I am to give a ball to-morrow; Mrs. Melmoth is to have the honors of it, but as she is with child, she does not dance.  This circumstance has produc’d a dispute not a little flattering to my vanity:  the ladies are making interest to dance with me; what a happy exchange have I made! what man of common sense would stay to be overlook’d in England, who can have rival beauties contend for him in Canada?  This important point is not yet settled; the etiquette here is rather difficult to adjust; as to me, I have nothing to do in the consultation; my hand is destin’d to the longest pedigree; we stand prodigiously on our noblesse at Montreal.

Four o’clock.

After a dispute in which two French ladies were near drawing their husbands into a duel, the point of honor is yielded by both to Miss Montague; each insisting only that I should not dance with the other:  for my part, I submit with a good grace, as you will suppose.

Saturday morning.

I never passed a more agreeable evening:  we have our amusements here, I assure you:  a set of fine young fellows, and handsome women, all well dress’d, and in humor with themselves, and with each other:  my lovely Emily like Venus amongst the Graces, only multiplied to about sixteen.  Nothing is, in my opinion, so favorable to the display of beauty as a ball.  A state of rest is ungraceful; all nature is most beautiful in motion; trees agitated by the wind, a ship under sail, a horse in the course, a fine woman dancing:  never any human being had such an aversion to still life as I have.

I am going back to Melmoth’s for a month; don’t be alarm’d, Lucy!  I see all her perfections, but I see them with the cold eye of admiration only:  a woman engaged loses all her attractions as a woman; there is no love without a ray of hope:  my only ambition is to be her friend; I want to be the confidant of her passion.  With what spirit such a mind as hers must love!

      Adieu! my dear! 
        Yours,
          Ed. Rivers.

LETTER 7.

To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.

Montreal, August 15.

By Heavens, Lucy, this is more than man can bear; I was mad to stay so long at Melmoth’s; there is no resisting this little seducer:  ’tis shameful in such a lovely woman to have understanding too; yet even this I could forgive, had she not that enchanting softness in her manner, which steals upon the soul, and would almost make ugliness itself charm; were she but vain, one had some chance, but she will take upon her to have no consciousness, at least no apparent consciousness, of her perfections, which is really intolerable.  I told her so last night, when she put on such a malicious smile—­I believe the little tyrant wants to add me to the list of her slaves; but I was not form’d to fill up a train.  The woman I love must be so far from giving another the preference, that she must have