Vol. III (continued 2)

Do you know she has desired me to contrive to get her a picture of your brother, without his knowing it? I am not determined whether I shall indulge her in this fancy or not; if I do, I must employ you as my agent. It is madness in her to desire it; but, as there is a pleasure in being mad, I am not sure my morality will let me refuse her, since pleasures are not very thick sown in this world.

Adieu! Your affectionate A. Fermor.

LETTER CLIV.158.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Silleri, July 10.

By this time, my dear Lucy, I hope you are happy with your brother and my sweet Emily: I am all impatience to know this from yourselves; but it will be five or six weeks, perhaps much more, before I can have that satisfaction.

As to me—to be plain, my dear, I can hold no longer; I have been married this fortnight. My father wanted to keep it a secret, for some very foolish reasons; but it is not in my nature; I hate secrets, they are only fit for politicians, and people whose thoughts and actions will not bear the light.

For my part, I am convinced the general loquacity of human kind, and our inability to keep secrets without a natural kind of uneasiness, were meant by Providence to guard against our laying deep schemes of treachery against each other.

I remember a very sensible man, who perfectly knew the world, used to say, there was no such thing in nature as a secret; a maxim as true, at least I believe so, as it is salutary, and which I would advise all good mammas, aunts, and governesses, to impress strongly on the minds of young ladies.

So, as I was saying, voilà Madame Fitzgerald!

This is, however, yet a secret here; but, according to my present doctrine, and following the nature of things, it cannot long continue so.

You never saw so polite a husband, but I suppose they are all so the first fortnight, especially when married in so interesting and romantic a manner; I am very fond of the fancy of being thus married as it were; but I have a notion I shall blunder it out very soon: we were married on a party to Three Rivers, nobody with us but papa and Madame Villiers, who have not yet published the mystery. I hear some misses at Quebec are scandalous about Fitzgerald’s being so much here; I will leave them in doubt a little, I think, merely to gratify their love of scandal; every body should be amused in their way.

Adieu! yours, A. Fitzgerald.

Pray let Emily be married; every body marries but poor little Emily.

LETTER CLV.159.

To the Earl of ——.

Silleri, July 10.

I have the pleasure to tell your Lordship I have married my daughter to a gentleman with whom I have reason to hope she will be happy.

He is the second son of an Irish baronet of good fortune, and has himself about five hundred pounds a year, independent of his commission; he is a man of an excellent sense, and of honor, and has a very lively tenderness for my daughter.

It will, I am afraid, be some time before I can leave this country, as I chuse to take my daughter and Mr. Fitzgerald with me, in order to the latter’s soliciting a majority, in which pursuit I shall without scruple tax your Lordship’s friendship to the utmost.

I am extremely happy at this event, as Bell’s volatile temper made me sometimes afraid of her chusing inconsiderately: their marriage is not yet declared, for some family reasons, not worth particularizing to your Lordship.

As soon as leave of absence comes from New York, for me and Mr. Fitzgerald, we shall settle things for taking leave of Canada, which I however assure your Lordship I shall do with some reluctance.

The climate is all the year agreable and healthy, in summer divine; a man at my time of life cannot leave this chearing, enlivening sun without reluctance; the heat is very like that of Italy or the South of France, without that oppressive closeness which generally attends our hot weather in England.

The manner of life here is chearful; we make the most of our fine summers, by the pleasantest country parties you can imagine. Here are some very estimable persons, and the spirit of urbanity begins to diffuse itself from the centre: in short, I shall leave Canada at the very time when one would wish to come to it.

It is astonishing, in a small community like this, how much depends on the personal character of him who governs.

I am obliged to break off abruptly, the person who takes this to England being going immediately on board.

I have the honor to be, My Lord, Your Lordship’s, &c. Wm. Fermor.

LETTER CLVI.160.

To John Temple, Esq; Pall Mall.

Silleri, July 13.

I agree with you, my dear Temple, that nothing can be more pleasing than an awakened English woman; of which you and my caro sposo have, I flatter myself, the happy experience; and wish with you that the character was more common: but I must own, and I am sorry to own it, that my fair countrywomen and fellow citizens (I speak of the nation in general, and not of the capital) have an unbecoming kind of reserve, which prevents their being the agreable companions, and amiable wives, which nature meant them.

From a fear, and I think a prudish one, of being thought too attentive to please your sex, they have acquired a certain distant manner to men, which borders on ill-breeding: they take great pains to veil, under an affected appearance of disdain, that winning sensibility of heart, that delicate tenderness, which renders them doubly lovely.

They are even afraid to own their friendships, if not according to the square and rule; are doubtful whether a modest woman may own she loves even her husband; and seem to think affections were given them for no purpose but to hide.

Upon the whole, with at least as good a native right to charm as any women on the face of the globe, the English have found the happy secret of pleasing less.

Is my Emily arrived? I can say nothing else.

Twelve o’clock.

I am the happiest woman in the creation: papa has just told me, we are to go home in six or seven weeks.

Not but this is a divine country, and our farm a terrestrial paradise; but we have lived in it almost a year, and one grows tired of every thing in time, you know, Temple.

I shall see my Emily, and flirt with Rivers; to say nothing of you and my little Lucy.

Adieu! I am grown very lazy since I married; for the future, I shall make Fitzgerald write all my letters, except billet-doux, in which I think I excel him.

Yours, A. Fitzgerald.

LETTER CLVII.161.

To Miss Fermor, at Silleri.

Dover, July 8.

