To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.
Jan. 28.
I every hour, my dear, grow more in love with French manners; there
is something charming in being young and sprightly all one's life: it
would appear absurd in England to hear, what I have just heard, a fat
virtuous lady of seventy toast _Love and Opportunity_ to a young
fellow; but 'tis nothing here: they dance too to the last gasp; I have
seen the daughter, mother, and grand-daughter, in the same French
country dance.
They are perfectly right; and I honor them for their good sense and
spirit, in determining to make life agreable as long as they can.
_A propos_ to age, I am resolved to go home, Lucy; I have found
three grey hairs this morning; they tell me 'tis common; this vile
climate is at war with beauty, makes one's hair grey, and one's hands
red. I won't stay, absolutely.
Do you know there is a very pretty fellow here, Lucy, Captain
Howard, who has taken a fancy to make people believe he and I are on
good terms? He affects to sit by me, to dance with me, to whisper
nothing to me, to bow with an air of mystery, and to shew me all the
little attentions of a lover in public, though he never yet said a
civil thing to me when we were alone.
I was standing with him this morning near the brow of the hill,
leaning against a tree in the sunshine, and looking down the precipice
below, when I said something of the lover's leap, and in play, as you
will suppose, made a step forwards: we had been talking of indifferent
things, his air was till then indolence itself; but on this little
motion of mine, though there was not the least danger, he with the
utmost seeming eagerness catched hold of me as if alarmed at the very
idea, and with the most passionate air protested his life depended on
mine, and that he would not live an hour after me. I looked at him with
astonishment, not being able to comprehend the meaning of this sudden
flight, when turning my head, I saw a gentleman and lady close behind
us, whom he had observed though I had not. They were retiring: "Pray
approach, my dear Madam," said I; "we have no secrets, this declaration
was intended for you to hear; we were talking of the weather before you
came."
He affected to smile, though I saw he was mortified; but as his
smile shewed the finest teeth imaginable I forgave him: he is really
very handsome, and 'tis pity he has this foolish quality of preferring
the shadow to the substance.
I shall, however, desire him to flirt elsewhere, as this _badinage_,
however innocent, may hurt my character, and give pain to my little
Fitzgerald: I believe I begin to love this fellow, because I begin to
be delicate on the subject of flirtations, and feel my spirit of
coquetry decline every day.
29th.
Mrs. Clayton has wrote, my dear; and has at last condescended to
allow Emily the honor of being her daughter-in-law, in consideration of
her son's happiness, and of engagements entered into with her own
consent; though she very prudently observes, that what was a proper
match for Captain Clayton is by no means so for Sir George; and talks
something of an offer of a citizen's daughter with fifty thousand
pounds, and the promise of an Irish title. She has, however, observed
that indiscreet engagements are better broke than kept.
Sir George has shewn the letter, a very indelicate one in my
opinion, to my father and me; and has talked a great deal of nonsense
on the subject. He wants to shew it to Emily, and I advise him to it,
because I know the effect it will have. I see plainly he wishes to make
a great merit of keeping his engagement, if he does keep it: he hinted
a little fear of breaking her heart; and I am convinced, if he thought
she could survive his infidelity, all his tenderness and constancy
would cede to filial duty and a coronet.
Eleven o'clock.
After much deliberation, Sir George has determined to write to
Emily, inclose his mother's letter, and call in the afternoon to enjoy
the triumph of his generosity in keeping his engagement, when it is in
his power to do so much better: 'tis a pretty plan, and I encourage him
in it; my father, who wishes the match, shrugs his shoulders, and
frowns at me; but the little man is fixed as fate in his resolve, and
is writing at this moment in my father's apartment. I long to see his
letter; I dare say it will be a curiosity: 'tis short, however, for he
is coming out of the room already.
Adieu! my father calls for this letter; it is to go in one of his to
New York, and the person who takes it waits for it at the door.
Ever yours,
A. Fermor.