On the same day Clarinda was writing to him in equal tenderness, but with self-accusation. She had disclosed the state of her heart to her pastor, Mr Kemp, who had expressed much sympathy. She adds a remarkable passage: 'Sylvander, I believe nothing were a more impracticable task, than to make you feel a little of 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.' She is scarcely sorry at the Excise affair misgiving, for he will be better out of Edinburgh, so full of temptation to one of his social turn. Providence, if you will be wise in future, will order something better for you. I am half glad 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.' Another Saturday-evening interview, followed, as usual, by a letter. TO CLARINDA. Sunday Morning. Yesternight I was happy-happiness that the world cannot give. I kindle at the recollection; but it is a flame where Innocence looks smiling on, and Honour stands by, a sacred guard. 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 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 trembling under the idea of dreaded vengeance! and what a placid calm, what a charming secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom the kind feelings of friendship and the fond throes of love! Out upon the tempest of Anger, the acrimonious gall of fretful Impatience, the sullen frost of louring Resentment, or the corroding poison of withered Envy! They eat up the immortal 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 goodness, 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 wo! Above all, do Thou give me the manly mind, that resolutely exemplifies, 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 kindness! Clarinda, the dear object of my fondest love; there may the most sacred inviolate honour, the most faithful kindling constancy, ever watch and animate my every thought and imagination! Did you ever meet with the following lines spoken of religionyour darling topic? "Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; 'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night; When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 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. In the reply there are some affecting passages. She bewails having been formed susceptible of emotions which she cannot indulge. 'Never were there two hearts formed so exactly alike as ours.' They must part; and she shudders at the idea of a hundred miles of distance. 'Oh, let the scenes of nature remind you of Clarinda! In Winter, remember the dark shades of her fate; in Summer, the 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 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 unbounded spring encircle all." Love, there, is not a crime. I charge you to meet me there. Oh God! I must lay down my pen.' I have heard Clarinda, at seventy-five, express the same hope to meet in another sphere the one heart that she had ever found herself able entirely to sympathise with, but which had been divided from her on earth by such pitiless obstacles. TO CLARINDA. Thursday Night. I cannot be easy, my Clarinda, while any sentiment respecting me in your bosom gives me 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 bestow that heart and those affections where you please. The God of love meant and made those delicious attachments to be bestowed on somebody; and even all the imprudence lies in bestowing 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 restraint is the death of a friendly epistle; but there is one passage in your last charming letter, Thomson or 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 blockhead! 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 Passion's swell. 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. While pining on his couch in St James's Square, groaning at fortune, and penning epistolary ravings to the goddess of the Potterrow, he was not neglectful of Johnson's collection of Scottish songs. The second volume of this work was proceeding rapidly to completion, chiefly indebted to him for materials, both music and poetry; while with him also originated a new feature of the work, in notes announcing such facts regarding the authorship and subjects of the old songs as could be obtained from tradition. Of the songs which he contributed to the volume, some were given with his name; a few others that were wholly, and some that were partially his, appeared anonymously. We find, in the second volume, besides the songs already here given, the following acknowledged contributions: WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YE, MY LAD. Oh whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad, Oh whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad; Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me, MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. TUNE-M'Pherson's Rant. [James Macpherson was a noted Highland freebooter, of uncommon personal strength, and an excellent performer on the violin. After holding the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray, in fear for some years, he was seized by Duff of Braco, ancestor of the Earl of Fife, and tried before the sheriff of Banffshire (November 7, 1700), along with certain gipsies who had been taken in his company. In the prison, while he lay under sentence of death, he composed a song and an appropriate air, the former commencing thus:— 'I've spent my time in rioting, Debauched my health and strength; But dantonly, and wantonly, I'll play a tune, and dance it roun' When brought to the place of execution, on the Gallows-hill of Banff (Nov. 16), he played the tune on his violin, and then asked if any friend was present who would accept the instrument as a gift at his hands. No one coming forward, he indignantly broke the violin on his knee, and threw away the fragments; after which he submitted to his fate. The traditionary accounts of Macpherson's immense prowess are justified by his sword, which is still preserved in Duff House, at Banff, and is an implement of great length and weight-as well as by his bones, which were found a few years ago, and were allowed by all who saw them to be much stronger than the bones of ordinary men. The verses of Burns-justly called by Mr Lockhart a grand improvement on those of the freebooter, preserving the same air. works superintended by Messrs Hogg and Motherwell (Glasgow, ampler information on the subject of Macpherson and his 'Rant.'] lyric'-were designed as an In the edition of the poet's 1834), the reader will find Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, Macpherson's time will not be long Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring, and danced it round, 1 Burns afterwards altered and extended this song. Oh, what is Death but parting breath? I've dared his face, and in this place Untie these bands from off my hands, And there's no a man in all Scotland I've lived a life of sturt and strife; It burns my heart I must depart, Now farewell light-thou sunshine bright, STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. [The individual here meant is William, fourth Viscount of Strathallan, who fell on the insurgent side at the battle of Culloden, April 1746. Burns, probably ignorant of his real fate, describes him as having survived the action, and taken refuge from the fury of the government forces in a Highland fastness.] Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling! Howling tempests, o'er me rave! Still surround my lonely cave!1 1 Variation in MS. in possession of Mr B. Nightingale, Priory Road, London: 'Thickest night, surround my dwelling! Howling tempests, o'er me rave! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Roaring by my lonely cave!' |