e does not think there is insanity in the
Boswell family. She is to hear of his travels, his acquaintance with
foreign princes, Voltaire and Rousseau, his desire to have a house of
his own; and then he diverges into practicality when he desires his
friend to 'study the mother,' and take notes of all that passed, as it
might have the effect of fixing the fate of the lover. Temple, it may be
imagined, did not interpret his commission in such a literal spirit, and
inconstancy and insanity could hardly be recommendations in Miss Blair's
eyes. That such should be the case,--outside the confessions of Mr
Rochester in _Jane Eyre_,--would appear to the commissioner an obvious
fact.

A silence followed on Temple's departure from the divinity. Boswell
dreaded a certain nabob, 'a man of copper,' as his rival. Then he
believed the fair offended by his own Spanish stateliness and gravity;
and again a letter, 'written with all the warmth of Italian affection,'
restores the _signora_ to the first place, from which she is deposed by
a note from Miss Blair, explaining that his letter had been delayed a
week at the Ayr post-office. Then fresh ravings, clouded by the belief
that she is cunning and sees his weakness, for three people at Ayr have
assured him she is a jilt, and he is shocked at the risk he has run, a
warning for the future to him against 'indulging the least fondness for
a Scotch lass.' He has, he feels, a soul of a more Southern frame, and
some Englishwoman ought to be sensible of his merit, though the Dutch
translator of his _Tour_, Mademoiselle de Zuyl, has been writing to him.
Random talking is his dread, he must guard against it, and Miss Blair
revives. 'I must have her learn the harpsichord,' he cries, 'and French;
she shall be one of the finest women in the island.' Later on they have
had a long meeting, of which space only prevents the inimitable
reproduction,--'squeezing and kissing her fine hand, while she looked at
me with those beautiful black eyes.' He meets her at the house of Lord
Kames, he sees her at _Othello_--she was in tears at the affecting
scenes, and 'rather leaned' to him (he thought), and 'the jealous Moor
described my own soul.' But true love did never yet run smooth; he has
been 'as wild as ever. Trust me in time coming; I will give you my word
of honour.' Then--curious psychological trait--'to-morrow I shall be
happy with my devotions.'

By the beginning of 1768 he fears all is over. A rumour--a