I suppose, my dear Madam, that by your neglecting to inform me of your arrival in Europe, a circumstance that which could not to be indifferent to me, as indeed no occurrence relating to you can - you mean to leave me to guess and gather that a correspondence I once had the honor and felicity to enjoy, is to be no more. Alas, what heavy laden sounds are these - "no more"! The wretch who has never tasted pleasure, has never known woe; but what drives the soul to madness, is the recollection of joys that are "no more"! «?» But come, ye children of feeling and sentiment, ye whose trembling bosom cords ache, to unutterable anguish, as recollection gushed on the heart! Ye who are capable of an attachment, keen as the arrow of death and strong as the vigour of immortal being. Come and your ears shall drink a tale - but hush! I must not, I can not tell it! Agony is in the recollection, and frenzy is in the recital!
I present you a book; may I hope you will accept of it. I dare say you have brought your books with you. The fourth volume of The Scots Songs is published; I will also send it to you.
Shall I hear from you? But first, hear me! No cold language - no prudential documents - I despise advice and scorn controul. If you are not to write such language, such sentiments, as you know I shall wish, shall delight to receive; I conjure you, by wounded pride! By ruined peace! By frantic disappointed passion! By all the many ills that constitue that sum of human woes - a broken heart! To me be silent forever!
Mind my request! If you send me a page baptised in the font of sanctimonious prudence - by Heaven, Earth and Hell, I will tear it into atoms!