Sylvander and Clarinda; the love letters of Robert Burns and agnes M'Lehose

I LIBRARY I

UNIVERSITY OF
CALIFORNIA

I SAN DIEGO !

o.?

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

Syfrander

and*

Gfarfnda

of

tRgderf (Burns

and

ScGfecC By

COPYRIGHT, 1917.
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA

"The sight of human affairs deserves admiration
and pity. They are worthy of respect, too. And
he is not insensible who pays them the undemon-
strative tribute of a sigh which is not a sob, and
of a smile which is not a grin."

JOSEPH CONRAD.

IN the most forbidding tragic mask one finds
lines of mirth, and the loudest laughter has its
origin in the pain of somebody — it may be, the
laugher's own; for Comedy and Tragedy are
like the Siamese Twins, inseparably united and
sharing the same springs of life. The represen-
tation of them as two distinctly individual sisters
is one of the pretty inventions with which we
have tried to soften and embellish the stark face
of nature. This book is for those who are not
afraid to look in that face as it is, and beyond it
to the spirit that underlies its beauty and its ugli-
ness, its laughter and its tears. Here is a story
on an old theme — "infinite passion and the pain
of finite hearts that yearn." You may pity the
people who enact it, you may despise them, — you
may laugh at them, and probably will, at the
moments when they take themselves most seri-
ously, for this is a crude draught of reality, not
strained through the prejudices of an interpreter.
It is for each reader to understand the man and
the woman who spread more or less of their hearts

— vii —

INTRODUCTION

on paper in the letters that follow, as one con-
jectures about a similar happening among one's
acquaintance. Did she have all of him that she
eared to take, considering the cost of more? Or
was the old resident of Edinburgh right when
he said "The puir auld donnert leddy body spoke
o' her love for the poet just like a bit hellicat
lassie in her teens, an' while exhibitin' to her
cronies the faded letters from her Robbie, she
would just greet like a bairn. Puir auld crea-
ture, she never till the moment of her death jal-
oused or dooted Robbie's love for her; but sir,
you ken he was just makin' a fule o' her, as his
letters amply show." Do they show it so amply?
or do they show the man whose wooings usually
strode so swift and heavy-footed toward one sim-
ple brutal goal, for once offering reverently the
worship of his mind and spirit, while the body he
had so pitifully squandered stands humbly aside,
all but silent in its hopeless desire? Do not be
discouraged by the grotesqueries of stilted lan-
guage in Dick Swiveller's vein — remember that
these are not puppets of a writer's imagination,
veined with verses and with adjectives for blood,
but a real man and woman of the eighteenth cen-
tury, creatures of high-running passion for all the
pompous phrases of their time, who lived far
— viii —

INTRODUCTION

more than they wrote. This strange sudden love
of theirs — was it mere fancy, or was it, for one
of them at least, that rare apotheosis of sex which
comes suddenly from the darkness upon human
beings, wrestles with them as did the angel with
Jacob, and leaves them transfigured or broken,
but never unchanged? Decide for yourself,
reader. I know what I believe, — but I will not
try to impose my opinion upon you. I will only
bring you to the beginning of their story, on a
winter night of 1787—

No. Had that been indeed the beginning, the
end would have been quite other than it is.
Rather did their story begin twenty-eight years
before, with the birth of this man and this
woman who came toward each other from such
different social spheres, trailing not clouds of
glory but the rags of sordid experience and
ruined hope. Life had already marred them both
— and for all that is to follow, let the first stone
be cast by the one who is near enough divinity
to make into holy stigmata the scars of his own
sin and folly. Only, a stone would never come
from such a hand.

Let us look at them, then, as they were at their
meeting, with a glance at the past which has left
its print on them. You will find them in Edin-

— ix —

INTRODUCTION

burgh. The bleak December sunset is over; twi-
light has given the grim grey city the rich colour-
ing of old tapestry. The tall gaunt buildings are
mellowed to amethyst, and the Castle, high on its
rock above them, gathers to itself all the blue of
the parting day till it glows like a sapphire under
the first stars. With the darkness, Edinburgh
becomes a firmament of lighted windows. In one
of these little planets of sociability that sends its
ray out into the cold street, the estimable spinster
Miss Nimmo is giving a tea-party for the special
purpose of bringing together two gifted friends
of hers, Mrs. Agnes M'Lehose and Mr. Robert
Burns. Mrs. M'Lehose has been anxious to meet
this astonishing young man who has captured not
only the fashionable mind but the popular heart
— at once a more difficult and a more enduring
conquest — but he has been so extravagantly the
fashion that it could not be arranged till this eve-
ning, when his stay in town is nearly at an end.
Mrs. Cockburn writes to a friend, "The man will
be quite spoiled, if he can spoil ; but he keeps his
simple manners, and is quite sober. No doubt he
will be at the Hunters' Ball to-morrow, which has
made all women and milliners mad. Not a gauze-
cap under two guineas — many ten, twelve."

Even in the face of the gauze-caps, Mr. Burns

— x —

INTRODUCTION

holds his own. Although he still has the appear-
ance of a handsome young farmer dressed in his
best to dine with the laird, he has learned the
manners of the world without losing his own. He
no longer skirts the edge of the room to avoid
treading on the carpets. Socially he is self-pos-
sessed and modest, popular among the men as a
thoroughly good fellow who can tell a racy story
and sing a rattling song, and a great favourite
among the ladies in spite of his glaring record as
a rural Don Juan. In spite of it? Dante was
not the first nor the last poet to appeal with
success to "Donne che avete intelletto d'amore."
If the gentle creatures are not intelligent in love,
they like to think they are. In the case of Burns,
the ladies who read "The Lament" and sighed
over the pathos of that destroyed marriage certifi-
cate, must have accorded him all the prestige of
a martyr. Of the ugly consequences of his
"eclatant return to Mauchline," society in general
probably knew nothing. But as the woman with
whom we are concerned certainly did know, and
loved him with all her knowledge, she must have
seen the matter from his point of view, — a point
of view that we must try to get if we are to un-
derstand him, or her. It is unquestionable that
Burns was very much in love with his Jean, and

• — xi— «

INTRODUCTION

that her acquiescence in her father's high handed
annulment of their tardy marriage was a harsh
blow not only to his pride but to his heart. His
pain seems to have festered into resentment,
made all the worse by finding that his change in
fortunes brought a corresponding change in his
treatment by the family. Old Armour preferred
his daughter's dishonour to her marriage with
Burns? Very well. If these were the terms of
father and daughter, Burns would abide by them
when he found himself, as the fashionable and
successful poet, quite the welcome visitor. There
is no passion more cruelly unreasoning than hurt
pride. He did not realise that the meek tender-
ness which made Jean yield to him would make
her submit also to the imperious will of her fa-
ther. Embittered, he saw her patient generosity
only as slavish weakness ; and strange as it is, we
may believe that when he left Mauchline in June
of 1787 he actually did feel no moral obligation
to the girl who for a second time faced through
him the long agonising ordeal of an unsanctioned
motherhood. As he saw it, he had not wronged
her, this time — he had only accepted the status
that had formerly been forced upon him. Doubt-
less he went his way with his head high, feeling
that he had shown himself a man not to be trifled
— xii —

INTRODUCTION

with — the pity of it! Once back in Edinburgh,
little time was given him for thought, or for re-
gret, had he been so inclined. When he went to
Miss Nimmo's tea-party, he was surely a little
tired, and probably a little dazed, a little intoxi-
cated with his round of city gaieties, although we
are told that he had kept his head impeccably.
Well, the time is near when he is to lose it — and
how much more, I will not try to say. He hardly
suspects this, I think — he is so sure of himself as
"an old Hawk at the game," — as he gazes with
his usual impressive manner into the eyes of the
rosy little beauty whom he had been invited to
meet. He has wonderful eyes, this clod of Ayr-
shire clay shot with fire from — Heaven or Hell?
both, maybe— great dark eyes that glow as from
an inward consuming flame. An interesting ac-
quaintance for a lady who likes to play with com-
bustibles, but rather dangerous. Mrs. M'Lehosey
however, has a right to some confidence in her
own skilful handling of high explosives. She is
a lady of experience, which she did not get
cheaply. Daughter of a comfortable Glasgow
doctor, the pretty Miss Nancy was a recognised
toast when still only a child. At fifteen, she went
up to Edinburgh that six months of metropolitan
polish might be applied to a sketchy smattering

J — xiii— •

INTRODUCTION

of genteel accomplishments that can hardly be
called an education even by courtesy. Mr. M'Le-
hose, a young law agent who had vainly sought
an introduction to the little belle, made the bold
play of booking all the seats except the one re-
served for Miss Craig. Fair lady and heart by
no means faint, a day's journey with a long noon
halt, — could courtship have a more auspicious be-
ginning? In spite of the dissuasions of her fam-
ily and friends, who hoped for a more brilliant
match, the pretty Miss Nancy celebrated July of
1776 with a little Independence Day of her own
— the last she was to know, poor child. This
seventeen-year-old bride soon made the not un-
precedented discovery that an audacious and
charming suitor may develop into an excessively
disagreeable husband. The annual babies, poor
sickly mites, were no proof of domestic harmony;
on the contrary, the M'Lehose household was the
scene of such rapidly and constantly increasing
incompatibility that a separation took place after
four stormy years. Doctor Craig took his daugh-
ter home again, but only lived to shelter her two
years. He did his canny best for her by leaving
her inheritance in the form of an annuity entirely
beyond her husband's reach. This, while suffi-
cient for herself, would not provide for the three
— xiv —

INTRODUCTION

surviving children — they were all delicate, and
only one lived to manhood. Mr. M'Lehose, whose
liberality seems to have exhausted itself in his
one monumental extravagance and upon whom
responsibilities sat lightly, refused to contribute
to their support, and presently sailed for Jamaica
at the earnest request of his relatives, who were
tired of paying his debts. A small annual sub-
scription was raised for the young pseudo-widow
among the Glasgow writers, and another among
the surgeons, but even so her establishment in
Edinburgh was very largely dependent on the
contributions of benevolent friends, chief among
whom was her cousin, Lord Craig. She was a
very popular little lady, for trouble did not rob
her of her beauty nor of her spirits. At twenty-
eight, she is even more attractive than the pretty
miss for whose bright eyes Mr. M'Lehose bought
up the coach. To begin with, she has wisely
spent much time in study — of no very profound
character, to be sure, but highly ornamental in its
results. She has read the best English authors
and can quote from them tellingly, for she has a
natural taste for letters, and indeed can herself
turn a musical verse. With all her brilliancy,
a little hard — well, is it strange that she has
grown hard, as she has found life to be? Four

— xv —

INTRODUCTION

children of a worthless husband in as many years
tend to do away with a woman's fine generosities
as well as with her illusions. When she gave
life its full price, it cheated her. She does not
mean to be caught that way again; her future
bargains with this shifty dealer must be on her
own terms. She has arranged the outward cir-
cumstances of her little world as nearly to her
satisfaction as she can; but she is the type of
woman who cannot live on her own resources.
She must have stimuli from without. Her poor
little heart is lonely in her comfortable, albeit
somewhat shaky structure of worldly security.
She wants to find a guest who will accommo-
date himself to its cramped quarters and warm
them with the right Promethean fire, — one who
will enter ardently, and yet with a tread dis-
creet enough for the none too secure floors to
.bear. She wants, in short, a lover who will offer
his passionate devotions at her shrine in the de-
cent name of a Friendship which shall offend
none of her benevolent friends. And it is Robert
Burns — of all men! — whom she chooses.

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER

AND
CLARINDA

ROBERT BURNS TO AGNES M'LEHOSE

December 6, 1787.

MADAM, — I had set no small store by my tea-
drinking to-night, and have not often been so
disappointed. Saturday evening I shall embrace
the opportunity with the greatest pleasure. I
leave this town this day se'ennight, and probably
I shall not return for a couple of twelvemonths ;
but I must ever regret that I so lately got an
acquaintance I shall ever highly esteem, and in
whose welfare I shall ever be warmly interested.
Our worthy common friend, Miss Nimmo, in her
usual pleasant way, rallied me a great deal on
my new acquaintance ; and, in the humour of her
ideas I wrote some lines, which I enclose you, as
I think they have a good deal of poetic merit;*

* It is a pity that these lines of Burns have been lost, as he wai
not in the habit of praising his own work.

— 17—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

and Miss Nimmo tells me you are not only a
critic but a poetess. Fiction, you know, is the
native region of poetry; and I hope you will par-
don my vanity in sending you the bagatelle as a
tolerable offhand jeu-d' esprit. I have several po-
etic trifles which I shall gladly leave with Miss
Nimmo, or you, if they were worth house-room;
as there are scarcely two people on earth by whom
it would mortify me more to be forgotten, though
at the distance of nine-score miles. I am,
Madam, with the highest respect, your very hum-
ble servant,

ROBT. BURNS.

Thursday Evening.

SYLVANDEB, AND CLARINDA

BURNS TO MRS. M'LEHOSE

December 8, 1787.

I can say with truth, Madam, that I never
met with a person in my life whom I more anx-
iously wished to meet again than yourself. To-
night I was to have had that very great pleasure
- — I was intoxicated with the idea ; but an unlucky
fall from a coach has so bruised one of my knees,
that I can't stir my leg off the cushion: so if
I don't see you again, I shall not rest in my grave
for chagrin. I was vexed to the soul I had not
seen you sooner; I am determined to cultivate
your friendship with the enthusiasm of Religion;
but thus has Fortune ever served me. I cannot
bear the idea of leaving Edinburgh without see-
ing you. I know not how to account for it — I
am strangely taken with some people ; nor am I
often mistaken. You are a stranger to me; but
I am an odd being; some yet unnamed feelings
• — things, not principles, but better than whims
— carry me farther than boasted reason ever did
a Philosopher. Farewell I every happiness be
yours!

ROBT. BURNS.

Saturday Evening,

St. James Square, No. 2.

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

MRS. M'LEHOSE TO ROBERT BURNS

Enured as I have been to disappointments, I
never felt more, nay, nor half so severely, for one
of the same nature! The cruel cause, too, aug-
ments my uneasiness. I trust you'll soon recover
it; meantime, if my sympathy, my friendship,
can alleviate your pain be assured you possess
them. I am much flattered at being a favourite
of yours. Miss Nimmo can tell you how ear-
nestly I had long pressed her to make us ac-
quainted. I had a presentiment that we should
derive pleasure from the society of each other.
To-night I had thought of fifty things to say to
you; how unfortunate this prevention! Do not
accuse Fortune; had I not known she was blind
before, her ill-usage of you had marked it suffi-
ciently. However, she is a fickle, old, envious
beldame, and I'd much rather be indebted to
Nature. You shall not leave town without seeing
me, if I should come along with good Miss
Nimmo and call for you. I am determined to
see you; and am ready to exclaim with Yorick,
"Tut! are we not all relations?" We are, in-
deed, strangers in one sense; but of near kin in
many respects: these "nameless feelings" I per-
fectly comprehend, tho' the pen of a Locke could

—20—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

not define them. Perhaps instinct comes nearer
their description than either "Principles or
Whims." Think ye they have any connection
with that "heavenly light which leads astray?"
One thing I know, that they have a powerful ef-
fect upon me ; and are delightful when under the
check of reason and religion.

Miss Nimmo was a favourite of mine from the
first hour I met her. There is a softness, a name-
less something about her that, were I a man, old
as she is, I would have chosen her before most
women that I know. I fear, however, this lik-
ing is not mutual. I'll tell you why I think so,
at meeting. She was in mere jest when she told
you I was a Poetess. I have often composed
rhyme (if not reason), but never one line of po-
etry. The distinction is obvious to every one of
the least discernment. Your lines were truly po-
etical ; give me all you can spare. Not one living
has a higher relish for poetry than I have; and
my reading everything of the kind makes me a
tolerable judge. Ten years ago, such lines from
such a hand would have half -turned my head.
Perhaps you thought it might have done so even
yet, and wisely premised that "Fiction was the

native region of poetry." Read the enclosed,

—21—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

which I scrawled just after reading yours.* Be
sincere, and own that, whatever merit it has, it
has not a line resembling poetry. Pardon any
little freedoms I take with you ; if they entertain
a heavy hour, they have all the merit I intended.
Will you let me know, now and then, how your
leg is? If I was your sister, I would call and
see you; but 'tis a censorious world this, and (in
this sense) "y°u and I are not of this world."
Adieu. Keep up your heart, you will soon get
well, and we shall meet. Farewell. God bless
you!

A. M.

* These verses also have been lost.

—22—

SYLVANDEB, AND CLARINDA

ROBERT BURNS TO MRS. M'LEHOSE

Dec. 12, 1787.

I stretch a point indeed, my dearest Madam,
when I answer your card on the rack of my
present agony. Your friendship, Madam! By
heavens, I was never so proud before. Your
lines, I maintain it, are poetry, and good poetry ;
mine were indeed partly fiction, and partly a
friendship which, had I been so blest as to have
met with you in time, might have led me — God of
love only knows where. Time is too short for
ceremonies.

I swear solemnly — in all the tenor of my for-
mer oath — to remember you in all the pride and
warmth of friendship until — I cease to be I

To-morrow, and every day, till I see you, you
shall hear from me.

Farewell! May you enjoy a better night's
repose than I am likely to have.

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

MRS. M'LEHOSE TO ROBERT BURNS

Sunday Noon, Dec. 16, 1787.

Miss Nimmo and I had a long conversation
last night. Little did I suspect that she was of
the party. Gentle, sweet soul! She is accusing
herself as the cause of your misfortune. It was
in vain I rallied her upon such an excess of sensi-
bility— as I termed it. She is lineally descended
from "My Uncle Toby" ; has hopes of the devil,
and would not hurt a fly. How could you tell
me that you were in "agony"? I hope you will
swallow laudanum, and procure some ease from
sleep. I am glad to hear Mr. Wood attends you.
He is a good soul and a safe surgeon. I know
him a little. Do as he bids, and I trust your leg
will soon be quite well. When I meet you, I
must chide you for writing in your romantic
style. Do you remember that she whom you ad-
dress is a married woman? or — Jacob-like —
would you wait seven years, and even then per-
haps be disappointed, as he was? No; I know
you better: you have too much of that impetu-
osity which generally accompanies noble minds.
To be serious, most people would think, by your
style, that you were writing to some vain, silly
woman to make a fool of her — or worse. I have

—24—

SYLVANDEB AND CLARINDA

too much vanity to ascribe it to the former mo-
tive, and too much charity to harbour an idea of
the latter; and viewing it as the effusion of a'
benevolent heart upon meeting one similar to
itself, I have promised you my friendship : it will
be your own fault if I ever withdraw it. Would
to God I had it in my power to give you some
solid proofs of it ! Were I the Duchess of Gor-
don, you should be possessed of that indepen-
dence which every generous mind pants after;
but I fear she is "no Duchess at the heart."
Obscure as I am (comparatively) I enjoy all the
necessaries of life as fully as I desire, and wish
for wealth only to procure "the luxury of doing
good."

My chief design in writing to you to-day was
to beg you would not write me often, lest the ex-
ertion should hurt you. Meantime, if my scrawls
can amuse you in your confinement, you shall
have them occasionally. I shall hear of you
every day from my beloved Miss Nimmo. Do
you know, the very first time I was in her house,
most of our conversation was about a certain
(lame) poet? I read her soul in her expressive
countenance, and have been attached to her ever
since. Adieu! Be patient. Take care of your-
self. My best wishes attend you. A. M.

—25—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

ROBERT BURNS TO MRS. M'LEHOSE

Thursday, Dec. 20, 1787.

Your last, my dear Madam, had the effect on
me, that Job's situation had on his friends, when
"they sat down seven days and seven nights as-
tonished, and spake not a word." "Pay my ad-
dresses to a married woman I" I started as if I
had seen the ghost of him I had injured. I recol-
lected my expressions ; some of them indeed were,
in the law phrase, "habit and repute," which is
being half guilty. I cannot possibly say,
Madam, whether my heart might not have gone
astray a little ; but I can declare, upon the honour
of a poet, that the vagrant has wandered un-
known to me. I have a pretty handsome troop
of follies of my own; and, like some other peo-
ple's, they are but undisciplined blackguards : but
the luckless rascals have something like honour in
them ; they would not do a dishonest thing.

To meet with an unfortunate woman, amiable
and young, deserted and widowed by those who
were bound by every tie of duty, nature, and
gratitude, to protect, comfort, and cherish her;
add to all, when she is perhaps one of the first of
lovely forms and noble minds — the mind, too,
that hits one's taste as the joys of Heaven do a

—26—

SYLVANDEB, ANH CLARINDA

saint — should a vague idea, the natural child of
imagination, thoughtlessly peep over the fence —
were you, my friend, to sit in judgment, and the
poor, airy straggler brought before you, trem-
bling, self -condemned, with artless eyes, brimful
of contrition, looking wistfully on its judge — you
would not, my dear Madam, condemn the hapless
wretch to death "without benefit of clergy"?

I won't tell you what reply my heart made to
your raillery of "seven years," but I will give you
what a brother of my trade says on the same allu-
sion:—

"The patriarch to gain a wife

Chaste, beautiful and young,
Serv'd fourteen years a painful life
And never thought it long.

O were you to reward such cares,
And life so long would stay;

Not fourteen but four hundred years
Would seem but as one day!" *

I have written you this scrawl because I have
nothing else to do, and you may sit down and
find fault with it, if you have no better way of
consuming your time ; but finding fault with the

*Tom d'Urfey.

—27—

SYLVANDEE AND CLAKINDA

vagaries of a poet's fancy is much such another
business as Xerxes chastising the waves of
Hellespont.

My limb now allows me to sit in some peace;
to walk I have yet no prospect of, as I can't mark
it to the ground.

I have just now looked over what I have writ-
ten, and it is such a chaos of nonsense that I dare
say you will throw it into the fire, and call me an
idle, stupid fellow; but whatever you may think
of my brains, believe me to be, with the most
sacred respect and heartfelt esteem, My dear
Madam, your humble servant,

ROBT. BURNS.

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO ROBERT BURNS

On Burns Saying He "Had Nothing Else To

Do."

When first you saw Clarindas charms
What rapture in your bosom grew!

Her heart was shut to Love's alarms,
But then — you'd nothing else to do.

Apollo oft had lent his harp,

But now 'twas strung from Cupid's bow;
You sung — it reach'd Clarindas heart —

She wish'd you'd nothing else to do.

Fair Venus smiled, Minerva frowned,
Cupid observ'd — the arrow flew;

Indifference, ere a week went round,
Show'd you had nothing else to do.

CLARINDA.

Christmas Eve, 1787.

—29—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Dec. 28, 1787.

When dear Clarinda, matchless fair,

First struck Sylvander's raptured view,

He gaz'd, he listened to despair,
Alas ! 'twas all he dared to do.

Love, from Clarinda's heavenly eyes,
Transfixed his bosom thro' and thro';

But still in Friendship's guarded guise,
For more the demon feared to do.

That heart, already more than lost,
The imp beleaguer'd all perdue;

For frowning Honour kept his post —
To meet that frown he shrunk to do.

His pangs the bard refused to own,
Tho' half he wish'd Clarinda knew;

But Anguish wrung the unweeting groan —
Who blames what frantic Pain must do?

That heart, where motley follies blend,
Was sternly still to Honour true:

To prove Clarinda's fondest friend,
Was what a lover sure might do,

—30—

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

The Muse his ready quill employed,
No nearer bliss he could pursue:

That bliss Clarinda cold deny'd —
"Send word by Charles how you do!"

The chill behest disarm'd his muse,
Till passion, all impatient grew:

He wrote, and hinted for excuse,

'Twas 'cause "he'd nothing else to do."

But by those hopes I have above !

And by those faults I dearly rue !
The deed, the boldest mark of love,

For thee, that deed I dare to do!

O could the Fates but name the price

Would bless me with your charms and you!

With frantic joy I'd pay it thrice,
If human art and power could do !

Then take, Clarinda, friendship's hand,
(Friendship, at least, I may avow;)

And lay no more your chill command,
I'll write, whatever I've to do.

SYLVANDER.

—31-

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA \

I beg your pardon, my dear Clarinda, for the
fragment scrawl I sent you yesterday. I really
don't know what I wrote. A gentleman, for
whose character, abilities, and critical knowledge,
I have the highest veneration, called in just as I
had begun the second sentence, and I would not
make the porter wait. I read to my much-re-
spected friend several of my own bagatelles, and
among others, your lines, which I had copied out.
He began some criticism on them as on the other
pieces, when I informed him they were the work
of a young lady in this town; which, I assure you,
made him stare. My learned friend seriously
protested, that he did not believe any young wo-
man in Edinburgh was capable of such lines ; and,
if you know anything of Professor Gregory, you
will neither doubt of his abilities nor his sincerity.
I do love you, if possible, still better for having
so fine a taste and turn for poesy. I have again
gone wrong in my usual unguarded way, but you
may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, or
any other tame Dutch expression you please, in
its place. I believe there is no holding converse,
or carrying on correspondence, with an amiable
woman, much less a gloriously amiable fine wo-

—32—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

man., without some mixture of the delicious pas-
sion, whose most devoted slave I have more than
once had the honour of being — But why be hurt
or offended on that account? Can no honest man
have a prepossession for a fine woman, but he
must run his head against an intrigue? Take a
little of the tender witchcraft of love, and add to
it the generous, the honourable sentiments of
manly friendship; and I know but one more de-
lightful morsel, which few, few in any rank ever
taste. Such a composition is like adding cream
to strawberries ; it not only gives the fruit a more
elegant richness, but has a peculiar deliciousness
of its own.

