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?
I will never hide a thought from you; you shall be at once the confidant and the dear object of my tenderness.
In what words—my Rivers, you rule every emotion of my heart; dispose as you please of your Emily: yet, if you allow her to form a wish in opposition to yours, indulge her in the transport of returning you to your friends; let her receive you from the hands of a mother, whose happiness you ought to prefer even to hers.
Why will you talk of the mediocrity of your fortune? have you not enough for every real want? much less, with you, would make your Emily blest: what have the trappings of life to do with happiness? ’tis only sacrificing pride to love and filial tenderness; the worst of human passions to the best.
I have a thousand things to say, but am forced to steal this moment to write to you: we have some French ladies here, who are eternally coming to my apartment.
They are at the door. Adieu!
Yours,
Emily Montague.
LETTER CXXXVI.138.
To the Earl of ——.