TO THE HON.  H.S.  CONWAY.

STRAWBERRY HILL, June 20, 1776.

I was very glad to receive your letter, not only because always most glad to hear of you, but because I wished to write to you, and had absolutely nothing to say till I had something to answer.  I have lain but two nights in town since I saw you; have been, else, constantly here, very much employed, though doing, hearing, knowing exactly nothing.  I have had a Gothic architect [Mr. Essex] from Cambridge to design me a gallery, which will end in a mouse, that is, in an hexagon closet of seven feet diameter.  I have been making a Beauty Room, which was effected by buying two dozen of small copies of Sir Peter Lely, and hanging them up; and I have been making hay, which is not made, because I put it off for three days, as I chose it should adorn the landscape when I was to have company; and so the rain is come, and has drowned it.  However, as I can even turn calculator when it is to comfort me for not minding my interest, I have discovered that it is five to one better for me that my hay should be spoiled than not; for, as the cows will eat it if it is damaged, which horses will not, and as I have five cows and but one horse, is not it plain that the worse my hay is the better?  Do not you with your refining head go, and, out of excessive friendship, find out something to destroy my system.  I had rather be a philosopher than a rich man; and yet have so little philosophy, that I had much rather be content than be in the right.

Mr. Beauclerk and Lady Di have been here four or five days ­so I had both content and exercise for my philosophy.  I wish Lady Ailesbury was as fortunate!  The Pembrokes, Churchills, Le Texier, as you will have heard, and the Garricks have been with us.  Perhaps, if alone, I might have come to you; but you are all too healthy and harmonious.  I can neither walk nor sing; nor, indeed, am fit for anything but to amuse myself in a sedentary trifling way.  What I have most certainly not been doing, is writing anything:  a truth I say to you, but do not desire you to repeat.  I deign to satisfy scarce anybody else.  Whoever reported that I was writing anything, 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.  But enough of this.  When I know my own mind, for hitherto I have settled no plan for my summer, I will come to you.  Adieu!