What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the every-day children of the world! 'tis the unmeaning toying of the younglings of the fields and forests; but where Sentiment and Fancy unite their sweets, where Taste and Delicacy refine, where Wit adds the flavour, and Good Sense gives strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is the hour of tender endearment! Beauty and Grace, in the arms of Truth and Honour, in all the luxury of mutual love. Clarinda, have you ever seen the picture realised? Not in all its very richest colouring. Last night, Clarinda, but for one slight shade, was the glorious picture. Innocence Look'd gaily smiling on; while rosy Pleasure Hid young Desire amid her flowery wreath, And pour'd her cup luxuriant; mantling high, The sparkling heavenly vintage, Love and Bliss! Clarinda, when a poet and poetess of Nature's making, two of Nature's noblest productions! when they drink together of the same cup of Love and Bliss--attempt not, ye coarser stuff of human nature, profanely to measure enjoyment ye never can know! Good night, my dear Clarinda! SYLVANDER. * * * * XV _Sunday Night_, 20_th January_. 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 disturbed 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 on 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 scarcely hold up my head; but I am happy you do not know it, you would be so uneasy. SYLVANDER. _Monday Morning_. I am, my lovely friend, much better this morning on the whole; but I have a horrid languor on my spirits. Sick of the world, and all its joys, My soul in pining sadness mourns; Dark scenes of woe my mind employs, The past and present in their turns. Have you ever met with a saying of the great, and like wise good Mr. Locke, author of the famous _Essay on the Human Understanding_? He wrote a letter to a friend, directing it, "not to be delivered till after my decease;" it ended thus--"I know you loved me when living, and will preserve my memory now I am dead. All the use to be made of it is, that this life affords no solid satisfaction, but in the consciousness of having done well, and the hopes of another life. Adieu! I leave my best wishes with you. J. LOCKE."