To Captain Fitzgerald.
Bellfield, Oct. 3.
What delight is there in obliging those we love!
My heart dilated with joy at seeing Emily pleased with the little
embellishments of her apartment, which I had made as gay and smiling
as the morn; it looked, indeed, as if the hand of love had adorned it:
she has a dressing room and closet of books, into which I shall never
intrude: there is a pleasure in having some place which we can say is
peculiarly our own, some _sanctum sanctorum_, whither we can
retire even from those most dear to us.
This is a pleasure in which I have been indulged almost from
infancy, and therefore one of the first I thought of procuring for my
sweet Emily.
I told her I should, however, sometimes expect to be amongst her
guests in this little retirement.
Her look, her tender smile, the speaking glance of grateful love,
gave me a transport, which only minds turned to affection can conceive.
I never, my dear Fitzgerald, was happy before: the attachment I once
mentioned was pleasing; but I felt a regret, at knowing the object of
my tenderness had forfeited the good opinion of the world, which
embittered all my happiness.
She possessed my esteem, because I knew her heart; but I wanted to
see her esteemed by others.
With Emily I enjoy this pleasure in its utmost extent: she is the
adoration of all who see her; she is equally admired, esteemed,
respected.
She seems to value the admiration she excites, only as it appears to
gratify the pride of her lover; what transport, when all eyes are fixed
on her, to see her searching around for mine, and attentive to no other
object, as if insensible to all other approbation!
I enjoy the pleasures of friendship as well as those of love: were
you here, my dear Fitzgerald, we should be the happiest groupe on the
globe; but all Bell's sprightliness cannot preserve her from an air of
chagrin in your absence.
Come as soon as possible, my dear friend, and leave us nothing to
wish for.
Adieu!
Your affectionate
Ed. Rivers.