rcourse enlivened by
taste, and governed by delicacy and honor, calls forth all the graces
of the person and understanding, all the amiable sentiments of the
heart: it also gives good-breeding, ease, and a certain awakened
manner, which is not to be acquired but in mixed conversation.

Remember, you and my dear Lucy dine with us to-morrow; it is to be a
little family party, to indulge my mother in the delight of seeing her
children about her, without interruption: I have saved all my best
fruit for this day; we are to drink tea and sup in Emily's apartment.

Adieu! Your affectionate
Ed. Rivers.

I will to-morrow shew you better grapes than any you have at
Temple-house: you rich men fancy nobody has any thing good but
yourselves; but I hope next year to shew you that you are mistaken in a
thousand instances. I will have such roses and jessamines, such bowers
of intermingled sweets--you shall see what astonishing things Emily's
taste and my industry can do.

LETTER 204.

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--

I am interrupted: adieu! for a moment.

It was my Rivers, he brought me a bouquet; I opened the door,
supposing it was my mother; conscious of what I had been writing, I was
confused at seeing him; he smiled, and guessing the reason of my
embarrassment, "I must leave you, Emily; you are writing, and, by your
blushes, I know you have been talking of your lover."

I should have told you, he insists on never seeing the letters I
write, and gives this reason for it, That