_Wednesday Night [Paris, Jan. 1, 1794]._
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!
Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My head
aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an "unweeded garden,"
where "things rank and vile" flourish best.
If you do not return soon--or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of
it--I will throw your slippers out at window, and be off--nobody knows
where.