purchase of the majority. Indeed I am not very fond of letting Bell stay long amongst us, for she gives me such an account of your attention and complacence to Mrs. Rivers that I am afraid she will think me a careless fellow when we meet again. You seem in the high road not only to spoil your own wife, but mine too, which it is certainly my affair to prevent. Say everything for me to the ladies of your family. Adieu, your affectionate J. Fitzgerald. LESTER-197 To Captain Fitzgerald Bellfield, October 10. You are a malicious fellow, Fitzgerald, and I am half inclined to keep the sweet Bell by force. Take all the men away, if you please, but I cannot bear the loss of a woman, especially of such a woman. If I was not more a lover than a husband, I am not sure I should not wish to take my revenge. To make me happy, you must place me in a circle of females, all as pleasing as those now with me, and turn every male creature out of the house. I am a most intolerable monopolizer of the sex. In short, I have very little relish for any conversation but theirs. I love their sweet prattle beyond all the sense of learning in the world. Not that I would insinuate they have less understanding than we or are less capable of learning, or even that it less becomes them. On the contrary, all such knowledge as tends to adorn and soften human life and manners is, in my opinion, peculiarly the coming in women. You don't deserve a longer letter, Adieu, yours at Rivers. Letter 198 To Mrs. Fitzgerald Bellfield, October 12. I am very conscious, my dear Bell, of not meriting the praises my Rivers lavishes on me. Yet the pleasure I receive from them is not the less lively for that consideration. On the contrary, the less I deserve these praises, the more flattering they are to me as the stronger proofs of his love, of that love which gives ideal charms, which adorns, which embellishes its object. I had rather be lovely in his eyes than in those of all mankind, or to speak more exactly if I continue to please him the admiration of all the world is indifferent to me. It is for his sake alone I wish for beauty to justify the dear preference he has given me. How pleasing are these sweet shades, were they less so, my Rivers' presence would give them every charm, every object has appeared to me more lovely, since the dear moment when I first saw him, I seem to have acquired a new existence from his tenderness. You say true, my dear Bell, heaven doubtless formed us to be happy, even in this world, and we obey its dictates in being so, when we can, without encroaching on the happiness of others. This lesson is, I think, plain from the book providence has spread before us. The whole universe smiles. The earth is clothed in lively colors, the animals are playful, the birds sing. In being cheerful with innocence we seem to conform to the order of nature, and the will of that beneficent power to whom we owe our being. If the Supreme Creator had meant us to be gloomy, he would, it seems to me, have closed the earth in black, not in that lively green, which is the livery of cheerfulness and joy. I am called away. Adjah, my dearest Bell, you're faithful, Emily Rivers. Dear 199. To Captain Fitzgerald Bellfield, October 14. You flatter me most agreeably, my dear Fitzgerald, by praising Emily. I want you to see her again. She is every hour more charming. I'm astonished any man can behold her without love. Yet lovely as she is, her beauty is her least merit, the finest understanding, the most pleasing kind of knowledge, tenderness, sensibility, modesty and truth adorn her almost with rays of divinity. She has, beyond all, I ever saw in either sex the polish of the world about having lost that sweet simplicity of manner that unaffected innocence and integrity of heart, which are so very apt to evaporate in a crowd. I ride out, often alone, in order to have the pleasure of returning to her. These little absences give new spirit to our tenderness. Every care forsakes me at the sight of this temple of real love. My sweet Emily meets me with smiles, her eyes brighten. When I approach, she receives my friends with the most lively pleasure, because they are my friends. I almost envy them her attention, though given for my sake, elegant in her dress and house, she is all transport when any little ornament of either pleases me. But what charms me most is her tenderness for my mother, in whose heart she rivals both me and Lucy. My happiness, my friend, is beyond every idea I had formed, where I a little richer, I should not have a wish remaining. Do not, however, imagine this wish takes from my felicity. I have enough for myself, I have even enough for Emily. Love makes us indifferent to the parade of life, but I have not enough to entertain my friends as I wish, nor to enjoy the godlike pleasure of beneficence. We shall be obliged in order to support the little appearance necessary to our connections to give and attention, rather to strict to our affairs. Even this, however, our affection for each other will make easy to us. My whole soul is so taken up with this charming woman. I am afraid I shall become tedious, even to you I must learn to restrain my tenderness and write on common subjects. I am more and more pleased with the way of life I have chose, and where my fortune, ever so large, would pass the greatest part of the year in the country, I would only enlarge my house and fill it with friends. My situation is a very fine one, though not like the magnificent scenes to which we have been accustomed in Canada. The house stands on the sunny side of a hill, at the foot of which the garden intervening runs a little trout stream, which to the right seems to be lost in an island of Oziers, and over which is a rusted bridge into a very beautiful meadow, where at present graze a numerous flock of sheep. Only is planting a thousand embellishments for the garden, and one next year make it a wilderness of sweets, a paradise worthy, its lovely inhabitant. She is already forming walks and flowery arbors in the wood, and giving the whole scene every charm, which taste at little expense can bestow. I on my side am selecting spots for plantations of trees and mean like a good citizen to serve at once myself and the public by raising oaks, which may hereafter bear the British thunder to distant lands. I believe we country gentlemen, whilst we have spirit to keep ourselves independent, are the best citizens as well as subjects in the world. Happy ourselves, we wish not to destroy the tranquility of others. Intent on cares, equally useful and pleasing, with no views but to improve our fortunes by means equally profitable to ourselves and to our country, we form no schemes of dishonest ambition, and therefore disturb no government to serve our private designs. It is the profuse, the vicious, the profligate, the needy, who are the Claudios and guidelines of this world. That love of order, of moral harmony, so natural to virtuous minds, to minds at ease is the strongest tie of rational obedience. The man who feels himself prosperous and happy will not easily be persuaded by a factious declamation that he is undone. Convinced of the excellency of our constitution in which liberty and prerogative are balanced with the steadiest hand, he will not endeavor to remove the boundaries which secure both. He will not endeavor to root it up, whilst he is pretending to give it nourishment. He will not strive to cut down the lovely and venerable tree under whose shade he enjoys security and peace. In short, and I'm sure you will hear be, of my opinion, the man who has competence, virtue, true liberty, and that woman he loves, will cheerfully obey the laws which secure him these blessings and the prince under whose mild sway he enjoys them. Adieu, your faithful edrivers. Letter 200 to Captain Fitzgerald, October 17. I, every hour, see more strongly, my dear Fitzgerald, the wisdom as to our own happiness of not letting our hearts be worn out by a multitude of intrigues before marriage. Temple loves my sister, he is happy with her, but his happiness is by no means of the same kind with yours in mind. She is beautiful, and he thinks her so. She is amiable, and he esteems her, he prefers her to all other women. But he feels nothing of that trembling delicacy of sentiment, that quick sensibility which gives to love its most exquisite pleasures in which I would not give up for the wealth of worlds. His affection is mere passion and therefore a subject to change. Ours is that heartfelt tenderness which time renders every moment more pleasing. The tumult of desire is the fever of the soul, its health, that delicious tranquility where the heart is gently moved, not violently agitated. That tranquility which is only to be found where friendship is the basis of love, and where we are happy without injuring the object beloved, in other words