ld make a
proper sequel to the present work. I wish you all possible happiness,
and have the honor to be, with sentiments of sincere esteem and
affection, dear Sir, your most obedient, and most humble servant.

TO MRS. BINGHAM.

PARIS, February 7, 1787.

I know, Madam, that the twelve month is not yet expired; but it will
be, nearly, before this will have the honor of being put into your
hands. You are then engaged to tell me, truly and honestly, whether you
do not find the tranquil pleasures of America, preferable to the empty
bustle of Paris. For, to what does that bustle tend? At eleven o'clock,
it is day, _chez madame_. The curtains are drawn. Propped on bolsters
and pillows, and her head scratched into a little order, the bulletins
of the sick are read, and the billets of the well. She writes to some
of her acquaintance, and receives the visits of others. If the morning
is not very thronged, she is able to get out and hobble round the cage
of the Palais Royal; but she must hobble quickly, for the _coiffeur's_
turn is come; and a tremendous turn it is! Happy, if he does not make
her arrive when dinner is half over! The torpitude of digestion a
little passed, she flutters half an hour through the streets, by way of
paying visits, and then to the spectacles. These finished, another half
hour is devoted to dodging in and out of the doors of her very sincere
friends, and away to supper. After supper, cards; and after cards, bed;
to rise at noon the next day, and to tread, like a mill horse, the same
trodden circle over again. Thus the days of life are consumed, one by
one, without an object beyond the present moment; ever flying from the
ennui of that, yet carrying it with us; eternally in pursuit of
happiness, which keeps eternally before us. If death or bankruptcy
happen to trip us out of the circle, it is matter for the buzz of the
evening, and is completely forgotten by the next morning. In America,
on the other hand, the society of your husband, the fond cares for the
children, the arrangements of the house, the improvements of the
grounds, fill every moment with a healthy and an useful activity. Every
exertion is encouraging, because, to present amusement, it joins the
promise of some future good. The intervals of leisure are filled by the
society of real friends, whose affections are not thinned to cob-web,
by being spread over a thousand objects. This is the picture, in the
light it is presented to my