they existed, and Saturday night made me more in the dark than ever. O
Clarinda! why will you wound my soul, by hinting that last night must
have lessened my opinion of you? True, I was "behind the scenes with
you;" but what did I see? A bosom glowing with honour and benevolence; a
mind ennobled by genius, informed and refined by education and
reflection, and exalted by native religion, genuine as in the climes of
heaven: a heart formed for all the glorious meltings of friendship,
love, and pity. These I saw--I saw the noblest immortal soul creation
ever showed me.
I looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your letter; and am vexed that you
are complaining. I have not caught you so far wrong as in your idea,
that the commerce you have with _one_ friend hurts you, if you cannot
tell every tittle of it to _another_. Why have so injurious a suspicion
of a good God, Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, on the
sacred inviolate principles of Truth, Honour, and Religion! can be
anything else than an object of His divine approbation.
I have mentioned in some of my former scrawls, Saturday evening next. Do
allow me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my angel! how soon must we
part! and when can we meet again! I look forward on the horrid interval
with tearful eyes! What have I lost by not knowing you sooner. I fear, I
fear my acquaintance with you is too short, to make that _lasting_
impression on your heart I could wish.
SYLVANDER.
* * * *
XIV.
_Saturday Morning_, 19_th Jan_
There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling chords of
Love and Friendship give such delight, as in the pensive hours of what
our favourite Thomson calls, "philosophic melancholy." The sportive
insects, who bask in the sunshine of prosperity; or the worms that
luxuriantly crawl amid their ample wealth of earth, they need no
Clarinda: they would despise Sylvander--if they durst. The family of
Misfortune, a numerous group of brothers and sisters! they need a
resting place to their souls: unnoticed, often condemned by the
world--in some degree, perhaps, condemned by themselves, they feel the
full enjoyment of ardent love, delicate tender endearments, mutual
esteem and mutual reliance.
In this light I have often admired religion. In proportion as we are
wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a
compassionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly dear.
'_Tis this_, my friend, that streaks our morning bright;
'_Tis this_ that gilds the horrors of our night.'
I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely says,
"the dark postern of time long elaps'd;" and, you will easily
guess,'twas a rueful prospect. What a tissue of thoughtlessness,
weakness, and folly! My life reminded me of a ruined temple; what
strength, what proportion in some parts! what unsightly gaps, what
prostrate ruin in others! I kneeled down before the Father of mercies,
and said, "Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and
am no more worthy to be called thy son!" I rose, eased and strengthened.
I despise the superstition of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a
man. "The future," said I to myself, "is still before me;" there let me
on reason build resolve,
That column of true majesty in man!
"I have difficulties many to encounter," said I; "but they are not
absolutely insuperable; and where is firmness of mind shown but in
exertion? mere declamation is bombast rant." Besides, wherever I am, or
in whatever situation I may be--
'Tis nought to me:
Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste as in the city full;
And where He vital breathes, there must be joy!
_Saturday night--half after Ten_.
What luxury of bliss I was enjoying this time yesternight! My ever
dearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul; but you have refined,
you have exalted it; you have given it a stronger sense for virtue, and
a stronger relish for piety. Clarinda, first of your sex, if ever I am
the veriest wretch on earth to forget you, if ever your lovely image is
effaced from my soul,
May I be lost, no eye to weep my end;
And find no earth that's base enough to bury me!
What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the every-day
children of the world! 'tis the unmeaning toying of the younglings of
the fields and forests; but where Sentiment and Fancy unite their
sweets, where Taste and Delicacy refine, where Wit adds the flavour, and
Good Sense gives strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is
the hour of tender endearment! Beauty and Grace, in the arms of Truth
and Honour, in all the luxury of mutual love.
Clarinda, have you ever seen the picture realised? Not in all its very
richest colouring.
Last night, Clarinda, but for one slight shade, was the glorious
picture.
Innocence
Look'd gaily smiling on; while rosy Pleasure
Hid young Desire amid her flowery wreath,
And pour'd her cup luxuriant; mantling high,
The sparkling heavenly vintage, Love and Bliss!
Clarinda, when a poet and poetess of Nature's making, two of Nature's
noblest productions! when they drink together of the same cup of Love
and Bliss--attempt not, ye coarser stuff of human nature, profanely to
measure enjoyment ye never can know! Good night, my dear Clarinda!
SYLVANDER.
* * * *
XV
_Sunday Night_, 20_th January_.
