There is in true sensibility of soul, such a resistless charm, thatwe are even affected by that of which we are not ourselves the object:we feel a degree of emotion at being witness to the affection whichanother inspires.

  'Tis late, and my horses are at the door.

  Adieu! Your faithful Ed. Rivers.

  LETTER 180.

  To Miss Montague, Rose-hill, Berkshire.

  Temple-house, Sept. 16.

  I have but a moment, my dearest Emily, to tell you heaven favorsyour tenderness: it removes every anxiety from two of the worthiest andmost gentle of human hearts.

  You and my brother have both lamented to me the painful necessityyou were under, of reducing my mother to a less income than that towhich she had been accustomed.

  An unexpected event has restored to her more than what hertenderness for my brother had deprived her of.

  A relation abroad, who owed every thing to her father's friendship,has sent her, as an acknowledgement of that friendship, a deed of gift,settling on her four hundred pounds a year for life.

  My brother is at Stamford, and is yet unacquainted with thisagreable event.

  You will hear from him next post.

  Adieu! my dear Emily! Your affectionate L. Temple.

  END OF VOL. III.

  THE HISTORY OF EMILY MONTAGUE.

  Vol. IV

  LETTER 181.

  To Colonel Rivers, at Bellfield, Rutland.

  Rose-hill, Sept. 17.

  Can you in earnest ask such a question? can you suppose I ever feltthe least degree of love for Sir George? No, my Rivers, never did yourEmily feel tenderness till she saw the loveliest, the most amiable ofhis sex, till those eyes spoke the sentiments of a soul every idea ofwhich was similar to her own.

  Yes, my Rivers, our souls have the most perfect resemblance: I neverheard you speak without finding the feelings of my own heart developed;your conversation conveyed your Emily's ideas, but cloathed in thelanguage of angels.

  I thought well of Sir George; I saw him as the man destined to be myhusband; I fancied he loved me, and that gratitude obliged me to areturn; carried away by the ardor of my friends for this marriage, Irather suffered than approved his addresses; I had not courage toresist the torrent, I therefore gave way to it; I loved no other, Ifancied my want of affection a native coldness of temper. I felt alanguid esteem, which I endeavored to flatter myself was love; but themoment I saw you, the delusion vanished.

  Your eyes, my Rivers, in one moment convinced me I had a heart; youstaid some weeks with us in the country: with what transport do Irecollect those pleasing moments! how did my heart beat whenever youapproached me! what charms did I find in your conversation! I heard youtalk with a delight of which I was not mistress. I fancied every womanwho saw you felt the same emotions: my tenderness increasedimperceptibly without my perceiving the consequences of my indulgingthe 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 situationprevented an explanation; but love has a thousand ways of makinghimself understood.

  How dear to me were those soft, those delicate attentions, whichtold me all you felt for me, without communicating it to others!

  Do you remember that day, my Rivers, when, sitting in the littlehawthorn 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: Iwould have followed; you asked me to stay, by a look which it wasimpossible to mistake; nothing could be more imprudent than my stay,yet I had not resolution to refuse what I saw gave you pleasure: Istayed; you pressed my hand, you regarded me with a look of unutterablelove.

  My Rivers, from that dear moment your Emily vowed never to beanother's: she vowed not to sacrifice all the happiness of her life toa romantic parade of fidelity to a man whom she had been betrayed intoreceiving as a lover; she resolved, if necessary, to own to him thetenderness with which you had inspired her, to entreat from his esteem,from his compassion, a release from engagements which made herwretched.

  My heart burns with the love of virtue, I am tremblingly alive tofame: what bitterness then must have been my portion had I first seenyou when the wife of another!

  Such is the powerful sympathy that unites us, that I fear, thatvirtue, that strong sense of honor and fame, so powerful in minds mostturned to tenderness, would only have served to make more poignant thepangs of hopeless, despairing love.

  How blest am I, that we met before my situation made it a crime tolove you! I shudder at the idea how wretched I might have been, had Iseen you a few months later.

  I am just returned from a visit at a few miles distance. I find aletter from my dear Bell, that she will be here to-morrow; how do Ilong to see her, to talk to her of my Rivers!

  I am interrupted.

  Adieu! Yours, Emily Montague.

  LETTER 182.

  To Mrs. Temple.

  Rose-hill, Sept. 18, Morning.

  I have this moment, my dear Mrs. Temple's letter: she will imaginemy transport at the happy event she mentions; my dear Rivers has, insome degree, sacrificed even filial affection to his tenderness for me;the consciousness of this has ever cast a damp on the pleasure I shouldotherwise have felt, at the prospect of spending my life with the mostexcellent of mankind: I shall now be his, without the painfulreflection of having lessened the enjoyments of the best parent thatever existed.

