deal of poetic merit; and Miss N. tells me, you are not only a Critic but a
Poetess. -Fiction, you know, is the native region of Poetry; and I hope you
will pardon my vanity in sending you the bagatelle as a tolerable off-hand
jeu d'esprit. -I have several poetic trifles which I shall gladly leave with
Miss N. or you, if they were worth houseroom; as there are scarcely two
people on earth by whom it would mortify me -more to be forgotten, tho,
at the distance of nine-score miles.
I am, Madam,
with the highest respect,
Your very humble servant,
Robt. Burns
The poem enclosed with the letter remains unknown.
The courier hastened back to Agnes, it was still early enough for her to
reply, he had already made three pennies tonight (£1.80). The Edinburgh
Penny Post was a Private Enterprise, started by 'Indian' Peter Williamson
in 1773. One of his receiving offices was in St James Square, next door to
Burns' lodgings and another was in Chapel Street in the Potterrow, run by
a Mrs. Anderson. They delivered from 9am-9pm every day within
Edinburgh city. This couple could prove to be quite lucrative, thought the
courier. Sadly, Agnes was satisfied and did not reply, but still the courier
felt that it would be worth his while keeping his ears and eyes open if and
most definitely when, they began corresponding in a serious way.
Once the courier had left Agnes sat down by the fire to absorb the letter.
Burns was intending to leave Edinburgh in seven days, well that would be
enough time for her to make a lasting impression. She was delighted to
hear that Burns had been asking Miss Nimmo about her, and obviously
the impression he had received from the said Lady was a very good one.
Agnes liked the idea that she might be considered Literary, not necessary
an equal to Burns, but somewhere on the lower rungs of a similar ladder.
As the fire was dying on the embers, Agnes decided that as nothing else
was happening, she might as well retire. With Burns' letter lying beside the
candle on the little bedside table she pondered on what he would be doing
this winter's night in Edinburgh. After re reading his letter, Agnes snuffed
out the candle and tunnelled down under the bedclothes. That night her
dreams were full of words of rhyme, and muscular men in tight trousers.
Friday 7th December wakened Agnes, her first thought was a feeling of
disappointment at not seeing Burns the previous evening, but she had to
get on with her day and her children off to school. She would decide later
18041
if she would visit Miss Nimmo. The weather looked unpromising and
threatening and the biting wind was finding every nook and cranny in her
little home, even though the windows were hung with heavy material and
a thick blanket was strung across the outside door. It was time to get the
fire lit.
Jenny wasn't needed today so once the boys had left for school and the
house had warmed up, Agnes sat at her writing desk and tried very hard
to compose poetry as well as Burns. Sadly, inspiration had moved to
warmer climes these days, her head was numb with the cold. It was now
wet and sleety outside, Agnes decided that Miss Nimmo's interrogation
could wait, she could always visit on Saturday morning when the boys
were at school or even Sunday, the day after Burns' visit. Today was a day
for the fireside.
Saturday morning dawned, and the wind had died and had blown the
dreich weather away. The winter sun was just beginning to climb out of its
cloud bed. Agnes rose in a much brighter mood, set the fire in record quick
time, dressed, fed and sent the boys off to school and began to prepare for
the long-awaited encounter. The little biscuits were still crisp, her
tableware was still clean, and her tea leaves were of the best. There would
be enough candles round the room to melt an iceberg, adding to the heat
of the room along with the fire.
Taking out the room divider she put it round where her bed was set, she
might be playing with fire, but she had standards. Now to decide what
books she would leave around to impress him. His book of poems,
borrowed, would be left at her bedside, where she would have to stretch
round the divider to reach, she could almost taste the danger. She liked it.
Time passed slowly but everything seemed in order. Suddenly early
evening there was a knock at the door, she had a bad feeling. She
recognised the courier immediately. Her heart plummeted into her shoes.
She took the proffered letter, there was no payment needed, the sender
had settled it from his end. It was from Mr. Burns.
Letter 2
Saturday even - 8 December 1787
St James Square No 2
Robert to Agnes
I can say with truth, Madam, that I never met with a person in my life
whom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself. -Tonight, I
18052
was to have had that very great pleasure - I was intoxicated with the idea -
but an unlucky fall from a coach has so bruised one of my knees that I
can't stir my leg off the cushion. So, if I don't see you again, I shall not rest
in my grave for chagrin. -I was vexed to the soul I had not seen you
sooner; I determined to cultivate your friendship with the enthusiasm of
Religion, but thus has Fortune ever served me. -I cannot bear the idea of
leaving Edinburgh without seeing you - I know not how to account for it -
I am strangely taken with some people; nor am I often mistaken. You are a
stranger to me; but I am an odd being: some yet unnamed feelings; things
not principles, but better than whims, carry me further than boasted
reason ever did a Philosopher.
Farewel! every happiness be yours!
Robt. Burns
Apparently on the previous evening, Friday 7th, Burns had been dining
with several Edinburgh worthies, Miss Nimmo being one of them. The
evening finished very late and he decided to take a carriage back rather
than walk. In a letter to Peggy Chalmers written on 12th December he
vented his wrath 'I am here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb
extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horror
preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was the cause of the
first, and incomparably the lightest evil...' He went on to tell her he was
bored, in pain but getting better, and had retreated into his Bible where he
had renewed himself with the joys of the five books of Moses and was
halfway through Joshua. He also included a proof copy of his song, 'The
Banks of Devon', for Charlotte Hamilton and promised Peggy a copy of
'The Ochel-hills' for herself within seven days.
Ten weeks later he was to write to John Tennant that 'I fell and dislocated the
cap of my knee, which laid me up a cripple.' Luckily Burns knew a friendly
physician in Edinburgh, Alexander (Lang Sandy) Wood, who reset the
kneecap but insisted that Burns sit with his leg stretched out straight
before him on a cushion for a while. And thus, was Agnes disappointed
yet again.
Packing away her best china, folding up her table linen and gnashing on
her sweetmeats, Agnes questioned what the good Lord had against her.
With a mouthful of biscuit and a large swig of claret she verbally cursed
the coach, coachman, Miss Nimmo and her cronies and finally Burns. If he
had turned up on the Thursday, then his fall from the coach on Friday
would not have been as disastrous to her. Mrs. MacLehose was in a serious
strop.
18063
She had the fleeting thought that maybe this had been planned by her
cousin William, he was bound to know that she had invited the Poet to
visit her, he had friends in odd places, and he did travel by carriage and
coach a lot, most of the coachmen knew his name. Edinburgh, though
large, was very provincial and parochial. On the plus side, if there was to
be considered a plus side, it meant Burns would not be leaving on the 13th,
so if William was involved in any way, then his plan had backfired - HA!
She felt a little better at this consolation prize and sat down at her table,
glass refilled and small dome of dainties by her side for comfort, to
compose her reply.
She prepared her pen and ink and forced her mind into a sympathetic
frame, it wasn't easy, but the wine helped, it helped a lot. After all it was
not totally Burns' fault, he was now placed sixth culprit in her guilty line
up after William Craig, God, the coachman, Miss Nimmo and James
MacLehose, especially him for forcing her to move to Edinburgh in the
first place. She hoped he'd die of sun roast, toasted in the fires of a
Jamaican hell. Then eaten by zombies - she had read about them just
recently. Agnes was now ready to write a comforting letter. She could fake
sincerity with the best of them, she had learned a lot since coming to
Edinburgh.
Letter 3
Saturday even - 8 December 1787
Mr Robert Burns
Mr Cruikshank's
James' Square
Agnes to Robert
Inured as I have been to disappointments, I never felt more, nor half so
severely, for one of the same nature! The cruel cause, too, augments my
uneasiness. I trust you'll soon recover it. Meantime, if my sympathy, my
friendship, can alleviate your pain, be assured you possess them. I am
much flattered at being a favourite of yours, Miss Nimmo can tell you how
earnestly I had long pressed her to make us acquainted. I had a
presentiment that we should derive pleasure from the society of each
other. To-night I had thought of fifty things to say to you, how unfortunate
this prevention! Do not accuse Fortune: had I not known she was blind
before, her ill usage of you had marked it sufficiently. However, she is a
fickle old beldame, and I'd much rather be indebted to nature. You shall not
leave town without seeing me, if I should come along with good Miss
Nimmo, and call for you. I am determined to see you; and am ready to
exclaim with Yorick, 'Tut! are we not all relations?' We are, indeed,
18074
strangers in one sense - but of near kin in many respects: those 'nameless
feelings' I perfectly comprehend, though the pen of a Locke could not
define them. Perhaps instinct comes nearer their description than either
'Principles or Whims'. Think ye they have any connexion with that
'heavenly light which leads astray?' One thing I know, that they have a
powerful effect upon me, and are delightful when under the check of
reason and religion.
Miss Nimmo was a favourite of mine from the first hour I met her. There
is a softness, a nameless something about her, that, were I a man, old as
she is, (56) I should have chosen her before most women I know. I fear
however, this liking is not mutual. I'll tell you why I think so, at meeting.
She was in mere jest when she told you I was a poetess. I have often
composed rhyme (if not reason), but never one line of poetry. The
distinction is obvious to every one of the least discernment. Your lines
were truly poetical: give me all you can spare. Not one living has a higher
relish of poetry than I have; and my reading everything of the kind makes
me a tolerable judge. Ten years ago, such lines from such a hand would
have half-turned my head. Perhaps you thought it might have done so
even yet; -and wisely premised, that 'Fiction was the native region of
poetry'. *Read the enclosed, which I scrawled just after reading yours. Be
sincere; and own that, whatever merit it has, it has not a line resembling
poetry. Pardon any little freedoms I take with you: if they entertain a
heavy hour, they have all the merit I intended. Will you let me know, now
and then, how your leg is? If I were your sister, I would call and see you;
but 'tis a censorious world this; and (in this sense) you and I are not of the
world. Adieu. Keep up your heart, you will soon get well, and we shall
meet - Farewell........God bless you.
A.M.
*(Agnes' verses remain unknown, but are assumed to be about friendship, as per
Burns' reply).
Agnes for all she praised Miss Nimmo, was unsure of the middle-aged
woman's feelings towards her. It is not known when she and Agnes first
met, but according to a later letter, it was not until 1786, after Agnes had
been in Edinburgh four years, that she first entered Miss Nimmo's house,
though they had met socially before. Maybe Edinburgh society hadn't
really accepted Agnes, maybe it never really did.
The Post had a few days respite from the couple. Agnes waited for a reply
to her letter, but it didn't come on the 9th. The 10th passed with no contact
as did the 11th, she was beginning to think that maybe she had been a little
forward in her writing. If only she could have remembered what she
18085
wrote, it was quite a long letter, maybe she should have just ignored
Burns' remark about 'nameless feelings'. She also admitted in the letter that
she pestered and bullied Miss Nimmo into inviting him to the soiree,
maybe he thought her bordering on being a hussy, whereas she was just
an over enthusiastic aficionado. She would have liked to have spoken to
Miss Nimmo and receive the story of the accident, but the weather had
been too bad for anyone, other than those of a polar nature or who had to,
to venture out.
Agnes was not to know that Burns had written to no one over the few
days. He had been in a lot of pain and was drugged up to his eyes with
laudanum. The drug induced sleep eventually contributed to the healing
of his dislocated knee. But then again, being Burns, he could have been
playing a waiting game, knowing that she was quite keen on him as a poet
and most definitely as a man. On the 12th he decided to start
corresponding again. Agnes was one of three people he wrote to that day.
William Hamilton was the second and Peggy Chalmers the third, telling
them both of his accident.
Letter 4
Wednesday - 12 December 1787
Robert to Agnes
I stretch a point, indeed, my dearest Madam, when I answer your card on
the rack of my present agony. -Your friendship, Madam! by Heavens, I
was never proud before. -Your lines, I maintain it, are *Poetry; and good
Poetry; mine were indeed partly fiction, and partly a friendship which had
I been so blest as to have met with you in time, might have led me - God of
love only knows where. Time is too short for ceremonies - I swear
solemnly (in all the tenor of my former oath) to remember you all in the
pride and warmth of friendship until - I cease to be!
Tomorrow, and every day till I see you, you shall hear from me.
Farewell! May you enjoy a better night's repose than I am likely to have.
Robt. Burns
*(Good Poetry or Bad Poetry, Robert lost Agnes' verses, so judgement hangs in
the balance).
