To Colonel Rivers, at Montreal.
Quebec, April 17.
How different, my Rivers, is your last letter from all your Emily
has ever yet received from you! What have I done to deserve such
suspicions? How unjust are your sex in all their connexions with ours!
Do I not know love? and does this reproach come from the man on whom
my heart doats, the man, whom to make happy, I would with transport
cease to live? can you one moment doubt your Emily's tenderness? have
not her eyes, her air, her look, her indiscretion, a thousand times
told you, in spite of herself, the dear secret of her heart, long
before she was conscious of the tenderness of yours?
Did I think only of myself, I could live with you in a desart; all
places, all situations, are equally charming to me, with you: without
you, the whole world affords nothing which could give a moment's
pleasure to your Emily.
Let me but see those eyes in which the tenderest love is painted,
let me but hear that enchanting voice, I am insensible to all else, I
know nothing of what passes around me; all that has no relation to you
passes away like a morning dream, the impression of which is effaced in
a moment: my tenderness for you fills my whole soul, and leaves no room
for any other idea. Rank, fortune, my native country, my friends, all
are nothing in the balance with my Rivers.
For your own sake, I once more entreat you to return to England: I
will follow you; I will swear never to marry another; I will see you,
I will allow you to continue the tender inclination which unites us.
Fortune may there be more favorable to our wishes than we now hope;
may join us without destroying the peace of the best of parents.
But if you persist, if you will sacrifice every consideration to
your tenderness--My Rivers, I have no will but yours.