" "This is
Sunday," writes the lady, "and not a word on our favourite
subject. O fy 'divine Clarinda!' " I suspect, although
quite unconsciously on the part of the lady, who was bent on
his redemption, they but used the favourite subject as a
stalking-horse. In the meantime, the sportive acquaintance
was ripening steadily into a genuine passion. Visits took
place, and then became frequent. Clarinda's friends were
hurt and suspicious; her clergyman interfered; she herself
had smart attacks of conscience, but her heart had gone from
her control; it was altogether his, and she "counted all
things but loss - heaven excepted - that she might win and
keep him." Burns himself was transported while in her
neighbourhood, but his transports somewhat rapidly declined
during an absence. I am tempted to imagine that, womanlike,
he took on the colour of his mistress's feeling; that he
could not but heat himself at the fire of her unaffected
passion; but that, like one who should leave the hearth upon
a winter's night, his temperature soon fell when he was out
of sight, and in a word, though he could share the symptoms,
that he had never shared the disease. At the same time, amid
the fustian of the letters there are forcible and true
expressions, and the love verses that he wrote upon Clarinda
are among the most moving in the language.
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