To John Temple, Esq; Pall Mall.
Montreal, Sept. 24.
What you say, my dear friend, is more true than I wish it was; our
English women of character are generally too reserved; their manner is
cold and forbidding; they seem to think it a crime to be too
attractive; they appear almost afraid to please.
'Tis to this ill-judged reserve I attribute the low profligacy of
too many of our young men; the grave faces and distant behaviour of
the generality of virtuous women fright them from their acquaintance,
and drive them into the society of those wretched votaries of vice,
whose conversation debases every sentiment of their souls.
With as much beauty, good sense, sensibility, and softness, at
least, as any women on earth, no women please so little as the English:
depending on their native charms, and on those really amiable qualities
which envy cannot deny them, they are too careless in acquiring those
enchanting nameless graces, which no language can define, which give
resistless force to beauty, and even supply its place where it is
wanting.
They are satisfied with being good, without considering that
unadorned virtue may command esteem, but will never excite love; and
both are necessary in marriage, which I suppose to be the state every
woman of honor has in prospect; for I own myself rather incredulous as
to the assertions of maiden aunts and cousins to the contrary. I wish
my amiable countrywomen would consider one moment, that virtue is
never so lovely as when dressed in smiles: the virtue of women should
have all the softness of the sex; it should be gentle, it should be
even playful, to please.
There is a lady here, whom I wish you to see, as the shortest way of
explaining to you all I mean; she is the most pleasing woman I ever
beheld, independently of her being one of the handsomest; her manner is
irresistible: she has all the smiling graces of France, all the
blushing delicacy and native softness of England.
Nothing can be more delicate, my dear Temple, than the manner in
which you offer me your estate in Rutland, by way of anticipating your
intended legacy: it is however impossible for me to accept it; my
father, who saw me naturally more profuse than became my expectations,
took such pains to counterwork it by inspiring me with the love of
independence, that I cannot have such an obligation even to you.
Besides, your legacy is left on the supposition that you are not to
marry, and I am absolutely determined you shall; so that, by accepting
this mark of your esteem, I should be robbing your younger children.
I have not a wish to be richer whilst I am a batchelor, and the only
woman I ever wished to marry, the only one my heart desires, will be in
three weeks the wife of another; I shall spend less than my income
here: shall I not then be rich? To make you easy, know I have four
thousand pounds in the funds; and that, from the equality of living
here, an ensign is obliged to spend near as much as I am; he is
inevitably ruined, but I save money.
I pity you, my friend; I am hurt to hear you talk of happiness in
the life you at present lead; of finding pleasure in possessing venal
beauty; you are in danger of acquiring a habit which will vitiate your
taste, and exclude you from that state of refined and tender friendship
for which nature formed a heart like yours, and which is only to be
found in marriage: I need not add, in a marriage of choice.
It has been said that love marriages are generally unhappy; nothing
is more false; marriages of meer inclination will always be so:
passion alone being concerned, when that is gratified, all tenderness
ceases of course: but love, the gay child of sympathy and esteem, is,
when attended by delicacy, the only happiness worth a reasonable man's
pursuit, and the choicest gift of heaven: it is a softer, tenderer
friendship, enlivened by taste, and by the most ardent desire of
pleasing, which time, instead of destroying, will render every hour
more dear and interesting.
If, as you possibly will, you should call me romantic, hear a man of
pleasure on the subject, the Petronius of the last age, the elegant,
but voluptuous St. Evremond, who speaks in the following manner of the
friendship between married persons:
"I believe it is this pleasing intercourse of tenderness, this
reciprocation of esteem, or, if you will, this mutual ardor of
preventing each other in every endearing mark of affection, in which
consists the sweetness of this second species of friendship.
"I do not speak of other pleasures, which are not so much in
themselves as in the assurance they give of the intire possession of
those we love: this appears to me so true, that I am not afraid to
assert, the man who is by any other means certainly assured of the
tenderness of her he loves, may easily support the privation of those
pleasures; and that they ought not to enter into the account of
friendship, but as proofs that it is without reserve.
"'Tis true, few men are capable of the purity of these sentiments,
and 'tis for that reason we so very seldom see perfect friendship in
marriage, at least for any long time: the object which a sensual
passion has in view cannot long sustain a commerce so noble as that of
friendship."
You see, the pleasures you so much boast are the least of those
which true tenderness has to give, and this in the opinion of a
voluptuary.
My dear Temple, all you have ever known of love is nothing to that
sweet consent of souls in unison, that harmony of minds congenial to
each other, of which you have not yet an idea.
You have seen beauty, and it has inspired a momentary emotion, but
you have never yet had a real attachment; you yet know nothing of that
irresistible tenderness, that delirium of the soul, which, whilst it
refines, adds strength to passion.
I perhaps say too much, but I wish with ardor to see you happy; in
which there is the more merit, as I have not the least prospect of
being so myself.
I wish you to pursue the plan of life which I myself think most
likely to bring happiness, because I know our souls to be of the same
frame: we have taken different roads, but you will come back to mine.
Awake to delicate pleasures, I have no taste for any other; there are
no other for sensible minds. My gallantries have been few, rather (if
it is allowed to speak thus of one's self even to a friend) from
elegance of taste than severity of manners; I have loved seldom,
because I cannot love without esteem.
Believe me, Jack, the meer pleasure of loving, even without a
return, is superior to all the joys of sense where the heart is
untouched: the French poet does not exaggerate when he says,
--Amour;
Tous les autres plaisirs ne valent pas tes peines.
You will perhaps call me mad; I am just come from a woman who is
capable of making all mankind so. Adieu!
Yours,
Ed. Rivers.