To Mrs. Fitzgerald.
Bellfield, Oct. 22.
Finish your business, my dear girl, and let us see you again at
Bellfield. I need not tell you the pleasure Mr. Fitzgerald's
accompanying you will give us.
I die to see you, my dear Bell; it is not enough to be happy, unless
I have somebody to tell every moment that I am so: I want a confidante
of my tenderness, a friend like my Bell, indulgent to all my follies,
to talk to of the loveliest and most beloved of mankind. I want to tell
you a thousand little instances of that ardent, that refined affection,
which makes all the happiness of my life! I want to paint the
flattering attention, the delicate fondness of that dear lover, who is
only the more so for being a husband.
You are the only woman on earth to whom I can, without the
appearance of insult, talk of my Rivers, because you are the only one I
ever knew as happy as myself.
Fitzgerald, in the tenderness and delicacy of his mind, resembles
strongly--