eak of myself; I mean of my dearer self, your
amiable sister, for whom my tenderness, instead of decreasing, grows
every moment stronger.

Yes, my friend, my sweet Lucy is every hour more an angel: her
desire of being beloved, renders her a thousand times more lovely; a
countenance animated by true tenderness will always charm beyond all
the dead uninformed features the hand of nature ever framed; love
embellishes the whole form, gives spirit and softness to the eyes, the
most vivid bloom to the complexion, dignity to the air, grace to every
motion, and throws round beauty almost the rays of divinity.

In one word, my Lucy was always more lovely than any other woman;
she is now more lovely than even her former self.

You, my Rivers, will forgive the over-flowings of my fondness,
because you know the merit of its object.

Adieu! We die to embrace you!

Your faithful
J. Temple.

LETTER 144.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Silleri, May 21.

Your letter, Madam, to Miss Fermor, which, by an accident, was first
read by me, has removed the veil which love had placed before mine
eyes, and shewed me, in one moment, the folly of all those dear hopes I
had indulged.

You do me but justice in believing me incapable of suffering your
brother to sacrifice the peace, much less the life, of an amiable
mother, to my happiness: I have no doubt of his returning to England
the moment he receives your letters; but, knowing his tenderness, I
will not expose him to a struggle on this occasion: I will myself,
unknown to him, as he is fortunately absent, embark in a ship which has
wintered here, and will leave Quebec in ten days.

Your invitation is very obliging; but a moment's reflection will
convince you of the extreme impropriety of my accepting it.

Assure Mrs. Rivers, that her son will not lose a moment, that he
will probably be with her as soon as this letter; assure her also, that
the woman who has kept him from her, can never forgive herself for what
she suffers.

I am too much afflicted to say more than that

I am, Madam,
Emily Montague.

LETTER 145.

To Miss Montague, at Silleri.

Montreal, May 20.

It is with a pleasure no words can express I tell my sweet Emily, I
have fixed on a situation which promises every advantage we can wish as
to profit, and which has every beauty that nature can give.

The land is rich, and the wood will more than pay the expence of
clea