I send you a pamphlet giving a summary account of all the meetings of a general nature which have taken place heretofore. The treaty between Prussia and this country is certainly concluded, but its contents are not yet known. I shall set out for the waters of Aix on the 13th instant, so that I am unable to say when and whence I shall have the honor of addressing you again. But I take measures for the conveying to me on my road all letters, so that should anything extraordinary require it, I can at all times be recalled to Paris in a fortnight. I shall hope to hear from you at times, as if I were in Paris. I thank you much for the valuable present of your book. The subject of it is interesting, and I am sure it is well treated. I shall take it on my journey, that I may have time to study it. You told me once, you had thought of writing on hereditary aristocracy. I wish you would carry it into execution. It would 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 _coeffeur'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