I have been making the tour of the three religions this morning,
and, as I am the most constant creature breathing; am come back only a
thousand times more pleased with my own. I have been at mass, at
church, and at the presbyterian meeting: an idea struck me at the last,
in regard to the drapery of them all; that the Romish religion is like
an over-dressed, tawdry, rich citizen's wife; the presbyterian like a
rude aukward country girl; the church of England like an elegant
well-dressed woman of quality, "plain in her neatness" (to quote
Horace, who is my favorite author). There is a noble, graceful
simplicity both in the worship and the ceremonies of the church of
England, which, even if I were a stranger to her doctrines, would
prejudice me strongly in her favor.

Sir George sets out for Montreal this evening, so do the house of
Melmoth; I have however prevailed on Emily to stay a month or two
longer with me. I am rejoiced Sir George is going away; I am tired of
seeing that eternal smile, that countenance of his, which attempts to
speak, and says nothing. I am in doubt whether I shall let Emily marry
him; she will die in a week, of no distemper but his conversation.

They dine with us. I am called down. Adieu!

Eight at night.

Heaven be praised, our lover is gone; they parted with great
philosophy on both sides: they are the prettiest mild pair of
inamoratoes one shall see.

Your brother's servant has just called to tell me he is going to his
master. I have a great mind to answer his letter, and order him back.