I enclose you a few lines I composed on a late
melancholy occasion. * I will not give above five
or six copies of it at all; and I would be hurt if
any friend should give any copies without my
consent.

You cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the idea
of Arcadian names in a commerce of this kind),
how much store I have set by the hopes of your
future friendship. I don't know if you have a
just idea of my character, but I wish you to see
me as I am. I am, as most people of my trade
are, a strange Will-o'-wisp being; the victim, too

* The lines "On the death of Lord President Dundas."

—33—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

frequently, of much imprudence and many fol-
lies. My great constituent elements are pride
and passion: the first I have endeavoured to hu-
manise into integrity and honour ; the last makes
me a devotee, to the warmest degree of enthusi-
asm, in love, religion, or friendship — either of
them or all together, as I happen to be inspired.
'Tis true I never saw you but once ; but how much
acquaintance did I form with you in that oncel
Do not think I flatter you, or have a design upon
you, Clarinda: I have too much pride for the one,
and too little cold contrivance for the other; but
of all God's creatures I ever could approach in
the beaten way of acquaintance, you struck me
with the deepest, the strongest, the most perma-
ment impression. I say the most permanent,
because I know myself well, and how far I can
promise either on my prepossessions or my pow-
ers. Why are you unhappy? And why are so
many of our fellow-creatures, unworthy to be-
long to the same species with you, blest with all
they can wish? You have a hand all benevolent
to give ; why were you denied the pleasure ? You
have a heart formed, gloriously formed for all
the most refined luxuries of love; why was that
heart ever wrung? O Clarinda! Shall we not
meet in a state, some yet unknown state of being,
—34—

SYLYANDER AND CLARINDA

where the lavish hand of Plenty shall minister to
the highest wish of Benevolence; and where the
chill north wind of Prudence shall never blow
over the flowery fields of Enjoyment? If we do
not, man was made in vain ! I deserved some of
the most unhappy hours that have lingered over
my head ; they were the wages of my labour ; but
what unprovoked demon, malignant as hell, stole
upon the confidence of unmistrusting busy fate,
and dashed your cup with undeserved sorrow?

Let me know how long your stay will be out of
town: I shall count the hours till you inform me
of your return. Cursed etiquette forbids your
seeing me just now; and so soon as I can walk,
I must bid Edinburgh adieu. Lord ! why was I
born to see misery, which I cannot relieve ; and to
meet with friends, whom I can't enjoy? I look
back with the pang of unavailing avarice on my
loss in not knowing you sooner: all last winter,
these three months past, what luxury of inter-
course have I not lost! Perhaps, though, 'twas
better for my peace. You see I am either above,
or incapable of, dissimulation. I believe it is
want of that particular genius. I despise de-
sign, because I want either coolness or wisdom to
be capable of it. I am interrupted. Adieu, my
dear Clarinda! SYLVANDEB.

Friday Evening.

—35—

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

•

Probably Written in Answer to His the Same
Evening.

I go to the country early to-morrow morning,
but will be home by Tuesday — sooner than I ex-
pected. I have not time to answer yours as it
deserves; nor, had I the age of Methusalem,
could I answer it in kind. I shall grow vain.
Your praises were enough — but those of a Dr.
Gregory super added! Take care, many a "glo-
rious woman" has been undone by having her
head turned. "Know you!" I know you far
better than you do me. Like yourself, I am a
bit of an enthusiast. In religion and friendship
quite a bigot — perhaps I could be so in love too ;
but everything dear to me in heaven and earth
forbids! This is my fixed principle; the person
who would dare to endeavour at removing it I
would hold as my chief enemy. Like you, I am
incapable of dissimulation; nor am I, as you
suppose, unhappy. Possessed of fine children,
competence, fame, friends kind and attentive—
what a monster of ingratitude should I be in the
eyes of Heaven were I to style myself unhappy !
True, I have met with scenes horrible to recol-

—36—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

lection, even at six years' distance ; but adversity,
my friend, is allowed to be the school of Virtue.
It oft confers that chastened softness which is
unknown among the favourites of Fortune!
Even a mind possessed of natural sensibility,
without this, never feels that exquisite pleasure
which nature has annexed to our sympathetic
sorrows. Religion, the only refuge of the un-
fortunate, has been my balm in every woe. Oh!
could I make her appear to you as she has done
to me! Instead of ridiculing her tenets, you
would fall down and worship her very semblance
wherever you found it!

I will write you again at more leisure, and no-
tice other parts of yours. I send you a simile
upon a character I don't know if you are ac-
quainted with. I am confounded at your admir-
ing my lines. I shall begin to question your
taste — but Dr. G.! When I am low-spirited
(which I am at times) I shall think of this as a
restorative.

Now for the simile : —

The morning sun shines glorious and bright,
And fills the heart with wonder and delight !
He dazzles, in meridian splendour seen,
Without a blackening cloud to intervene.

—37—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

So, at a distance view'd, your genius bright,
Your wit, your flowing numbers can delight,
But ah! when error's dark'ning clouds arise,
When passion thunders, folly's lightning flies,
More safe we gaze, but admiration dies:
And as the tempting brightness snares the moth,
Sure ruin marks too near approach to both.

Good night; for Clarinda's "heavenly eyes"
need the earthly aid of sleep. Adieu.

CLARINDA.

P. S. — I entreat you not to mention our cor-
respondence to one on earth. Though I've con-
scious innocence, my situation is a delicate one.

—38—

SYLVANDEB AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

January 1, 1788.

Many happy returns of this day to you, my
dear, pleasant friend! May each revolving year
find you wiser and happier ! I embrace the first
spare hour to fulfil my promise; and begin with
thanking you for the enclosed lines — they are
very pretty: I like the idea of personifying the
vices rising in the absence of Justice. It is a
constant source of refined pleasure, giving "to
airy nothings a local habitation and a name,"
which people of a luxuriant imagination only
can enjoy. Yet, to a mind of a benevolent turn,
it is delightful to observe how equal the distribu-
tion of happiness is among all ranks ! If stupid
people are rendered incapable of tasting the
refined pleasures of the intelligent and feeling
mind, they are likewise exempted from the thou-
sand distractions and disquietudes peculiar to
sensibility.

I have been staying with a dear female friend*
who has long been an admirer of yours, and was
once on the point of meeting with you in the
house of a Mrs. Bruce. She would have been a
much better "Clarinda." She is comely without

* Mary Peacock.

—39—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

being beautiful, and has a large share of sense,
taste and sensibility ; added to all, a violent pen-
chant for poetry. If ever I have an opportunity,
I shall make you and her acquainted. No won-
der Dr. Gregory criticised my lines. I saw sev-
eral defects in them myself ; but had neither time
nor patience (nor ability, perhaps) to correct
them. The three last verses were longer than
the former; and in the conclusion, I saw a vile
tautology which I could not get rid of. But you
will not wonder when I tell you that I am not
only ignorant of every language except my own,
but never so much as knew a syllable of the Eng-
lish grammar. If I can write grammatically, 'tis
through mere habit. I rejoice to hear of Dr.
Gregory being your particular friend. Though
unacquainted, I am no stranger to his character:
where worth unites with abilities, it commands
our love as well as admiration. Alas! they are
too seldom found in one character! Those pos-
sessed of great talents would do well to remember
that all depends upon the use made of them.
Shining abilities improperly applied, only serve
to accelerate our destruction in both worlds. I
loved you for your fine taste in poetry long be-
fore I saw you; so shall not trouble myself eras-
ing the word applied in the same way to me.
<— 40—

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

You say "there is no corresponding with an
agreeable woman without a mixture of the tender
passion." I believe there is no friendship be-
tween people of sentiment of different sexes,
without a little softness; but when kept within
proper bounds, it only serves to give a higher
relish to such intercourse. Love and Friendship
are names in every one's mouth; but few, ex-
tremely few, understand their meaning. Love
(or affection) cannot be genuine if it hesitate a
moment to sacrifice every selfish gratification to
the happiness of its object. On the contrary,
when I would purchase that at the expense of
this, it deserves to be styled — not love, but a name
too gross to mention. Therefore, I contend that
an honest man may have a friendly prepossession
for a woman, whose soul would abhor the idea
of an intrigue with her. These are my senti-
ments on the subject; I hope they correspond
with yours.

'Tis honest in you to wish me to see you "just
as you are." I believe I have a tolerably just
idea of your character. No wonder; for had I
been a man, I should have been you. I am not
vain enough to think myself equal in abilities;
but I am formed with a liveliness of fancy, and
a strength of passion little inferior. Situation

—41—

SYLVANDER AND CLAltlNDA

and circumstances have, however, had the effects
on each of us that might have been expected.
Misfortune has wonderfully contributed to sub-
due the keenness of my passions, while success
and adulation have served to nourish and inflame
yours. Both of us are incapable of deceit, be-
cause we want coolness and command of our
feelings. Art is what I never could attain to,
even in situations where a little would have been
prudent. Now and then I am favoured with a
salutary blast of "the north wind of prudence."
The southern zephyrs of kindness too often send
up their sultry fogs, and cloud the atmosphere of
my understanding. I have thought that Nature
threw me off in the same mould, just after you.
We were born, I believe, in one year. Madam
Nature has some merit by her work that year.
Don't you think so? I suppose the carline has
had a flying visit of Venus and the Graces ; and
Minerva has been jealous of her attention, and
has sent Apollo with his harp to charm them
away.

But why do you accuse Fate for my misfor-
tunes? There is a noble independence of mind
which I admire; but, when not checked by Reli-
gion, it is apt to degenerate into a criminal
arraignment of Providence. No "malignant

—42—

SYLVANDEB, AND CLABINDA

demon," as you suppose, was "permitted to dash
my cup of life with sorrow" : it was the kindness
of a wise and tender Father who foresaw that I
needed chastisement ere I could be brought to
Himself. Ah, my friend, Religion converts our
heaviest misfortunes into blessings! I feel it to
be so. These passions naturally too violent for
my peace, have been broken and moderated by
adversity; and if even that has been unable to
conquer my vivacity, what lengths might I not
have gone, had I been permitted to glide along
in the sunshine of prosperity? I should have for-
got my future destination, and fixed my happi-
ness on the fleeting shadows below! My hand
was denied the bliss of giving, but Heaven ac-
cepts of the wish. My heart was formed for
love, and I desire to devote it to Him who is the
source of love! Yes, we shall surely meet in an
"unknown state of being," where there will be
full scope for every kind, heartfelt affection —
love without alloy and without end. Your para-
graph upon this made the tears flow down my
face! I will not tell you the reflections which it
raised in my mind; but I wished that a heart
susceptible of such a sentiment took more pains
about its accomplishment. I fancy you will not
wish me to write again; you'll think me too seri-

— 43—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

ous and grave. I know not how I have been led
to be so ; but I make no excuse, because I must be
allowed to write you as I feel, or not at all. You
say you have "humanised pride into honour and
integrity." 'Tis a good endeavour; and could you
command your too impetuous passions, it would
be a more glorious achievement than his who
conquered the world and wept because he had
no more worlds to subdue. Forgive my freedom
with you: I never trouble myself with the faults
of those I don't esteem, and only notice those
of friends, to themselves. I am pleased with
friends when they tell me mine, and look upon
it as a test of real friendship.

I have your Poems in loan just now, I've read
them many times, and with new pleasure. Some-
time I shall give you my opinion of them sever-
ally. Let me have a sight of some more of your
"Bagatelles," as you style them. If ever I write
any more, you shall have them; and I'll thank
you to correct their errors. I wrote lines on
Bishop Geddes, by way of blank verse ; but they
were what Pope describes, "Where ten low words
do creep in one dull line." I believe you (being
a genius) have inspired me; for I never wrote so
well before. Pray, is Dr. Gregory pious? I
have heard so. I wish I knew him. Adieu!

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

You have quantity enough, whatever be the
quality. Good night, Believe me your sincere

friend.

CLARINDA.

-45 —

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Thursday, 3d Jan., 1788.

I got your lines : * they are "in kind !" I can't
but laugh at my presumption in pretending to
send my poor ones to you! but it was to amuse
myself. At this season, when others are joyous,
I am the reverse. I have no near relations; and
while others are with theirs I sit alone, musing
upon several of mine with whom I used to be —
now gone to the land of forgetfulness.

You have put me in a rhyming humour. The
moment I read yours, I wrote the following
lines : —

Talk not of Love! it gives me pain,

For Love has been my foe;
He bound me in an iron chain,

And plung'd me deep in woe!

But Friendship's pure and lasting joys
My heart was formed to prove ;

The worthy object be of those,
But never talk of Love.

The "Hand of Friendship" I accept,

May Honour be our guard !
Virtue our intercourse direct,

Her smiles our dear reward.

* Here again Burns' verses are missing.

—46—

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

But I wish to know (in sober prose) how your
leg is? I would have inquired sooner had I
known it would have been acceptable. Miss N.
informs me now and then; but I have not seen
her dear face for some time. Do you think you
could venture this length in a coach without hurt-
ing yourself? I go out of town the beginning of
the week for a few days. I wish you could come
to-morrow or Saturday. I long for a conversa-
tion with you, and lameness of body won't hin-
der that. 'Tis really curious — so much fun pass-
ing between two persons who saw one another
only once! Say if you think you dare venture;
only let the coachman be "adorned with sobriety."

Adieu! Believe me (on my simple word)
your real friend and well-wisher,.

A.M.

-47—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

My dear Clarinda, — Your last verses have so
delighted me, that I have copied them in among
some of my own most valued pieces, which I keep
sacred for my own use. Do let me have a few
now and then.

Did you, Madam, know what I feel when you
talk of your sorrows !

Good God ! that one who has so much worth in
the sight of heaven, and is so amiable to her fel-
low-creatures, should be so unhappy! I can't
venture out for cold. My limb is vastly better ;
but I have not any use of it without my crutches.
Monday, for the first time, I dine at a neigh-
bour's, next door. As soon as I can go so far, even
in a coach, my first visit shall be to you. Write
me when you leave town, and immediately when
you return; and I earnestly pray your stay may
be short. You can't imagine how miserable you
made me when you hinted to me not to write.
Farewell.

SYLVANDER.

—48—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

You are right, my dear Clarinda; a friendly
correspondence goes for nothing, except one
write their undisguised sentiments. Yours
please me for their intrinsic merit, as well as be-
cause they are yours, which, I assure you, is to
me a high recommendation. Your religious
sentiments, Madam, I revere. If you have, on
suspicious evidence from some lying oracle, learnt
that I despise or ridicule so sacredly important a
matter as real religion, you have, my Clarinda,
much misconstrued your friend. — "I am not mad,
most noble Festus !" Have you ever met a per-
fect character? Do we not sometimes rather
exchange faults than get rid of them? For in-
stance, I am perhaps tired with, and shocked at,
a life too much the prey of giddy inconsistencies
and thoughtless follies ; by degrees I grow sober,
prudent, and statedly pious — I say statedly, be-
cause the most unaffected devotion is not at all
inconsistent with my first character — I join the
world in congratulating myself on the happy
change. But let me pry more narrowly into this
affair. Have I, at bottom, anything of a secret
pride in these endowments and emendations?
Have I nothing of a presbyterian sourness, a

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

hypocritical severity, when I survey my less reg-
ular neighbours? In a word, have I missed all
those nameless and numberless modifications of
indistinct selfishness, which are so near our own
eyes, that we can scarce bring them within the
sphere of our vision, and which the known spot-
less cambric of our character hides from the ordi-
nary observer?

My definition of worth is short ; truth and hu-
manity respecting our fellow-creatures; rever-
ence and humility in the presence of that Being,
my Creator and Preserver, and who, I have every
reason to believe, will one day be my Judge. The
first part of my definition is the creature of un-
biased instinct ; the last is the child of after reflec-
tion. Where I found these two essentials I
would gently note and slightly mention any at-
tendant flaws — flaws, the marks, the conse-
quences of human nature.

I can easily enter into the sublime pleasures
that your strong imagination and keen sensibility
must derive from religion, particularly if a little
in the shade of misfortune ; but I own I cannot,
without a marked grudge, see heaven totally en-
gross so amiable, so charming a woman as my
friend Clarinda ; and should be very well pleased

—50—

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

at a circumstance that would put it in the power
of somebody (happy somebody!) to divide her
attention, with all the delicacy and tenderness of
an earthly attachment.

You will not easily persuade me that you have
not a grammatical knowledge of the English lan-
guage— so far from being inaccurate, you are ele-
gant beyond any woman of my acquaintance, ex-
cept one, whom I wish you knew.

Your last verses to me have so delighted me,
that I have got an excellent old Scots air that
suits the measure, and you shall see them in print
in the "Scots Musical Museum," a work publish-
ing by a friend of mine in this town. I want
four stanzas; you gave me but three, and one of
them alluded to an expression in my former let-
ter; so I have taken your two first verses, with
a slight alteration in the second, and have added
a third ; but you must help me to a fourth. Here
they are : the latter half of the first stanza would
have been worthy of Sappho; I am in raptures
with it.

"Talk not of Love, it gives me pain,

For Love has been my foe;
He bound me with an iron chain
And sunk me deep in woe.

—51—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

But Friendship's pure and lasting joys

My heart was f orm'd to prove :
There, welcome, win and wear the prize,

But never talk of Love.

Your friendship much can make me blest,

O, why that bliss destroy?
Why urge the odious (or only) one request

You know I must (or will) deny?"

The alteration in the second stanza is no im-
provement, but there was a slight inaccuracy in
your rhyme. The third I only offer to your
choice, and have left two words for your deter-
mination. The air is "The Banks of Spey," and
is most beautiful.

To-morrow evening I intend taking a chair,
and paying a visit at Park Place, to a much-
valued old friend. If I could be sure of finding
you at home (and I will send one of the chair-
men to call), I would spend from five to six
o'clock with you as I go past. I cannot do more
this time, as I have something on my hand that
hurries me much. I propose giving you the first
call, my old friend the second, and Miss Nimmo
as I return home. Do not break any engage-
ment for me, as I will spend another evening with
you, at any rate, before I leave town.

SYLVANDEB, AND CLARINDA

Do not tell me that you are pleased when your
friends inform you of your faults. I am igno-
rant what they are; but I am sure they must be
such evanescent trifles compared with your per-
sonal and mental accomplishments, that I would
despise the ungenerous, narrow soul who would
notice any shadow of imperfections you may
seem to have, any other way than in the most
delicate agreeable raillery. Coarse minds are
not aware how much they injure the keenly feel-
ing tie of bosom-friendship, when, in their foolish
officiousness, they mention what nobody cares
for recollecting. People of nice sensibility and
generous minds have a certain intrinsic dignity
that fires at being trifled with, or lowered, or even
too nearly approached.

You need make no apology for long letters : I
am even with you. Many happy New Years to
you, charming Clarinda! I can't dissemble,
were it to shun perdition. He who sees you as
I have done, and does not love you, deserves to
be damn'd for his stupidity ! He who loves you,
and would injure you, deserves to be doubly
damn'd for his villainy ! Adieu.

SYLVANDEB.

P. S. — What would you think of this for a
fourth stanza?

—53—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

The lines that followed were torn from the
original MS. but from the published volume we
know them to be:

Your thought, if love must harbour there,

Conceal it in that thought,
Nor cause me from my bosom tear
The very friend I sought.

—54—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Some days, some nights, nay, some hours, like
the "ten righteous persons in Sodom," save the
rest of the vapid, tiresome, miserable months and
years of life. One of these hours my dear Clar-
inda blest me with yesternight.

" — One well-spent hour
In such a tender circumstance for friends,
Is better than an age of common time."

— Thomson.

My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is his
manly fortitude in supporting what cannot be
remedied ; in short, the wild broken fragments of
a noble exalted mind in ruins. I meant no more
by saying he was a favourite hero of mine.

I mentioned to you my letter to Dr. Moore,
giving an account of my life: it is truth, every
word of it, and will give you the just idea of a
man whom you have honoured with your friend-
ship. I am afraid you will hardly be able to
make sense of so torn a piece. Your verses I
shall muse on deliciously, as I gaze on your im-
age in my mind's eye, in my heart's core: they
will be in time enough for a week to come. I am

—55—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

truly happy your headache is better. Oh, how
can Pain or Evil be so daringly, unfeelingly,
cruelly savage as to wound so noble a mind, so
lovely a form !

My little fellow * is all my namesake. Write
me soon. My every, strongest good wish attend
you, Clarinda!

SYLVANDEE.

Saturday, Noon.

I know not what I have written. I am pes-
tered with people around me.

* Robert Burns, Jr., Jean Armour's son.

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

I cannot delay thanking you for the packet of
Saturday ; * twice have I read it with close atten-
tion. Some parts of it did beguile me of my
tears. With Desdemona, I felt " 'twas pitiful,
'twas wondrous pitiful." When I reached the
paragraph where Lord Glencairn is mentioned,
I burst out into tears. 'Twas that delightful
swell of the heart which arises from the combina-
tion of the most pleasurable feelings. Nothing
is so binding to a generous mind as placing con-
fidence in it. I have ever felt it so. You seem
to have known this feature in my character intui-
tively; and therefore entrusted me with all your
faults and follies. The description of your first
love-scene delighted me. It recalled the idea of
some tender circumstances which happened to
myself, at the same period of life — only mine did
not go so far. Perhaps, in return, I'll tell you
the particulars when we meet. Ah, my friend!
our early love emotions are surely the most ex-
quisite. In riper years we may acquire more
knowledge, sentiment, &c. ; but none of these
can yield such rapture as the dear delusions of
heart-throbbing youth! Like yours, mine was

* Evidently the autobiographical sketch to which he has referred.

—57—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

a rural scene too, which adds much to the ten-
der meeting. But no more of these recollec-
tions.

One thing alone hurt me, though I regretted
many — your avowal of being an enemy to Cal-
vinism. I guessed it was so by some of your
pieces ; but the confirmation of it gave me a shock
I could only have felt for one I was interested in.
You will not wonder at this when I inform you
that I am a strict Calvinist, one or two dark
tenets excepted, which I never meddle with.
Like many others, you are so, either from never
having examined it with candour and impartial-
ity, or from having unfortunately met with weak
professors, who did not understand it ; and hypo-
critical ones, who made it a cloak for their knav-
ery. Both of these, I am aware, abound in
country life; nor am I surprised at their having
had this effect upon your more enlightened un-
derstanding. I fear your friend, the captain of
the ship, was of no advantage to you in this and
many other respects.

My dear Sylvander, I flatter myself you have
some opinion of Clarinda's understanding. Her
belief in Calvinism is not (as you will be apt to
suppose) the prejudice of education. I was
bred by my father in the Arminian principles.

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SYLVANDER AND CLABINDA

My mother, who was an angel, died when I was
in my tenth year. She was a Calvinist, — was
adored in her life, — and died triumphing in the
prospect of immortality. I was too young, at
that period, to know the difference ; but her pious
precepts and example often recurred to my mind
amidst the giddiness and adulation of Miss in,
her teens. 'Twas since I came to this town, five
years ago, that I imbibed my present principles.
They were those of a dear, valued friend in whose
judgment and integrity I had entire confidence.
I listened to him often, with delight upon the
subject. My mind was docile and open to con-
viction. I resolved to investigate, with deep
attention, that scheme of doctrine which had
such happy effects upon him. Conviction of
understanding, and peace of mind, were the
happy consequences. Thus have I given you
a true account of my faith. I trust my practice
will ever correspond. Were I to narrate my
past life as honestly as you have done, you would
soon be convinced that neither of us could hope
to be justified by our good works.

If you have time and inclination, I should wish
to hear your chief objections to Calvinism. They
have been often confuted by men of great minds
and exemplary lives, — but perhaps you never

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

inquired into these. Ah, Sylvander ! Heaven has
not endowed you with such uncommon powers of
mind to employ them in the manner you have
done. This long, serious subject will, I know,
have one of three effects : either to make you
laugh in derision — yawn in supine indifference —
or set about examining the hitherto-despised sub-
ject. Judge of the interest Clarinda takes in
you when she affirms, that there are but few
events could take place that would afford her
the heart-felt pleasure of the latter.

