Though I have juſt ſent a letter off, yet, as captain —— offers to take one, I am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, becauſe trifles of this ſort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my ſpirits:—and you, with all your ſtruggles to be manly, have ſome of this ſame ſenſibility.—Do not bid it begone, for I love to ſee it ſtriving to maſter your features; beſides, theſe kind of ſympathies are the life of affection: and why, in cultivating our underſtandings, ſhould we try to dry up theſe ſprings of pleaſure, which guſh out to give a freſhneſs to days browned by care!
The books ſent to me are ſuch as we may read together; ſo I ſhall not look into them till you return; when you ſhall read, whilſt I mend my ſtockings.
Yours truly
* * * *
LETTER X
Wedneſday Night [January 1.]
As I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon, I am hurt; and why ſhould I, by concealing it, affect the heroiſm I do not feel?
I hate commerce. How differently muſt ———'s head and heart be organized from mine! You will tell me, that exertions are neceſſary: I am weary of them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The "peace" and clemency which ſeemed to be dawning a few days ago, diſappear again. "I am fallen," as Milton ſaid, "on evil days;" for I really believe that Europe will be in a ſtate of convulſion, during half a century at leaſt. Life is but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great ſtone up a hill; for, before a perſon can find a reſting-place, imagining it is lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew!