in a marriage of choice. In the voyage of life passion is the tempest love, that gentle gale. Disappation and a continued round of amusements at home will probably secure my sister, all of Temple's heart which remains, but his love would grow languid in that state of retirement which would have a thousand charms for minds like ours. I will own to you, I have fears for Lucy's happiness, but let us drop so painful a subject. Adieu, Your Affectionate, Ed Rivers. Letter 201 To Colonel Rivers, Bellfield, Rutland, October 19th. Nothing my dear Rivers shows the value of friendship more than the envy it excites. The world will soon pardon us any advantage, even wealth, genius, or beauty, than that of having a faithful friend. Every selfish bosom swells with envy at the sight of those social connections which are the cordials of life, and of which our narrow prejudices alone prevent our enjoyment. Those who have neither hearts to feel this generous affection nor merit to deserve it, hate all who are in this respect happier than themselves. They look on a friend as an invaluable blessing, and a blessing out of their reach, and a poor all those who possess the treasure for which they sigh in vain. For my own part I had rather be the dupe of a thousand false professions of friendship than for fear of being deceived give up the pursuit. Dupes are happy at least for a time, but the cold, narrow, suspicious heart never knows the glow of social pleasure. In the same proportion as we lose our confidence in the virtues of others we lose our proper happiness. The observation of this mean jealousy, so humiliating to human nature, has influenced Lord Halifax in his advice to a daughter, the school of art, prudery, and selfish morals, to caution her against all friendships or, as he calls them, dearnesses, as what will make the world envy and hate her. After my sweet bells' tenderness I know no pleasure equal to our friendship, nor would I give it up for the revenue of an Easter monarch. I esteem temple, I love his conversation, he is gay and amusing, but I shall never have for him the affection I feel for you. I think you are too apprehensive in regard to your sister's happiness. He loves her, and there is a certain variety in her manner, a kind of agreeable caprice that I think will secure the heart of a man of his turn much more than her merit or even the loveliness of her person. She is handsome, exquisitely so, handsomer than Belle, and if you will allow me to say so, then Emily. I mean that she is so in the eye of a painter, for in that of a lover his mistress is the only beautiful object on earth. I allow your sister to be very lovely, but I think Belle more desirable a thousand times, and rationally speaking she who has, as to me, the art of inspiring the most tenderness is, as to me, to all intents and purposes the most beautiful woman, in which faith I choose to live and die. I have an idea, Rivers, that you and I shall continue to be happy, a real sympathy, a lively taste mixed with esteem led us to marry, the delicacy, tenderness and virtue of the two most charming of women promise to keep our love alive. We have both strong affections, both love conversation of women, and neither of our hearts are depraved by ill-chosen connections with the sex. I am broken upon, and must bid you adieu. Your affectionate J. Fitzgerald. Belle is writing to you. I shall be jealous. Letter 202. Two Colonel Rivers, Bellefield, Rockland, London, October the 19th. I die to come to Bellefield again, my dear brothers. I have a passion for your little wood. It is a mighty pretty wood for an English wood, but nothing to your Montparnese. The dear little Celery, too. But to return to the shades of Bellefield, your little wood is charming indeed. Not to particularise detached pieces of your scenery, the two ensemble is very inviting. Observe, however, I have no notion of paradise without an Adam, and therefore shall bring Fitzgerald with me next time. What could induce you, with this sweet little retreat, to cross that vile ocean to Canada? I am astonished at the madness of mankind who can expose themselves to pain, misery, and danger, and range the world from motives of avarice and ambition, when the rural cot, the fanning gale, the clear stream, and flowery bank offer such delicious enjoyment at home. You men are horrid, rapacious animals with your spirit of enterprise and your nonsense, ever wanting more land that you can cultivate and more money than you can spend. That eternal pursuit of gain, that rage of accumulation in which you are educated, corrupts your hearts, and robs you of half the pleasures of life. I should not, however, make so free with the sex if you and my caro spausal were not exceptions. You too have really something of the sensibility and generosity of women. Do you know, Rivers, I have a fancy you and Fitzgerald will always be happy husbands. This is something owing to yourselves and something to us. You have both that manly tenderness and true generosity, which inclines you to love creatures who have paid you the compliment of making their happiness or misery depend entirely on you and partly to the little circumstance of your being married to the two of the most agreeable women breathing. To speak unfallazoff, my dear Rivers, you are not to be told that the fire of love, like any other fire, is equally put out by too much or too little fuel. No Emily and I, without vanity, besides our being handsome and amazingly sensible, to say nothing of our pleasing kind of sensibility, have a certain just idea of causes and effects, with a natural blushing reserve and bridal delicacy which I am apt to flatter myself. Do you understand me, Rivers? I am not quite clear I understand myself. All that I would insinuate is that Emily and I are, take us for all in all, the two most charming women in the world, and that whoever leaves us must change immensely for the worse. I believe Lucy equally pleasing, but I think her charms have not so good a subject to work upon. Temple is a handsome fellow, and loves her, but he has not the tenderness of heart that I so much admire in two certain youths of my acquaintance. He is rich indeed, but who cares? Certainly my dear Rivers, nothing can be more absurd or more destructive to happiness than the very wrong turn we give our children's imaginations about marriage. If Miss and Master are good, she is promised a rich husband and a coach and six, he a wife with a monstrous great fortune. Most of these fine promises must fail, and where they do not, the poor things have only the consolation of finding, when too late to retreat, that the objects to which all their wishes were pointed have really nothing to do with happiness. Is there a nab or best on earth half as happy as the two foolish little girls about whom I have been writing, though married to such poor devils as you and Fitzgerald? Certainly not, no. And so ends my sermon, and you, your most obedient A. Fitzgerald. End of Section 2. Section 3 of the History of Emily Montague, Volume 4 by Francis Morebrook. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Letters 203 through 207. Letter 203 to John Temple Esquire, Temple House Rutland, Bellefield, October 21. You ridicule my enthusiasm, my dear temple, without considering there is no exertion of the human mind, no effort of the understanding, imagination, or heart without a spark of this divine fire, without enthusiasm, genius, virtue, pleasure, even love itself, languishes, all that refines, adorns, softens, exalts, ennobles, life has its source in this animating principle. I glory in being an enthusiast in everything, but in nothing so much as in my tenderness for this charming woman. I'm a perfect coyote in love, and would storm enchanted castles and fight giants for my Emily. Coldness of temper damps every spring that moves the human heart. It is equally an enemy to pleasure, riches, fame to all which is worth living for. I thank you for your wishes that I was rich, but in by no means anxious myself on the subject. You sons of fortune who possess your thousands a year and find them too little for your desires, desires which grow from that very abundance, imagine every man miserable who wants them in which you are greatly mistaken. Every real pleasure is within the reach of my little fortune, and I'm very indifferent about those which borrow their charms, not from nature, but from fashion and caprice. My house is indeed less than yours, but it is finely situated and large enough for my fortune. That part of it, which belongs peculiarly to my Emily, is elegant. I have an equipage not for parade, but use, and the loveliest of women prefers it with me to all that luxury and magnificence could bestow with another. The flowers in my garden bloom as fair, the peach glows as deep as in yours, does a flower blush more lovely or a smell