To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.
Quebec, July 4.
What an inconstant animal is man! do you know, Lucy, I begin to be
tir'd of the lovely landscape round me? I have enjoy'd from it all the
pleasure meer inanimate objects can give, and find 'tis a pleasure that
soon satiates, if not relieved by others which are more lively. The
scenery is to be sure divine, but one grows weary of meer scenery: the
most enchanting prospect soon loses its power of pleasing, when the eye
is accustom'd to it: we gaze at first transported on the charms of
nature, and fancy they will please for ever; but, alas! it will not
do; we sigh for society, the conversation of those dear to us; the
more animated pleasures of the heart. There are fine women, and men of
merit here; but, as the affections are not in our power, I have not
yet felt my heart gravitate towards any of them. I must absolutely set
in earnest about my settlement, in order to emerge from the state of
vegetation into which I seem falling.
But to your last: you ask me a particular account of the convents
here. Have you an inclination, my dear, to turn nun? if you have, you
could not have applied to a properer person; my extreme modesty and
reserve, and my speaking French, having made me already a great
favourite with the older part of all the three communities, who
unanimously declare colonel Rivers to be _un tres aimable homme_,
and have given me an unlimited liberty of visiting them whenever I
please: they now and then treat _me_ with a sight of some of the
young ones, but this is a favor not allow'd to all the world.
There are three religious houses at Quebec, so you have choice; the
Ursulines, the Hotel Dieu, and the General Hospital. The first is the
severest order in the Romish church, except that very cruel one which
denies its fair votaries the inestimable liberty of speech. The house
is large and handsome, but has an air of gloominess, with which the
black habit, and the livid paleness of the nuns, extremely corresponds.
The church is, contrary to the style of the rest of the convent,
ornamented and lively to the last degree. The superior is an
English-woman of good family, who was taken prisoner by the savages
when a child, and plac'd here by the generosity of a French officer.
She is one of the most amiable women I ever knew, with a benevolence in
her countenance which inspires all who see her with affection: I am
very fond of her conversation, tho' sixty and a nun.
The Hotel Dieu is very pleasantly situated, with a view of the two
rivers, and the entrance of the port: the house is chearful, airy, and
agreeable; the habit extremely becoming, a circumstance a handsome
woman ought by no means to overlook; 'tis white with a black gauze
veil, which would shew your complexion to great advantage. The order is
much less severe than the Ursulines, and I might add, much more useful,
their province being the care of the sick: the nuns of this house are
sprightly, and have a look of health which is wanting at the Ursulines.
The General Hospital, situated about a mile out of town, on the
borders of the river St. Charles, is much the most agreeable of the
three. The order and the habit are the same with the Hotel Dieu, except
that to the habit is added the cross, generally worn in Europe by
canonesses only: a distinction procur'd for them by their founder, St.
Vallier, the second bishop of Quebec. The house is, without, a very
noble building; and neatness, elegance and propriety reign within. The
nuns, who are all of the noblesse, are many of them handsome, and all
genteel, lively, and well bred; they have an air of the world, their
conversation is easy, spirited, and polite: with them you almost forget
the recluse in the woman of condition. In short, you have the best
nuns at the Ursulines, the most agreeable women at the General
Hospital: all however have an air of chagrin, which they in vain
endeavour to conceal; and the general eagerness with which they tell
you unask'd they are happy, is a strong proof of the contrary.
Tho' the most indulgent of all men to the follies of others,
especially such as have their source in mistaken devotion; tho' willing
to allow all the world to play the fool their own way, yet I cannot
help being fir'd with a degree of zeal against an institution equally
incompatible with public good, and private happiness; an institution
which cruelly devotes beauty and innocence to slavery, regret, and
wretchedness; to a more irksome imprisonment than the severest laws
inflict on the worst of criminals.
Could any thing but experience, my dear Lucy, make it be believ'd
possible that there should be rational beings, who think they are
serving the God of mercy by inflicting on themselves voluntary
tortures, and cutting themselves off from that state of society in
which he has plac'd them, and for which they were form'd? by renouncing
the best affections of the human heart, the tender names of friend, of
wife, of mother? and, as far as in them lies, counter-working creation?
by spurning from them every amusement however innocent, by refusing the
gifts of that beneficent power who made us to be happy, and destroying
his most precious gifts, health, beauty, sensibility, chearfulness, and
peace!
My indignation is yet awake, from having seen a few days since at
the Ursulines, an extreme lovely young girl, whose countenance spoke a
soul form'd for the most lively, yet delicate, ties of love and
friendship, led by a momentary enthusiasm, or perhaps by a childish
vanity artfully excited, to the foot of those altars, which she will
probably too soon bathe with the bitter tears of repentance and
remorse.
The ceremony, form'd to strike the imagination, and seduce the heart
of unguarded youth, is extremely solemn and affecting; the procession
of the nuns, the sweetness of their voices in the choir, the dignified
devotion with which the charming enthusiast received the veil, and took
the cruel vow which shut her from the world for ever, struck my heart
in spite of my reason, and I felt myself touch'd even to tears by a
superstition I equally pity and despise.
I am not however certain it was the ceremony which affected me thus
strongly; it was impossible not to feel for this amiable victim; never
was there an object more interesting; her form was elegance itself;
her air and motion animated and graceful; the glow of pleasure was on
her cheek, the fire of enthusiasm in her eyes, which are the finest I
ever saw: never did I see joy so livelily painted on the countenance of
the happiest bride; she seem'd to walk in air; her whole person look'd
more than human.
An enemy to every species of superstition, I must however allow it
to be least destructive to true virtue in your gentle sex, and
therefore to be indulg'd with least danger: the superstition of men is
gloomy and ferocious; it lights the fire, and points the dagger of the
assassin; whilst that of women takes its color from the sex; is soft,
mild, and benevolent; exerts itself in acts of kindness and charity,
and seems only substituting the love of God to that of man.
Who can help admiring, whilst they pity, the foundress of the
Ursuline convent, Madame de la Peltrie, to whom the very colony in some
measure owes its existence? young, rich and lovely; a widow in the
bloom of life, mistress of her own actions, the world was gay before
her, yet she left all the pleasures that world could give, to devote
her days to the severities of a religion she thought the only true one:
she dar'd the dangers of the sea, and the greater dangers of a savage
people; she landed on an unknown shore, submitted to the extremities of
cold and heat, of thirst and hunger, to perform a service she thought
acceptable to the Deity. To an action like this, however mistaken the
motive, bigotry alone will deny praise: the man of candor will only
lament that minds capable of such heroic virtue are not directed to
views more conducive to their own and the general happiness.
I am unexpectedly call'd this moment, my dear Lucy, on some business
to Montreal, from whence you shall hear from me.
Adieu!
Ed. Rivers.