When Agnes received the letter, she was a little disappointed to see that it
was very short in content, she had written four or five times the amount to
his. Maybe his leg was bothering him. A shiver ran up her spine when she
read Burns hints as to what their future relationship could hold, but she
was also aware that, as Alexander Pope wrote in 1709 in his 'Essay on
Criticism', 'fools rush in', so she took time in working out how she would
18096
chide him for his remarks. But then again, she preferred another quote
from the same 'Essay', and decided that 'to err is human, to forgive divine.' It
looked as if he was going to be with her quite a while as his due date of
departure, the 13th now seemed to be, like his leg, extended. She might not
actually be seeing him, but he was enclosed in an Edinburgh golden cage,
and tantalisingly close at hand.
Burns for his part was becoming more and more depressed. In hindsight,
he knew he should have left on the evening of the 4th December as he had
planned, and here he was now stuck in his rooms for God knows how
long. He was not claustrophobic, but he hated being indoors, especially a
forced incarceration. He had been brought up in the open countryside and
had never been dependent on anyone for help, now he needed to call
someone to get him a book or drink, even pen and ink, not to mention the
indignity of personal comfort and ablutions.
He should have been back in Mauchline. His mind fled to Jean Armour,
her parents would be aware of what had happened between him and Jean
on his last visit. Her father would have been furious, Jean was his
favourite. What was the outcome of that anger, he wondered? What was
happening to Jean, he worried? What was he going to do about Jean, he
fretted?
Between the 12th and the 16th there may have been letters sent between
Agnes and Robert, if so none remain, though he apparently did not write
to anyone until he replied to a letter from Peggy Chalmers on the 19th
December, sent by her to him on the 17th. Robert Burns could plunge into
the depths of despair on the turn of a sixpence, maybe being holed up
stretched his tolerance level. Maybe the effects of the pain and the
medication left him listless.
Agnes waited for her letter on the 13th, it never came. So much for
'tomorrow, and every day till I see you, you shall hear from me!' Well if he
thought she was going to wait in for a measly note and a few verbal
crumbs from him, he was mistaken. Agnes needed a walk and took herself
off to visit friends and think of something else other than Robert Burns
and his sore leg.
On Saturday 15th December she popped into Miss Nimmo's where she
found her a little distressed over Burns' accident, Agnes got the full story.
Apparently, he had been at a party on the Friday night where Miss
Nimmo was a guest, and she suggested that he may have been encouraged
19007
to imbibe a little more than normal. Miss Nimmo felt that she should have
stepped in to dissuade him, because she felt a little uncomfortable for
Burns. She did not interfere, and when she heard that Burns had suffered a
bad fall she put it down to too much enforced social drinking. She did like
Burns and thought she should have protected him a little better, after all
she was a well-respected lady and he was a guest of her city.
Agnes may have been a little miffed that she had not been invited to the
party on Friday 7th, and even felt a little betrayed that Miss Nimmo had
not asked her as a companion, especially as she knew how much Agnes
wanted to meet Burns again. She may also have felt that if she had been
there then Burns would not have over indulged and would not have had
his fall. But if these thoughts ran through her mind she covered them up
well and let the older lady prattle on. At about eight she said her
goodbyes, having to return home to her children who were again being
looked after by Jenny Clow. The next morning, she wrote to Burns.
Letter 5
Sunday, Noon - 16 December 1787
Agnes to Robert
Miss Nimmo and I had a long conversation last night. Little did I suspect
that she was of the party. Gentle, sweet soul! She is accusing herself as the
cause of your misfortune. It was in vain I rallied her upon such an excess
of sensibility (as I termed it). She is lineally descended from 'My Uncle
Toby'; has hopes of the Devil and would not hurt a fly. How could you tell
me that you were in 'agony'? I hope you will swallow the laudanum and
procure some ease from sleep. I am glad to hear Mr. Wood attends you. He
is a good soul, and a safe surgeon. I know him a little. Do as he bids, and I
trust your leg will soon be quite well. When I meet you, I must chide you
for writing in your romantic style. Do you remember that she whom you
address is a married woman? or Jacob-like, would you wait seven years,
and even then, perhaps, be disappointed, as he was? No; I know you
better: you have too much of that impetuosity which generally
accompanies noble minds. To be serious, most people would think, by
your style, that you were writing to some vain, silly woman to make a fool
of her - or worse. I have too much vanity to ascribe it to the former motive,
and too much charity to harbour an idea of the latter: and viewing it as the
effusion of a benevolent heart upon meeting one somewhat similar to
itself, I have promised you my friendship: it will be your own fault if I ever
withdraw it. Would to God I had it in my power to give you some solid
proofs of it. Were I the Duchess of Gordon, you should be possessed of
that independence which every generous mind pants after; but I fear she is
19018
'no Duchess at the heart'. Obscure as I am (comparatively) I enjoy all the
necessaries of life as fully as I desire and wish for wealth only to procure
the 'luxury of doing good'.
My chief design in writing you to-day was to beg you would not write
me often, lest the exertion should hurt you. Meantime, if my scrawls can
amuse you in your confinement, you shall have them occasionally. I shall
hear of you every day from my beloved Miss Nimmo. *Do you know, the
very first time I was in her house, most of our conversation was about a
certain (Lame) poet? I read her soul in her expressive countenance and
have been attached to her ever since.
Adieu! Be patient. Take care of yourself. My best wishes attend you.
A.M.
*(As mentioned previously, Agnes moved to Edinburgh in summer 1782. If the
first time Agnes was in Miss Nimmo's house they spoke of Burns, that must have
been August 1786 at the earliest, shortly after his books of poetry had reached
Edinburgh. So maybe the friendship was not that close at all, just people who
knew each other. It looks like Agnes was gilding the lily where the relationship
was concerned).
When Burns read Agnes letter he saw that his little game of flattery had
not worked, she had seen through his ploy, thinking that he was writing to
'some vain, silly woman to make a fool of her, or worse!!!' Agnes was no
Duchess of Gordon with her lovers and lifestyle and objected to being
treated as such. She would let him off this time, but if he didn't shape up,
she would no longer be friends with him.
Burns was shocked into silence. She was playing him at his own game. It
was a good thing he was high on the laudanum or he would have hit the
roof, medication took the edge off. Who did this woman think she was?
And as for Jacob-like well he'd look that up later in his Bible. Agnes had
given him an excuse, his leg was too sore for him to reply, she could wait
for the next letter till hell freezes over.
Burns was in the huff, and not even a letter from his esteemed friend
Peggy Chalmers which he received on the 17th could move him out of it.
Then on the 18th Lang Sandy Wood appeared to inspect his knee. He had
brought crutches with him and if Burns' leg was healing then he might
allow him to be a little more mobile, but only in his room, he was not to
venture out yet. Burns replied to Peggy's letter on 19th December saying
'the atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer than when I wrote to you last. For the
first time, yesterday I crossed the room on crutches...It would do your heart good
to see my bardship, not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts; throwing my best leg
19029
with an air! and with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a May frog
leaping across the newly-harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the fresh earth
after the long-expected shower!' He was feeling much better, now he could
take on Mrs. MacLehose!
Again, Agnes waited for a reply which was not forthcoming, not even to
tell her how his leg was. Maybe she had been a little hard on the bard, but
her senses and suspicions had been roused, as they always were when a
man paid her too many compliments. It had taken a long time, but she had
learned to read men, and as for Burns, he was (to quote the description of
a later poet, Lord Byron) possibly 'mad, bad and dangerous to know’ and the
battle would be who would control the relationship. For her to be in
control she knew she had to, in Burns' own words,
Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung;
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acks a part,
'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
The frank address, the soft caress,
Are worse than poisoned darts of steel,
The frank address, and politesse,
Are all finesse to Rob Mossgiel.
(O, Leave Novels – c1784/5)
Like the moth and the flame Agnes wanted to see how close she could get
to that beautiful tantalising fire without destroying herself, though if that
did happen she would endeavour not to go out burnt to a cinder, but in a
blaze of glory.
The awaited letter arrived on the 20th December. Agnes was a little
perturbed as to what would be written in it, especially as she saw it was
quite a long screed. Settling herself by the fire, she began to read. On the
plus side she noted that he had clearly been reading his Bible for comfort.
Letter 6
cThursday - 20 December 1787
Robert to Agnes
Your last, my dear Madam, had the effect on me that Job's situation had
on his friends, when 'they sat down seven days and seven nights astonied,
and spake not a word'. 'Pay my addresses to a married woman!' I started,
as if I had seen the ghost of him I had injur'd: I recollected my expressions;
some of them indeed were, in the law phrase, 'habit and repute,' which is
19130
being half-guilty. -I cannot positively say, Madam, whether my heart
might not have gone astray a little; but I can declare upon the honor of a
Poet that the vagrant has wandered unknown to me. -I have a pretty
handsome troop of Follies of my own; and, like some other people's
retinue, they are but undisciplined blackguards; but the luckless rascals
have something of honor in them; they would not do a dishonest thing.
To meet with an unfortunate woman, amiable and young; deserted and
widowed by those who were bound by every tie of Duty, Nature and
Gratitude, to protect, comfort and cherish her; add to all, when she is
perhaps one of the first of Lovely Forms and Noble Minds, the Mind too
that hits one's taste as the joys of Heaven do a Saint - should a vague
infant-idea, the natural child of Imagination, thoughtlessly peep over the
fence - were you, My Friend, to sit in judgement, and the poor, airy
Straggler brought before you, trembling self-condemned; with artless eyes,
brim-full of contrition, looking wistfully on its judge - you could not, my
Dear Madam, condemn the hapless wretch to 'death without benefit of
Clergy?'
I won't tell you what reply my heart made to your raillery of 'Seven
Years', but I will give you what a brother of my trade says on the same
allusion -
The Patriarch to gain a wife
Chaste, beautiful and young,
Serv'd fourteen years a painful life
And never thought it long:
O were you to reward such cares,
And life so long would stay,
Not fourteen but four hundred years
Would seem but as one day.
(Tea Table Miscellany III, song 107)
I have written you this scrawl because I have nothing else to do, and you
may sit down and find fault with it if you have no better way of
consuming your time; but finding fault with the vaguings of a Poet's fancy
is much such another business as Xerxes chastising the waves of
Hellespont.
*My limb now allows me to sit in some peace; to walk I have yet no
prospect of, as I can't mark it to the ground.
I have just now looked over what I have written, and it is such a chaos of
nonsense that I daresay you will throw it into the fire, and call me an idle,
stupid fellow; but whatever you think of my brains, believe me to be, with
the most sacred respect, and heart-felt esteem.
My Dear Madam, your humble servant,
Robt. Burns
19141
*(Technically correct, but he has deliberately not mentioned the support crutches
now used by him to get about the room, and possibly the house, as mentioned to
Margaret Chalmers).
Robert knew he was good. This was one of his ploys, start the letter off
with the whip and then dangle the sweetmeat in front of the recipient.
That will show her. Try to out master the master, eh? Agnes was confused.
Was she imagining things in the previous letter that were not there? But he
did admit, or did he, she thought, to feelings towards her, why else would
he mention hearts going astray. Was he feeling an attraction towards her
or just platonic sympathy? It seemed like he felt insulted by her but had
forgiven her by the end of the letter. This would take some working out.
Somewhere between letter 6 and letter 7 there appears to be one sent by
Agnes to Burns and in that she suggests that in case their letters fell in to
unwanted hands, as the Penny Post was not known for its secrecy in
matters of a delicate nature, they should use pseudonyms. She suggested
Clarinda for herself, used by many romantic poets since Edmund Spencer
and for Burns, it would be Sylvander, 'Man of the Woods'. Sylvander had
been the hero of a romantic novel printed in Edinburgh in 1768. How
many years, she thought, since those names had etched themselves in her
brain, how many years since she lost her beloved sister Margaret. Feelings
of sadness and loneliness crept in, but she closed the door on them
quickly.
c1854 in a collection of Sir Egerton Bridges of Burns work, there were
sixteen letters belonging to Agnes MacLehose. Fifteen of them were
traceable to ones previously published, but heavily edited or doctored, a
fragment of the sixteenth said to be in Agnes' hand, read
cThursday - 20 December 1787
Clarinda to Sylvander
'I have proposed to myself a more pastoral name for you, although it be
not much in keeping with the shrillness of the Ettrick Pipe. What say you to
*Sylvander? I feel somewhat less restraint when I subscribe myself
CLARINDA'. (Burns Room, Mitchell Library, Glasgow).
*(c1797/98 Agnes allowed her letters from Burns to be seen by Burns’ friends John
Syme and Alexander Cunningham who were intent on printing a posthumous
collection of the works of the Bard. It seems they had held on to them for too long
and Agnes requested the return of 'Letters wrote the Bard under the signature
**Clitander’.
**Clitander was a character who appeared in plays by Moliere, ‘The
19152
Misanthropist’ and ‘George Dandin’. Being under stress, she had probably
misremembered her suggested name for Burns).
