look'd very
handsome; the ride, and the civilities he receiv'd from a circle of
pretty women, for they were well chose, gave a glow to his complexion
extremely favorable to his desire of pleasing, which, through all his
calmness, it was impossible not to observe; he even attempted once or
twice to be lively, but fail'd: vanity itself could not inspire him
with vivacity; yet vanity is certainly his ruling passion, if such a
piece of still life can be said to have any passions at all.

What a charm, my dear Lucy, is there in sensibility! 'Tis the magnet
which attracts all to itself: virtue may command esteem, understanding
and talents admiration, beauty a transient desire; but 'tis sensibility
alone which can inspire love.

Yet the tender, the sensible Emily Montague--no, my dear, 'tis
impossible: she may fancy she loves him, but it is not in nature;
unless she extremely mistakes his character. His _approbation_ of
her, for he cannot feel a livelier sentiment, may at present, when with
her, raise him a little above his natural vegetative state, but after
marriage he will certainly sink into it again.

If I have the least judgment in men, he will be a cold, civil,
inattentive husband; a tasteless, insipid, silent companion; a
tranquil, frozen, unimpassion'd lover; his insensibility will secure
her from rivals, his vanity will give her all the drapery of happiness;
her friends will congratulate her choice; she will be the envy of her
own sex: without giving positive offence, he will every moment wound,
because he is a stranger to, all the fine feelings of a heart like
hers; she will seek in vain the friend, the lover, she expected; yet,
scarce knowing of what to complain, she will accuse herself of caprice,
and be astonish'd to find herself wretched with _the best husband in
the world_.

I tremble for her happiness; I know how few of my own sex are to be
found who have the lively sensibility of yours, and of those few how
many wear out their hearts by a life of gallantry and dissipation, and
bring only apathy and disgust into marriage. I know few men capable of
making her happy; but this Sir George--my Lucy, I have not patience.

Did I tell you all the men here are in love with your friend Bell
Fermor? The women all hate her, which is an unequivocal proof that she
pleases the other sex.

LETTER 13.

To Miss Fermor, at Silleri.

Montreal, Sept. 2.

My dearest Bell will better imagine than I can describe, t