more sweet, a peach look more tempting than its fellows. I select it for my Emily who receives it with delight as the tender tribute of love. In some respects we are the more happy for being less rich, the little avocations which our mediocrity of fortune makes necessary to both are the best preventives of that langer from being too constantly together, which is all that love bounded on taste and friendship pass to fear. Had I my choice, I should wish for a very small addition only to my income and that for the sake of others, not myself. I love pleasure and think it our duty to make life as agreeable as is consistent with what we owe to others. But a true pleasurable philosopher seeks his enjoyments where they are really to be found, not in the gratifications of a childish pride, but of those affections which are born with us and which are the only rational sources of enjoyment. When I'm walking in these delicious shades with Emily, when I see those lovely eyes softened with artless fondness and hear the music of that voice when a thousand trifles and observe but by the prying sight of love betray all the dear sensations of that bosom where truth and delicate tenderness have fixed their seat, I know not the Epicurean of whom I do not deserve to be the envy. Does your fortune, my dear temple, make you more than happy? If not, why so very earnestly wish an addition to mine? Believe me, there is nothing about which I am more indifferent. I'm ten times more anxious to get the finest collection of flowers in the world for my Emily. You observe justly that there is nothing so insipid as women who have conversed with women only, let me add, nor so brutal as men who have lived only amongst men. The desire of pleasing on each side in an intercourse and livened by taste and governed by delicacy and honor calls forth all the graces of the person and understanding, all the amiable sentiments of the heart. It also gives good breathing, ease, and a certain awakened manner, which is not to be acquired but in mixed conversation. Remember you and my dear Lucy Dine with us tomorrow. It is to be a little family party to indulge my mother in the delight of seeing her children about her without interruption. I have saved all my best fruit for this day. We are up to drink tea and sup in Emily's apartment. How do you, your affectionate Ed Rivers? I will tomorrow show you better grapes than any you have at Temple House. You rich men, fancy nobody has anything good but yourselves, but I hope next year to show you that you are mistaken in a thousand instances. I will have such roses and jessimines, such boughs of intermingled sweets. You shall see what astonishing things Emily's taste in my industry can do. Letter 204 To Mrs. Fitzgerald, Bellefield, October 22. Finish your business, my dear girl, and let us see you again at Bellefield. I need not tell you the pleasure Mr. Fitzgerald's accompanying you will give us. I die to see you, my dear Belle. It is not enough to be happy unless I have somebody to tell every moment that I am so. I want a confidant of my tenderness, a friend like my Belle, indulgent to all my follies, to talk of the loveliest and most beloved of mankind. I want to tell you a thousand little instances of that ardent, that refined affection, which makes all the happiness of my life. I want to paint the flattering attention, the delicate fondness of that dear lover who is only the morso for being a husband. You are the only woman on earth to whom I can, without the appearance of insult, talk of my rivers, because you are the only one I ever knew as happy as myself. Fitzgerald, in the tenderness and delicacy of his mind, resembles strongly, I am interrupted, adieu for a moment. It was my rivers, he brought me a bouquet. I opened the door supposing it was my mother, conscious of what I had been writing. I was confused at seeing him. He smiled, and, guessing the reason of my embarrassment, I must leave you, Emily, you are writing, and, by your blushes, I know you have been talking of your lover. I should have told you he insists on never seeing the letters I write, and gives this reason for it, that he should be a great loser by seeing them, as it would restrain my pen when I talk of him. I believe I am very foolish in my tenderness, but you will forgive me. Rivers yesterday was throwing flowers at me and Lucy in play. As we were walking in the garden, I catched a wallflower, and by an involuntary impulse, kissed it, and placed it in my bosom. He observed me, and his look of pleasure and affection is impossible to be described. What exquisite pleasure there is in these agreeable follies. He is the sweetest trifler in the world, my dear Belle. But in what does he not excel, all mankind? As the season of autumnal flowers is almost over, he is sending for all those which blow early in the spring. He prevents every wish his Emily can form. Did you ever, my dear, see so fine and autumn as this? You will perhaps smile when I say, I never saw one so pleasing, such a season is more lovely than even the spring. I want you down before this agreeable weather is all over. I am going to air with my mother. My river's attends us on horseback. You cannot think how amiable his attention is to both. Adieu, my dear, my mother has sent to let me know she is ready. Your affectionate Emily Rivers. Letter 205 to Captain Fitzgerald Bellefield, October 24. Some author has said the happiness of the next world to the virtuous will consist in enjoying the society of minds like their own. Why then should we not do our best to possess as much as possible of this happiness here? You will see this as a preface to a very earnest request to see Captain Fitzgerald and the lovely Belle immediately at our farm. Take notice, I will not admit even business as an excuse much longer. I'm just come from a walk in the wood behind the house with my mother and Emily. I want you to see it before it loses all its charms. In another fortnight its present variegated foliage will be literally humbled in the dust. There is something very pleasing in this season if it did not give us the idea of that winter which is approaching too fast. The dryness of the air, the soft western breeze, the tremulous motion of the falling leaves, the rustling of those already fallen under our feet, their variety of lively colors give a certain spirit and agreeable fluctuation to the scene which is unspeakably pleasing. By the way, we people of warm imaginations have vast advantages over others. We scorn to be confined to present scenes or to give attention to such trifling objects as times and seasons. I already anticipate the spring, see the wood binds and while roses bloom in my growth and almost catch the gale of perfume. 12 o'clock, I have this moment received your letter. I'm sorry for what you tell me of Miss H. Blank whose want of art has led her into indiscretions. Tis too common to see the most innocent and they even the most laudable actions centered by the world. As we cannot however eradicate the prejudices of others, it is wisdom to yield to them in things which are indifferent. One ought to conform to and respect the customs as well as the laws and religion of our country where they are not contrary to virtue and to that moral sense which heaven has imprinted on our souls where they are contrary, every generous mind will despise them. I agree with you, my dear friend, that two persons who love not only seem but really are handsomer to each other than to the rest of the world. When we look at those we ardently love, a new softness steals unperceived into the eyes, the countenance is more animated and the whole form has that air of tender languor which has such charms for sensible minds. To prove the truth of this, my Emily approaches fair as the rising morn led by the hand of the graces. She sees her lover and every charm is redoubled an involuntary smile, a blush of pleasure, speak a passion which is the pride of my soul. Even her voice, melodious as it is by nature, is softened when she addresses her happy rivers. She comes to ask my attendance on her and my mother, they are going to pay a morning visit a few miles off. I do you tell the little bell, I kiss her hand, your affectionate ed rivers. Letter 206 to Captain Fitzgerald, three o'clock. We are returned and have met with an adventure which I must tell you, about six miles from home at the entrance of a small village. As I was riding very fast, a little before the chase, a boy about four years old, beautiful as a cupid, came out of a cottage on the right hand and running across the road fell almost under my horse's feet. I threw myself off in a moment and snatching up the child who was, however, unhurt, carried him to the house. I was met at the door by a young woman, plainly dressed but of a form, uncommonly elegant. She had seen the child fall and her