There seems to be a missing letter, thought to be dated c24th December
where she encloses a poem taking Burns to task over the remark 'I have
written you this scrawl because I have nothing else to do.' According to
William Scott Douglas, Agnes' letter is dated Christmas Eve 1787.
c Monday - 24 December 1787
Clarinda to Sylvander
When first you saw 'Clarinda's charms',
What rapture in your bosom grew!
Her heart was shut to Love's alarms,
But then - you'd nothing else to do.
Apollo aft had lent his harp,
And now 'twas struck from cupid's bow;
You sang - it reached 'Clarinda's' heart -
She wish'd you'd nothing else to do.
Fair Venus smiled, Minerva frown'd
Cupid observed - the arrow flew;
Indifference ere a week went round,
Show'd you had nothing else to do.
Originally there were six verses, but three disappeared. Robert replied in
ten stanzas, the letter is lost so the exact date is unknown.
cWednesday - 26 December 1787
Sylvander to Clarinda
When dear Clarinda, matchless fair,
First struck Sylvander's raptured view,
He gaz'd, he listened to despair,
Alas! 'twas all he dar'd to do.
Love, from Clarinda's heavenly eyes
Transfixed his bosom thro' and thro';
But still in Friendship's guarded guise,
For more the demon fear'd to do.
That heart, already more than lost,
The imp beleagur'd all perdu;
19163
For frowning Honour kept his post,
To meet that frown he shrunk to do.
His pangs the Bard refused to own,
Tho' half he wish'd Clarinda knew;
But anguish wrung th' unweeting groan,
Who blames what frantic Pain must do?
That heart, whose motley follies blend,
Was sternly still to Honour true:
To prove Clarinda's fondest friend,
Was what a Lover sure might do.
The Muse his ready quill employ'd,
No nearer bliss he could pursue;
That bliss Clarinda cold deny'd, -
'Send word by Charles how you do'!
The chill behest disarm'd his Muse
Till Passion, all impatient grew:
He wrote, and hinted for excuse,
'Twas 'cause 'He'd nothing else to do'.
But by those hopes I have above!
And by those faults I dearly rue!
The deed, the boldest mark of Love,
For thee that deed I dared to do!
O, could the Fates but name the price
Would bless me with your charms and you!
With frantic joy I'd pay it thrice,
If human heart and power could do!
Then take, Clarinda, friendship's hand,
(Friendship, at least, I may avow;)
And lay no more your chill command,
I'll write whatever I've to do.
The reply to Burns' poem thought to have been sent on the 27th December
is not addressed to Sylvander, nor is it signed Clarinda. Either she has
forgotten her suggestion, or the letter is pre-the suggested name change.
19174
Letter 7 - she signed letter A.M
cThursday - 27 December 1787 or earlier
Agnes to Robert/Clarinda to Sylvander
I got your lines (Nothing Else To Do?), they are 'in kind'! I can't but laugh
at my presumption in pretending to send my poor ones to you! but it was
to amuse myself. At this season, when others are joyous, I am the reverse. I
have no near relations; and while others are with theirs, I sit alone, musing
upon several of mine with whom I used to be - now gone to the land of
forgetfulness.
You have put me in a rhyming humour. The moment I read yours, I
wrote the following lines -
Talk not of Love - it gives me pain,
For Love has been my foe;
He bound me in an iron chain,
And plung'd me deep in woe!
But Friendship's pure and lasting joys
My heart was form'd to prove -
The worthy object be of those,
But never talk of Love!
The Hand of Friendship I accept
-May Honour be our guard!
Virtue our intercourse direct,
Her smiles our dear reward
But I wish to know (in sober prose) how your leg is? I would have
inquired sooner had I known it would have been acceptable. Miss N.
(Nimmo) informs me now and then; but I have not seen her dear face for
some time. Do you think you could venture this length in a coach, without
hurting yourself? I go out of town the beginning of the week, for a few
days. I wish you could come tomorrow (28th) or Saturday (29th). I long for a
conversation with you, and lameness of body won't hinder that. 'Tis really
curious - so much fun passing between two persons who saw one another
only Once! Say if you think you dare venture; only let the coachman be
'adorned with sobriety'.
Adieu! Believe me, (on my simple word),
Your real friend and well-wisher,
A.M.
As can be read, Burns' reply to Agnes' letter is from Sylvander to Clarinda.
Letter 8
19185
Thursday - 27 December 1787
Sylvander to Clarinda
My Dear Clarinda. Your verses (Talk not of Love), my dearest Madam,
have so delighted me that I have copied them in among some of my own
most valued pieces, which I keep sacred for my own use. -Do let me have a
few now and then.
Did you, Madam, know what I feel when you talk of your sorrows! Good
God! that one who has so much worth in the sight of Heaven and is so
amiable to her fellow-creatures should be so unhappy! I can't venture out
for cold. -My limb is vastly better, but I have not any use of it without my
crutches. *-Monday (31st), for the first time, I dine at a neighbour's next
door (celebrating the 67th birthday of Jacobite King, Charles Edward Stuart III,
The Young Pretender): as soon as I can go so far, even in a coach, my first
visit shall be to you. -Write me when you leave town and immediately
when you return, and I earnestly pray your stay will be short. -You can't
imagine how miserable you made me when you hinted me not to write.
Farewell.
Sylvander
**Letter to James Stewart (Steuart)
Reply to an invitation to celebrate the birthday of Jacobite King Charles
Edward Stuart at Cleland's Gardens
Weden. even. 26 December 1787
Sir
Monday next (31st) is a day of the year with me hallowed as the
ceremonies of Religion, and sacred to the memory of the sufferings of my
King and my Forefathers. -The honor you do me by your invitation, I most
cordially and gratefully accept.
Tho' something like moisture *conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal;
A poor friendless Wanderer may well claim a sigh,
Still more if that Wanderer were royal. -
My father's that name have rever'd on a throne;
My father's have died to right it;
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it!
I am, Sir, your obliged humble servant
Robert Burns
(Was Burns taking the mickey or he was writing when the balance of his mind
was impaired by laudanum. *'Conglobes' indeed!
**Cleland's Gardens was a public house in the North of St James Street and Mr.
19196
Stewart (Steuart) was the proprietor).
Letter 9
Friday even - 28 December 1787
Sylvander to Clarinda
I beg your pardon, my dear 'Clarinda', for the fragment scrawl I sent you
yesterday. -I really don't know what I wrote. A gentleman for whose
character, abilities, and critical knowledge, I have the highest veneration,
called in, just as I had begun the second sentence, and I would not make
the Porter wait. -I read to my much-respected friend several of my own
bagatelles, and among others your lines which I had copied out. -He began
some criticisms on them as on the other pieces, when I informed him they
were the work of a young lady in this town; which, I assure you, made
him stare. -My learned friend seriously protested that he did not believe
any young woman in Edinburgh was capable of such lines; and, if you
know anything of Professor Gregory you will neither doubt of his abilities
nor his sincerity. -I do love you if possible still better for having so fine a
taste and turn for Poesy. -I have again gone wrong in my usual unguarded
way, but you may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, or any other
tame Dutch expression you please in its place. -I believe there is no
holding converse or carrying on correspondence, with an amiable woman,
much less a gloriously-amiable, fine woman, without some mixture of that
delicious Passion, whose most devoted Slave I have more than once had
the honor of being: but why be hurt or offended on that account? Can no
honest man have a prepossession for a fine woman, but he must run his
head against an intrigue? Take a little of the tender witchcraft of Love, and
add it to the generous, the honorable sentiments of manly Friendship; and
I know but one more delightful morsel, which few, few in any rank ever
taste. Such a composition is like adding cream to strawberries - it not only
gives the fruit a more elegant richness but has a peculiar deliciousness of
its own.
I inclose you a few lines I composed on a late melancholy occasion. -I will
not give above five or six copies of it at all, and I would be hurt if any
friend should give any copies without my consent. (possibly his poem 'On
the Death of Lord President Robert Dundas').
You cannot imagine, Clarinda, (I like the idea of Arcadian names in a
commerce of this kind) how much store I have set by the hopes of your
future friendship. -I don't know if you have a just idea of my character, but
I wish you to see me as I am. I am, as most people of my trade are, a
strange will o' wisp being; the victim too frequently of much imprudence
and more follies. -My great constituent elements are Pride and Passion: the
first I have endeavoured to humanise into integrity and honour; the last
110107
makes me a Devotee to the warmest degree of enthusiasm, in Love,
Religion, or Friendship; either of them or all together as I happened to be
inspired. -'Tis true, I never saw you but once; but how much acquaintance
did I form with you in that once! Don't think I flatter you, or have a design
upon you, Clarinda, I have too much pride for the one, and too little cold
contrivance for the other; but of all God's creatures I ever could approach
in the beaten way of acquaintance, you struck me with the deepest, the
strongest, the most permanent impression. -I say the most permanent,
because I know myself well, and how far I can promise either on my
prepossessions or powers. -Why are you unhappy? and why are so many
of our fellow creatures, unworthy to belong to the same species with you,
blest with all they can wish? You have a hand all benevolence to give, why
were you denyed the pleasure? You have a heart form'd, gloriously
form'd, for all the most refined luxuries of love; why was that heart ever
wrung? O Clarinda! shall we not meet in a state, some yet unknown state
of Being, where the lavish hand of Plenty shall minister to the highest wish
of Benevolence; and where the chill north-wind of Prudence shall never
blow over the flowery fields of Enjoyment? if we do not, Man was made in
vain! I deserv'd most of the unhappy hours that have lingered over my
head; they were the wages of my labour; but what unprovoked Demon,
malignant as Hell, stole upon the confidence of unmistrusting busy Fate,
and dash'd your cup of life with undeserved sorrow?
Let me know how long your stay will be out of town: I shall count the
hours till you inform me of your return. -Cursed etiquette forbids you
seeing me just now; and so soon as I can walk, I must bid Edinburgh
adieu. -Lord, why was I born to see misery, which I cannot relieve, and to
meet with friends whom I can't enjoy! I look back with the pang of
unvailing avarice on my loss in not knowing you sooner: all last winter;
these three months past; what luxury of intercourse have I not lost!
Perhaps tho' 'twas better for my peace. -You see I am either above, or
incapable of Dissimulation. -I believe it is want of that particular genius. -I
despise Design because I want either coolness or wisdom to be capable of
it. -I may take a fort by storm, but never by siege.
I am interrupted - Adieu! my dear Clarinda!
Sylvander
Agnes' was delighted that her poems had been brought to the eyes of such
a man as Professor Gregory, and for him to think they were good was
amazing. Burns did not have to show him the poems, so he must have
thought there was value in them. Nor could she complain that his letter
was lacking in content, it was long, full and maybe very honest in content.
111081
The past few letters had been very nice, generally very controlled ones on
both sides, she was happy to say, but she thought that Burns heart was
wandering again as she finished the first paragraph. As much as she was
pleased with it, she wished that he would not mention the word love and
her in the same sentence, or ever at all. It confused and scared her. Scared
her into realising what she could be capable of. By the time she had
finished the second paragraph she was brushing tears from her cheeks. He
was so right she did feel that Fate or something else was picking on her at
times. She always did her best to put others before herself, and still she felt
got at. There was James MacLehose, curse the man, making a fortune
abroad, while she got by on frugality and the generosity of friends. A man
so full of badness he couldn't even be bothered to contact her when he
heard that his child had died. A man who refused to help his remaining
children, one whom he knew was constantly ill and suffering. Agnes had
accepted the fact that he would never support her, but to abandon his
children was despicable beyond anything that a civilized human being
would do. Burns would never have done that, and she knew that for a fact.
He and his family had supported his illegitimate children without
question he had a good and steadfast heart, even if another part of his
anatomy was on constant walkabout (allegedly).
She would have loved to have gone to see him while he was confined to
his room, but she felt she had got to know him in a different, more
intimate way, through his letters, though some of his words were more
than a little flighty. The man was a teaser, and it was safer to be teased via
the postal service than be teased in the same room. Now he was again
talking of leaving Edinburgh, what would she do when that happened?
She had told him things never said to anyone else before, she hoped she
could trust his honesty and honour to keep them to himself. If their
innocent liaison were to get out she would be left to face up to the gossips
when he was gone, and what was totally innocent would be condemned as
vile and foul. Her reputation would be ruined, not his. She knew what it
was like to be talked and gossiped about, the clishmaclavers had a field
day when she and MacLehose separated, and she could not go through
that again. The line she walked was as fine silk thread and each step had to
be taken carefully or the drop would be fearsome and fatal.
