“Your letter raised me for a moment from the depths of despair, but not hearing from you yesterday or to-day, as I hoped, I am gone back again I grant all you say about my self-tormenting madness, but has it been without cause? When I think of this, and I think of it for ever (except when I read your letters), the air I breathe stifles me. . . . . I can do nothing. What is the use of all I have done? Is it not this thinking beyond my strength, my feeling more than I ought about so many things, that has withered me up, and made me a thing for love to shrink from and wonder at? . . . . My state is that I feel I shall never lie down again at night nor rise up of a morning in peace, nor ever behold my little boy’s face with pleasure, while I live, unless I am restored to her favour I wander, or rather crawl, by the sea-side, and the eternal ocean, and lasting despair, and her face are before me. . . . . Do let me know if anything has passed: suspense is my greatest torment. Jeffrey (to whom I did a little unfold) came down with 100l, to give me time to recover, and I am going to Renton Inn to see if I can work a little in the three weeks before it will be over, if all goes well. Tell Colburn to send the ‘Table Talk’ to him, 92, George Street, Edinburgh, unless he is mad, and wants to ruin me. . . . . Write on the receipt of this, and believe me yours unspeakably obliged,