terror for him was plainly marked in her accountants. She received him from me, pressed him to her bosom and without speaking, melted into tears. My mother and Emily had by this time reached the cottage. The humanity of both was too much interested to let them pass. They alighted, came into the house and inquired about the child with an air of tenderness which was not lost on the young person whom we supposed his mother. She appeared about two and 20 was handsome with an air of the world which the plainness of her dress could not hide. Her accountants was pensive with a mixture of sensibility which instantly prejudiced us all in her favor. Her looks seemed to say she was unhappy and that she deserved to be otherwise. Her manner was respectful but easy and unconstrained, polite without being servile. And she acknowledged the interest we all seemed to take in what related to her in a manner that convinced us she deserved it. Though everything about us, the extreme neatness, the elegance, simplicity of her house and little garden, her own person, that of the child, both perfectly genteel, her politeness, her air of the world in a cottage like that of the meanest laborer tended to excite the most lively curiosity. Neither good breeding, humanity nor the respect due to those who appear unfortunate would allow us to make any inquiries. We left the place full of this adventure convinced of the merit as well as unhappiness of its fair inhabitant and resolved to find out if possible whether her misfortunes were of a kind to be alleviated and with an art little power to alleviate. I will own to you my dear Fitzgerald. I at that moment felt the smallness of my fortune and I believe Emily had the same sensations though her delicacy prevented her naming them to me who have made her poor. We can talk of nothing but the stranger and Emily is determined to call on her again tomorrow on pretense of inquiring after the health of the child. I tremble at Lester's story for she certainly has one should be such as however it may entitle her to compassion may make it impossible for Emily to show it in the manner she seems to wish. Adieu, your faithful Ed Rivers. Letter 207 to Captain Fitzgerald Bellfield October 24. We've been again at the cottage and are more convinced than ever that this aiming girl is not in the station in which she was born. We stayed two hours and buried the conversation in a manner which in spite of her extreme modesty made it impossible for her to avoid showing she had been educated with uncommon care. Her style is correct and elegant. Her sentiments noble yet unaffected. We talked of books. She said little on the subject but that little showed a taste which astonished us. Anxious as we are to know her true situation in order if she merits it to endeavor to serve her yet delicacy made it impossible for us to give the least hint of our curiosity which might make her suppose we entertained ideas to her prejudice. She seemed greatly affected with the humane concern Emily expressed for the child's danger yesterday as well as with the polite and even affectionate manner in which she appeared to interest herself in all which related to her. Emily made her general offers of service with a timid kind of softness in her air which seemed to speak rather a person asking her favor than wishing to confer an obligation. She thanked my sweet Emily with a look of surprise and gratitude to which it is not easy to do justice. There was however an embarrassment in her countenance at those offers which a little alarms me. She absolutely declined coming to Bellefield. I know not what to think. Emily who has taken a strong prejudice in her favor will answer for her conduct with her life but I will own to you I'm not without my doubts when I consider the inhuman arts of the abandoned part of one sex and the romantic generosity and to unguarded confidence of the most amiable of the other when I reflect that where women love they love without reserve that they fondly imagine the man who is dear to them possessed of every virtue that their very integrity of mind prevents their suspicions. When I think of her present retirement so apparently ill suited to her education when I see your beauty her elegance of person with that tender and melancholy air so strongly expressive of the most exquisite sensibility when in short I see the child and observe her fondness for him I have fears for her which I cannot conquer. I am as firmly convinced as Emily of the goodness of her heart but I'm not so certain that even that very goodness may not have been from an unhappy concurrence or circumstances or misfortune. We have company to dine adieu till the evening 10 at night about three hours ago Emily received the enclose from our fair cottager. Adieu your affection at that rivers. To Mrs. Rivers. Madam though I have every reason to wish the melancholy event which brought me here might continue unknown yet your generous concern for a stranger who had no recommendation to your notice but her appearing unhappy and who suspicious situation would have injured her in a mind less noble than yours has determined me to lay before you a story which it was my resolution to conceal forever. I saw madam in your countenance when you honored me by calling at my house this morning and I saw with an admiration no words can speak the amiable struggle between the desire of knowing the nature of my distress in order to soften it and the delicacy which forbade your inquiries lest they should wound my sensibility and self-love. To such a heart I run no hazard in relating what in the world would perhaps draw on me a thousand reproaches reproaches however I flatter myself undeserved. You have had the politeness to say there is something in my appearance which speaks my birth above my present situation. In this, madam, I am so happy as not to deceive your generous partiality. My father, who was an officer of family and merit, had the misfortune to lose my mother whilst I was an infant. He had the goodness to take on himself the care of directing my education and to have me taught whatever he thought becoming my sex, though at an expense much too great for his income. As he had little more than his commission his parental tenderness got so far the better of his love for his profession that when I was about fifteen he determined on quitting the army in order to provide better for me. But whilst he was in treaty for this purpose a fever carried him off in a few days and left me to the world was little more than five hundred pounds which however was by his will immediately in my power. I felt too strongly the loss of this excellent parent to attend to any other consideration and before I was enough myself to think what I was to do for a subsistence a friend of my own age who my tenderly loved who was just returning from school to her father's in the north of England insisted on my accompanying her and spending some time with her in the country. I found in my dear Sophia all the consolation my grief could receive and at her pressing solicitation and that of her father who saw his daughter's happiness depended on having me with her I continued their three years blessed in the calm delights of friendship and those blameless pleasures with which we should be too happy if the heart could content itself when a young baronet whose form was as lovely as his soul was dark came to interrupt our felicity. My Sophia at a ball had the misfortune to attract his notice she was rather handsome though without regular features her form was elegant and feminine and she had an air of youth of softness of sensibility of blushing innocence which seemed intended to inspire delicate passions alone and which would have disarmed any mind less depraved than that of the man who only admired to destroy. She was the rosebud yet impervious to the sun. Her heart was tender but had never met an object which seemed worthy of it. Her sentiments were disinterested and romantic to excess. Her father was at that time in Holland with the death of a relation who had left him a small estate had called him. We were alone, unprotected, delivered up to the unhappy inexperience of youth mistresses of our own conduct. Myself, the eldest of the two but just eighteen when my Sophia's ill fate conducted Sir Charles Werville to the ball where she first saw him. He danced with her and endeavored to recommend himself by all those little unmeaning but flattering attentions by which our credulous sex are so often misled. His manner was tender yet timid, modest, respectful. His eyes were continually fixed on her but when he met hers artfully cast down as if afraid of offending. He asked permission to inquire after her health the next day. He came, he was enchanting, polite, lively, soft, insinuating, adorned with every outward grace which could embellish virtue or hide