I was the second son of a gentleman, whose estate was barely sufficient to support himself and his heir in the dignity of killing game.  He therefore made use of the interest which the alliances of his family afforded him, to procure me a post in the army.  I passed some years in the most contemptible of all human stations, that of a soldier in time of peace.  I wandered with the regiment as the quarters were changed, without opportunity for business, taste for knowledge, or money for pleasure.  Wherever I came, I was for some time a stranger without curiosity, and afterwards an acquaintance without friendship.  Having nothing to hope in these places of fortuitous residence, I resigned my conduct to chance; I had no intention to offend, I had no ambition to delight.

I suppose every man is shocked when he hears how frequently soldiers are wishing for war.  The wish is not always sincere; the greater part are content with sleep and lace, and counterfeit an ardour which they do not feel; but those who desire it most are neither prompted by malevolence nor patriotism; they neither pant for laurels, nor delight in blood; but long to be delivered from the tyranny of idleness, and restored to the dignity of active beings.

I never imagined myself to have more courage than other men, yet was often involuntarily wishing for a war, but of a war, at that time, I had no prospect; and being enabled, by the death of an uncle, to live without my pay, I quitted the army, and resolved to regulate my own motions.

I was pleased, for a while, with the novelty of independence, and imagined that I had now found what every man desires.  My time was in my own power, and my habitation was wherever my choice should fix it.  I amused myself for two years in passing from place to place, and comparing one convenience with another; but being at last ashamed of inquiry, and weary of uncertainty, I purchased a house, and established my family.

I now expected to begin to be happy, and was happy for a short time with that expectation.  But I soon perceived my spirits to subside, and my imagination to grow dark.  The gloom thickened every day round me.  I wondered by what malignant power my peace was blasted, till I discovered at last that I had nothing to do.

Time, with all its celerity, moves slowly to him whose whole employment is to watch its flight.  I am forced upon a thousand shifts to enable me to endure the tediousness of the day.  I rise when I can sleep no longer, and take my morning-walk; I see what I have seen before, and return.  I sit down, and persuade myself that I sit down to think; find it impossible to think without a subject, rise up to inquire after news, and endeavour to kindle in myself an artificial impatience for intelligence of events, which will never extend any consequence to me, but that, a few minutes, they abstract me from myself.

When I have heard any thing that may gratify curiosity, I am busied for a while in running to relate it.  I hasten from one place of concourse, to another, delighted with my own importance, and proud to think that I am doing something, though I know that another hour would spare my labour.