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 nor
often came up to. 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 passions,
well. It has been my peculiar study.
I thank you for going to Myers.[68] Urge him, for necessity calls, to
have it done by the middle of next week, Wednesday at latest. 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.
[Footnote 68: Miniature painter.]
* * * * *
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.]
* * * *
XXV.
_Wednesday Midnight [Feb. 13]._
MADAM,-After a wretched day I am preparing for a sleepless night. I am
going to address myself to the Almighty Witness of my actions, some
time, perhaps very soon, my Almighty Judge. I am not going to be the
advocate of passion: be Thou my inspirer and testimony, O God, as I
plead the cause of truth!
I have read over your friend's[70] haughty dictatorial letter: you are
answerable only to your God in such a matter. Who gave any
fellow-creature of yours (one incapable of being your judge because not
your peer) a right to catechise, scold, undervalue, abuse, and
insult--wantonly and inhumanly to insult you thus? I do not even _wish_
to deceive you, Madam. The Searcher of hearts is my witness how dear you
are to me; but though it were possible you could be still dearer to me,
I would not even kiss your hand at the expense of your conscience. Away
with declamation! let us appeal to the bar of commonsense. It is not
mouthing everything sacred; it is not vague ranting assertions; it is
not assuming, haughtily and insultingly, the dictatorial language of a
Roman pontiff, that must dissolve a union like ours. Tell me, Madam--Are
you under the least shadow of an obligation to bestow your love,
tenderness, caresses, affections, heart and soul, on Mr. M'Lehose, the
man who has repeatedly, habitually, and barbarously broken through every
tie of duty, nature, and gratitude to you? The laws of your country,
indeed, for the most useful reasons of policy and sound government, have
made your person inviolate; but, are your heart and affections bound to
one who gives not the least return of either to you? You cannot do it:
it is not in the nature of things: the common feelings of humanity
forbid it. Have you then a heart and affections which are no man's
right? You have. It would be absurd to suppose the contrary. Tell me
then, in the name of common-sense, can it be wrong, is such a
supposition compatible with the plainest ideas of right and wrong, that
it is improper to bestow the heart and these affections on
another--while that bestowing is not in the smallest degree hurtful to
your duty to God, to your children, to yourself, or to society at large?
This is the great test; the consequences: let us see them. In a widowed,
forlorn, lonely condition, with a bosom glowing with love and
tenderness, yet so delicately situated that you cannot indulge these
nobler feelings.... [_cetera desunt_.]
[Footnote 70: Rev. Mr. Kemp.]
* * * *
XXVI.
_Thurs., 14 Feb_.
"I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan!" I have suffered,
Clarinda, from your letter. My soul was in arms at the sad perusal; I
dreaded that I had acted wrong. If I have robbed you of a friend,[71]
God forgive me!
But, Clarinda, be comforted: let me raise the tone of our feelings a
little higher and bolder. A fellow-creature who leaves us, who spurns us
without a just cause, though once our bosom friend--up with a little
honest pride--let them go! How shall I comfort you, who am the cause of
the injury? Can I wish that I had never seen you, that we had never met?
No! I never will. But have I thrown you friendless? There is almost
distraction in that thought.
Father of mercies! against Thee often have I sinned: through Thy grace I
will endeavour to do so no more! She who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me
than myself, pour Thou the balm of peace into her past wounds, and hedge
her about with Thy peculiar care, all her future days and nights.
Strengthen her tender noble mind, firmly to suffer, and magnanimously to
bear! Make me worthy of that friendship she honours me with. May my
attachment to her be pure as devotion, and lasting as immortal life! O
Almighty Goodness, hear me! Be to her at all times, particularly in the
hour of distress or trial, a Friend and Comforter, a Guide and Guard.
How are Thy servants blest, O Lord,
How sure is their defence!
Eternal Wisdom is their guide,
Their help, Omnipotence!
Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have done you! Tonight I shall be
with you; as indeed I shall be ill at ease till I see you.
SYLVANDER.
[Footnote 71: Her minister.]