vice from view to see and to love him was almost the same thing. He entreated leave to continue his visits which he found no difficulty in obtaining. During two months not a day passed without our seeing him his behaviour was such as would scarce have alarmed the most suspicious heart. What then could be expected of us? Young, sincere, totally ignorant of the world and strongly prejudiced in a favour of a man whose conversation spoke his soul the abode of every virtue. Blushing I must own, nothing but the apparent preference he gave to my lovely friend could have saved my heart from being a prey to the same tenderness which ruined her. He addressed her with all the specious arts which vice would invent to seduce innocence. His respect, his esteem seemed equal to his passion. He talked of honour, of the delight of an union where the tender affections alone were consulted, wished for her father's return to ask her of him in marriage, pretended to count impatiently the hours of his absence which delayed his happiness. He even prevailed on her to write her father an account of his addresses. New to love, my Sophia's young heart too easily gave way to the soft impression. She loved, she idolised this most base of mankind. She would have thought it a kind of sacrilege to have had any will in opposition to his. After some months of unremitted assiduity her father being expected in a few days he dropped a hint, as if by accident that he wished his fortune less, that he might be the more certain he was loved for himself alone. He blamed himself for his delicacy, but charged it on excess of love, vowed he would rather die than injure her, yet wished to be convinced her fondness was without reserve. Generous, disinterested, eager to prove the excess and sincerity of her passion, she fell into the snare. She agreed to go off with him and live some time in a retirement where she was to see only himself, after which he engaged to marry her publicly. He pretended ecstasies at disproof of affection, yet hesitated to accept it, and by peaking the generosity of her soul which knew no guile and therefore suspected none, led her to insist on devoting herself to wretchedness. In order, however, that this step might be as little known as possible, as he pretended the utmost concern for that honour he was contriving to destroy, it was agreed between them that he should go immediately to London, and that she should follow him on the pretense of a visit to a relation at some distance. The greatest difficulty was how to hide the design from me. She had never before concealed a thought from her beloved Fanny, nor could he now have prevailed on her to deceive me. Had he not artfully persuaded her, I was myself in love with him, and that, therefore, it would be cruel as well as imprudent to trust me with the secret. Nothing shows so strongly the power of love in absorbing every faculty of the soul as my dear Sophia's being prevailed on to use art with the friend most dear to her on earth. By an unworthy piece of deceit I was sent to a relation for some weeks, and the next day Sophia followed her infamous lover, leaving letters for me and her father, calculated to persuade us they were privately married. My distress and that of the unhappy parent may more easily be conceived than described. Severe by nature he cast her from his heart and fortune forever, and settled his estate on a nephew, then at the university. As to me grief and tenderness were the only sensations I felt. I went to town and took every private method to discover her retreat, but in vain, till near a year after, when, being in London with a friend of my mother's, a servant who had lived with my Sophia saw me into street and knew me. By her means I discovered that she was in distress, abandoned by her lover, in that moment when his tenderness was most necessary. I flew to her and found her in a miserable apartment, in which nothing but an extreme neatness would have made me suppose she had ever seen happier days. The servant who brought me to her attended her. She was in bed, pale, emaciated, the lovely babe you saw with me in her arms. Though prepared for my visit she was unable to bear the shock of seeing me. I ran to her, she raised herself in the bed, and throwing her feeble arms round my neck could only say, my fanny is disposable, and fainted away. Our cares having recovered her, she endeavoured to compose herself. Her eyes were fixed tenderly on me. She pressed my hand between hers. The tears stole silently down her cheeks. She looked at her child, then at me. She would have spoke, but the feelings of her heart were too strong for expression. I begged her to be calm and promised to spend the day with her. I did not yet dare lest the emotion should be too much for her weak state to tell her we would part no more. I took a room in the house and determined to give all my attention to the restoration of her health, after which I hoped to contrive to make my little fortune with industry support us both. I sat up with her that night. She got a little rest. She seemed better in the morning. She told me the particulars I have already related. She, however, endeavoured to soften the cruel behaviour of the wretch, whose name I could not hear without horror. She had in the afternoon a little fever. I sent for a physician. He thought her in danger. What did not my heart feel from this information? She grew worse. I never left her one moment. The next morning she called me to her. She took my hand, and looking at me with a tenderness no language can describe. My dear, my only friend, said she, I am dying. You are come to receive the last breath of your unhappy Sophia. I wish with ardour for my father's blessing and forgiveness, but they are not ask him. The weakness of my heart has undone me. I am lost, abandoned by him on whom my soul doted, by him for whom I would have sacrificed a thousand lives. He has left me with my babe to perish, yet I still love him with unabated fondness. The pang of losing him sinks me to the grave. Her speech here failed her for a time, but recovering she proceeded, hardest this request may seem, and to whatever miseries it may expose my angel friend, I adjure you not to desert my child. Save him from the wretchedness that threatens him. Let him find in you a mother not less tender, but more virtuous than his own. I know my fanny, I undo you by this cruel confidence, but who else will have mercy on this innocent? Unable to answer, my heart torn with unutterable anguish, I snatched a lovely babe to my bosom, I kissed him, I bathed him with my tears. She understood me, a gleam of pleasure brightened her dying eyes. The child was still pressed to my heart. She gazed on us both with a look of wild affection, then clasping her hands together and breathing a fervent prayer to heaven, sunk down, and expired without a groan. To you, madam, I need not say the rest. The eloquence of angels could not paint my distress. I saw the friend of my soul, the best and most gentle of her sex, a breathless corpse before me, her heart broke by the ingratitude of the man she loved, her honor the sport of fools, her guiltless child a sharer in her shame. And all this ruin brought on by a sensibility of which the best minds alone are susceptible, by that noble integrity of soul which made it impossible for her to suspect another. Distracted with grief, I kissed my Sophia's pale lips, talked to her lifeless form. I promised to protect the sweet babe who smiled on me, and with his little hand pressed mine, as if sensible of what I said. As soon as my grief was enough calmed to render me capable of anything, I wrote an account of Sophia's death to her father, who had the inhumanity to refuse to see her child. I disdained an application to her murderer, and retiring to this place where I was, and resolved to continue, unknown, determined to devote my life to the sweet infant, and to support him by an industry which I did not doubt heaven would prosper. The faithful girl who had attended Sophia begged to continue with me. We work for the millenaries in the neighbouring towns, and, with the little pitons I have, keep above want. I know the consequence of what I have undertaken. I know I give up the world and all hopes of happiness to myself. Yet will I not desert this friendless little innocent, nor betray the confidence of my expiring friend, whose last moments were soothed with the hope of his finding a parent's care in me? You have had the goodness to wish to serve me. Sir Charles Verville is dead. A fever, the consequence of his ungoverned intemperance, carried him off suddenly. His brother Sir William has a worthy character. If Colonel Rivers, by his general acquaintance with the great worlds, can represent this story to him, it possibly may procure my little Charles happier prospects than my poverty can give him. Your