Rivers, since your merit was such
that my reason approved the weakness of my heart?

We have lost Madame Des Roches; we were both in tears at parting; we
embraced, I pressed her to my bosom: I love her, my dear Rivers; I have
an affection for her which I scarce know how to describe. I saw her
every day, I found infinite pleasure in being with her; she talked of
you, she praised you, and my heart was soothed; I however found it
impossible to mention your name to her; a reserve for which I cannot
account; I found pleasure in looking at her from the idea that she was
dear to you, that she felt for you the tenderest friendship: do you
know I think she has some resemblance of you? there is something in her
smile, which gives me an idea of you.

Shall I, however, own all my folly? I never found this pleasure in
seeing her when you were present: on the contrary, your attention to
her gave me pain: I was jealous of every look; I even saw her amiable
qualities with a degree of envy, which checked the pleasure I should
otherwise have found in her conversation.

There is always, I fear, some injustice mixed with love, at least
with love so ardent and tender as mine.

You, my Rivers, will however pardon that injustice which is a proof
of my excess of tenderness.

Madame Des Roches has promised to write to me: indeed I will love
her; I will conquer this little remain of jealousy, and do justice to
the most gentle and amiable of women.

Why should I dislike her for seeing you with my eyes, for having a
soul whose feelings resemble my own?

I have observed her voice is softened, and trembles like mine, when
she names you.

My Rivers, you were formed to charm the heart of woman; there is
more pleasure in loving you, even without the hope of a return, than in
the adoration of all your sex: I pity every woman who is so insensible
as to see you without tenderness. This is the only fault I ever found
in Bell Fermor: she has the most lively friendship for you, but she has
seen you without love. Of what materials must her heart be composed?

No other man can inspire the same sentiments with my Rivers; no
other man can deserve them: the delight of loving you appears to me so
superior to all other pleasures, that, of all human beings, if I was
not Emily Montague, I would be Madame Des Roches.

I blush for what I have written; yet why blush for having a soul to
distinguish perfection, or why conceal the real feelings of my heart?