Read this letter attentively, and answer me at
leisure. Do not be frightened at its gravity, —
believe me, I can be as lively as you please.
Though I wish Madam Minerva for my guide,
I shall not be hindered from rambling sometimes
in the fields of Fancy. I must tell you that I
admire your narrative, in point of composition,
beyond all your other productions. — One thing
I am afraid of ; there is not a trace of friendship
toward a female: now, in the case of Clarinda,
this is the only "consummation devoutly to be
wished."

You told me you had never met with a woman
who could love as ardently as yourself. I be-
lieve it ; and would advise you never to tie your-
self, till you meet with such a one. Alas ! you'll

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

find many who canna, and some who manna ; but
to be joined to one of the former description
would make you miserable. I think you had
almost better resolve against wedlock : for unless
a woman were qualified for the companion, the
friend, and the mistress, she would not do for
you. The last may gain Sylvander, but the oth-
ers alone can keep him. Sleep, and want of
room, prevent my explaining myself upon "infi-
delity in a husband," which made you stare at
me. This, and other things, shall be matter for
another letter, if you are not wishing this to be
the last. If agreeable to you, I'll keep the narra-
tive till we meet. Adieu! * Charming Clarinda"
must e'en resign herself to the arms of Morpheus.

Your true friend,

CLARINDA.

P. S. — Don't detain the porter. Write when
convenient.

I am probably to be in your square this after-
noon, near two o'clock. If your room be to the
street, I shall have the pleasure of giving you a
nod. I have paid the porter, and you may do
so when you write. I'm sure they have some-
times made us pay double. Adieu!

Tuesday Morning.

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

I am delighted, charming Clarinda, with your
honest enthusiasm for religion. Those of either
sex, but particularly the female, who are luke-
warm in that most important of all things, "O my
soul, come not thou into their secrets!"

I feel myself deeply interested in your good
opinion, and will lay before you the outlines of
my belief: — He who is our Author and Pre-
server, and will one day be our Judge, must be, —
not for his sake, in the way of duty, but from
the native impulse of our hearts, — the object of
our reverential awe and grateful adoration. He
is almighty and all-bounteous; we are weak and
dependent: hence praj^er and every other sort of
devotion. "He is not willing that any should
perish, but that all should come to everlasting
life": consequently, it must be in every one's
power to embrace His offer of "everlasting life" ;
otherwise he could not in justice condemn those
who did not. A mind pervaded, actuated and
governed by purity, truth, and charity, though
it does not merit heaven, yet is an absolutely-
necessary prerequisite, without which heaven
can neither be obtained nor enjoyed; and by
Divine promise, such a mind shall never fail of

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SYLVANDEE AND CLAEINDA

attaining "everlasting life": hence the impure,
the deceiving and the uncharitable exclude them-
selves from eternal bliss by their unfitness for
enjoying it. The Supreme Being has put the
immediate administration of all this — for wise
and good ends known to himself — into the hands
of Jesus Christ, a great Personage, whose rela-
tion to Him we cannot comprehend, but whose
relation to us is a Guide and Saviour; and who,
except for our own obstinacy and misconduct,
will bring us all, through various ways and by
various means, to bliss at last.

These are my tenets, my lovely friend; and
which, I think, cannot be well disputed. My
creed is pretty nearly expressed in that last clause
of Jamie Dean's grace, an honest weaver in Ayr-
shire:— "Lord, grant that we may lead a gude
life! for a gude life maks a gude end: at least it
helps weel."

I am flattered by the entertainment you tell
me you have found in my packet. You see me
as I have been, you know me as I am, and may
guess at what I am likely to be. I too may say,
"Talk not of Love," &c.; for, indeed, he has
"plunged me deep in woe!" Not that I ever saw
a woman who pleased unexceptionably, as my
Clarinda elegantly says, "in the companion, the

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

friend, and the mistress." One indeed, I could
except; one, before passion threw its mists over
my discernment, I knew — the first of women!
Her name is indelibly written in my heart's core ;
but I dare not look on it, — a degree of agony
would be the consequence. Oh, thou perfidious,
cruel, mischief -making demon, who presidest o'er
that frantic passion, — thou mayest, thou dost
poison my peace, but shalt not taint my honour!
I would not for a single moment give an asylum
to the most distant imagination that would
shadow the faintest outline of a selfish gratifica-
tion at the expense of her, whose happiness is
twisted with the threads of my existence. May
she be happy, as she deserves! And if my ten-
derest, faithfulest friendship can add to her bliss,
I shall, at least, have one solid mine of enjoy-
ment in my bosom! Don't guess at these rav-
ings!

I watched at our front window to-day, but
was disappointed. It has been a day of disap-
pointments. I am just risen from a two-hours'
bout after supper, with silly or sordid souls who
could relish nothing in common with me but the
Port. "One!" Tis now the "witching time of
night," and whatever is out of joint in the fore-
going scrawl, impute it to enchantments and

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

spells; for I can't look over it, but will seal it
up directly, as I don't care for to-morrow's criti-
cisms on it.

You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda;
may good angels attend and guard you as con-
stantly and as faithfully as my good wishes do!

"Beauty which, whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces."

John Milton, I wish thy soul better rest than
I expect on my pillow to-night! O for a little
of the cart-horse part of human nature! Good
night, my dearest Clarinda!

SYLVANDER.

Tuesday Night.

—65—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Wednesday, 10 P.M.

This moment your letter was delivered to me.
My boys are asleep. The youngest has been for
some time in a crazy state of health, but has been
worse these two days past. Partly this and the
badness of the day prevented my exchanging a
heartfelt Howd'ye? yesterday. Friday, if noth-
ing prevents, I shall have that pleasure about two
o'clock or a little before it.

I wonder how you could write so distinctly
after two or three hours over a bottle; but they
were not congenial whom you sat with, and there-
fore your spirits remained unexhausted; and
when quit of them you fled to a friend who can
relish most things in common with you (except
Port). 'Tis dreadful what a variety of these
"silly sordid souls" one meets with in life ! but in
scenes of mere sociability these pass. In reading
the account you give of your inveterate turn for
social pleasure, I smiled at its resemblance to my
own. It is so great, that I often think I had been
a man but for some mistake of Nature. If you
saw me in a merry party, you would suppose me
only an enthusiast in fun; but I now avoid such
parties. My spirits are sunk for days after; and,

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

what is worse, there are sometimes dull or mali-
cious souls who censure me loudly for what their
sluggish natures cannot comprehend. Were I
possessed of an independent fortune, I would
scorn their pitiful remarks ; but everything in my
situation renders prudence necessary.*

I have slept little these two nights. My child
was uneasy, and that kept me awake watching
him! Sylvander, if I have merit in anything,
'tis in an unremitting attention to my two chil-
dren; but it cannot be denominated merit, since
'tis as much inclination as duty. A prudent
woman (as the world goes) told me she was sur-
prised I loved them, "considering what a father
they had." I replied with acrimony, I could not
but love my children in any case ; but my having
given them the misfortune of such a father, en-
dears them doubly to my heart: they are inno-
cent-^-they depend upon me — and I feel this the
most tender of all claims. While I live, my fond-
est attentions shall be theirs!

All my life I loved the unfortunate, and ever
will. Did you ever read Fielding's Amelia? If
you have not, I beg you would. There are
scenes in it, tender domestic scenes, which I have

* Financial independence might have made a great difference
with her. It might even have meant her divorce, and her marriage
with Burns.

—67—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

read over and over, with feelings too delightful
to describe! I meant a "Booth," such a one infi-
nitely to be preferred to a brutal, though per-
haps constant husband. I can conceive a man
fond of his wife, yet, (Sylvander-like) hurried
into a momentary deviation, while his heart
remained faithful. If he concealed it, it could
not hurt me; but if, unable to bear the anguish
of self-reproach, he unbosomed it to me, I would
not only forgive him, but comfort and speak
kindly and in secret only weep. Reconciliation,
in such a case, would be exquisite beyond almost
anything I can conceive! Do you now under-
stand me on this subject? I was uneasy till it
was explained; for all I have said, I know not
if I had been an "Amelia," even with a "Booth."
My resentments are keen, like all my other feel-
ings: I am exquisitely alive to kindness and to
unkindness. The first binds me forever! But I
have none of the spaniel in my nature. The last
would soon cure me, though I loved to distrac-
tion. But all this is not, perhaps, interesting to
Sylvander. I have seen nobody to-day ; and, like
a true egotist, talk away to please myself. I
am not in a humour to answer your creed to-
night.

I have been puzzling my brain about the fair

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

one you bid me "not guess at." I first thought it
your Jean ; but I don't know if she now possesses
your "tenderest, faithfulest friendship." I can't
understand that bonny lassie: her refusal, after
such proofs of love proves her to be either an
angel or a dolt. I beg pardon; I know not all
the circumstances, and am no judge therefore.
I love you for your continued fondness, even
after enjoyment: few of your sex have souls in
such cases. But I take this to be the test of true
love — mere desire is all the bulk of people are
susceptible of; and that is soon satiated. "Your
good wishes." You had mine, Sylvander, before
I saw you. You will have them while I live..
With you, I wish I had a little of tlie "cart-horse"
in me. You and I have some horse properties;
but more of the eagle, and too much of the turtle-
dove ! Goodnight !

Your friend,

CLARINDA.

Thursday Morning.

This day is so good that I'll make out my call
to your Square. I am laughing to myself at
announcing this for the third time. Were she who
"poisons your peace" to intend you a Pisgah
view, she could do no more than I have done on

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

this trivial occasion. Keep a good heart, Syl-
vander; the eternity of your love-sufferings will
be ended before six weeks. Such perjuries the
"Laughing gods allow." But remember, there
is no such toleration in friendship, and

I am yours,

CLARINDA.

—70—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

I am certain I saw you, Clarinda; but you
don't look to the proper story for a poet's lodg-
ing.

"Where Speculation roosted near the sky."

I could almost have thrown myself over, for very
vexation. Why didn't you look higher? It has
spoilt my peace for this day. To be so near my
charming Clarinda; to miss her look while it was
searching for me. I am sure the soul is capable
of disease; for mine has convulsed itself into an
inflammatory fever. I am sorry for your little
boy: do let me know to-morrow how he is.

You have converted me, Clarinda, (I shall
love that name while I live : there is heavenly mu-
sic in it) . Booth and Amelia I know well. Your
sentiments on that subject, as they are on every
subject, are just and noble. "To be feelingly
alive to kindness and to unkindness," is a charm-
ing female character.

What I said in my last letter, the powers of
fuddling sociality only know for me. By yours,
I understand my good star has been partly in
my horizon, when I got wild in my reveries. Had
that evil planet, which has almost all my life shed

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

its baleful rays on my devoted head, been as usual
in its zenith, I had certainly blabbed something
that would have pointed out to you the dear
object of my tenderest friendship, and, in spite of
me, something more. Had *iiat fatal informa-
tion escaped me, and it was merely chance or
kind stars that it did not, I had been undone!
You would never have written me, except, per-
haps, once more! O, I could curse circum-
stances! and the coarse tie of human laws which
keeps fast what common sense would loose, and
which bars that happiness itself cannot give —
happiness which otherwise love and honour would
warrant! But hold — I shall make no more
"hair-breadth 'scapes."

My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent busi-
ness. My likings are both strong and eternal.
I told you I had but one male friend : I have but
two female. I should have a third, but she is
surrounded by the blandishments of flattery and
courtship. Her I register in my heart's core by
Peggy Chalmers : Miss Nimmo can tell you how
divine she is. She is worthy of a place in the
same bosom with my Clarinda. That is the high-
est compliment I can pay her. Farewell, Cla-
rinda! Remember SYLVANDER.

Thursday, Noon.

—72—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Thursday Eve.

I could not see you, Sylvander, though I had
twice traversed the Square. I'm persuaded you
saw me not neither. I met the young lady I
meant to call for first; and returned to seek an-
other acquaintance, but found her moved. All
the time, my eye soared to poetic heights, alias
garrets, but not a glimpse of you could I obtain!
You surely was within the glass, at least. I re-
turned, finding my intrinsic dignity a good deal
hurt, as I missed my friend. Perhaps I shall
see you again next week: say how high you are.
Thanks for your inquiry about my child ; his com-
plaints are of a tedious kind, and require patience
and resignation. Religion has taught me both.
By nature I inherit as little of them as a certain
harum-scarum friend of mine. In what respects
has Clarinda "converted you"? Tell me. It
were an arduous task indeed.

Your "ravings" last night, and your ambigu-
ous remarks upon them I cannot, perhaps ought
not, to comprehend. I am your friend, Sylvan-
der : take care lest virtue demand even friendship
as a sacrifice. You need not curse the tie of
human laws; since what is the happiness Cla-

—73—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

rinda would derive from being loosed? At pres-
ent, she enjoys the hope of having her children
provided for. In the other case, she is left, in-
deed, at liberty, but half dependent on the bounty
of a friend, — kind in substantiate, but having no
feelings of romance : * and who are the generous,
the disinterested, who would risk the world's
"dread laugh" to protect her and her little ones?
Perhaps a Sylvander-like son of whim and fancy
might, in a sudden fit of romance : but would not
ruin be the consequence? Perhaps one of the
former . . . yet if he was not dearer to her than
all the world — such are still her romantic ideas
—she could not be his.

You see, Sylvander, you have no cause to
regret my bondage. The above is a true picture.
Have I not reason to rejoice that I have it not
in my power to dispose of myself? "I commit
myself into thy hands, thou Supreme Disposer of
all events! do with me as seemeth to thee good."
Who is this one male friend? I know your third
female. Ah, Sylvander! many "that are first
shall be last," and vice versa! I am proud of
being compared to Miss Chalmers : I have heard
how amiable she is. She cannot be more so than
Miss Nimmo: why do ye not register her also?

*Her cousin, Lord Craig.

—74—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

She is warmly your friend; — surely you are in-
capable of ingratitude. She has almost wept
to me at mentioning your intimacy with a certain
famous or infamous man in town. Do you think
Clarinda could anger you just now? I com-
posed lines addressed to you some time ago, con-
taining a hint upon the occasion. I had not cour-
age to send them then: if you say you'll not be
angry, I will yet.

I know not how 'tis, but I felt an irresistible
impulse to write you the moment I read yours.
I have a design in it. Part of your interest in
me is owing to mere novelty. You'll be tired of
my correspondence ere you leave town, and will
never fash to write me from the country. I for-
give you in a "state of celibacy." Sylvander, I
wish I saw you happily married: you are so
formed, you cannot be happy without a tender
attachment. Heaven direct you!

When you see Bishop Geddes, ask him if he
remembers a lady at Mrs. Kemp's, on a Sunday
night, who listened to every word he uttered with
a gaze of attention. I saw he observed me, and
returned that glance of cordial warmth which
assured me he was pleased with my delicate flat-
tery. I wished that night he had been my father,
that I might shelter me in his bosom.

—75—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

You shall have this, as you desired, to-morrow;
and, if possible none for four or five days. I say,
if possible: for I really can't but write, as if I
had nothing else to do. I admire your Epitaph ;
but while I read it, my heart swells at the sad
idea of its realisation. Did you ever read San-
cho's Letters? they would hit your taste. My
next will be on my favourite theme — religion.

Farewell, Sylvander! Be wise, be prudent,
and be happy.

CLARINDA.

Let your next be sent in the morning.

If you were well, I would ask you to meet me
to-morrow, at twelve o'clock. I go down in the
Leith fly, with poor Willie : what a pleasant chat
we might have! But I fancy 'tis impossible.
Adieu !

Friday, One o'clock.

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Saturday Morning.

Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, shall be
welcome. You may perhaps distrust me when
I say 'tis also my favourite topic ; but mine is the
religion of the bosom. I hate the very idea of
controversial divinity; as I firmly believe that
every honest, upright man, of whatever sect, will
be accepted of the Deity. If your verses, as you
seem to hint, contain censure, except you want
an occasion to break with me, don't send them.
I have a little infirmity in my disposition, that
where I fondly love or highly esteem I cannot
bear reproach.

"Reverence thyself," is a sacred maxim; and
I wish to cherish it. I think I told you Lord
Bolingbroke's saying to Swift, — "Adieu, dear
Swift! with all thy faults I love thee entirely:
make an effort to love me with all mine." A
glorious sentiment, and without which there can
be no friendship! I do highly, very highly, es-
teem you indeed, Clarinda: you merit it all!
Perhaps, too — I scorn dissimulation — I could
fondly love you: judge, then, what a maddening
sting your reproach would be. "Oh, I have sins
to heaven, but none to you." With what pleas-

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

ure would I meet you to-day, but I cannot walk
to meet the Fly. I hope to be able to see you, on
foot, about the middle of next week. I am inter-
rupted— perhaps you are not sorry for it. You
will tell me: but I won't anticipate blame. O,
Clarinda! did you know how dear to me is your
look of kindness, your smile of approbation, you
would not, either in prose or verse, risk a cen-
sorious remark.

"Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe."

SYLVANDER.

—78—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

You talk of weeping, Clarinda : * some invol-
untary drops wet your lines as I read them.
Offend me, my dearest angel! You cannot of-
fend me, — you never offended me. If you had
ever given me the least shadow of offence, so
pardon me my God as I forgive Clarinda. I
have read yours again; it has blotted my paper.
Though I find your letter has agitated me into
a violent headache, I shall take a chair and be
with you about eight. A friend is to be with us
at tea, on my account, which hinders me from
coming sooner. Forgive, dearest Clarinda, my
unguarded expressions! For Heaven's sake,
forgive me, or I shall never be able to bear my
own mind.

Your unhappy

SYLVANDER.

* Clarinda's missing letter must have been in her most pathetic
vein. Evidently she was afraid of having been a shade too didactic
for his patience, and, whatever she may have wished, it surely was
not to lose him.

SYLVANDER AND CLAKINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Sunday Evening.

I will not deny it, Sylvander, last night was one
of the most exquisite I ever experienced. Few
such fall to the lot of mortals ! Few, extremely
few, are formed to relish such refined enjoyment.
That it should be so, vindicates the wisdom of
Heaven. But, though our enjoyment did not
lead beyond the limits of virtue, yet to-day's re-
flections have not been altogether unmixed with
regret. The idea of the pain it would have given,
were it known to a friend to whom I am bound
by the sacred ties of gratitude, (no more,) the
opinion Sylvander may have formed from my
unreservedness ; and, above all, some secret mis-
givings that Heaven may not approve, situated
as I am — these procured me a sleepless night;
and, though at church, I am not at all well.

Sylvander, you saw Clarinda last night, behind
the scenes! Now, you'll be convinced she has
faults. If she knows herself, her intention is
always good; but she is too often the victim of
sensibility, and, hence, is seldom pleased with
herself. A rencontre to-day I will relate to you,
because it will show you I have my own share of
pride. I met with a sister of Lord Napier, at

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

the house of a friend with whom I sat between
sermons: I knew who she was, but paid her no
other marks of respect than I do to any gentle-
woman. She eyed me with minute, supercilious
attention, never looking at me, when I spoke,
but even half interrupted me, before I had done
addressing the lady of the house. I felt my face
glow with resentment, and consoled myself with
the idea of being her superior in every respect
but the accidental, trifling one of birth! I was
disgusted at the fawning deference the lady
showed her; and when she told me at the door
that it was my Lord Napier's sister, I replied,
"Is it, indeed? by her ill breeding I should have
taken her for the daughter of some upstart
tradesman !"

Sylvander, my sentiments as to birth and for-
tune are truly unfashionable: I despise the per-
sons who pique themselves on either, — the for-
mer especially. Something may be allowed to
bright talents or even external beauty — these be-
long to us essentially ; but birth in no respect can
confer merit, because it is not our own. A per-
son of a vulgar uncultivated mind I would not
take to my bosom, in any station; but one pos-
sessed of natural genius, improved by education
and diligence, such an one I'd take for my friend,

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SYLVANDER AND CIwVRINDA

be her extraction ever so mean. These, alone,
constitute any real distinction between man and
man. Are we not all the offspring of Adam?
have we not one God? one Saviour? one Immor-
tality? I have found but one among all my
acquaintance who agreed with me — my Mary,
whom I mentioned to you. I am to spend to-
morrow with her, if I am better. I like her the
more that she likes you.

I intended to resume a little upon your favour-
ite topic, the "Religion of the Bosom." Did you
ever imagine that I meant any other? Poor
were that religion and unprofitable whose seat
was merely in the brain. In most points we seem
to agree: only I found all my hopes of pardon
and acceptance with Heaven upon the merit of
Christ's atonement, — whereas you do upon a
good life. You think "it helps weel, at least."
If anything we could do had been able to atone
for the violation of God's Law, where was the
need (I speak it with reverence) of such an aston-
ishing Sacrifice? Job was an "upright man."
In the dark season of adversity, when other sins
were brought to his remembrance, he boasted of
his integrity ; but no sooner did God reveal Him-
self to him, than he exclaims: "Behold I am vile,
and abhor myself in dust and ashes." Ah! my

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

friend, 'tis pride that hinders us from embracing
Jesus! we would be our own Saviour, and scorn
to be indebted even to the "Son of the Most
High." But this is the only sure foundation of
our hopes. It is said by God Himself, " 'tis to
some a stumbling-block: to others foolishness;"
but they who believe, feel it to be the "Wisdom
of God, and the Power of God."

If my head did not ache, I would continue the
subject. I, too, hate controversial religion; but
this is the "Religion of the Bosom." My God!
Sylvander, why am I so anxious to make you
embrace the Gospel? I dare not probe too deep
for an answer — let your heart answer : in a word
— Benevolence. When I return, I'll finish this.
Meantime, adieu! Sylvander, I intended doing
you good: if it prove the reverse, I shall never
forgive myself. Good night.

Tuesday, Noon. — Just returned from the
Dean, where I dined and supped with fourteen
of both sexes : all stupid. My Mary and I alone
understood each other. However, we were joy-
ous, and I sung in spite of my cold; but no wit.
'Twould have been pearls before swine literalised.
I recollect promising to write you. Sylvander,
you'll never find me worse than my word. If
you have written me, (which I hope,) send it to

—83—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

me when convenient, either at nine in the morn-
ing or evening. I fear your limb may be worse
from staying so late. I have other fears too:
guess them! Oh! my friend, I wish ardently to
maintain your esteem; rather than forfeit one
iota of it, I'd be content never to be wiser than
now. Our last interview has raised you very
high in mine. I have met with few, indeed, of
your sex who understood delicacy in such circum-
stances; yet 'tis that only which gives a relish to
such delightful intercourse. Do you wish to pre-
serve my esteem, Sylvander? do not be proud to
Clarinda! She deserves it not. I subscribe to
Lord B.'s sentiments to Swift; yet some faults I
shall still sigh over, though you style it reproach
even to hint them. Adieu ! You have it much in
your power to add to the happiness or unhappi-

ness of

CLARINDA.

—84—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Monday Evening, 11 o'clock.

Why have I not heard from you, Clarinda?
To-day I expected it; and, before supper, when
a letter to me was announced, my heart danced
with rapture; but behold, 'twas some fool who
had taken it into his head to turn poet, and made
me an offering of the first fruits of his nonsense.
It is not poetry, but "prose run mad."

Did I ever repeat to you an epigram I made on
a Mr. Elphinstone, who has given a translation
of Martial, a famous Latin poet? The poetry of
Elphinstone can only equal his prose notes. I
was sitting in a merchant's shop of my acquaint-
ance, waiting somebody ; he put Elphinstone into
my hand, and asked my opinion of it. I begged
leave to write it on a blank leaf, which I did.

TO MR. ELPHINSTONE, &C.

"O thou whom poesy abhors,
Whom prose has turned out of doors,
Heardst thou yon groan ? proceed no further,
'Twas laurel'd Martial calling murther."

I am determined to see you, if at all possible,
on Saturday evening. Next week I must sing —

"The night is my departing night,
The morn's the day I maun awa ;
There's neither friend nor foe of mine,
But wishes that I were awa.

What I hae done for lack of wit,
I never, never can reca';
I hope ye're a' my friends as yet.
Gude night, and joy be wi' you a'."

If I could see you sooner, I would be so much
the happier; but I would not purchase the dear-
est gratification on earth, if it must be at your
expense in worldly censure, far less inward peace.

I shall certainly be ashamed of thus scrawling
whole sheets of incoherence. The only unity (a
sad word with poets and critics) in my ideas, is
Clarinda. — There my heart "reigns and revels."

"What art thou, Love? whence are those charms,
That thus thou bear'st an universal rule?
For thee the soldier quite his arms,
The king turns slave, the wise man fool.
In vain we chase thee from the field,
And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke;
Next tide of blood, alas! we yield,
And all those high resolves are broke !"

I like to have quotations ready for every occa-
sion. They give one's ideas so pat, and save one
—86—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

the trouble of finding expression adequate to
one's feelings. I think it is one of the greatest
pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can
give our woes, cares, joys, loves, &c., an embodied
form in verse, which, to me, is ever immediate
ease. Goldsmith says finely of his muse

"Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe;
Who found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me
so."

