Besides our riding-hoods, when we go out, we have a large buffaloe’s skin under our feet, which turns up, and wraps round us almost to our shoulders; so that, upon the whole, we are pretty well guarded from the weather as well as the men.

Our covered carrioles too have not only canvas windows (we dare not have glass, because we often overturn), but cloth curtains to draw all round us; the extreme swiftness of these carriages also, which dart along like lightening, helps to keep one warm, by promoting the circulation of the blood.

I pity the Fitz; no tiger was ever so hard-hearted as I am this weather:  the little god has taken his flight, like the swallows.  I say nothing, but cruelty is no virtue in Canada; at least at this season.

I suppose Pygmalion’s statue was some frozen Canadian gentlewoman, and a sudden warm day thawed her.  I love to expound ancient fables, and I think no exposition can be more natural than this.

Would you know what makes me chatter so this morning?  Papa has made me take some excellent liqueur; ’tis the mode here; all the Canadian ladies take a little, which makes them so coquet and agreable.  Certainly brandy makes a woman talk like an angel.  Adieu!

      Yours,
          A. Fermor.

LETTER 50.

To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.

Silleri, Jan. 4.

I don’t quite agree with you, my dear; your brother does not appear to me to have the least scruple of that foolish false modesty which stands in a man’s way.

He is extremely what the French call awakened; he is modest, certainly; that is, he is not a coxcomb, but he has all that proper self-confidence which is necessary to set his agreable qualities in full light:  nothing can be a stronger proof of this, than that, wherever he is, he always takes your attention in a moment, and this without seeming to solicit it.

I am very fond of him, though he never makes love to me, in which circumstance he is very singular:  our friendship is quite platonic, at least on his side, for I am not quite so sure on the other.  I remember one day in summer we were walking tete a tete in the road to Cape Rouge, when he wanted me to strike into a very beautiful thicket:  “Positively, Rivers,” said I, “I will not venture with you into that wood.”  “Are you afraid of me, Bell?” “No, but extremely of myself.”

I have loved him ever since a little scene that passed here three or four months ago:  a very affecting story, of a distressed family in our neighbourhood, was told him and Sir George; the latter preserved all the philosophic dignity and manly composure of his countenance, very coldly expressed his concern, and called another subject:  your brother changed color, his eyes glistened; he took the first opportunity to leave the room, he sought these poor people, he found, he relieved them; which we discovered by accident a month after.