She was leaving Edinburgh for a couple days, so that would give her time
to collect her thoughts and work out what her next move should be. She
sat down to reply to Burns letter
Letter 10
110129
Friday even - 28 December 1787
Clarinda to Sylvander
I go to the country early to-morrow morning (29th) but will be home by
Tuesday (1st January 1788) - sooner than I expected. I have not time to
answer yours as it deserves; not, had I the age of Methusalem, could I
answer it in kind. I shall grow vain. Your praises were enough, -but those
of Dr. Gregory superadded! Take care: many a 'glorious' woman has been
undone by having her head turned. 'Know you!' I know you far better than
you do me. Like yourself, I am a bit of an enthusiast. In religion and
friendship, quite a bigot - perhaps I could be so in love too; but everything
dear to me in heaven and earth forbids! This is my fixed principle; and the
person who would dare to endeavour to remove it I would hold as my
chief enemy. Like you, I am incapable of dissimulation; nor am I, as you
suppose, unhappy. I have been unfortunate; but guilt alone could make
me unhappy. Possessed of fine children, -competence, -fame, -friends, kind
and attentive, -what monster of ingratitude should in the eye of Heaven
were I to style myself unhappy! True, I have met with scenes horrible to
recollection - even at six years distance; but adversity, my friend, is
allowed to be the school of virtue. It oft confers that chastened softness
which is unknown among the favourites of fortune! Even a mind
possessed of natural sensibility, without this, never feels the exquisite
pleasure which nature has annexed to our sympathetic sorrows. Religion,
the only refuge of the unfortunate, has been my balm in every woe. O
could I make her appear to you as she has done to me! Instead of
ridiculing her tenets, you would fall down and worship her very
semblance wherever you found it!
I will write you again at more leisure, and notice other parts of yours, I
send you a simile upon a character I don't know if you are acquainted
with. I am confounded at your admiring my lines. I shall begin to question
your taste, -but Dr. G.! When I am low spirited (which I am at times) I shall
think of this as a restorative. Now for the simile: -
The morning sun shines glorious and bright,
And fills the heart with wonder and delight!
He dazzles in meridian splendour seen,
Without a blackened cloud to intervene.
So, at a distance viewed, your genius bright,
Your wit, your flowing numbers give delight.
But ah! when error's dark'ning clouds arise,
When passion's thunder, folly's lightening flies,
More safe we gaze, but admiration dies.
And as the tempting brightness snares the moth,
Some ruin marks too near approach to both.
112003
Good night; for Clarinda's 'heavenly eyes' need the earthly aid of sleep.
Adieu.
Clarinda
P.S. I entreat you not to mention our corresponding to one on earth.
Though I've conscious innocence, my situation is a delicate one.
Early on Saturday 29th December Agnes left Edinburgh for her short break.
Burns, though his leg was getting better, was still confined to his rooms.
He was well and truly miffed, three weeks he had been stuck inside,
especially now, when he knew he should have been at home in Mauchline,
with his family, with his children, with Jean.
He did have visitors, but it was not the same as being able to choose where
he wanted to go when he wanted to go. He was dependant on the whims
of others for his social activity. Nights were very long and at times very
lonely. He wondered what Agnes was up to, and he worried about Jean
Armour. Her condition would be obvious by now, he had not heard much.
He tried his leg again, it was still stiff, but thankfully the knee was bending
a little more each day, as soon as he could walk reasonably well he knew
he must return to Mauchline, and possibly his destiny. Decisions had to be
made, and made soon, but not at this exact moment.
To fill in time, on 29th December Robert wrote to an Edinburgh jeweller
Francis Howden who in 1792 was to become medallist and goldsmith to
The Prince of Wales, sending by courier a small silhouette, which Burns
referred to as a 'shade', to be made into a locket for a wedding present.
Howden had made others previously for Burns. Burns needed the item set
by the next night, the 30th December as it was being delivered 'a hundred
miles into the country...do despatch it; as it is, I believe, the pledge of Love, and
perhaps the prelude to ma-tri-mo-ny. -Everybody knows the auld wife's
observation when she saw a poor dog going to be hang'd - “God help us! It's the
gate we hae a' tae gang!”’ If it was meant for Jean Armour is not known, but
more than likely.
Agnes had her own thoughts during this time away. She was surprised
how much she missed writing to him, and especially not receiving his
letters. She had to get her head sorted out, but she had not felt so alive in
years. She was torn in half every time she thought of Burns and what
could be between them. On one side she heard a cacophony of voices from
her religious MacLaurin relatives screaming hell and damnation while the
Craig family looked on sadly in her direction, but with a little twinkle in
their eyes. On the other side stood Burns, neither beckoning nor judging
110241
her, she would be the one to decide. Head over heart. Heart over head.
That was her choice. Burns was correct 'The heart ay's the part ay, that makes
us right or wrang.' Like Burns she knew that decisions had to be made, and
made soon, but not at this exact moment.
On the 30th December Burns thought of Agnes on her trip away and
envied her. His leg was improving, but in himself he was feeling quite
down. He should have been out enjoying the social niceties of the season
in Ayrshire. He was really missing Mauchline, his friends, and especially
Jean Armour. Putting all these thoughts to the back of his mind he sat
down to write to an old friend, Richard Brown who was living in Irvine,
the man whom Burns attributed to giving 'me an idea of my own pieces which
encouraged me to endeavour at the character of a Poet.' After writing of
pleasantries Burns wrote
Letter to Richard Brown
Edinburgh - 30 December 1787
.........Almighty Love still 'reigns and revels' in my bosom; and I am at this
moment ready to hang myself for a young Edin. widow, who has wit and
beauty more murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of the
Sicilian banditti, or the poisoned arrow of the savage African. My
Highland durk, that used to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely
removed into a neighbouring closet, the key of which I cannot command;
in case of spring-tide paroxysms. -You may guess of her wit by the
following verses which she sent me the other day.
Talk not of Love - it gives me pain,
For Love has been my foe;
He bound me in an iron chain,
And plung'd me deep in woe!
After finishing the letter, Burns hitched himself on to his crutches and
hirpled over to the window to look out over the house roofs at the
midnight firmament. It was a chill evening and the white and gold
glistening stars stood proud against the raven black sky. His window
framed thousands of them. Maybe, just to pass the time he would try and
count them. What was behind the stars, he wondered, was it Heaven?
What he would give to find out. One day someone would. One day
someone would stand on a star and look back at the earth. But he would
never see that, never be part of that adventure. To be born today or to be
born a hundred years hence was just the luck of the draw. Agnes
MacLehose would understand that. He would love to think she was
looking up in wonder at the same space of sky he was gazing at. He could
112025
love her forever if she let him, but there would always be Jean Armour in
the background, and he loved Jean, in a different way. He knew in the end
it would be his decision, and someone would be hurt.
Still there was always the party tomorrow night. What a dichotomy, he a
lifelong Republican toasting a Monarch, one that was not even Scottish
born, ruling, a King or taken seriously any more. Anyway, he might make
more contacts and he needed all the contacts and cash he could get his
hands on. Time to leave the stars and the future behind and dull the ache
in the knee with a little more of what the doctor prescribed. Tomorrow he
would try not to be drawn into a drinking bout. He might be able to use
the excuse that it would not mix with his medication, especially if his
Doctor was there to support him. Well, if Dr. Wood was sober, that is.
(The 'Bonnie Prince' saw in his 67th birthday, but died in Rome a month later, on
31st January 1788, drunken, debauched and disgraced. He had fathered an
illegitimate daughter to Clementina Walkinshaw of Glasgow in 1753 when
Clementina and Charles lived together in Ghent (from about 1752-60), she left
him due to his physical cruelty to her. She died in Switzerland in 1802 aged 82.
Charlotte was officially recognised by her father in 1783/4 and was created the
Duchess of Albany. Unfortunately, Charlotte died on 17th November 1789,
possibly from liver cancer. As to whether Charles and Clementina ever married
remains in question. On 28th March 1772 Charles married by proxy Princess
Louise of Stolberg-Gedern, aged 19, they met for the first time a fortnight later.
Louise left him after eight years due to his brutality. She died in Tuscany in 1824
and was known as the Countess of Albany. They had no children).
January 1788
Agnes returned to Edinburgh on New Year's Day 1788, and once the fire
was blazing and the room warm and comfortable she set down to answer
Burns' letter of the 28th. Her short break had been nice, with friends she
had not seen in a while, but she was not really relaxed, she was desperate
to get back to Edinburgh and Robert Burns, her secret vice or possibly,
passion.
She and Burns had only met once, and a brief once at that. Would the New
Year bring more meetings or not, she wondered? He was intent on leaving
Edinburgh as soon as his leg was healed, and that was not in the far
distant future. There was a want and a need in the man to return to where
he knew he completely belonged. Edinburgh was not for him. In both
Robert's and Agnes' hearts they knew that to be the truth. If he stayed
longer, he would lose too much of himself and his gift would end up in
110263
much wasted dissipation. Mind you, in hindsight, he may not have died at
such a young age and maybe his health would not have become as bad as
it eventually did. An historical 'What If?'
Letter 11
Tuesday - 1 January 1788
Clarinda to Sylvander
Many happy returns of this day to you, my dear, pleasant friend! May
each revolving year find you wiser and happier. I embrace the first spare
hour to fulfil my promise; and begin with thanking you for the enclosed
lines - they are very pretty (Elegy for Robert Dundas?): I like the idea of
personifying the vices rising from the absence of Justice. It is a constant
source of refined pleasure, giving 'to airy nothings a local habitation and a
name' which people of a luxuriant imagination only can enjoy. Yet, to a
mind of a benevolent turn, it is delightful to observe how equal the
distribution of happiness is among all ranks! If stupid people are rendered
incapable of tasting the refined pleasures of the intelligent and feeling
mind, they are likewise exempted from the thousand distractions and
disquietudes peculiar to sensibility.
I have been staying with a dear female friend (Mary Peacock), who has
long been an admirer of yours, and was once on the brink of meeting with
you in the house of a Mrs. Bruce (Mrs. Catherine Bruce of Clackmannan
Tower). She would have been a much better Clarinda. She is comely,
without being beautiful, - and has a large share of sense, taste, and
sensibility; added to all, a violent penchant for poetry. If I ever have an
opportunity, I shall make you and her acquainted. No wonder Dr. Gregory
criticised my lines. I saw several defects in them myself; but had neither
time nor patience (nor ability, perhaps), to correct them. The three last
verses were longer than the former; and in conclusion, I saw a vile
tautology which I could not get rid of. But you will not wonder when I tell
you, that I am not only ignorant of every language except my own, but
never so much as knew a syllable of the English grammar. If I ever write
grammatically, 'tis through mere habit. I rejoice to hear of Dr. Gregory
being your particular friend. Though unacquainted, I am no stranger to his
character: where worth unites with abilities, it commands our love as well
as admiration. Alas! they are too seldom found in one character! Those
possessed of great talents would do well to remember, that all depends
upon the use made of them. Shining abilities improperly applied, only
serve to accelerate our destruction in both worlds. I loved you for your
fine taste in poetry, long before I saw you; so shall not trouble myself
erasing the same word applied in the same way to me. You say, 'there is
no corresponding with an agreeable woman without a mixture of tender
112047
passion'. I believe there is no friendship between people of sentiment and
of different sexes, without a little softness; but when kept within proper
bounds, it only serves to give a higher relish to such intercourse. Love and
Friendship are names in everyone's mouth; but few, extremely few,
understand their meaning. Love, (or affection) cannot be genuine if it
hesitate a moment to sacrifice every selfish gratification to the happiness of
its object. On the contrary, when it would purchase that at the expense of
this, it deserves to be styled, not love, but by a name to gross to mention.
Therefore, I contend, that an honest man may have a friendly
prepossession for a woman whose soul would abhor the idea of an
intrigue with her. These are my sentiments upon the subject: I hope they
correspond with yours. 'Tis honest in you to wish me to see you 'just as
you are'. I believe I have a tolerably just idea of your character. No
wonder; for had I been a man, I should have been you. I am not vain
enough to think myself equal in abilities; but I am formed with a liveliness
of fancy and a strength of passion little inferior. Situation and
circumstances have, however, had the effects upon each of us which might
be expected. Misfortune has wonderfully contributed to subdue the
keenness of my passions, while success and adulation have served to
nourish and inflame yours. Both of us are incapable of deceit because we
want coolness and command of our feelings. Art is what I never could
attain to, even in situations where a little would have been prudent. Now
and then, I am favoured with a salutary blast of 'the north wind of
Prudence'. The southern zephyrs of Kindness too, often send up their
sultry fogs, and cloud the atmosphere of my understanding. I have
thought that 'nature' threw me off in the same mould, just after you. We
were born, I believe, in one year (not really, she was born in 1758, he 1759,
though she is right in that there is nine months between them). Madame Nature
has some merit by her work that year. Don't you think so? I suppose the
carline has a flying visit of Venus and the Graces; and Minerva has been
jealous of her attention and sent Apollo with his harp to charm them away.