My limb has been so well to-day, that I have
gone up and down stairs often without my staff.
To-morrow I hope to walk once again on my
own legs to dinner. It is only next street.
Adieu 1

SYLVANDER.

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Tuesday Evening.

That you have faults, my Clarinda, I never
doubted ; but I know not where they existed ; and
Saturday night made me more in the dark than
ever. O, Clarinda! why would you wound my
soul by hinting that last night must have les-
sened 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
dea — 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

—88—

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

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 not lost by not
knowing you sooner! I fear, I fear, my acquaint-
ance with you is too short to make that lasting
impression on your heart I could wish.

SYLVANDER.

—89—

SYLVANDER AND CLAEINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Wednesday Morning.

Your mother's wish was fully realised. I slept
sounder last night than for weeks past — and
I had a "blithe wakening": for your letter was
the first object my eyes opened on. Sylvander,
I fancy you and Vulcan are intimates: he has
lent you a key which opens Clarinda's heart at
pleasure, shows you what is there, and enables
you to adapt yourself to its every feeling! I
believe I shall give over writing you. Your
letters are too much! my way is, alas! "hedged
in"; but had I, like Sylvander, "the world be-
fore me," I should bid him, if he had a friend
that loved me, tell him to write as he does,
and "that would woo me." Seriously, you are
the first letter-writer I ever knew. I only won-
der how you can be fashed with my scrawls. I
impute it to partialities. Either to-morrow or
Friday I shall be happy to see you. On Sat-
urday, I am not sure of being alone, or at home.
Say which you'll come? Come to tea if you
please; but eight will be an hour less liable to
intrusions. I hope you'll come afoot even though
you take a chair home. A chair is so uncommon
a thing in our neighbourhood, it is apt to raise

—90—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

speculation — but they are all asleep by ten. I
am happy to hear of your being able to walk —
even to the next street. You are a consummate
flatterer; really my cheeks glow while I read
your flights of Fancy. I fancy you see I like
it, when you peep into the Repository. I know
none insensible to that "delightful essence." If
I grow affected or conceited, you are alone to
blame. Ah, my friend! these are disgusting
qualities! but I am not afraid. I know any
merit I may have perfectly — but I know many
sad counterbalances.

Your lines on Elphinstone were clever, beyond
anything I ever saw of the kind; I know the
character — the figure is enough to make one cry,
Murder ! He is a complete pedant in language ;
but are not you and I pedants in something
else? Yes, but in far superior things: Love,
Friendship, Poesy, Religion! Ah, Sylvander!
you have murdered Humility, and I can say
thou didst it. You carry your warmth too far
as to Miss Napier, (not Nairn;) yet I am
pleased at it. She is sensible, lively, and well-
liked they say. She was not to know Clarinda
was "divine," and therefore kept her distance.
She is comely, but a thick bad figure, — waddles
in her pace, and has rosy cheeks.

—91—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

Wha is that clumsy damsel there?
Whisht! it's the daughter of a Peer,
Right honorably Great!

The daughter of a Peer, I cried,

It doth not yet appear
What we shall be (in t'other world),

God keep us frae this here!
That she has Blude, I'se no dispute,

I see it in her face;
Her honour's in her name, I fear,

And in nae other place.

I hate myself for being satirical — hate me for
it too. I'll certainly go to Miers to please you,
either with Mary or Miss Nimmo. Sylvander,
some interesting parts of yours I cannot enter
on at present. I dare not think upon parting —
upon the interval ; but I am sure both are wisely
ordered for our good. A line in return to tell
me which night you'll be with me. "Lasting
impression!" Your key might have shown you
me better. Say, my lover, poet, and my friend,
what day next month the Eternity will end?
When you use your key, don't rummage too
much, lest you find I am half as great a fool in
the tender as yourself. Farewell! Sylvander.
I may sign, for I am already sealed your friend.

CLARINDA.

—92—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Sunday Night.

The impertinence of fools has joined with the
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
disturb 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 in 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 scarce hold up my head; but I
am happy you don't know it, you would be so
uneasy. SYLVANDER.

Monday Morning.

I am, my lovely friend, much better this morn-
ing, on the whole; but I have a horrid languor
on my spirits.

—93—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

"Sick of the world and all its joy,
My soul in pining sadness mourns ;
Dark scenes of woe my mind employ,
The past and present in their turns."

Have you ever met with a saying of the great
and likewise 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 inconstancy, the consequent imper-
fection of human weakness. Shall I meet with
—94—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

a friendship that defies years of absence and the
chances and changes of fortune? Perhaps "such
things are." One honest man 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 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 sit-
uation, 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 remarks, 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 Nim-

—95—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

mo's to-morrow evening; 'twill be a farewell call.

I have written 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 my-
self with visionary schemes of what happiness
might be enjoyed by small alterations, altera-
tions that we can fully enter to in this present
state of existence. For instance: supposing you
and I just as we are at present; the same rea-
soning powers, sentiments, and even desires; the
same fond curiosity for knowledge and remark-
ing 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, with-
out inconvenience, through all the yet uncon-
jectured bounds of creation; what a life of bliss
should 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 should be a happy creature, beyond any-

—96—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

thing 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 the 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, dedi-
cating the hour to love, in mutual converse, rely-
ing honour, and revelling endearment, while 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 is it of mine: what incentives then to,
and powers for reverence, gratitude, faith, and
hope, in all the fervour 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 dare-
say, you will be blessing the neglect of the maid
that leaves me destitute of paper.

SYLVANDER.

-97—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Thursday Morning.

"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 few
parallels among her sex ; why, or how, she should
fall to the blessed lot of a poor harum-scarum
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 ex-

—98—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

cellence, whose equal, in all my former composi-
tions, 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 cer-
tain poet of my making: among your frolics, it
would not be amiss to attach him to this master-
piece of my hand, to give her that immortality
among mankind, which no woman of any age
ever more deserved, and which few rhymesters
of this a)ge are better able to confer/'

Evening., Nine 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 * finely. I have no distinct

* TO CLARINDA

Clarinda, mistress of my soul,
The measured time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie,
Deprived of thee, his life and light —
The sun of all his joy?

We part — but by those precious drops

That fill thy lovely eyes ! [over]

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

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.

•To CLARINDA (Continued)

No other light shall guide my steps
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex
Has blest my glorious day;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?

—100—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Thursday Forenoon.

Sylvander, the moment I waked this morning,
I received a summons from Conscience to appear
at the Bar of Reason. While I trembled before
this sacred throne, I beheld a succession of fig-
ures pass before me in awful brightness! Re-
ligion, clad in a robe of light, stalked majestically
along, her hair dishevelled, and in her hand the
Scripture of Truth, held open at these words —
"If you love me, keep my commandments."
Reputation followed: her eyes darted indigna-
tion, while she waved a beautiful wreath of laurel,
intermixed with flowers, gathered by Modesty in
the Bower of Peace. Consideration held her
bright mirror close to my eyes, and made me start
at my own image! Love alone appeared as
counsel in my behalf. She was adorned with a
veil, borrowed from Friendship, which hid her de-
fects and set off her beauties to advantage. She
had no plea to offer, but that of being the sister
of Friendship, and the offspring of Charity. But
Reason refused to listen to her defence, because
she brought no certificate from the Temple of
Hymen! While I trembled before her, Reason
addressed me in the following manner: — "Re-

—101—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

turn to my paths, which alone are peace; shut
your heart against the fascinating intrusion of
the passions; take Consideration for your guide,
and you will soon arrive at the Bower of Tran-
quillity."

Sylvander, to drop my metaphor, I am neither
well nor happy to-day: my heart reproaches me
for last night. If you wish Clarinda to regain
her peace, determine against everything but what
the strictest delicacy warrants.

I do not blame you, but myself. I must not
see you on Saturday, unless I find I can depend
on myself acting otherwise. 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! Remember Clarinda's present
and eternal happiness depends upon her adher-
ence to Virtue. Happy Sylvander! that can
be attached to Heaven and Clarinda together.
Alas! I feel I cannot serve two masters! God
pity me II

Thursday Night.

Why have I not heard from you, Sylvander?
Everything in nature seems tinged with gloom
to-day. Ah! Sylvander

"The heart's ay the part ay
That makes us right or wrang!"
—102—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

How forcibly have these lines recurred to my
thoughts! Did I not tell you what a wretch
love rendered me? Affection to the strongest
height, I am capable of, to a man of my Sylvan-
der's merit — if it did not lead me into weak-
nesses and follies my heart utterly condemns.
I am convinced, without the approbation of
Heaven and my own mind, existence would be to
me a heavy curse. Sylvander, why do not your
Clarinda's repeated levities cure the too passion-
ate fondness you express for her? Perhaps it
has a little removed esteem. But I dare not
touch this string — it would fill up the cup of my
present misery. Oh, Sylvander, may the friend-
ship of that God, you and I have too much neg-
lected to secure, be henceforth our chief study
and delight. I cannot live deprived of the con-
sciousness of His favour. I feel something of
this awful state all this day. Nay, while I ap-
proached God with my lips, my heart was not
fully there.

Mr. Locke's posthumous letter ought to be
written in letters of gold. — What heartfelt joy
does the consciousness of having done well in
any one instance confer; and what agony the
reverse! Do not be displeased when I tell you
I wish our parting was over. At a distance we

—103—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

shall retain the same heartfelt affection and in-
terestedness in each other's concerns; — but ab-
sence will mellow and restrain those violent heart-
agitations which, if continued much longer, would
unhinge my very soul, and render me unfit for
the duties of life. You and I are capable of that
ardency of love, for which the wide creation can-
not afford an adequate object. Let us seek to
repose it in the bosom of our God. Let us next
give a place to those dearest on earth — the ten-
der charities of parent, sister, child! I bid you
good night with this short prayer of Thom-
son's

"Father of Light and Life, thou good Supreme!
Oh teach us what is good — teach us Thyself!
Save us from Folly, Vanity and Vice," &c.

Your letter — I should have liked had it con-
tained a little of the last one's seriousness. Bless
me! — You must not flatter so; but it's in a
"merry mood," and I make allowances. Part of
some of your encomiums, I know I deserve; but
you are far out when you enumerate "strength
of mind" among them. I have not even an ordi-
nary share of it — every passion does what it will
with me ; and all my life, I have been guided by

—104—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

the impulse of the moment — unsteady, and weak.
I thank you for the letter, though it stickit my
prayer. Why did you tell me you drank away
Reason, "that Heaven-lighted lamp in man"?
When Sylvander utters a calm, sober sentiment,
he is never half so charming.* I have read sev-
eral of these in your last letter with vast pleasure.
Good night!

Friday Morning.

My servant (who is a good soul) will deliver
you this. She is going down to Leith, and will
return about two or three o'clock. I have or-
dered her to call then, in case you have aught
to say to Clarinda to-day. I am better of that
sickness at my heart I had yesterday ; but there's
a sting remains, which will not be removed till I
am at peace with Heaven and myself. Another
interview, spent as we ought, will help to procure
this. A day when the sun shines gloriously, al-
ways makes me devout! I hope 'tis an earnest
(to-day) of soon being restored to the "light of
His countenance," who is the source of love and
standard of perfection. Adieu!

CLARINDA.

* As Wallace remarks with dry humour, "Clarinda's agitation
here proved fatal to her correct style. She says exactly the op-
posite of what she meant."

—105—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Clarinda, my life, you have wounded my soul.
Can I Ihink 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 fond
endearment and tender dalliance, I perhaps tres-
passed against the letter of Decorum's law, I ap-
peal, even to you, whether I ever sinned, in the
very least degree, against the spirit of her strict-
est 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 com-
mand.

Be reconciled, my angel, to your God, your-
self, and to me; and I pledge you Sylvander's
honour — an oath, I dare say, you will trust with-
out reserve, that you shall never more have rea-
son 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

SYLVANDEB, AND CLARINDA

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, the most sacred tie that unites us." Cla-
rinda, 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 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!

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I had proposed bringing my bosom friend,
Mr. Ainslie, to-morrow evening, at his strong re-
quest, 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 in-
twisted, incorporated, with my dearest threads of
life!

SYLVANDER.

—108-

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

I was on my 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 morn-
ing, 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, I 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
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 com-
posed of hours like yester-night. You are the
soul of my enjoyment; all else is of the stuff of
stocks and stones.

SYLVANDER.

—109—

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER 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 peo-
ple not only deafen us with the din of their equi-
page, 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 mat-
ters, and blamed and schooled for my Inscription
on 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 thumbed
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
—110—

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

arms of peace, except where it is charmingly in-
terrupted by the ardours of devotion. I find so
much serenity of mind, so much positive pleas-
ure, so much fearless daring toward the world,
when I warm in devotion, or feel the glorious sen-
sation— a consciousness of Almighty friendship
• — that I am sure I shall soon be an honest en-
thusiast.

"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,

SYLVANDEE.

—Ill-

SYLVANDER AND CLAKINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Sunday, Eighth Evening.

Sylvander, when I think of you as my dearest
and most attached friend, I am highly pleased;
but when you come across my mind as my lover,
something within gives a sting resembling that
of guilt. Tell me why is this ? It must be from
the idea that I am another's. What? another's
wife! Oh cruel Fate! I am, indeed, bound in
an iron chain. Forgive me, if this should give
you pain. You know I must (I told you I must)
tell you my genuine feelings, or be silent. Last
night we were happy beyond what the bulk of
mankind can conceive. Perhaps the "line" you
had marked was a little infringed, — it was really ;
but, though I disapprove, I have not been un-
happy about it. I am convinced no less of your
discernment, than of your wish to make your
Clarinda happy. I know you sincere, when you
profess horror at the idea of what would render
her miserable forever. Yet we must guard
against going to the verge of danger. Ah! my
friend, much need had we to "watch and pray!"
May those benevolent spirits, whose office it is
to save the fall of Virtue struggling on the brink

—112—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

of Vice, be ever present to protect and guide us
in right paths!

I had an hour's conversation to-day with my
worthy friend, Mr. Kemp.* You'll attribute,
perhaps, to this, the above sentiments. 'Tis true,
there's not one on earth has so much influence
on me, except — Sylvander; partly it has forced
me "to feel along the Mental Intelligence."
However, I've broke the ice. I confessed I had
received a tender impression of late — that it was
mutual, and that I had wished to unbosom myself
to him (as I always did), particularly to ask if
he thought I should, or not; mention it to my
friend? I saw he felt for me, (for I was in
tears ;) but he bewailed that I had given my heart
while in my present state of bondage; wished I
had made it friendship only; in short, talked to
me in the style of a tender parent, anxious for
my happiness. He disapproves altogether of
my saying a syllable of the matter to my friend,
— says it could only make him uneasy; and that
I am in no way bound to do it by any one tie.
This has eased me of a load which has lain upon
my mind ever since our intimacy. Sylvander, I
wish you and Mr. Kemp were acquainted, — such
worth and sensibility! If you had his piety and

* Her pastor.

—113—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

sobriety of manners, united to the shining abili-
ties you possess, you'd be "a faultless monster
which the world ne'er saw." He, too, has great
talents. His imagination is rich — his feelings
delicate — his discernment acute; yet there are
shades in his, as in all characters: but these it
would ill become Clarinda to point out. Alas!
I know too many blots in my own.

Sylvander, I believe nothing were a more im-
practicable task than to make you feel a little
of the genuine gospel humility. Believe me, I
wish not to see you deprived of that noble fire
of an exalted mind which you eminently possess.
Yet a sense of your faults — a feeling sense of
them ! — were devoutly to be wished. Tell me, did
you ever, or how oft have you smote on your
breast, and cried, "God be merciful to me a
sinner?" I fancy, once or twice, when suffering
from the effects of your errors. Pardon me if I
be hurting your "intrinsic dignity" ; it need not —
even "divine Clarinda" has been in this mortal
predicament.

Pray, what does Mr. Ainslie tfiink of her?
Was he not astonished to find her merely human?
Three weeks ago, I suppose you would have
made him walk into her presence unshod: but
one must bury even divinities when they discover

—114—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

symptoms of mortality! — (Let these be interred
in Sylvander's bosom.)

My dearest friend, there are two wishes upper-
most in my heart: to see you think alike with
Clarinda on religion, and settled in some credit-
able line of business. The warm interest I take
in both these is, perhaps, the best proof of my
friendship — as well as earnest of its duration.
As to the first, I devolve it over into the hands
of the Omniscient ! May he raise up friends who
will effectuate the other! While I breathe these
fervent wishes, think not anything but pure dis-
interested regard prompts them. They are fond
but chimerical ideas. They are never indulged
but in the hour of tender endearment, when
"Innocence

Looked gaily smiling on, while rosy Pleasure
Hid young Desire amid her flowery wreath,
And poured her cup luxuriant, mantling high
The sparkling, Heavenly vintage — Love and
Bliss."

'Tis past ten — and I please myself with think-
ing Sylvander will be about to retire and write
to Clarinda. I fancy you'll find this stupid
enough; but I can't be always bright — the sun

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

will be sometimes under a cloud. Sylvander, I
wish our kind feelings were more moderate ; why
set one's heart upon impossibilities? Try me
merely as your friend (alas, all I ought to be).
Believe me, you'll find me most rational. If
you'd caress the "mental intelligence" as you
do the corporeal frame, indeed, Sylvander, you'd
make me a philosopher. I see you fidgeting at
this violently blasting rationality. I have a
headache which brings home these things to the
mind. To-morrow I'll hear from you, I hope.
This is Sunday, and not a word on our favourite
subject. O fy, "divine Clarinda." I intend giv-
ing you my idea of Heaven in opposition to your
heathenish description (which, by the by, was ele-
gantly drawn) . Mine shall be founded on Rea-
son and supported by Scripture ; but it's too late,
my head aches, but my heart is affectionately

yours.

i

Monday Morning.

I am almost not sorry at the Excise affair
misgiving. You will be better out of Edinburgh
— it is full of temptation to one of your social
turn.

Providence (if you will be wise in future) will
order something better for you. I am half glad

—116—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

you were schooled about the Inscription; 'twill
be a lesson, I hope, in future. Clarinda would
have lectured you on it before, "if she dared."
Miss Nimmo is a woman after my own heart.
You are reconciled to the world by her "friendly
prattle!" How can you talk so diminutively of
the conversation of a woman of solid sense ? what
will you say of Clarinda's chit chat? I suppose
you would give it a still more insignificant term
if you dared ; but it is mixed with something that
makes it bearable, were it even weaker than it is.
Miss Nimmo is right in both her conjectures.
Ah, Sylvander! my peace must suffer — yours
cannot. You think, in loving Clarinda, you are
doing right; all Sylvander's eloquence cannot
convince me that it is so! If I were but at lib-
erty— Oh, how I would indulge in all the luxury
of innocent love! It is, I fear, too late to talk
in this strain, after indulging you and myself so
much; but would Sylvander shelter his Love in
Friendship's allowed garb, Clarinda would be far
happier.

To-morrow, didst thou say? The time is short
now — is it not too frequent? do not sweetest
dainties cloy soonest? Take your chance — come
half-past eight. If anything particular occur
to render it improper to-morrow, I'll send you

—117—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

word, and name another evening. Mr. Kemp is
to call to-night, I believe. He, too, trembles for
my peace. Two such worthies to be interested
about my foolish ladyship! The Apostle Paul,
with all his rhetoric, could not reconcile me to
the great (little souls) when I think of them and
Sylvander together; but I pity them,

"If e'er ambition did my fancy cheat,
With any wish so mean, as to be great,
Continue, Heaven, far from me to remove
The humble blessings of that life I love."

Till we meet, my dear Sylvander, adieu !

CLARINDA.

—118—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Sunday Morning.

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 de-
vote myself to you. Yesternight I was happy —
happiness "that the world cannot give." I kindle
at the recollection; but it is a flame where Inno-
cence 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 any of 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 trem-
bling under the idea of dreaded vengeance ! And

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

what a placid calm, what a charming secret en-
joyment, is given to one's bosom by the kind
feelings of friendship and the fond throes of
love ! Out upon the tempest of Anger, the acri-
monious gall of fretful Impatience, the sullen
frost of lowering Resentment, or the corroding
poison of withered Envy! They eat up the im-
mortal 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 good-
ness, 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 exempli-
fies 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 kind-
ness! Clarinda, the dear object of my fondest
love; there, may the most sacred, inviolate hon-
our, the most faithful, kindling constancy, ever

»— 120—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

watch and animate my every thought and imagi-
nation !

Did you ever meet the following lines spoken
of Religion, your darling topic?

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning

bright !

'Tis this that gilds the horror 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."

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.

-121—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Wednesday Evening, Nine.

There is not a sentiment in your last dear letter
but must meet the approbation of every worthy
discerning mind — except one — "that my heart,
my fondest wishes," are mine to bestow. True,
they are not, they cannot be placed upon him who
ought to have had them, but whose conduct (I
dare not say more against him), has justly for-
feited them. But is it not too near an infringe-
ment of the sacred obligations of marriage to
bestow one's heart, wishes, and thoughts upon
another? Something in my soul whispers that it
approaches criminality. I obey the voice. Let
me cast every kind feeling into the allowed bond
of Friendship. If 'tis accompanied with a
shadow of a softer feeling, it shall be poured into
the bosom of a merciful God ! If a confession of
my warmest, tenderest friendship does not sat-
isfy you, duty forbids Clarinda should do more!
Sylvander, I never expect to be happy here be-
low! Why was I formed so susceptible of emo-
tions I dare not indulge? Never were there two
hearts formed so exactly alike as ours ! No won-
der our friendship is heightened by the "sym-
pathetic glow." In reading your Life, I find

—122—

6YLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

the very first poems that hit your fancy, were
those that first engaged mine. While almost a
child, the hymn you mentioned, and another of
Addison's, "When all thy mercies," &c., were my
chief favourites. They are much so to this hour ;
and I make my boys repeat them every Sabbath
day. When about fifteen, I took a great fond-
ness for Pope's "Messiah," which I still reckon
one of the sublimest pieces I ever met with.

Sylvander, I believe our friendship will be
lasting; its basis has been virtue, similarity of
tastes, feelings, and sentiments. Alas ! I shudder
at the idea of an hundred miles distance. You'll
hardly write me once a-month, and other objects
will weaken your affection for Clarinda. Yet I
cannot believe so. Oh, let the scenes of Nature
remind you of Clarinda! In winter, remember
the dark shades of her fate; in summer, the
warmth, the cordial warmth, of her friendship;
in autumn, her glowing wishes to bestow plenty
on all; and let spring animate you with hopes,
that your friend may yet live to surmount the
wintry blasts of life, and revive to taste a spring-
time of happiness ! At all events, Sylvander, the
storms of life will quickly pass, and "one un-
bounded spring encircle all." There, Sylvander,
I trust we'll meet. Love, there, is not a crime.

— 123--

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I charge you to meet me there — Oh, God! — I
must lay down my pen. — I repent, almost, flat-
tering your writing talents so much: I can see
you know all the merit you possess. The allusion
of the key is true therefore I won't recant it;
but I rather was too humble about my own let-
ters. I have met with several who wrote worse
than myself, and few, of my own sex, better; so
I don't give you great credit for being fashed
with them.

Sylvander, I have things with different friends
I can't tell to another, yet am not hurt ; but I told
you of- that particular friend : he was, for near
four years, the one I confided in. He is very
worthy, and answers your description in the
"Epistle to J. S." exactly. When I had hardly
a friend to care for me in Edinburgh, he be-
friended me. I saw, too soon, 'twas with him a
warmer feeling: perhaps a little infection was
the natural effect. I told you the circumstances
which helped to eradicate the tender impression
in me; but I perceive (though he never tells me
so) — I see it in every instance — his prepossession
still remains. I esteem him as a faithful friend ;
but I can never feel more for him. I fear he's
not convinced of that. He sees no man with me
half so often as himself; and thinks I surely am

—124—

at least partial to no other. I cannot bear to
deceive one in so tender a point, and am hurt at
his harbouring an attachment I never can return.
I have thoughts of owning my intimacy with
Sylvander; but a thousand things forbid it. I
should be tortured with Jealousy, that "green-
eyed monster;" and, besides, I fear 'twould
wound his peace. 'Tis a delicate affair. I wish
your judgment on it. O Sylvander, I cannot
bear to give pain to any creature, far less to
one who pays me the attention of a brother!

I never met with a man congenial, perfectly
congenial to myself but one — ask no questions,
Is Friday to be the last night ? I wish, Sylvander,
you'd steal away — I cannot bear farewell ! I can
hardly relish the idea of meeting — for the idea!
but we will meet again, at least in Heaven, I
hope. Sylvander, when I survey myself, my
returning weaknesses, I am consoled that my
hopes, my immortal hopes, are founded in the
complete righteousness of a compassionate
Saviour. "In all our afflictions, He is afflicted,
and the angel of His presence guards us."