I am this moment arrived, my dear Bell, after a very agreable passage, and am setting out immediately for London, from whence I shall write to you the moment I have seen Mrs. Rivers; I will own to you I tremble at the idea of this interview, yet am resolved to see her, and open all my soul to her in regard to her son; after which, I shall leave her the mistress of my destiny; for, ardently as I love him, I will never marry him but with her approbation.

I have a thousand anxious fears for my Rivers’s safety: may heaven protect him from the dangers his Emily has escaped!

I have but a moment to write, a ship being under way which is bound to Quebec; a gentleman, who is just going off in a boat to the ship, takes the care of this.

May every happiness attend my dear girl. Say every thing affectionate for me to Captain Fermor and Mr. Fitzgerald.

Adieu! Yours, Emily Montague.

LETTER CLVIII.162.

To Miss Fermor, at Silleri.

London, July 19.

I got to town last night, my dear, and am at a friend’s, from whence I have this morning sent to Mrs. Rivers; I every moment expect her answer; my anxiety of mind is not to be expressed; my heart sinks; I almost dread the return of my messenger.

If the affections, my dear friend, give us the highest happiness of which we are capable, they are also the source of our keenest misery; what I feel at this instant, is not to be described: I have been near resolving to go into the country without seeing or sending to Mrs. Rivers. If she should receive me with coldness—why should I have exposed myself to the chance of such a reception? It would have been better to have waited for Rivers’s arrival; I have been too precipitate; my warmth of temper has misled me: what had I to do to seek his family? I would give the world to retract my message, though it was only to let her know I was arrived; that her son was well, and that she might every hour expect him in England.

There is a rap at the door: I tremble I know not why; the servant comes up, he announces Mr. and Mrs. Temple: my heart beats, they are at the door.

One o’clock.

They are gone, and return for me in an hour; they insist on my dining with them, and tell me Mrs. Rivers is impatient to see me. Nothing was ever so polite, so delicate, so affectionate, as the behaviour of both; they saw my confusion, and did every thing to remove it: they enquired after Rivers, but without the least hint of the dear interest I take in him: they spoke of the happiness of knowing me: they asked my friendship, in a manner the most flattering that can be imagined. How strongly does Mrs. Temple, my dear, resemble her amiable brother! her eyes have the same sensibility, the same pleasing expression; I think I scarce ever saw so charming a woman; I love her already; I feel a tenderness for her, which is inconceivable; I caught myself two or three times looking at her, with an attention for which I blushed.

How dear to me is every friend of my Rivers!

I believe, there was something very foolish in my behaviour; but they had the good-breeding and humanity not to seem to observe it.

I had almost forgot to tell you, they said every thing obliging and affectionate of you and Captain Fermor.

My mind is in a state not to be described; I feel joy, I feel anxiety, I feel doubt, I feel a timidity I cannot conquer, at the thought of seeing Mrs. Rivers.

I have to dress; therefore must finish this when I return.

Twelve at night.

I am come back, my dearest Bell; I have gone through the scene I so much dreaded, and am astonished I should ever think of it but with pleasure. How much did I injure this most amiable of women! Her reception of me was that of a tender parent, who had found a long-lost child; she kissed me, she pressed me to her bosom; her tears flowed in abundance; she called me her daughter, her other Lucy: she asked me a thousand questions of her son; she would know all that concerned him, however minute: how he looked, whether he talked much of her, what were his amusements; whether he was as handsome as when he left England.

I answered her with some hesitation, but with a pleasure that animated my whole soul; I believe, I never appeared to such advantage as this day.

You will not ascribe it to an unmeaning vanity, when I tell you, I never took such pains to please; I even gave a particular attention to my dress, that I might, as much as possible, justify my Rivers’s tenderness: I never was vain for myself; but I am so for him: I am indifferent to admiration as Emily Montague; but as the object of his love, I would be admired by all the world; I wish to be the first of my sex in all that is amiable and lovely, that I might make a sacrifice worthy of my Rivers, in shewing to all his friends, that he only can inspire me with tenderness, that I live for him alone.

Mrs. Rivers pressed me extremely to pass a month with her: my heart yielded too easily to her request; but I had courage to resist my own wishes, as well as her solicitations; and shall set out in three days for Berkshire: I have, however, promised to go with them to-morrow, on a party to Richmond, which Mr. Temple was so obliging as to propose on my account.

Late as the season is, there is one more ship going to Quebec, which sails to-morrow.

You shall hear from me again in a few days by the packet.

Adieu! my dearest friend! Your faithful Emily Montague.

Surely it will not be long before Rivers arrives; you, my dear Bell, will judge what must be my anxiety till that moment.

LETTER CLIX.163.

To Captain Fermor, at Silleri.

Dover, July 24, eleven o’clock.

I am arrived, my dear friend, after a passage agreable in itself; but which my fears for Emily made infinitely anxious and painful: every wind that blew, I trembled for her; I formed to myself ideal dangers on her account, which reason had not power to dissipate.

We had a very tumultuous head-sea a great part of the voyage, though the wind was fair; a certain sign there had been stormy weather, with a contrary wind. I fancied my Emily exposed to those storms; there is no expressing what I suffered from this circumstance.

On entering the channel of England, we saw an empty boat, and some pieces of a wreck floating; I fancied it part of the ship which conveyed my lovely Emily; a sudden chillness seized my whole frame, my heart died within me at the sight: I had scarce courage, when I landed, to enquire whether she was arrived.

I asked the question with a trembling voice, and had the transport to find the ship had passed by, and to hear the person of my Emily described amongst the passengers who landed; it was not easy to mistake her.

I hope to see her this evening: what do I not feel from that dear hope!

