The Letters of Robert Burns by Robert Burns

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Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where, mix'd with God's, her lov'd idea lies.

But I fear that inconstancy, the consequent imperfection of human
weakness. Shall I meet with a friendship that defies years of absence,
and the chances and changes of fortune? Perhaps "such things are;" _one
honest_ man[65a] I have great hopes from that way: but who, except a
romance writer, would think on a _love_ that could promise for life, in
spite of distance, absence, chance, and change; and that, too, with
slender hopes of fruition? For my own part, I can say to myself in both
requisitions, "Thou art the man!" I dare, in cool resolve I dare,
declare myself that friend, and that lover. If womankind is capable of
such things, Clarinda is. I trust that she is; and I feel I shall be
miserable if she is not. There is not one virtue which gives worth, or
one sentiment which does honour to the sex, that she does not possess
superior to any woman I ever saw; her exalted mind, aided a little
perhaps by her situation, is, I think, capable of that nobly-romantic
love-enthusiasm.

May I see you on Wednesday evening, my dear angel? The next Wednesday
again will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us both. I tremble for
censorious remark, for your sake, but, in extraordinary cases, may not
usual and useful precaution be a little dispensed with? Three evenings,
three swift-winged evenings, with pinions of down, are all the past; I
dare not calculate the future. I shall call at Miss Nimmo's to-morrow
evening;'twill be a farewell call.

I have wrote out my last sheet of paper, so I am reduced to my last
half-sheet. What a strange mysterious faculty is that thing called
imagination! We have no ideas almost at all of another world; but I have
often amused myself with visionary schemes of what happiness might be
enjoyed by small alterations--alterations that we can fully enter into,
in this present state of existence. For instance, suppose you and I,
just as we are at present; the same reasoning powers, sentiments, and
even desires; the same fond curiosity for knowledge and remarking
observation in our minds; and imagine our bodies free from pain, and the
necessary supplies for the wants of nature at all times, and easily,
within our reach: imagine further, that we were set free from the laws
of gravitation, which bind us to this globe, and could at pleasure fly,
without inconvenience, through all the yet unconjectured bounds of
creation, what a life of bliss would we lead, in our mutual pursuit of
virtue and knowledge, and our mutual enjoyment of friendship and love!

I see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and calling me a voluptuous
Mahometan; but I am certain I would be a happy creature, beyond anything
we call bliss here below; nay, it would be a paradise congenial to you
too. Don't you see us, hand in hand, or rather, my arm about your lovely
waist, making our remarks on Sirius, the nearest of the fixed stars; or
surveying a comet, flaming innoxious by us, as we just now would mark
the passing pomp of a travelling monarch; or in a shady bower of Mercury
or Venus, dedicating the hour to love, in mutual converse, relying
honour, and revelling endearment, whilst the most exalted strains of
poesy and harmony would be the ready spontaneous language of our souls!
Devotion is the favourite employment of your heart; so it is of mine:
what incentives then to, and powers for reverence, 'gratitude, faith,
and hope, in all the fervours of adoration and praise to that Being,
whose unsearchable wisdom, power, and goodness, so pervaded, so inspired
every sense and feeling! By this time, I daresay, you will be blessing
the neglect of the maid that leaves me destitute of paper!

SYLVANDER.

[Footnote 65a: Alluding to Captain Brown.]

* * * *

XVI.

[_Monday_, 21_st Jan_. 1788.]

... I am a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit. Clarinda, if ever you
forget Sylvander, may you be happy, but he will be miserable. O what a
fool I am in love! What an extraordinary prodigal of affection! Why are
your sex called the tender sex, when I have never met with one who can
repay me in passion? They are either not so rich in love as I am, or
they are niggards where I am lavish.

O Thou, whose I am, and whose are all my ways! Thou seest me here, the
hapless wreck of tides and tempests in my own bosom: do Thou direct to
Thyself that ardent love for which I have so often sought a return in
vain from my fellow-creatures! If Thy goodness has yet such a gift in
store for me as an equal return of affection from her who, Thou knowest,
is dearer to me than life, do Thou bless and hallow our bond of love and
friendship; watch over us in all our outgoings and incomings for good:
and may the tie that unites our hearts be strong and indissoluble as the
thread of man's immortal life!...

