to sink into the bosom of my family and friends, and devote myself to studies more congenial to my mind.  In my answer of December 15th, I expressed these dispositions candidly to the President, and my preference of a return to Paris; but assured him, that if it was believed I could be more useful in the administration of the government, I would sacrifice my own inclinations without hesitation, and repair to that destination:  this I left to his decision.  I arrived at Monticello on the 23rd of December, where I received a second letter from the President, expressing his continued wish, that I should take my station there, but leaving me still at liberty to continue in my former office, if I could not reconcile myself to that now proposed.  This silenced my reluctance, and I accepted the new appointment.

In the interval of my stay at home, my eldest daughter had been happily married to the eldest son of the Tuckahoe branch of Randolphs, a young gentleman of genius, science, and honorable mind, who afterwards filled a dignified station in the General Government, and the most dignified in his own State.  I left Monticello on the 1st of March, 1790, for New York.  At Philadelphia I called on the venerable and beloved Franklin.  He was then on the bed of sickness from which he never rose.  My recent return from a country in which he had left so many friends, and the perilous convulsions to which they had been exposed, revived all his anxieties to know what part they had taken, what had been their course, and what their fate.  He went over all in succession, with a rapidity and animation, almost too much for his strength.  When all his inquiries were satisfied, and a pause took place, I told him I had learned with much pleasure that, since his return to America, he had been occupied in preparing for the world, the history of his own life.  ’I cannot say much of that,’ said he; ‘but I will give you a sample of what I shall leave:’  and he directed his little grandson (William Bache) who was standing by the bedside, to hand him a paper from the table, to which he pointed.  He did so; and the Doctor putting it into my hands, desired me to take it, and read it at my leisure.  It was about a quire of folio paper, written in a large and running hand, very like his own.  I looked into it slightly, then shut it, and said I would accept his permission to read it, and would carefully return it.  He said, ‘No, keep it.’  Not certain of his meaning, I again looked into it, folded it for my pocket, and said again, I would certainly return it.  ‘No,’ said he,’keep it.’  I put it into my pocket, and shortly after, took leave of him.  He died on the 17th of the ensuing month of April; and as I understood that he had bequeathed all his papers to his grandson, William Temple Franklin, I immediately wrote to Mr. Franklin, to inform him I possessed this paper, which I should consider as his property, and would deliver to his order.  He came on immediately to New York,