No words, my dear Emily, can speak our joy at the receipt of your two last letters.
You are then as happy as you deserve to be; we hope, in a few days, to be witnesses of your felicity.
We knew from the first of your father’s proposal to Rivers; but he extorted a promise from us, never on any account to communicate it to you: he also desired us to detain you in Berkshire, by lengthening our visit, till your marriage, lest any friend of your father’s in London should know his design, and chance acquaint you with it.
Fitzgerald is Monsieur le Majeur, at your ladyship’s service: he received his commission this morning.
I once again congratulate you, my dear, on this triumph of tenderness: you see love, like virtue, is not only its own reward, but sometimes intitles us to other rewards too.
It should always be considered, that those who marry from love, may grow rich; but those who marry to be rich, will never love.
The very idea that love will come after marriage, is shocking to minds which have the least spark of delicacy: to such minds, a marriage which begins with indifference will certainly end in disgust and aversion.
I bespeak your papa for my cecisbeo; mine is extremely at your service in return.
But I am piqued, my dear. “Sentiments so noble, so peculiar to your Rivers—”
I am apt to believe there are men in the world—that nobleness of mind is not so very peculiar—and that some people’s sentiments may be as noble as other people’s.