Were the cruel hint you are pleased to give just, be assured Sir George should be the first person to whom I would declare it.  I hope however it is possible to esteem merit without offending even the most sacred of all engagements.

A gentleman waits for this.  I have only time to say, that Miss Fermor thanks you for your obliging invitation, and promises she will accompany me to Montreal as soon as the river St. Lawrence will bear carriages, as the upper road is extremely inconvenient.

  I am,
    My dearest Madam,
      Your obliged
        and faithful
          Emily Montague.

LETTER 48.

To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.

Silleri, Dec. 27.

After a fortnight’s snow, we have had near as much clear blue sky and sunshine:  the snow is six feet deep, so that we may be said to walk on our own heads; that is, speaking en philosophe, we occupy the space we should have done in summer if we had done so; or, to explain it more clearly, our heels are now where our heads should be.

The scene is a little changed for the worse:  the lovely landscape is now one undistinguished waste of snow, only a little diversified by the great variety of ever-greens in the woods:  the romantic winding path down the side of the hill to our farm, on which we used to amuse ourselves with seeing the beaux serpentize, is now a confused, frightful, rugged precipice, which one trembles at the idea of ascending.

There is something exceedingly agreable in the whirl of the carrioles, which fly along at the rate of twenty miles an hour; and really hurry one out of one’s senses.

Our little coterie is the object of great envy; we live just as we like, without thinking of other people, which I am not sure here is prudent, but it is pleasant, which is a better thing.

Emily, who is the civilest creature breathing, is for giving up her own pleasure to avoid offending others, and wants me, every time we make a carrioling-party, to invite all the misses of Quebec to go with us, because they seem angry at our being happy without them:  but for that very reason I persist in my own way, and consider wisely, that, though civility is due to other people, yet there is also some civility due to one’s self.

I agree to visit every body, but think it mighty absurd I must not take a ride without asking a hundred people I scarce know to go with me:  yet this is the style here; they will neither be happy themselves, nor let any body else.  Adieu!

Dec. 29.

I will never take a beaver’s word again as long as I live:  there is no supporting this cold; the Canadians say it is seventeen years since there has been so severe a season.  I thought beavers had been people of more honor.

Adieu!  I can no more:  the ink freezes as I take it from the standish to the paper, though close to a large stove.  Don’t expect me to write again till May; one’s faculties are absolutely congealed this weather.