I promised to write to you and Juliet again, soon, and
enclose one of the anonymous letters. I would write in
detail, and inform you how I am pleased with this hospitable,
warm hearted people; but, I am yet a stranger;

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constantly occupied by visiting; a ceremony, conducted in
a fashionable way, that is exceedingly tiresome to me.—
When I have more knowledge, and more leisure too, I
shall write to our beloved Juliet; and tell her all that I
know, or can find out, concerning the good yankees, the
sellers of wooden nutmegs;—gloves, all of one hand;—
cuckoo-clocks, and Hingham-ware. So far as I have
seen them, I like them. The country looks old, rich,
and substantial; and the manners, I should think, were
remarkably primitive. I speak of the country people.—
The buildings, publick and private, are adapted, admirably
well; first, for comfort and utility; and then, for
show. With us, and further to the south, there seems to
be a different tendency. But, perhaps I am prejudiced;
for you know, that, where we have been generously treated,
it is difficult to see faults.


“It is in vain, that we would coldly turn,
“To them that smile on us—.”
Byron, I believe;—but I have no knack at such things;
and what possessed me to quote poetry, I know not; and
to quote him, of all men breathing; him, whom I so heartily
execrate and despise. I don't know when I have been
in such spirits. Your note, announcing that Frank had
gone to New Orleans, has made my heart light; but the
first had miscarried—I have not received it yet; let him
wear the talisman, nevertheless; the tiger may cross his
path, when he least expects it. But why not say more?
You are on your return, I suppose.—Shall you renew
your intimacy with Molton? I hope not. But if you do,
hunt him out of his labyrinth. Read the within, and
tell me what you think of it. It is the fifth, that I have
received. I already tremble; and, above all, I would
have you ascertain if Molton be married.