but this inward satisfaction is embittered, when I consider the condition of my friends. They are got into a dark hole, where they grope about after blind guides; stumble from mistake to mistake; jostle against one another, and dash their heads against the wall; and all this to no purpose. For assure yourself that there is no returning to light; no going out, but by going back. My style is mystick, but it is your trade to deal in mysteries, and therefore I add neither comment nor excuse. You will understand me; and I conjure you to be persuaded that if I could have half an hour's conversation with you, for which I would barter whole hours of life, you would stare, haul your whig, and bite paper, more than ever you did in your life[1]. Adieu, dear friend; may the kindest influence of Heaven be shed upon you. Whether we may ever meet again, that Heaven only knows; if we do, what millions of things shall we have to talk over! In the mean while, believe that nothing sits so near my heart as my country and my friends; and that among these you ever had, and ever shall have, a principal place.
If you write to me, direct à Monsieur Charlot, chez Monsieur Cantillon, banquier, rue de l' Arbre sec[2]. Once more adieu.
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