But why do you accuse Fate for my misfortunes? There is a noble
independence of mind which I do admire; but, when not checked by
Religion, it is apt to degenerate into a criminal arraignment of Providence.
No 'malignant demon' as you suppose, was 'permitted to dash my cup of
life with sorrow': it was the kindness of a wise and tender Father, who
foresaw that I needed chastisement ere I could be brought to himself. Ah,
my friend, Religion converts our heaviest misfortunes into blessings! I feel
it to be so. These passions, naturally too violent for my peace, have been
broken and moderated by adversity; and if even that has been unable to
conquer my vivacity, what lengths I might not have gone, had I been
permitted to glide along in the sunshine of prosperity? I should have
110285
forgot my future destination and fixed my happiness on the fleeting
shadows below! My hand was denied the bliss of giving, but Heaven
accepts of the wish. My heart was formed for love, and I desire to devote it
to Him who is the source of love! Yes, we shall surely meet in an
'unknown state of being', where there will be full scope for every kind,
heartfelt affection - love without alloy, and without end. Your paragraph
upon this made tears flow down my face! I will not mind telling you the
reflections which it raised in my mind; but I wished that a heart
susceptible of such a sentiment took more pains about its accomplishment.
I fancy you will not wish me to write again; you'll think me too serious
and grave. I know not how I have been led to be so; but I make no excuse,
because I must be allowed to write to you as I feel, or not at all. You say
you have humanised pride into 'honour and integrity'. 'Tis a good
endeavour; and could you command your too-impetuous passions, it
would be a more glorious achievement than his who conquered the world
and wept because he had no more worlds to subdue. Forgive my freedom
with you: I never troubled myself with the faults of those I don't esteem,
and only notice those of friends to themselves. I am pleased with friends
when they tell me mine and look upon it as a test of real friendship.
I have your poems in loan just now. I've read them many times, and with
new pleasure. Sometime I shall give you my opinion upon them, severally.
Let me have a sight of some of your 'Bagatelles', as you style them. If ever I
write any more, you shall have them; and I'll thank you to correct their
errors. I wrote lines on Bishop G. (Geddes) by way of blank verse; but they
were what Pope describes - 'Ten low words do creep in one dull line'. I
believe you (being a genius) have inspired me; for I never wrote so well
before. Pray, is Dr. Gregory pious? I have heard so. I wish I knew him.
Adieu! You have quantity enough! whatever be the quality. Good night.
Believe me your sincere friend.
Clarinda
Agnes felt pleased that she was putting the relationship on a firm platonic
footing, but then again, she was not too sure what she was feeling herself.
When she was with Mary Peacock all she could talk about was Burns, and
this seeming obsession took her by surprise. Where was it coming from? It
was exciting, it was pleasurable, it was frightening, and it was very
dangerous. She had never felt anything like this for any man, and most
definitely, never for James MacLehose. This was a new experience to her,
one she might have to protect herself from. For all her intelligence and
sophistication, she realised that she was not really used to the ways of the
romantic world. Married at eighteen, separated four years later - where
was her learning of love to come from? She realised when she wrote to
112069
Burns that that word 'Love' kept popping up in all its forms, as did
passion, friendship, intrigue, but all, she hoped, were now safely wrapped
in the cowl of Religion, for the moment anyway.
If Agnes was confused, Burns was banging his head off the wall. He was
delighted to receive the long letter, but soon found himself reaching for the
decanter. Firstly, she loved him before she met him because of his
writings, then she and he were thrown off the same mould by Nature, if
that was right then she was as stirred, in the right places, as he was. She
had a heart like his that was meant to love, he knew in himself that he was
just about anyone's, she seemed to be hankering after a non-earthly
relationship with the Supreme Being, he could play God if she liked.
Really life was so much easier with country women. All this written
parrying was giving him a headache, more medication was called for.
He held off replying for a couple of days, maybe he had to get his feelings,
his thoughts, his head in order. This battle of words between them
astounded and bewildered him, he had never encountered anyone like her
before, and they had only met once. Jean Armour would likelybe his
future, but Mrs. MacLehose was his present and she baffled him, man of
the world though he thought he was.
Letter 12
Thursday - 3 January 1788
Sylvander to Clarinda
You are right, my dear Clarinda, a friendly correspondence goes for
nothing, except one write their undisguised sentiments. -Yours please me
for their intrinsic merit, as well as because they are yours; which, I assure,
is to me a high recommendation. -Your religious sentiments, Madam, I
revere. -If you have, on some suspicious evidence, from some lying oracle,
learnt that I despise or ridicule so sacredly important a matter as real
Religion, you have, my Clarinda, much misconstrued your friend. -'I am
not mad, most noble Festus'. Have you ever met a perfect character? Do
we not sometimes rather exchange faults than get rid of them? For
instance; I am perhaps tired with and shocked at a life, too much the prey
of giddy inconsistencies and thoughtless follies; by degrees I grow sober,
prudent and statedly pious - I say statedly, because the most unaffected
devotion is not at all inconsistent with my first character - I join the world
in congratulating myself on the happy change. -But let me pry more
narrowly into this affair; have I, at bottom anything of a secret pride in
these endowments and emendations? have I nothing of a Presbyterian
sourness, a hypercritical severity when I survey my less regular
111207
neighbours? in a word, have I miss'd all those nameless and numberless
modifications of indistinct selfishness, which are so near our own eyes we
can scarcely bring them within our sphere of vision, and which the known
spotless cambric of our character hides from the ordinary Observer?
My definition of Worth is short. Truth and Humanity respecting our
fellow-creatures; Reverence and Humility in the presence of that Being,
my Creator and Preserver, and who, I have every reason to believe, will
one day be my Judge. -The first part of my definition is the creature of
unbiassed Instinct; the last is the child of after Reflection. -Where I found
these two essentials; I would gently note, and slightly mention, any
attendant flaws - flaws, the marks, the consequences of Human nature.
I can easily enter into the sublime pleasures that your strong imagination
and keen sensibility must derive from Religion, particularly if a little in the
shade of misfortune; but I own I cannot without a marked grudge, see
Heaven totally engross so amiable so charming a woman as my friend
Clarinda; and should be very well pleased at circumstance that would put it
in the power of Somebody! to divide her attention, with all the delicacy
and tenderness of an earthy attachment.
You will not easily persuade me that you have not gotten a grammatical
knowledge of the English language. -So far from being inaccurate, you are
elegant beyond any woman of my acquaintance, except one whom I wish I
knew.
Your last verses to me have so delighted me, that I have got an excellent
old Scots air that suits the measure, and you shall see them in print in the
'Scots Musical Museum', a work publishing by a friend of mine in this
town. -I want four stanzas, you gave me but three, and one of them
alluded to an expression in my former letter; so I have taken your two first
verses with a slight alteration in the second, and have added a third, but
you must help me to a fourth. -Here they are: the latter half of the first
stanza would have been worthy of Sappho; I am in raptures with it.
Talk not of Love, it gives me pain,
For Love has been my foe:
He bound me with an iron chain,
And plung'd me deep in woe. -
But Friendship's pure and lasting joys
My heart was form'd to prove:
There, welcome win and wear the prize,
But never talk of Love! -
Your Friendship much can make me blest,
O, why that bliss destroy!
112181
Why urge the odious/only, one request
You know I must/will deny!
The alteration in the second stanza is no improvement, but there was a
slight inaccuracy in your rhyme. -The third, I only offer to your choice, and
have left two words for your determination. The air is 'The Banks of Spey',
and is most beautiful.
Tomorrow evening (4th), I intend taking a chair and paying a visit at Park-
place to a much-valued old friend (Nicol?). If I could be sure of finding you
at home, and I will send one of the chairmen to call, I would spend from
five to six o'clock with you, as I go passt, I cannot do more at this time, as I
have something on my hand that hurries me much (possibly his Excise
application for Robert Graham of Fintry. Miss Nimmo's nephew may have also
carried out an interview for the Excise on his visit). -I propose giving you the
first call, my old friend the second, and Miss Nimmo as I return home. -Do
not break any engagement for me, as I will spend another evening with
you at any rate before I leave town.
Do not tell me that you are pleased when your friends inform you of your
faults. -I am ignorant what they are; but I am sure they must be such
evanescent trifles, compared with your personal and mental
accomplishments, that I would despise the ungenerous, narrow soul who
would notice any shadow of imperfections you may seem to have, any
other way than in the most delicate, agreeable raillery. -Coarse minds are
not aware how much they injure the keenly feeling tie of bosom-
friendship, when in their foolish officiousness they mention what nobody
cares for recollecting. People of nice sensibility and generous minds have a
certain intrinsic dignity, that fires at being trifled with, or towered, or even
too nearly approached.
You need make no apology for long letters, I am even with you. -Many
Happy New-years to you, charming Clarinda! I can't dissemble, were it to
shun perdition. -He who sees you as I have done and does not love you,
deserves to be damn'd for his stupidity! He who loves you and would
injure you, deserves to be doubly damn'd for his villainy! Adieu!
Sylvander
P.S. - What would you think of this for a fourth stanza
Your thought, if Love must harbour there,
Conceal it in that thought,
Nor cause me from my bosom tear
The very Friend I sought.
Agnes wondered if she would dare take her crockery out again, or would
it be bad luck. Third time lucky, she did, and Burns did visit the following
evening, Friday, 4th January 1788 for one, long awaited, hour. And what
111229
they seemed to have packed into this hour. A discussion on Milton
seemingly bordering on a religious argument, a quick telling of Burns' life
up until the present and finally Agnes coyly showing him some of her
poetry, and possibly giving some away with him. Burns also told her
about Jean Armour and his remaining two illegitimate children. Agnes
was so excited she had worked herself up into a headache, at least that's
what she told Burns. On the other hand, maybe it was to keep Burns at
bay. Romantically she might toy with the taper, but she was not ready to
light it yet. It is thought that after he left she wrote a note to him telling
him that her head was better. Burns replied the next day.
Agnes may have sent him the note either the Friday evening (4th), or
Saturday morning (5th), as Robert's next letter seems to be answering
questions asked of him. If she did send a note, it is lost. Robert said he
would send her a copy of the autobiographical letter he sent to Dr. Moore
with an account of his life, to date. Warts and all (maybe)!
FIRST MEETING (Miss Nimmo’s) - Tuesday 4th December 1787
SECOND MEETING (Potterrow) - Friday 4th January 1788
Letter 13
Saturday noon - 5 January 1788
Sylvander to Clarinda
Some days, some nights, nay some hours like the 'ten righteous persons in
Sodom', save the rest of the vapid, tiresome, miserable months and years
of life. -One of these hours, my dear Clarinda blesst me with yesternight.
---One well spent hour,
In such a tender circumstance for Friends,
Is better than an age of common time!
(Thomson)
My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is, his manly fortitude in
supporting what cannot be remedied - in short, the wild broken fragments
of a noble, exalted mind in ruins. -I meant no more by saying he was a
favourite hero of mine.
I mentioned to you my letter to Dr. Moore, giving an account of my life: it
is truth, every word of it; and will give you the just idea of a man whom
you have honour'd with your friendship. -I am afraid you will hardly be
able to make sense of so torn a piece. -Your verses I shall muse on -
deliciously - as I gaze on your image in my mind's eye, in my heart's core:
they will be in time enough for a week to come. -I am truly happy your
head-ach is better - O, how can Pain or Evil be so daringly, unfeelingly,
113103
cruelly savage as to wound so noble a mind, so lovely a form!
My little fellow is all my Namesake (his son Robert). -Write me soon. -My
every, strongest good wishes attend you, Clarinda.
Sylvander
I know not what I have wrote - I am pestered with people around me.
Burns sent the Dr. Moore copy round to her, possibly on Saturday
evening, and she settled herself in to read about the man she was trying so
hard not to fall in love with. She felt privileged to be given this gift and it
helped her to get to know Burns better. She was taken with his prose, all
she had ever read before was his poetry, but she now saw his ability to
biographically narrate, his keen descriptive qualities. It was more
controlled than his letters were. Certain people named touched her heart
and his youthful love throes seemed to match her own, almost exactly. She
felt let down by his attitude to religion, specifically Calvinism, as she was a
strict Calvinist educated in the Arminian principle belief of her father. Her
mother was also a Calvinist and Agnes' recollection of her as she was
growing up usually kept her out of much mischief, with the huge
exception of James MacLehose of course, but then her mother was long
dead before he came on the scene. Now the leading lights in Agnes'
religious stage were William Craig and John Kemp, she never was able to
choose the right male companion/advisor.