Chance gives me an opportunity of forwarding this by New York; I write whilst my chaise is getting ready.

Adieu! yours, Ed. Rivers.

I shall write to my dear little Bell as soon as I get to town. There is no describing what I felt at first seeing the coast of England: I saw the white cliffs with a transport mixed with veneration; a transport, which, however, was checked by my fears for the dearer part of myself.

My chaise is at the door.

Adieu! Your faithful, &c. Ed. Rivers.

LETTER CLX.164.

To Miss Fermor, at Silleri.

Rochester, July 24.

I am obliged to wait ten minutes for a Canadian gentleman who is with me, and has some letters to deliver here: how painful is this delay! But I cannot leave a stranger alone on the road, though I lose so many minutes with my charming Emily.

To soften this moment as much as possible, I will begin a letter to my dear Bell: our sweet Emily is safe; I wrote to Captain Fermor this morning.

My heart is gay beyond words: my fellow-traveller is astonished at the beauty and riches of England, from what he has seen of Kent: for my part, I point out every fine prospect, and am so proud of my country, that my whole soul seems to be dilated; for which perhaps there are other reasons. The day is fine, the numerous herds and flocks on the side of the hills, the neatness of the houses, of the people, the appearance of plenty; all exhibit a scene which must strike one who has been used only to the wild graces of nature.

Canada has beauties; but they are of another kind.

This unreasonable man; he has no mistress to see in London; he is not expected by the most amiable of mothers, by a family he loves as I do mine.

I will order another chaise, and leave my servant to attend him.

He comes. Adieu! my dear little Bell! at this moment a gentleman is come into the inn, who is going to embark at Dover for New York; I will send this by him. Once more adieu!

LETTER CLXI.165.

To Miss Fermor, at Silleri.

Clarges Street, July 25July 25.

I am the only person here, my dear Bell, enough composed to tell you Rivers is arrived in town. He stopped in his post chaise, at the end of the street, and sent for me, that I might prepare my mother to see him, and prevent a surprize which might have hurried her spirits too much.

I came back, and told her I had seen a gentleman, who had left him at Dover, and that he would soon be here; he followed me in a few minutes.

I am not painter enough to describe their meeting; though prepared, it was with difficulty we kept my mother from fainting; she pressed him in her arms, she attempted to speak, her voice faltered, tears stole softly down her cheeks: nor was Rivers less affected, though in a different manner; I never saw him look so handsome; the manly tenderness, the filial respect, the lively joy, that were expressed in his countenance, gave him a look to which it is impossible to do justice: he hinted going down to Berkshire to-night; but my mother seemed so hurt at the proposal, that he wrote to Emily, and told her his reason for deferring it till to-morrow, when we are all to go in my coach, and hope to bring her back with us to town.

You judge rightly, my dear Bell, that they were formed for each other; never were two minds so similar; we must contrive some method of making them happy: nothing but a too great delicacy in Rivers prevents their being so to-morrow; were our situations changed, I should not hesitate a moment to let him make me so.

Lucy has sent for me. Adieu!

Believe me, Your faithful and devoted, J. Temple.

LETTER CLXII.166.

To Miss Fermor, at Silleri.

Pall Mall, July 29.

I am the happiest of human beings: my Rivers is arrived, he is well, he loves me; I am dear to his family; I see him withontwithout restraint; I am every hour more convinced of the excess of his affection; his attention to me is inconceivable; his eyes every moment tell me, I am dearer to him than life.

I am to be for some time on a visit to his sister; he is at Mrs. Rivers’s, but we are always together: we go down next week to Mr. Temple’s, in Rutland; they only stayed in town, expecting Rivers’s arrival. His seat is within six miles of Rivers’s little paternal estate, which he settled on his mother when he left England; she presses him to resume it, but he peremptorily refuses: he insists on her continuing her house in town, and being perfectly independent, and mistress of herself.

I love him a thousand times more for this tenderness to her; though it disappoints my dear hope of being his. Did I think it possible, my dear Bell, he could have risen higher in my esteem?

If we are never united, if we always live as at present, his tenderness will still make the delight of my life; to see him, to hear that voice, to be his friend, the confidante of all his purposes, of all his designs, to hear the sentiments of that generous, that exalted soul—I would not give up this delight, to be empress of the world.

My ideas of affection are perhaps uncommon; but they are not the less just, nor the less in nature.

A blind man may as well judge of colors as the mass of mankind of the sentiments of a truly enamored heart.

The sensual and the cold will equally condemn my affection as romantic: few minds, my dear Bell, are capable of love; they feel passion, they feel esteem; they even feel that mixture of both which is the best counterfeit of love; but of that vivifying fire, that lively tenderness which hurries us out of ourselves, they know nothing; that tenderness which makes us forget ourselves, when the interest, the happiness, the honor, of him we love is concerned; that tenderness which renders the beloved object all that we see in the creation.

Yes, my Rivers, I live, I breathe, I exist, for you alone: be happy, and your Emily is so.

My dear friend, you know love, and will therefore bear with all the impertinence of a tender heart.

I hope you have by this time made Fitzgerald happy; he deserves you, amiable as you are, and you cannot too soon convince him of your affection: you sometimes play cruelly with his tenderness: I have been astonished to see you torment a heart which adores you.

I am interrupted.

Adieu! my dear Bell. Your affectionate Emily Montague.

LETTER CLXIII.167.

To Captain Fermor, at Silleri.

Clarges-Street,Clarges Street, Aug. 1.

Lord —— not being in town, I went to his villa at Richmond, to deliver your letter.

