correspondence; it is too far away from us, and perhaps, not
yet far enough, in point of time and manner; the imagination
is baffled by these stilted literary utterances, warming, in
bravura passages, into downright truculent nonsense.
Clarinda has one famous sentence in which she bids Sylvander
connect the thought of his mistress with the changing phases
of the year; it was enthusiastically admired by the swain,
but on the modern mind produces mild amazement and alarm.
"Oh, Clarinda," writes Burns, "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 field of Enjoyment?" The design may be that of
an Old Hawk, but the style is more suggestive of a Bird of
Paradise. It is sometimes hard to fancy they are not gravely
making fun of each other as they write. Religion, poetry,
love, and charming sensibility, are the current topics. "I
am delighted, charming Clarinda, with your honest enthusiasm
for religion," writes Burns; and the pair entertained a
fiction that this was their "favourite subject." "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