The impertinence of fools has joined with a return of an old
indisposition, to make me good for nothing to-day. The paper has lain
before me all this evening, to write to my dear Clarinda, but--
Fools rush'd on fools, as waves succeed to waves.
I cursed them in my soul; they sacrilegiously disturbed my meditations
on her who holds my heart. What a creature is man! A little alarm last
night and to-day, that I am mortal, has made such a revolution on my
spirits! There is no philosophy, no divinity, comes half so home to the
mind. I have no idea of courage that braves heaven. 'Tis the wild
ravings of an imaginary hero in bedlam. I can no more, Clarinda; I can
scarcely hold up my head; but I am happy you do not know it, you would
be so uneasy.
SYLVANDER.
_Monday Morning_.
I am, my lovely friend, much better this morning on the whole; but I
have a horrid languor on my spirits.
Sick of the world, and all its joys,
My soul in pining sadness mourns;
Dark scenes of woe my mind employs,
The past and present in their turns.
Have you ever met with a saying of the great, and like wise good Mr.
Locke, author of the famous _Essay on the Human Understanding_? He wrote
a letter to a friend, directing it, "not to be delivered till after my
decease;" it ended thus--"I know you loved me when living, and will
preserve my memory now I am dead. All the use to be made of it is, that
this life affords no solid satisfaction, but in the consciousness of
having done well, and the hopes of another life. Adieu! I leave my best
wishes with you. J. LOCKE."
Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship for life? I think I may. Thou
Almighty Preserver of men! thy friendship, which hitherto I have too
much neglected, to secure it shall, all the future days and nights of my
life, be my steady care! The idea of my Clarinda follows--
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where, mix'd with God's, her lov'd idea lies.
But I fear that inconstancy, the consequent imperfection of human
weakness. Shall I meet with a friendship that defies years of absence,
and the chances and changes of fortune? Perhaps "such things are;" _one
honest_ man[65a] I have great hopes from that way: but who, except a
romance writer, would think on a _love_ that could promise for life, in
spite of distance, absence, chance, and change; and that, too, with
slender hopes of fruition? For my own part, I can say to myself in both
requisitions, "Thou art the man!" I dare, in cool resolve I dare,
declare myself that friend, and that lover. If womankind is capable of
such things, Clarinda is. I trust that she is; and I feel I shall be
miserable if she is not. There is not one virtue which gives worth, or
one sentiment which does honour to the sex, that she does not possess
superior to any woman I ever saw; her exalted mind, aided a little
perhaps by her situation, is, I think, capable of that nobly-romantic
love-enthusiasm.
May I see you on Wednesday evening, my dear angel? The next Wednesday
again will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us both. I tremble for
censorious remark, for your sake, but, in extraordinary cases, may not
usual and useful precaution be a little dispensed with? Three evenings,
three swift-winged evenings, with pinions of down, are all the past; I
dare not calculate the future. I shall call at Miss Nimmo's to-morrow
evening;'twill be a farewell call.
I have wrote out my last sheet of paper, so I am reduced to my last
half-sheet. What a strange mysterious faculty is that thing called
imagination! We have no ideas almost at all of another world; but I have
often amused myself with visionary schemes of what happiness might be
enjoyed by small alterations--alterations that we can fully enter into,
in this present state of existence. For instance, suppose you and I,
just as we are at present; the same reasoning powers, sentiments, and
even desires; the same fond curiosity for knowledge and remarking
observation in our minds; and imagine our bodies free from pain, and the
necessary supplies for the wants of nature at all times, and easily,
within our reach: imagine further, that we were set free from the laws
of gravitation, which bind us to this globe, and could at pleasure fly,
without inconvenience, through all the yet unconjectured bounds of
creation, what a life of bliss would we lead, in our mutual pursuit of
virtue and knowledge, and our mutual enjoyment of friendship and love!
I see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and calling me a voluptuous
Mahometan; but I am certain I would be a happy creature, beyond anything
we call bliss here below; nay, it would be a paradise congenial to you
too. Don't you see us, hand in hand, or rather, my arm about your lovely
waist, making our remarks on Sirius, the nearest of the fixed stars; or
surveying a comet, flaming innoxious by us, as we just now would mark
the passing pomp of a travelling monarch; or in a shady bower of Mercury
or Venus, dedicating the hour to love, in mutual converse, relying
honour, and revelling endearment, whilst the most exalted strains of
poesy and harmony would be the ready spontaneous language of our souls!
