It is that we lose the present happiness in the pursuit of greater:  I look forward with impatience to that moment which will make Emily mine; and the difficulties, which I see on every side arising, embitter hours which would otherwise be exquisitely happy.

The narrowness of my fortune, which I see in a much stronger light in this land of luxury, and the apparent impossibility of placing the most charming of women in the station my heart wishes, give me anxieties which my reason cannot conquer.

I cannot live without her, I flatter myself our union is in some degree necessary to her happiness; yet I dread bringing her into distresses, which I am doubly obliged to protect her from, because she would with transport meet them all, from tenderness to me.

I have nothing which I can call my own, but my half-pay, and four thousand pounds:  I have lived amongst the first company in England; all my connexions have been rather suited to my birth than fortune.  My mother presses me to resume my estate, and let her live with us alternately; but against this I am firmly determined; she shall have her own house, and never change her manner of living.

Temple would share his estate with me, if I would allow him; but I am too fond of independence to accept favors of this kind even from him.

I have formed a thousand schemes, and as often found them abortive; I go to-morrow to see our little estate, with my mother; it is a private party of our own, and nobody is in the secret; I will there talk over every thing with her.

My mind is at present in a state of confusion not to be expressed; I must determine on something; it is improper Emily should continue long with my sister in her present situation; yet I cannot live without seeing her.

I have never asked about Emily’s fortune; but I know it is a small one; perhaps two thousand pounds; I am pretty certain, not more.

We can live on little, but we must live in some degree on a genteel footing:  I cannot let Emily, who refused a coach and six for me, pay visits on foot; I will be content with a post-chaise, but cannot with less; I have a little, a very little pride, for my Emily.

I wish it were possible to prevail on my mother to return with us to Canada:  I could then reconcile my duty and happiness, which at present seem almost incompatible.

Emily appears perfectly happy, and to look no further than to the situation in which we now are; she seems content with being my friend only, without thinking of a nearer connexion; I am rather piqued at a composure which has the air of indifference:  why should not her impatience equal mine?

The coach is at the door, and my mother waits for me.

Every happiness attend my friend, and all connected with him, in which number I hope I may, by this time, include Fitzgerald.

    Adieu! 
      Your affectionate
          Ed. Rivers.