* * * *
XXVII.
_Thursday, 14th Feb., Two o'clock_.
I just now received your first letter of yesterday, by the careless
negligence of the penny-post. Clarinda, matters are grown very serious
with us; then seriously hear me, and hear me, Heaven--I met you, my dear
Nancy, by far the first of womankind, at least to me; I esteemed, I
loved you at first sight; the longer I am acquainted with you the more
innate amiableness and worth I discover in you. You have suffered a
loss, I confess, for my sake: but if the firmest, steadiest, warmest
friendship; if every endeavour to be worthy of your friendship; if a
love, strong as the ties of nature, and holy as the duties of
religion--if all these can make anything like a compensation for the
evil I have occasioned you, if they be worth your acceptance, or can in
the least add to your enjoyment--so help Sylvander, ye Powers above, in
his hour of need, as he freely gives these all to Clarinda!
I esteem you, I love you as a friend; I admire you, I love you as a
woman, beyond any one in all the circle of creation; I know I shall
continue to esteem you, to love you, to pray for you, nay, to pray for
myself for your sake.
Expect me at eight. And believe me to be ever, my dearest Madam, yours
most entirely, SYLVANDER.
* * * *
XXVIII.
_February 15th, 1788_.
When matters, my love, are desperate, we must put on a desperate face--
On reason build resolve,
That column of true majesty in man.
Or, as the same author finely says in another place--
Let thy soul spring up,
And lay strong hold for help on Him that made thee.
I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be discouraged at all this. Look
forward; in a few weeks I shall be somewhere or other out of the
possibility of seeing you: till then I shall write you often, but visit
you seldom. Your fame, your welfare, your happiness are dearer to me
than any gratification whatever. Be comforted, my love! the present
moment is the worst; the lenient hand of Time is daily and hourly either
lightening the burden, or making us insensible to the weight. None of
these friends, I mean Mr.---- and the other gentleman, can hurt your
worldly support; and for their friendship, in a little time you will
learn to be easy, and, by and by, to be happy without it. A decent means
of livelihood in the world, an approving God, a peaceful conscience, and
one firm, trusty friend--can anybody that has these be said to be
unhappy? These are yours.
To-morrow evening I shall be with you about eight; probably for the last
time till I return to Edinburgh. In the meantime, should any of these
two unlucky friends question you respecting me, whether I am the man, I
do not think they are entitled to any information. As to their jealousy
and spying, I despise them.--Adieu, my dearest Madam!
SYLVANDER.
* * * *
XXIX.
GLASGOW, _Monday Evening, 9 o'clock, 18th Feb. 1788._
The attraction of love, I find, is in an inverse proportion to the
attraction of the Newtonian philosophy. In the system of Sir Isaac, the
nearer objects are to one another, the stronger is the attractive force;
in my system, every mile-stone that marked my progress from Clarinda,
awakened a keener pang of attachment to her. How do you feel, my love?
Is your heart ill at ease? I fear it.--God forbid that these persecutors
should harass that peace, which is more precious to me than my own. Be
assured I shall ever think of you, muse on you, and, in my moments of
devotion, pray for you. The hour that you are not in all my
thoughts--"be that hour darkness! let the shadows of death cover it! let
it not be numbered in the hours of the day!"
When I forget the darling theme,
Be my tongue mute! my fancy paint no more!
And, dead to joy, forget, my heart, to beat!
I have just met with my old friend, the ship captain;[72] guess my
pleasure--to meet you could alone have given me more. My brother
William, too, the young saddler, has come to Glasgow to meet me; and
here are we three spending the evening.
I arrived here too late to write by post; but I'll wrap half a dozen
sheets of blank paper together, and send it by the fly, under the name
of a parcel. You shall hear from me next post town. I would write you a
long letter, but for the present circumstance of my friend.
Adieu, my Clarinda! I am just going to propose your health by way of
grace-drink. SYLVANDER.
[Footnote 72: Richard Brown, whom he first knew at Irvine.]
* * * *
XXX.
CUMNOCK, _2nd March_ 1788.
