Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (124 page)

X
.

Saturday Morning
, 12
th January
.

Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, shall be welcome. You may perhaps distrust me, when I say ‘tis also my favourite topic; but mine is the religion of the bosom. I hate the very idea of a controversial divinity; as I firmly believe, that every honest upright man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of the Deity. If your verses, as you seem to hint, contain censure, except you want an occasion to break with me, don’t send them. I have a little infirmity in my disposition, that where I fondly love, or highly esteem, I cannot bear reproach.

“Reverence thyself” is a sacred maxim, and I wish to cherish it. I think I told you Lord Bolingbroke’s saying to Swift— “Adieu, dear Swift, with all thy faults I love thee entirely; make an effort to love me with all mine.” A glorious sentiment, and without which there can be no friendship! I do highly, very highly, esteem you indeed, Clarinda — you merit it all! Perhaps, too, I scorn dissimulation! I could fondly love you: judge then what a maddening sting your reproach would be. “O! I have sins to
Heaven
but none to
you!
” With what pleasure would I meet you to-day, but I cannot walk to meet the fly. I hope to be able to see you on
foot
about the middle of next week.

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.

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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.

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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.”

What art thou, Love? whence are those charms,
That thus thou bear’st an universal rule?
For thee the soldier quits his arms,
The king turns slave, the wise man fool.
In vain we chase thee from the field,
And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke:
Next tide of blood, alas! we yield;
And all those high resolves are broke!

I like to have quotations for every occasion They give one’s ideas so pat, and save one the trouble of finding expression adequate to one’s feelings. I think it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, etc., an embodied form in verse, which, to me, is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says finely of his Muse —

Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe;
Thou foundst me poor at first, and keep’st me so.

My limb has been so well to-day, that I have gone up and down stairs often without my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once again on my own legs to dinner. It is only next street. — Adieu. Sylvander.

⁶⁵
A
native of Edinburgh, and a schoolmaster in London. He  was a friend of Samuel Johnson

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XIII
.

Tuesday Evening
,
Jan
. 15.

That you have faults, my Clarinda, I never doubted; but I knew not where they existed, and Saturday night made me more in the dark than ever. O Clarinda! why will you wound my soul, by hinting that last night must have lessened my opinion of you? True, I was “behind the scenes with you;” but what did I see? A bosom glowing with honour and benevolence; a mind ennobled by genius, informed and refined by education and reflection, and exalted by native religion, genuine as in the climes of heaven: a heart formed for all the glorious meltings of friendship, love, and pity. These I saw — I saw the noblest immortal soul creation ever showed me.

I looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your letter; and am vexed that you are complaining. I have not caught you so far wrong as in your idea, that the commerce you have with
one
friend hurts you, if you cannot tell every tittle of it to
another
. Why have so injurious a suspicion of a good God, Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, on the sacred inviolate principles of Truth, Honour, and Religion! can be anything else than an object of His divine approbation.

I have mentioned in some of my former scrawls, Saturday evening next. Do allow me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my angel! how soon must we part! and when can we meet again! I look forward on the horrid interval with tearful eyes! What have I lost by not knowing you sooner. I fear, I fear my acquaintance with you is too short, to make that
lasting
impression on your heart I could wish.

SYLVANDER.

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XIV
.

Saturday Morning
, 19
th Jan

There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling chords of Love and Friendship give such delight, as in the pensive hours of what our favourite Thomson calls, “philosophic melancholy.” The sportive insects, who bask in the sunshine of prosperity; or the worms that luxuriantly crawl amid their ample wealth of earth, they need no Clarinda: they would despise Sylvander — if they durst. The family of Misfortune, a numerous group of brothers and sisters! they need a resting place to their souls: unnoticed, often condemned by the world — in some degree, perhaps, condemned by themselves, they feel the full enjoyment of ardent love, delicate tender endearments, mutual esteem and mutual reliance.

In this light I have often admired religion. In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compassionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly dear.

 
‘
Tis this
, my friend, that streaks our morning bright;
  ‘
Tis this
that gilds the horrors of our night.’

I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely says, “the dark postern of time long elaps’d;” and, you will easily guess,’twas a rueful prospect. What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! My life reminded me of a ruined temple; what strength, what proportion in some parts! what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruin in others! I kneeled down before the Father of mercies, and said, “Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son!” I rose, eased and strengthened. I despise the superstition of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a man. “The future,” said I to myself, “is still before me;” there let me

on reason build resolve,
That column of true majesty in man!

“I have difficulties many to encounter,” said I; “but they are not absolutely insuperable; and where is firmness of mind shown but in exertion? mere declamation is bombast rant.” Besides, wherever I am, or in whatever situation I may be —

‘Tis nought to me:
Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste as in the city full;
And where He vital breathes, there must be joy!

Saturday night — half after Ten
.

What luxury of bliss I was enjoying this time yesternight! My ever dearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul; but you have refined, you have exalted it; you have given it a stronger sense for virtue, and a stronger relish for piety. Clarinda, first of your sex, if ever I am the veriest wretch on earth to forget you, if ever your lovely image is effaced from my soul,

May I be lost, no eye to weep my end;
And find no earth that’s base enough to bury me!

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.

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X
V

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.”

Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship for life? I think I may. Thou Almighty Preserver of men! thy friendship, which hitherto I have too much neglected, to secure it shall, all the future days and nights of my life, be my steady care! The idea of my Clarinda follows —

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.

^65a
Alluding to Captain Brown.

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