Yours,
          A. Fermor.

LETTER 49.

To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.

Silleri, Jan. 1.

It is with difficulty I breathe, my dear; the cold is so amazingly intense as almost totally to stop respiration.  I have business, the business of pleasure, at Quebec; but have not courage to stir from the stove.

We have had five days, the severity of which none of the natives remember to have ever seen equaled:  ’tis said, the cold is beyond all the thermometers here, tho’ intended for the climate.

The strongest wine freezes in a room which has a stove in it; even brandy is thickened to the consistence of oil:  the largest wood fire, in a wide chimney, does not throw out its heat a quarter of a yard.

I must venture to Quebec to-morrow, or have company at home:  amusements are here necessary to life; we must be jovial, or the blood will freeze in our veins.

I no longer wonder the elegant arts are unknown here; the rigour of the climate suspends the very powers of the understanding; what then must become of those of the imagination?  Those who expect to see

  “A new Athens rising near the pole,”

will find themselves extremely disappointed.  Genius will never mount high, where the faculties of the mind are benumbed half the year.

’Tis sufficient employment for the most lively spirit here to contrive how to preserve an existence, of which there are moments that one is hardly conscious:  the cold really sometimes brings on a sort of stupefaction.

We had a million of beaux here yesterday, notwithstanding the severe cold:  ’tis the Canadian custom, calculated I suppose for the climate, to visit all the ladies on New-year’s-day, who sit dressed in form to be kissed:  I assure you, however, our kisses could not warm them; but we were obliged, to our eternal disgrace, to call in rasberry brandy as an auxiliary.

You would have died to see the men; they look just like so many bears in their open carrioles, all wrapped in furs from head to foot; you see nothing of the human form appear, but the tip of a nose.

They have intire coats of beaver skin, exactly like Friday’s in Robinson Crusoe, and casques on their heads like the old knights errant in romance; you never saw such tremendous figures; but without this kind of cloathing it would be impossible to stir out at present.

The ladies are equally covered up, tho’ in a less unbecoming style; they have long cloth cloaks with loose hoods, like those worn by the market-women in the north of England.  I have one in scarlet, the hood lined with sable, the prettiest ever seen here, in which I assure you I look amazingly handsome; the men think so, and call me the Little red riding-hood; a name which becomes me as well as the hood.

The Canadian ladies wear these cloaks in India silk in summer, which, fluttering in the wind, look really graceful on a fine woman.