et more strongly than I do: in parting with the last of his friends,
she seems to part with her Rivers for ever.

One look more at the wild graces of nature I leave behind.

Adieu! Canada! adieu! sweet abode of the wood-nymphs! never shall I
cease to remember with delight the place where I have passed so many
happy hours.

Heaven preserve my dear Lucy, and give prosperous gales to her
friends!

Your faithful
A. Fitzgerald.

LETTER 173.

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 lovelies