I like this doctrine of Montesquieu’s extremely, because it gives every woman her chance, and because it ranks me above a thousand handsomer women, in the dear power of inspiring passion.
Cruel creature! why did you give me the idea of flowers? I now envy you your foggy climate: the earth with you is at this moment covered with a thousand lovely children of the spring; with us, it is an universal plain of snow.
Our beaux are terribly at a loss for similies: you have lilies of the valley for comparisons; we nothing but what with the idea of whiteness gives that of coldness too.
This is all the quarrel I have with Canada: the summer is delicious, the winter pleasant with all its severities; but alas! the smiling spring is not here; we pass from winter to summer in an instant, and lose the sprightly season of the Loves.
A letter from the God of my idolatry—I must answer it instantly.
Adieu! Yours, &c.
A. Fermor.
LETTER CXXVI.128.
To Captain Fitzgerald.
Yes, I give permission; you may come this afternoon: there is something amusing enough in your dear nonsense; and, as my father will be at Quebec, I shall want amusement.
It will also furnish a little chat for the misses at Quebec; a tête à tête with a tall Irishman is a subject which cannot escape their sagacity.