To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.
Silleri, Jan. 24.
We have the same parties and amusements we used to have, my dear,
but there is by no means the same spirit in them; constraint and
dullness seem to have taken the place of that sweet vivacity and
confidence which made our little society so pleasing: this odious man
has infected us all; he seems rather a spy on our pleasures than a
partaker of them; he is more an antidote to joy than a tall maiden
aunt.
I wish he would go; I say spontaneously every time I see him,
without considering I am impolite, "La! Sir George, when do you go to
Montreal?" He reddens, and gives me a peevish answer; and I then, and
not before, recollect how very impertinent the question is.
But pray, my dear, because he has no taste for social companionable
life, has he therefore a right to damp the spirit of it in those that
have? I intend to consult some learned casuist on this head.
He takes amazing pains to please in his way, is curled, powdered,
perfumed, and exhibits every day in a new suit of embroidery; but with
all this, has the mortification to see your brother please more in a
plain coat. I am lazy. Adieu!
Yours, ever and ever,
A. Fermor.