To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.
Quebec, Sept. 12.
I yesterday morning received a letter from Major Melmoth, to
introduce to my acquaintance Sir George Clayton, who brought it; he
wanted no other introduction to me than his being dear to the most
amiable woman breathing; in virtue of that claim, he may command every
civility, every attention in my power. He breakfasted with me
yesterday: we were two hours alone, and had a great deal of
conversation; we afterwards spent the day together very agreably, on a
party of pleasure in the country.
I am going with him this afternoon to visit Miss Fermor, to whom he
has a letter from the divine Emily, which he is to deliver himself.
He is very handsome, but not of my favorite stile of beauty:
extremely fair and blooming, with fine features, light hair and eyes;
his countenance not absolutely heavy, but inanimate, and to my taste
insipid: finely made, not ungenteel, but without that easy air of the
world which I prefer to the most exact symmetry without it. In short,
he is what the country ladies in England call _a sweet pretty man_.
He dresses well, has the finest horses and the handsomest liveries I
have seen in Canada. His manner is civil but cold, his conversation
sensible but not spirited; he seems to be a man rather to approve than
to love. Will you excuse me if I say, he resembles the form my
imagination paints of Prometheus's man of clay, before he stole the
celestial fire to animate him?
Perhaps I scrutinize him too strictly; perhaps I am prejudiced in
my judgment by the very high idea I had form'd of the man whom Emily
Montague could love. I will own to you, that I thought it impossible
for her to be pleased with meer beauty; and I cannot even now change
my opinion; I shall find some latent fire, some hidden spark, when we
are better acquainted.
I intend to be very intimate with him, to endeavour to see into his
very soul; I am hard to please in a husband for my Emily; he must have
spirit, he must have sensibility, or he cannot make her happy.
He thank'd me for my civility to Miss Montague: do you know I
thought him impertinent? and I am not yet sure he was not so, though I
saw he meant to be polite.
He comes: our horses are at the door. Adieu!
Yours,
Ed. Rivers.
Eight in the evening.
We are return'd: I every hour like him less. There were several
ladies, French and English, with Miss Fermor, all on the rack to engage
the Baronet's attention; you have no notion of the effect of a title
in America. To do the ladies justice however, he really look'd very
handsome; the ride, and the civilities he receiv'd from a circle of
pretty women, for they were well chose, gave a glow to his complexion
extremely favorable to his desire of pleasing, which, through all his
calmness, it was impossible not to observe; he even attempted once or
twice to be lively, but fail'd: vanity itself could not inspire him
with vivacity; yet vanity is certainly his ruling passion, if such a
piece of still life can be said to have any passions at all.
What a charm, my dear Lucy, is there in sensibility! 'Tis the magnet
which attracts all to itself: virtue may command esteem, understanding
and talents admiration, beauty a transient desire; but 'tis sensibility
alone which can inspire love.
Yet the tender, the sensible Emily Montague--no, my dear, 'tis
impossible: she may fancy she loves him, but it is not in nature;
unless she extremely mistakes his character. His _approbation_ of
her, for he cannot feel a livelier sentiment, may at present, when with
her, raise him a little above his natural vegetative state, but after
marriage he will certainly sink into it again.
If I have the least judgment in men, he will be a cold, civil,
inattentive husband; a tasteless, insipid, silent companion; a
tranquil, frozen, unimpassion'd lover; his insensibility will secure
her from rivals, his vanity will give her all the drapery of happiness;
her friends will congratulate her choice; she will be the envy of her
own sex: without giving positive offence, he will every moment wound,
because he is a stranger to, all the fine feelings of a heart like
hers; she will seek in vain the friend, the lover, she expected; yet,
scarce knowing of what to complain, she will accuse herself of caprice,
and be astonish'd to find herself wretched with _the best husband in
the world_.
I tremble for her happiness; I know how few of my own sex are to be
found who have the lively sensibility of yours, and of those few how
many wear out their hearts by a life of gallantry and dissipation, and
bring only apathy and disgust into marriage. I know few men capable of
making her happy; but this Sir George--my Lucy, I have not patience.
Did I tell you all the men here are in love with your friend Bell
Fermor? The women all hate her, which is an unequivocal proof that she
pleases the other sex.