LETTER L.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 tête à tête 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.
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.
Bon soir! I am sleepy.
Yours,
A. Fermor.