She is less like a sprightly French widow, than a foolish English girl, who loves for the first time.
But I suppose, when the heart is really touched, the feelings of all nations have a pretty near resemblance: it is only that the French ladies are generally more coquets, and less inclined to the romantic style of love, than the English; and we are, therefore, surprized when we find in them this trembling sensibility.
There are exceptions, however, to all rules; and your little Bell seems, in point of love, to have changed countries with Madame Des Roches.
The gale encreases, it flutters in the sails; my fair friend is summoned; the captain chides our delay.
Adieu! ma chere Madame Des Roches. I embrace her; I feel the force of its being for the last time. I am afraid she feels it yet more strongly than I do: in parting with the last of his friends, she seems to part with her Rivers for ever.
One look more at the wild graces of nature I leave behind.
Adieu! Canada! adieu! sweet abode of the wood-nymphs! never shall I cease to remember with delight the place where I have passed so many happy hours.
Heaven preserve my dear Lucy, and give prosperous gales to her friends!
Your faithful
A. Fitzgerald.