But I must tell you; Major Melmoth kept us a week at his house in the country, in one continued round of rural amusements; by which I do not mean hunting and shooting, but such pleasures as the ladies could share; little rustic balls and parties round the neighbouring country, in which parties we were joined by all the fine women at Montreal.  Mrs. Melmoth is a very pleasing, genteel brunette, but Emily Montague—­you will say I am in love with her if I describe her, and yet I declare to you I am not:  knowing she loves another, to whom she is soon to be united, I see her charms with the same kind of pleasure I do yours; a pleasure, which, tho’ extremely lively, is by our situation without the least mixture of desire.

I have said, she is charming; there are men here who do not think so, but to me she is loveliness itself.  My ideas of beauty are perhaps a little out of the common road:  I hate a woman of whom every man coldly says, she is handsome; I adore beauty, but it is not meer features or complexion to which I give that name; ’tis life, ’tis spirit, ’tis animation, ’tis—­in one word, ’tis Emily Montague—­without being regularly beautiful, she charms every sensible heart; all other women, however lovely, appear marble statues near her:  fair; pale (a paleness which gives the idea of delicacy without destroying that of health), with dark hair and eyes, the latter large and languishing, she seems made to feel to a trembling excess the passion she cannot fail of inspiring:  her elegant form has an air of softness and languor, which seizes the whole soul in a moment:  her eyes, the most intelligent I ever saw, hold you enchain’d by their bewitching sensibility.

There are a thousand unspeakable charms in her conversation; but what I am most pleas’d with, is the attentive politeness of her manner, which you seldom see in a person in love; the extreme desire of pleasing one man generally taking off greatly from the attention due to all the rest.  This is partly owing to her admirable understanding, and partly to the natural softness of her soul, which gives her the strongest desire of pleasing.  As I am a philosopher in these matters, and have made the heart my study, I want extremely to see her with her lover, and to observe the gradual encrease of her charms in his presence; love, which embellishes the most unmeaning countenance, must give to her’s a fire irresistible:  what eyes! when animated by tenderness!

The very soul acquires a new force and beauty by loving; a woman of honor never appears half so amiable, or displays half so many virtues, as when sensible to the merit of a man who deserves her affection.  Observe, Lucy, I shall never allow you to be handsome till I hear you are in love.

Did I tell you Emily Montague had the finest hand and arm in the world?  I should however have excepted yours:  her tone of voice too has the same melodious sweetness, a perfection without which the loveliest woman could never make the least impression on my heart:  I don’t think you are very unlike upon the whole, except that she is paler.  You know, Lucy, you have often told me I should certainly have been in love with you if I had not been your brother:  this resemblance is a proof you were right.  You are really as handsome as any woman can be whose sensibility has never been put in motion.