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 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 in on it—a degree of agony would be the consequence. Oh, thou perfidious, cruel, mischief-making demon, who presidest over that frantic passion-thou mayst, thou dost poison my peace, but thou 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 gratification, at the expense of her whose happiness is twisted with the threads of my existence.- - May she be as happy as she deserves! And if my tenderest, faithfulest friendship can add to her bliss, I shall at least have one solid mine of enjoyment in my bosom. Don't guess at these ravings!

I watched at our front window to-day, but was disappointed.* It has been a day of disappointments. 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 "witching time of night ;" and whatever is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute it to enchantments and spells; for I can't look over it, but will seal it up directly, as I don't care for to-morrow's criticisms on it.

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

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

Good

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

SYLVANDER.

No. LXXXVII.

TO CLARINDA.

[Clarinda writes to say she cannot imagine who is the fair one he alludes to in his last epistle. She first thought of his Jean, though uncertain whether she has his "tenderest, faithfulest friendship." She cannot understand that bonnie lassierefusing him after such proofs of love; and admires him for his continued fondness towards her. She promises again to give him a nod at his window.]

Thursday Noon [Jan, 10?]. I AM certain I saw you, Clarinda; but you don't look to the proper storey for a poet's lodging,

"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

*Mrs. M'Lehose had promised to pass through his Square about two in the afternoon, and give him a nod if he were at the window of his room and she could discover it.

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 music 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 charming 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 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 that fatal information 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, perhaps, once more. Oh, I could curse circumstances! 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 "hairbreadth 'scapes."

My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent business. 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 highest compliment I can pay her. Farewell, Clarinda! Remember

SYLVANDER.

No. LXXXVIII.

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 a 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 friend

ship. I do highly, very highly esteem 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 pleasure 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 interrupted-perhaps you are not sorry for it, you will tell me-but I won't anticipate blame. Oh 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 censorious remark.

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

SYLVANDER.

No. LXXXIX.

TO CLARINDA.

You talk of weeping, Clarinda: some involuntary drops wet your lines as I read them. Öffend me, my dearest angel! You cannot offend meyou 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, my dearest Clarinda, my unguarded expressions. For Heaven's sake, forgive me, or I shall never be able to bear my own mind.

No. XC.

Your unhappy

SYLVANDER.

TO CLARINDA.

[After a third interview Clarinda owns her high appreciation of Burns's character: "Our last interview has raised you very high in mine [esteem]. I have met with few, indeed, of your sex who understood delicacy in such circumstances." Still she fears she may be the victim of her sensibility.]

Monday Even, 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 firstfruits 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 prosenotes. I was sitting in a merchant's shop of my acquaintance, 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, ETC.

Oh thou, whom poesy abhors!
Whom prose has turned out of doors!

Heard'st thou yon groan?-proceed no further!
'Twas laurell'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 o' mine
But wishes that I were awa'!

What I hae done for lack o' 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 dearest 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 quits 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 for every occasion. They give one's ideas so pat, and save one 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

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!

SYLVANDER.

No. XCI.

TO CLARINDA.

Tuesday Evening [Jan. 15?]. THAT you have faults, my Clarinda, I never doubted; but I knew not where they existed, and Saturday night made me more in the dark than ever. Oh Clarinda! why will you wound my soul by hinting that last night must have lessened my opinion of you? True, I was "behind the scenes" with you; but what did I see? A bosom glowing with honour and benevolence; a mind ennobled by genius, informed and refined by education and reflection, and exalted by native religion, genuine as in the climes of heaven; a heart formed for all the glorious meltings of friendship, love, and pity. These I saw: I saw the noblest immortal soul creation ever showed me.

I looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your letter; and am vexed that you are complaining. I have not caught you so far wrong as in your idea, that the commerce you have with one friend hurts you if you cannot tell every tittle of it to another. Why have so injurious a suspicion of a good God, Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, on the sacred inviolate principles of Truth, Honour, and Religion, can be anything else than an object of His divine approbation ?

I have mentioned in some of my former scrawls, Saturday evening next. Do allow me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my angel! how soon must we part and when can we meet again? I look forward on the horrid interval with tearful eyes. What have I lost by not knowing you sooner! I fear, I fear my acquaintance with you is too short, to make that lasting impression on your heart I could wish.

SYLVANDER.

No. XCII.

TO CLARINDA,

Sunday Night [Jan. 20?]

THE impertinence of fools has joined with a return of an old indisposition to make me good for nothing to-day. The paper has lain before me all this evening to write to my dear Clarinda; but

"Fools rush'd on fools, as waves succeed to waves."

I cursed them in my soul: they sacrilegiously 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.