I am charmed with the lines on Religion, and
with you for relishing them. I only wish the
world saw you, as you appear in your letters to
me. Why did you send forth to them "The

—125—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

Holy Fair," &c.? Had Clarinda known you,
she would have held you in her arms till she had
your promise to suppress them. Do not publish
the "Moor Hen." Do not, for your sake, and
for mine. I wish you vastly to hear my valued
friend, Mr. Kemp. Come to hear him on Sunday
afternoon. 'Tis the first favour I have asked
you : I expect you'll not refuse me. You'll easily
get a seat. Your favourite, Mr. Gould, I admire
much. His composition is elegant indeed! — but
'tis like beholding a beautiful superstructure
built on a sandy foundation: 'tis fine to look
upon; but one dares not abide in it with safety.
Mr. Kemp's language is very good, — perhaps not
such studied periods as Mr. G's; but he is far
more animated. He is pathetic in a degree that
touches one's soul! and then, 'tis all built upon
a rock.

I could chide you for the Parting Song. It
wrings my heart. "You may reca' " — by being
wise in future — "y°ur friend as yet." I will be
your friend for ever! Good night! God bless
you! prays

CLARINDA.

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

Thursday Noon.

I shall go to-morrow forenoon to Miers*
alone : 'tis quite a usual thing I hear. Mary is not
in town, and I don't care to ask Miss Nimmo, or
anybody else. What size do you want it about?
O Sylvander, if you wish my peace, let Friend-
ship be the word between us : I tremble at more.
"Talk not of Love," &c. To-morrow I'll expect
you. Adieu !

CLARINDA.

* Miers was a miniature painter whose "shades" (silhouettes)
were especially popular.

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Thursday Night.

I cannot be easy, my Clarinda, while any sen-
timent respecting me in your bosom gives you
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 be-
stow that heart and those affections where you
please. The God of love meant and made those
delicious attachments to be bestowed on some-
body; and even all the imprudence lies in be-
stowing 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 re-
straint is the death of a friendly epistle ; but there
is one passage in your last charming letter,
Thomson nor 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-

—128—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

head! I have loved women 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 passions,
well. 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.

—129—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Saturday Evening.

I am wishing, Sylvander, for the power of
looking into your heart. It would be but fair —
for you have the key of mine. You are possessed
of acute discernment. I am not deficient either
in that respect. Last night must have shown
you Clarinda not "divine" — but as she really is.
I can't recollect some things I said without a de-
gree of pain. Nature has been kind to me in
several respects ; but one essential she has denied
me entirely: it is that instantaneous perception
of fit and unfit, which is so useful in the conduct
of life. No one can discriminate more accurately
afterwards than Clarinda. But when her heart
is expanded by the influence of kindness, she loses
all command of it, and often suffers severely in
the recollection of her unguardedness. You must
have perceived this; but, at any rate, I wish you
to know me as "I really am." I would have
given much for society to-day; for I can't bear
my own : but no human being has come near me.
Well as I like you, Sylvander, I would rather
lose your love than your esteem : the first I ought

—130—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

not to wish; the other I shall ever endeavour to
maintain. But no more of this : you prohibit it,
and I obey.

For many years, have I sought for a male
friend endowed with sentiments like yours; one
who could love me with tenderness, yet unmixed
with selfishness: who could be my friend, com-
panion, protector, and who would die sooner than'
injure me. I sought — but I sought in vain!
Heaven has, I hope, sent me this blessing in
Sylvander! Whatever weaknesses may cleave
to Clarinda, her heart is not to blame : whatever
it may have been by nature, it is unsullied by
art. If she dare dispose of it — last night can
leave you at no loss to guess the man :

Then, dear Sylvander, use it weel,
An' row it in your bosom's biel;
You'll find it aye baith kind and leal,

And fou'o' glee;
It wadna wrang the very deil, —

Ah, far less thee!

How do you like this parody on a passage of
my favourite poet? — it is extempore — from the
heart ; and let it be to the heart. I am to enclose

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

the first fruits of my muse, "To a Blackbird." *
It has no poetic merit; but it bespeaks a sweet
f eminine mind — such a one as I wish mine to be ;
but my vivacity deprives me of that softness
which is, in my opinion, the first 'female orna-
ment. It was written to soothe an aching heart.
I then laboured under a cruel anguish of soul,
which I cannot tell you of. If I ever take a

walk to the Temple of H , I'll disclose it;

but you and I (were it even possible) would
"fall out by the way." The lines on the Soldier
were occasioned by reading a book entitled the
"Sorrows of the Heart." Miss Nimmo was
pleased with them, and sent them to the gentle-
man. They are not poetry, but they speak what
I felt at a survey of so much filial tenderness.

* TO A BLACKBIRD SINGING ON A TREE

Morningside, 1784'

Go on, sweet bird, and soothe my care,
Thy cheerful notes will hush despair;
Thy tuneful warblings, void of art,
Thrill sweetly through my aching heart.
Now choose thy mate and fondly love,
And all the charming transport prove;
Those sweet emotions all enjoy,
Let Love and Song thy hours employ;
Whilst I, a love-lorn exile, live,
And rapture nor receive nor give.
Go on, sweet bird, and soothe my care,
Thy cheerful notes will hush despair.

The other poem of which she speaks is missing.
—132—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I agree with you in liking quotations. If they
are apt, they often give one's ideas more pleas-
antly than our own language can at all times.
I am stupid to-night. I have a soreness at my
heart. I conclude, therefore, with a verse of
Goldsmith, which, of late, has become an im-
mense favourite of mine :—

In Nature's simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;

Genius and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

Good night, "my dear Sylvander;" say this
(like Werter) to yourself.

YOUR CLARINDA.

Sunday Evening.

I would have given much, Sylvander, that you
had heard Mr. Kemp this afternoon. You would
have heard my principles, and the foundation of
all my immortal hopes, elegantly delivered. "Let
me live the life of the righteous, and my latter
end be like his," was the text. Who are the
righteous? "Those," says Sylvander, "whose
minds are actuated and governed by purity,
truth, and charity." But where does such a mind
exist? It must be where the "soul is made per-

—133—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

feet," for I know none such on earth. "The
righteous," then, must mean those who believe
on Christ, and rely on his perfect righteousness
for their salvation. "Everlasting" life, as you
observe, is in the power of all to embrace; and
this is eternal life, to "believe in Him whom
God hath sent." Purity, truth, and charity, will
flow from this belief, as naturally as the stream
from the fountain. These are, indeed, the only
evidences we can have of the reality of our faith,
and they must be produced in a degree ere we
can be fit for the enjoyment of Heaven. But
where is the man who dare plead these before
"Infinite Holiness"? Will Inflexible Justice
pardon our thousand violations of his laws?
Will our imperfect repentance and amendments
atone for past guilt? Or, will we presume to
present our best services (spotted as they are) as
worthy of acceptance before Unerring Recti-
tude? I am astonished how any intelligent mind,
blessed with a divine revelation, can pause a mo-
ment on the subject. "Enter not into judgment
with me, O Lord! in thy sight no flesh can be
justified!" This must be the result of every can-
did mind, upon surveying its own deserts. If
God had not been pleased to reveal His own Son,
as our all-sufficient Saviour, what could we have
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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

done but cried for mercy, without any sure hope
of obtaining it ? But when we have Him clearly
announced as our surety, our guide, our blessed
advocate with the Father, who, in their senses
ought to hesitate, in putting their souls into the
hands of this glorious "Prince of Peace"? With-
out this we may admire the Creator in his works,
but we can never approach him with the confi-
dential tenderness of children. "I will arise and
go to my father." This is the blessed language
of every one who believes and trusts in Jesus.
Oh, Sylvander, who would go on fighting with
themselves, resolving and resolving, while they
can thus fly to their Father's house? But alas!
it is not till we tire of these husks of our own,
that we recollect that there j there is bread enough
and to spare. Whenever the wish is sincerely
formed in our hearts, our Heavenly Father will
have compassion on us — "though a great way
off." This is the "religion of the bosom." I
believe that there will be many of every sect, na-
tion and people, who will "stand before the
throne"; but I believe that it will be the effect
of Christ's atonement, conveyed to them by ways
too complicated for our finite minds to compre-
hend. But why should we, who know "the way,
the truth, and the life," deprive ourselves of the

—135—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

comfort it is fitted to yield ? Let my earnest wish
for your eternal, as well as temporal happiness,
excuse the warmth with which I have unfolded
what has been my own fixed point of rest. I want
no controversy — I hate it; let our only strivings
be, who shall be the most constant and attached
friend, — which of us shall render our conduct
most approved to the other. I am well aware
how vain it were (vain in every sense of the
expression) to hope to sway a mind so intelli-
gent as yours, by any arguments I could devise.
May that God, who spoke worlds into existence,
open your eyes to see "the truth, as it is in
Jesus!" Forgive me, Sylvander, if I've been
tedious upon my favourite theme. You know
who it was, who could not stop when his divinity
came across him. Even there you see we are
congenial.

I'll tell you a pretty apt quotation I made to-
day, warm from my heart. I met the Judges in
the morning, as I went into the Parliament
Square, among whom was my Lord Dreghorn, in
his new robes of purple. He is my mother's
cousin-german, the greatest real honour he could
ever claim; but used me in a manner unfeeling,
harsh beyond description, at one of the darkest
periods of my chequered life. I looked stead-

—136—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

f astly in his sour face ; his eyes met mine. I was
a female, and therefore he stared; but, when he
knew who it was, he averted his eyes suddenly.
Instantaneously these lines darted into my mind :

"Would you the purple should your limbs adorn,
Go wash the conscious blemish with a tear."

The man who enjoys more pleasure in the
mercenary embrace of a courtezan, than in re-
lieving the unfortunate, is a detestable character,
whatever his bright talents may be!

I pity him! Sylvander, all his fortune could
not purchase half the luxury of Friday night!
Let us be grateful to Heaven, though it has de-
nied us wealth and power, for being endowed with
feelings, fitted to yield the most exquisite enjoy-
ments here and hereafter! May I hope you'll
read what I have urged on Religion with atten-
tion, Sylvander! when Reason resumes her
reign? I've none of those future delusive hopes,
which you too vainly express as having towards
Clarinda. Do not indulge them; my wishes ex-
tend to your immortal welfare. Let your first
care be to please God: for that, which He de-
lights in, must be happiness. I must conclude,
or I'll relapse. I have not a grain of humour

—137—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

to-night in my composition; so, lest "charming
Clarinda" should make you yawn, she'll decently
say "good night!" I laugh to myself at the
recollection of your earnest asseverations as to
your being anti-Platonic! Want of passions is
not merit: strong ones, under the control of
reason and religion — let these be our glory.
Once more good night.

CLAEINDA.

—138—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Saturday Morning.

There is no time, my Clarinda, when the con-
scious thrilling chords of Love and Friendship
give such delight as in the pensive hours of what
our favourite Thomson calls "philosophic melan-
choly." The sportive insects, who bask in the
sunshine of Prosperity, or the worms, that lux-
uriant crawl amid their ample wealth of earth;
they need no Clarinda — they would despise Syl-
vander, if they dared. The family of Misfor-
tune, a numerous group of brothers and sisters!
—they need a resting-place to their souls. Un-
noticed, often condemned by the world — in some
degree, perhaps, condemned by themselves —
they feel the full enjoyment of mutual love, deli-
cate 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 compas-
sionate 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."

— 139—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I have this morning been taking a peep
through, as Young finely says, "the dark postern
of time long elapsed"; and you will easily guess
'twas a rueful prospect: what a tissue of
thoughtlessness, weakness and folly ! My life re-
minded me of a ruined temple: what strength,
what proportion in some parts! — what unsightly
gaps, what prostrate ruins 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 exer-
tion? Mere declamation is bombast rant. Be-
sides, 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.' '
—140—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

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 of virtue, and a stronger relish for piety.
Clarinda, first of your sex! 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 re-
fine, where Wit adds the flavour, and Good Sense
gives strength and spirit to all; what a deli-
cious 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 real-
ised? not in all its very richest colouring, but

"Hope, thou nurse of young Desire,
Fair promiser of Joy." —

—141—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

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.

•—1*9-*

SYLVANDER AND CLAEINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

... 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 ex-
travagant 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.

0 Thou, whose I am, and whose are all my
ways! Thou see'st 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 af-
fection from her who, Thou knowest, is dearer
to me than life, do Thou bless and hallow our
band 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 !

1 am just going to take your Blackbird, the
sweetest, I am sure that ever sung, and prune its
wings a little. SYLVANDEE.

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

I cannot go out to-day, my dearest love, with-
out sending you half a line by way of a sin offer-
ing; but, believe me, 'twas the sin of ignorance.
Could you think that I intended to hurt you by
anything 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 are
not well this morning.

"If I unwitting 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 the time 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

—144—

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

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 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 might make you happy. Shall I be mis-
taken? I can no more, for hurry.

Tuesday Morning.

—145—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Thursday, Twelve.

I have been giving Mary a convoy; the day
is a genial one. Mary is a happy woman to-day.
Mrs. Cockburn has seen her "Henry" and ad-
mired it vastly. She talked of you, told her she
saw you, and that her lines even met your ap-
plause! Sylvander, I share in the joy of every
one; and am ready to "weep with those who
weep," as well, — as "rejoice with those who re-
joice." I wish all the human race well my heart
throbs with the large ambitious wish to see them
blest; yet I seem sometimes as if born to inflict
misery. What a cordial evening we had last
night! I only tremble at the ardent manner
Mary talks of Sylvander! She knows where his
affections lie, and is quite unconscious of the
eagerness of her expressions. All night I could
get no sleep for her admiration. I like her for
it, and am proud of it; but I know how much
violent admiration is akin to love.

I go out to dinner, and mean to leave this, in
case of one from you to-day. Miss Chalmers's
letters are charming. Why did not such a woman
secure your heart? — O the caprice of human na-
ture, to fix on impossibilities.

—146—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I am, however, happy you have such valuable
friends. What a pity that those who will be
most apt to feel your merit, will probably be
among the number who have not the power of
serving you! Sylvander, I never was ambitious;
but of late I have wished for wealth, with an
ardour unfelt before, to be able to say, "Be in-
dependent, thou dear friend of my heart !" What
exquisite joy! Then "your head would be lifted
up above your enemies." Oh, then, what little
shuffling, sneaking attentions! — shame upon the
world! Wealth and power command its adula-
tion, while real genius and worth, without these,
are neglected and contemned.

"In nature's simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Genius and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me."

Forgive my quoting my most favourite lines.
You spoke of being here to-morrow evening. I
believe you would be the first to tire of our
society; but I tremble for censorious remarks:
however, we must be sober in our hours. I am
flat to-day — so adieu! I was not so cheerful
last night as I wished. Forgive me. I am
yours, CLARINDA.

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Friday Morning } 7 O'clock.

Your fears for Mary are truly laughable. I
suppose, my love, you and I showed her a scene
which, perhaps, made her wish that she had a
swain, and one who could love like me, and
'tis a thousand pities that so good a heart as
hers should want an aim, an object. I am mis-
erably stupid this morning. Yesterday I dined
with a Baronet, and sat pretty late over the
bottle. And "who hath wo — who hath sorrow?
they that tarry long at the wine; they that go
to seek mixed wine." Forgive me, likewise, a
quotation from my favourite author. Solomon's
knowledge of the world is very great. He may
be looked upon as the "Spectator" or "Adven-
turer" of his day: and it is indeed, surprising
what a sameness has ever been in human nature.
The broken, but strongly characterising hints,
that the royal author gives us of the manners
of the court of Jerusalem and country of Israel
are in their great outlines, the same pictures that
London and England, Versailles and France ex-
hibit some three thousand years later. The loves
in the "Song of Songs" are all in the spirit of
Lady M. W. Montague or Madame Ninon de

—148—

SYLVANDEB AND CLARINDA

1'Enclos; though, for my part, I dislike both
the ancient and modern voluptuaries; and will
dare to affirm, that such an attachment as mine
to Clarinda, and such evenings as she and I have
spent, are what these greatly respectable and
deeply experienced Judges of Life and Love
never dreamed of.

I shall be with you this evening between eight
and nine, and shall keep as sober hours as you
could wish. I am ever, my dear Madam, yours,

SYLVANDEB.

—149—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

These letters of Clarinda are missing. It
would seem that Mr. Kemp had scored her rather
harshly for continuing the intimacy with Burns
in spite of his warnings.

Wednesday.

MY EVER DEAREST CLARINDA, — I make a numer-
ous dinner-party wait me while I read yours and
write this. Do not require that I should cease
to love you, to adore you in my soul; 'tis to me
impossible: your peace and happiness are to me
dearer than my soul. Name the terms on which
you wish to see me, to correspond with me, and
you have them. I must love, pine, mourn and
adore in secret: this you must not deny me.
You will ever be to me

"Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart."

I have not patience to read the Puritanic scrawl.
Damned sophistry. Ye heavens, thou God of
nature, thou Redeemer of mankind ! ye look down
with approving eyes on a passion inspired by
the purest flame, and guarded by truth, delicacy
and honour; but the half-inch soul of an unfeel-
ing, cold-blooded, pitiful Presbyterian bigot can-
—150—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

not forgive anything above his dungeon-bosom
and foggy head.

Farewell! I'll be with you to-morrow eve-
ning ; and be at rest in your mind. I will be yours
in the way you think most to your happiness. I
dare not proceed. I love, and will love you ; and
will, with joyous confidence, approach the throne
of the Almighty Judge of men with your dear
idea; and will despise the scum of sentiment and
the mist of sophistry.

SYLVANDER.

-151—

SYLVANDEB AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Wednesday, Midnight.

MADAM, — After a wretched day, I am prepar-
ing for a sleepless night. I am going to address
myself to the Almighty Witness of my actions —
some time, perhaps very soon, my Almighty
Judge. I am not going to be the advocate of
Passion : be Thou my inspirer and testimony, O
God, as I plead the cause' of truth !

I liave read over your friend's haughty dicta-
torial letter: you are only answerable to your
God in such a matter. Who gave any fellow-
creature of yours (a fellow-creature incapable of
being your judge, because not your peer,) a right
to catechise, scold, undervalue, abuse, and insult,
wantonly and inhumanly to insult you thus? I
don't wish, not even wish to deceive you, Madam.
The Searcher of hearts is my witness how dear
you are to me; but though it were possible you
could be still dearer to me, I would not even kiss
your hand, at the expense of your conscience.
Away with declamation! let us appeal to the
bar of common sense. It is not mouthing every-
thing sacred; it is not vague ranting assertions;
it is not assuming, haughtily and insultingly as-
suming, the dictatorial language of a Roman

—152—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

Pontiff, that must dissolve a union like ours.
Tell me, Madam, are you under the least shadow
of an obligation to bestow your love, tenderness,
caresses, affections, heart and soul, on Mr.
M'Lehose — the man who has repeatedly, habitu-
ally, and barbarously broken through every tie of
duty, nature, or gratitude to you? The laws of
your country, indeed, for the most useful reasons
of policy and sound government, have made your
person inviolate; but are your heart and affec-
tions bound to one who gives not the least return
of either to you? You cannot do it; it is not in
the nature of things that you are bound to do it;
the common feelings of humanity forbid it. Have
you, then, a heart and affections that are no man's
right? You have. It would be highly, ridicu-
lously absurd to suppose the contrary. Tell me
then, in the name of common sense, can it be
wrong, is such a supposition compatible with the
plainest ideas of right and wrong, that it is im-
proper to bestow the heart and these affections
on another — while that bestowing is not in the
smallest degree hurtful to your duty to God, to
your children, to yourself, or to society at large?
This is the great test; the consequences: let
us see them. In a widowed, forlorn, lonely sit-
uation, with a bosom glowing with love and ten-

—153—

SYLVANDER AND CLAKINDA

derness, yet so delicately situated that you cannot
indulge these nobler feelings except you meet
with a man who has a soul capable . . .

The rest of the letter is missing.

—154—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

"I am distressed for thee, my brother Jona-
than." I have suffered, Clarinda, from your
letter. My soul was in arms at the sad perusal.
I dreaded that I had acted wrong. If I have
wronged you, God forgive me. But, Clarinda,
be comforted. Let us raise the tone of our feel-
ings a little higher and bolder. A fellow-crea-
ture who leaves us — who spurns us without just
cause, though once our bosom-friend — up with a
little honest pride: let them go. How shall I
comfort you, who am the cause of the injury?
Can I wish that I had never seen you — that we
had never met? No, I never will. But have I
thrown you friendless? — there is almost distrac-
tion in the thought. Father of mercies! against
Thee often have I sinned: through Thy grace
I will endeavour to do so no more. She who
Thou knowest is dearer to me than myself, —
pour Thou the balm of peace into her past
wounds, and hedge her about with Thy peculiar
care, all her future days and nights. Strengthen
her tender, noble mind firmly to suffer and mag-
nanimously to bear. Make me worthy of that
friendship, that love she honours me with. May
my attachment to her be as pure as devotion and

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

as lasting as immortal life. O, Almighty Good-
ness, hear me! Be to her, at all times, particu-
larly in the hour of distress or trial, a friend and
comforter, a guide and guard.

"How are thy servants blest, O Lord,

How sure is their defence!
Eternal wisdom is their guide,

Their help Omnipotence."

Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have done
you. . To-night I shall be with you, as indeed I
shall be ill at ease till I see you.

SYLVANDER.

— 156—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Two o'clock.

I just now received your first letter of
yesterday, by the careless negligence of the
penny post. Clarinda, matters are grown very
serious with us : then seriously hear me, and hear
me, Heaven!

I met you, my dear Clarinda, by far the first
of womankind, at least to me. I esteemed, I
loved you at first sight, both of which attach-
ments you have done me the honour to return.
The longer I am acquainted with you, the more
innate amiableness and worth I discover in you.
You have suffered a loss, I confess, for my sake ;
but if the firmest, steadiest, warmest friendship;
if every endeavour to be worthy of your friend-
ship; if a love, strong as the ties of nature and
<holy as the duties of religion; if all these can
make anything like a compensation for the evil
I have occasioned you; if they be worth your
acceptance, or can in the least add to your enjoy-
ments,— so help Sylvander, ye Powers above, in
his hour of need, as he freely gives all these to
Clarinda !

I esteem you, I love you, as a friend ; I admire
you, I love you as a woman, beyond any one in

—157—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

all the circle of creation. I know I shall con-
tinue to esteem you, to love you, to pray for you,
nay, to pray for myself for your sake.

Expect me at eight ; and believe me to be ever,
my dearest Madam, yours most entirely,

SYLVANDER.

—158—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

"On reason build resolve,
That column of true majesty in man."

or, as the same author finely says in another place,

"Let thy soul spring up,

And lay strong hold for help on Him that made
thee."

I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be dis-
couraged at all this. Look forward: in a few
weeks I shall be somewhere or other, out of the
possibility of seeing you: till then, I shall write
you often but visit you seldom. Your fame,
your welfare, your happiness, are dearer to me.
than any gratification whatever. Be comforted,
my love! the present moment is the worst; the
lenient hand of time is daily and hourly either
lightening the burden, or making us insensible
to the weight. None of these friends — I mean

Mr. and the other gentleman — can hurt

your worldly support : and of their friendship in a
little time you will learn to be easy, and. by and

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

by to be happy without it. A decent means of
livelihood in the world, an approving God, a
peaceful conscience, and one firm trusty friend
— can anybody that has these be said to be un-
happy? These are yours.

To-morrow evening I shall be with you about
eight, probably for the last time till I return to
Edinburgh. In the meantime, should any of
these two unlucky friends question you respect-
ing me, whether I am the man, I do not think
they are entitled to any information. As to
their jealousy and spying, I despise them.

Adieu, my dearest Madam!

SYLVANDER.

—160—

SYLVANDER AND CLAEINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Glasgow, Monday Evening, Nine O'clock.

The attraction of Love, I find, is in an inverse
proportion to the attraction of the Newtonian
philosophy. In the system of Sir Isaac, the
nearer objects were to one another, the stronger
was the attractive force. In my system, every
milestone that marked my progress from Cla-
rinda, awakened a keener pang of attachment
to her. How do you feel, my love? Is your
heart ill at ease? I fear it. God forbid that
these persecutors should harass that peace which
is more precious to me than my own. Be as-
sured I shall ever think on you, muse on you,
and, in my moments of devotion, pray for you.
The hour that you are not in my thoughts, "be
that hour darkness; let the shadows of death
cover it; let it not be numbered in the hours of
the day!"

"When I forget the darling theme,
Be my tongue mute ! my fancy paint no more !
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!"

I have just met with my old friend, the ship Cap-
tain— guess my pleasure ; to meet you could alone

—161—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

have given me more. My brother William too,
the young saddler, has come to Glasgow to meet
me ; and here are we three spending the evening.

I arrived here too late to write by post; but
I'll wrap half a dozen blank sheets of paper to-
gether, and send it by the Fly, under the name
of a parcel. You shall hear from me next post
town. I would write you a longer letter but for
the present circumstances of my friend.

