To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.
Silleri, Dec. 27.
After a fortnight's snow, we have had near as much clear blue sky
and sunshine: the snow is six feet deep, so that we may be said to walk
on our own heads; that is, speaking _en philosophe_, we occupy the
space we should have done in summer if we had done so; or, to explain
it more clearly, our heels are now where our heads should be.
The scene is a little changed for the worse: the lovely landscape is
now one undistinguished waste of snow, only a little diversified by the
great variety of ever-greens in the woods: the romantic winding path
down the side of the hill to our farm, on which we used to amuse
ourselves with seeing the beaux serpentize, is now a confused,
frightful, rugged precipice, which one trembles at the idea of
ascending.
There is something exceedingly agreable in the whirl of the
carrioles, which fly along at the rate of twenty miles an hour; and
really hurry one out of one's senses.
Our little coterie is the object of great envy; we live just as we
like, without thinking of other people, which I am not sure _here_
is prudent, but it is pleasant, which is a better thing.
Emily, who is the civilest creature breathing, is for giving up her
own pleasure to avoid offending others, and wants me, every time we
make a carrioling-party, to invite all the misses of Quebec to go with
us, because they seem angry at our being happy without them: but for
that very reason I persist in my own way, and consider wisely, that,
though civility is due to other people, yet there is also some civility
due to one's self.
I agree to visit every body, but think it mighty absurd I must not
take a ride without asking a hundred people I scarce know to go with
me: yet this is the style here; they will neither be happy themselves,
nor let any body else. Adieu!
Dec. 29.
I will never take a beaver's word again as long as I live: there is
no supporting this cold; the Canadians say it is seventeen years since
there has been so severe a season. I thought beavers had been people
of more honor.
Adieu! I can no more: the ink freezes as I take it from the standish
to the paper, though close to a large stove. Don't expect me to write
again till May; one's faculties are absolutely congealed this weather.
Yours,
A. Fermor.