goodness, madam, makes it unnecessary to be more explicit. To be unhappy and not to have merited it is a sufficient claim to your protection. You are above the low prejudices of common minds. You will pity the wretched victim of her own unsuspecting heart. You will abhor the memory of her savage undoer. You will approve my complying with her dying request, though in contradiction to the selfish maxims of the world. You will, if in your power, endeavor to serve my little pretler. Till I had explained my situation, I could not think of accepting the honour you allowed me to hope for, of inquiring after your health at Bellefield. If the step I have taken meets with your approbation, I shall be most happy to thank you and Colonel Rivers for your attention to one whom you would before have seen justified in supposing unworthy of it. I am, madam, with the most perfect respect and gratitude, your obliged and obedient servant, if Williams. Your own heart, my dear First Gerald, will tell you what were our reflections on reading the enclosed. Emily, whose gentle heart feels for the weaknesses, as well as misfortunes of others, will tomorrow fetch this heroic girl and her little ward to spend a week at Bellefield, and we will then consider what is to be done for them. You know, Sir William, their bill. Go to him from me. With the enclosed letter, he is a man of honour, and will I am certain provide for the poor babe who had not his father been a monster of unfeeling inhumanity would have inherited the estate and title Sir William now enjoys. Is not the midnight murderer, my dear friend, white as snow, to this vile seducer, this betrayer of unsuspecting trusting innocence? What transport is it to me to reflect that not one bosom ever heaved a sigh of remorse of which I was the cause? I grieve for the poor victim of tenderness amiable in itself, though productive of such dreadful consequences when not under the guidance of reason. It ought to be a double tie on the honour of men that the woman who truly loves gives up her will without reserve to the object of her affection, virtuous less from reasoning and fixed principle than from elegance and a lovely delicacy of mind, naturally tender even to excess carried away by a romance of sentiment, the hopes of sex are too easily seduced by engaging their confidence and peaking their generosity. I cannot write my heart as soft into a degree which makes me incapable of anything. Do not neglect one moment going to Sir William Fairville. Adieu, Your Affectionate, Ed Rivers. Letters 208-216 Letter 208 to Colonel Rivers, October 28th. The story you have told me has equally shocked and astonished me. My sweet bell has dropped a pity in tear on poor Sophia's grave. Thank heaven, we meet with few minds like that of Sir Charles Verville. Such a degree of savage insensibility is unnatural. The human heart is created weak, not wicked, avid of pleasure and of gain, but with a mixture of benevolence which prevents our seeking either to the destruction of others. Nothing can be more false than that we are naturally inclined to evil. We are indeed naturally inclined to gratify the selfish passions of every kind, but those passions are not evil in themselves, but only become so from excess. The malevolent passions are not inherent in our nature. They are only to be acquired by degrees, and generally are born from chagrin and disappointment. A wicked character is a depraved one. What must this unhappy girl have suffered? No misery can equal the struggles of a virtuous mind wishing to act in a manner becoming its own dignity, yet carried by passions to do otherwise. One o'clock. I have been at Sir William Verville's, who is at Bath. I will write and enclose the letter to him this evening. You shall have his answer the moment I receive it. We are going to dine at Richmond with Lord H. Adieu, my dear Rivers. Belle complains you have never answered her letter. I own I thought to a man of more gallantry than to neglect a lady. Adieu, your faithful J. Fitzgerald. Letter 209. To Captain Fitzgerald. Bellefield, October 30. I'm very impatient, my dear friend, till you hear from Sir William, though I have no doubt of his acting as he ought, our cottagers shall not leave us till their fate is determined. I've not told Miss Williams the step I have taken. Emily is more and more pleased with this amiable girl. I wish extremely to be able to keep her here as an agreeable companion of her own age and sex whose ideas are similar, and who, from being in the same season of life, sees things in the same point of view, is all that is wanting to Emily's happiness. It is impossible to mention similarity of ideas without observing how exactly ours coincide. In all my acquaintance with mankind I never yet met a mind so nearly resembling my own. A tithe of affection much stronger than all your merit would be without that similarity. I agree with you that mankind are born virtuous and that it is education and example which make them otherwise. The believing of the men, naves is not only the way to make them so, but is also an enthago method of becoming such ourselves. A false and ill-judged method of instruction by which we imbibe prejudices instead of truths makes us regard the human race as beasts of prey, not as brothers united by one common bond and promoting the general interest by pursuing our own particular one. There's nothing of which I am more convinced than that true self-love and social are the same, that those passions which make the happiness of individuals tend directly to the general good of the species. The beneficent author of nature has made public and private happiness the same. Man has in vain endeavor to divide them, but in the endeavor he has almost destroyed both. Tis with pain I say that the business of legislation in most countries seems to have been to counterwork this wise order of providence which has ordained that we shall make others happy in being so ourselves. This is in nothing so glaring as in the point on which not only the happiness, but the virtue of almost the whole human race is concerned. I mean marriage, the restraints on which in almost every country not only tend to encourage celibacy and a destructive libertinism, the consequence of it to give fresh strength to domestic tyranny and subject to generous affections of uncorrupted youth to the guidance of those in whom every motive to action but avarice is dead, to condemn the blameless victims of duty to a life of indifference, of disgust and possibly of guilt, but by opposing the very spirit of our constitution throwing property into a few hands and favoring that excessive inequality which renders one part of the species wretched without adding to the happiness of the other to destroy at once the domestic felicity of individuals contradict the will of the supreme being as clearly wrote in the book of nature and sat the very foundations of the most perfect form of government on earth. A pretty long-winded period this bell would call it true Ciceroanian and quote rivers for a period of a mile but to proceed the only equality to which parents in general attend is that a fortune whereas a resemblance in age and temper in personal attractions and birth and education understanding and sentiment are the only foundations of that lively taste that tender friendship without which no union deserves the sacred name of marriage. Timid compliant youth may be forced into the arms of age and disease a lord may invite a citizen's daughter he despises to his bed to repair her shattered fortune and she may accept him allured by the rays of a coronet but such conjunctions are only a more shameful species of prostitution. Men who marry from interested motives are inexcusable but the very modesty of women makes against their happiness in this point by giving them a kind of bashful fear of objecting to such persons as their parents recommend as proper objects of their tenderness. I am prevented by company from saying all I intended adieu your faithful ed rivers. Letter 210 to Colonel Rivers, Temple House, November the 1st. You wrong me excessively my dear rivers in accusing me of a natural levity in love and friendship. As to the latter my frequent changes which I freely acknowledge have not been owing to any inconsistency but to precipitation and want of caution in contracting them. My general fault has been the folly of choosing my friends for some striking and agreeable accomplishment instead of giving to solid merit the preference which most certainly is its due. My inconstancy in love has been merely from vanity. There is something so flattering in the general favour of women that it requires great firmness of mind to resist that kind of gallantry which indulges it, though absolutely destructive to real happiness. I blush to say that when I first married I have more than once been