My father has sent to speak with me in his apartment: I should have told you, I this morning went to Bellfield, and brought from thence my mother's picture, which I have just sent him. Adieu! Your faithful Emily Rivers. LETTER 227. To Mrs. Rivers, Bellfield, Rutland. London, Sunday. 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. In short, I am inclined to fancy Fitzgerald would have acted just the same part in the same situation. But it is your great fault, my dear Emily, to suppose your love a phoenix, whereas he is only an agreable, worthy, handsome fellow, _comme un autre_. I suppose you will be very angry; but who cares? I will be angry too. Surely, my Fitzgerald--I allow Rivers all his merit; but comparisons, my dear-- Both our fellows, to be sure, are charming creatures; and I would not change them for a couple of Adonis's: yet I don't insist upon it, that there is nothing agreable in the world but them. You should remember, my dear, that beauty is in the lover's eye; and that, however highly you may think of Rivers, every woman breathing has the same idea of _the dear man_. O heaven! I must tell you, because it will flatter your vanity about your charmer. I have had a letter from an old lover of mine at Quebec, who tells me, Madame Des Roches has just refused one of the best matches in the country, and vows she will live and die a batchelor. 'Tis a mighty foolish resolution, and yet I cannot help liking her the better for making it.