“O lively, O most charming pug! Thy graceful air and heavenly mug! The beauties of his mind do shine, And every bit is shaped and fine. Your teeth are whiter than the snow; Your a great buck, your a great beau; Your eyes are of so nice a shape, More like a Christian’s than an ape; Your cheek is like the rose’s blume; Your hair is like the raven’s plume; His nose’s cast is of the Roman: He is a very pretty woman. I could not get a rhyme for Roman, So was obliged to call him woman.” This last joke is good. She repeats it when writing of James the Second being killed at Roxburgh:-- “He was killed by a cannon splinter, Quite in the middle of the winter; Perhaps it was not at that time, But I can get no other rhyme!” Here is one of her last letters, dated Kirkcaldy, 12th October, 1811. You can see how her nature is deepening and enriching:-- “MY DEAR MOTHER,--You will think that I entirely forget you but I assure you that you are greatly mistaken I think of you always and often sigh to think of the distance between us two loving creatures of nature. We have regular hours for all our occupations first at 7 o’clock we go to the dancing and come home at 8 we then read our Bible and get our repeating, and then play till ten, then we get our music till 11 when we get our writing and accounts we sew from 12 till 1 after which I get my gramer and then work till five. At 7 we come and knit till 8 when we dont go to the dancing. This is an exact description. I must take a hasty farewell to her whom I love, reverence and doat on and who I hope thinks the same of “MARJORY FLEMING. “_P. S._--An old pack of cards (!) would be very exeptible.” This other is a month earlier:-- “MY DEAR LITTLE MAMA,--I was truly happy to hear that you were all well. We are surrounded with measles at present on every side, for the Herons got it and Isabella Heron was near Death’s Door, and one night her father lifted her out of bed, and she fell down as they thought lifeless. Mr. Heron said, ‘That lassie’s deed noo,’--‘I’m no deed yet.’ She then threw up a big worm nine inches and a half long. I have begun dancing, but am not very fond of it, for the boys strikes and mocks me.--I have been another night at the dancing; I like it better. I will write to you as often as I can; but I am afraid not every week. _I long for you with the longings of a child to embrace you,--to fold you in my arms. I respect you with all the respect due to a mother. You dont know how I love you. So I shall remain your loving child_,--M. FLEMING.” What rich involution of love in the words marked! Here are some lines to her beloved Isabella, in July, 1811:--