I hope, and am certain, that my generous Clarinda[73] will not think my
silence, for now a long week, has been in any decree owing to my
forgetfulness. I have been tossed about through the country ever since I
wrote you; and am here, returning from Dumfries-shire, at an inn, the
post office of the place, with just so long time as my horse eats his
corn, to write you. I have been hurried with business and dissipation
almost equal to the insidious decree of the Persian monarch's mandate,
when he forbade asking petition of God or man for forty days. Had the
venerable prophet been as throng as I, he had not broken the decree, at
least not thrice a day.
I am thinking my farming scheme will yet hold. A worthy intelligent
farmer, my father's friend and my own, has been with me on the spot: he
thinks the bargain practicable. I am myself, on a more serious review of
the lands, much better pleased with them. I won't mention this in
writing to any body but you and Ainslie. Don't accuse me of being
fickle: I have the two plans of life before me, and I wish to adopt the
one most likely to procure me independence. I shall be in Edinburgh next
week. I long to see you: your image is omnipresent to me; nay, I am
convinced I would soon idolatrise it most seriously; so much do absence
and memory improve the medium through which one sees the much-loved
object. To-night, at the sacred hour of eight, I expect to meet you--at
the Throne of Grace. I hope, as I go home tonight, to find a letter from
you at the post office in Mauchline. I have just once seen that dear
hand since I left Edinburgh--a letter indeed which much affected me.
Tell me, first of womankind! will my warmest attachment, my sincerest
friendship, my correspondence, will they be any compensation for the
sacrifices you make for my sake! If they will, they are yours. If I
settle on the farm I propose, I am just a day and a half's ride from
Edinburgh. We will meet--don't you say, "perhaps too often!"
Farewell, my fair, my charming Poetess! May all good things ever attend
you! I am ever, my dearest Madam, yours, SYLVANDER.
[Footnote 73: The letter about the 23rd of February seems to be
wanting.]
* * * *
XXXI.
MAUCHLINE, 6 _Mar_.
I own myself guilty, Clarinda; I should have written you last week; but
when you recollect, my dearest Madam, that yours of this night's post is
only the third I have got from you, and that this is the fifth or sixth
I have sent to you, you will not reproach me, with a good grace, for
unkindness. I have always some kind of idea, not to sit down to write a
letter except I have time and possession of my faculties, so as to do
some justice to my letter; which at present is rarely my situation. For
instance, yesterday I dined at a friend's at some distance; the savage
hospitality of this country spent me the most part of the night over the
nauseous potion in the bowl: this day--sick--headache--low
spirits--miserable--fasting, except for a draught of water or small
beer: now eight o'clock at night--only able to crawl ten minutes walk
into Mauchline to wait the post, in the pleasurable hope of hearing from
the mistress of my soul.
But, truce with all this! When I sit down to write to you, all is
harmony and peace. A hundred times a day do I figure you, before your
taper, your book, or work laid aside, as I get within the room. How
happy have I been! and how little of that scantling portion of time,
called the life of man, is sacred to happiness! much less transport!
I could moralise to-night like a death's head.
O what is life, that thoughtless wish of all!
A drop of honey in a draught of gall.
Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs the wheels of
life, than the thoughtless career we run in the hour of health. "None
saith, where is God, my Maker, that giveth songs in the night; who
teacheth us more knowledge than the beasts of the field, and more
understanding than the fowls of the air."
Give me, my Maker, to remember thee! Give me to act up to the dignity of
my nature! Give me to feel "another's woe;" and continue with me that
dear-loved friend that feels with mine!
The dignified and dignifying consciousness of an honest man, and the
well-grounded trust in approving Heaven, are two most substantial
foundations of happiness.
SYLVANDER.
* * * *
XXXII.
MOSSGIEL, _7th March_ 1788.
Clarinda, I have been so stung with your reproach for unkindness, a sin
so unlike me, a sin I detest more than a breach of the whole Decalogue,
fifth, sixth, seventh and ninth articles excepted, that I believe I
shall not rest in my grave about it, if I die before I see you. You have
often allowed me the head to judge, and the heart to feel, the influence
of female excellence.
