LETTER CIII.103.
To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.
Quebec, March 27, 11 at night.
She is an angel, my dear Lucy, and no words can do her justice: I am the happiest of mankind; I painted my passion with all the moving eloquence of undissembled love; she heard me with the most flattering attention; she said little, but her looks, her air, her tone of voice, her blushes, her very silence—how could I ever doubt her tenderness? have not those lovely eyes a thousand times betrayed the dear secret of her heart?
My Lucy, we were formed for each other; our souls are of intelligence; every thought, every idea—from the first moment I beheld her—I have a thousand things to say, but the tumult of my joy—she has given me leave to write to her; what has she not said in that permission?
I cannot go to bed; I will go and walk an hour on the battery; ’tis the loveliest night I ever beheld, even in Canada: the day is scarce brighter.
One in the morning.
I have had the sweetest walk imaginable: the moon shines with a splendor I never saw before; a thousand streaming meteors add to her brightness; I have stood gazing on the lovely planet, and delighting myself with the idea that ’tis the same moon that lights my Emily.
Good night, my Lucy! I love you beyond all expression; I always loved you tenderly, but there is a softness about my heart to-night—this lovely woman—
I know not what I would say, but till this night I could never be said to live.
Adieu! Your affectionate
Ed. Rivers.