The weather, tho’ cold beyond all that you in England can form an idea of, is yet mild to what it has been the last five or six days; we are going to Quebec, to church.

Two o’clock.

Emily and I have been talking religion all the way home:  we are both mighty good girls, as girls go in these degenerate days; our grandmothers to be sure—­but it’s folly to look back.

We have been saying, Lucy, that ’tis the strangest thing in the world people should quarrel about religion, since we undoubtedly all mean the same thing; all good minds in every religion aim at pleasing the Supreme Being; the means we take differ according to the country where we are born, and the prejudices we imbibe from education; a consideration which ought to inspire us with kindness and indulgence to each other.

If we examine each other’s sentiments with candor, we shall find much less difference in essentials than we imagine;

  “Since all agree to own, at least to mean,
  One great, one good, one general Lord of all.”

There is, I think, a very pretty Sunday reflexion for you, Lucy.

You must know, I am extremely religious; and for this amongst other reasons, that I think infidelity a vice peculiarly contrary to the native softness of woman:  it is bold, daring, masculine; and I should almost doubt the sex of an unbeliever in petticoats.

Women are religious as they are virtuous, less from principles founded on reasoning and argument, than from elegance of mind, delicacy of moral taste, and a certain quick perception of the beautiful and becoming in every thing.

This instinct, however, for such it is, is worth all the tedious reasonings of the men; which is a point I flatter myself you will not dispute with me.

Monday, Jan. 5.

This is the first day I have ventured in an open carriole; we have been running a race on the snow, your brother and I against Emily and Fitzgerald:  we conquered from Fitzgerald’s complaisance to Emily.  I shall like it mightily, well wrapt up:  I set off with a crape over my face to keep off the cold, but in three minutes it was a cake of solid ice, from my breath which froze upon it; yet this is called a mild day, and the sun shines in all his glory.

Silleri, Thursday, Jan. 8, midnight.

We are just come from the general’s assembly; much company, and we danced till this minute; for I believe we have not been more coming these four miles.

Fitzgerald is the very pink of courtesy; he never uses his covered carriole himself, but devotes it intirely to the ladies; it stands at the general’s door in waiting on Thursdays:  if any lady comes out before her carriole arrives, the servants call out mechanically, “Captain Fitzgerald’s carriole here, for a lady.”  The Colonel is equally gallant, but I generally lay an embargo on his:  they have each of them an extreme pretty one for themselves, or to drive a fair lady a morning’s airing, when she will allow them the honor, and the weather is mild enough to permit it.