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.