ent, and purity of manners, from my own feelings at this present moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is such a number of foreboding fears and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your company, or when I sit down to write to you, that what to speak or what to write I am altogether at a loss.
There is one rule which I have hitherto practised and which I shall invariably keep with you and that is, honestly to tell you the plain truth. There is something so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissimulation and falsehood that I am surprised they can be acted by any one in so noble, so generous a passion as virtuous love. No, my dear E., I shall never endeavour to gain your favor by such detestable practices. If you will be so good and so generous as to admit me for your partner, your companion, your bosom friend through life, there is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me greater transport, but I shall never think of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man—and, I will add—of a Christian.
There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of you and it is this, that you should soon either put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal or cure me of my fears by a generous consent.
It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when convenient. I shall only add further that if a behavior regulated (though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of honor and virtue of a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour to promote your happiness—if these are qualities you would wish in a friend, in a husband, I hope you shall ever find them in your real friend and sincere lover.