On the question of the authorship of the _Ode to the Cuckoo_, which
Burke thought the most beautiful lyric in our language, the debate
was between the claims of John Logan, minister of South Leith
(1745-1785), and his friend and fellow-worker Michael Bruce. Those of
Logan have, I believe, been now vindicated past doubt.
_[Edinburgh], Saturday, October 4, 1873._
It is a little sharp to-day; but bright and sunny with a sparkle in the
air, which is delightful after four days of unintermitting rain. In the
streets I saw two men meet after a long separation, it was plain. They
came forward with a little run and _leaped_ at each other's hands. You
never saw such bright eyes as they both had. It put one in a good humour
to see it.
_8 p.m._--I made a little more out of my work than I have made for a
long while back; though even now I cannot make things fall into
sentences--they only sprawl over the paper in bald orphan clauses. Then
I was about in the afternoon with Baxter; and we had a good deal of fun,
first rhyming on the names of all the shops we passed, and afterwards
buying needles and quack drugs from open-air vendors, and taking much
pleasure in their inexhaustible eloquence. Every now and then as we
went, Arthur's Seat showed its head at the end of a street. Now, to-day
the blue sky and the sunshine were both entirely wintry; and there was
about the hill, in these glimpses, a sort of thin, unreal, crystalline
distinctness that I have not often seen excelled. As the sun began to go
down over the valley between the new town and the old, the evening grew
resplendent; all the gardens and low-lying buildings sank back and
became almost invisible in a mist of wonderful sun, and the Castle stood
up against the sky, as thin and sharp in outline as a castle cut out of
paper. Baxter made a good remark about Princes Street, that it was the
most elastic street for length that he knew; sometimes it looks, as it
looked to-night, interminable, a way leading right into the heart of
the red sundown; sometimes, again, it shrinks together, as if for
warmth, on one of the withering, clear east-windy days, until it seems
to lie underneath your feet.
I want to let you see these verses from an _Ode to the Cuckoo_ written
by one of the ministers of Leith in the middle of last century--the
palmy days of Edinburgh--who was a friend of Hume and Adam Smith and the
whole constellation. The authorship of these beautiful verses has been
most truculently fought about; but whoever wrote them (and it seems as
if this Logan had) they are lovely--
"What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest the vocal vale,
An annual guest, in other lands
Another spring to hail.
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year.
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make on joyful wing
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring."
_Sunday._--I have been at church with my mother, where we heard "Arise,
shine," sung excellently well, and my mother was so much upset with it
that she nearly had to leave church. This was the antidote, however, to
fifty minutes of solid sermon, varra heavy. I have been sticking in to
Walt Whitman; nor do I think I have ever laboured so hard to attain so
small a success. Still, the thing is taking shape, I think; I know a
little better what I want to say all through; and in process of time,
possibly I shall manage to say it. I must say I am a very bad workman,
_mais j'ai du courage_: I am indefatigable at rewriting and bettering,
and surely that humble quality should get me on a little.
_Monday, October 6._--It is a magnificent glimmering moonlight night,
with a wild, great west wind abroad, flapping above one like an immense
banner, and every now and again swooping furiously against my windows.
The wind is too strong perhaps, and the trees are certainly too leafless
for much of that wide rustle that we both remember; there is only a
sharp, angry, sibilant hiss, like breath drawn with the strength of the
elements through shut teeth, that one hears between the gusts only. I am
in excellent humour with myself, for I have worked hard and not
altogether fruitlessly; and I wished before I turned in just to tell you
that things were so. My dear friend, I feel so happy when I think that
you remember me kindly. I have been up to-night lecturing to a friend on
life and duties and what a man could do; a coal off the altar had been
laid on my lips, and I talked quite above my average, and hope I spread,
what you would wish to see spread, into one person's heart; and with a
new light upon it.
I shall tell you a story. Last Friday I went down to Portobello, in the
heavy rain, with an uneasy wind blowing _par rafales_ off the sea (or
"_en rafales_" should it be? or what?). As I got down near the beach a
poor woman, oldish, and seemingly, lately at least, respectable,
followed me and made signs. She was drenched to the skin, and looked
wretched below wretchedness. You know, I did not like to look back at
her; it seemed as if she might misunderstand and be terribly hurt and
slighted; so I stood at the end of the street--there was no one else
within sight in the wet--and lifted up my hand very high with some money
in it. I heard her steps draw heavily near behind me, and, when she was
near enough to see, I let the money fall in the mud and went off at my
best walk without ever turning round. There is nothing in the story; and
yet you will understand how much there is, if one chose to set it
forth. You see, she was so ugly; and you know there is something
terribly, miserably pathetic in a certain smile, a certain sodden aspect
of invitation on such faces. It is so terrible, that it is in a way
sacred; it means the outside of degradation and (what is worst of all in
life) false position. I hope you understand me rightly.--Ever your
faithful friend,