Your brother is an admirable missionary amongst unbelieving ladies:  I really think I shall carry her off; if it is only for the good of her soul.

I have but one objection; if Fitzgerald should take a fancy to prefer the tender to the lively, I should be in some danger:  there is something very seducing in her eyes, I assure you.

LETTER 172.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Kamaraskas, Aug. 14.

By Madame Des Roches, who is going on shore, I write two or three lines, to tell you we have got thus far, and have a fair wind; she will send it immediately to Quebec, to be put on board any ship going, that you may have the greater variety of chances to hear of me.

There is a French lady on board, whose superstition bids fair to amuse us; she has thrown half her little ornaments over-board for a wind, and has promised I know not how many votive offerings of the same kind to St. Joseph, the patron of Canada, if we get safe to land; on which I shall only observe, that there is nothing so like ancient absurdity as modern:  she has classical authority for this manner of playing the fool.  Horace, when afraid on a voyage, having, if my memory quotes fair, vowed

  “His dank and dropping weeds
  To the stern god of sea.”

The boat is ready, and Madame Des Roches going; I am very unwilling to part with her; and her present concern at leaving me would be very flattering, if I did not think the remembrance of your brother had the greatest share in it.

She has wrote four or five letters to him, since she came on board, very tender ones I fancy, and destroyed them; she has at last wrote a meer complimentary kind of card, only thanking him for his offers of service; yet I see it gives her pleasure to write even this, however cold and formal; because addressed to him:  she asked me, if I thought there was any impropriety in her writing to him, and whether it would not be better to address herself to Emily.  I smiled at her simplicity, and she finished her letter; she blushed and looked down when she gave it me.

She is less like a sprightly French widow, than a foolish English girl, who loves for the first time.

But I suppose, when the heart is really touched, the feelings of all nations have a pretty near resemblance:  it is only that the French ladies are generally more coquets, and less inclined to the romantic style of love, than the English; and we are, therefore, surprized when we find in them this trembling sensibility.

There are exceptions, however, to all rules; and your little Bell seems, in point of love, to have changed countries with Madame Des Roches.

The gale encreases, it flutters in the sails; my fair friend is summoned; the captain chides our delay.

Adieu! ma chere Madame Des Roches.  I embrace her; I feel the force of its being for the last time.  I am afraid she feels it yet more strongly than I do:  in parting with the last of his friends, she seems to part with her Rivers for ever.