Saturday evening. I was as usual, all the evening at my own lodgings: I spent my time
in reading Gibbon's roman history, 2d volume, and now at 12 at night, upon compulsion
I am to say something for myself. And I know nothing better than to testify, that
at Mr. Parsons's office, I have lost a great part of this week, by conversing with
him and with Townsend.
Mr. Parsons is now gone to Boston, and I hope to god, I shall not go on in this way
squandering week after week, till at the end of three years I shall go out of the
office, as ignorant as I entered it. I cannot, must not be so negligent: all my hopes
of going through the world in any other, than the most contemptible manner, depend
upon my own exertions, and if I continue thus trifling away my time, I shall become
an object of charity or at least of pity. God of Heaven! if those are the only terms
upon which life can be granted to me, oh! take me from this world before, I curse
the day of my birth—Or rather give me resolution to pursue my duty with diligence
and application, that if my fellow creatures should neglect, and despise me, at least
I may be conscious of not deserving their contempt.