I cannot enough, my dear Sir, thank you for this introduction; I passed part of the day at Richmond, and never was more pleasingly entertained.

His politeness, his learning, his knowledge of the world, however amiable, are in character at his season of life; but his vivacity is astonishing.

What fire, what spirit, there is in his conversation! I hardly thought myself a young man near him. What must he have been at five and twenty?

He desired me to tell you, all his interest should be employed for Fitzgerald, and that he wished you to come to England as soon as possible.

We are just setting off for Temple’s house in Rutland.

Adieu! Your affectionate Ed. Rivers.

LETTER CLXIV.168.

To Captain Fermor, at Silleri.

Temple-house, Aug. 4.

I enjoy, my dear friend, in one of the pleasantest houses, and most agreable situations imaginable, the society of the four persons in the world most dear to me; I am in all respects as much at home as if master of the family, without the cares attending that station; my wishes, my desires, are prevented by Temple’s attention and friendship, and my mother and sister’s amiable anxiety to oblige me; I find an unspeakable softness in seeing my lovely Emily every moment, in seeing her adored by my family, in seeing her without restraint, in being in the same house, in living in that easy converse which is born from friendship alone: yet I am not happy.

It is that we lose the present happiness in the pursuit of greater: I look forward with impatience to that moment which will make Emily mine; and the difficulties, which I see on every side arising, embitter hours which would otherwise be exquisitely happy.

The narrowness of my fortune, which I see in a much stronger light in this land of luxury, and the apparent impossibility of placing the most charming of women in the station my heart wishes, give me anxieties which my reason cannot conquer.

I cannot live without her, I flatter myself our union is in some degree necessary to her happiness; yet I dread bringing her into distresses, which I am doubly obliged to protect her from, because she would with transport meet them all, from tenderness to me.

I have nothing which I can call my own, but my half-pay, and four thousand pounds: I have lived amongst the first company in England; all my connexions have been rather suited to my birth than fortune. My mother presses me to resume my estate, and let her live with us alternately; but against this I am firmly determined; she shall have her own house, and never change her manner of living.

Temple would share his estate with me, if I would allow him; but I am too fond of independence to accept favors of this kind even from him.

I have formed a thousand schemes, and as often found them abortive; I go to-morrow to see our little estate, with my mother; it is a private party of our own, and nobody is in the secret; I will there talk over every thing with her.

My mind is at present in a state of confusion not to be expressed; I must determine on something; it is improper Emily should continue long with my sister in her present situation; yet I cannot live without seeing her.

I have never asked about Emily’s fortune; but I know it is a small one; perhaps two thousand pounds; I am pretty certain, not more.

We can live on little, but we must live in some degree on a genteel footing: I cannot let Emily, who refused a coach and six for me, pay visits on foot; I will be content with a post-chaise, but cannot with less; I have a little, a very little pride, for my Emily.

I wish it were possible to prevail on my mother to return with us to Canada: I could then reconcile my duty and happiness, which at present seem almost incompatible.

Emily appears perfectly happy, and to look no further than to the situation in which we now are; she seems content with being my friend only, without thinking of a nearer connexion; I am rather piqued at a composure which has the air of indifference: why should not her impatience equal mine?

The coach is at the door, and my mother waits for me.

Every happiness attend my friend, and all connected with him, in which number I hope I may, by this time, include Fitzgerald.

Adieu! Your affectionate Ed. Rivers.

LETTER CLXV.169.

To Captain Fermor, at Silleri.

Aug. 6.

I have been taking an exact survey of the house and estate with my mother, in order to determine on some future plan of life.

’Tis inconceivable what I felt on returning to a place so dear to me, and which I had not seen for many years; I ran hastily from one room to another; I traversed the garden with inexpressible eagerness: my eye devoured every object; there was not a tree, not a bush, which did not revive some pleasing, some soft idea.

I felt, to borrow a very pathetic expression of Thomson’s,

on revisiting those dear scenes of infant happiness; which were increased by having with me that estimable, that affectionate mother, to whose indulgence all my happiness had been owing.

But to return to the purpose of our visit: the house is what most people would think too large for the estate, even had I a right to call it all my own; this is, however, a fault, if it is one, which I can easily forgive.

There is furniture enough in it for my family, including my mother; it is unfashionable, but some of it very good: and I think Emily has tenderness enough for me to live with me in a house, the furniture of which is not perfectly in taste.

In short, I know her much above having the slightest wish of vanity, where it comes in competition with love.

We can, as to the house, live here commodiously enough; and our only present consideration is, on what we are to live: a consideration, however, which as lovers, I believe in strictness we ought to be much above!

My mother again solicits me to resume this estate; and has proposed my making over to her my half-pay instead of it, though of much less value, which, with her own two hundred pounds a year, will, she says, enable her to continue her house in town, a point I am determined never to suffer her to give up; because she loves London; and because I insist on her having her own house to go to, if she should ever chance to be displeased with ours.

I am inclined to like this proposal: Temple and I will make a calculation; and, if we find it will answer every necessary purpose to my mother, I owe it to Emily to accept of it.

I endeavor to persuade myself, that I am obliging my mother, by giving her an opportunity of shewing her generosity, and of making me happy: I have been in spirits ever since she mentioned it.

I have already projected a million of improvements; have taught new streams to flow, planted ideal groves, and walked, fancy-led, in shades of my own raising.

The situation of the house is enchanting; and with all my passion for the savage luxuriance of America, I begin to find my taste return for the more mild and regular charms of my native country.