Adieu, my Clarinda! I am just going to pro-
pose your health by way of grace-drink.

SYLVANDER.

—162—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Edinburgh, Tuesday Evening, Nine o'clock.

Mr. has just left me, after half an hour's

most pathetic conversation. I told him of the us-
age I had met with on Sunday night, which he
condemned much, as unmanly and ungenerous. I
expressed my thanks for his call ; but he told me,
it "was merely to hide the change in his friend-
ship from the world." Think how I was morti-
fied: I was indeed; and affected so, as hardly to
restrain tears. He did not name you ; but spoke
in terms that showed plainly he knew. Would
to God he knew my Sylvander as I do! then
might I hope to retain his friendship still; but
I have made my choice, and you alone can ever
make me repent it. Yet, while I live, I must
regret the loss of such a man's friendship. My
dear, generous friend of my soul does so too. I
love him for it! Yesterday I thought of you,
and went over to Miss Nimmo to have the luxury
of talking of you. She was most kind; and
praised you more than ever, as a man of worth,
honour, genius. Oh, how I could have listened
to her for ever! She says, she is afraid our at-
tachment will be lasting. I stayed tea, was
asked kindly, and did not choose to refuse, as

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I stayed last time when you were of the party.
I wish you were here to-night to comfort me. I
feel hurt and depressed; but to-morrow I hope
for a cordial from your dear hand! I must bid
you good night. Remember your Clarinda.
Every blessing be yours!

Your letter this moment. Why did you write
before to-day? Thank you for it. I figure
your heartfelt enjoyment last night. Oh, to
have been of the party! Where was it? I'd
like to know the very spot. My head aches so I
can't write more; but I have kissed your dear
lines over and over. Adieu! I'll finish this to-
morrow.

YOUR CLARINDA.

Wednesday, Eleven.

Mary was at my bedside by eight this morning.
We had much chat about you. She is an affec-
tionate, faithful soul. She tells me her defence
of you was so warm, in a large company where
you were blamed for some trivial affair, that she
left them impressed with the idea of her being
in love. She laughs, and says, " 'Tis pity to have
the skaith, and nothing for her pains."

My spirits are greatly better to-day. I am a
little anxious about Willie : his leg is to be lanced

—164—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

this day, and I shall be fluttered till the opera-
tion is fairly over. Mr. Wood thinks he will
soon get well, when the matter lodged in it is
discussed. God grant it! Oh, how can I ever
be ungrateful to that good Providence, who has
blest me with so many undeserved mercies, and
saved me often from the ruin I courted! The
heart that feels its continual dependence on the
Almighty, is bound to keep His laws by a tie
stronger and tenderer than any human obliga-
tion. The feeling of Honour is a noble and pow-
erful one; but can we be honourable to a fellow-
creature, and basely unmindful of our Bountiful
Benefactor, to whom we are indebted for life
and all its blessings; and even for those very
distinguishing qualities, Honour, Genius, and
Benevolence?

I am sure you enter into these ideas; did you
think with me in all points I should be too happy ;
but I'll be silent. I may wish and pray, but you
shall never again accuse me of presumption. My
dear, I write you this to Mauchline, to be waiting
you. I hope, nay I am sure, 'twill be welcome.

You are an extravagant prodigal in more es-
sential things than affection. To-day's post
would have brought me yours and saved you six-
pence. However, it pleased me to know that,

—165—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

though absent in body, "y°u were present with
me in spirit."

Do you know a Miss Nelly Hamilton in Ayr,
daughter to a Captain John H. of the Excise
cutter? I stayed with her at Kailzie, and love
her. She is a dear, amiable, romantic girl. I
wish much to write to her, and will enclose it for
you to deliver, personally, if agreeable. She
raved about your poems in summer, and wished
to be acquainted. Let me know if you have any
objections. She is an intimate of Miss Nimmo,
too. I think the streets look deserted-like since
Monday; and there's a certain insipidity in good
kind of folks I once enjoyed not a little. You,
who are a casuist, explain these deep enigmas.
Miss Wardrobe supped here on Monday. She
once named you, which kept me from falling
asleep. I drank your health in a glass of ale —
as the lasses do at Hallowe'en — "in to mysel'."

Happy Sylvander ! to meet with the dear char-
ities of brother, sister, parent ! whilst I have none
of these and belong to nobody. Yes, I have my
children, and my Heart's friend, Sylvander — the
only one I have ever found capable of that name-
less, delicate attachment, which none but noble,
romantic minds can comprehend. I envy you
the Captain's society. Don't tell him of the

—166—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

"Iron Chain," lest he call us both fools. I saw
the happy trio in my mind's eye. So absence
increases your fondness; 'tis ever so in great
souls. Let the poor worldlings enjoy (possess,
I mean, for they can't enjoy) their golden dish;
we have each of us an estate, derived from the
Father of the Universe, into whose hands I trust
we'll return it, cultivated so as to prove an inex-
haustible treasure through the endless ages of
eternity !

'Afternoon.

Mr. Wood has not come, so the affair is not
over. I hesitate about sending this till I hear
further; but I think you said you'd be at M. on
Thursday: at any rate you'll get this on your
arrival.

Farewell! may you ever abide under the
shadow of the Almighty. Yours,

CLAEINDA.

—167—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Kilmarnock, Friday.

I wrote you, my dear Madam, the moment I
alighted in Glasgow. Since then I have not had
opportunity: for in Paisley, where I arrive next
day, my worthy, wise friend Mr. Pattison did
not allow me a moment's respite. I was there
ten hours; during which time I was introduced
to nine men worth six thousands ; five men worth
ten thousands; his brother, richly worth twenty
thousands; and a young weaver who will have
thirty thousands good when his father, who has
no more children than the said weaver, and a
Whig-kirk, dies. Mr. P. was bred a zealous anti-
burgher; but during his widowerhood, he has
found their strictness incompatible with certain
compromises he is often obliged to make with the
Powers of darkness — the devil, the world, and
the flesh: so he, good, merciful man! talked pri-
vately to me of the absurdity of eternal torments ;
the liberality of sentiment in indulging the hon-
est instincts of nature ; the mysteries of concubin-
age, &c. He has a son, however, that, at sixteen,
has repeatedly minted at certain privileges, only
proper for staid, sober men, who can use the good
things of this life without abusing them; but the

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SYLVANDEB AND CLARINDA

father's parental vigilance has hitherto hedged
him in, amid a corrupt and evil world.

His only daughter, who, "if the beast be to the
fore, and the branks bide hale," will have seven
thousand pounds when her old father steps into
the dark Factory-office of Eternity with his well-
thummed web of life, has put him again and again
in a commendable fit of indignation, by request-
ing a harpsichord. "O! these boarding-schools!"
exclaims my prudent friend. "She was a good
spinner and sewer, till I was advised by her
foes and mine to give her a year of Edinburgh !"

After two bottles more, my much-respected
friend opened up to me a project, a legitimate
child of Wisdom and Good Sense; 'twas no less
than a long thought-on and deeply-matured de-
sign, to marry a girl, fully as elegant in her form
as the famous priestess whom Saul consulted in
his last hours, and who had been second maid of
honour to his deceased wife. This, you may be
sure, I highly applauded, so I hope for a pair
of gloves by and by. I spent the two bypast
days at Dunlop house with that worthy family
to whom I was deeply indebted early in my poetic
career; and in about two hours I shall present
your "twa wee sarkies" to the little fellow. My
dearest Clarinda, you are ever present with me;

--169--

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

and these hours, that drawl by among the fools
and rascals of this world, are only supportable in
the idea that they are the forerunners of that
happy hour, that ushers me to "the mistress of
my soul." Next week I shall visit Dumfries,
and next again return to Edinburgh. My let-
ters in these hurrying, dissipated hours will be
heavy trash; but you know the writer.
God bless you.

SYLVANDER.

—170—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Edinburgh,, Friday Evening.

I wish you had given me a hint, my dear Syl-
vander, that you were to write to me only once
in a week. Yesterday I looked for a letter; to-
day, never doubted it; but both days have ter-
minated in disappointment. A thousand con-
jectures have conspired to make me most un-
happy. Often have I suffered much disquiet
from forming the idea of such an attention, on
such and such an occasion, and experienced quite
the reverse. But in you, and you alone, I have
ever found my highest demands of kindness ac-
complished; nay, even my fondest wishes, not
gratified only, but anticipated! To what, then,
can I attribute your not writing me one line since
Monday?

God forbid that your nervous ailment has in-
capacitated you for that office, from which you
derived pleasure singly; as well as that most deli-
cate of all enjoyments, pleasure reflected. To-
morrow I shall hope to hear from you. Hope,
blessed hope, thou balm of every woe, possess and
fill my bosom with thy benign influence.

I have been solitary since the tender farewell
till to-night. I was solicited to go to Dr.

—171—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

Moyes's lecture with Miss Craig and a gallant of
hers, a student; one of the many stupid animals,
knowing only in the Science of Puppyism, "or
the nice conduct of a clouded cane." With what
sovereign contempt did I compare his trite, in-
sipid frivolity with the intelligent, manly observa-
tion which ever marks the conversation of Syl-
vander. He is a glorious piece of divine work-
manship, Dr. Moyes. The subject to-night was
the origin of minerals, springs, lakes, and the
ocean. Many parts were far beyond my weak
comprehension, and indeed that of most women.
What I understood delighted me, and altogether
raised my thoughts to the infinite wisdom and
boundless goodness of the Deity. The man him-
self marks both. Presented with a universal
blank of Nature's works,* his mind appears to
be illuminated with Celestial light. He con-
cluded with some lines of the Essay on Man: "All
are but parts of one stupendous whole," &c.; a
passage I have often read with sublime pleasure.
Miss Burnet sat just behind me. What an
angelic girl! I stared at her, never having seen
her so near. I remembered you talking of her,
&c. What felicity to witness her "Softly speak
and sweetly smile!" How could you celebrate

* Dr. Moyes was blind.

—172—

SYLVANDKR AND CLARINDA

any other Clarinda! Oh, I would have adored
you, as Pope of exquisite taste and refinement,
had you loved, sighed, and written upon her for
ever! breathing your passion only to the woods
and streams. But Poets, I find, are not quite
incorporeal, more than others. My dear Syl-
vander, to be serious, I really wonder you ever
admired Clarinda, after beholding Miss Bur-
net's superior charms. If I don't hear to-mor-
row, I shall form dreadful reasons. God forbid!
Bishop Geddes was within a foot of me, too.
What field for contemplation — both!
Good night. God bless you, prays

CLARINDA.

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

This letter was not found among Clarinda's
papers, but was published in the BanffsMre
Journal, "as printed from the original," which
was described as much mutilated. Its authen-
ticity would seem to be confirmed by the allu-
sions in her reply.

Probably written the day of his arrival at
Mossgiel, Feb. 23.

I have just now, my ever dear Madam, deliv-
ered your kind present to my sweet little Bob-
bie, whom I find a very fine fellow. Your letter
was waiting me. Your interview with Mr.
Kemp opens a wound, ill-closed, in my breast;
not that I think his friendship is of so much con-
sequence to you, but because you set such a value
on it.

Now for a little news that will please you. I,
this morning, as I came home, called for a certain
woman. I am disgusted with her — I cannot en-
dure her! I, while my heart smote me for the
profanity, tried to compare her with my Cla-
rinda: 'twas setting the expiring glimmer of a
farthing taper beside the cloudless glory of the
meridian sun. Here was tasteless insipidity,

—174—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

vulgarity of soul, and mercenary fawning; there
polished good sense, Heaven-born genius, and
the most generous, the most delicate, the most
tender passion. I have done with her, and she
with me.

I set off to-morrow for Dumfries-shire. 'Tis.
merely out of compliment to Mr. Miller; for I
know the Indies must be my lot. I will write
you from Dumfries, if these horrid postages
don't frighten me.

"Whatever place, whatever land I see,
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee;
Still to 'Clarinda' turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthen'd chain."

I just stay to write you a few lines, before I
go to call on my friend, Mr. Gavin Hamilton. I
hate myself as an unworthy sinner because these
interviews of old dear friends make me, for half
a moment, almost forget Clarinda.

Remember to-morrow evening, at eight o'clock,
I shall be with the Father of Mercies, at that hour
on your own account. Farewell! If the post
goes not to-night, I'll finish the other page to-
morrow morning.

SYLVANDER.

P. S. — Remember.

—175—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Cumnock, 2d March, 1788.

I hope, and am certain, that my generous
Clarinda will not think my silence, for now a long
week, has been in any degree owing to my for-
getfulness. I have been tossed about through
the country ever since I wrote you, and am here
returning from Dumfries-shire, at an inn, the
post-office of the place, with just so long time
as my horse eats his corn, to write you. I have
been hurried with business and dissipation,
almost equal to the insidious decree of the Per-
sian monarch's mandate, when he forbade asking
petition of God or man for forty days. Had the
venerable prophet been as throng as I, he had not
broken the decree; at least not thrice a-day.

I am thinking my farming scheme will yet
hold. A worthy intelligent farmer, my father's
friend and my own, has been with me on the spot :
he thinks the bargain practicable. I am myself,
on a more serious review of the lands, much bet-
ter pleased with them. I won't mention this in
writing to anybody but you and Mr. Ainslie.
Don't accuse me of being fickle; I have the two
plans of life before me, and I wish to adopt the
one most likely to procure me independence.

—176—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I shall be in Edinburgh next week. I long to
see you; your image is omnipresent to me; nay,
I am convinced I would soon idolatrise it most
seriously; so much do absence and memory im-
prove the medium through which one sees the
much-loved object. To-night, at the sacred hour
of eight, I expect to meet you, at the Throne of
Grace. I hope, as I go home to-night, to find a
letter from you at the post-office in Mauchline;
I have just once seen that dear hand since I left
Edinburgh — a letter, indeed, which much affect-
ed me. Tell me, first of womankind, will my
warmest attachment, my sincerest friendship, my
correspondence, — will they be any compensation
for the sacrifices you make for my sake? If they
will, they are yours. If I settle on the farm I
propose, I am just a day and a half's ride from
Edinburgh. We shall meet; don't you say,
"Perhaps, too often!"

Farewell, my fair, my charming Poetess I
May all good things ever attend you.

I am ever, my dearest Madam,

Yours,
SYLVANDER.

In a letter to Robert Ainslie, written March
3, Burns says: "I got a letter from Clarinda

—177—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

yesterday, and she tells me she has got no letter
of mine but one. Tell her that I wrote to her
from Glasgow, from Kilmarnock, from Maueh-
line, and yesterday from Cumnock as I returned
from Dumfries. Indeed, she is the only person
in Edinburgh I have written to till this day.
How are your soul and body putting up? — a
little like man and wife, I suppose."

-178—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Edinburgh, March 5, 1788.

I received yours from Cumnock about an hour
ago; and to show you my good-nature, sit down
to write to you immediately. I fear, Sylvandera
you overvalue my generosity; for, believe me, it
will be some time ere I can cordially forgive you
the pain your silence has caused me! Did you
ever feel that sickness of heart which arises from
hope deferred? That, the crudest of pains, you
have inflicted on me for eight days by-past. I
hope I can make every reasonable allowance for
the hurry of business and dissipation. Yet, had
I been ever so engrossed, I should have found
one hour out of the twenty-four to write you.
No more of it: I accept of your apologies; but
am hurt that any should have been necessary be-
tween us on such a tender occasion.

I am happy that the farming scheme promises
so well. There's no fickleness, my dear sir, in
changing for the better. I never liked the Ex-
cise for you; and feel a sensible pleasure in the
hope of your becoming a sober, industrious
farmer. My prayers, in this affair, are heard,
I hope, so far : may they be answered completely !
The distance is the only thing I regret; but,

—179—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

whatever tends to your welfare, overweighs all
other considerations. I hope ere then to grow
wiser, and to lie easy under weeks' silence. I
had begun to think that you had fully experi-
enced the truth of Sir Isaac's philosophy.

I have been under unspeakable obligations to
your friend, Mr. Ainslie. I had not a mortal to
whom I could speak of your name but him. He
has called often; and, by sympathy, not a little
alleviated my anxiety. I tremble lest you should
have devolved, what you used to term your
"folly," upon Clarinda: more's the pity. 'Tis
never graceful but on the male side; but I shall
learn more wisdom in future. Example has
often good effects.

I got both your letters from Kilmarnock and
Mauchline, and would, perhaps, have written to
you unbidden, had I known anything of the
geography of the country; but I knew not
whether you would return by Mauchline or not,
nor could Mr. Ainslie inform me. I have met
with several little rubs, that hurt me the more
that I had not a bosom to pour them into —

"On some fond breast the feeling soul relies."

Mary I have not once set eyes on, since I wrote
to you. Oh, that I should be formed susceptible
--180—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

of kindness, never, never to be fully, or at least
habitually, returned! "Trim," (said my Uncle
Toby) "I wish, Trim, I were dead."

Mr. Ainslie called just now to tell me he had
heard from you. You would see, by my last,
how anxious I was, even then, to hear from you.
'Tis the first time I ever had reason to be so;
I hope 'twill be the last. My thoughts were
yours both Sunday nights at eight. Why should
my letter have affected you? You know I
count all things (Heavenexcepted) but loss, that
I may win and keep you. I supped at Mr.
Kemp's on Friday. Had you been an invisible
spectator with what perfect ease I acquitted my-
self, you would have been pleased, highly pleased,
with me.

Interrupted by a visit from Miss R . She

was inquiring kindly for you. I delivered your
compliments to her. She means (as you once
said ) all the kindness in the world, but she wants
that "finer chord." Ah! Sylvander, happy, in
my mind, are they who are void of it. Alas! it
too often thrills with anguish.

I hope you have not forgotten to kiss the little
cherub for me. Give him fifty, and think Cla-
rinda blessing him all the while. I pity his
mother sincerely, and wish a certain affair hap-

—181—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

pily over. My Willie is in good health, except
his leg, which confines him close since it was
opened; and Mr. Wood says it will be a very
tedious affair. He has prescribed sea-bathing as
soon as the season admits. I never see Miss
Nimmo. Her indifference wounds me; but all
these things make me fly to the Father of Mer-
cies, who is the inexhaustible Fountain of all
kindness. How could you ever mention "pos-
tages"? I counted on a crown at least; and have
only spent one poor shilling. If I had but a
shilling in the world, you should have sixpence;
nay, eightpence, if I could contrive to live on a
groat. I am avaricious only in your letters;
you are so, indeed. Farewell. Yours,

CLARINDA.

—182—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

I own myself guilty, Clarinda: I should have
written you last week. But when you recollect,
my dearest Madam, that yours of this night's
post is only the third I have from you, and that
this is the fifth or sixth I have sent to you, you
will not reproach me, with a good grace, for un-
kindness. I have always some kind of idea, not
to sit down to write a letter, except I have time,
and possession of my faculties, so as to do some
justice to my letter; which at present is rarely
my situation. For instance, yesterday I dined
at a friend's at some distance: the savage hospi-
tality of this country spent me the most part
of the night over the nauseous potion in the bowl.
This day — sick — headache — low spirits — miser-
able— fasting, except for a draught of water or
small beer. Now eight o'clock at night; only
able to crawl ten minutes' walk into Mauchline,
to wait the post in the pleasurable hope of hear-
ing from the mistress of my soul.

But truce with all this. When I sit down to
write to you, all is happiness and peace. A hun-
dred times a-day do I figure you before your
taper — your book or work laid aside as I get
within the room. How happy have I been! and

—183—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

how little of that scantling portion of time, called
the life of man, is sacred to happiness, much less
transport.

I could moralise to-night, like a death's-head.

"O what is life, that thoughtless wish of all!
A drop of honey in a draught of gall."

Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sick-
ness clogs the wheels of life, than the thoughtless
career we run in the hour of health. "None
saith, where is God, my Maker, that giveth songs
in the night: who teacheth us more knowledge
than the beasts of the field, and more under-
standing than the fowls of the air?"

Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! Give
me, to act up to the dignity of my nature ! Give
me, to feel "another's woe"; and continue with
me that dear-loved friend that feels with mine!

The dignifying and dignified consciousness
of an honest man, and the well-grounded trust
in approving Heaven, are two most substantial
foundations of happiness. . . .

I could not have written a page to any mortal,
except yourself. I'll write you by Sunday's
post. Adieu. Good night.

SYLVANDER.

—184—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Mossgiel, 7th March, 1788.

Clarinda, I have been so stung with your re-
proach for unkindness, — a sin so unlike me, a sin
I detest more than a breach of the whole deca-
logue, fifth, sixth, seventh, and ninth articles ex-
cepted, — that I believe I shall not rest in my
grave about it, if I die before I see you. You
have often allowed me the head to judge, and the
heart to feel the influence of female excellence:
was it not blasphemy, then, against your own
charms, and against my feelings, to suppose that
a short fortnight could abate my passion?

You, my love, may have your cares and anx-
ieties to disturb you; but they are the usual
occurrences of life. Your future views are fixed,
and your mind in a settled routine. Could not
you, my ever dearest Madam, make a little allow-
ance for a man, after long absence, paying a
short visit to a country full of friends, relations,
and early intimates? Cannot you guess, my
Clarinda, what thoughts, what cares, what anx-
ious forebodings, hopes and fears, must crowd
the breast of the man of keen sensibility, when
no less is on the tapis than his aim, his employ-
ment, his very existence through future life?

^-185—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

To be overtopped in anything else, I can bear ;
but in the tests of generous love, I defy all man-
kind ! not even to the tender, the fond, the loving
Clarinda — she whose strength of attachment,
whose melting soul, may vie with Eloisa and
Sappho, not even she can overpay the affection
she owes me!

Now that, not my apology, but my defence is
made, I feel my soul respire more easily. I
know you will go along with me in my justifica-
tion : would to Heaven you could in my adoption,
too! I mean an adoption beneath the stars — an
adoption where I might revel in the immediate
beams of

"She the bright sun of all her sex."

I would not have you, my dear Madam, so
much hurt at Miss N— -'s coldness. 'Tis placing
yourself below her, an honour she by no means
deserves. We ought, when we wish to be econ-
omists in happiness, — we ought, in the first place,
to fix the standard of our own character; and
when, on full examination, we know where we
stand, and how much ground we occupy, let us
contend for it as property; and those who seem
to doubt, or deny us what is justly ours, let us
either pity their prejudices, or despise their

—186—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

judgment. I know, my dear, you will say, this
is self-conceit; but I call it self-knowledge: the
one is the overweening opinion of a fool, who
fancies himself to be, what he wishes himself to
be thought; the other is the honest justice that a
man of sense, who has thoroughly examined the
subject, owes to himself. Without this standard,
this column in our own mind, we are perpetually
at the mercy of the petulance, the mistakes, the
prejudices, nay, the very weakness and wicked-
ness of our fellow-creatures.

I urge this, my dear, both to confirm myself in
the doctrine, which, I assure you, I sometimes
need, and because I know, that this causes you

often much disquiet. To return to Miss N .

She is, most certainly, a worthy soul; and
equalled by very very few in goodness of heart.
But can she boast more goodness of heart than
Clarinda? Not even prejudice will dare to say
so: for penetration and discernment, Clarinda

sees far beyond her. To wit, Miss N" dare

make no pretence: to Clarinda's wit, scarce any
of her sex dare make pretence. Personal
charms, it would be ridiculous to run the parallel :

and for conduct in life, Miss N was never

called out, either much to do, or to suffer. Cla-
rinda has been both ; and has performed her part,

—187—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

where Miss N would have sunk at the bare

idea.

Away, then, with these disquietudes! Let us
pray with the honest weaver of Kilbarchan,
"Lord send us a gude conceit o' oursel'I" or in
the words of the auld sang,

"Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again,
And I'll never mind any such foes."

There is an error in the commerce of intimacy
. . . which has led me far astray . . . those who,
by way of exchange, have not an equivalent to
give us; and what is still worse, have no idea of
the value of our goods. Happy is our lot, indeed,
when we meet with an honest merchant, who is
qualified to deal with us on our own terms; but
that is a rarity: with almost everybody we must
pocket our pearls, less or more ; and learn, in the
old Scots phrase, "To gie sic like as we get." For
this reason, we should try to erect a kind of bank
or storehouse in our own mind ; or, as the Psalmist
says, "We should commune with our own hearts,
and be still." This is" exactly the ... if the
friend be so peculiarly favoured of Heaven as to
have a soul as noble and exalted as yours sooner
or later your bosom will ache with disappoint-
ment.

—188—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I wrote you yesternight, which will reach you
long before this can. I may write Mr. Ainslie
before I see him, but I am not sure.

Farewell! and remember

SYLVANDEE.

