CIII. TO CLARINDA. Thursday Morning [January 24]. "Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain." I HAVE been tasking my reason, Clarinda, why a woman, who, for native genius, poignant wit, strength of mind, generous sincerity of soul, and the sweetest female tenderness, is without a peer, and whose personal charms have few, very very few, parallels among her sex; why, or how she should fall to the blessed lot of a poor hairum-scairum poet whom Fortune had kept for her particular use, to wreak her temper on whenever she was in ill-humour. One time I conjectured, that as Fortune is the most capricious jade ever known, she may have taken, not a fit of remorse, but a paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor fellow out of the mire, where he had so often and so conveniently served her as a stepping-stone, and given him the most glorious boon she ever had in her gift, merely for the maggot's sake, to see how his fool head and his fool heart will bear it. At other times I was vain enough to think that Nature, who has a great deal to say with Fortune, had given the coquettish goddess some such hint as, "Here is a paragon of female excellence, whose equal, in all my former compositions, I never was lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever doing so again; you have cast her rather in the shades of life; there is a certain poet of my making; among your frolics it would not be amiss to attach him to this masterpiece of my hand, to give her that immortality among mankind which no woman, of any age, ever more deserved, and which few rhymsters of this age are better able to confer." Evening, 9 o'clock. I am here, absolutely unfit to finish my letter-pretty hearty after a bowl, which has been constantly plied since dinner till this moment. I have been with Mr Schetki, the musician, and he has set the song (Farewell to Clarinda, p. 127) finely. I have no distinct ideas of anything, but that I have drunk your health twice to-night, and that you are all my soul holds dear in this world. SYLVANDER. CIV. TO CLARINDA. [Friday, February 1]. CLARINDA, my life, you have wounded my soul. Can I think of your being unhappy, even though it be not described in your pathetic elegance of language, without being miserable? Cla rinda, can I bear to be told from you that "you will not see me to-morrow night-that you wish the hour of parting were come?" Do not let us impose on ourselves by sounds. Why, my love, talk to me in such strong terms, every word of which cuts me to the very soul? You know a hint, the slightest signification of your wish, is to me a sacred command. Be reconciled, my angel, to your God, yourself, and me; and I pledge you Sylvander's honour-an oath, I daresay, you will trust without reserve-that you shall never more have reason to complain of his conduct. Now, my love, do not wound our next meeting with any averted looks. • * I have marked the line of conduct-a line, I know, exactly to your taste—and which I will inviolably keep; but do not you show the least inclination to make boundaries. Seeming distrust, where you know you may confide, is a cruel sin against sensibility. Delicacy, you know, it was which won me to you at once: take care you do not loosen the dearest, most sacred tie that unites us." Clarinda, I would not have stung your soul-I would not have bruised your spirit, as that harsh, crucifying "Take care," did mine; no not to have gained heaven! Let me again appeal to your dear self, if Sylvander, even when he seemingly half transgressed the laws of decorum, if he did not show more chastised, trembling, faltering delicacy, than the many of the world do in keeping these laws? Oh Love and Sensibility, ye have conspired against my Peace! I love to madness, and I feel to torture! Clarinda, how can I forgive myself, that I have ever touched a single chord in your bosom with pain! Would I do it willingly? Would any consideration, any gratification, make me do so? Oh, did you love like me, you would not, you could not, deny or put off a meeting with the man who adores you; who would die a thousand deaths before he would injure you; and who must soon bid you a long farewell! I had proposed bringing my bosom friend, Mr Ainslie, to-morrow evening, at his strong request, to see you; as he has only time to stay with us about ten minutes, for an engagement. But I shall hear from you: this afternoon, for mercy's sake!-for, till I hear from you, I am wretched. Oh Clarinda, the tie that binds me to thee is intwisted, incorporated with my dearest threads of life! SYLVANDER. CV. TO CLARINDA. I WAS on the way, my love, to meet you (I never do things by halves) when I got your card. Mr Ainslie goes out of town tomorrow morning to see a brother of his, who is newly arrived from France. I am determined that he and I shall call on you together. So look you, lest I should never see to-morrow, we will call on you to-night. Mary and you may put off tea till about seven, at which time, in the Galloway phrase, "an the beast be to the fore, and the branka bide hale," expect the humblest of your humble servants, and his dearest friend. We only propose staying half an hour-" for ought we ken." I could suffer the lash of misery eleven months in the year, were the twelfth to be composed of hours like yesternight. You are the soul of my enjoyment-all else is of the stuff of stocks and stones! SYLVANDER. CVI. TO CLARINDA. Sunday Noon. I HAVE almost given up the Excise idea. I have been just now to wait on a great person, Miss -'s friend, Why will great people not only deafen us with the din of their equipage, and dazzle us with their fastidious pomp, but they must also be so very dictatorially wise? I have been questioned like a child about my matters, and blamed and schooled for my inscription on the Stirling window. Come, Clarinda!" Come, curse me, Jacob; come, defy me, Israel!" Sunday Night. I have been with Miss Nimmo. She is indeed " a good soul," as my Clarinda finely says. She has reconciled me, in a good measure, to the world with her friendly prattle. Schetki has sent me the song, set to a fine air of his composing. I have called the song Clarinda: I have carried it about in my pocket, and hummed it over all day. Monday Morning. If my prayers have any weight in Heaven, this morning looks in on you and finds you in the arms of peace, except where it is charmingly interrupted by the ardours of devotion. I find so much serenity of mind, so much positive pleasure, so much fearless daring toward the world, when warm in devotion, or feel the glorious sensation-a consciousness of Almighty friendship-that I am sure I shall soon be an honest enthusiast. "How are thy servants blest, O Lord! How sure is their defence! