LETTER XLVI.--TO MRS. BINGHAM, February 7, 1787
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 coiffeurs 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.
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