—189—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Edinburgh, 8th March, 1788.
I was agreeably surprised by your answer to
mine of Wednesday coming this morning. I
thought it always took two days, a letter from
this to Mauchline, and did not expect yours
sooner than Monday. This is the fifth from you,
and the fourth time I am now writing you. I
hate calculating them: like some things, they
don't do to be numbered. I wish you had writ-
ten from Dumfries, as you promised; but I do
not impute it to any cause but hurry of business,
&c. I hope I shall never live to reproach you
with unkindness. You never ought to put off
till you "have time to do justice to your letters."
I have sufficient memorials of your abilities in
that way; and last week two lines, to have said
"How do ye, my Clarinda," would have saved
me days and nights of cruel disquietude. "A
word to the wise," you know. I know human
nature better than to expect always fine flights
of fancy, or exertions of genius, and feel in my-
self the effects of this "crazy mortal coil," upon
its glorious inhabitant. To-day I have a clog-
ging headache; but, however stupid, I know (at
least I hope) a letter from your heart's friend

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

will be acceptable. It will reach you to-morrow,
I hope. Shocking custom! one can't entertain
with hospitality without taxing their guests with
the consequences you mention.

Your reflections upon the effects which sick-
ness has on our retrospect of ourselves, are noble.
I see my Sylvander will be all I wish him, before
he leaves this world. Do you remember what
simple eulogium I pronounced on you, when
Miss Nimmo asked, what I thought of you: —
"He is ane of God's ain; but his time's no come
yet." It was like a speech from your worthy
mother, — whom I revere. She would have joined
me with a heartfelt sigh, which none but mothers
know. It is rather a bad picture of us, that we
are most prone to call upon God in trouble.
Ought not the daily blessings of health, peace,
competence, friends, — ought not these to awaken
our constant gratitude to the Giver of all? I
imagine, that the heart which does not occasion-
ally glow with filial love in the hours of prosper-
ity, can hardly hope to feel much comfort in fly-
ing to God in the time of distress. O my dear
Sylvander! that we may be enabled to set Him
before us, as our witness, benefactor, and judge,
at all times, and on all occasions !

In the name of wonder how could you spend

—191—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

ten hours with such a as Mr. Pattison?

What a despicable character! Religion! he
knows only the name; none of her real votaries
ever wished to make any such shameful com-
promises. But 'tis Scripture verified — the
demon of avarice, his original devil, finding hini
empty, called other seven more impure spirits,
and so completely infernalised him. Destitute
of discernment to perceive your merit, or taste
to relish it, my astonishment at his fondness of
you, is only surpassed by your more than Puri-
tanic patience in listening to his shocking non-
sense! I hope you renewed his certificate. I
was told, it was in a tattered condition some
months ago, and that he proposed putting it on
parchment, by way of preserving it. Don't call
me severe: I hate all who would turn the "Grace
of God into licentiousness;" 'tis commonly the
weaker part of mankind who attempt it.

"Religion, Thou the soul of happiness."

Yesterday morning in bed I happened to think
of you. I said to myself, "My bonnie Lizzie
Baillie," &c., and laughed; but I felt a delicious
swell of heart, and my eyes swam in tears. I
know not if your sex ever feel this burst of affec-
tion; 'tis an emotion indescribable. You see I'm
—192—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

grown a fool since you left me. You know I was
rational, when you first knew me, but I always
grow more foolish, the farther I am from those
I love; by and by I suppose I shall be insane
altogether.

I am happy your little lamb is doing so well.
Did you execute my commission? You had a
great stock on hand; and, if any agreeable cus-
tomers came in the way, you would dispose of
some of them I fancy, hoping soon to be supplied
with a fresh assortment. For my part, I can
truly say, I have had no demand. I really be-
lieve you have taught me dignity, which, partly
through good nature, and partly by misfortune,
had been too much laid aside; which now I will
never part with. Why should I not keep it up?
Admired, esteemed, beloved, by one of the first
of mankind! Not all the wealth of Peru could
have purchased these. Oh, Sylvander, I am great
in my own eyes, when I think how high I am, in
your esteem! You have shown me the merit I
possess; I knew it not before. Even Joseph
trembled t'other day in my presence. "Hus-
bands looked mild and savages grew tame!" Love
and cherish your friend Mr. Ainslie. He is your
friend indeed. I long for next week; happy
days, I hope, yet await us. When you meet

—193—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

young Beauties, think of Clarinda's affection —
of her situation — of how much her happiness de-
pends on you.

Farewell, till we meet. God be with you.

CLARINDA.

P. S. — Will you take the trouble to send for
a small parcel left at Dunlop and Wilson's,
Booksellers, Trongate, Glasgow, for me, and
bring it with you in the Fly?

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

I will meet you to-morrow, Clarinda, as you
appoint. My Excise affair is just concluded,
and I have got my order for instructions : so far
good. Wednesday night I am engaged to sup
among some of the principals of the Excise: so
can only make a call for you that evening; but
next day, I stay to dine with one of the Commis-
sioners, so cannot go till Friday morning.

Your hopes, your fears, your cares, my love,
are mine ; so don't mind them. I will take you in
my hand through the dreary wilds of this world,
and scare away the ravening bird or beast that
would annoy you. I saw Mary in town to-day,
and asked her if she had seen you. I shall cer-
tainly bespeak Mr. Ainslie as you desire.

Excuse me, my dearest angel, this hurried
scrawl and miserable paper; circumstances make
both. Farewell till to-morrow.

SYLVANDER.

Monday, Noon. (31st March.)

-195—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

I am just hurrying away to wait on the Great
Man, Clarinda; but I have more respect to my
own peace and happiness than to set out without
waiting on you ; for my imagination, like a child's
favourite bird, will fondly flutter along with this
scrawl, till it perch on your bosom. I thank you
for all the happiness you bestowed on me yester-
day. The walk — delightful; the evening — rap-
ture. Do not be uneasy to-day, Clarinda; for-
give me. I am in rather better spirits to-day,
though I had but an indifferent night. Care,
anxiety, sat on my spirits; and all the cheerful-
ness of this morning is the fruit of some serious,
important ideas that lie, in their realities, beyond
"the dark and narrow house," as Ossian, prince
of poets, says. The Father of Mercies be with
you, Clarinda ! and every good thing attend you !

SYLVANDER.

Tuesday Morning. (8th April.)

—196—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Wednesday Morning.

Clarinda, will that envious night-cap hinder
you from appearing at the window as I pass?
"Who is she that looketh forth as the morning;
fair as the sun, clear as the moon, terrible as an
army with banners?"

Do not accuse me of fond folly for this line;
you know I am a cool lover. I mean by these
presents greeting, to let you to wit, that arch-
rascal Creech,* has not done my business yester-
night, which has put off my leaving town till
Monday morning. To-morrow, at eleven, I
meet with him for the last time; just the hour I
should have met far more agreeable company.

You will tell me this evening, whether you can-
not make our hour of meeting to-morrow one
o'clock. I have just now written Creech such a
letter, that the very goose-feather in my hand
shrunk back from the line, and seemed to say, "I
exceedingly fear and quake!" I am forming
ideal schemes of vengeance. O for a little of my

* Creech, the bookseller who published the second edition of
Burns' poems, was "a pleasant companion, but of penurious habits,
and extremely dilatory in the settling of accounts, though a man of
considerable wealth."

—197—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

will on himl I just wished he loved as I do —
as glorious an object as Clarinda — and that he
were doomed. Adieu, and think on

SYLVANDER.

—198—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Friday, Nine o'clock, Night.

I am just now come in, and have read your
letter. The first think I did, was to thank the
Divine Disposer of events, that he has had such
happiness in store for me as the connexion I have
with you. Life, my Clarinda, is a weary, bar-
ren path ; and wo be to him or her that ventures
on it alone ! For me, I have my dearest partner
of my soul: Clarinda and I will make out our
pilgrimage together. Wherever I am, I shall
constantly let her know how I go on, what I ob-
serve in the world around me, and what adven-
tures I meet with. Will it please you, my love,
to get, every week, or, at least, every fortnight, a
packet, two or three sheets, full of remarks, non-
sense, news, rhymes, and old songs ?

Will you open, with satisfaction and delight, a
letter from a man who loves you, who has loved
you, and who will love you to death, through
death, and for ever? Oh Clarinda! what do I
owe to Heaven for blessing me with such a piece
of exalted excellence as you! I call over your
idea, as a miser counts over his treasure! Tell
me, were you studious to please me last night?
I am sure you did it to transport. How rich am

—199—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I who have such a treasure as you! You know
me; you know how to make me happy, and you
do it most effectually. God bless you with

"Long life, long youth, long pleasure, and a
friend!"

To-morrow night, according to your own direc-
tion, I shall watch the window: 'tis the star that
guides me to Paradise. The great relish to all
is, that Honour, that Innocence, that Religion,
are the witnesses and guarantees of our happi-
ness. "The Lord God knoweth" and perhaps,
"Israel he shall know" my love and your merit.
Adieu, Clarinda! I am going to remember you
in my prayers.

SYLVANDEB.

"When Burns left Edinburgh in April, 1788,"
writes Mrs. M'Lehose's grandson, "he presented
an elegant pair of drinking glasses to Clarinda,
with the following verses. The glasses were
carefully preserved by her, and often taken down
from the open cupboard in her parlour, to show
to strangers."

^-200—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

TO CLARINDA

(With a present of a pair of drinking glasses.)

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul,

And Queen of Poetesses,
Clarinda, take this little boon,

This humble pair of glasses;

And fill them high with generous juice,

As generous as your mind,
And pledge me in the generous toast,

"The whole of humankind!"

"To those who love us!" second fill,
But not to those whom we love,

Lest we love those who love not us.
A third, "To thee and me, love!"

Burns' marriage followed with astounding
haste upon the letters in which he assured Cla-
rinda and Ainslie that he had done with Jean
and she with him. This is not so strange, if his
feeling for Clarinda were more than a mere pas-
sion. The high gods have no pity for self-deceit,
and the deeper love strikes into the being of man
and woman, the more inexorably are their eyes
opened at last to truth. Some new and pitiless
clarity of vision forced upon Burns the realisa-

—201—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

tion of responsibilities to which he had been blind.
In the letters that announced his marriage to his
friends, we find him doggedly clinging to a cer-
tain formula — "I had a long and much-loved
fellow-creature's happiness or misery in my
hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit?"
His estimate of marriage was confessedly the
Pauline one, but of that Jean never complained.
She mothered her own children — and the child
of another woman, for Burns married was still
Burns — with tender patience; and not the bairns
only, but their father too. He was fond of her,
kind and considerate in their family life ; he gave
her, not only some exquisite songs, which alas!
came all too cheap, but the first gingham worn
in those parts, which really shows some costly
thought for her pleasure and dignity. But he
says a volume in a few words when he admits,
"Conjugal love is a passion which I deeply feel
and highly venerate; but somehow it does not
make such a figure in poesy as that other species
of the passion where love is liberty and nature
law." Duty lay heavily upon him — the cart-
horse part of human nature does not come by
wishing! — and in one rather pathetic entry of his
commonplace book we find him wearied to death
with the prosy business of living.
—202—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

ENTRY IN BURNS' COMMON-PLACE BOOK

Ellisland, 14th June, 1788. Sunday.

This is now the third day I have been in this
country. Lord, what is man! what a bustling
little bundle of passions, appetites, ideas and fan-
cies! and what a capricious kind of existence he
has here! If legendary stories be true, there is
indeed an Elsewhere, where, as Thomson says,
"Virtue sole survives."

"Tell us, ye Dead;

Will none of you in pity disclose the secret,
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be?

a little time

Will make us learned as you are, and as close."

I am such a coward in Life, so tired of the Ser-
vice, that I would almost at any time with Mil-
ton's Adam —

"gladly lay me in my mother's lap
And be at peace."

but a wife and children, in poetics, "The fair
Partner of my soul and the little dear Pledges of
our mutual love," these bind me to struggle with
the stream; till some chopping squall overset the

—203—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

silly vessel, or, in the listless return of years, its
own craziness drive it to a wreck. Farewell, now,
to those giddy Follies, those varnished Vices,
which, though half sanctified by the bewitching
levity of Wit and Humour, are at best but thrift-
less idling with the precious current of existence ;
nay, often poisoning the whole, that, like the
Plains of Jericho, "The water is naught, and the
ground barren," and nothing short of a super-
naturally gifted Elisha can ever after heal the
evils.

Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles me
hardest to Care, if Virtue and Religion were to
be anything with me but mere names, was what
in a few seasons I must have resolved on; in the
present case it was unavoidably necessary. Hu-
manity, Generosity, honest vanity of character,
Justice to my own happiness for after-life, so
far as it could depend, which it surely will a great
deal, on internal peace, all these joined their
warmest suffrages, their most powerful solicita-
tions, with a rooted Attachment, to urge the step
I have taken. Nor have I any reason on her
part to rue it. I can fancy how, but I have never
seen where, I could have made it better. Come
then, let me return to my favourite Motto, that
glorious passage in Young —

—204—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

"On Reason build Resolve,
That column of true majesty in man."

We do not know whether he wrote Clarinda
the news of his marriage, or left the knowledge
to reach her by indirect ways. The following
letter proves that she took it extremely ill.
While we may well guess that, setting aside her
little preachments, Clarinda did not make self-
control any too easy for Burns, it is noteworthy
that this is the only occasion when he turns upon
her with any suggestion to that effect.

—205—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

March 9th, 1789.

MADAM, — The letter you wrote me to Heron's
carries its own answer in its bosom; you forbade
me to write you, unless I was willing to plead
guilty to a certain indictment that you were
pleased to bring against me. As I am convinced
of my own innocence, and, though conscious of
high imprudence and egregious folly, can lay my
hand on my breast and attest the rectitude of my
heart, you will pardon me, Madam, if I do not
carry my complaisance so far, as humbly to ac-
quiesce in the name of Villain, merely out of com-
pliment to your opinion; much as I esteem your
judgment, and warmly as I regard your worth.
I have already told you, and I again aver it,
that, at the period of time alluded to, I was not
under the smallest moral tie to Mrs. Burns; nor
did I, nor could I then know, all the powerful
circumstances that omnipotent necessity was
busy laying in wait for me. When you call over
the scenes that have passed between us, you will
survey the conduct of an honest man, struggling
successfully with temptations, the most powerful
that ever beset humanity, and preserving un-
tainted honour, in situations where the austerest

SYLVANDEB, AND CLARINDA

virtue would have forgiven a fall : situations that,
I will dare to say, not a single individual of all
his kind, even with half his sensibility and pas-
sion, could have encountered without ruin; and
I leave you to guess, Madam, how such a man is
likely to digest an accusation of perfidious treach-
ery.

Was I to blame, Madam, in being the dis-
tracted victim of charms which, I affirm it, no
man ever approached with impunity? Had I
seen the least glimmering of hope that these
charms could ever have been mine; or even had
not iron necessity — but these are unavailing
words.

I would have called on you when I was in town,
indeed I could not have resisted it, but that Mr.
Ainslie told me, that you were determined to
avoid your windows while I was in town, lest
even a glance of me should occur in the street.

When I shall have regained your good opin-
ion, perhaps I may venture to solicit your friend-
ship; but, be that as it may, the first of her sex
I ever knew shall always be the object of my
warmest good wishes.

R. B.

—207-

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

(About end of January, 1790.)
I have, indeed, been ill, Madam, this whole
winter. An incessant headache, depression of
spirits, and all the truly miserable consequences
of a deranged nervous system have made dread-
ful havoc of my health and peace. Add to all
this, a line of life, into which I have lately en-
tered, obliges me to ride, upon an average, at
least two hundred miles every week. However,
thank Heaven I am now greatly better in my
health. . . .

I cannot, will not, enter into extenuatory cir-
cumstances; else I could show you how my pre-
cipitate, headlong, unthinking conduct, leagued
with a conjuncture of unlucky events, to thrust
me out of a possibility of keeping the path of
rectitude ; to curse me, by an irreconcileable war
between my duty and my nearest wishes, and to
damn me with a choice only of different species
of error and misconduct.

I dare not trust myself further with this sub-
ject. The following song is one of my latest
productions ; and I send it to you as I would do
anything else, because it pleases myself.

—208—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

MY LOVELY NANCY

Time: The Quaker's Wife.

Thine am I, my faithful fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy ;
Ev'ry pulse along my veins,
Ev'ry roving fancy.

To thy bosom lay my heart,
There to throb and languish:
Tho' despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.

Take away those rosy lips,
Rich with balmy treasure;
Turn away thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure.

What is life when wanting love?
Night without a morning:
Love's the cloudless summer sun,
Nature gay adorning.

The following fragment was found endorsed
by Clarinda, "Received Feb. 5, 1790." By some
it is supposed to be a part of the preceding letter,
but from the allusions it would rather seem to
have been written upon receiving her answer.

—209—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I could not answer your last letter but one.
When you in so many words tell a man that you
look on his letters with a smile of contempt, in
what language, Madam, can he answer you?
Though I were conscious that I had acted wrong
— and I am conscious that I have acted wrong —
yet would I not be bullied into repentance; but
your last letter. . . . Madam, determined as
you. . . .

The reverse of the fragment contains the verses
"To Mary in Heaven."

In the opera of Julien we have the saddest
point of the hero's life marked by a travesty of
his most sacred experience, — the high priest of
Art burlesqued by a street showman and the
Goddess of Beauty by a drunken girl of the gut-
ters. Often in the work of men who have staked
much on some principle, we find the terrible mo-
ment of reaction where they laugh at that prin-
ciple and at the fools who champion it, as in
Ibsen's "Wild Duck." In the last years of Burns,
we find a travesty of his passion for Nancy, — a
thin, cheap, trifling affair and deliberate withal,
almost as if he thought that belittling the former
experience could lessen the pain it had left.
Mrs. Whelpdale, the "lassie wi' the lint-white

—210—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

locks" whom he chose for his Chloris, had made
a foolish marriage and was deserted by her repro-
bate husband, like Clarinda. He carried the
dreary play far enough to suggest changing in a
later edition the opening line of the foregoing
song to read

"Thine am I, my Chloris fair."

He had already altered the second and fourth
lines, much to the poem's detriment.

But Chloris was only a poor shadow after all,
and he seems to have realised it. He writes to
George Thomson, in 1796, the year of his death:
"In my by past songs I dislike one thing — the
name Chloris. I meant it as the fictitious name
of a certain lady, but on second thoughts it is a
high incongruity to have a Greek appellation to
a Scotch pastoral ballad. Of this and of some
things else in my next ; I have other amendments
to propose. What you once mentioned of flaxen
locks is just. They cannot enter into an elegant
description of beauty."

So much for Chloris.

-211—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Probably July, 1791.

I have received both your last letters, Madam,
and ought, and would, have answered the first
long ago. But on what subject shall I write
you? How can you expect a correspondent
should write you when you declare that you mean
to preserve his letters, with a view sooner or later,
to expose them on the pillory of derision, and the
rack of criticism? This is gagging me com-
pletely, as to speaking the sentiments of my
bosom; else, Madam, I could, perhaps, too truly

"Join grief with grief, and echo sighs to thine!"

I have perused your most beautiful, but most
pathetic poem : do not ask me how often, or with
what emotions. You know that "I dare to sin,
but not to lie!" Your verses wring the confes-
sion from my inmost soul, that — I will say it, ex-
pose it if you please — that I have, more than
once in my life, been the victim of a damning
conjuncture of circumstances; and that to me
you must be ever

"Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes."
—212-^

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I have just, since I had yours, composed the
following stanzas. Let me know your opinion
of them.

Sensibility, how charming,
Thou, my Friend, canst truly tell;

But Distress, with horrors arming,
Thou, alas ! hast known too well !

Fairest Flower, behold the lily,

Blooming in the sunny ray;
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,

See it prostrate in the clay.

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,

Telling o'er his little joys;
But, alas! a prey the surest

To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought the hidden treasure

Finer feelings can bestow :
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure

Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

I have one other piece in your taste; but I have
just a snatch of time.

R. B.

The following poem would appear to be the
one which he speaks of her sending him.

—213—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYMPATHY

Assist me, all ye gentle powers
That sweeten Friendship's happy hours,
Whilst I attempt to sing of thee,
Heav'n-born emotion, Sympathy.

When first I saw my rural swain,
The pride of all the tuneful train,
That hour we lov'd — what could it be
But thy sweet magic, Sympathy?

Nor sordid wealth, nor giddy power,
Could e'er confer one happy hour —
One hour like those I've spent with thee,
In love's endearing sympathy !

All hail ! the heav'n-inspired mind,
That glows with love of human-kind ;
'Tis thine to feel the ecstasy —
Soul link'd to soul by Sympathy.

—214—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER

Edinburgh, 2nd August.

Your surely mistake me, Sir — "Expose your
letters to criticism!" Nothing could be farther
from my intention : read my letters and you will
find nothing to justify such an idea. But I sup-
pose they are burned, so you can't have recourse
to them. In an impassioned hour I once talked
of publishing them, but a little cool reflection
showed me its impropriety: the idea has long
been abandoned and I wish you to write me with
that confidence you would do to a person of
whom you entertained a good opinion and who
is sincerely interested in your welfare. To the
"everyday children of the world" I well know one
cannot speak the sentiments of the bosom.

I am pleased with your reception of the Poem
and no less so with your beautiful stanzas in
consequence. The last I think particularly ele-
gant—

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, &c.

It has procured me a short visit from the Muse,
who has been a stranger since the "Golden
Dream" of '88. The verses are inaccurate, but

—215—

SYLVANDEE AND CLARINDA

if worth while, pray correct them for me. Here
they are —

Yes, Sensibility is charming

Tho' it may wound the tender mind,

Nature's stores, the bosom warming,
Yield us pleasures most refined.

See yonder pair of warbling linnets,
How their music charms the grove ;

What else with rapture fills their minutes
But Sensibility and Love?

Ev'n should the sportsmen (cruel rovers!)
Rob them of their tuneful breath,

How blest the little life-long lovers,
Undivided in their death!

A long-loved maid, nipt in the blossom,
May lie in yonder kirkyard green;

Yet Mem'ry soothes her lover's bosom,
Recalling many a raptured scene.

Or, musing by the rolling ocean,

See him sit with visage wan,
As wave succeeding wave in motion,

Mourns the chequer'd life of Man.

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

Sensibility! sweet treasure,

Still I'll sing in praise of thee:
All that mortals know of pleasure

Flows from Sensibility.*

Let me know what you think of this poor imi-
tation of your style 'Tis metre, but not poetry.

Pray, have you seen Greenfield's Poems? or
Miss Carmichael's ? The last are very poor, I
think.

I have been reading Beattie's Minstrel for the
first time. What a delicious treat!

Interrupted — adieu !

A.M.

*Mr. Scott Douglas, who first printed this letter, added the
note: "We have, for want of space, been compelled to abridge
Clarinda's little sentimental poem, but the omitted stanzas are in
quality considerably inferior to those here presented."

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

FROM MRS. M'LEHOSE'S NARRATIVE

In August, 1791, "I had a letter" (from Mr.
M'Lehose) "and, soon after, another, inviting me
to come out to Jamaica and enclosing a bill for
£50, which was meant, I suppose, to equip me;
and containing the most flattering directions to
give his only surviving son the best education
Edinburgh could afford." (Mr. M'Lehose had
all this time been prospering in Jamaica, but in
spite of strenuous efforts to recall him to his
duty, not a farthing had found its way to his
family.) "I consulted my friends; they declined
giving any advice, and referred me to my own
mind. After much agitation, and deep and
anxious reflection for my child's sake, for whom
he promised such liberal things, and encouraged
by flattering accounts of his character and con-
duct in Jamaica, I resolved to undertake the
arduous voyage." (It is not at all unlikely that
the marriage of Burns may have counted for
something in her decision. )

She wrote as follows to her cousin, Lord
Craig. "When I wrote you last, the bidding
adieu to my dear boy was my only source of
anxiety. I had then no idea whatever of going
out to Mr. M'Lehose. Next day I learned from

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

Mrs. Adair that Captain Liddel told her my
husband had the strongest resolution of using
me kindly, in case I accepted of his invitation;
and that pride alone hindered him acknowledging
his faults a second time, still hurt at my not an-
swering his overtures of reconciliation from Lon-
don. But that, in case I did not choose to come
over, I might rest assured I would never hear
from him while he existed. Captain Liddel
added his opinion, that I ought to go, in the
strongest terms. Mrs. Adair joins him; and
above all, my poor boy adds his entreaties most
earnestly. I thought it prudent to inform him,
for the first time, of the disagreement between
his parents, and the unhappy jealousy in his
father's temper. Still he argues that his father
may be incensed at my refusal. If I go I have
a terror of the sea, and no less of the climate;
above all, the horror of again involving myself
in misery in the midst of strangers, and almost
without remedy. If I refuse, I must bid my
only child (in whom all my affections and hopes
are entirely centred) adieu for ever; struggle
with a straitened income and the world's censure
solitary and unprotected. The bright side of
these alternatives is, that if I go, my husband's
jealousy of temper may be abated from a better

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

knowledge of the world; and time and misfor-
tunes, by making alterations both on person and
vivacity, will render me less likely to incur his
suspicions; and that ill humour, which partly
arose from straitened fortune, will be removed
by affluence. I will enjoy my son's society, and
have him for a friend; and who knows what ef-
fect so fine a boy may have on a father long
absent from his sight. If I refuse, and stay here,
I shall continue to enjoy a circle of kind, re-
spectable friends. Though my income be small,
I can never be in want; and I shall maintain
that liberty which, after nine years' enjoyment, I
shall find it hard to forego, even to the degree to
which I am sensible every married woman must
submit."

