Therefore, do not come back to me, Meriwether Lewis! Do not come--forget all that I have said to you before--do not return until you have done your work! Do not come back to me until you can come content. Do not come to me with your splendid will broken. Let it triumph even over the will of a Burr, not used to yielding, not easily giving up anything desired.
This is almost the last letter I shall ever write to any man in all my life. I wonder who will read it--you, or all the world, perhaps! I wish it might rest with you at the last. Oh, let this thought lie with you as you sleep--you did not come back to me, and I rejoiced that you did not!
Tell me, why is it that I think of you lying where the wind is sweet in the trees? Why is it that I think of myself, too, lying at last, with all my doubts composed, all my restless ambitions ended, all my foolish dreams answered--in some place where the sound of the unceasing waters shall wash out from the memory of the world all my secrets and all my sins? Always I hear myself crying: "I hope I shall not be unhappy, for I do not feel that I have been bad."
Adieu, Meriwether Lewis, adieu! I am glad you can never read this. I am glad that you have not come back. I am glad that I have failed!