To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.
Quebec, March 27, 11 at night.
She is an angel, my dear Lucy, and no words can do her justice: I am
the happiest of mankind; I painted my passion with all the moving
eloquence of undissembled love; she heard me with the most flattering
attention; she said little, but her looks, her air, her tone of voice,
her blushes, her very silence--how could I ever doubt her tenderness?
have not those lovely eyes a thousand times betrayed the dear secret of
her heart?
My Lucy, we were formed for each other; our souls are of
intelligence; every thought, every idea--from the first moment I
beheld her--I have a thousand things to say, but the tumult of my
joy--she has given me leave to write to her; what has she not said in
that permission?
I cannot go to bed; I will go and walk an hour on the battery; 'tis
the loveliest night I ever beheld, even in Canada: the day is scarce
brighter.
One in the morning.
I have had the sweetest walk imaginable: the moon shines with a
splendor I never saw before; a thousand streaming meteors add to her
brightness; I have stood gazing on the lovely planet, and delighting
myself with the idea that 'tis the same moon that lights my Emily.
Good night, my Lucy! I love you beyond all expression; I always
loved you tenderly, but there is a softness about my heart
to-night--this lovely woman--
I know not what I would say, but till this night I could never be
said to live.
Adieu! Your affectionate
Ed. Rivers.