We have no Chaudieres, no Montmorencis, none of those magnificent scenes on which the Canadians have a right to pride themselves; but we excel them in the lovely, the smiling; in enameled meadows, in waving corn-fields, in gardens the boast of Europe; in every elegant art which adorns and softens human life; in all the riches and beauty which cultivation can give.

I begin to think I may be blest in the possession of my Emily, without betraying her into a state of want; we may, I begin to flatter myself, live with decency, in retirement; and, in my opinion, there are a thousand charms in retirement with those we love.

Upon the whole, I believe we shall be able to live, taking the word live in the sense of lovers, not of the beau monde, who will never allow a little country squire of four hundred pounds a year to live.

Time may do more for us; at least, I am of an age and temper to encourage hope.

All here are perfectly yours.

Adieu! my dear friend, Your affectionate Ed. Rivers.

LETTER CLXVI.170.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Silleri, Aug. 6.

The leave of absence for my father and Fitzgerald being come some weeks sooner than we expected, we propose leaving Canada in five or six days.

I am delighted with the idea of revisiting dear England, and seeing friends whom I so tenderly love: yet I feel a regret, which I had no idea I should have felt, at leaving the scenes of a thousand past pleasures; the murmuring rivulets to which Emily and I have sat listening, the sweet woods where I have walked with my little circle of friends: I have even a strong attachment to the scenes themselves, which are infinitely lovely, and speak the inimitable hand of nature which formed them: I want to transport this fairy ground to England.

I sigh when I pass any particularly charming spot; I feel a tenderness beyond what inanimate objects seem to merit.

I must pay one more visit to the naiads of Montmorenci.

Eleven at night.

I am just come from the general’s assembly; where, I should have told you, I was this day fortnight announced Madame Fitzgerald, to the great mortification of two or three cats, who had very sagaciously determined, that Fitzgerald had too much understanding ever to think of such a flirting, coquetish creature as a wife.

I was grave at the assembly to-night, in spite of all the pains I took to be otherwise: I was hurt at the idea it would probably be the last at which I should be; I felt a kind of concern at parting, not only with the few I loved, but with those who had till to-night been indifferent to me.

There is something affecting in the idea of the last time of seeing even those persons or places, for which we have no particular affection.

I go to-morrow to take leave of the nuns, at the Ursuline convent; I suppose I shall carry this melancholy idea with me there, and be hurt at seeing them too for the last time.

I pay visits every day amongst the peasants, who are very fond of me. I talk to them of their farms, give money to their children, and teach their wives to be good huswives: I am the idol of the country people five miles round, who declare me the most amiable, most generous woman in the world, and think it a thousand pities I should be damned.

Adieu! say every thing for me to my sweet friends, if arrived.

7th, Eleven o’clock.

I have this moment a large packet of letters for Emily from Mrs. Melmoth, which I intend to take the care of myself, as I hope to be in England almost as soon as this.

Good morrow! Yours ever, &c. A. Fitzgerald.

Three o’clock.

I am just come from visiting the nuns; they expressed great concern at my leaving Canada, and promised me their prayers on my voyage; for which proof of affection, though a good protestant, I thanked them very sincerely.

I wished exceedingly to have brought some of them away with me; my nun, as they call the amiable girl I saw take the veil, paid me the flattering tribute of a tear at parting; her fine eyes had a concern in them, which affected me extremely.

I was not less pleased with the affection the late superior, my good old countrywoman, expressed for me, and her regret at seeing me for the last time.

Surely there is no pleasure on earth equal to that of being beloved! I did not think I had been such a favorite in Canada: it is almost a pity to leave it; perhaps nobody may love me in England.

Yes, I believe Fitzgerald will; and I have a pretty party enough of friends in your family.

Adieu! I shall write a line the day we embark, by another ship, which may possibly arrive before us.

LETTER CLXVII.171.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Silleri, Aug 11.Aug. 11.

We embark to-morrow, and hope to see you in less than a month, if this fine wind continues.

I am just come from Montmorenci, where I have been paying my devotions to the tutelary deities of the place for the last time.

I had only Fitzgerald with me; we visited every grotto on the lovely banks, where we dined; kissed every flower, raised a votive altar on the little island, poured a libation of wine to the river goddess; and, in short, did every thing which it became good heathens to do.

We stayed till day-light began to decline, which, with the idea of the last time, threw round us a certain melancholy solemnity; a solemnity which

I have twenty things to do, and but a moment to do them in. Adieu!

I am called down; it is to Madame Des Roches: she is very obliging to come thus far to see me.

12th.

We go on board at one; Madame Des Roches goes down with us as far as her estate, where her boat is to fetch her on shore. She has made me a present of a pair of extreme pretty bracelets; has sent your brother an elegant sword-knot, and Emily a very beautiful cross of diamonds.

I don’t believe she would be sorry if we were to run away with her to England: I protest I am half inclined; it is pity such a woman should be hid all her life in the woods of Canada: besides, one might convert her you know; and, on a religious principle, a little deviation from rules is allowable.

Your brother is an admirable missionary amongst unbelieving ladies: I really think I shall carry her off; if it is only for the good of her soul.

I have but one objection; if Fitzgerald should take a fancy to prefer the tender to the lively, I should be in some danger: there is something very seducing in her eyes, I assure you.

LETTER CLXVIII.172.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Kamaraskas, Aug. 14.

By Madame Des Roches, who is going on shore, I write two or three lines, to tell you we have got thus far, and have a fair wind; she will send it immediately to Quebec, to be put on board any ship going, that you may have the greater variety of chances to hear of me.

