uld, however, wish you the fortune, were it
possible to have it without the lady.

Were I to praise your delicacy on this occasion, I should injure
you; it was not in your power to act differently; you are only
consistent with yourself.

I am pleased with your idea of a situation: a house embosomed in the
grove, where all the view is what the eye can take in, speaks a happy
master, content at home; a wide-extended prospect, one who is looking
abroad for happiness.

I love the country: the taste for rural scenes is the taste born
with us. After seeking pleasure in vain amongst the works of art, we
are forced to come back to the point from whence we set out, and find
our enjoyment in the lovely simplicity of nature.

Rose-hill, Evening.

I am afraid Emily knows your secret; she has been in tears almost
ever since we came; the servant is going to the post-office, and I have
but a moment to tell you we will stay here till your arrival, which
you will hasten as much as possible.

Adieu!
Your affectionate
J. Fitzgerald.

LETTER 187.

To Colonel Rivers, at Bellfield, Rutland.

Rose-hill, Sept. 18.

If I was not certain of your esteem and friendship, my dear Rivers,
I should tremble at the request I am going to make you.

It is to suspend our marriage for some time, and not ask me the
reason of this delay.

Be assured of my tenderness; be assured my whole soul is yours, that
you are dearer to me than life, that I love you as never woman loved;
that I live, I breathe but for you; that I would die to make you happy.

In what words shall I convey to the most beloved of his sex, the
ardent tenderness of my soul? how convince him of what I suffer from
being forced to make a request so contrary to the dictates of my heart?

He cannot, will not doubt his Emily's affection: I cannot support
the idea that it is possible he should for one instant. What I suffer
at this moment is inexpressible.

My heart is too much agitated to say more.

I will write again in a few days.

I know not what I would say; but indeed, my Rivers, I love you; you
yourself can scarce form an idea to what excess!

Adieu! Your faithful
Emily Montague.

LETTER 188.

To Miss Montague, Rose-hill, Berkshire.

Bellfield, Sept. 20.

No, Emily, you never loved; I have been long hurt by your
tranquillity in regard to our marriage; your too scrupulous attention
to decorum in leaving my sister