The History of Emily Montague Part 37

What have you said, my dear Emily? _You will not marry me in Canada_. You have pa.s.sed a hard sentence on me: you know my fortune will not allow me to marry you in England.

END OF VOL. II.

THE HISTORY OF EMILY MONTAGUE.

Vol. III

LETTER 125.

To Colonel Rivers, at Montreal.

Quebec, April 17.

How different, my Rivers, is your last letter from all your Emily has ever yet received from you! What have I done to deserve such suspicions? How unjust are your s.e.x in all their connexions with ours!

Do I not know love? and does this reproach come from the man on whom my heart doats, the man, whom to make happy, I would with transport cease to live? can you one moment doubt your Emily's tenderness? have not her eyes, her air, her look, her indiscretion, a thousand times told you, in spite of herself, the dear secret of her heart, long before she was conscious of the tenderness of yours?

Did I think only of myself, I could live with you in a desart; all places, all situations, are equally charming to me, with you: without you, the whole world affords nothing which could give a moment's pleasure to your Emily.

Let me but see those eyes in which the tenderest love is painted, let me but hear that enchanting voice, I am insensible to all else, I know nothing of what pa.s.ses around me; all that has no relation to you pa.s.ses away like a morning dream, the impression of which is effaced in a moment: my tenderness for you fills my whole soul, and leaves no room for any other idea. Rank, fortune, my native country, my friends, all are nothing in the balance with my Rivers.

For your own sake, I once more entreat you to return to England: I will follow you; I will swear never to marry another; I will see you, I will allow you to continue the tender inclination which unites us.

Fortune may there be more favorable to our wishes than we now hope; may join us without destroying the peace of the best of parents.

But if you persist, if you will sacrifice every consideration to your tenderness--My Rivers, I have no will but yours.

LETTER 126.

To Miss Fermor, at Silleri.

London, Feb. 17.

My dear Bell,

Lucy, being deprived of the pleasure of writing to you, as she intended, by Lady Anne Melville's dining with her, desires me to make her apologies.

Allow me to say something for myself, and to share my joy with one who will, I am sure, so very sincerely sympathize with me in it.

I could not have believed, my dear Bell, it had been so very easy a thing to be constant: I declare, but don't mention this, lest I should be laughed at, I have never felt the least inclination for any other woman, since I married your lovely friend.

I now see a circle of beauties with the same indifference as a bed of snowdrops: no charms affect me but hers; the whole creation to me contains no other woman.

I find her every day, every hour, more lovely; there is in my Lucy a mixture of modesty, delicacy, vivacity, innocence, and blus.h.i.+ng sensibility, which add a thousand unspeakable graces to the most beautiful person the hand of nature ever formed.

There is no describing her enchanting smile, the smile of unaffected, artless tenderness. How shall I paint to you the sweet involuntary glow of pleasure, the kindling fire of her eyes, when I approach; or those thousand little dear attentions of which love alone knows the value?

I never, my dear girl, knew happiness till now; my tenderness is absolutely a species of idolatry; you cannot think what a slave this lovely girl has made me.

As a proof of this, the little tyrant insists on my omitting a thousand civil things I had to say to you, and attending her and Lady Anne immediately to the opera; she bids me however tell you, she loves you _pa.s.sing the love of woman_, at least of handsome women, who are not generally celebrated for their candor and good will to each other.

Adieu, my dearest Bell!

Yours, J. Temple.

LETTER 127.

To John Temple, Esq; Pall Mall.

Silleri, April 18.

Indeed?

"Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario, That dear perfidious--"

Absolutely, my dear Temple, the s.e.x ought never to forgive Lucy for daring to monopolize so very charming a fellow. I had some thoughts of a little _badinage_ with you myself, if I should return soon to England; but I now give up the very idea.

One thing I will, however, venture to say, that love Lucy as much as you please, you will never love her half so well as she deserves; which, let me tell you, is a great deal for one woman, especially, as you well observe, one handsome woman, to say of another.

I am, however, not quite clear your idea is just: _cattism_, if I may be allowed the expression, seeming more likely to be the vice of those who are conscious of wanting themselves the dear power of pleasing.

Handsome women ought to be, what I profess myself, who am however only pretty, too vain to be envious; and yet we see, I am afraid, too often, some little sparks of this mean pa.s.sion between rival beauties.

Impartially speaking, I believe the best natured women, and the most free from envy, are those who, without being very handsome, have that _je ne scai quoi_, those nameless graces, which please even without beauty; and who therefore, finding more attention paid to them by men than their looking-gla.s.s tells them they have a right to expect, are for that reason in constant good humor with themselves, and of course with every body else: whereas beauties, claiming universal empire, are at war with all who dispute their rights; that is, with half the s.e.x.

I am very good natured myself; but it is, perhaps, because, though a pretty woman, I am more agreable than handsome, and have an infinity of the _je ne scai quoi_.

_A propos_, my dear Temple, I am so pleased with what Montesquieu says on this subject, that I find it is not in my nature to resist translating and inserting it; you cannot then say I have sent you a letter in which there is nothing worth reading.

I beg you will read this to the misses, for which you cannot fail of their thanks, and for this reason; there are perhaps a dozen women in the world who do not think themselves handsome, but I will venture to say, not one who does not think herself agreable, and that she has this nameless charm, this so much talked of _I know not what_, which is so much better than beauty. But to my Montesquieu:

"There is sometimes, both in persons and things, an invisible charm, a natural grace, which we cannot define, and which we are therefore obliged to call the _je ne scai quoi_.

"It seems to me that this is an effect princ.i.p.ally founded on surprize.

"We are touched that a person pleases us more than she seemed at first to have a right to do; and we are agreably surprized that she should have known how to conquer those defects which our eyes shewed us, but which our hearts no longer believe: 'tis for this reason that women, who are not handsome, have often graces or agreablenesses and that beautiful ones very seldom have.