LETTER CXCVI.200.
To Captain Fitzgerald.
Oct. 17.
I every hour see more strongly, my dear Fitzgerald, the wisdom, as to our own happiness, of not letting our hearts be worn out by a multitude of intrigues before marriage.
Temple loves my sister, he is happy with her; but his happiness is by no means of the same kind with yours and mine; she is beautiful, and he thinks her so; she is amiable, and he esteems her; he prefers her to all other women, but he feels nothing of that trembling delicacy of sentiment, that quick sensibility, which gives to love its most exquisite pleasures, and which I would not give up for the wealth of worlds.
His affection is meer passion, and therefore subject to change; ours is that heartfelt tenderness, which time renders every moment more pleasing.
The tumult of desire is the fever of the soul; its health, that delicious tranquillity where the heart is gently moved, not violently agitated; that tranquillity which is only to be found where friendship is the basis of love, and where we are happy without injuring the object beloved: in other words, in a marriage of choice.
In the voyage of life, passion is the tempest, love the gentle gale.
Dissipation, and a continued round of amusements at home, will probably secure my sister all of Temple’s heart which remains; but his love would grow languid in that state of retirement, which would have a thousand charms for minds like ours.
I will own to you, I have fears for Lucy’s happiness.