Was it not blasphemy, then, against your own charms, and against my
feelings, to suppose that a short fortnight could abate my passion? You,
my love, may have your cares and anxieties to disturb you, but they are
the usual recurrences of life; your future views are fixed, and your
mind in a settled routine. Could not you, my ever dearest Madam, make a
little allowance for a man, after long absence, paying a short visit to
a country full of friends, relations, and early intimates? Cannot you
guess, my Clarinda, what thoughts, what cares, what anxious forebodings,
hopes and fears, must crowd the breast of the man of keen sensibility,
when no less is on the tapis than his aim, his employment, his very
existence, through future life!
Now that, not my apology, but my defence is made, I feel my soul respire
more easily. I know you will go along with me in my justification--would
to Heaven you could in my adoption too! I mean an adoption beneath the
stars--an adoption where I might revel in the immediate beams of
Her, the bright sun of all her sex.
I would not have you, my dear Madam, so much hurt at Miss Nimmo's
coldness. 'Tis placing yourself below her, an honour she by no means
deserves. We ought, when we wish to be economists in happiness--we
ought, in the first place, to fix the standard of our own character; and
when, on full examination, we know where we stand, and how much ground
we occupy, let us contend for it as property; and those who seem to
doubt, or deny us what is justly ours, let us either pity their
prejudices, or despise their judgment. I know, my dear, you will say
this is self-conceit; but I call it self-knowledge. The one is
theoverweening opinion of a fool, who fancies himself to be what he
wishes himself to be thought; the other is the honest justice that a man
of sense, who has thoroughly examined the subject, owes to himself.
Without this standard, this column in our own mind, we are perpetually
at the mercy of the petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, nay, the
very weakness and wickedness of our fellow-creatures.
I urge this, my dear, both to confirm myself in the doctrine, which, I
assure you, I sometimes need; and because I know that this causes you
often much disquiet. To return to Miss Nimmo: she is most certainly a
worthy soul, and equalled by very, very few, in goodness of heart. But
can she boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda? Not even prejudice
will dare to say so. For penetration and discernment, Clarinda sees far
beyond her: to wit, Miss Nimmo dare make no pretence; to Clarinda's wit,
scarcely any of her sex dare make pretence. Personal charms, it would be
ridiculous to run the parallel. And for conduct in life, Miss Nimmo was
never called out, either much to do or to suffer; Clarinda has been
both; and has performed her part, where Miss Nimmo would have sunk at
the bare idea.
Away, then, with these disquietudes! Let us pray with the honest weaver
of Kilbarchan--"Lord, send us a gude conceit o' oursel!" Or, in the
words of the auld sang,
Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again,
And I'll never mind any such foes.
There is an error in the commerce of intimacy[74] ...
way of exchange, have not an equivalent to give us; and, what is still
worse, have no idea of the value of our goods. Happy is our lot indeed,
when we meet with an honest merchant, who is qualified to deal with us
on our own terms; but that is a rarity. With almost everybody we must
pocket our pearls, less or more, and learn in the old Scotch phrase--"To
gie sic like as we get." For this reason one should try to erect a kind
of bank or store-house in one's own mind; or, as the Psalmist says, "We
should commune with our own hearts, and be still." This is exactly
[Footnote 74: The MS. is so worn as to be indecipherable.]
[MS. dilapidated.]
* * * *
XXXIII.
EDINBURGH, 18_th March_ 1788.
I am just hurrying away to wait on the great man, Clarinda; but I have
more respect on my own peace and happiness than to set out without
waiting on you; for my imagination, like a child's favourite bird, will
fondly flutter along with this scrawl till it perch on your bosom I
thank you for all the happiness of yesterday--the walk delightful, the
evening rapture. Do not be uneasy today, Clarinda. I am in rather better
spirits today, though I had but an indifferent night. Care, anxiety, sat
on my spirits. All the cheerfulness of this morning is the fruit of some
serious, important ideas that lie, in their realities, beyond the dark
and narrow house. The Father of mercies be with you, Clarinda. Every
good thing attend you!
