(13th February 1788)
My ever dearest Clarinda,
I make a numerous 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—Vile 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 unfeeling, cold-blooded, pitiful presbyterian bigot, cannot
forgive any thing above his dungeon bosom and foggy head.
Farewell! I’ll be with you to-morrow evening—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
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