To Colonel Rivers, at Quebec.
London, April 8.
My own happiness, my dear Rivers, in a marriage of love, makes me
extremely unwilling to prevent your giving way to a tenderness, which
promises you the same felicity, with so amiable a woman as both you
and Bell Fermor represent Miss Montague to be.
But, my dear Ned, I cannot, without betraying your friendship, and
hazarding all the quiet of your future days, dispense with myself from
telling you, though I have her express commands to the contrary, that
the peace, perhaps the life, of your excellent mother, depends on your
giving up all thoughts of a settlement in America, and returning
immediately to England.
I know the present state of your affairs will not allow you to marry
this charming woman here, without descending from the situation you
have ever held, and which you have a right from your birth to hold, in
the world.
Would you allow me to gratify my friendship for you, and shew, at
the same time, your perfect esteem for me, by commanding, what our
long affection gives you a right to, such a part of my fortune as I
could easily spare without the least inconvenience to myself, we might
all be happy, and you might make your Emily so: but you have already
convinced me, by your refusal of a former request of this kind, that
your esteem for me is much less warm than mine for you; and that you do
not think I merit the delight of making you happy.
I will therefore say no more on this subject till we meet, than that
I have no doubt this letter will bring you immediately to us.
If the tenderness you express for Miss Montague is yet conquerable,
it will surely be better for both it should be conquered, as fortune
has been so much less kind to each of you than nature; but if your
hearts are immoveably fixed on each other, if your love is of the kind
which despises every other consideration, return to the bosom of
friendship, and depend on our finding some way to make you happy.
If you persist in refusing to share my fortune, you can have no
objection to my using all my interest, for a friend and brother so
deservedly dear to me, and in whose happiness I shall ever find my own.
Allow me now to speak of myself; I mean of my dearer self, your
amiable sister, for whom my tenderness, instead of decreasing, grows
every moment stronger.
Yes, my friend, my sweet Lucy is every hour more an angel: her
desire of being beloved, renders her a thousand times more lovely; a
countenance animated by true tenderness will always charm beyond all
the dead uninformed features the hand of nature ever framed; love
embellishes the whole form, gives spirit and softness to the eyes, the
most vivid bloom to the complexion, dignity to the air, grace to every
motion, and throws round beauty almost the rays of divinity.
In one word, my Lucy was always more lovely than any other woman;
she is now more lovely than even her former self.
You, my Rivers, will forgive the over-flowings of my fondness,
because you know the merit of its object.
Adieu! We die to embrace you!
Your faithful
J. Temple.