XXIV.

_Wednesday, 13th February_.

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. Damn'd 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,[69] cannot forgive anything 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.

[Footnote 69: Rev. Mr. Kemp, Clarinda's spiritual adviser.]

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