To Colonel Rivers, at Bellfield, Rutland.
London, Sept. 15.
Every mark of your friendship, my dear Rivers, must be particularly
pleasing to one who knows your worth as I do: I have, therefore, to
thank you as well for your letter, as for those obliging offers of
service, which I shall make no scruple of accepting, if I have occasion
for them.
I rejoice in the prospect of your being as happy as myself: nothing
can be more just than your ideas of marriage; I mean, of a marriage
founded on inclination: all that you describe, I am so happy as to
experience.
I never loved my sweet girl so tenderly as since she has been mine;
my heart acknowledges the obligation of her having trusted the future
happiness or misery of her life in my hands. She is every hour more
dear to me; I value as I ought those thousand little attentions, by
which a new softness is every moment given to our affection.
I do not indeed feel the same tumultuous emotion at seeing her; but
I feel a sensation equally delightful: a joy more tranquil, but not
less lively.
I will own to you, that I had strong prejudices against marriage,
which nothing but love could have conquered; the idea of an
indissoluble union deterred me from thinking of a serious engagement: I
attached myself to the most seducing, most attractive of women,
without thinking the pleasure I found in seeing her of any consequence;
I thought her lovely, but never suspected I loved; I thought the
delight I tasted in hearing her, merely the effects of those charms
which all the world found in her conversation; my vanity was gratified
by the flattering preference she gave me to the rest of my sex; I
fancied this all, and imagined I could cease seeing the little syren
whenever I pleased.
I was, however, mistaken; love stole upon me imperceptibly, and
_en badinant_; I was enslaved, when I only thought myself amused.
We have not yet seen Miss Montague; we go down on Friday to
Berkshire, Bell having some letters for her, which she was desired to
deliver herself.