Friday eve [28th December 1787]
I beg your pardon, my dear “Clarinda,” for the fragment scrawl I
sent you yesterday.—! 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.—l read to my much-respected
friend several of my own bagatelles and among others your lines
which I had copied out—He began some criticisms 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
woman in Edinburgh was capable of such lines; and if you know any
thing 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.—1 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.
—l believe there is no holding converse or carrying on correspond-
ence, with an amiable woman, much less a glonously amiable, fine
woman, without some mixture of that delicious Passion, whose most
devoted Slave I have more than once had the honor 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 it
to the generous, the honorable sentiments of manly Friendship; and
I know but one more delightful 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 inclose 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 fnend 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 lam—I am, as most people of
my trade are, a strange will o’ wisp being; the victim too frequently
of much imprudence and many follies—My great constituent
elements are Pride and Passion: the first I have endeavoured to
humanize into integrity and honour; the last makes me a Devotee to
the warmest degree of enthusiasm, 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 once! Don’t 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 permanent impression—I say the
most permanent, because I know myself well, and how far I can
promise either on my prepossessions or powers—Why are you
unhappy? and why are so many of our fellow creatures, unworthy to
belong to the same species with you, blest with all they can wish?
You have a hand all benevolent to give, why were you denyed the
pleasure? You have a heart form’d, gloriously form’d, for all the
most refined luxuries of love; why was that heart ever wrung? 0
Clarinda! shall we not meet in a state, some yet unknown state of
Being, 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 deserv’d most of the unhappy hours that
have linger’d 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 dash’d your cup of life
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 unvailing avarice on my loss iP now knowing
you sooner: all last winter; these three months past; what luxury of
intercourse have I not lost! Perhaps tho’ ‘twas better for my peace.—
You see I am either above, or incapable of Dissimulation.—! believe
it is want of that particular genius—I despise Design because I want
either coolness or wisdom to be capable of it.—I may take a fort by
storm, but never by Siege.—
l am interrupted—Adieu! my dear Clarinda!
Sylvander
|
