Four o'clock.

After a dispute in which two French ladies were near drawing their
husbands into a duel, the point of honor is yielded by both to Miss
Montague; each insisting only that I should not dance with the other:
for my part, I submit with a good grace, as you will suppose.

Saturday morning.

I never passed a more agreeable evening: we have our amusements
here, I assure you: a set of fine young fellows, and handsome women,
all well dress'd, and in humor with themselves, and with each other: my
lovely Emily like Venus amongst the Graces, only multiplied to about
sixteen. Nothing is, in my opinion, so favorable to the display of
beauty as a ball. A state of rest is ungraceful; all nature is most
beautiful in motion; trees agitated by the wind, a ship under sail, a
horse in the course, a fine woman dancing: never any human being had
such an aversion to still life as I have.

I am going back to Melmoth's for a month; don't be alarm'd, Lucy! I
see all her perfections, but I see them with the cold eye of admiration
only: a woman engaged loses all her attractions as a woman; there is
no love without a ray of hope: my only ambition is to be her friend; I
want to be the confidant of her passion. With what spirit such a mind
as hers must love!

Adieu! my dear!
Yours,
Ed. Rivers.