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence." I am, my dear madam, yours, SYLVANDER. CVII. TO CLARINDA. Sunday Morning. I HAVE just been before the throne of my God, Clarinda; according to any association of ideas, my sentiments of love and friendship, I next devote myself to you. Yesternight I was happy-happiness that the world cannot give. I kindle at the recollection; but it is a flame where innocence looks smiling on, and honour stands by, a sacred guard. Your heart, your fondest wishes, your dearest thoughts, these are yours to bestow: your person is unapproachable by the laws of your country; and he loves not as I do who would make you miserable. You are an angel, Clarinda; you are surely no mortal that "the earth owns." To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is to me far more exquisite bliss than the dearest favours that the fairest of the sex, yourself excepted, can bestow. Sunday Evening. You are the constant companion of my thoughts. How wretched is the condition of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, and trembling under the idea of dreaded vengeance! and what a placid calm, what a charming secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom the kind feeling of friendship and the fond throes of love! Out upon the tempest of anger, the acrimonious gall of fretful impatience, the sullen frost of louring resentment, or the corroding poison of withered envy! They eat up the immortal part of man! If they spent their fury only on the unfortunate objects of them, it would be something in their favour; but these miserable passions, like traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and master. Thou Almighty Author of peace, and goodness, and love! do thou give me the social heart that kindly tastes of every man's cup! Is it a draught of joy ?-warm and open my heart to share it with cordial unenvying rejoicing! Is it the bitter portion of sorrow?-melt my heart with sincerely sympathetic woe!--above all, do thou give me the manly mind, that resolutely exemplifies, in life and manners, those sentiments which I would wish to be thought to possess! The friend of my soul; there, may I never deviate from the firmest fidelity and most active kindness! Clarinda, the dear object of my fondest love; there, may the most sacred inviolate honour, the most faithful kindling constancy, ever watch and animate my every thought and imagination! Did you ever meet with the following lines spoken of religionyour darling topic ?— "Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; 'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night; When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; "Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, Within the breast bids purest rapture rise, Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies." I met with these verses very early in life, and was so delighted with them that I have them by me, copied at school. Good night, and sound rest, my dearest Clarinda! SYLVANDER. CVIII. TO CLARINDA. Thursday Night. I CANNOT be easy, my Clarinda, while any sentiment respecting me in your bosom gives me pain. If there is no man on earth to whom your heart and affections are justly due, it may savour of imprudence, but never of criminality, to bestow that heart and those affections where you please. The God of love meant and made those delicious attachments to be bestowed on somebody; and even all the imprudence lies in bestowing them on an unworthy object. If this reasoning is conclusive, as it certainly is, I must be allowed to "talk of Love." It is, perhaps, rather wrong to speak highly to a friend of his letter it is apt to lay one under a little restraint in their future letters, and restraint is the death of a friendly epistle; but there is one passage in your last charming letter, Thomson or Shenstone never exceeded it, nor often came up to it. I shall certainly steal it, and set it in some future poetic production, and get immortal fame by it. "Tis when you bid the scenes of nature remind me of Clarinda. Can I forget you, Clarinda? I would detest myself as a tasteless, unfeeling, insipid, infamous block head! I have loved woman of ordinary merit, whom I could have loved for ever. You are the first, the only unexceptionable individual of the beauteous sex that I ever met with; and never woman more entirely possessed my soul! I know myself, and how far I can depend on passion's swell. It has been my peculiar study. I thank you for going to Miers. Urge him, for necessity calls, to have it done by the middle of next week,--Wednesday the latest day. I want it for a breast-pin, to wear next my heart. I propose to keep sacred set times, to wander in the woods and wilds for meditation on you. Then, and only then, your lovely image shall be produced to the day, with a reverence akin to devotion. To-morrow night shall not be the last. Good night! I am perfectly stupid, as I supped late yesternight. SYLVANDER. |