  I should be blest indeed, my amiable friend, if I did not sufferfrom my too anxious tenderness; I dread the possibility of my becomingin time less dear to your brother; I love him to such excess that Icould not survive the loss of his affection.

  There is no distress, no want, I could not bear with delight forhim; but if I lose his heart, I lose all for which life is worthkeeping.

  Could I bear to see those looks of ardent love converted into thecold glances of indifference!

  You will, my dearest friend, pity a heart, whose too greatsensibility wounds itself: why should I fear? was ever tenderness equalto that of my Rivers? can a heart like his change from caprice? Itshall be the business of my life to merit his tenderness.

  I will not give way to fears which injure him, and, indulged, woulddestroy all my happiness.

  I expect Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald every moment. Adieu!

  Your affectionate Emily Montague.

  LETTER 183.

  To Captain Fitzgerald.

  Bellfield, Sept. 17.

  You say true, my dear Fitzgerald: friendship, like love, is more thechild of sympathy than of reason; though inspired by qualities veryopposite to those which give love, it strikes like that in a moment:like that, it is free as air, and, when constrained, loses all itsspirit.

  In both, from some nameless cause, at least some cause to usincomprehensible, the affections take fire the instant two persons,whose minds are in unison, observe each other, which, however, they mayoften meet without doing.

  It is therefore as impossible for others to point out objects of ourfriendship as love; our choice must be uninfluenced, if we wish to findhappiness in either.

  Cold, lifeless esteem may grow from a long tasteless acquaintance;but real affection makes a sudden and lively impression.

  This impression is improved, is strengthened by time, and a moreintimate 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 thestrongest partiality for you before I knew how very worthy you were ofmy esteem.

  Your countenance and manner made an impression on me, which inclinedme to take your virtues upon trust.

  It is not always safe to depend on these preventive feelings; but ingeneral the face is a pretty faithful index of the mind.

  I propose being in town in four or five days.

  Twelve o'clock.

  My mother has this moment a second letter from her relation, who isc
oming home, and proposes a marriage between me and his daughter, towhom he will give twenty thousand pounds now, and the rest of hisfortune at his death.

  As Emily's fault, if love can allow her one, is an excess ofromantic generosity, the fault of most uncorrupted female minds, I amvery anxious to marry her before she knows of this proposal, lest sheshould think it a proof of tenderness to aim at making me wretched, inorder 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 ofretreat.

  Our relation may have mentioned his design to persons less prudentthan 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 thatit 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 fortuneare nothing to me without her for whose sake alone I wish to possessthem: you know my heart, and you also know this is the sentiment ofevery man who loves.

  But I can with truth say much more; I do not even wish an increaseof fortune, considering it abstractedly from its being incompatiblewith my marriage with the loveliest of women; I am indifferent to allbut independence; wealth would not make me happier; on the contrary, itmight break in on my present little plan of enjoyment, by forcing me togive to common acquaintance, of whom wealth will always attract acrowd, those precious hours devoted to friendship and domesticpleasure.

  I think my present income just what a wise man would wish, and verysincerely join in the philosophical prayer of the royal prophet, "Giveme neither poverty nor riches."

  I love the vale, and had always an aversion to very extensiveprospects.

  I will hasten my coming as much as possible, and hope to be atRose-hill on Monday next: I shall be a prey to anxiety till Emily isirrevocably mine.

  Tell Mrs. Fitzgerald, I am all impatience to kiss her hand.

  Your affectionate Ed. Rivers.

  LETTER 184.

  To Captain Fermor.

  Richmond, Sept. 18.

  I am this moment returned to Richmond from a journey: I am rejoicedat your arrival, and impatient to see you; for I am so happy as not tohave out-lived my impatience.

  How is my little Bell? I am as much in love with her as ever; thisyou will conceal from Captain Fitzgerald, lest he should be alarmed,for I am as formidable a rival as a man of fourscore can be supposed tobe.

  I am extremely obliged to you, my dear Fermor, for having introducedme to a very amiable man, in your friend Colonel Rivers.

  I begin to be so sensible I am an old fellow, that I feel a verylively degree of gratitude to the young ones who visit me; and look onevery agreable new acquaintance under thirty as an acquisition I had noright to expect.

  You know I have always thought personal advantages of much more realvalue than accidental ones; and that those who possessed the former hadmuch the greatest right to be proud.

