Amsterdam.

Iam this moment, my dear daughter, returned from Broëk, two leagues from this place. One cannot describe this village without being suspected of exaggeration; yet all I can say of this delightful spot must fall infinitely short of reality. The inhabitants, though mere peasants, are very rich. The streets are paved in Mosaic work of different-coloured bricks, and as neat as could be in your own apartment. The houses are painted, and as clean as wainscots, the best looked after. All, even the tiles, are shining bright and appear new. Each house has a garden and a terrace, both inclosed only by low and open fences which conceal nothing. The terrace is usually before the house, the garden behind, and separates it from the next house. Both sides of the street are laid out in the same manner. The ornaments of the gardens are China vases, grottoes, flowers, trees, and parterres, some laid out artificially with glittering pieces of glass of different colours, others of shells, as carefully arranged as in a cabinet. Large fertile meadows full of cattle are behind the houses, as are the sheds of stables, so that the carriages and cattle never come to dirty the neat streets. The insides of the houses are equally astonishing as the outsides. The floors are checquered with black and yellow shining stones: the best rooms are furnished with wainscot of its natural colour, neither varnished nor painted, but carved very ornamentally. In the best room there is always a large cupboard with glass-doors, through which are shewn most beautiful china, and quantities of plate, to all appearance new from the goldsmith. The same order of neatness prevailed in all the houses we went into. By this uniformity, one would imagine, all the fortunes were equal: when we have seen one, we have seen all the houses at Broëk.