SYLVANDER.
* * * *
XXXIV.
_Friday_ 9 [_p.m_., 21_st March_ 1788].
I am just now come in, and have read your letters. The first thing I did
was to thank the Divine Disposer of events that he has had such
happiness in store for me as the connexion I have with you. Life, my
Clarinda, is a weary, barren path; and woe be to him or her that
ventures on it alone! For me, I have my dearest partner of my soul.
Clarinda and I will make out our pilgrimage together. Wherever I am, I
shall constantly let her know how I go on, what I observe in the world
around me, and what adventures I meet with. Would it please you, my
love, to get every week, or every fortnight at least, a packet of two or
three sheets of remarks, nonsense, news, rhymes and old songs? Will you
open with satisfaction and delight a letter from a man who loves you,
who has loved you, and who will love you to death, through death, and
for ever? O Clarinda! what do I owe to heaven for blessing me with such
a piece of exalted excellence as you! I call over your idea, as a miser
counts over his treasure. Tell me, were you studious to please me last
night? I am sure you did it to transport.
How rich am I who have such a treasure as you! You know me; you know how
to make me happy, and you do it most effectually. God bless you with
"long life, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend!" Tomorrow night,
according to your own direction, I shall watch the window--'tis the star
that guides me to Paradise. The great relish to all is that honour, that
innocence, that Religion are the witnesses and guarantees of our
affection, Adieu, Clarinda! I am going to remember you in my prayers.
SYLVANDER.
* * * *
GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE.
LETTERS.
(_General Correspondence Resumed_.)
* * * * *
LXXXIV.--To MR. GAVIN HAMILTON.
[_April_ 1788] MOSSGIEL, _Friday Morning_.
The language of refusal is to me the most difficult language on earth,
and you are the man in the world, excepting one of Right Hon.
designation, to whom it gives me the greatest pain to hold such
language. My brother has already got money,[75] and shall want nothing
in my power to enable him to fulfil his engagement with you; but to be
security on so large a scale, even for a brother, is what I dare not do,
except I were in such circumstances of life as that the worst that might
happen could not greatly injure me.
I never wrote a letter which gave me so much pain in my life, as I know
the unhappy consequences:--I shall incur the displeasure of a gentleman
for whom I have the highest respect and to whom I am deeply
obliged.--I am etc.
ROBERT BURNS.
[Footnote 75: Altogether £180. Gilbert is meant, and the business
referred to was renewal of lease of Mossgiel, the poet to be
cautioner.]
* * * * *
LXXXV.--To MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, W.S., EDINBURGH.
MAUCHLINE, 7_th April_ 1788.
I have not delayed so long to write you, my much respected friend,
because I thought no further of my promise. I have long since given up
that formal kind of correspondence where one sits down irksomely to
write a letter, because he is in duty bound to do so.
I have been roving over the country, as the farm[76] I have taken is
forty miles from this place, hiring servants and preparing matters; but
most of all, I am earnestly busy to bring about a revolution in my own
mind. As, till within these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy
master of ten guineas, my knowledge of business is to learn. Add to
this, my late scenes of idleness and dissipation have enervated my mind
to an alarming degree. Skill in the sober science of life is my most
serious, and hourly study. I have dropped all conversation and all
reading (prose reading) but what tends in some way or other to my
serious aim. Except one worthy young fellow[77] I have not a single
correspondent in Edinburgh. You have indeed kindly made me an offer of
that kind. The world of wits, the _gens comme-il-faut_, which I lately
left, and in which I never again will intimately mix--from that port,
Sir, I expect your gazette, what the _beaux esprits_ are saying, what
they are doing, and what they are singing. Any sober intelligence from
my sequestered life is all you have to expect from me. I have scarcely
made a single distich since I saw you. When I meet with an old Scots air
that has any facetious idea in its name, I have a peculiar pleasure in
following out that idea for a verse or two.