  Youth, health, beauty, understanding, are substantial goods; wealthand title comparatively ideal ones; I therefore think a young man whocondescends to visit an old one, the healthy who visit the sick, theman of sense who spends his time with a fool, and even a handsomefellow 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 Ihave not often lately passed a pleasanter one: the desire I had not todiscredit your partial recommendation, and my very strong inclinationsto seduce him to come again, made me intirely discard the old man; andI believe your friend will tell you the hours did not pass on leadenwings.

  I expect you, with Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald, to pass some time withme at Richmond.

  I have the best claret in the universe, and as lively a relish forit as at five and twenty.

  Adieu! Your affectionate H----

  LETTER 185.

  To Colonel Rivers, at Bellfield, Rutland.

  Rose-hill, Sept. 18.

  Since I sent away my letter, I have your last.

  You tell me, my dear Rivers, the strong emotion I betrayed at seeingSir George, when you came together to Montreal, made you fear I lovedhim; that you were jealous of the blush which glowed on my cheek, whenhe entered the room: that you still remember it with regret; that youstill fancy I had once some degree of tenderness for him, and beg me toaccount for the apparent confusion I betrayed at his sight.

  I own that emotion; my confusion was indeed too great to beconcealed: but was he alone, my Rivers? can you forget that he had withhim the most lovely of mankind?

  Sir George was handsome; I have often regarded his person withadmiration, but it was the admiration we give to a statue.

  I listened coldly to his love, I felt no emotion at his sight; butwhen you appeared, my heart beat, I blushed, I turned pale by turns, myeyes assumed a new softness, I trembled, and every pulse confessed themaster of my soul.

  My friends are come: I am called down. Adieu! Be assured your Emilynever breathed a sigh but for her Rivers!

  Adieu! Yours, Emily Montague.

  LETTER 186.

  To Colonel Rivers, at Bellfield, Rutland.

  London, Sept. 18.

  I have this moment your letter; we are setting out in ten minutesfor Rose-hill, where I will finish this, and hope to give you apleasing account of your Emily.

  You are certainly right in keeping this proposal secret at present;depend on our silence; I could, however, wish you the fortune, were itpossible to have it without the lady.

  Were I to praise your delicacy on this occasion, I should injureyou; it was not in your power to act differently; you are onlyconsistent with yourself.

  I am pleased with your idea of a situation: a house embosomed in thegrove, where all the view is what the eye can take in, speaks a happymaster, content at home; a wide-extended prospect, one who is lookingabroad for happiness.

  I love the country: the taste for rural scenes is the taste bornwith us. After seeking pleasure in vain amongst the works of art, weare forced to come back to the point from whence we set out, and findour enjoyment in the lovely simplicity of nature.

  Rose-hill, Evening.

  I am afraid Emily knows your secret; she has been in tears almostever since we came; the servant is going to the post-office, and I havebut a moment to tell you we will stay here till your arrival, whichyou will hasten as much as possible.

  Adieu! Your affectionate J. Fitzgerald.

  LETTER 187.

  To Colonel Rivers, at Bellfield, Rutland.

  Rose-hill, Sept. 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 thereason of this delay.

  Be assured of my tenderness; be assured my whole soul is yours, thatyou 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, theardent tenderness of my soul? how convince him of what I suffer frombeing forced to make a request so contrary to the dictates of my heart?

  He cannot, will not doubt his Emily's affection: I cannot supportthe idea that it is possible he should for one instant. What I sufferat this moment is inexpressible.

  My heart is too much 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; youyourself can scarce form an idea to what excess!

  Adieu! Your faithful Emily Montague.

  LETTER 188.

  To Miss Montague, Rose-hill, Berkshire.

  Bellfield, Sept. 20.

  No, Emily, you never loved; I have been long hurt by yourtranquillity in regard to our marriage;
your too scrupulous attentionto decorum in leaving my sister's house might have alarmed me, if lovehad not placed a bandage before my eyes.

  Cruel girl! I repeat it; 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 theimagination, not the heart.

  The very professions of tenderness in your last, are a proof of yourconsciousness of indifference; you repeat too often that you love me;you say too much; that anxiety to persuade me of your affection, shewstoo plainly you are sensible I have reason to doubt it.

  You have placed me on the rack; a thousand fears, a thousand doubts,succeed each other in my soul. Has some happier man--

  No, my Emily, distracted as I am, I will not be unjust: I do notsuspect you of inconstancy; 'tis of your coldness only I complain: younever felt the lively impatience of love; or you would not condemn aman, whom you at least esteem, to suffer longer its unutterabletortures.

  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 mistress of yourself?

  My Emily, you blush to own to me the insensibility of your heart:you once fancied you loved; you are ashamed to say you were mistaken.

 
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