I am interrupted--perhaps you are not sorry for it, you will tell me--but I won't anticipate blame. O 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. * * * * XI. _Saturday_, _Jan_. 12, 1788. You talk of weeping, Clarinda! Some involuntary drops wet your lines as I read them. _Offend me_, my dearest angel! You cannot offend me, you never offended me! If you had ever given me the least shadow of offence so pardon me, 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 to 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. Your unhappy Sylvander. * * * * XII. _Monday Evening_, 11 _o'clock_, 14_th January_. 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 first-fruits 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,[65] who has given a translation of Martial, a famous Latin poet? The poetry of Elphinstone can only equal his prose notes. 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. O thou, whom poesy abhors! Whom prose has turned out of doors! Heardst thou yon groan? proceed no further! 'Twas laurel'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."