danger from the mere boyish desire of conquest, not withstanding my adoration for your lovely sister. Such is the force of habit, for I must have been infinitely a loser by changing. I am now perfectly safe. My vanity has taken another turn. I peak myself on keeping the heart of the loveliest woman that ever existed as a nobler conquest than attracting the notice of a hundred coquettes, who would be equally flattered by the attentions of any other man, at least by any other man who had the good fortune to be fashionable. Everything conspires to keep me in the road of domestic happiness, the manner of life I am engaged in, your friendship, your example, and society, and the very fear I am in of losing your esteem. That I have the seeds of constancy in my nature, I call on you and your lovely sister to witness. I have been your friend from almost infancy, and I am every hour more her lover. She is my friend, my companion, as well as mistress. Her wit, her sprightliness, her pleasing kind of knowledge fill with delight those hours which are so tedious with a fool. However lovely. With my Lucy, possession can never cure the wounded heart. Her modesty, her angel purity of mind and person render her literally my ever new delight. She has convinced me that if beauty is the mother, delicacy is the nurse of love. Venus has lent her her cestus and shares with her the attendance of the graces. My vagrant passions, like the rays of the sun collected in a burning glass, are now united in one point. Lucy is here. Adieu. I must not let her know her power. You spend tomorrow with us. We have a little ball and are to have a masquerade next week. Lucy wants to consult Emily on her dress. You and I are not to be in the secret. We have wrote to ask the Fitzgeralds to the masquerade. I will send Lucy's post-coach for them the day before, or perhaps fetch them myself. Adieu. You're affectionate, Jay Temple. Letter 211 to Captain Fitzgerald Belfield, November 1. I have this moment, a letter from Temple, which has set my heart at rest. He writes like a lover. It owns his past danger with a frankness, which speaks more strongly than any professions could do, the real present state of his heart. My anxiety for my sister has a little broke in on my own happiness. In England, where the married women are in general the most virtuous in the world, it is of infinite consequence they should love their husbands and be beloved by them. In countries where gallantry is more permitted, it is less necessary. Temple will make her happy whilst she preserves his heart, but if she loses it, everything is to be feared from the vivacity of his nature, which can never support one moment, a life of indifference. He has that warmth of temper, which is the natural soil of the virtues, but which is unhappily at the same time most apt to produce indiscretions. Tame, cold, dispassionate minds resemble barren lands, warm, animated ones, rich, ground-rich, if properly cultivated, yields the noblest fruit, but if neglected from its luxuriance is most productive of weeds. His misfortune has been losing both his parents, when almost an infant, in having been master of himself, and a noble fortune at an age when the passions hurry us beyond the bounds of reason. I am the only person on earth by whom he would ever bear to be controlled in anything. Happily for Lucy I preserve the influence over him, which friendship first gave me. That influence sent her extreme attention to study his taste in everything, with those and common graces both of mind and person she has received from nature will I hope if actually fix this wandering star. She tells me she has asked you to masquerade at Temple House to which you will extremely oblige us all by coming. You do not tell us whether the affair of your majority is settled. If obliged to return immediately, Temple will send you back. Adieu, your faithful Ed Rivers. I have this moment, your last letter, your light. We American travelers are under great disadvantages. Our imaginations are restrained. We have not the pomp of the Orient to describe but the simple and unadorned charms of nature. Letter 212 to Colonel Rivers Bellfield Rutland, November 4th. Sir William Verville is coming back to town. I was with him this morning. He desires to see the child. He tells me his brother in his last moments mentioned this story in all the agony of remorse and begged him to provide for the little innocent if to be found, that he had made many inquiries but hitherto in vain and that he thought himself happy in the discovery. He talks of settling three thousand pounds on the child and taking the care of educating him into his own hands. I hinted at some little provision for the amiable girl who had saved him from perishing and had the pleasure to find Sir William listen to me with attention. I am sorry it is not possible for me to be at your masquerade, but my affair is just at the crisis. Bell expects a particular account of it from Mrs. Rivers and desires to be immediately in the secret of the lady's dresses, though you are not. She begs you will send your fair collager and a little charge to us and we will take care to introduce them properly to Sir William. I'm too much hurried to say more. Adieu, my dear Rivers, your affection at J. Fitzgerald. Letter, 213 To Mrs. Fitzgerald, November 8 Yes, my dear Bell, politeness is undoubtedly a moral virtue. As we are beings formed for and not capable of being happy without society, it is the duty of everyone to endeavor to make it as easy and agreeable as they can, which is only to be done by such an attention to others as is consistent with what we owe to ourselves. All we give them in civility will be repaid us in respect. Insolence and ill-breeding are detestable to all mankind. I long to see you, my dear Bell. The delight I have in your society has spoiled my relish, for that of mere acquaintance, however agreeable. Tis dangerous to indulge in the pleasures of friendship. They weaken one's taste too much for common conversation. Yet what other pleasures are worth the name? What others have spirit and delicacy too? I am preparing for the masquerade, which is to be the eighteenth. I am extremely disappointed you will not be with us. My dress is simple and unornimented, but I think becoming and prettily fancied. It is that of a French peasant. Lucy is to be a sultana, blazing with diamonds. My mother, a Roman matron. I choose this dress because I have heard my dear Rivers admire it. To be one moment more pleasing in his eyes is an object worthy all my attention. Adieu, your faithful, Emily Rivers. Letter 214. Two Mrs. Rivers, Belfield, Rutland. London, November the 10th. Certainly, my dear, friendship is a mighty pretty invention, and, next to love, gives of all things the greatest spirit of society. And yet the prudery of the age will hardly allow us poor women even this pleasure, innocent as it is. I remember my aunt Cecily, who died at 66, without ever having felt the least spark of attention for any human being, used to tell me a prudent, modest woman never loved anything but herself. For my part, I think all the kind propensities of the heart ought rather to be cherished than checked. That one is allowed to esteem merit, even in the naughty creature, man. I love you very sincerely, Emily, but I like friendships for the men best, and think prudery, by forbidding them, rubs us of some of the most lively as well as innocent pleasures of the heart. That desire of pleasing, which one feels much the most strongly for a male friend, is in itself a very agreeable emotion. You will say I am a coquette even in friendship, and I am not quite sure you are not in the right. I am extremely in love with my husband, yet choose other men should regard me with complacency. I am as fond of attracting the attention of the dear creatures as ever, and though I do justice to your wit understanding sentiment and all that, prefer rivers' conversation infinitely to yours. Women cannot say civil things to each other, and if they could, they would be something insipid. Whereas a male friend, it is absolutely another thing, my dear, and the first system of ethics I write will have a hundred pages on the subject. Observe, my dear, I have not the least objection to your having a friendship for Fitzgerald. I am the best-natured creature in the world, and the fondest of increasing the circle of my husband's innocent amusements. I propose to innocent amusements. I think your fair sister-in-law, an exquisite politician, calling the pleasures to temple at home, is the best method in the world to prevent his going abroad in pursuit of them. I am mortified I cannot be at your masquerade. It is my passion, and I have the prettiest dress in the world by me. I am half inclined to a loop for a day or two. Adieu, your faithful, A. Fitzgerald. Letter 215 To Captain Fitzgerald