e amusement
of the ladies; so that upon the whole 'tis a pretty fashion, and
deserves encouragement.

You expect too much of your brother, my dear; the summer is charming
here, but with no such very striking difference from that of England,
as to give room to say a vast deal on the subject; though I believe, if
you will please to compare our letters, you will find, putting us
together, we cut a pretty figure in the descriptive way; at least if
your brother tells me truth.

You may expect a very well painted frost-piece from me in the
winter; as to the present season, it is just like any fine autumn in
England: I may add, that the beauty of the nights is much beyond my
power of description: a constant _Aurora borealis_, without a
cloud in the heavens; and a moon so resplendent that you may see to
read the smallest print by its light; one has nothing to wish but that
it was full moon every night. Our evening walks are delicious,
especially at Silleri, where 'tis the pleasantest thing in the world to
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.

I was sitting after dinner with a book, in a th