There is a French lady on board, whose superstition bids fair to amuse us; she has thrown half her little ornaments over-board for a wind, and has promised I know not how many votive offerings of the same kind to St. Joseph, the patron of Canada, if we get safe to land; on which I shall only observe, that there is nothing so like ancient absurdity as modern: she has classical authority for this manner of playing the fool. Horace, when afraid on a voyage, having, if my memory quotes fair, vowed

The boat is ready, and Madame Des Roches going; I am very unwilling to part with her; and her present concern at leaving me would be very flattering, if I did not think the remembrance of your brother had the greatest share in it.

She has wrote four or five letters to him, since she came on board, very tender ones I fancy, and destroyed them; she has at last wrote a meer complimentary kind of card, only thanking him for his offers of service; yet I see it gives her pleasure to write even this, however cold and formal; because addressed to him: she asked me, if I thought there was any impropriety in her writing to him, and whether it would not be better to address herself to Emily. I smiled at her simplicity, and she finished her letter; she blushed and looked down when she gave it me.

She is less like a sprightly French widow, than a foolish English girl, who loves for the first time.

But I suppose, when the heart is really touched, the feelings of all nations have a pretty near resemblance: it is only that the French ladies are generally more coquets, and less inclined to the romantic style of love, than the English; and we are, therefore, surprized when we find in them this trembling sensibility.

There are exceptions, however, to all rules; and your little Bell seems, in point of love, to have changed countries with Madame Des Roches.

The gale encreases, it flutters in the sails; my fair friend is summoned; the captain chides our delay.

Adieu! ma chere Madame Des Roches. I embrace her; I feel the force of its being for the last time. I am afraid she feels it yet more strongly than I do: in parting with the last of his friends, she seems to part with her Rivers for ever.

One look more at the wild graces of nature I leave behind.

Adieu! Canada! adieu! sweet abode of the wood-nymphs! never shall I cease to remember with delight the place where I have passed so many happy hours.

Heaven preserve my dear Lucy, and give prosperous gales to her friends!

Your faithful A. Fitzgerald.

LETTER CLXIX.173.

To Miss Montague.

Isle of Bic, Aug. 16.

You are little obliged to me, my dear, for writing to you on ship-board; one of the greatest miseries here, being the want of employment: I therefore write for my own amusement, not yours.

We have some French ladies on board, but they do not resemble Madame Des Roches. I am weary of them already, though we have been so few days together.

The wind is contrary, and we are at anchor under this island; Fitzgerald has proposed going to dine on shore: it looks excessively pretty from the ship.

Seven in the Evening.evening.

We are returned from Bic, after passing a very agreable day.

We dined on the grass, at a little distance from the shore, under the shelter of a very fine wood, whose form, the trees rising above each other in the same regular confusion, brought the dear shades of Silleri to our remembrance.

We walked after dinner, and picked rasberries, in the wood; and in our ramble came unexpectedly to the middle of a visto, which, whilst some ships of war lay here, the sailors had cut through the island.

From this situation, being a rising ground, we could see directly through the avenue to both shores: the view of each was wildly majestic; the river comes finely in, whichever way you turn your sight; but to the south, which is more sheltered, the water just trembling to the breeze, our ship which had put all her streamers out, and to which the tide gave a gentle motion, with a few scattered houses, faintly seen amongst the trees at a distance, terminated the prospect, in a manner which was inchanting.

I die to build a house on this island; it is pity such a sweet spot should be uninhabited: I should like excessively to be Queen of Bic.

Fitzgerald has carved my name on a maple, near the shore; a pretty piece of gallantry in a husband, you will allow: perhaps he means it as taking possession for me of the island.

We are going to cards. Adieu! for the present.

Aug. 18.

’Tis one of the loveliest days I ever saw: we are fishing under the Magdalen islands; the weather is perfectly calm, the sea just dimpled, the sun-beams dance on the waves, the fish are playing on the surface of the water: the island is at a proper distance to form an agreable point of view; and upon the whole the scene is divine.

There is one house on the island, which, at a distance, seems so beautifully situated, that I have lost all desire of fixing at Bic: I want to land, and go to the house for milk, but there is no good landing place on this side; the island seems here to be fenced in by a regular wall of rock.

A breeze springs up; our fishing is at an end for the present: I am afraid we shall not pass many days so agreably as we have done this. I feel horror at the idea of so soon losing sight of land, and launching on the vast Atlantic.

Adieu! yours, A. Fitzgerald.

LETTER CLXX.174.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Aug. 26, at Sea.

We have just fallen in with a ship from New York to London, and, as it is a calm, the master of it is come on board; whilst he is drinking a bottle of very fine madeira, which Fitzgerald has tempted him with on purpose to give me this opportunity, as it is possible he may arrive first, I will write a line, to tell my dear Lucy we are all well, and hope soon to have the happiness of telling her so in person; I also send what I scribbled before we lost sight of land; for I have had no spirits to write or do any thing since.

There is inexpressible pleasure in meeting a ship at sea, and renewing our commerce with the human kind, after having been so absolutely separated from them. I feel strongly at this moment the inconstancy of the species: we naturally grow tired of the company on board our own ship, and fancy the people in every one we meet more agreable.

For my part, this spirit is so powerful in me, that I would gladly, if I could have prevailed on my father and Fitzgerald, have gone on board with this man, and pursued our voyage in the New York ship. I have felt the same thing on land in a coach, on seeing another pass.

We have had a very unpleasant passage hitherto, and weather to fright a better sailor than your friend: it is to me astonishing, that there are men found, and those men of fortune too, who can fix on a sea life as a profession.

