She has at least a friendship for me, which alone would make the happiness of my life; and which I would prefer to the love of the most charming woman imagination could form, sensible as I am to the sweetest of all passions: this friendship, however, time and assiduity may ripen into love; at least I should be most unhappy if I did not think so. I love her with a tenderness of which few of my sex are capable: you have often told me, and you were right, that my heart has all the sensibility of woman. A mail is arrived, by which I hope to hear from you; I must hurry to the post office; you shall hear again in a few days. Adieu! Your affectionate Ed. Rivers. LETTER 67. To Colonel Rivers, at Quebec. London, Dec. 1. You need be in no pain, my dear brother, on Mr. Temple's account; my heart is in no danger from a man of his present character: his person and manner are certainly extremely pleasing; his understanding, and I believe his principles, are worthy of your friendship; an encomium which, let me observe, is from me a very high one: he will be admired every where, but to be beloved, he wants, or at least appears to me to want, the most endearing of all qualities, that genuine tenderness of soul, that almost feminine sensibility, which, with all your firmness of mind and spirit, you possess beyond any man I ever yet met with. If your friend wishes to please me, which I almost fancy he does, he must endeavor to resemble you; 'tis rather hard upon me, I think, that the only man I perfectly approve, and whose disposition is formed to make me happy, should be my brother: I beg you will find out somebody very like yourself for your sister, for you have really made me saucy. I pity you heartily, and wish above all things to hear of your Emily's marriage, for your present situation must be extremely unpleasant. But, my dear brother, as you were so very wise about Temple, allow me to ask you whether it is quite consistent with prudence to throw yourself in the way of a woman so formed to inspire you with tenderness, and whom it is so impossible you can ever hope to possess: is not this acting a little like a foolish girl, who plays round the flame which she knows will consume her? My mother is well, but will never be happy till you return to England; I often find her in tears over your letters: I will say no more on a subject which I know will give you pain. I hope, however, to hear you have given up all thoughts of settling in America: it would be a better plan to turn farmer in Rutland; we could double the estate by living upon it, and I am sure I should make the prettiest milk-maid in the county. I am serious, and think we could live very superbly all together in the country; consider it well, my dear Ned, for I cannot bear to see my mother so unhappy as your absence makes her. I hear her on the stairs; I must hurry away my letter, for I don't chuse she should know I write to you on this subject.