I am just going to take your "Blackbird,"[66] the sweetest, I am sure,
that ever sung, and prune its wings a little.

SYLVANDER.

[Footnote 66: Her verses, "To a Blackbird Singing."]

* * * *

XVII.

_Thursday Morning_, 24_th January._

Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain.

I have been tasking my reason, Clarinda, why a woman, who, for native
genius, poignant wit, strength of mind, generous sincerity of soul, and
the sweetest female tenderness, is without a peer, and whose personal
charms have few, very very few parallels, among her sex; why, or how she
should fall to the blessed lot of a poor _hairum scairum_ poet, whom
Fortune had kept for her particular use, to wreak her temper on whenever
she was in ill humour. One time I conjectured, that as Fortune is the
most capricious jade ever known, she may have taken, not a fit of
remorse, but a paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor devil out of the
mire, where he had so often and so conveniently served her as a stepping
stone, and given him the most glorious boon she ever had in her gift,
merely for the maggot's sake, to see how his fool head and his fool
heart will bear it. At other times I was vain enough to think, that
Nature, who has a great deal to say with Fortune, had given the
coquettish goddess some such hint as, "Here is a paragon of female
excellence, whose equal, in all my former compositions, I never was
lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever doing so again; you have
cast her rather in the shades of life; there is a certain Poet of my
making; among your frolics it would not be amiss to attach him to this
masterpiece of my hand, to give her that immortality among mankind,
which no woman, of any age, ever more deserved, and which few rhymsters
of this age are better able to confer."

_Evening_, 9 _o'clock._

I am here, absolutely unfit to finish my letter--pretty hearty after a
bowl, which has been constantly plied since dinner till this moment. I
have been with Mr. Schetki, the musician, and he has set it[66a]
finely.----I have no distinct ideas of anything, but that I have drunk
your health twice to-night, and that you are all my soul holds dear in
this world.

SYLVANDER.

[Footnote 66a: "Clarinda, Mistress of my Soul, etc."--See Poems.]

* * * *

XVIII.

[_Friday, Jan_. 25.]

Clarinda, my life, you have wounded my soul. Can I think of your being
unhappy, even though it be not described in your pathetic elegance of
language, without being miserable? Clarinda, can I bear to be told from
you that you "will not see me to-morrow night"--that you "wish the hour
of parting were come?" Do not let us impose on ourselves by sounds. If
in the moment of tender endearment I perhaps trespassed against the
letter of decorum's law I appeal even to you whether I ever sinned in
the very least degree against the spirit of her strictest statute. But
why, my love, talk to me in such strong terms?--every word of which cuts
me to the very soul. You know a hint, the slightest signification of
your wish is to me a sacred command. Be reconciled, my angel, to your
God, yourself, and me: and I pledge you Sylvander's honour--an oath I
daresay you will trust without reserve--that you shall never more have
reason to complain of his conduct. Now, my love, do not wound our next
meeting with any averted looks or restrained caresses. I have marked the
line of conduct, a line I know exactly to your taste, and which I will
inviolably keep; but do not you shew the least inclination to make
boundaries. Seeming distrust where you know you may confide is a cruel
sin against sensibility. "Delicacy, you know, it was, which won me to
you at once--take care you do not loosen the dearest, most sacred tie
that unites us." Clarinda, I would not have stung _your_ soul, I would
not have bruised _your_ spirit, as that harsh, crucifying _"Take Care"_
did mine--no, not to have gained Heaven! Let me again appeal to your
dear self, if Sylvander, even when he seemingly half-transgressed the
laws of decorum, if he did not shew more chastened trembling, faltering
delicacy than the many of the world do in keeping these laws?

O Love and Sensibility, ye have conspired against my peace! I love to
madness and I feel to torture! Clarinda, how can I forgive myself that I
have ever touched a single chord in your bosom with pain! Would I do it
willingly? Would any consideration, any gratification make me do so? Oh,
did you love like me, you would not, you could not, deny or put off a
meeting with the man who adores you--who would die a thousand deaths
before he would injure you; and who must soon bid you a long farewell!

I had proposed bringing my bosom friend, Mr. Ainslie, to-morrow evening
at his strong request to see you, as he has only time to stay with us
about ten minutes for an engagement. But I shall hear from you--this
afternoon, for mercy's sake! for till I hear from you I am wretched. O
Clarinda, the tie that binds me to thee is intwisted, incorporated with
my dearest threads of life!

