|Transcript or Index||Most faithless Saxon|
After sitting whole days with my arms folded, my legs crossed and my feet on the fender, devising excuses for your absence; after building castles in the air, and discovering them to be but frost work, drawing your portrait in the fire, and demolishing it with the poker, or cutting it out in paper, and blowing it away with my sighs I arrive but at one conclusion – that I am utterly forsaken. Think not that I expect to melt you, for had you not been <already> hardened by three polar winters, you must be now <like my tears, &> like everything else in this great town, completely frozen. No – every spark of hope is extinguished in my bosom; therefore, as willows are out of season, and my garters withal rather the worse for wear, as the Serpentine is frozen over and even the Thames at Waterloo <Bridge> nearly inaccessible from icebergs, as Daggers and poison are too melodramatic and opening a vein too surgical and unsentimental; and as razors and pistols are somewhat masculine resources <and moreover commonplace,> I beg to know your pleasure as to the disposal of myself.
The Disconsolate Monimia
Nota Bene – I would bury myself in the snow, but fear to be turned into spermaceti before you would hear of my fate. What think you of swallowing fire? It has but one prototype and would be a comfortable death this weather.