ABSTRACT
Many weeks have elapsed, my dear Harry, since my last letter was written. Yet I doubt whether you have yet received it. I have since its date traversed a very great extent of country; much of it the same that we once passed together, when life was opening to my sanguine view, and presented scenes of ideal happiness never to be realized. I reserve for our conversation the remarks I made during my short stay at Paris; for even before I last took leave of you, you were not only satiated but fatigued by the various and contradictory accounts that had been published of the progress of the revolution and the state of France;4 and I remember we regretted together, that it was not always possible to find refuge in incredulity for our outraged feelings and baffled speculations; in incredulity, which sometimes we had indulged, from the certainty, that every circumstance in such an event would be by certain persons distorted and misrepresented, and some of whom I really believe would have been less pleased if they had found less ground for declamation against what no integrity of practice would have saved from their abhorrence of its principle.