How strong must be the love of gain, to tempt us to embrace a life of danger, pain, and misery; to give up all the beauties of nature and of art, all the charms of society, and separate ourselves from mankind, to amass wealth, which the very profession takes away all possibility of enjoying!

Even glory is a poor reward for a life passed at sea.

I had rather be a peasant on a sunny bank, with peace, safety, obscurity, bread, and a little garden of roses, than lord high admiral of the British fleet.

Setting aside the variety of dangers at sea, the time passed there is a total suspension of one’s existence: I speak of the best part of our time there, for at least a third of every voyage is positive misery.

I abhor the sea, and am peevish with every creature about me.

If there were no other evil attending this vile life, only think of being cooped up weeks together in such a space, and with the same eternal set of people.

If cards had not a little relieved me, I should have died of meer vexation before I had finished half the voyage.

What would I not give to see the dear white cliffs of Albion!

Adieu! I have not time to say more.

Your affectionate A. Fitzgerald.

LETTER CLXXI.175.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Dover, Sept. 8.

We are this instant landed, my dear, and shall be in town to-morrow.

My father stops one day on the road, to introduce Mr. Fitzgerald to a relation of ours, who lives a few miles from Canterbury.

I am wild with joy at setting foot once more on dry land.

I am not less happy to have traced your brother and Emily, by my enquiries here, for we left Quebec too soon to have advice there of their arrival.

Adieu! If in town, you shall see us the moment we get there; if in the country, write immediately, to the care of the agent.

Let me know where to find Emily, whom I die to see: is she still Emily Montague?

Adieu! Your affectionate A. Fitzgerald.

LETTER CLXXII.176.

To Mrs. Fitzgerald.

Temple-house, Sept. 11.

Your letter, my dear Bell, was sent by this post to the country.

It is unnecessary to tell you the pleasure it gives us all to hear of your safe arrival.

All our argosies have now landed their treasures: you will believe us to have been more anxious about friends so dear to us, than the merchant for his gold and spices; we have suffered the greater anxiety, by the circumstance of your having returned at different times.

I flatter myself, the future will pay us for the past.

You may now, my dear Bell, revive your coterie, with the addition of some friends who love you very sincerely.

Emily (still Emily Montague) is with a relation in Berkshire, settling some affairs previous to her marriage with my brother, to which we flatter ourselves there will be no further objections.

I assure you, I begin to be a little jealous of this Emily of yours; she rivals me extremely with my mother, and indeed with every body else.

We all come to town next week, when you will make us very unhappy if you do not become one of our family in Pall Mall, and return with us for a few months to the country.

My brother is at his little estate, six miles from hence, where he is making some alterations, for the reception of Emily; he is fitting up her apartment in a style equally simple and elegant, which, however, you must not tell her, because she is to be surprized: her dressing room, and a little adjoining closet of books, will be enchanting; yet the expence of all he has done is a mere trifle.

I am the only person in the secret; and have been with him this morning to see it: there is a gay, smiling air in the whole apartment, which pleases me infinitely; you will suppose he does not forget jars of flowers, because you know how much they are Emily’s taste: he has forgot no ornament which he knew was agreable to her.

Happily for his fortune, her pleasures are not of the expensive kind; he would ruin himself if they were.

He has bespoke a very handsome post chaise, which is also a secret to Emily, who insists on not having one.

Their income will be about five hundred pounds a year: it is not much; yet, with their dispositions, I think it will make them happy.

My brother will write to Mr. Fitzgerald next post: say every thing affectionate for us all to him and Captain Fermor.

Adieu! Yours, Lucy Temple.

LETTER CLXXIII.177.

To Captain Fitzgerald.

Bellfield, Sept. 13.

I congratulate you, my dear friend, on your safe arrival, and on your marriage.

You have got the start of me in happiness; I love you, however, too sincerely to envy you.

Emily has promised me her hand, as soon as some little family affairs are settled, which I flatter myself will not take above another week.

When she gave me this promise, she begged me to allow her to return to Berkshire till our marriage took place; I felt the propriety of this step, and therefore would not oppose it: she pleaded having some business also to settle with her relation there.

My mother has given back the deed of settlement of my estate, and accepted of an assignment on my half pay: she is greatly a loser; but she insisted on making me happy, with such an air of tenderness, that I could not deny her that satisfaction.

I shall keep some land in my own hands, and farm; which will enable me to have a post chaise for Emily, and my mother, who will be a good deal with us; and a constant decent table for a friend.

Emily is to superintend the dairy and garden; she has a passion for flowers, with which I am extremely pleased, as it will be to her a continual source of pleasure.

I feel such delight in the idea of making her happy, that I think nothing a trifle which can be in the least degree pleasing to her.

I could even wish to invent new pleasures for her gratification.

I hope to be happy; and to make the loveliest of womankind so, because my notions of the state, into which I am entering, are I hope just, and free from that romantic turn so destructive to happiness.

I have, once in my life, had an attachment nearly resembling marriage, to a widow of rank, with whom I was acquainted abroad; and with whom I almost secluded myself from the world near a twelvemonth, when she died of a fever, a stroke I was long before I recovered.

I loved her with tenderness; but that love, compared to what I feel for Emily, was as a grain of sand to the globe of earth, or the weight of a feather to the universe.

A marriage where not only esteem, but passion is kept awake, is, I am convinced, the most perfect state of sublunary happiness: but it requires great care to keep this tender plant alive; especially, I blush to say it, on our side.

Women are naturally more constant, education improves this happy disposition: the husband who has the politeness, the attention, and delicacy of a lover, will always be beloved.

