To Captain Fitzgerald.
Oct. 17.
I every hour see more strongly, my dear Fitzgerald, the wisdom, as
to our own happiness, of not letting our hearts be worn out by a
multitude of intrigues before marriage.
Temple loves my sister, he is happy with her; but his happiness is
by no means of the same kind with yours and mine; she is beautiful, and
he thinks her so; she is amiable, and he esteems her; he prefers her to
all other women, but he feels nothing of that trembling delicacy of
sentiment, that quick sensibility, which gives to love its most
exquisite pleasures, and which I would not give up for the wealth of
worlds.
His affection is meer passion, and therefore subject to change; ours
is that heartfelt tenderness, which time renders every moment more
pleasing.
The tumult of desire is the fever of the soul; its health, that
delicious tranquillity where the heart is gently moved, not violently
agitated; that tranquillity which is only to be found where friendship
is the basis of love, and where we are happy without injuring the
object beloved: in other words, in a marriage of choice.
In the voyage of life, passion is the tempest, love the gentle gale.
Dissipation, and a continued round of amusements at home, will
probably secure my sister all of Temple's heart which remains; but his
love would grow languid in that state of retirement, which would have a
thousand charms for minds like ours.