Passy, 9 February, 1779.
It is now a year, within a day or two, of my departure from home. It is
in vain for me to think of writing of what is passed. The character and
situation in which I am here, and the situation of public affairs,
absolutely forbid my writing freely. I must be excused. So many vessels
are taken, and there are so many persons indiscreet and so many others
inquisitive, that I may not write. God knows how much I suffer for want
of writing to you. It used to be a cordial to my spirits.
Thus much I can say with perfect sincerity, that I have found nothing to
disgust me, or in any manner disturb me, in the French nation. My evils
here arise altogether from Americans. If I would have enlisted myself
under the banner of either party,[199] I might have filled America, I
doubt not, with panegyrics of me from one party and curses and slanders
from another. I have endeavored to be hitherto impartial, to search for
nothing but the truth, and to love nobody and nothing but the public
good, at least not more than the public good. I have hoped that
animosities might be softened, and the still small voice of reason heard
more and the boisterous roar of passions and prejudices less. But the
publication of a certain address[200] to the people has destroyed all
such hopes. Nothing remains now but the fearful looking for of the fiery
indignation of the monster party, here.