nder every hour
more dear and interesting.

If, as you possibly will, you should call me romantic, hear a man of
pleasure on the subject, the Petronius of the last age, the elegant,
but voluptuous St. Evremond, who speaks in the following manner of the
friendship between married persons:

"I believe it is this pleasing intercourse of tenderness, this
reciprocation of esteem, or, if you will, this mutual ardor of
preventing each other in every endearing mark of affection, in which
consists the sweetness of this second species of friendship.

"I do not speak of other pleasures, which are not so much in
themselves as in the assurance they give of the intire possession of
those we love: this appears to me so true, that I am not afraid to
assert, the man who is by any other means certainly assured of the
tenderness of her he loves, may easily support the privation of those
pleasures; and that they ought not to enter into the account of
friendship, but as proofs that it is without reserve.

"'Tis true, few men are capable of the purity of these sentiments,
and 'tis for that reason we so very seldom see perfect friendship in
marriage, at least for any long time: the object which a sensual
passion has in view cannot long sustain a commerce so noble as that of
friendship."

You see, the pleasures you so much boast are the least of those
which true tenderness has to give, and this in the opinion of a
voluptuary.

My dear Temple, all you have ever known of love is nothing to that
sweet consent of souls in unison, that harmony of minds congenial to
each other, of which you have not yet an idea.

You have seen beauty, and it has inspired a momentary emotion, but
you have never yet had a real attachment; you yet know nothing of that
irresistible tenderness, that delirium of the soul, which, whilst it
refines, adds strength to passion.

I perhaps say too much, but I wish with ardor to see you happy; in
which there is the more merit, as I have not the least prospect of
being so myself.

I wish you to pursue the plan of life which I myself think most
likely to bring happiness, because I know our souls to be of the same
frame: we have taken different roads, but you will come back to mine.
Awake to delicate pleasures, I have no taste for any other; there are
no other for sensible minds. My gallantries have been few, rather (if
it is allowed to speak thus of one's self even to a friend) from
elegance of taste than severity of