The same is generally, but not always, true on the other side: I have sometimes seen the most amiable, the most delicate of the sex, fail in keeping the affection of their husbands.

I am well aware, my friend, that we are not to expect here a life of continual rapture; in the happiest marriage there is danger of some languid moments: to avoid these, shall be my study; and I am certain they are to be avoided.

The inebriation, the tumult of passion, will undoubtedly grow less after marriage, that is, after peaceable possession; hopes and fears alone keep it in its first violent state: but, though it subsides, it gives place to a tenderness still more pleasing, to a soft, and, if you will allow the expression, a voluptuous tranquillity: the pleasure does not cease, does not even lessen; it only changes its nature.

My sister tells me, she flatters herself, you will give a few months to hers and Mr. Temple’s friendship; I will not give up the claim I have to the same favor.

My little farm will induce only friends to visit us; and it is not less pleasing to me for that circumstance: one of the misfortunes of a very exalted station, is the slavery it subjects us to in regard to the ceremonial world.

Upon the whole, I believe, the most agreable, as well as most free of all situations, to be that of a little country gentleman, who lives upon his income, and knows enough of the world not to envy his richer neighbours.

Let me hear from you, my dear Fitzgerald, and tell me, if, little as I am, I can be any way of the least use to you.

You will see Emily before I do; she is more lovely, more enchanting, than ever.

Mrs. Fitzgerald will make me happy if she can invent any commands for me.

Adieu! Believe me, Your faithful, &c. Ed. Rivers.

LETTER CLXXIV.178.

To Colonel Rivers, at Bellfield, Rutland.

London, Sept. 15.

Every mark of your friendship, my dear Rivers, must be particularly pleasing to one who knows your worth as I do: I have, therefore, to thank you as well for your letter, as for those obliging offers of service, which I shall make no scruple of accepting, if I have occasion for them.

I rejoice in the prospect of your being as happy as myself: nothing can be more just than your ideas of marriage; I mean, of a marriage founded on inclination: all that you describe, I am so happy as to experience.

I never loved my sweet girl so tenderly as since she has been mine; my heart acknowledges the obligation of her having trusted the future happiness or misery of her life in my hands. She is every hour more dear to me; I value as I ought those thousand little attentions, by which a new softness is every moment given to our affection.

I do not indeed feel the same tumultuous emotion at seeing her; but I feel a sensation equally delightful: a joy more tranquil, but not less lively.

I will own to you, that I had strong prejudices against marriage, which nothing but love could have conquered; the idea of an indissoluble union deterred me from thinking of a serious engagement: I attached myself to the most seducing, most attractive of women, without thinking the pleasure I found in seeing her of any consequence; I thought her lovely, but never suspected I loved; I thought the delight I tasted in hearing her, merely the effects of those charms which all the world found in her conversation; my vanity was gratified by the flattering preference she gave me to the rest of my sex; I fancied this all, and imagined I could cease seeing the little syren whenever I pleased.

I was, however, mistaken; love stole upon me imperceptibly, and en badinant; I was enslaved, when I only thought myself amused.

We have not yet seen Miss Montague; we go down on Friday to Berkshire, Bell having some letters for her, which she was desired to deliver herself.

I will write to you again the moment I have seen her.

The invitation Mr. and Mrs. Temple have been so obliging as to give us, is too pleasing to ourselves not to be accepted; we also expect with impatience the time of visiting you at your farm.

Adieu! Your affectionate J. Fitzgerald.

LETTER CLXXV.179.

To Captain Fitzgerald.

Stamford, Sept. 16, Evening.

Being here on some business, my dear friend, I receive your letter in time to answer it to-night.

We hope to be in town this day seven-night; and I flatter myself, my dearest Emily will not delay my happiness many days longer: I grudge you the pleasure of seeing her on Friday.

I triumph greatly in your having been seduced into matrimony, because I never knew a man more of a turn to make an agreable husband; it was the idea that occurred to me the first moment I saw you.

Do you know, my dear Fitzgerald, that, if your little syren had not anticipated my purpose, I had designs upon you for my sister?

Through that careless, inattentive look of yours, I saw so much right sense, and so affectionate a heart, that I wished nothing so much as that she might have attached you; and had laid a scheme to bring you acquainted, hoping the rest from the merit so conspicuous in you both.

Both are, however, so happily disposed of elsewhere, that I have no reason to regret my scheme did not succeed.

There is something in your person, as well as manner, which I am convinced must be particularly pleasing to women; with an extremely agreable form, you have a certain manly, spirited air, which promises them a protector; a look of understanding, which is the indication of a pleasing companion; a sensibility of countenance, which speaks a friend and a lover; to which I ought to add, an affectionate, constant attention to women, and a polite indifference to men, which above all things flatters the vanity of the sex.

Of all men breathing, I should have been most afraid of you as a rival; Mrs. Fitzgerald has told me, you have said the same thing of me.

Happily, however, our tastes were different; the two amiable objects of our tenderness were perhaps equally lovely; but it is not the meer form, it is the character that strikes: the fire, the spirit, the vivacity, the awakened manner, of Miss Fermor won you; whilst my heart was captivated by that bewitching languor, that seducing softness, that melting sensibility, in the air of my sweet Emily, which is, at least to me, more touching than all the sprightliness in the world.

There is in true sensibility of soul, such a resistless charm, that we 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 which another inspires.

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

Adieu! Your faithful Ed. Rivers.

LETTER LXXVI.180.

To Miss Montague, Rose-hill, Berkshire.

Temple-house, Sept. 16.

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

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

An unexpected event has restored to her more than what her tenderness 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 this agreable 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.