listen to soft nonsense,

"Whilst the moon dances through the trembling leaves"

(A line I stole from Philander and Sylvia): But to return:

The French ladies never walk but at night, which shews their good
taste; and then only within the walls of Quebec, which does not: they
saunter slowly, after supper, on a particular battery, which is a kind
of little Mall: they have no idea of walking in the country, nor the
least feeling of the lovely scene around them; there are many of them
who never saw the falls of Montmorenci, though little more than an
hour's drive from the town. They seem born without the smallest portion
of curiosity, or any idea of the pleasures of the imagination, or
indeed any pleasure but that of being admired; love, or rather
coquetry, dress, and devotion, seem to share all their hours: yet, as
they are lively, and in general handsome, the men are very ready to
excuse their want of knowledge.

There are two ladies in the province, I am told, who read; but both
of them are above fifty, and they are regarded as prodigies of
erudition.

Eight in the evening.

Absolutely, Lucy, I will marry a savage, and turn squaw (a pretty soft
name for an Indian princess!): never was any thing so delightful as
their lives; they talk of French husbands, but commend me to an Indian
one, who lets his wife ramble five hundred miles, without asking where
she is going.