by Elfield, November 12 Please do inform the little bell. I won't allow her to spoil my Emily. I enter a caveat against male friendships which are only fit for ladies of the Sala Mandarin Order. I desire to engross all Emily's kind propensities to myself, and should grudge the least share in her heart, or if you please, in her friendship to an archangel. However, not to be too severe, since broodery expects women to have no propensities at all, I allow single ladies of all rank, sizes, ages, and complexions to spread the veil of friendship between their hearts and the world. Tis the finest day I ever saw, though the middle of November, a dry, soft-west wind, the air as mild as an April and an almost Canadian sunshine. I've been bathing in the clear stream at the end of my garden, the same stream in which I laved my careless bosom at thirteen, an idea which gave me inconceivable delight, and the more as my bosom is as gay and tranquil at this moment, as in those dear hours of cheerfulness and innocence. Of all local prejudices, that is the strongest as well as most pleasing, which attaches us to the place of our birth. Sweet home, only seed of true and genuine happiness, I am extremely in the humor to write a poem to the household gods. We neglect these amiable deities, but they are revenged. True pleasure is only to be found under their auspices. I know not how it is, my dear Fitzgerald, but I don't find my passion for the country a bait. I still find the scenes around me lovely, though from the change of season, less smiling than when I first fixed at Bellefield. We have rural business enough to amuse, not embarrass us. We have a small but excellent library of books given us by my mother. She and Emily are two of the most pleasing companions on earth. The neighborhood is full of agreeable people, and what should always be attended to and fixing in the country of fortunes not superior to our own. The evenings grow long, but they are only the more jovial. I love the pleasures of the table, not for their own sakes. For no man is more indifferent on this subject, but because they promote social convivial joy and bring people together in good humor with themselves and each other. My Emily's suppers are enchanting, but our little income obliges us to have few. If I was rich, this would be my principal extravagance. To fill up my measure of content, Emily is pleased with my retirement and finds all her happiness in my affection. We are so little alone, but I find our moments of unreserved conversation too short. Whenever I leave her, I recollect a thousand things I have to say, a thousand new ideas to communicate, and am impatient for the hour of seeing again without restraint the most amiable and pleasing of womankind. My happiness would be complete if I did not sometimes see a cloud of anxiety on that dear countenance, which, however, is dissipated the moment my eyes meet hers. I'm going to temples and the jays is at the door. Adieu, my dear friend, your affectionate ed rivers. Letter two hundred and sixty. Two Colonel Rivers, November the fourteenth. So you disapprove male friendship, my sweet Colonel. I thought you had better ideas of things in general. Fitzgerald and I have been disputing on French and English manners in regard to gallantry. The great question is whether a man is more heard by the imprudent conduct of his daughter or his wife. Much may be said on both sides. There is some hazard in suffering cockatry in either. Both contribute to give charms to conversation and introduce ease and politeness into society, but both are dangerous to manners. Our customs, however, are most likely to produce good effects as they give opportunity for love marriages, the only ones which can make worthy minds happy. The cockatry of single women has a point of view consistent with honour that of married women has generally no point of view at all. It is, however, of use pour passer la tente. As to real gallantry, the French style depraves the mind of men least. Hours is more favourable to the peace of families. I think I preserve the balance of argument admirably. My opinion, however, is that if people married from affection, there would be no such things as gallantry at all. Pride and the parade of life destroy all happiness. Our whole felicity depends on our choice in marriage, yet we choose from murders more trifling than would determine us in the common affairs of life. I knew a gentleman who fancied himself in love, yet delayed marrying his mistress till he could afford a set of plate. Modern manners are very unfavourable to the tender affections. Ancient lovers had only dragons to combat. Hours have the worst monsters of avarice and ambition. As I shall say further on the subject is, that the two happiest people I ever knew were a country clergyman and his wife, whose whole income did not exceed one hundred pounds a year. A pretty philosophical, sentimental, dull kind of epistle this. But you deserve it for not answering my last, which was divine. I am pleased with Emily's ideas about her dress at the masquerade. It is a proof you are still lovers. I remember the first symptoms I discovered of my tendress for Fitzgerald was my excessive attention to this article. I have tried on twenty different caps when I expected him at Soleri. Before we drop the subject of gallantries, I must tell you I am charmed with you and my spores, or for never giving the least hint before Emily and me that you have had any. It is a piece of delicacy which convinces me of your tenderness more than all the vows that ever lovers broke would do. I have been hurt at the contrary behaviour in temple, and have observed Lucy to be so too, though her excessive attention not to give him pain prevented her showing it. I have on such an occasion seen a smile on her countenance, and a tear of tender regret starting into her eyes. A woman who has vanity without affection will be pleased to hear of your past conquests, and regard them as victims immolated to her superior charms. To her, therefore, it is right to talk of them, but to flatter the heart, and give delight to a woman who truly loves, you should appear too much taken up with the present passion to look back to the past. You should not even present to her imagination the thought that you have had other engagements. We know such things are, but I'd rather the idea should not be awakened. I may be wrong, but I speak from my own feelings. I am excessively pleased with the thought I met in a little French novel. Un homme qui ne peut plus contaire ses bonnes fortunes aide-tu celui qui connuie les moins les faveurs. C'est le cœur qui les accore, et ce n'est pas le cœur que nomme à la mort d'indresse. To which truth I most heartily set my hand. Twelve o'clock. I have just heard from your sister who tells me Emily's turned a little natural philosopher, reads Ray, Durham and fifty other strange old fellows that knew and ever heard of, and is eternally pouring through a microscope to discover the wonders of creation. How amazingly learned matrimony makes young ladies! I suppose we shall have a volume of her discoveries by and by. She says to you have little pets like sweethearts, quarrel and make it up again in the most engaging manner in the world. This is just what I want to bring Fitzgerald to, but the perverse monkey won't quarrel with me, do all I can. I am sure this is not my fault, for I give him reason every day of his life. Shenstone says admirably that reconciliation is the tendrous part of love and friendship. The soul here discovers a kind of elasticity, and, being forced back, returns with an additional violence. Who would not quarrel for the pleasure of reconciliation? I shall be very angry with Fitzgerald if he goes on in this mild way. Tell your sister she cannot be more mortified than I am, that it is impossible for me to be at her masquerade. But you're affectionate, eh Fitzgerald? Don't you think, my dear rivers, that marriage, on prudent principles, is a horrid sort of affair? It is really cruel of papas and mamas to shut up two poor innocent creatures in a house together, to plague and torment one another who might have been very happy separate. Where people take their own time and choose for themselves, it is another affair, and I begin to think it possible affection may last through life. I sometimes fancy, to myself, its Gerald and I loving on, from the impassioned hour when I first honoured him with my hand, to that tranquil one, when we shall take our afternoon's nap vis-à-vis in two armchairs by the fireside. He, a grave country justice, and I, his worship's good sort of a wife, the lady bountiful of the parish. I have a notion there is nothing so very shocking in being an oldest gentlewoman. What one loses in charms is made up in the happy liberty of doing and saying whatever one pleases. End of section four