hing, must have been so totally unfounded, that they
either blundered by guessing without reason, or knew they lied--and that
could not be with any kind intention; though saying I am going to do
what I am not going to do, is wretched enough. Whatever is said of me
without truth, anybody is welcome to believe that pleases.

In fact, though I have scarce a settled purpose about anything, I think
I shall never write any more. I have written a great deal too much,
unless I had written better, and I know I should now only write still
worse. One's talent, whatever it is, does not improve at near
sixty--yet, if I liked it, I dare to say a good reason would not stop my
inclination;--but I am grown most indolent in that respect, and most
absolutely indifferent to every purpose of vanity. Yet without vanity I
am become still prouder and more contemptuous. I have a contempt for my
countrymen that makes me despise their approbation. The applause of
slaves and of the foolish mad is below ambition. Mine is the haughtiness
of an ancient Briton, that cannot write what would please this age, and
would not, if he could.

Whatever happens in America, this country is undone. I desire to be
reckoned of the last age, and to be thought to have lived to be
superannuated, preserving my senses only for myself and for the few I
value. I cannot aspire to be traduced like Algernon Sydney, and content
myself with sacrificing to him amongst my lares. Unalterable in my
principles, careless about most things below essentials, indulging
myself in trifles by system, annihilating myself by choice, but dreading
folly at an unseemly age, I contrive to pass my time agreeably enough,
yet see its termination approach without anxiety. This is a true picture
of my mind; and it must be true, because drawn for you, whom I would not
deceive, and could not, if I would. Your question on my being writing
drew it forth, though with more seriousness than the report
deserved--yet talking to one's dearest friend is neither wrong nor out
of season. Nay, you are my best apology. I have always contented myself
with your being perfect, or, if your modesty demands a mitigated term, I
will say, unexceptionable. It is comical, to be sure, to have always
been more solicitous about the virtue of one's friend than about one's
own; yet, I repeat it, you are my apology--though I never was so
unreasonable as to make you answerable for my faults in return; I take
them wholly to myself