The stream of life, my dear Temple, stagnates without the gentle gale of love; till I knew my Emily, till the dear moment which assured me of her tenderness, I could scarce be said to live.
Adieu! Your affectionate
Ed. Rivers.
LETTER CXLVIII.150.
To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.
Silleri, June 1.
I can write, I can talk, of nothing but Emily; I never knew how much I loved her till she was gone: I run eagerly to every place where we have been together; every spot reminds me of her; I remember a thousand conversations, endeared by confidence and affection: a tender tear starts in spite of me: our walks, our airings, our pleasing little parties, all rush at once on my memory: I see the same lovely scenes around me, but they have lost half their power of pleasing.
I visit every grove, every thicket, that she loved; I have a redoubled fondness for every object in which she took pleasure.
Fitzgerald indulges me in this enthusiasm of friendship; he leads me to every place which can recall my Emily’s idea; he speaks of her with a warmth which shews the sensibility and goodness of his own heart; he endeavors to soothe me by the most endearing attention.
What infinite pleasure, my dear Lucy, there is in being truly beloved! Fond as I have ever been of general admiration, that of all mankind is nothing to the least mark of Fitzgerald’s tenderness.
Adieu! it will be some days before I can send this letter.