To Colonel Rivers, Bellfield, Rutland.
London, Oct. 19.
I die to come to Bellfield again, my dear Rivers; I have a passion
for your little wood; it is a mighty pretty wood for an English wood,
but nothing to your Montmorencis; the dear little Silleri too--
But to return to the shades of Bellfield: your little wood is
charming indeed; not to particularize detached pieces of your scenery,
the _tout ensemble_ is very inviting; observe, however, I have no
notion of paradise without an Adam, and therefore shall bring
Fitzgerald with me next time.
What could induce you, with this sweet little retreat, to cross that
vile ocean to Canada? I am astonished at the madness of mankind, who
can expose themselves to pain, misery, and danger; and range the world
from motives of avarice and ambition, when the rural cot, the fanning
gale, the clear stream, and flowery bank, offer such delicious
enjoyments at home.
You men are horrid, rapacious animals, with your spirit of
enterprize, and your nonsense: ever wanting more land than you can
cultivate, and more money than you can spend.
That eternal pursuit of gain, that rage of accumulation, in which
you are educated, corrupts your hearts, and robs you of half the
pleasures of life.
I should not, however, make so free with the sex, if you and my
_caro sposo_ were not exceptions.
You two have really something of the sensibility and generosity of
women.
Do you know, Rivers, I have a fancy you and Fitzgerald will always
be happy husbands? this is something owing to yourselves, and something
to us; you have both that manly tenderness, and true generosity, which
inclines you to love creatures who have paid you the compliment of
making their happiness or misery depend entirely on you, and partly to
the little circumstance of your being married to two of the most
agreable women breathing.
To speak _en philosophe_, my dear Rivers, you are not to be
told, that the fire of love, like any other fire, is equally put out
by too much or too little fuel.
Now Emily and I, without vanity, besides our being handsome and
amazingly sensible, to say nothing of our pleasing kind of sensibility,
have a certain just idea of causes and effects, with a natural blushing
reserve, and bridal delicacy, which I am apt to flatter myself--
Do you understand me, Rivers? I am not quite clear I understand
myself.
All that I would insinuate is, that Emily and I are, take us for all
in all, the two most charming women in the world, and that, whoever
leaves us, must change immensely for the worse.
I believe Lucy equally pleasing, but I think her charms have not so
good a subject to work upon.
Temple is a handsome fellow, and loves her; but he has not the
tenderness of heart that I so much admire in two certain youths of my
acquaintance.
He is rich indeed; but who cares?
Certainly, my dear Rivers, nothing can be more absurd, or more
destructive to happiness, than the very wrong turn we give our
children's imaginations about marriage.
If miss and master are good, she is promised a rich husband, and a
coach and six, and he a wife with a monstrous great fortune.
Most of these fine promises must fail; and where they do not, the
poor things have only the consolation of finding, when too late to
retreat, that the objects to which all their wishes were pointed have
really nothing to do with happiness.
Is there a nabobess on earth half as happy as the two foolish little
girls about whom I have been writing, though married to such poor
devils as you and Fitzgerald? _Certainement_ no.
And so ends my sermon.
Adieu!
Your most obedient,
A. Fitzgerald.