A few days later she wrote again to her cousin.
"On Friday last I went down to Leith and had
a conversation on board the Rosette with Captain
Liddel. He told me that Mr. M'Lehose had
talked of me and of my coming over, with great
tenderness; and said, it would be my fault if we
did not enjoy great happiness; and concluded
with assuring me, if I were his own child he
would advise me to go out. This conversation
has tended greatly to decide my accepting my
husband's invitation. I have done what you de-

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

sired me, — weighed coolly (as coolly as a sub-
ject so interesting would permit) all I have
to suffer or to expect in either situation; and
the result is, my going to Jamaica. This appears
to me the preferable choice : it is surely the path
of duty ; and as such, I may look for the blessing
of God to attend my endeavours for happiness
with him who was the husband of my choice and
the father of my children. On Saturday I was
agreeably surprised by a call from Mr. Kemp.
He had received my letter that morning at Glas-
gow, and had alighted for a few minutes, on his
way to Easter Duddungston, where his family
are for summer quarters. He was much affected
with my perplexing situation. Like you, he
knew not how to decide, and left me, promising
to call early this day, which he has done. I told
him of the meeting with Mr. Liddel, and enumer-
ated all the arguments which I had thought of on
both sides of the question. What Mr. Liddel
(who is a man of known worth) said to me
weighed much with him; and he, too, is now of
opinion my going to Jamaica is advisable. He
gave me much good advice as to my conduct
towards Mr. M'Lehose, and promised to write
him himself. Your letter luckily arrived while
he was with me. The assurance of my little in-

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

come being secured me, not a little adds both to
his opinion of the propriety of my going, and
to my ease and comfort, in case (after doing all
I can) it should prove impossible to enjoy that
peace which I so earnestly pant after; and I
would fain hope for a tender reception. After
ten years' separation, and the sacrifice I make
of bidding adieu (probably for ever) to my
friends and my country — indeed, I am much de-
pressed in mind — should I escape the sea, the
climate may prove fatal to me ; but should it hap-
pen so, I have the satisfaction to think I shall
die in attempting to attain happiness in that path

*-

of duty which Providence and a succession of
events seem to point out for the best. You, my
dear kind benefactor, have had much trouble
with me first and last; and though others appear
ungrateful, neither time nor absence can ever
erase from my heart the remembrance of your
past kindness. My prayers shall ascend for the
reward of Heaven upon your head ! To-morrow
I am to write to my husband. Mr. Kemp is to
see it on Wednesday. If any person occurs to
you as proper to place Andrew with in Edin-
burgh, let me know — the sooner the better: the
hopes of his rejoining me will help to console
my mind in the midst of strangers. I am sorry

SYLVANDER AND CLABJNDA

you are to be so long of coming to town. Mean-
time I shall be glad to hear from you ; for I am,
my dear Sir, in every possible situation your
affectionate and obliged friend, A. M."

"I accordingly wrote to my husband in Octo-
ber, 1791, acquainting him with my resolution of
forgetting past differences, and throwing myself
on his protection." As the Rosette — which, by a
curious coincidence was the ship in which Burns
had thought of making his voyage to Jamaica —
did not sail till spring, she again wrote to her
husband in December. "I had occasion to be in
Glasgow lately for two days only. I called for
your mother. I felt much for her — bereaved of
so many children. They told me you had not
written for these three years past ; but I assured
them (and I hope it is the case) that your letters
must have miscarried, as I could not believe you
capable of such unkind neglect. I am certain,
inclination no less than duty, must ever prompt
you to pay attention to your mother. She has
met with many and sore afflictions; and I feel
for her the most sincere sympathy. ... I have
met with much kindness since I came to Edin-
burgh, from a set of most agreeable and respect-
able friends. No ideas of wealth or splendour
could compensate for the pain I feel in bidding

—223—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

them adieu. Nothing could support me but the
fond reliance I have of gaining your affections
and confidence. To possess these is the dearest
wish of my heart ; and I trust the Almighty will
grant this my ardent desire. I would fain hope
to hear from you ere we sail; a kind letter from
you would prove a balm to my soul during the
anxieties of a tedious voyage."

—224—

m

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLAEINDA TO SYLVANDER

November, 1791.

Sir, — I take the liberty of addressing a few
lines in behalf of your old acquaintance, Jenny
Clow, who, to all appearance, is at this moment
dying. Obliged, from all the symptoms of a
rapid decay, to quit her service, she is gone to
a room almost without common necessaries, un-
tended and unmourned. In circumstances so dis-
tressing, to whom can she so naturally look for
aid as to the father of her child, the man for
whose sake she has suffered many a sad and
anxious night, shut from the world, with no other
companions than guilt and solitude? You have
now an opportunity to evince you indeed possess
thooe fine feelings you have delineated, so as
to claim the just admiration of your country. I
am convinced I need add nothing farther to
persuade you to act as every consideration of
humanity must dictate. I am, Sir, your sincere
well-wisher,

A.M.

—225—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Dumfries, 23d November, 1791.
It is extremely difficult, my dear Madam, for
me to deny a lady anything ; But to a lady whom
I regard with all the endearing epithets of re-
spectful esteem and old friendship, how shall I
find the language of refusal? I have, indeed, a
shade * of the lady, which I keep, and shall ever
keep in the sanctum sanctorum of my most
anxious care. That lady, though an unfortunate
and irresistible conjuncture of circumstances has
lost me her esteem, yet she shall be ever, to me

"Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart."

I am rather anxious for her sake, as to her voy-
age. I pray God my fears may be groundless.
By the way, I have this moment a letter from
her, with a paragraph or two conceived in so
stately a style, that I would not pardon it in
any created being except herself; but, as the sub-
ject interests me much, I shall answer it to you,
as I do not know her present address. I am sure
she must have told you of a girl, a Jenny Clow,

* Not in the breast-pin, however, which enshrined it on his re-
turn from Edinburgh. After his marriage, he substituted for
Clarinda's silhouette one of Jean, with the motto, "To err is
human; to forgive, divine."

—226—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

who had the misfortune to make me a father, with
contrition I own it, contrary to the laws of our
most excellent constitution, in our holy Presby-
terian hierarchy.

Mrs. M tells me a tale of the poor girl's

distress that makes my very heart weep blood. I
will trust that your goodness will apologise to
your delicacy for me, when I beg of you, for
Heaven's sake, to send a porter to the poor
woman — Mrs. M., it seems, knows where she is
to be found — with five shillings in my name ; and,
as I shall be in Edinburgh on Tuesday first, for
certain, make the poor wench Jeave a line for me,
before Tuesday, at Mr. Mackay's, White Hart
Inn, Grassmarket, where I shall put up ; and, be-
fore I am two hours in town, I shall see the poor
girl, and try what is to be done for her relief.
I would have taken my boy from her long ago,
but she would never consent.

I shall do myself the very great pleasure to
call for you when I come to town, and repay you
the sum your goodness shall have advanced. . . .

and most obedient,

ROBERT BURNS.

Burns was in Edinburgh from the 29th of
November to the 6th of December, on which date

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

he returned to Dumfries, after what was to be
the last of all his meetings with Clarinda. It is
supposed that it is to this occasion he refers in his
poem, "O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet as
the mirk night of December."

It is evident from the letters and poems that
follow that the reconciliation was complete.

-228—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

He transcribes in full his Lament of Mary,
Queen of Scots, and adds.

Such, my dearest Clarinda, were the words of
the amiable but unfortunate Mary. Misfortune
seems to take a peculiar pleasure in darting her
arrows against "honest men and bonny lasses."
Of this you are too, too just a proof; but may
your future fate be a bright exception to the re-
mark! In the words of Hamlet,

"Adieu, adieu, adieu ! Remember me."

SYLVANDEB.

Leadhills, Thursday, Noon, (llth December, 1791.)

—229—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Dumfries.

I have some merit, my ever dearest of women,
in attracting and securing the heart of Clarinda.
In her I met with the most accomplished of all
womankind, the first of all God's works ; and yet
I, even I, have had the good fortune to appear
amiable in her sight.

By the by, this is the sixth letter that I have
written you since I left you ; and if you were an
ordinary being, as you are a creature very ex-
traordinary— an instance of what God Almighty
in the plenitude of his power and the fulness of
his goodness, can make! I would never forgive
you for not answering my letters.

I have sent in your hair, a part of the parcel
you gave me, with a measure, to Mr. Bruce the
jeweller in Prince's Street, to get a ring done
for me. I have likewise sent in the verses On
Sensibility altered to

"Sensibility how charming,
Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell," &c.,

to the Editor of the Scots Songs, of which you
have three volumes, set to a most beautiful air;
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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

out of compliment to the first of women, my ever-
beloved, my ever-sacred Clarinda. I shall proba-
bly write you to-morrow. In the meantime, from
a man who is literally drunk, accept and forgive !

R. B.

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Dumfries, 27th December, 1791.
I have yours, my ever dearest Madam, this
moment. I have just ten minutes before the post
goes; and these I shall employ in sending you
some songs I have just been composing to dif-
ferent tunes, for the Collection of Songs, of
which you have three volumes, and of which you

shall have the fourth,
i

SONG

Time: Rory DaU's Port.

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;

Ae fareweel, and then for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

\
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,

While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy:
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
—232—

SYLVANDER AND CLAEINDA

Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly!
Never met — or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure!

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;

Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

SONG
(To an old Scots Tune)

Behold the hour, the boat, arrive!

My dearest Nancy, O fareweel!
Sever'd frae thee, can I survive,

Frae thee whom I hae loved sae weel!

Endless and deep shall be my grief;

Nae ray o' comfort shall I see ;
But this most precious, dear belief!

That thou wilt still remember me.

—233—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

Alang the solitary shore,

Where fleeting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar,

I'll westward turn my wistful eye:

Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say,
Where now my Nancy's path shall be !

While thro' your sweets she holds her way,
O tell me, does she muse on me!!!

SONG
To a charming plaintive Scots Air.

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December!

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;
Sad was the parting thou mak'st me remember,

Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair!

Fond lovers' parting is sweet, painful pleasure,
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ;

But the dire feeling, oh, farewell for ever!
Anguish unmingled and agony pure !

The rest of this song is on the wheels.

Adieu. Adieu.

SYLVANDER.
—234—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

The song was afterward finished as follows :

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown,

Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom,
Since my last hope and last comfort is gone !

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;

For sad was the parting thou mak'st me re-
member,
Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair!

—235—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER .

25ih January, 1792.

Agitated, hurried to death, I sit down to write
a few lines to you, my ever dear, dear friend!
We are ordered aboard on Saturday, — to sail on
Sunday. And now, my dearest Sir, I have a few
things to say to you, as the last advice of her, who
could have lived or died with you! I am happy
to know of your applying so steadily to the busi-
ness you have engaged in; but oh, remember, this
life is a short, passing scene ! Seek God's favour,
— keep His Commandments — be solicitous to
prepare for a happy eternity! There, I trust,
we will meet, in perfect and never-ending bliss.
Read my former letters attentively: let the re-
ligious tenets there expressed sink deep into your
mind; meditate on them with candour, and your
accurate judgment must be convinced that they
accord with the words of Eternal Truth ! Laugh
no more at holy things, or holy men: remember,
"without holiness, no man shall see God." An-
other thing, and I have done: as you value my
peace, do not write me to Jamaica, until I let you
know you may with safety. Write Mary often.
She feels for you! and judges of your present
feelings by her own. I am sure you will be happy

—236—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

to hear of my happiness : and I trust you will —
soon. If there is time, you may drop me a line
ere I go, to inform me if you get this, and an-
other letter I wrote you, dated the 21st, which I
am afraid of having been neglected to be put
into the office.

So it was the Rosette you were to have gone in!
I read your letter to-day, and reflected deeply on
the ways of Heaven ! To us they oft appear dark
and doubtful; but let us do our duty faithfully,
and sooner or later we will have our reward, be-
cause "the Lord God Omnipotent reigns" : every
upright mind has here cause to rejoice. And
now, adieu. May Almighty God bless you and
yours! take you into His blessed favour here,
and afterward receive you into His glory!

Farewell! I will ever, ever remain

Your reed friend,
A. M.

Poor little Clarinda! She probably looked
forward to a most romantic correspondence full
of noble sentiment enlivened by hopeless passion,
when, safely insulated by the sea, she could ar-
range for receiving her mail without disturbing
the conjugal entente. Alas for her hopes, that
entente proved far from cordial. Her husband,

—237—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

weakening in his good resolutions (possibly on
the receipt of her letters and Mr. Kemp's), had
urged her not to come, alleging that yellow fever
was raging in the island and the negroes were
in revolt. She had resolved to go, however, and
go she did, — only to learn upon her arrival that
the warnings were untrue, and the hard fact of
the matter was simply that he did not want her.
He was both unkind and unfaithful; and her
humiliation and distress, combined with the ef-
fect of the climate, made it necessary for her
health's sake to return to Scotland. Painful as
her experience had been, we can hardly doubt
her relief in returning to her congenial Edin-
burgh life, all former compromising circum-
stances erased by her martyrdom in the name of
wifely duty — a martyrdom which it is logical to
assume she did not endure in silence. She did
not write to Burns that she had come back; that
is easy to understand. That mirk night o' De-
cember undoubtedly left matters in a status only
to be continued with comfort and safety on oppo-
site sides of the ocean. Back in the same little
Scotland, she was quite evidently afraid of him.
He was not to be dropped so easily, however, and
wrote, as she had suggested, to her friend.

—238—

SYLVANDER AND CLAEINDA

BURNS TO MARY PEACOCK

Dumfries, Dec. 6, 1792.
DEAR MADAM — I have written to you so often
and have got no answer, that I had resolved never
to lift up a pen to you again; but this eventful
day, the sixth of December, recalls to my mem-
ory such a scene! Heaven and earth! when I
remember a far-distant person! — but no more
of this until I learn from you a proper address
and why my letters have lain by you unanswered,
as this is the third I have sent you. The oppor-
tunities will all be gone now, I fear, of sending
over the book I mentioned in my last. Do not
write me for a week, as I shall not be at home;
but as soon after that as possible.

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December !

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;

Dire was the parting thou bidst me remember,

Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair!

Yours,

It. 15.

—239—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

I suppose, my dear Madam, that by your neg-
lecting to inform me of your arrival in Europe, —
a circumstance that could not be indifferent to
me, as, indeed, no occurrence relating to you can,
— you meant to leave me to guess and gather that
a correspondence I once had the honour and felic-
ity 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 ; what drives the soul to madness, is the recol-
lection of joys that are "no more!" But this is
not language to the world: they do not under-
stand it. But come, ye few, — the children of
Feeling and Sentiment! — ye whose trembling
bosom-chords ache to unutterable anguish, as
recollection gushes on the heart! — ye who are
capable of an attachment, keen as the arrow of
Death and strong as the vigour of immortal be-
ing,— come ! and your ears shall drink a tale

But, hush! I must not, cannot tell it; agony is
in the recollection, and frenzy in the recital!

But, Madam, — to leave the paths that lead to
madness, — I congratulate your friends on your
return; and I hope that the precious health, which
Miss P. tells me is so much injured, is restored,

—240—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

or restoring. There is a fatality attends Miss
Peacock's correspondence and mine. Two of my
letters, it seems, she never received; and her last
came while I was in Ayrshire, was unfortunately
mislaid and only found about ten days or a
fortnight ago, on removing a desk of drawers.

I present you a book: may I hope you will
accept of it. I daresay you will have brought
your books with you. The fourth volume of the
Scots Songs is published ; I will presume to send
it you. Shall I hear from you? But first hear
me. No cold language — no prudential docu-
ments: I despise advice and scorn control. If
you are not to write such language, such senti-
ments 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 constitute that sum of
human woes, a broken heart!!! — to me be silent
for ever.

The rest of this letter is missing from the
letter in Clarinda's collection, but we know how
it ran, because Burns included this "composition"
as Mr. Chambers aptly characterises it, in the
volume of Letters he transcribed for Riddel. It
was headed by him, "Letter to a Lady, ciever
scrolled, but copied from the original letter," and

—241—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

he added this disingenuous comment: "I need
scarcely remark that the foregoing was the
fustian rant of enthusiastic youth."

If you ever insult me with the unfeeling
apophthegms of cold-blooded caution, may all
the — but hold! a fiend could not breathe a
malevolent wish on the head of my angel 1 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 to atoms! Adieu;
may all good things attend you!

R. B.

—242—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

Undated, but conjectured as 1793 in the author-
ized edition of the Letters.

Before you ask me why I have not written you,
first let me be informed by you, how I shall write
you? "In friendship," you say ; and I have many
a time taken up my pen to try an epistle of
"friendship" to you; but it will not do: 'tis like
Jove grasping a pop-gun, after having yielded
his thunder. When I take up the pen, recollec-
tion ruins me. Ah! my ever dearest Clarinda!
Clarinda! What a host of memory's tenderest
offspring crowd on my fancy at that sound ! But
I must not indulge that subject. — You have for-
bid it.

I am extremely happy to learn that your
precious health is re-established and that you are
once more fit to enjoy that satisfaction in exist-
ence, which health alone can give us. My old
friend Ainslie has indeed been kind to you. Tell
him that I envy him the power of serving you.
I had a letter from him a while ago, but it was
so dry, so distant, so like a card to one of his
clients, that I could scarce bear to read it, and
have not yet answered it. He is a good honest
fellow, and can write a friendly letter, which

—243—

SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

would do equal honour to his head and his heart,
as a whole sheaf of his letters which I have by
me will witness ; and though Fame does not blow
her trumpet at my approach now, as she did then,
when he first honoured me with his friendship,
yet I am as proud as ever; and when I am laid
in my grave, I wish to be stretched at my full
length, that I may occupy every inch of ground
I have a right to.

You would laugh were you to see me where I
am just now. Would to Heaven you were here
to laugh with me, though I am afraid that crying
would be our first employment. Here I am set,
a solitary hermit, in the solitary room of a soli-
tary inn, with a solitary bottle of wine by me, as
grave and stupid as an owl, but like that owl, still
faithful to my old song; in confirmation of which,
my dear Mrs. Mac, here is your good health.
May the hand-waled benisons o' Heaven bless
your bonnie face ; and the wratch wha skellies at
your welfare, may the auld tinkler deil get him
to clout his rotten heart ! Amen.

You must know, my dearest Madam, that
these now many years, wherever I am, in what-
ever company, when a married lady is called as a
toast, I constantly give you; but, as your name
has never passed my lips, even to my most in-

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timate friend, I give you by the name of Mrs.
Mac. This is so well known among my acquaint-
ances, that when any married lady is called for,
the toast-master will say: "Oh, we need not
ask him who it is: here's Mrs. Mac!" I have
also, among my convivial friends, set on foot a
round of toasts, which I call a round of Arcadian
Shepherdesses ; that is a round of favourite ladies
under female names celebrated in ancient song;
and then you are my Clarinda. So, my lovely
Clarinda, I devote this glass of wine to a most
ardent wish for your happiness.

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer,
Point out a censuring world, and bid me fear:
Above that world on wings of love I rise,
I know its worst, and can that worst despise.

"Wrong'd, injured, shunned, unpitied, un-
redrest ;

The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest"

Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall,
Clarinda, rich reward! o'erpays them all.

I have been rhyming a little of late, but I do
not know if they are worth postage.

Tell me what you think of the following
monody.

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

Here follows the "Monody on a lady famed
for her caprice."

The subject of the foregoing is a woman of
fashion in this country, with whom at one period
I was well acquainted. By some scandalous con-
duct to me, and two or three other gentlemen
here as well as me, she steered so far to the
north of my good opinion, that I have made her
the theme of several ill-natured things. The fol-
lowing epigram struck me the other day as I
passed her carriage.

PINNED TO MRS. R 's COACH

If you rattle along like your Mistress' tongue,

Your speed will out-rival the dart;
But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the

road
If your stuff be as rotten's her heart.

R.B.

We know well enough the story of Burns' last
years and of his death. His great fellow-coun-
tryman has given us the soul of it in a few words.
"To the ill-starred Burns was given the power of
making man's life more venerable, but that of
wisely guiding his own life was not given. Des-
tiny— for so in our ignorance we must speak —

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

his faults, the faults of others, proved too hard
for him, and that spirit which might have soared
could it but have walked, soon sank to the dust,
its glorious faculties trodden under foot in the
blossom; and died, we may almost say, without
ever having lived. And so kind and warm a
soul, so full of inborn riches, of love to all living
and lifeless things!" . . . As Stevenson briefly
phrased it, "He died of being Robert Burns."

It is pitiful enough, that closing scene, beset
with little mean cares, half of them goblins of
that delirium against the terror of which he
begged the comfort of Jean's work-worn hands.
But to my mind far more pitiable is the spectacle
of "divine Clarinda," a chirpy old lady addicted
to snuff, complacently sunning her failing wits
in the radiance of her great lover's fame. Con-
sider carefully these extracts from her letters to
Mr. Syme, who approached her on the subject of
the publication of her correspondence with Burns
in a new edition of the poet's works, and com-
pare them with the statement from the preface
written for the authorised edition of the corre-
spondence published in 1843, by Mrs. M'Lehose's
grandson — a gentleman who is disposed to deal
charitably with his ancestress, as is proven by this
memorable sentence, also in the preface: "The

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SYLVANDEtt AND CLARINDA

visionary hopes entertained by the poet were gen-
erally checked by Clarinda with a happy mixture
of dignity and mildness bespeaking inward
purity."

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

EXTRACTS OF LETTERS FROM MRS. M'LEHOSE
TO MR. JOHN SYME

What can have impressed such an idea upon
you, as that I ever conceived the most distant
intention to destroy these precious memorials of
an acquaintance, the recollection of which would
influence me were I to live till fourscore! Be
assured I will never suffer one of them to perish.
This I give you my solemn word of honour upon ;
— nay, more, on condition that you send me my
letters, I will select such passages from our dear
bard's letters as will do honour to his memory
and cannot hurt my own fame, even with the
most rigid. His letters, however, are really not
literary; they are the passionate effusions of an
elegant mind — indeed, too tender to be exposed
to any but the eye of a partial friend. Were the
world composed of minds such as yours, it would
be cruel even to bury them; but ah! how very
few would understand, much less relish, such
compositions ! The bulk of mankind are strangers
to the delicate refinements of superior minds.

Edinburgh, 9th January, 1797.
Dear Sir, — I am much obliged to you for the
speedy return you made to my last letter. . . .

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

I am happy that you have consented to return
the letters at last, and that my pledge has pleased
you. . . . You must pardon me for refusing to
send B.'s. I never will. I am determined not to
allow them to be out of my house; but it will be
quite the same to you, as you shall see them all
when you come to Edinburgh next month. Do
write me previous to your arrival, and name the
day, that I may be at home and guard against
our being interrupted in perusing these dear
memorials of our lamented friend. I hold them
sacred — too sacred for the public eye; and I am
sure you will agree they are so when you see
them. If any argument could have prevailed on
me, the idea of their affording pecuniary assist-
ance was most likely. But I am convinced they
would have added little to this effect: for I
heard, by a literary conversation here, that it was
thought by most people there would be too much
intended to be published; and that letters espe-
cially it was nonsense to give as few would be
interested in them. This I thought strange, and
so will a few enthusiastic admirers of our bard;
but I fear 'tis the general voice of the public. . . .
there are few souls anywhere who understood or
could enter into the relish of such a character as
B.'s. There was an electricity about him which
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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

could only touch or pervade a few cast in nature's
finest mould. . . .

Yours with regard,

CLARINDA.

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SYLVANDER AND CLARINDA

EXTRACT FROM THE PREFACE WRITTEN BY
MRS. M'LEHOSE'S GRANDSON.

"In reading the correspondence of Burns and
Clarinda, the reader will perceive that several of
her letters, and perhaps three or four of his, are
wanting; and that, in those published, various
passages are short-coming. A brief explanation,
in relation to their custody, is therefore deemed
necessary. Clarinda survived forty-four years;
and it is perhaps a matter of surprise that the
Letters should have been so well preserved and
so few lost in such a long period.

"In some of the Poet's letters, pieces have been
cut out, to gratify (it is supposed) collectors of
autographs, as it is well known that Mrs. IML'Le-*
hose was much harassed with such applications;
they are, besides, much torn, which was incidental
to the frequent handling of them, for they were
exhibited to gratify the curiosity of visitors.
These are the sole causes of a few blanks being
observable in the letters."

The italics are ours.

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