To Agnes McLehose (Clarinda)
Saturday Morning [19th January 1788]

There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling chords
of Love and Friendship give such delight, as in the pensive hours of
what our favourite Thomson calls, “Philosophic Melancholy.” The
sportive insects who bask in the sunshine of Prosperity, or the
worms that luxuriant crawl amid their ample wealth of earth, they
need no Clarinda; they would despise Sylvander- if they durst.—The
family of Misfortune, a numerous group of brothers and sisters! they
need a resting-place to their souls: unnoticed, often condemned by
the world; in some degree perhaps condemned by themselves, they
feel the full enjoyment of ardent love, delicate tender endearments,
mutual esteem and mutual reliance.—

In this light I have often admired Religion.—ln proportion as we are
wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a
compassionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly dear.—

           ‘Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright;
‘Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night’’—

I have been this morning taking a peep thro’, as Young finely says,
“the dark postern of time long elaps’d;” and you will easily guess,
‘twas a rueful prospect.—What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness
and folly! My life reminded me of a mind 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 strength­-
ened.—I despise the superstition of a Fanatic, but I love the Religion
of a Man.—”The future,” said 1 to myself, “is still before me: there
let me—
                      On Reason build Resolve,
“That column of true majesty in Man!”—

“1 have difficulties many to encounter,” said I; “but they are not
“absolutely insuperable: and where is firmness of mind shewn, but
“in exertion? mere declamation, is bombast rant—Besides, wherever
I am, or in whatever situation I may be—
                                —“ ‘Tis nought to me:
“Since God is ever present, ever felt,
“In the void waste as in the city full;
“And where He vital breathes, there must be joy!”

                                    Saturday Night—half after ten—

What luxury of bliss I was enjoying this time yesternight! My ever-
dearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul but you have
refined, you have exalted it; you have given it a stronger sense of
Virtue, and a stronger relish for Piety.—Clarinda, first of your Sex, if
ever I am the veriest wretch on earth to forget you; if ever your
lovely image is effaced from my soul,

“May I be lost, no eye to weep my end;
“And find no earth that’s base enough to bury me!”

What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the every day
children of the world! ‘tis the unmeaning toying of the younglings of
the fields and forests: but where Sentiment and Fancy unite their
sweets; where Taste and Delicacy refine; where Wit adds the flavour,
and Good-sense gives strength and spirit to all, what a delicious
draught is the hour of tender endearment! Beauty and Grace in the
arms of Truth and Honor, in all the luxury of mutual love!

Clarinda, have you ever seen the picture realized? not in all its very
richest colouring: but

“Hope thou Nurse of young Desire;
“Fairy promiser of joy’ ‘—

Last night, Clarinda, but for one slight shade, was the glorious Picture—

                                  Innocence
             Look’d, gayly 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! Goodnight, my dear Clarinda!

Sylvander

Letter Index