r if this be really the same man who wrote in his journal, 'The
whining cant of love, except in real passion and by a masterly hand, is
to me as insufferable as the preaching cant of old father Smeaton, Whig
minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, cupids, love graces and all that
farrago are just ... a senseless rabble.'

Clarinda comes out of the correspondence better than Sylvander. Her
letters are more natural and vastly more clever. She grieves to hear of
his accident, and sympathises with him in his suffering; were she his
sister she would call and see him. He is too romantic in his style of
address, and must remember she is a married woman. Would he wait like
Jacob seven years for a wife? And perhaps be disappointed! She is not
unhappy: religion has been her balm for every woe. She had read his
autobiography as Desdemona listened to the narration of Othello, but she
was pained because of his hatred of Calvinism; he must study it
seriously. She could well believe him when he said that no woman could
love as ardently as himself. The only woman for him would be one
qualified for the companion, the friend, and the mistress. The last
might gain Sylvander, but the others alone could keep him. She admires
him for his continued fondness for Jean, who perhaps does not possess
his tenderest, faithfulest friendship. How could that bonnie lassie
refuse him after such proofs of love? But he must not rave; he must
limit himself to friendship. The evening of their third meeting was one
of the most exquisite she had ever experienced. Only he must now know
she has faults. She means well, but is liable to become the victim of
her sensibility. She too now prefers the religion of the bosom. She
cannot deny his power over her: would he pay another evening visit on
Saturday?

When the poet is leaving Edinburgh, Clarinda is heartbroken. 'Oh, let
the scenes of nature remind you of Clarinda! In winter, remember the
dark shades of her fate; in summer, the warmth of her friendship; in
autumn, her glowing wishes to bestow plenty on all; and let spring
animate you with hopes that your friend may yet surmount the wintry
blasts of life, and revive to taste a spring-time of happiness. At all
events, Sylvander, the storms of life will quickly pass, and one
unbounded spring encircle all. Love, there, is not a crime. I charge you
to meet me there, O God! I must lay down my pen.'

Poor Clarinda! Well for her peace of mind that the poet was leaving he