She read through his autobiography more than once over the weekend
and waited until Monday to send her reply. After pistol whipping him
with her religious beliefs she turned to his earthly desires, advising him
against marriage unless he found someone who was his equal in head,
heart, soul and body. The hint was that she could be this partner if she
were free, but fate had decreed otherwise. On the Friday meeting one of
the topics touched on and quickly passed over was 'infidelity in a
husband', according to her letter this came as a surprise to Burns, she again
touched on it in her latest letter and left him dangling before wishing him
goodnight. The next day she added a P.S. saying she might be in his
square on the Tuesday afternoon and would try to look out for him. She
informed Burns that she had pre-paid the letter at Mrs. Anderson's (who
ran a receiving office in Chapel Street at the corner of the Potterrow for the
Edinburgh Penny Post) as she was suspicious of the porters whom she
thought were charging them both twice. Burns was reading it within the
hour.
Letter 14
Monday night - 7 January 1788
Clarinda to Sylvander
111341
I cannot delay thanking you for the packet of Saturday (Moore's letter);
twice have I read it with close attention. Some parts of it did beguile me to
tears. With Desdemona, I felt, ''twas pitiful, 'twas wond'rous pitiful'. When
I reached the paragraph when Lord Glencairn is mentioned, I burst out
into tears. 'Twas that delightful swell of the heart, which arises from a
combination of the most pleasurable feelings. Nothing is so binding to a
generous mind as placing confidence in it. I have ever felt it so. You seem
to have known this feature in my character intuitively; and, therefore,
intrusted me with all your faults and follies. The description of your first
love scene delighted me. It recalled the idea of some tender circumstances
which happened to myself, at the same period of life - only mine did not
go so far. Perhaps, in return, I'll tell you the particulars when we meet. Ah,
my friend! our early love emotions are surely the most exquisite. In riper
years we may acquire more knowledge, sentiment, &c; but none of these
can yield such rapture as the dear delusions of heart throbbing youth! Like
yours, mine was a rural scene (poetic licence, she lived in the Gallowgate) too,
which adds much to the tender meeting. But no more of these
recollections.
One thing alone hurt me, though I regretted many - your avowal of being
an enemy to Calvinism. I guessed it was so by some of your pieces; but the
confirmation of it gave me a shock I could only have felt for one I was
interested in. You will not wonder at this, when I inform you that I am a
strict Calvinist, one or two dark tenets excepted, which I never meddle
with. Like many others, you are so, either from never having examined it
with candour and impartiality, or from having unfortunately met with
weak professors, who did not understand it; and hypocritical ones, who
made it a cloak for their knavery. Both of these, I am aware, abound in
country life; nor am I surprised at their having had this effect upon your
more enlightened understanding. I fear your friend, the captain of the ship
(Richard Brown), was of no advantage to you in this and many other
respects.
My dear Sylvander, I flatter myself you have some opinion of Clarinda's
understanding. Her belief in Calvinism is not (as you will be apt to
suppose) the prejudice of education. I was bred by my father in the
Arminian principles. My mother, who was an angel, died when I was in
my tenth year. She was a Calvinist, - was adored in her life, - and died
triumphing in the prospect of immortality. I was too young, at that period,
to know the difference; but her pious precepts and example often recurred
to my mind amidst the giddiness and adulation of Miss in her teens. 'Twas
since I came to this town, five years ago, that I imbibed my present
principles. They were those of a dear, valued friend, in whose judgement
and integrity I had entire confidence (Craig). I listened often to him, with
113125
delight, upon the subject. My mind was docile and open to conviction. I
resolved to investigate, with deep attention, that scheme of doctrine which
had such happy effects upon him. Conviction of understanding, and peace
of mind, were the happy consequences. Thus, have I given you a true
account of my faith. I trust my practice will ever correspond. Were I to
narrate my past life as honestly as you have done, you would soon be
convinced that neither of us could hope to be justified by our good works.
If you have time and inclination, I should wish to hear your chief
objections to Calvinism. They have been often confuted by men of great
minds and exemplary lives, - but perhaps you never inquired into these.
Ah, Sylvander! Heaven has not endowed you with such uncommon
powers of mind to employ them in the manner you have done. This long,
serious subject will, I know, have one of three effects: either to make you
laugh in derision - yawn in supine indifference - or set about examining
the hitherto-despised subject. Judge of the interest Clarinda takes in you
when she affirms, that there are but few events could take place that
would afford her the heartfelt pleasure of the latter.
Read this letter attentively and answer me at leisure. Do not be frightened
at its gravity, - believe me, I can be as lively as you please. Though I wish
Madam Minerva for my guide, I shall not be hindered from rambling
sometimes in the fields of Fancy. I must tell you that I admire your
narrative, in point of composition, beyond all your other productions. -
One thing I am afraid of; there is not a trace of friendship towards a
female: now, in the case of Clarinda, this is the only 'consummation
devoutly to be wished'.
You told me you never had met with a woman who could love as
ardently as yourself. I believe it; and would advise you never to tie
yourself, till you meet such a one. Alas! you'll find many who canna; and
some who manna; but to be joined to one of the former descriptions would
make you miserable. I think you had almost best resolve against wedlock:
for unless a woman were qualified for the companion, the friend, and the
mistress, she would not do for you. The last may gain Sylvander, but the
others alone can keep him. Sleep, and want of room, prevent my
explaining myself upon 'infidelity in a husband', which made you stare at
me. This, and other things, shall be matter for another letter, if you are not
wishing this to be the last. If agreeable to you, I'll keep the narrative till we
meet. Adieu! 'Charming Clarinda', must e'en resign herself to the arms of
Morpheus.
Your true friend,
Clarinda
P.S. Don't detain the porter. Write when convenient. I am probably to be
in your Square this afternoon, near two o'clock. If your room be to the
111363
street, I shall have the pleasure of giving you a nod. I have paid the porter
and you may do so when you write. I'm sure they sometimes have made
us pay double. Adieu!
Agnes never knew how her religious fervour left her vulnerable, she was
always full frontal with her attacks. This might have fitted with people of
the same mind or those that were not quite intelligent or capable enough,
no matter their position in life, but anyone with a bit of guile could get
through their defences, because religion that was used as Agnes used it,
was only ever a shield, somewhere to hide. Burns was intelligent, Burns
had guile, Burns had too much of the pagan in him to be a respecter of the
likes of hypocrites who bowed in prayer to God on Sundays and bowed to
Mammon the rest of the week. A shilling in the collecting plate on Sunday
cleansed a conscience of someone who could throw an old person in the
street who could not pay their rent, or abuse children for their own evil
and perverted pleasure. These were God's good friends all for just one
weekly donation of silver. The price of betrayal had certainly lessened in
the intervening centuries since the death of Christ.
Burns' reply, penned just before the midnight hour, showed why he could
never be a Calvinist, and he did it without lambasting or browbeating
Agnes into submission. He finished by expressing his creed in the words
of a working man, an honest Ayrshire weaver as opposed to Agnes'
influences, the great and good of Edinburgh's establishment, then he
began his game.
Deconstructing the letter, Robert's reading of it was - Agnes had said he
should not marry unless it was to someone so like himself (Agnes), and
with that in mind he should remain a bachelor all his life (like William
Craig). Burns probably floored her when he told her that he had already
met with such a woman, but she was unavailable, though he cared for her
intensely. He left her dangling this time by not revealing the woman's
name and telling Agnes not to guess who she was. That meant that Agnes
knew her!
Letter 15
Tuesday night - 8 January 1788
Sylvander to Clarinda
I am delighted, charming Clarinda, with your honest enthusiasm for
Religion. Those of either sex, but particularly the female, who are
lukewarm in that most important of all things, 'O my soul, come not thou
into their secrets'. -I feel myself deeply interested in your good opinion,
113147
and will lay before you the outlines of my belief: -He, who is our Author
and Preserver, and will one day be our Judge, must be, - (not for his sake,
in the way of duty, but from the native impulse of our hearts), - the object
of our reverential awe and grateful adoration: He is almighty and all-
bounteous, we are weak and dependent; hence prayer and every other sort
of devotion. -'He is not willing that any should perish, but that all should
come to everlasting life'; consequently, it must be in every one's power to
embrace His offer of 'everlasting life'; otherwise He could not, in justice,
condemn those who did not. A mind pervaded, actuated and governed by
purity, truth and clarity, though it does not merit heaven, yet it is an
absolutely necessary pre-requisite, without which heaven can neither be
obtained nor enjoyed; and, by Divine promise, such a mind shall never fail
of attaining 'everlasting life': hence, the impure, the deceiving, and the
uncharitable, extrude themselves from eternal bliss, by their unfitness for
enjoying it. The Supreme Being has put the immediate administration of
all this, for wise and good ends known to himself, into the hands of Jesus
Christ, a great Personage, whose relation to Him we cannot comprehend,
but whose relation to us is a Guide and Saviour; and who, except for our
own obstinacy and misconduct, will bring us all, through various ways
and by various means, to bliss at last.
These are my tenets, my lovely friend; and which, I think, cannot be well
disputed. My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last clause of Jamie
Dean's grace, an honest weaver in Ayrshire; 'Lord grant that we may lead
a gude life! for a gude life maks a gude end, at least it helps weel!’
I am flattered by the entertainments you tell me you have found in my
packet. You see me as I have been, you know me as I am, and may guess at
what I am likely to be. I too may say 'Talk not of Love, &c' for indeed he
has 'plung'd me deep in woe'! Not that I ever saw a woman who pleases
unexceptionably, as my Clarinda elegantly says, 'In the companion, the
friend, and the mistress'. One indeed I could except - One, before passion
threw its mists over my discernment I knew it, the first of women
(Margaret Chalmers)! Her name is indelibly written in my heart's core - but I
dare not look in on it - a degree of agony would be the consequence. -Oh,
thou perfidious, cruel, mischief-making demon, who president o'er that
frantic passion - thou mayst, thou dost poison my peace, but shall not taint
my honour - I would not for a single moment give an asylum to the most
distant imagination, that would shadow the faintest outline of a selfish
gratification, at the expense of her whose happiness is twisted with the
threads of my existence - May she be happy as she deserves! And if my
tenderest, faithfulest friendship can add to her bliss - I shall at least have
one solid mine of enjoyment in my bosom! Don't guess at these ravings!
I watched at our front window to-day but was disappointed. It has been a
111385
day of disappointments. I am just risen from a two-hours bout after
supper, with silly or sordid souls, who could relish nothing in common
with me - but the Port. 'One' - 'Tis now 'witching time of night'; and
whatever is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute it to enchantments
and spells, for I can't look over it, but will seal it up directly, as I don't care
for tomorrow's criticisms on it.
You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda: may good angels attend and
guard you as constantly and faithfully as my good wishes do!
Beauty, which whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces -
John Milton, I wish thy soul better rest than I expect on my pillow to-
night! O for a little of the cart-horse part of human nature! Good night, my
dearest Clarinda!
Sylvander
Agnes had a rival, this was unexpected, and it was obvious that Burns was
quite besotted with her. Had she been visiting him when his leg was
injured, she wondered? No, she would have heard. She was pleased to see
that he had looked for her on the Tuesday afternoon, which unfortunately
she could not manage because William's ulcerated legs were bad. Between
William and the weather, she remained in doors. She held off on religion
in this letter but decided to attack the drunks that Burns spent his time
with on the previous night, dwelling on the differences between Burns and
they, compared to the similarities that she and Burns shared.
Agnes had buried a lot of herself when she came to Edinburgh to be
adopted into respectable society. She tells a little of this in the letter.
William Craig, good and helpful man as he is reported to have been, must
have kept her on a silken leash, which was more unbreakable than any one
James MacLehose ever controlled. Did she question in these early years in
Edinburgh after MacLehose had left for Jamaica, that she had given up too
much by fleeing from Glasgow where she was accepted for herself? Was it
worth having sold her soul for a semblance of acceptance by people she,
really, deep down inside, might not care for?
Finishing her letter and surmising that Jean Armour was not Burns' 'fair
one' she compared herself and Burns to horses, eagles and 'turtle-doves'.
She would play him at his own game.
Letter 16
Wednesday 10.00 p.m. - 9 January 1788
Clarinda to Sylvander
113169
This moment your letter was delivered to me. My boys are asleep. The
youngest (William) has been for some time in a crazy state of health but has
been worse these two days past. Partly this and the badness of the day
prevented my exchanging a heart-felt How d'ye, yesterday. Friday, if
nothing prevents, I shall have that pleasure, about two o'clock, or a little
before it.
I wonder how you could write so distinctly after two or three hours over
a bottle; but they were not congenial whom you sat with, and therefore
your spirits remained unexhausted; and when quit of them, you fled to a
friend who can relish most things in common with you (except Port). 'Tis
dreadful what a variety of these 'silly, sordid' souls one meets with in life!
