_London, December 1, 1767._
_Dear Sir_,
_QUANTUM mutatus ab illo!_ As you now do not suffer outwardly, I expect to hear that you suffer inwardly. Nothing else can preserve you this winter season, or prepare you for another spring. A spring, I trust, you will yet have. Then shall poor _Sampson_’s locks grow again, and he be revenged of the _Philistines_ for the loss of his eyes. Surely you have been wrong advised. _Exitus acta probat._ If you chuse to have our correspondence continued, write your whole heart; it may help to unload it. I shall not upbraid; though I do not expect letters now will smell of the divine fire as formerly. Well, if they smell of the prison of humiliation, by and by they may regain their usual and more solid permanent fervor. But, _facilis descensus Averni_.――You meet like apostles now; but when they met between the time of their LORD’s death and resurrection, what trouble did they endure, for fear of the _Jews_? But be not discouraged. Continue instant in prayer. A risen, an ascended JESUS will yet appear in the midst of you, (though the doors of your hearts may be now shut) renew your commission, endue you with power from on high; and then, woe be to the _Jewish_ sanhedrim. O think of this, ye little college of cast-outs! Do not deny him in any wise. You see I write to you out of the fulness of my heart. The LORD bless you and keep you; the LORD lift up the light of his countenance upon you, and be gracious unto you; the LORD cause his face to shine upon you, and then, but not till then, will you have peace.
Yours, &c. &c.