The History of Emily Montague Part 47

I would say more; but my spirits are so affected, I am incapable of writing.

Love my sweet Emily, and let her not repent the generosity of her conduct.

Adieu! your affectionate A. Fermor.

LETTER 155.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Silleri, June 10, Evening.

My poor Rivers! I think I felt more from his going than even from Emily's: whilst he was here, I seemed not quite to have lost her: I now feel doubly the loss of both.

He begged me to shew attention to Madame Des Roches, who he a.s.sured me merited my tenderest friends.h.i.+p; he wrote to her, and has left the letter open in my care: it is to thank her, in the most affectionate terms, for her politeness and friends.h.i.+p, as well to himself as to his Emily; and to offer her his best services in England in regard to her estate, part of which some people here have very ungenerously applied for a grant of, on pretence of its not being all settled according to the original conditions.

He owned to me, he felt some regret at leaving this amiable woman in Canada, and at the idea of never seeing her more.

I love him for this sensibility; and for his delicate attention to one whose disinterested affection for him most certainly deserves it.

Fitzgerald is below, he does all possible to console me for the loss of my friends; but indeed, Lucy, I feel their absence most severely.

I have an opportunity of sending your brother's letter to Madame Des Roches, which I must not lose, as they are not very frequent: 'tis by a French gentleman who is now with my father.

Adieu! your faithful, A. Fermor.

Twelve at night.

We have been talking of your brother; I have been saying, there is nothing I so much admire in him as that tenderness of soul, and almost female sensibility, which is so uncommon in a s.e.x, whose whole education tends to harden their hearts.

Fitzgerald admires his spirit, his understanding, his generosity, his courage, the warmth of his friends.h.i.+p.

My father his knowledge of the world; not that indiscriminate suspicion of mankind which is falsely so called; but that clearness of mental sight, and discerning faculty, which can distinguish virtue as well as vice, wherever it resides.

"I also love in him," said my father, "that n.o.ble sincerity, that integrity of character, which is the foundation of all the virtues."

"And yet, my dear papa, you would have had Emily prefer to him, that _white curd of a.s.ses milk_, Sir George Clayton, whose highest claim to virtue is the const.i.tutional absence of vice, and who never knew what it was to feel for the sorrows of another."

"You mistake, Bell: such a preference was impossible; but she was engaged to Sir George; and he had also a fine fortune. Now, in these degenerate days, my dear, people must eat; we have lost all taste for the airy food of romances, when ladies rode behind their enamored knights, dined luxuriously on a banquet of haws, and quenched their thirst at the first stream."

"But, my dear papa--"

"But my dear Bell--"

I saw the sweet old man look angry, so chose to drop the subject; but I do aver, now he is out of sight, that haws and a pillion, with such a n.o.ble fellow as your brother, are preferable to ortolans and a coach and six, with such a piece of still life and insipidity as Sir George.

Good night! my dear Lucy.

LETTER 156.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Silleri, June 17.

I have this moment received a packet of letters from my dear Lucy; I shall only say, in answer to what makes the greatest part of them, that in a fortnight I hope you will have the pleasure of seeing your brother, who did not hesitate one moment in giving up to Mrs. Rivers's peace of mind, all his pleasing prospects here, and the happiness of being united to the woman he loved.

You will not, I hope, my dear, forget his having made such a sacrifice: but I think too highly of you to say more on this subject.

You will receive Emily as a friend, as a sister, who merits all your esteem and tenderness, and who has lost all the advantages of fortune, and incurred the censure of the world, by her disinterested attachment to your brother.

I am extremely sorry, but not surprized, at what you tell me of poor Lady H----. I knew her intimately; she was sacrificed at eighteen, by the avarice and ambition of her parents, to age, disease, ill-nature, and a coronet; and her death is the natural consequence of her regret: she had a soul formed for friends.h.i.+p; she found it not at home; her elegance of mind, and native probity, prevented her seeking it abroad; she died a melancholy victim to the tyranny of her friends, the tenderness of her heart, and her delicate sense of honor.

If her father has any of the feelings of humanity left, what must he not suffer on this occasion?

It is a painful consideration, my dear, that the happiness or misery of our lives are generally determined before we are proper judges of either.

Restrained by custom, and the ridiculous prejudices of the world, we go with the crowd, and it is late in life before we dare to think.

How happy are you and I, Lucy, in having parents, who, far from forcing our inclinations, have not even endeavored to betray us into chusing from sordid motives! They have not labored to fill our young hearts with vanity or avarice; they have left us those virtues, those amiable qualities, we received from nature. They have painted to us the charms of friends.h.i.+p, and not taught us to value riches above their real price.

My father, indeed, checks a certain excess of romance which there is in my temper; but, at the same time, he never encouraged my receiving the addresses of any man who had only the gifts of fortune to recommend him; he even advised me, when very young, against marrying an officer in his regiment, of a large fortune, but an unworthy character.

If I have any knowledge of the human heart, it will be my own fault if I am not happy with Fitzgerald.

I am only afraid, that when we are married, and begin to settle into a calm, my volatile disposition will carry me back to coquetry: my pa.s.sion for admiration is naturally strong, and has been increased by indulgence; for without vanity I have been extremely the taste of the men.

I have a kind of an idea it won't be long before I try the strength of my resolution, for I heard papa and Fitzgerald in high consultation this morning.

Do you know, that, having n.o.body to love but Fitzgerald, I am ten times more enamored of the dear creature than ever? My love is now like the rays of the sun collected.

He is so much here, I wonder I don't grow tired of him; but somehow he has the art of varying himself beyond any man I ever knew: it was that agreable variety of character that first struck me; I considered that with him I should have all the s.e.x in one; he says the same of me; and indeed, it must be owned we have both an infinity of agreable caprice, which in love affairs is worth all the merit in the world.

Have you never observed, Lucy, that the same person is seldom greatly the object of both love and friends.h.i.+p?

Those virtues which command esteem do not often inspire pa.s.sion.

Friends.h.i.+p seeks the more real, more solid virtues; integrity, constancy, and a steady uniformity of character: love, on the contrary, admires it knows not what; creates itself the idol it wors.h.i.+ps; finds charms even in defects; is pleased with follies, with inconsistency, with caprice: to say all in one line,

"Love is a child, and like a child he plays."

The moment Emily arrives, I entreat that one of you will write to me: no words can speak my impatience: I am equally anxious to hear of my dear Rivers. Heaven send them prosperous gales!

Adieu!

Your faithful A. Fermor.