But in scenes of mere sociability these, pass. In reading the account you
give of your inveterate turn for social pleasure, I smiled at its resemblance
to my own. It is so great that I often think I had been a man but for some
mistake in Nature. If you saw me in a merry party, you would suppose me
only an enthusiast in fun; but I now avoid such parties. My spirits are sunk
for days after; and, what is worse, there are sometimes dull or malicious
souls who censure me loudly for what their sluggish natures cannot
comprehend. Were I possessed of an independent fortune, I would scorn
their pitiful remarks; but everything in my situation renders prudence
necessary.
I have slept little these two nights. My child was uneasy, and that kept
me awake watching him!
Sylvander, if I have merit in anything, 'tis in an unremitting attention to
my two children; but it cannot be denominated merit, since, 'tis as much
inclination as duty. A prudent woman (as the world goes) told me she was
surprised I loved them, 'considering what a father they had'. I replied with
acrimony, I could not but love my children in any case; but my having
given them the misfortune of such a father, endears them doubly to my
heart: they are innocent - they depend on me - and I feel this the most
tender of all claims. While I live, my fondest attention shall be theirs!
All my life I loved the unfortunate, and ever will. Did you ever read
Fielding's Amelia? If you have not, I beg you would. There are scenes in it,
tender, domestic scenes, which I have read over and over, with feelings
too delightful to describe! I meant a 'Booth' as such a one infinitely to be
preferred to a brutal, though perhaps constant husband. I can conceive a
man fond of his wife, yet (Sylvander-like), hurried into a momentary
deviation, while his heart remained faithful. If he concealed it, it could not
hurt me; but if, unable to bear the anguish of self-reproach, he unbosomed
it to me, I would not only forgive him, but comfort and speak kindly, and
in secret only weep. Reconciliation, in such a case, would be exquisite
beyond almost anything I can conceive! Do you now understand me on
112307
this subject? I was uneasy till it was explained; for all I have said, I know
not if I had been an 'Amelia' even with a 'Booth'. My resentments are keen
like all my other feelings: I am exquisitely alive to kindness and to
unkindness. The first binds me forever! But I have none of the spaniel in
my nature. The last would soon cure me, though I loved to distraction. But
all this is not, perhaps, interesting to Sylvander. I have seen nobody to-
day; and, like a true egotist, talk away to please myself. I am not in a
humour to answer your creed tonight.
I have been puzzling my brain about the fair one you bid me 'not guess
at'. I first thought it your Jean; but I don't know if she now possesses you
'tenderest, faithfulest friendship'. I can't understand that bonny lassie: her
refusal, after such proofs of love, proves her to be either an angel or a dolt.
I beg pardon; I know not all the circumstances and am no judge therefore.
I love you for your continued fondness, even after enjoyment: few of your
sex have souls in such cases. But I take this to be the test of true love - mere
desire is all the bulk of people are susceptible of; and that is soon satiated.
'Your good wishes'. You had mine, Sylvander, before I saw you. With you,
I wish I had a little of the horse-cart in me. You and I have some horse
properties; but more of the eagle, and too much of the turtle dove! Good
night! Your friend,
Clarinda
Thursday morning - 10 January 1788
(This note may have been added to the letter or delivered separately)
Clarinda to Sylvander
This day is so good that I'll make out my call to your Square. I am
laughing to myself at announcing this for the third time. Were she who
'poisons your peace', to intend you a Pisgah (the mountain from which Moses
viewed the Promised Land) view, she could do no more than I have done on
this trivial occasion. Keep a good heart, Sylvander; the eternity of your
love-sufferings will be ended before six weeks. Such perjuries the
'Laughing gods allow'. But remember, there is no such toleration in
friendship, and,
I am yours,
Clarinda
Burns was pleased to get this letter from Agnes, mainly because there was
no religious diatribe in it, apart from a hint towards Moses. It was very
honest, she must have gone through a lot with her boy's illness, and it read
as if she was quite blue (a phrase Burns often used when he was at his
lowest). He wished he could get through to the real persona, not the
facade, he knew it would be worth it. So, she would be at his Square this
afternoon. He wondered about writing a note and dropping it from the
113281
window, but with his luck it would probably land in the wrong hands,
and would she be displeased then! Their anonymity would be potentially
compromised.
As the time drew near for her to visit the Square, Burns tidied himself up,
combed his hair, washed his face and tried to scrub the ink stains from his
fingers. How ridiculous he thought to himself, I'll be fifty feet above her
and framed in a small window. He was surprised to find that he was
nervous. The wintry sun lit up the grey buildings as in turn they cast their
giant shadows across the streets. Squeezing his eyes to peer into one of the
lines of shadow he caught a glimpse of Agnes emerging as she walked
towards his building. She stopped once and looked around, eyes scanning
the buildings. Then she walked on, stopping again to look at his building
as if she were an architect admiring the structure. She was nearly opposite
him now, if she would have allowed it he would have called to her. Her
eyes measured every window except those on the attic floor. He waved his
hands to attract her attention, but no good, he tapped the window with his
crutch, but she did not hear it. Look higher, he prayed. Look higher, he
shouted. Look higher, he cursed. Then she moved to examine another part.
He watched as her back disappeared into the distance. Through his
disappointment he thought that she might be as blind as a bat, and as
irritating as a hemp undershirt, but she was still a fine figure of a woman
nevertheless and one he wanted to know so much better. Oh well, back to
the writing slope again he muttered grabbing at his pen in frustration.
Letter 17
Thursday - 10 January 1788
Sylvander to Clarinda
I am certain I saw you, Clarinda, but you don't look to the proper story
for a poet's lodging.
Where speculation roosted near the sky.
I could have almost thrown myself over, for very vexation. -Why didn't
you look higher? It has spoilt my peace for this day. -To be so near my
charming Clarinda; to miss her look when it was searching for me - I am
sure the soul is capable of disease, for mine has convulsed itself into an
inflammatory fever.
I am sorry for your little boy: do let me know tomorrow how he is. -You
have converted me, Clarinda. -(I shall love that name while I live: there is
heavenly music in it.) Boothe and Amelia I know well. -Your sentiments
on that subject, as they are on every subject, are just and noble. -'To be
feeling alive to kindness - and to unkindness', is a charming female
character.
112329
What I said in my last letter, the Powers of fuddling sociality only know
for me. -By yours, I understand my good Star has been partly in my
horizon, when I got wild in my reveries. -Had that evil Planet which has
almost all my life shed its baleful rays on my devoted head, been, as usual,
in my zenith, I had certainly blab'd something that would have pointed
out to you the dear Object of my tenderest friendship, and, in spite of me -
something more. -Had that fatal information escaped me, and it was
merely chance or kind stars that it did not, I had been undone! you would
never have wrote me, except perhaps once, more! -O, I could curse
circumstances! and the coarse tie of human laws which keep fast what
Common Sense would loose; and which bars that happiness itself cannot
give - Happiness, which otherwise, Love and Honor would warrant! But
hold - I shall make no more 'hairbreadth 'scapes'.
My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent business. My Likings are both
strong and eternal. -I told you I had but one Male friend: I have but two
female. -I should have a third, but she is surrounded by the blandishments
of Flattery and Courtship. -Her I register in my heart's core - by Peggy
Chalmers. -Miss Nimmo can tell you how divine she is. -She is worthy of a
place in the same bosom with my Clarinda. This is the highest compliment
I can pay her.
Farewel, Clarinda! Remember
Sylvander
Agnes was annoyed that she had not managed to see Burns, why had she
not looked a storey higher and lingered it there for longer? She was also
annoyed at missing one of her friends whom she had intended to visit and
who had moved to another address, one she did not have. She was trying
hard to distance herself from Robert, letting him know that they could
never be together, as she would always put her children's welfare before
her own wants or needs, but she was sending out mixed messages.
So, Peggy Chalmers was her rival. Peggy was a good friend of Miss
Nimmo, and Miss Nimmo always had a good word to say about Peggy.
Agnes had seen her about but was not really acquainted with her. Peggy
was well thought of, but Agnes knew that Burns did not stand a chance
with her. Mild jealousy caused her to stir it a little, and in her reply, she
asked Burns that if he felt so much for Peggy Chalmers, then why not
include Miss Nimmo in his female likes, as she was obviously fond of him.
Agnes was right in her belief and fear that what was between them was
just novelty and finesse on his part, and that he would soon tire of her
letters. Once his leg was better he would have other things and people to
114203
occupy his life. It saddened her to think that he would take his leave of
her, probably more sooner than later, and she would have to return to
Miss Nimmo, William Craig and others of that ilk to fill her days. He
would take the sun with him and eventually, after he left Edinburgh
behind for good, their correspondence would lessen and come to an end,
and down the years Agnes realised she would be left wondering 'maybe
if’?
Letter 18
Thursday Eve - 10 January 1788
Clarinda to Sylvander
I could not see you, Sylvander, though I had twice traversed the Square.
I'm persuaded you saw not me neither. I met the young lady I meant to
call for first; and returned to seek another acquaintance but found her
moved. All the time, my eye soared to poetic heights, alias garrets, but not
a glimpse of you could I obtain! You surely was within the glass, at least. I
returned, finding my intrinsic dignity a good deal hurt, as I missed my
friend. Perhaps I shall see you again next week: say how high you are.
Thanks for your inquiry about my child; his complaints are of a tedious
kind and require patience and resignation. Religion has taught me both.
By nature, I inherit a little of them as a certain harum-scarum friend of
mine. In what respects has Clarinda 'converted you'? Tell me. It were an
arduous task indeed!
Your 'ravings' last night, and your ambiguous remarks upon them, I
cannot, perhaps ought not to comprehend. I am your friend, Sylvander:
take care lest virtue demand even friendship as a sacrifice. You need not
curse the tie of human laws: since what is the happiness Clarinda would
derive from being loosed? At present, she enjoys the hope of having her
children provided for. In the other case, she is left, indeed, at liberty, but
half dependent on the bounty of a friend, (Craig) -kind in substantials, but
having no feelings of romance: and who are the generous, the
disinterested, who would risk the world's 'dread laugh' to protect her and
her little ones? Perhaps a Sylvander like son of 'whim and fancy' might, in
a sudden fit of romance: but would not ruin be the consequence? Perhaps
one of the former (several words from the manuscript have been cut out here)
yet if he was not dearer to her than all the world - such are still her
romantic ideas - she could not be his.
You see Sylvander, you have no cause to regret my bondage. The above is
a true picture. Have I not reason to rejoice that I have it not in my power to
dispose of myself? 'I commit myself into thy hands, thou Supreme
Disposer of all events! do with me as seemeth to thee good'. Who is this
one male friend? I know your third female. Ah, Sylvander! many 'that are
112441
first shall be last', and vice versa! I am proud of being compared to Miss
Chalmers: I have heard how amiable she is. She cannot be more so than
Miss Nimmo: why do ye not register her also? She is warmly your friend; -
surely you are incapable of ingratitude. She has almost wept to me at
mentioning your intimacy with a certain famous or infamous man in town
(Nicol?). Do you think Clarinda could anger you just now? I composed
lines addressed to you some time ago, containing a hint to you upon the
occasion. I had not courage to send them then: if you say you'll not be
angry, I will yet.
I know not how 'tis, but I felt an irresistible impulse to write you the
moment I read yours. I have a design in it. Part of your interest is owing to
mere novelty. You'll be tired of my correspondence ere you leave town
and will never fash to write me from the country. I forgive you 'in a state
of celibacy'. Sylvander, I wish I saw you happily married: you are so
formed, you cannot be happy without a tender attachment. Heaven direct
you!
When you see Bishop Geddes, ask him if he remembers a lady at Mrs
Kemp's on a Sunday night, who listened to every word he uttered with the
gaze of attention. I saw he observed me and returned that glance of cordial
warmth which assured me he was pleased with my delicate flattery. I
wished that night he had been my father, that I might shelter me in his
bosom.
You shall have this, as you desired, to-morrow; and, if possible, none for
four or five days. I say, if possible: for I really can't but write, as if I had
nothing else to do. I admire your Epitaph; but while I read it, my heart
swells at the sad idea of its realisation. Did you ever read Sancho's Letters?
they would hit your taste. My next will be on my favourite theme -
religion.
Farewell, Sylvander! Be wise, be prudent, and be happy.
Clarinda
Friday One o'clock
(The following note was attached to the letter)
Let your next be sent in the morning.
If you were well, I would ask you to meet me tomorrow, at twelve
o'clock. I go down in the Leith Fly with poor Willie: what a pleasant chat
we might have! But I fancy 'tis impossible.
Adieu!
