To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.
Jan. 28.
Yes, my Lucy, your brother tenderly regrets the absence of a sister
endeared to him much more by her amiable qualities than by blood; who
would be the object of his esteem and admiration, if she was not that
of his fraternal tenderness; who has all the blooming graces,
simplicity, and innocence of nineteen, with the accomplishments and
understanding of five and twenty; who joins the strength of mind so
often confined to our sex, to the softness, delicacy, and vivacity of
her own; who, in short, is all that is estimable and lovely; and who,
except one, is the most charming of her sex: you will forgive the
exception, Lucy; perhaps no man but a brother would make it.
My sweet Emily appears every day more amiable; she is now in the
full tyranny of her charms, at the age when the mind is improved, and
the person in its perfection. I every day see in her more indifference
to her lover, a circumstance which gives me a pleasure which perhaps it
ought not: there is a selfishness in it, for which I am afraid I ought
to blush.
You judge perfectly well, my dear, in checking the natural vivacity
of your temper, however pleasing it is to all who converse with you:
coquetry is dangerous to English women, because they have sensibility;
it is more suited to the French, who are naturally something of the
salamander kind.
I have this moment a note from Bell Fermor, that she must see me
this instant. I hope my Emily is well: Heaven preserve the most
perfect of all its works.
Adieu! my dear girl.
Your affectionate
Ed. Rivers.