To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.
Montreal, Sept. 19, eleven o'clock.
No, my dear, it is impossible she can love him; his dull soul is ill
suited to hers; heavy, unmeaning, formal; a slave to rules, to
ceremony, to _etiquette_, he has not an idea above those of a
gentleman usher. He has been three hours in town without seeing her;
dressing, and waiting to pay his compliments first to the general, who
is riding, and every minute expected back. I am all impatience, though
only her friend, but think it would be indecent in me to go without
him, and look like a design of reproaching his coldness. How
differently are we formed! I should have stole a moment to see the
woman I loved from the first prince in the universe.
The general is returned. Adieu! till our visit is over; we go from
thence to Major Melmoth's, whose family I should have told you are in
town, and not half a street from us. What a soul of fire has this
_lover!_ 'Tis to profane the word to use it in speaking of him.
One o'clock.
I am mistaken, Lucy; astonishing as it is, she loves him; this dull
clod of uninformed earth has touched the lively soul of my Emily. Love
is indeed the child of caprice; I will not say of sympathy, for what
sympathy can there be between two hearts so different? I am hurt, she
is lowered in my esteem; I expected to find in the man she loved, a
mind sensible and tender as her own.
I repeat it, my dear Lucy, she loves him; I observed her when we
entered the room; she blushed, she turned pale, she trembled, her
voice faltered; every look spoke the strong emotion of her soul.
She is paler than when I saw her last; she is, I think, less
beautiful, but more touching than ever; there is a languor in her air,
a softness in her countenance, which are the genuine marks of a heart
in love; all the tenderness of her soul is in her eyes.
Shall I own to you all my injustice? I hate this man for having the
happiness to please her: I cannot even behave to him with the
politeness due to every gentleman.