Burns was not too happy with Agnes' letter, especially the threat to send
him verses which quite clearly were written as a reprimand. He was
entitled to choose his own friends, bad or good. They might drink and
carouse but to his mind they were not the kind to pray on a Sunday and
114225
then go on to prey during the other six days. Agnes had made herself very
clear, he could accept that. Her children must come first, and he realised
how much she would sacrifice to ensure their well-being. Maybe easing off
on the pen and ink for a few days, was just what both needed, his brain
was going around in circles replying to her letters - at least his head was
being exercised if his leg was not. He told her he could not meet her at the
coach.
Letter 19
Saturday Morning - 12 January 1788
Sylvander to Clarinda
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 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. -'Oh, 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, risqué a censorious remark.
Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe!
Sylvander
There appears to be a quickly written reply from Agnes to letter 19, on the
Saturday morning, but it has been lost. Reading Robert's reply to it, she
obviously felt that maybe she had gone too far, and that Burns was turning
cold on her and was quite surprised at her own feelings at this potential
loss. Maybe she felt that he was lying about the state of his leg. Burns
112463
replied immediately to her note. Her letter had driven him into a severe
headache, his thoughts were birling. She had somehow managed to turn
the tables on him to make him feel guilty for the whole situation. Well he
could use emotional blackmail too.
Letter 20
Saturday - 12 January 1788
Sylvander to Clarinda
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, my God, as I forgive Clarinda - I have read yours again: it
has blotted my paper. -Tho' 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 at 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
THIRD MEETING - Saturday 12th January 1788
Robert's sedan pulled up at the Potterrow shortly after eight o'clock on
January 12th for their third meeting. This time Burns stayed more than an
hour. The secretiveness of the tryst must have added to the frisson
between the couple. Face to face and away from pen and paper they could
see the other's joy, hurt, and bewilderment as they talked from the heart.
Decorum ruled, and Burns behaved himself as a gentleman should, which
must have taken a little of Agnes' tension away, though each developed
what must have been a stress related headache during the evening, at the
same time or different times is not known. Agnes, being Agnes, the next
day found a way to feel guilty about the pleasure and joyousness of the
previous evening, and a reason, rightly or wrongly, to feel slighted after
church.
Letter 21
Sunday evening - 13 January 1788
Clarinda to Sylvander
I will not deny it, Sylvander, last night was one of the most exquisite I
ever experienced. Few such fall to the lot of mortals! Few, extremely few,
are formed to relish such refined enjoyment. That it should be so,
vindicates the wisdom of Heaven. But, though our enjoyment did not lead
114247
beyond the limits of virtue, yet to-day's reflections have not been
altogether unmixed with regret. The idea of the pain it would have given,
were it known to a friend (Craig) to whom I am bound by the sacred ties of
gratitude, (no more), the opinion Sylvander may have formed from my
unreservedness; and, above all, some secret misgivings that Heaven may
not approve, situated as I am - these procured me a sleepless night; and,
though at church, I am not at all well.
Sylvander, you saw Clarinda last night, behind the scenes! Now, you'll be
convinced she has faults. If she knows herself, her intention is always
good: but she is too often the victim of sensibility, and, hence, is seldom
pleased with herself. A rencontre to-day I will relate to you because it will
show you I have my own share of pride. I met with a sister of Lord Napier,
at the house of a friend with whom I sat between sermons: I knew who she
was; but paid her no other marks of respect than I do any gentlewoman.
She eyed me with minute, supercilious attention, never looking at me,
when I spoke, but even half interrupted me, before I had done addressing
the lady of the house. I felt my face glow with resentment and consoled
myself with the idea of being superior in every respect but the accidental,
trifling one of birth! I was disgusted at the fawning deference the lady
showed her, and when she told me at the door that it was my Lord
Napier's sister, I replied, 'Is it indeed? by her ill breeding I should have
taken her for the daughter of some upstart tradesman'!
Sylvander, my sentiments as to birth and fortune are truly unfashionable:
I despise the persons who pique themselves on either, - the former
especially. Something may be allowed to bright talents, or even external
beauty - these belong to us essentially; but birth in no respect can confer
merit it is not our own. A person of a vulgar uncultivated mind I would
not take to my bosom, in any station; but one possessed of natural genius,
improved by education and diligence, such a one I'd take for my friend, be
her extraction ever so mean. These, alone, constitute any real distinction
between man and man. Are we not all the offspring of Adam? have we not
one God? one Saviour? one Immortality? I have found but one among my
acquaintances who agreed with me - my Mary, whom I mentioned to you.
I am to spend to-morrow (14th) with her, if I am better. I like her the more
that she likes you.
I intended to resume a little upon your favourite topic, the 'Religion of
the Bosom'. Did you ever imagine that I meant any other? Poor were that
religion and unprofitable whose seat was merely in the brain. In most
points we seem to agree: only I found all my hopes of pardon and
acceptance with Heaven upon the merit of Christ's atonement, - whereas
you do upon a good life. You think 'it helps weel, at least'. If anything, we
could do had been able to atone for the violation of God's Law, where was
112485
the need (I speak it with reverence) of such an astonishing Sacrifice? Job
was an 'upright man'. In the dark season of adversity when other sins were
brought to his remembrance, he boasted of his integrity: but no sooner did
God reveal Himself to him than he exclaims 'Behold I am vile and abhor
myself in dust and ashes'. Ah! my friend, 'tis pride that hinders us from
embracing Jesus! we would be our own Saviour, and scorn to be indebted
even to the 'Son of the Most-High'. But this is the only sure foundation of
our hopes. It is said by God Himself, ''tis to some a stumbling-block, to
others foolishness'; but they who believe, feel it to be the 'Wisdom of God,
and the Power of God'.
If my head did not ache, I would continue the subject. I, too hate
controversial religion; but this is the 'Religion of the Bosom'. My God!
Sylvander, why am I so anxious to make you embrace the Gospel? I dare
not probe too deep for an answer - let your heart answer: in a word -
Benevolence. When I return, I'll finish this. Meantime, adieu! Sylvander. I
intended doing you good: if it prove the reverse, I shall never forgive
myself. Good night.
Agnes held on to her letter of Monday maybe because she and Mary were
to attend a meal, and wanted to have something interesting to write,
instead of always harping on about religion. She was still a bit huffed with
those she thought considered themselves to be better than her. Her main
enjoyment of the night was when it was her turn to sing, Agnes was an
excellent singer, and she knew it. She also told amusing stories, but not
that night, not with that audience. After returning home Agnes wrote…
Note
Monday (late evening) - 14 January 1788
Clarinda to Sylvander
Just returned from the Dean, where I dined and supped with fourteen of
both sexes, all stupid. My Mary and I alone understood each other.
However, we were joyous, and I sung in spite of my cold; but no wit.
'Twould have been pearls before swine literalized. I recollect promising to
write to you. Sylvander, you'll find me worse than my word. If you have
written me (which I hope), send it to me when convenient, either at nine in
the morning or evening. I fear your limb may be worse from staying so
late. I have other fears too: guess them! Oh! my friend, I wish ardently to
maintain your esteem; rather than forfeit one iota of it, I'd be content never
to be wiser than now. Our last interview has raised you very high in mine.
I have met with few, indeed, of your sex who understood delicacy in such
circumstances; yet 'tis that only which gives a relish to such delightful
intercourse. Do you wish to preserve my esteem, Sylvander? do not be
proud to Clarinda! She deserves it not. I subscribe to Lord B's sentiment to
114269
Swift; yet some faults I will still sigh over, though you style it reproach
even to hint them. Adieu! You have it much in your power to add to the
happiness or unhappiness of.
Clarinda
She heated up some wine to try and allay her cold and checked in on her
children to kiss them goodnight. William was growing paler by the day,
this weather was not helping his legs at all, he was always in so much
discomfort. If she were rich she could afford the best doctors and
medicines around. Dr. Wood was alright, but after all these years surely
William should have been improving. Her son's health was in the hands
of God and an eccentric doctor who carried a raven with him sitting on his
shoulder on his house visits and walked a sheep on a lead! She quietly
closed the bedroom door and after undressing, slipped beneath the thick
pile of bedding. She would send Burns' letter first thing Tuesday morning.
The wine drank at the supper and the hot wine before bed soon claimed
her, and she drifted off into another dimension. She and all her four boys
were picnicking in a deep green field. The sun's heat penetrated through to
their bones. What a time they were having, laughing, singing and running
in the long grass. As they played Agnes noticed that the field was fenced,
no gates, no way of leaving. As she looked round she saw a shape at each
of the sides. Peering closer she realised she knew these shapes, they were
men. To the south was James MacLehose, on his left stood John Kemp,
opposite him was William Craig. The three men were staring not at, but
past her. Turning she saw Robert Burns, his hand reaching out to her. Dare
she take the chance? Was he her true north? The fence began to fade as she
began to walk in his direction. Through the summer air broke voices, her
children's voices. The spell was ended, the fence reappeared. But Burns
remained, his hand still reaching to her, he could save her if she had the
courage to take it. She returned to her children and her fenced field,
knowing it was self-erected.
Meanwhile Burns was fretting about not receiving a letter from her. He
didn't think he had gone too far on Saturday night, in fact he was a proper
gentleman, better than that, he behaved in the manner his mother expected
of him, unfortunately so did Agnes. He was really feeling the pull of
Mauchline and Jean Armour over all the miles, and he agonised about her.
He hoped to leave Edinburgh on Saturday 19th January and needed to see
Agnes before then. He waited all day and before retiring for the night sat
down to compose his letter to Agnes.
113407
Letter 22
Monday Evening, 11 o'clock- 14 January 1788
Sylvander to Clarinda
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 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, 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 me my opinion of it. I begged leave
to write it on a blank leaf, which I did.
To Mr Elphinstone, &c. -
O thou, whom Poesy abhors!
Whom Prose has turned out of doors!
Heard'st thou yon groan? proceed no further!
'Twas laurl'd Martial calling murther!
I am determined to see you, if at all possible, on Saturday evening (19th
January). 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 an' 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 bears't 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:
114381
Next tide of blood, alas! we yield;
And all those high resolves are broke!
I like to have quotations ready 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, &c, 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,
Who found'st 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 again on my own legs
to dinner. -It is only next street. -Adieu!
Sylvander
*(The final song, number 600, included in Volume VI of The Scots Musical
Museum. It is said that Burns suggested to James Johnson that this would be a
fitting end song for the collection).
When Agnes' letter finally reached Burns, he was overjoyed. But as he
began to read it he realised that the warm open Agnes of Saturday night
had once again become the scared and insecure Agnes of the written word.
He preferred her face to face, with no time to reflect on what she said and
no chance of rewrites. Robert did find her comments on the soiree at the
Dean's to be very very humorous, and he wished that he had been there to
see it all go down. Agnes on her high horse would be a magnificent sight,
comparable to her over emphasised feelings on Religion. He picked up his
pen and once again he was bolstering up her fragile confidence and ego.
He felt for definite by now that his time for leaving Edinburgh was fast
approaching, maybe he sensed the change that was coming to him on a
personal level, his life and his future - even through all this turbulent
emotion with Agnes he felt the strong longing for Jean Armour. If that was
where his destiny lay, so be it. But it would be heart breaking to leave
Agnes behind, heart breaking for both.
Letter 23
Tuesday Evening - 15 January 1788
Sylvander to Clarinda
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
(Saturday) night must have lessened my opinion of you! True, I was
113429
'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 shewed 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
(19th). 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
Agnes' reply has references to letter 22 and letter 23 in it. There may be a
missing letter from Burns, as in her next letter she makes a remark about
Burns speaking too warmly about Miss Napier, his remarks unlike Agnes'
on the Lady, were more positive but at least he got her name wrong calling
her Nairne, also her opening sentence is quite odd to be taken out of the
blue. Saturday the 19th was not good for her, she suggested Thursday or
Friday. She invited Burns for about 8 pm and requested that he come on
foot in order not to alert her neighbours, he could take a sedan home later
as they would all be asleep. Come on foot first - Robert's knee cap let out a
loud sob. In her letter Agnes agreed to go to Miers for a sitting. Burns may
have requested that she do this on their meeting on Saturday.
Letter 24
Wednesday Morning - 16 January 1788
Clarinda to Sylvander
Your mother's wish was fully realized. I slept sounder last night than for
weeks past - and I had a 'blithe wakening': for your letter was the first
object my eyes opened on. Sylvander, I fancy you and Vulcan are
intimates: he has lent you a key which opens Clarinda's heart at pleasure,
shows you what is there, and enables you to adapt yourself to its every
feeling! I believe I shall give over writing you. Your letters are too much!
115303
The words you are searching are inside this book. To get more targeted content, please make full-text search by clicking here.
Insides Print Ready v2 Proof
Discover the best professional documents and content resources in AnyFlip Document Base.
Search