the fatigues of my voyage; and, if I ever murmur at having crossed the
Atlantic, remind me that I have seen the river Montmorenci.

I can give you a very imperfect account of the people here; I have
only examined the landscape about Quebec, and have given very little
attention to the figures; the French ladies are handsome, but as to the
beaux, they appear to me not at all dangerous, and one might safely
walk in a wood by moonlight with the most agreeable Frenchman here. I
am not surprized the Canadian ladies take such pains to seduce our men
from us; but I think it a little hard we have no temptation to make
reprisals.

I am at present at an extreme pretty farm on the banks of the river
St. Lawrence; the house stands at the foot of a steep mountain covered
with a variety of trees, forming a verdant sloping wall, which rises in
a kind of regular confusion, "Shade above shade, a woody theatre," and
has in front this noble river, on which the ships continually passing
present to the delighted eye the most charming moving picture
imaginable; I never saw a place so formed to inspire that pleasing
lassitude, that divine inclination to saunter, which may not improperly
be called, the luxurious indolence of the country. I intend to build a
temple here to the charming goddess of laziness.

A gentleman is just coming down the winding path on the side of the
hill, whom by his air I take to be your brother. Adieu! I must receive
him: my father is at Quebec.

Yours,
Arabella Fermor.