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.
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.
I die to build a house on this island; it is pity such a sweet spot
should be uninhabited: I should like excessively to be Queen of Bic.
Fitzgerald has carved my name on a maple, near the shore; a pretty
piece of gallantry in a husband, you will allow: perhaps he means it as
taking possession for me of the island.
We are going to cards. Adieu! for the present.
Aug. 18.
'Tis one of the loveliest days I ever saw: we are fishing under the
Magdalen islands; the weather is perfectly calm, the sea just dimpled,
the sun-beams dance on the waves, the fish are playing on the surface
of the water: the island is at a proper distance to form an agreable
point of view; and upon the whole the scene is divine.
There is one house on the island, which, at a distance, seems so
beautifully situated, that I have lost all desire of fixing at Bic: I
want to land, and go to the house for milk, but there is no good
landing place on this side; the island seems here to be fenced in by a
regular wall of rock.
A breeze springs up; our fishing is at an end for the present: I am
afraid we shall not pass many days so agreably as we have done this. I
feel horror at the idea of so soon losing sight of land, and launching
on the _vast Atlantic_.
Adieu! yours,
A. Fitzgerald.