Devotion is the favourite employment of your heart; so it is of mine:
what incentives then to, and powers for reverence, 'gratitude, faith,
and hope, in all the fervours of adoration and praise to that Being,
whose unsearchable wisdom, power, and goodness, so pervaded, so inspired
every sense and feeling! By this time, I daresay, you will be blessing
the neglect of the maid that leaves me destitute of paper!
SYLVANDER.
[Footnote 65a: Alluding to Captain Brown.]
* * * *
XVI.
[_Monday_, 21_st Jan_. 1788.]
... I am a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit. Clarinda, if ever you
forget Sylvander, may you be happy, but he will be miserable. O what a
fool I am in love! What an extraordinary prodigal of affection! Why are
your sex called the tender sex, when I have never met with one who can
repay me in passion? They are either not so rich in love as I am, or
they are niggards where I am lavish.
O Thou, whose I am, and whose are all my ways! Thou seest me here, the
hapless wreck of tides and tempests in my own bosom: do Thou direct to
Thyself that ardent love for which I have so often sought a return in
vain from my fellow-creatures! If Thy goodness has yet such a gift in
store for me as an equal return of affection from her who, Thou knowest,
is dearer to me than life, do Thou bless and hallow our bond of love and
friendship; watch over us in all our outgoings and incomings for good:
and may the tie that unites our hearts be strong and indissoluble as the
thread of man's immortal life!...
I am just going to take your "Blackbird,"[66] the sweetest, I am sure,
that ever sung, and prune its wings a little.
SYLVANDER.
[Footnote 66: Her verses, "To a Blackbird Singing."]
* * * *
XVII.
_Thursday Morning_, 24_th January._
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 devil 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 it[66a]
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.
[Footnote 66a: "Clarinda, Mistress of my Soul, etc."--See Poems.]
* * * *
XVIII.
[_Friday, Jan_. 25.]
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? Clarinda, 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. If
in the moment of tender endearment I perhaps trespassed against the
letter of decorum's law I appeal even to you whether I ever sinned in
the very least degree against the spirit of her strictest statute. But
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 or restrained caresses. 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 shew 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 shew more chastened trembling, faltering
delicacy than the many of the world do in keeping these laws?
O 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. O
Clarinda, the tie that binds me to thee is intwisted, incorporated with
my dearest threads of life!
SYLVANDER.
* * * *
XIX.
[_Sat_., 26 _Jan_.]
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 to-morrow 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 branks bide hale," expect the humblest of
your humble servants, and his dearest friend. We propose staying only
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.
* * * *
XX.
_Sunday Noon, Jan_. 27_th_.
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 Stirling window. Come Clarinda-Come!
curse me Jacob, and 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 soul,
so much positive pleasure, so much fearless daring toward the world when
I warm in devotion, or feel the glorious sensation of 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!
I am, my dear madam, yours, SYLVANDER.
* * * * *
XXI.
_Tuesday Morning_, 29_th January_.
I cannot go out to-day, my dearest love, without sending you half a
line, by way of a sin-offering; but, believe me, 'twas the sin of
ignorance. Could you think that I _intended_ to hurt you by any thing I
said yesternight? Nature has been too kind to you for your happiness,
your delicacy, your sensibility. O why should such glorious
qualifications be the fruitful source of woe! You have "murdered sleep"
to me last night. I went to bed, impressed with an idea that you were
unhappy; and every start I closed my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in
such scenes of romantic misery, that I would almost be persuaded you
were not well this morning.
If I unweeting have offended,
Impute it not.
But while we live
But one short hour perhaps, between us two,
Let there be peace.
If Mary is not gone by this reaches you, give her my best compliments.
She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of the noblest love.
I send you a poem to read, till I call on you this night, which will be
about nine. I wish I could procure some potent spell, some fairy charm,
that would protect from injury, or restore to rest that bosom-chord,
"tremblingly alive all o'er," on which hangs your peace of mind. I
thought, vainly, I fear, thought that the devotion of love--love strong
as even you can feel--love guarded, invulnerably guarded, by all the
purity of virtue, and all the pride of honour; I thought such a love
would make you happy--shall I be mistaken? I can no more for hurry.
SYLVANDER.
* * * * *
XXII.
_Sunday Morning_, 3_rd February_.
I have just been before the throne of my God, Clarinda; according to my
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 feelings 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 potion 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 Religion, your
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,
Disarms affliction, or repels its dart:
Within the breast bids purest rapture rise,
Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies.[67]
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.
[Footnote 67: From Hervey's _Meditations_.]
* * * *
XXIII.
_Thursday Night, Feb_. 7, 1788.