Whatever happens in America, this country is undone.  I desire to be reckoned of the last age, and to be thought to have lived to be superannuated, preserving my senses only for myself and for the few I value.  I cannot aspire to be traduced like Algernon Sydney, and content myself with sacrificing to him amongst my lares.  Unalterable in my principles, careless about most things below essentials, indulging myself in trifles by system, annihilating myself by choice, but dreading folly at an unseemly age, I contrive to pass my time agreeably enough, yet see its termination approach without anxiety.  This is a true picture of my mind; and it must be true, because drawn for you, whom I would not deceive, and could not, if I would.  Your question on my being writing drew it forth, though with more seriousness than the report deserved—­yet talking to one’s dearest friend is neither wrong nor out of season.  Nay, you are my best apology.  I have always contented myself with your being perfect, or, if your modesty demands a mitigated term, I will say, unexceptionable.  It is comical, to be sure, to have always been more solicitous about the virtue of one’s friend than about one’s own; yet, I repeat it, you are my apology—­though I never was so unreasonable as to make you answerable for my faults in return; I take them wholly to myself.  But enough of this.  When I know my own mind, for hitherto I have settled no plan for my summer, I will come to you.  Adieu!

ANGLOMANIE IN PARIS—­HORSE-RACING.

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

STRAWBERRY HILL, Dec. 1, 1776.

I don’t know who the Englishwoman is of whom you give so ridiculous a description; but it will suit thousands.  I distrust my age continually, and impute to it half the contempt I feel for my countrymen and women.  If I think the other half well-founded, it is by considering what must be said hereafter of the present age.  What is to impress a great idea of us on posterity?  In truth, what do our contemporaries of all other countries think of us?  They stare at and condemn our politics and follies; and if they retain any respect for us, I doubt it is for the sense we have had.  I do know, indeed, one man who still worships us, but his adoration is testified so very absurdly, as not to do us much credit.  It is a Monsieur de Marchais, first Valet-de-Chambre to the King of France.  He has the Anglomanie so strong, that he has not only read more English than French books, but if any valuable work appears in his own language, he waits to peruse it till it is translated into English; and to be sure our translations of French are admirable things!