SYLVANDER.

* * * *

XIX.

[_Sat_., 26 _Jan_.]

I was on the way, _my Love_, to meet you (I never do things by halves),
when I got your card. Mr. Ainslie goes out of town to-morrow morning, to
see a brother of his who is newly arrived from France. I am determined
that he and I shall call on you together; so, look you, lest I should
never see to-morrow, we will call on you to-night; Mary and you may put
off tea till about seven; at which time, in the Galloway phrase, "an the
beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale," expect the humblest of
your humble servants, and his dearest friend. We propose staying only
half-an-hour, "for ought we ken." I could suffer the lash of misery
eleven months in the year, were the twelfth to be composed of hours like
yesternight. You are the soul of my enjoyment: all else is of the stuff
of stocks and stones.

SYLVANDER.

* * * *

XX.

_Sunday Noon, Jan_. 27_th_.

I have almost given up the excise idea. I have been just now to wait on
a great person, Miss----'s friend, ----. Why will great people not only
deafen us with the din of their equipage, and dazzle us with their
fastidious pomp, but they must also be so very dictatorially wise? I
have been questioned like a child about my matters, and blamed and
schooled for my inscription on Stirling window. Come Clarinda-Come!
curse me Jacob, and come defy me Israel!

_Sunday Night_.

I have been with Miss Nimmo; she is indeed a good soul, as my Clarinda
finely says. She has reconciled me in a good measure to the world with
her friendly prattle.

Schetki has sent me the song set to a fine air of his composing. I have
called the song "Clarinda." I have carried it about in my pocket and
hummed it over all day.

_Monday Morning_.

If my prayers have any weight in heaven, this morning looks in on you
and finds you in the arms of Peace, except where it is charmingly
interrupted by the ardours of devotion. I find so much serenity of soul,
so much positive pleasure, so much fearless daring toward the world when
I warm in devotion, or feel the glorious sensation of a consciousness of
Almighty friendship, that I am sure I shall soon be an honest
enthusiast.

How are Thy Servants blest, O Lord,
How sure is their defence!

I am, my dear madam, yours, SYLVANDER.

* * * * *

XXI.

_Tuesday Morning_, 29_th January_.

I cannot go out to-day, my dearest love, without sending you half a
line, by way of a sin-offering; but, believe me, 'twas the sin of
ignorance. Could you think that I _intended_ to hurt you by any thing I
said yesternight? Nature has been too kind to you for your happiness,
your delicacy, your sensibility. O why should such glorious
qualifications be the fruitful source of woe! You have "murdered sleep"
to me last night. I went to bed, impressed with an idea that you were
unhappy; and every start I closed my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in
such scenes of romantic misery, that I would almost be persuaded you
were not well this morning.

If I unweeting have offended,
Impute it not.
But while we live
But one short hour perhaps, between us two,
Let there be peace.

If Mary is not gone by this reaches you, give her my best compliments.
She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of the noblest love.

I send you a poem to read, till I call on you this night, which will be
about nine. I wish I could procure some potent spell, some fairy charm,
that would protect from injury, or restore to rest that bosom-chord,
"tremblingly alive all o'er," on which hangs your peace of mind. I
thought, vainly, I fear, thought that the devotion of love--love strong
as even you can feel--love guarded, invulnerably guarded, by all the
purity of virtue, and all the pride of honour; I thought such a love
would make you happy--shall I be mistaken? I can no more for hurry.

SYLVANDER.

* * * * *

XXII.

_Sunday Morning_, 3_rd February_.

I have just been before the throne of my God, Clarinda; according to my
association of ideas, my sentiments of love and friendship, I next
devote myself to you. 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. Your
heart, your fondest wishes, your dearest thoughts, these are yours to
bestow; your person is unapproachable by the laws of your country; and
he loves not as I do, who would make you miserable.

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 woe! 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 Religion, your
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,
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue;
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart,
Disarms affliction, or repels its dart:
Within the breast bids purest rapture rise,
Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies.[67]

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.

[Footnote 67: From Hervey's _Meditations_.]

* * * *

XXIII.

_Thursday Night, Feb_. 7, 1788.

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 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.

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