LETTER XXXIII.
August 22.
MY active spirits have degenerated into uneasy indolence: -- I
cannot employ myself; I cannot be idle. I can- {94} not think; I
am sensible of the beauties of nature, and books are distasteful
to me. -- When we give ourselves up, every thing fails us. -- I
wish sometimes I was a mechanic; when I waked in the morning I
should have some pursuit, some hope, a task at least for the day.
I often envy Albert, when I see him buried in a heap of papers
and parchments up to his eyes; and I say to myself, in his place
I should be happy. -- I have more than once intended to write to
you, and to the minister, for the enployment which you think I
might obtain, I believe myself I might have it: the minister has
long shewn a regard for me, and has often told me that I ought to
seek some employment. It is the business of an hour only: But
when the fable recurs to me of the horse, who, being weary of his
liberty, suffered himself to be saddled and bridled, and then
found reason to repent; I say, when this fable recurs to me, I
don't know what to determine upon. Besides, my dear friend, {95}
this desire to change my situation, is it not the consequence of
that restless, perturbed spirit, which would equally pursue me in
every situation in life?
