Dear Waller,

You are to express no astonishment at the place where this letter is dated. I confess the engagement to meet you under the walls of the Seraglio; but hear me, before the sin of forgetful ness shall be too hastily imputed to my charge. You know the inveterate peregrinating habits of the club, and can judge, from your own besetting propensity to change your residence monthly, how difficult it might prove to resist the temptation of traversing a soil that is still virgin, so far as the perambulating feet of the members of our fraternity are concerned. In a word, I am here, awaiting the packet for America. Before you get this letter, the waters of one half of the Atlantic will roll between us. This resolution, seemingly so sudden, has not, however, been taken without much and mature thought.

Cosmopolites, and searchers of the truth, as we boast ourselves, who, of all our number, has ever turned his steps towards a quarter (I had almost written half) of the globe, where new scenes, a state of society without a parallel, even in history, and so much that is fresh, both in the physical and moral world, invite our attention. This reproach shall exist no longer. If resentment against so much apparent fickleness can refrain the while, read, and you shall know the reasons why you are left to wander, alone, through the streets of Pera, and to endure sullen looks, from haughty Turks, without the promised support of your infidel companion.