To Miss Montague.
Isle of Bic, Aug. 16.
You are little obliged to me, my dear, for writing to you on ship-board; one of the greatest miseries here, being the want of employment: I therefore write for my own amusement, not yours.
We have some French ladies on board, but they do not resemble Madame Des Roches. I am weary of them already, though we have been so few days together.
The wind is contrary, and we are at anchor under this island; Fitzgerald has proposed going to dine on shore: it looks excessively pretty from the ship.
Seven in the Evening.evening.
We are returned from Bic, after passing a very agreable day.
We dined on the grass, at a little distance from the shore, under the shelter of a very fine wood, whose form, the trees rising above each other in the same regular confusion, brought the dear shades of Silleri to our remembrance.
We walked after dinner, and picked rasberries, in the wood; and in our ramble came unexpectedly to the middle of a visto, which, whilst some ships of war lay here, the sailors had cut through the island.
From this situation, being a rising ground, we could see directly through the avenue to both shores: the view of each was wildly majestic; the river comes finely in, whichever way you turn your sight; but to the south, which is more sheltered, the water just trembling to the breeze, our ship which had put all her streamers out, and to which the tide gave a gentle motion, with a few scattered houses, faintly seen amongst the trees at a distance, terminated the prospect, in a manner which was inchanting.